#hair dye is cheap anyway

[zenaidamacrouras1]

I love it when I read a fic that is like "the character is 40. they are old and nearing the end of their life. All of their hairs are grayed. their career and useful purpose in life is nearing the end. and yet they still have a small place in their withered, decaying body for love."

Y’all making women in their thirties feel old is my villain origin story actually

[oneminutefiftysixseconds]

the ONLY bad thing about the grey jit is that it plays into modern anti-aging beauty culture fears

[katatonicimpression]

today marks the 3rd or 4th time that i've given myself weird orange roots by dying my own hair wrong

so it's also the 2nd or 3rd time I did so despite knowing exactly how to avoid it

[gracieblood]

imagine how much more money id have if i’d never dyed my hair

[ceciliathecabinwitch]

Not sure if it’s the excitement of eclipse day or if I’m just hypomanic or what but it I had to forcibly stop myself from getting bleach for my hair after deciding last night that I miss being blond(er)

[travestismo]

I wish I could get hair extentions so I could have colored highlights without actually dyeing my hair but 1) i bet they're not cheap and 2) it's almost impossible to get extensions with my exact hair type so that they look natural without styling them myself

[ckret2]

Chapter 31 of human Bill grudgingly enduring being the Pines' prisoner because the Henchmaniacs won't take his call: Summerween night! Everyone gets ridiculous costumes!

The Summerween Trickster's buddies are attempting to resurrect him. Robbie's making a music video. Bill's attempting to woo Ford back into friendship, to terrify Dipper with cursed knowledge, and to recover his dignity from THE most gentle chastising imaginable, and he only succeeds in 1 out of 3 of these endeavors:

It's not this one. He's just gotta process these emotions while wearing that stupid wig.

####

Soos was putting the final touches on his cosplay (the suave and mysterious Masked Guy In A Suit, love interest of the heroine from the classic anime Teenage Planetary Soldier Girls) when he heard the phone ring in the office. "Hold on, I'll get it!" He hurried downstairs, ducked under a construction paper chain Mabel had strung over the door, picked up the phone, and said, "Hello?"

A mysterious voice droned, "The sun sets a deep blood red."

"Oh, no thanks, we don't want any." Soos hung up, sighed happily, and said, "Ah, Summerween. Always brings out the weirdos."

"Hey Soos!" Mabel ducked into the doorway. "Where's the candy bowl?"

"Oh, hey Hambone. It's in my bedroom." He put on a stage whisper. "I put it in there so Bill couldn't steal it."

"Thanks Soos!" She ran upstairs.

Dipper and Bill waited downstairs, the tension thick between them (on Dipper's side, anyway; Bill—watching a black-and-white horror movie, sipping at a can of cider, and brooding over going to voicemail—didn't notice). Dipper was waiting by the door in a folding chair; but he kept glancing toward Bill in the living room. When the silence got too much to bear, he asked, "Okay, what are you dressed as?"

Bill was wearing a brown bedsheet toga (the most historically-accurate part of his costume); a cheap wig of a teased mullet that had ended up mostly red with yellow streaks, forming a plume of hair right over his head and then a long straight tail he'd draped over his shoulder; and a bunch of paper faux-Greek homes taped all around the hem of his toga, forming a ring around his calves.

"And are those my sandals?" Dipper asked.

"Take it up with Mabel, she loaned them on your behalf," Bill said. "I'm not telling my costume. You have to guess it."

"Seriously?" Dipper sighed. It had to be a god, gods towered over their mortals' temples. What god would wear brown? "I don't know—Demeter?"

"What? No. Do I seem like the Demeter type? Pathetic." Bill waved off his guess. As Mabel ran downstairs, Bill said, "Hey, Shooting Star, you haven't made your official guess yet."

Without hesitation, Mabel said, "A time-traveling hair metal singer touring the Roman Empire and trying to find a way home before his hair dye runs out."

"Wrong, but I would love to live in the world you've dreamed up." He meandered into the entryway to join Mabel as she plopped down in the second chair by the door.

Dipper screwed up his face. "Are you helping us answer the door?"

"No, you're helping me answer the door. I'm cursed, remember?" Bill leaned over Mabel's shoulder, dug into the candy bowl, and popped a lollipop in his mouth. "But you're not getting rid of me, if that's what you're asking."

Soos headed to the door, cape billowing dramatically behind him. "Hey dudes. Hey Bill." He paused in the door, studying Bill. "Hey! Is that a Bobo the Uncouth Berserker cosplay?"

Bill blinked. "Who?"

"Bobo the Uncouth Berserker! You've gotta read Bobo. He's this primitive hero descended from lost Lemuria who goes on daring adventures through the lush impenetrable jungles of Central Europe. He's got this comic that was so popular it spawned an anime, which got an American movie adaptation, which formed the basis of a second comic continuity that isn't as critically acclaimed as the original but has drawn in a lot of new fans... and..." Soos petered out. "You're not Bobo, are you."

Bill shook his head. "Thanks for playing."

"Aw." Soos's shoulders slumped. "Anyway—me and Melody are gonna be at the cosplay contest at the theater. I'll keep my phone on in case of monsters."

"We'll be fine!" Mabel said. "Go have fun!"

"You too!" With a dramatic flourish of his cape, Soos disappeared into the night.

Bill watched Soos go enviously. He could have been given a human body that looked that good in a suit and top hat, but was he? No. It wasn't fair. And Soos didn't even wear the right hat size.

Dipper glanced sideways at Bill. "Hey. Is... Lemuria real?"

"Not anymore." Bill perked up as Stan passed by, dressed like Frankenstein's monster. "Hey, Stanley! You haven't guessed yet. What am I?"

Stan surveyed him. "White columned buildings, Statue of Liberty dress, and a red clown wig. I dunno, the American government?"

Bill squawked in laughter. "That's my favorite wrong answer so far. I like you, Stanley." He fished a chocolate bar out of the bowl and held it out.

Stan grunted in disapproval, but accepted the candy. "If any of you need me, I'm gonna be up on the roof, terrifying kids." He held up a boombox and a cassette that said "Spooky Sound Effects of Halloween". "If you hear screaming children, don't worry: that means I'm winning."

"Where's your brother?" Bill asked.

"Avoiding you." Stan passed through the living room and left.

Bill's shoulders slumped; but he just dug into the candy bowl for more chocolate. Then the first trick-or-treater knocked on the door, and Dipper jumped up in relief to answer it.

The shack didn't attract quite as many trick-or-treaters as the houses closer to the center of town, but they got a steady stream of children, and more than they'd gotten the year before. Between visitors, Bill dug into their candy stock, gleefully ignoring Dipper's complaints. After the fourth or fifth visitor, Dipper and Mabel realized that Bill was covering up the amount of candy he'd pilfered by meticulously re-folding the empty wrappers and putting them back in the bowl.

"It's fair play," Bill said. He untwisted one end of a Twisty Roll tube, squeezed out the candy, blew into the wrapper to re-inflate it, and twisted the end shut again. "The kids are trick-or-treating, right? Sometimes they get treats and sometimes they get tricks."

"Come on, seriously?" Dipper said. "Even for you this is low. You're literally taking candy from babies."

"The babies are trying to take candy from us. I have no sympathy." With the precision of an origami master, Bill refolded a paper fruit chew wrapper into a box and dropped it back into the bowl.

"They're supposed to take candy from us, that's how the holiday works." Dipper looked at Mabel for support.

But she was holding up an empty 3 Fencers wrapper and squeezing it lightly between her fingers. "Wow. How did you make the wrapper puffy again? It's so convincing."

Bill shot Dipper a nasty smile, then turned to Mabel and said magnanimously, "I'll teach you everything I know." He twirled a glue stick between his fingers.

Another trick-or-treater knocked, and Dipper answered.

"Trick or treat! Please give us the worst candy you have."

Mabel blinked, leaning around Dipper to see who was outside. "Wait, what?"

Outside stood a purple-furred monster with a dozen limbs from a dozen different creatures. He gasped in surprise. "Ohhh, twin costumes! That's so cute! What are you two, haunted dolls?"

Dipper took a surprised step back. "Limby Jimmy?"

The monster was silent a moment, taken aback. He took off a bear mask he'd made out of a paper plate. "Is it that obvious?"

Mabel asked, "Have we...?"

Dipper said, "Oh! Sorry—Mabel, this is Limby Jimmy, I ran into him last year in the Crawlspace under town when I was trying to get your face back—"

Helpfully, Bill threw in, "He's Gravity Falls' most accomplished arms dealer. And legs dealer, and tails dealer, and ears dealer..."

"Limby, this is my sister Mabel. Actually, I don't know if I ever introduced myself—"

Limby Jimmy cut in, "Ohhh, yeah, I remember you! You're Troll Boy, right?"

Dipper winced. "It's—it's Dipper, actually." He paused. "Wow. We meet a lot of weird people."

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy!" Mabel held out a hand. After a moment of thought, Jimmy elected to shake it with a tentacle and a dog's paw.

"What are you doing up here?" Dipper asked. "Is Summerween the one night of the year that Gravity Falls' monsters can walk among humans without fear?"

"Oh no, I'm terrified. I wouldn't be out here if I wasn't collecting donations," Jimmy said.

"Donations?"

Jimmy hesitated, then lowered his voice. "You've been in the Crawlspace, so, you and your sister are cool, but is the lady...?" He wiggled a hoof toward Bill.

Coolly, Bill said, "I'm actually an ancient interdimensional energy being cursed to wear a human form."

Dipper and Mabel flinched in alarm and rounded on Bill, hissing, "Bill!" "Shhh!"

Ignoring them, Bill said, "So, continue."

"Oh," Jimmy said brightly. "That's all right then, yuk yuk." He wiggled his multitude of right arms. "I don't know if you humans have heard yet, but the Summerween Trickster got eaten to death last summer! It's really sad!"

Dipper and Mabel, who had watched as he was eaten to death, stayed quiet.

"But probably happy for him?" Jimmy mused. "Since I think that's what he wanted? But it's sad for the rest of his poker group, we all miss him! So I'm out here with Doug—"

"Who?" Dipper asked, looking around the porch for a second monster.

"Oh, he's back there." Jimmy pointed toward a tree at the edge of the clearing around the Mystery Shack. The tree chittered unnervingly. "We're going around collecting donations to resurrect the Trickster! Or... re-summon him? Or however this works. We never really asked him how he came to exist, it seemed rude."

"Naturally," Bill said. "You can't just ask a freak what made him so freaky. It's a sensitive topic."

"Right! You understand," Jimmy said. "Anyway, we need a lot of crappy candy!" He looked at their bowl. "Which pieces have the kids been ignoring this year?"

Mabel had started bouncing on the balls of her dusty Victorian ghost shoes; and the moment she had a turn to speak, she squealed in excitement. "You're the Summerween Trickster's friend! That's perfect! Stay here, I'll be right back!" She shoved the candy bowl into Bill's arms and zoomed up the stairs. "I've got some stuff for him!"

Bill looked at the bowl, looked at the stairs, shoved the candy in Dipper's arms, and followed Mabel. "Hey, Shooting Star? What are you doing?"

Her voice drifted down the stairs: "Getting a donation! I'll be just a minute!"

"Hold on, you're actually helping that guy?" Bill laughed. "Why?" He climbed high enough to poke his head above the attic floor  and lowered his voice so Jimmy couldn't hear. "I wasn't paying that much attention last Summerween, but I got the impression from your little costume store brawl that the Trickster was trying to kill you kids. Am I missing something?"

"I mean, yeah, he was—but he was in a really bad place back then, that doesn't mean he deserves to be dead for it. And now he knows someone out there wants to eat him, so maybe he'll be less insecure and evil." Mabel laughed, "Anyway, the Trickster isn't that bad! He didn't try to kill me half as hard as you did!"

Bill froze a couple of steps from the top of the stairs. He didn't move for a few seconds; and then wordlessly, he slunk back downstairs.

Dipper watched as Bill, face beet red, trudged into the living room. "Hey. What's Mabel...?"

"How should I know." Bill curled up on the couch, picked up the can of cider he'd been drinking earlier, shotgunned it, and glowered at the horror movie on TV.

Dipper considered Bill—all alone in the living room and not doing anything important—and considered Mabel, upstairs; and said, "Hey, Jimmy. Do you mind waiting out here until Mabel gets back."

"Sure! I don't have any plans." Jimmy rocked back on his many heels.

"Cool. Thanks." Dipper shut the door.

He sidled oh so very casually into the living room and leaned against the TV. "Guess it's just the two of us right now."

Bill's gaze didn't waver from the TV. "Terrific counting skills, Troll Boy." He popped open another cider can.

Dipper grit his teeth. Let it go. "Sooo! You're from the second dimension, huh? What's that like?" (His voice cracked embarrassingly on "that.") "Just—just curious. Making friendly conversation. Caaasual conversation." He flashed a pair of finger guns at Bill, to underscore just how casual he was. "Yyyep." Witness the junior paranormal investigator in action.

Bill turned the cold, empty eyes of a killer on Dipper. He took a long, slow sip from his cider. And he asked himself: what can I say that will make this stupid boy regret ever daring to speak to me?

Bill smiled. "Yeah. Sure. Okay," he said. "You wanna know what it's like? Have you ever read the Allegory of the Cave?"

Dipper hesitated. "By... Plato?"

"That one. You know—ignorance is like being a prisoner chained in a cave, watching shadow puppets being cast on a wall, and thinking they're reality; and having knowledge is like being outside the cave in the sunlight, seeing the real shapes that are casting the shadows—"

"I have read it, actually," Dipper said, a tad defensively. "It was for extra credit in—"

"English class, I know."

Dipper frowned; but he soldiered on. "So... living in the second dimension is like being chained in a cave, staring at the shadows on the wall, and thinking that's reality? Bleak."

Bill laughed so loudly that Dipper started. "Wow, you're so dumb! Use your brain, kid: it's the second dimension. You're not the prisoner: you're the shadow on the wall." Bill's lip curled in a sneer, "An illusion in somebody else's allegory. And the only one who can see the cave's exit... is you. That's what the second dimension is like!" He laughed again. It sounded forced.

"Oh," Dipper mumbled. He tried to wrap his head around the idea of being a living metaphor for ignorance. "Sounds... pretty bad?"

"Awful," Bill agreed. "Doesn't hold a candle to what your dimension has going on, though."

"Wh... why, what's going on in the third dimension?"

Bill gave him a malicious smile, and Dipper had the sinking feeling he'd just walked into an obvious trap. "You idiot, you still think you're in the third dimension? Really?"

Was that a trick question? What answer was Bill looking for? What could this be if not the third dimension? "Nnooo?"

"Wow. I can really see why you're a straight-A's honors student," Bill said. "You're so good at figuring out what answer the test wants and regurgitating it—even if you don't actually understand it at all." He heaved himself back to his feet; and Dipper was sure there was something threatening in the movement—something that reminded Dipper that he was talking to a dangerously unstable extinction level event precariously packed into an unsteady human body. "Although copying the year of the Louisiana Purchase off of Brandon's test in fifth grade  probably didn't hurt, did it."

Dipper's stomach dropped. The secret shame buried beneath the foundation of his honors roll-worthy record. Pull that out and his entire academic career came toppling down. He'd get kicked out of the honors classes. He'd go to jail. Was cheating against the law? "H... how did—?"

"What year was the Louisiana Purchase?"

Dipper's brain immediately went blank. He was silent, trapped in the paralyzing intensity of Bill's gaze. After several terrifying seconds, he croaked, "1803?" and hoped he was right.

"Attaboy. Too bad you couldn't have learned that a little sooner, isn't it?" As he spoke, Bill had closed in on Dipper until he'd backed him into the corner behind the TV set, filling Dipper's exit route with one hand on the TV and the other on the wall. "But we were talking about dimensions, weren't we! Whaddaya like to read, kid," Bill asked too casually, "do you like cosmic horror? Do you know what real 'cosmic horror' is?"

Dipper regretted this conversation completely.

"It's having an eyeball on the inside of your body, and seeing another dimension through it. And ohoho, I think you'd be amazed at the things I can see from here—"

Dipper got the distinct impression that if he didn't get out of this conversation, he would only hear things he'd be telling his therapist about for months. "Cool! Good talk, man. Hey Mabel?" (That was an absolutely humiliating voice crack.) "How's it going?"

A pause. "I think I need help!"

"Coming!" Dipper ran behind the TV to escape Bill and gratefully bolted upstairs.

The kid had caved so fast. And Bill had only just been getting started. He smirked, sat, and turned back to the movie.

A moment later, Mabel and Dipper came back downstairs, carrying four bulging plastic grocery bags. Mabel set one by her feet, opened the door, and shoved the first bag into Jimmy's arms. "Here! You can give these to the Trickster!" She shoved over the second bag.

Jimmy stumbled back under the weight. "Whoa there! What is this?"

"Candy chalk-hearts! I completely bought out the leftovers after Valentine's Day," Mabel said. "I wanted to make sure that if we met the Trickster again, I could let him know he's loved and appreciated as the terrifying avatar of spooky holiday spirit that he is! And that I also respect that he's made out of gross candy nobody likes to eat." She picked up a chalk-heart box and waved it in Jimmy's face. "So here's a gross candy that expresses love! See, the little hearts say things like 'You smell nice' and 'I heart ur face,' but they taste like if dehydration was a flavor."

Dipper handed his bags to Jimmy. "Wait—Mabel, that's why you got all these? You've been planning to help the Trickster since February? I thought you were gonna build a chalk-heart house or something."

"Oooh, that's such a good idea. I should do that next year!" To Jimmy, she said, "I was gonna give these to him personally, but if he's still dead, I guess you can add it to his candy sacrifice pile or whatever? And make sure he gets this!" She handed Jimmy a store bought Shimmery Twinkleheart Valentine's card. It read, "I BELIEVE in our friendship! Happy Valentine's Day!" Mabel had scratched out "Valentine's" and written "Summerween".

Choked up, Jimmy said, "Oh—wow. That's the nicest thing anyone's done for us all night. I'm sure the Trickster will really appreciate it when he's not dead anymore."

Dipper was a little more vengeful. Dipper didn't want to do anything for one of the many guys that had tried to kill them last year. But, on the other hand, Mabel had just gone all in on this, and Jimmy seemed nice enough, so... Dipper sighed. Whatever, it was Summerween and this was a trick-or-treater. "Hey," he picked up the candy bowl. "There's really only one bag of good candy in here. The bottom of the bowl is filled with after-dinner mints our great uncle's been stealing from restaurants for the last six months. The Trickster would probably love that, right?"

"Aww—thanks so much, you guys! We'll have the poker group back together in no time!" Jimmy dug past the good candy and started scooping mints into his bag. "Oh—since I'm here, can I ask about our other poker buddy? Do either of you know Mr. What's-His-Face? He disappeared around the time you were visiting the Crawlspace, maybe one of you saw something? Any information would be helpful." Jimmy looked at them with weird, plus-shaped, but very hopeful eyes. "Between the Trickster's death and Whatsis disappearing, the local paranormal community's been hit hard. Especially us guys in their friend group. I'm—I'm not gonna lie," Jimmy heaved a sigh, "It's been a really hard year."

Dipper and Mabel, who were directly and personally at fault for Mr. What's-His-Face's disappearance and knew he was frozen in stasis in Ford's bunker at that very moment, exchanged a look and came to a silent agreement.

"Nope, don't know anything," Mabel said.

"Sorry, buddy," Dipper said.

Like the Summerween Trickster, Mr. What's-His-Face was a weird faceless shapeshifty monster that had tried to kill them. But they felt like that was where the similarities ended.

By the time of the Trickster's death, Mabel and Dipper had realized that his deepest inner longing was to be called good enough to eat. Mr. What's-His-Face's deepest inner longing was to steal innocent people's faces. If Mabel and Dipper helped resurrect the Trickster, he'd probably go back to ensuring everyone displayed sufficient holiday spirit, while hopefully mellowing out about eating people now that he'd been consumed once. On the other hand, if Mabel and Dipper helped free Mr. What's-His-Face, he'd probably just keep stealing faces.

And on top of all that, they could help resurrect the Trickster without admitting they knew the guy who ate him. They couldn't really lead Jimmy to Mr. What's-His-Face without admitting their great uncle was keeping him captive. And that would be a problem for the whole family.

"Oh," Jimmy said. "Okay, that's fine. Thanks for all your help. You know where to reach us if you hear anything."

Mabel shook her head. Dipper nodded. "Yeah, we'll let you know."

Jimmy hopped off the porch, shouted, "Hey Doug, can you help me carry these?" and chucked a couple of bags of chalk-hearts toward the tree line. Dipper and Mabel stared. Nothing emerged to pick the bags up.

They shut the door.

"Man," Dipper said. "We kinda devastated the paranormal poker group last summer, didn't we?"

"Yeah." Mabel sucked in a breath between her teeth. "Wow. Feels... kinda bad."

Dipper offered her the candy bowl. "Drown our feelings in chocolate?"

"Please."

They grabbed a piece of candy each, tore open the wrappers—and frowned. Mabel stomped a foot. "Dang it—Bill!"

"Hm?"

"How many of these wrappers are empty?!"

Bill poked his head out of the living room and said, smugly, "Like candy from a baby!"

####

A knock, and Dipper opened the door. "Wendy! Hey! Good timing—"

"Hey." Wendy lowered her voice. "Quick question—this is super important—is Goldie here?"

"Uh—yeah, why—?"

"Yello?" Bill carefully wove his way out of the living room, already less steady on his feet than when he'd sat down. "I heard my name, who's summoning me?"

Wendy pointed over the twins at Bill and turned to shout into the dark, "Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you! Live and in person... Toga Lady!"

A half dozen teenagers immediately went bananas. Hooting and hollering and cheering and whistling: "To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!"

Bill's entire face lit up. Without missing a beat, he pushed past the baffled twins out onto the porch and spread his arms wide, basking in the cheering. "That's right, keep it coming! Worship me! I'm the greatest!"

"Yes!" Robbie pumped a fist in the air. "The legends were true!" Nate immediately added, "The prophecy! The prophecy!" Tambry snapped photos of Toga Lady's fresh look as fast as her phone could save them, muttering, "Everyone's gonna flip when they find out you're still in town."

Wendy waited, grinning, until her friends' faux hysterics had died down. "Okay—okay, after getting you hyped up, I should probably say that Toga Lady is actually Toga Guy." She glanced questioningly at Bill. "I think?"

"Eh, I'm not picky."

"Anyway this is Goldie, he was stuck in another dimension for thirty years, it's crazy, and now he's like my illegal backup cashier. He actually... doesn't usually wear togas?"

Bill laughed. "If you can't wear a bedsheet on Summerween, when can you?"

Lee said, "Thompson wore a bedsheet to homecoming."

"Hey."

Bill pointed at Thompson. "A man of impeccable fashion! I like it!" Thompson gave him a look of eternal gratitude.

"And Goldie, this is the gang! That's Thompson, he's the guy with the van; Robbie and Tambry, they're like, gender-swapped versions of each other, they even share their hair dye..."

As Wendy did introductions, Mabel whispered to Dipper, "Did you know she was gonna introduce Goldie to everyone?"

"No! This is bad, I told her not to trust him..."

Bill was responding to a question, "No, no, you've gotta guess, I'm making everyone guess!"

The teens considered the question. Robbie offered first, "Punk caveman?"

"Nope!"

Hesitantly, Thompson tried, "Nero fiddling over the burning of Rome?" He winced when Lee laughed.

"I like where your head's at, but no! I can't fiddle."

"The gremlin king from Huge Maze?" Tambry said.

Mabel piped up, "No, but the wig came from a gremlin king costume and I appreciate you for recognizing that!" Tambry nodded in cool approval.

Bill dispensed of Lee, Nate, and Wendy's guesses—Greek Christmas tree, that one guy who keeps painting burning banks, and hair metal Hades—before Robbie loudly cleared his throat to cut in. "Anyway, would love to stay and chat, but we've gotta move if we wanna be in position before sunset. Dipper, Mabel, you ready?"

"Ready to ghost it up!" Mabel said, squeezing around Bill with Dipper onto the porch.

Robbie surveyed their makeup—deathly white skin, ashen grey lips, and dark circles around their eye sockets. "Yeah, that's pretty good. Could use a little color, maybe. Like bloody tears?" He turned toward Tambry.

She said, "I think I've got some red eyeliner."

"'In position'?" Bill asked, giving Dipper and Mabel a questioning look.

Wendy said, "We're helping Robbie film this music video tonight."

"We're the creepy ghost twins!" Mabel announced proudly. "We get to sing the chorus."

Robbie said, "Yeah, the song's about childhood and growing up, but like, with ghosts? Because once you've grown up, your childhood is all dead? It's metal, but introspective. I'm calling the genre 'intrometal.'" He flipped his bangs dramatically. "It's a super deep song. Metaphorical layers."

"Oh yeah?" Bill stared Robbie down. "Sing some of it."

Robbie blinked. "Oh. Yeah, okay uh, I haven't warmed up my voice but, the hook is like—" He pantomimed playing a guitar and whisper-screamed, "'BABY DOLLS! BASKET BALLS! BASKET CASE! HUMAN RACE!' Like that."

Bill nodded slowly, face expressionless. "Ah, yeah, I see. Really deep stuff. Makes you think."

"Thanks." Robbie looked at Dipper and Mabel. "Anyway, if we're gonna get any footage in the graveyard before the jack-o'-melons start burning out, we've gotta move. Let's go, Creepy Ghost Twins."

"Wait, you're going out?" Bill asked Mabel. "Like out-out? Leaving me here? By myself? On Summerween?"

"Wh—yeah, we're only handing out candy for half the night," Mabel said. "I told you that."

"No you didn't!"

"Yes I did!"

"When?"

Mabel thought. "No I didn't," she admitted. "Sorry!"

Wendy punched Bill's arm. "Sorry to steal them. We'll be back in a couple of hours," she said. "Or you could come help—?"

"No!" Dipper and Mabel both shoved Bill back into the house before he could accept. Dipper said, "You've gotta—guard the house." Mabel added, "And hand out candy!"

"Right," Bill said flatly. "Yes. That. Ha."

"See you later!" Mabel said, and then shut the door in his face.

The last thing he heard was Wendy explaining to her friends, "He's on house arrest for, like, academic plagiarism and war crimes or something..." and then they were gone.

Bill's shoulders slumped. Well, now what? He couldn't celebrate a holiday by himself. What was the point of wearing a costume if no one sees you in it. He picked up a piece of candy, discovered it was one of his decoys, and picked up another. 

Someone knocked on the door.

"Yeah, yeah," Bill sighed. He picked up the candy bowl, turned toward the door, and paused. Ah. Right. What was he supposed to do with this impenetrable portal-blocking slab of wood.

Who was left in the house? Stan on the roof, Ford in the basement, Abuelita probably already in bed... were any of them worth harassing to help him answer the door? Maybe Stan, he'd gotten all dressed up, he liked the holiday even if he didn't like Bill—

The trick-or-treater knocked more insistently.

Or. Or.

He could pick up the bowl, peer out the small window in the door, and make direct eye contact with the children outside while he ate candy.

As a piece of mid-tier chocolate melted on his tongue, he saw three trick-or-treaters' faces fall as their faith in a kind, caring universe died. He grinned at them and ate another chocolate.

Oh yeah. He grabbed the rest of his cider from the living room and set up post next to the door. This would keep him entertained the rest of the night.

####

He made seven small children cry.

####

Stan watched from his post on the roof as yet another sobbing kid ran away from the shack. "HA! Gottem! Sucker!" He affectionately patted his boombox. "Creepy ghoulish laughter, you never disappoint! Terrifying moochers since 1989!" He paused the cassette and rewound it a few seconds to replay the best part.

He heard a scraping sound above him, and looked up just in time to see Ford sliding down the roof to join him. "Oh, hey! I didn't think we'd see you again tonight."

"Mabel made me promise to celebrate Summerween a little."

"Good for her!"

Stan had already claimed the sun lounger, so Ford brushed some dust and leaves off the roof's cooler and sat. "So, what are we doing? Scaring trick-or-treaters?"

"Yep. This year I'm taking a more atmospheric approach." He gestured at his boombox, which by now was playing haunting organ music. "Nothing like screaming zombies and rattling chains from nowhere to freak out the kids."

Ford nodded. "Psychological torment. I approve."

"Not quite as good as getting to see the terror in their eyes, but." Stan shrugged. "Bill was hanging out with the kids. I didn't want to put up with him."

"Mm. There's a reason I was spending the holiday in the basement."

"Heh. Well, there's always Halloween."

They were silent for a moment, listening as the cassette moved on from organ music to werewolf howls. Stan asked, "Think we'll be rid of him by then? I know we were hoping to be done with him before the Fourth of July—but since I haven't heard anything lately, I figure you hit a roadblock."

Ford winced. "Guilty as charged." He was still relearning how to keep other people in the loop. Even Stan. "You're right. I have a weapon that can destroy him, but I can't find a fuel source without restarting the portal. I'm hoping Fiddleford will come up with a solution I haven't."

Stan nodded. Ford had told him he was getting Fiddleford involved; even as reluctant as Ford was to admit how little progress he'd made, he wasn't going to tell someone outside the family about Bill without letting Stan know. "Any breakthroughs on his end?"

####

During the credits between episodes of the retired samurai period drama (most recently, the samurai had been asked to use his sword to help cut flowers for a bouquet), Fiddleford leaned over and whispered to Ford, "So I've been a-lookin' at those blueprints you left me."

"And...?"

"And I've constructicated a power adaptor. Just jimmy out the fuel tank, swap it for the adaptor's cord, and you can power that weapon by pluggin' it into the wall! It'll just drain all the power from the town for a few seconds, that's all."

"Fiddleford, that's amazing—"

"Now, hold on. There's bad news," Fiddleford said. "Try as I might, I can't quite get it to draw enough power to activate those energy-destroying features what you'd need to disintegrate Bill. It'll work like a powerful laser, but nothin' else."

Ford sighed. "It's a starting point, I suppose."

"I'll send you home with the adaptor anyway. Never know when you'll need a big laser."

"Very true. Do you have any promising leads on other alternative fuels?"

Fiddleford shook his head. "It's the NowUSeeitNowUDontium or nothing. But I've got a hunch we could synthesize it under lab conditions. I'll letcha know in a few days."

And then the next episode started, and they dropped the conversation.

####

Ford let out a heavy sigh. "He's only had a partial success so far. But I'm hopeful he's on the right track."

"So, if he's working on this weapon, what are you doing?"

"Waiting, mostly. I don't know what else I can do."

Stan frowned. "What—that's it? You've been downstairs all day every day—if you're not figuring out how to destroy him, what are you doing?"

"Passing time somewhere I can be on call if he gets up to something—but I don't have to look at him," Ford said wryly. "And—as long as I'm waiting to hear back from Fiddleford, I've been... picking apart that list of spells Bill gave me. To see if any of them are tricks or traps."

Stan couldn't say he was surprised. That was his workaholic brother. A pamphlet of demon magic was like catnip to him. If anything, Stan was almost glad Ford had that letter to distract him. Over the past year...

Well, Ford was fine on land—when he temporarily had a mystery to solve, an adventure to pursue, an anomaly to study, a distraction to fill his time—but at sea, when his mind was unoccupied, he was listless. He had books he didn't read, field notes he didn't enter into his journal, games he didn't play. He fed himself and exercised and did chores around the ship like a robot programmed to take care of itself, and he stared out at the sea.

Last summer, Ford hadn't seemed happy but he'd seemed alive. Tired and angry, but alive. But after Weirdmageddon, a light in his eyes went out. Stan didn't know if it was the end of summer, or guilt over the memory gun, or the gap between finishing a thirty-year-long quest and discovering the next one. All Stan knew was the light hadn't come back on until the moment Bill Cipher, clad in a new body and a purple cartoon bedsheet, tried to cave Ford's skull in.

Ever since they were children, Ford had had a tendency to develop obsessions. It was somehow simultaneously both what made him most interesting and what made him boring. Depended on the obsession. But these all-consuming interests had always tended to last a few months, at most a year; and he'd never seemed to be without one, much less for nine months. Stan had no idea what carrying a single obsession for three decades might have done to Ford's mind.

Stan was glad something had woken Ford back up, and he worried that losing that focal point again might leave Ford permanently adrift. But another part of him worried that, this time, Ford wouldn't let the object of his obsession go. He tended to collect things related to his obsessions.

But then, he usually tended to like his obsessions. He hadn't seemed bothered to burn the contents of his creepy Bill shrine last summer. Ford wouldn't do anything stupid, Stan told himself. Ford hated Bill. "So? Were any of the spells traps?"

"Not... so far, no." Ford sounded irritated by this.

Stan shrugged. "Makes sense. He's trying to butter us up. If that idiot thinks being nice to us for a week or two is gonna make up for the years of grief he's given us—"

A loud rattle-clattering below made them both start. Stan sat bolt upright. "What the—?"

Ford inched to the edge of the dormer roof, knelt down, and leaned over the edge just far enough to see the window.

Bill's face was pressed to the glass, eye rolled up toward the roofline. He grinned in surprised delight and shouted through the glass, "HEY, STANFORD! What are you doing up here?! I thought you were downstairs!"

"Ugh." Ford turned to grimace at Stan. "Speak of the devil."

Bill pounded on the glass again. "Hey, Sixer! SIXER! Open the window!"

"Why?"

"I wanna talk!"

"No."

"Come ooon, the kids ditched me and I'm bored! There's no one in the house to talk to! The old lady's asleep and Stanley's on the roof, so—" He abruptly fell silent, squinting with deep suspicion at Ford-who-should-be-in-the-basement kneeling on the-roof-where-Stan-should-be, and said, "Wait. Are you Stanley right now? Show me your hand."

Ford did not. "Go away, Bill." He left the edge of the roof for his cooler seat.

"Get back here!" The pounding redoubled. "I don't care which Stan you are! If you don't wanna talk, I can always go wake up Dolores!"

Ford looked at Stan. "Mrs. Ramirez's name is Dolores?" He had gotten used to everyone calling her Abuelita.

Stan stomped on the roof, "Shaddup!"

Bill did not shaddup. "Come ooon!"

Stan sighed in defeat and heaved himself to his feet. "If he keeps that racket up he's gonna break that window, never mind that hex you put on him." When they'd taken out the original Bill-shaped window, Stan had replaced it with the cheapest window he could find. He didn't think it was very durable. "How much trouble can he get in with one open window twenty feet above the ground and both of us watching him?"

Ford Frowned.

"Don't gimme that look. Do you want to pay for a broken window?" Stan flipped through his keys for his key-shaped emergency lock pick, leaned over the edge of the roof, and wedged the pick into the window frame. The latch popped open. Lucky this window was so cheap, that wouldn't have worked on one with deluxe features like "airtight weatherstripping" or "a properly-fitting frame." Stan swung open the window. "Okay, you have our attention. Now what's the fastest way we can get rid of you?"

Bill clumsily climbed out to sit on the windowsill with his legs in the shack, and leaned back so he could see up onto the roof. "Hiya Fo—" He lost his balance, flailed, and yelped as he toppled backwards.

Stan and Ford lunged forward to seize an arm each. Stan snapped, "What are you doing, you maniac?!"

Bill stared up at them both in wide-eyed amazement. "You do like me."

Stan made a noise of disgust, let go, and wiped his hands on his pants like Bill had cooties.

Ford said, "We like you trapped in that body and not free to cause the apocalypse."

"I heard 'we like you'!"

"Shut up." Ford managed to haul Bill back upright. (Touching Bill felt wrong—all soft flesh and skin and the suggestion of bones underneath. Even when looking right at Bill's human body, Ford still expected him to feel like heavy shadows and heatless flames.) From this close, Bill reeked of cider. "Just how much have you had to drink?"

"Not so much I won't remember whatever you say in the morning, so be nice to me!" Bill laughed. He leaned back, this time hanging by one hand off the window frame to precariously maintain his balance, and grinned up at Ford. "So! The least fun person in the house has finally emerged from his lair? And you didn't even come into the house to join in the Summerween festivities! 'All work and no play'..."

Ford had to crouch at the edge of the roof, hovering nearby in case Bill lost his balance again. "I wanted to participate in Summerween, actually. It just so happens that the last person I'd ever spend a holiday with is in the house."

"Listen, Stanford. I know you're holing up in your study for days on end just to hurt me. But let's be honest, you're hurting yourself more! When's the last time you saw the sunlight! Look at how pale you're getting, you look like a vampire."

Stiffly, Ford said, "It's costume makeup. That's my vampire costume." Stan laughed.

"It what." Bill flipped up his eyepatch and squinted blearily at Ford's face.

Wordlessly, Ford bared his teeth to show off his plastic vampire teeth.

"Oh." Somewhat deflated, Bill said, "Nice work, it's convincing."

"Thanks," Ford said grudgingly. Giving in to his curiosity, he gestured toward Bill's (somewhat disheveled) reddish-yellow wig. "What are you."

"Oh!" Bill perked back up. "You've got to see the whole thing. Hold on—" He turned around in the window, ignoring how Ford half reached for him in case he needed steadying, until he got his legs outside to dangle on the roof. "What do you think!"

Ford looked over the brown toga flared out like a cone, the eruption of red hair, the small paper city below, and said, "Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii? Very clever."

Bill's face lit up. "Finally! You're the first person all day to get it!" He smoothed out the skirt proudly, his jerky gestures just a bit more exaggerated than usual. "Do you know how long I've wanted to go to a costume party as Vesuvius? But nobody off Earth would get it! And now that I'm finally here, I can't go to parties and I'm shaped more like a mandrake than a volcano." He flung up his hands, wobbled, and caught himself before Ford had to intervene. "But at least you got it. I knew I could count on you, IQ."

He sounded so sincerely grateful. Ford regretted calling the costume clever. It was, but Bill didn't need the ego boost.

"Oh! By the by—I didn't think you'd emerge before the day was over, so I saved this." Bill fished around in his toga until he retrieved a mini pack of jelly beans. "Here!"

Ford eyed the pack. "Why is it open?"

"Because you only like the weird-shaped jelly beans, so I ate all the normal beans and saved the weird ones in one bag."

"I don't want this. You touched every one of the beans, that would be disgusting even if they weren't coming from you," Ford said. "Anyway, this is a patently transparent attempt to buy your way into my good favor—"

"It sure is, Ford, and if you don't accept it I'll get to be annoying about your ingratitude for weeks! Is that what you want? You know I'll do it. Everyone will be on my side—"

Ford sighed, but snatched the bag from Bill's hand. "Fine. Now drop it."

"That's more like it!" Bill favored Ford with an approving smile. "Anyway, it's just about the only candy left in the house, I ate everything else—hey, have you ever been cross faded on cider and a sugar rush?"

Ford was still trying to decide whether he wanted to engage in this one-sided conversation enough to ask Bill what "cross faded" meant when Bill moved on without him: "It's—not that interesting, actually. 6 out of 10. Anyway, all that's left in the bowl is mints and wrappers. And Mabel even managed to give most of the mints away—hey, she's so nice, did you know she's helping to resurrect the Summerween Trickster?"

She was doing what? "No. Why?"

"She's so nice."

"You just said that."

"What is she so nice for. What's she getting out of it," Bill asked, more to the universe at large than to Ford. "If more humans were half as nice to freaks as she is, your rotten planet wouldn't need people like you and me to save it."

Ford didn't even know where to begin with that. He looked to Stan for help.

Stan was sitting straddling his lounger, elbow on one knee and chin in his hand, watching this exchange like he was watching a weird bug on the wall try to navigate around a picture frame. At Ford's glance, he rolled his eyes and pantomimed sipping from a drink.

He could say that again. Ford cleared his throat. "Bill, maybe you should..."

"Hey," Bill said. "Great talk, we really should catch up more sometime. And pull your weight next time, I always have to do all the talking. But right now, I'm..." He gestured vaguely off to the side. "I'm gonna lie down and try not to throw up. Ciao!" He swayed as he tried to get back in the window, tumbled backward into the shack, and thudded heavily on the floor. "Ow."

Ford gingerly shut the window.

Stan turned up the boombox. "Chatty drunk, isn't he."

"He's chatty sober, too." But in front of the kids? Neither of them saw Bill as a role model, but they still didn't need to be exposed to that kind of behavior. Especially when the responsible adults were outside or asleep... "Did we really leave Bill alone in the house with the kids?"

"W—I—" Stan shrugged defensively. "They were all right! They can take him! They're doing karate or whatever! You didn't see how Mabel flipped him at the mall! It was like David wrestling Goliath."

"David and Goliath didn't wrestle."

"You know what I mean."

Ford supposed he didn't think Bill was any threat to the children. At least, not right now, and not physically. He felt like he'd know if Bill was about to try anything.

He looked at his open bag of gross felt-up jelly beans. Speaking of trying to butter them up... Ford wound up and chucked the bag as hard as he could.

He stared into the dark after it.

A small part of him was beginning to wonder whether this wasn't all just an attempt to get Ford's guard down. The gifts, sure, that was as clear-cut a case of bribery as you could get. Nothing ambiguous there.

But the endless chatter... Back when Ford had called Bill his Muse, this was exactly how he'd wanted Bill to talk to him. Not in the flighty half-distracted way of a friendly businessman catching up on a work project's progress before hurrying on to the next meeting; but just talking for talking's sake, talking for the company.

Getting what he once had longed for made his skin crawl. And he couldn't even tell if Bill was acting.

The boombox let out a ghastly banshee shriek. Ford and Stan both jumped, then laughed awkwardly.

Ford sat on the cooler again. "Is it just me, or... did Bill completely ignore you as soon as he realized I was up here."

"Well. I wasn't gonna mention it. I didn't wanna sound jealous of the attention. But yeah—he's been doing that since he got here. If you're in the room, he tunes everyone else out."

"I thought it was in my head." And he hadn't wanted to sound like he wanted to imagine Bill was favoring him.

"And you do the same thing around him," Stan said, and laughed at Ford's flinch of alarm. "It's—it's fine, I get it. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? You've got some kind of superhero-supervillain nemesis thing."

Ford got the distinct impression that Stan was offering him a convenient excuse for the tunnel vision. He took it. "I suppose that's true." The way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed around Bill certainly felt like a "nemesis" reaction.

But if Stan thought Ford was a bit too preoccupied by Bill... well, maybe he was right. Once Ford had gotten over his initial wave of fear, of despair, of outrage at the injustice, at finding Bill was still alive—there was a part of him that was almost relieved. A part of him that had been on guard against nothing for the past year, twisting around looking for an absent threat. Now that it knew where the threat was, that part of him could finally settle down and watch Bill with steady, certain eyes. Having nothing to worry about made him more anxious than having one thing to always worry about.

(Maybe Shermie's kid had been on to something when he suggested Ford might benefit from therapy.)

Knowing Bill was back didn't put the old starlight and awe back in that hole Bill had left in Ford's chest. But dread could fill a hole all the same.

Ford tried to push Bill out of his mind and the conversation. "You think I'm like a superhero?"

"You run around fighting monsters with a space laser. What else would you be?"

"Huh." Well. That made his night.

"Just as long as you don't pull that 'hero spares the villain to show how good he is' shtick."

"Never." Ford laughed ruefully. "I think I left 'good' behind a few felonies back." He'd probably left "good" behind the night he accepted the portal blueprints.

"Couple stragglers," Stan said, nodding out into the dark. It took Ford a moment to spot the costumed kids and remember it was Summerween. "I recognize those costumes, I scared them off an hour ago. What are they doing back?"

Ford squinted at them. "Are those toilet paper rolls?"

"Wh—Hey! What are you little runts— Hey!" Stan leaped to his feet, shaking his fist at the kids below. "Get away from my car! Stop that! I'll have you know that's a classic— No, not the eggs!"

Ford slid out his freeze ray, turned down the power, and offered it to Stan. "Here. At this power and distance, it'll feel like getting pelted with invisible snowballs."

Stan snatched up the weapon. "Eat this, twerps!"

The Summerween night air was filled with the screams of terrified children and the evil laughter of an old man.

####

Wow. It sure sounded like everybody was having fun. Outside. Without him.

Bill was nauseous.

He stared at the spinning ceiling, flat on his back, one leg on a cushion and the rest of him on the floor. 

Bill was nauseous and alone. The loneliness tore at his throat. Even Mabel had ditched him. Of course she did—he'd tried to kill her. He'd barely even remembered he'd tried to kill her until she brought it up. Had he tried to kill her? No, surely not—he liked the kid, he'd always liked her—he'd been faking to force Ford's hand, he never would have gone through with it. He would've teleported her into another room and pretended he'd disintegrated her. She didn't know he hadn't meant it. She was just mad he'd scared her. She couldn't take a joke.

But, Ford talked to him. Ford even liked his costume. It wasn't much, but it would get Bill through the night.

When he saw Kryptos again—when, not if—he was slicing him into a jigsaw puzzle for not taking Bill's call. The nerve of that guy, hanging up on a human without even waiting a few words to see if they had anything interesting to say. 

(What if it hadn't been an accident, he wondered? What if Kryptos had realized it was Bill and still hung up?)

(No. Of course it was an accident.)

He shut his eyes. He was probably too drunk to dream tonight. Well, he could try again tomorrow. His little lucid dreaming guide was currently teaching him to influence the next night's dream by focusing on a topic before sleep. Maybe tomorrow he could dream about the Nightmare Realm.

He missed home.

####

(Congratulations to the approximately 50% of respondents who correctly figured out Bill's costume when I posted the art on Halloween, you're officially smarter than everybody in Gravity Falls except Ford. This is one of those chapters with a whole lot going on so if you enjoyed, I'd love to hear your comments!!)

[hija-ck]

finally drew my bully oc teehee

meet axel taylor (real name [REDACTED]) (he changed it to seem cooler), zoe’s layabout older brother who does cheap and mildly unsanitary tattoos out of his trailer in blue skies

he has a semi-tragic backstory and is deeply problematic but mostly he just stinks and makes zoe box dye his hair black to seem edgy

anyway i love him and if u talk to me about him i will kiss u with tongue

[ghostbeam]

all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter | dabi/touya todoroki

You go to the store for the ingredients you need to cook for him tonight. You pick up the small cake you ordered from the bakery down the street. You wrap the vintage leather jacket you found for him at a thrift store despite his insistence upon no gifts. Everything is going according to plan, for the most part.

That is until you hear his name from the mouth of the news anchor on your television as she describes the events of a villain attack somewhere in the city. From where you stand at the stove, you freeze, listening to the report. You’re too afraid to turn and look at the screen, knowing that if you see him, you’ll break.

notes: hiiiiii so this is a repost from last year because I unfortunately did not have time to finish dabi’s birthday fic and then I remembered I deleted this one from tumblr bc I suddenly hated it ajshsjhdjd but anyways I edited it a bit but it’s also on ao3 (unedited but I’ll do that later) soooo yeah happy birthday to my greatest love or whatever (gross)

warnings: minors dni, no smut but implied sex, f!reader, blood and injury, angst, hurt/comfort, dabi picks reader up

words: 2.7k

Dabi returns home to you on a Thursday afternoon. He carries a beat-up overnight bag not filled with much since most of his wardrobe now lives in your closet, his toothbrush sits next to your sink, and his stash of fancy chocolates lies inside one of the drawers in your kitchen.

He drops the bag at his feet as he steps through the door, the key you made for him hanging around his pointer finger as he slams it shut with one foot, opening his arms for you to greet him with a hug.

His arms wrap around you tightly, walking you backward as he buries his face in your neck. He’s been gone for a little longer than a week, off on a mission for the league in a few cities over, a mission that you are completely unaware of. As far as you know, Dabi was visiting his family.

“Missed you.” You murmur against his neck. Dabi lets out a deep breath, preparing to pull away to look at your face. He cups your cheeks in his hands and grins.

“Really?” He questions. You reach your hands up to rest over his wrists.

“Mhm,” you nod, “did you miss me?”

“What do you think?” He rolls his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. When he pulls away, he drops one hand to your waist and pinches your cheek with the other. You swat his hand away, glaring at him, but it only makes him smile.

“I think maybe you did.” You shrug in his arms, “You know, judging from all of the random pictures of cats you saw on the street, and the constant messages asking what I was doing, and all the times you asked for pictures—”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He shushes you again with another kiss to your lips, deeper and hungrier than before. You’re breathless when he pulls away.

“You totally missed me.” You tease, pulling away from him and walking past him to the door. He sends a slap to your ass that makes you jump as you walk by, shoving him away so that you can pick up the bag he abandoned when he arrived.

“Doesn’t look like there’s much in here.” You comment, judging by the weight.

Dabi hadn’t packed much for the mission, just enough to get by in the shitty hideout that Shigaraki had set up for him. But you aren’t meant to know about that, so Dabi lies.

“I dropped some stuff at my place.” He shrugs as you look inside. You pull out a cheap box of black hair dye, looking up at him.

“Your roots are showing?” You question, and he nods.

“You cover them up the best.”

“Oh, yeah? How can you know that? Are there other people dying your roots for you?” You cross your arms over your chest. Dabi wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in.

“Maybe.” He smirks. You let your jaw fall open, pushing on his chest. But Dabi keeps a tight grip on you.

“Then they can dye it!” You resist, but Dabi pushes your arms down at your sides, trapping you there. He shakes his head, placing kisses across your face as you try to stifle the giggles that threaten to bubble from your throat.

“C’mon,” He rasps, resting his forehead against yours, “you know there’s only you. I don’t think I could find anyone else to put up with me.”

“I’m not putting up with anything.” You say, softly. Dabi pulls away to look at you. “‘Course, I’ll help you with your roots.”

The process is easy enough, one you’ve gone through many many times with him, something Dabi considers important to him. It’s that mix of being taken care of and trusting someone enough to allow it. Dabi couldn’t remember what that felt like—until you.

In the beginning, Dabi resisted you. He hated that wanting feeling and tried to ignore the burning in his chest when he looked at you. You came along and threw his priorities all out of whack, and Dabi was furious with himself for even considering you.

But at some point, the want became need, and there was no longer any doubt about keeping you in his life. Even if it meant hiding things from you. He never planned on not telling you about his villainous activities. He thought about getting it out of the way for a long time. He would tell you and maybe you would scream or cry or call the heroes. Or you’d tell him you hated him, and that had always seemed much worse than being locked up. So want was need, and Dabi was not Dabi he was just yours, and you were something he couldn’t stand to lose.

“Are you sure you’re not secretly way older than you look?” You question him, washing his hair over your tub after letting the dye sit in his white roots. Black swirls around your drain as he chuckles.

“I’m pretty sure.” He says, before pausing to look up at you “Unless…do you maybe have a thing for older guys?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, shoving his head back under the running water.

“I mean, I am getting up there. I’ll be twenty-five soon. Does that turn you on?” He teases.

“You are the worst. Wash your own hair.” You groan. You watch him run his fingers through his hair to get the rest of the dye out, thinking about his words again. “How soon?”

“Huh?” He asks, turning off the water and taking the towel that hung over the tub. You watch him scrub his hair with his brows furrowed.

“How soon will you be twenty-five?” A smile stretches across his face, and he wraps the damp towel around his neck to free his hands. He reaches for you, pulling you towards his chest.

“God, you totally can’t wait ‘till I'm old and gray, can you?” You roll your eyes at him, pushing at him lightly.

“I’m asking about your birthday.” You stare at him. Dabi looks away from you for a moment, letting out a sigh.

“Yeah, cause you’re counting the days.” He smirks. You hook your hands around the towel around his neck and pull him down to your level.

“Dabi.” You warn, touching your forehead to his.

“You know, you really can’t get this close to me and expect me not to kiss you.” He speaks, bumping his nose against yours. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you slowly begin to lean in. Dabi leans forward, pressing his lips to yours, but you don’t let him linger for long. He follows after you, eyes still closed, satisfied with moving to your jaw once you’ve pulled away.

“When is your birthday?” You ask him, a little breathless. He places a soft bite at the side of your neck that makes you shudder before speaking.

“It’s Wednesday.” He speaks against your neck. You freeze, moving your hands up to his head to pull him from your neck.

“This Wednesday? As in a few days from now?” You ask, your hands still in his wet hair.

“I don’t want to make a big deal of it.” He tells you. Dabi doesn’t remember the last time he celebrated a birthday. He most likely would have missed it if you hadn’t brought it up.

For Dabi, birthdays are a reminder of time working against him, of the clock ticking on all of his plans, everything he’s working towards. He’s also reminded of how those plans seem so small now, compared to waking up with you in his arms every morning.

“We don’t have to make a big deal of it.” You tell him. You move your hands from his head down to rest on his chest. “Can I just…make you dinner or something? Or I can order from that one place you like?”

“Just dinner?” He questions.

“Well…” You trail off. Dabi squeezes your hips, making you yelp and you jolt in his arms. He smiles at the reaction, “Dinner and one gift?”

“No gifts.” He shakes his head, bringing his hand to the back of your head. You look up at him.

“What if it’s the greatest gift ever?” You ask. He smiles softly and shakes his head, leaning down to kiss you.

You let him deepen the kiss, though you know it’s a way to distract you, pressing you into the bathroom counter as he traces your lips with his tongue. Your hands tangle in his newly dyed hair, arching into him as he moves his lips against yours. He lifts you onto the counter, pulling away from your lips to place kisses against your neck.

“C’mon,” You try, your breath catching in your throat, “just one.”

He bites down on your shoulder hard, earning a soft moan from your throat. He kisses over the mark, leaving more kisses down your chest, “No gifts.”

He runs his hands up your thighs as he lowers himself to the ground. He draws circles on the inside of your thighs, looking up at you. “Yeah?”

“No gifts.” You say, running a hand through his hair. He grins at you, kissing your thighs. “Just come at six okay?”

“I’ll be here.” He promises, biting your skin and making you shiver. “Now shut up. I missed you.”

….

Wednesday arrives quickly. You send a happy birthday text to Dabi paired with a scandalous photo of the blue underwear you’re wearing underneath one of his shirts, and he answers immediately. You remind him of what time he’s supposed to come by before leaving your phone behind on your bed to get ready for the day.

You go to the store for the ingredients you need to cook for him tonight. You pick up the small cake you ordered from the bakery down the street. You wrap the vintage leather jacket you found for him at a thrift store despite his insistence upon no gifts. Everything is going according to plan, for the most part.

That is until you hear his name from the mouth of the news anchor on your television as she describes the events of a villain attack somewhere in the city. From where you stand at the stove, you freeze, listening to the report. You’re too afraid to turn and look at the screen, knowing that if you see him, you’ll break.

The League of Villains, the anchor calls them, a name you find vaguely familiar. You don’t pay much attention to the news at all, but you can recall hearing of the group in passing. You don’t expect to hear your boyfriend's name in relation to them. You, at the very least, have half a mind to turn the stove off before you sink to the floor, bringing your knees to your chest. A villain. Dabi is a villain. For some reason, it doesn’t scare you as much as it should. More than anything, you’re upset about being lied to.

You know that the smart thing to do is call someone, the police, a hero, get someplace safe. You don’t want to do any of that though. You want to stare at the cabinets in front of you, and you want Dabi to come home.

You can’t think of anything but him, not the damage he’s done or the people he’s done it to, just him and the promise of his presence at your door at six o’clock. You can figure out the rest later.

He isn’t there at six, though, or seven or eight or any hour after that. You sit on the floor with the buzzing of voices on your television for hours before you pick yourself up. You pack up dinner numbly, placing things into tupperware that you put in the fridge without thinking. You turn the TV off, and you don’t change out of the dress you wore tonight specifically for him, and you don’t wash your face either. You just pull back the covers to your bed and clutch Dabi’s pillow tight. You don’t fall asleep.

Dabi comes home at around two a.m. He stumbles through your front door and leaves his key in the lock, slumping against the counter. He hears you come out of the bedroom, stopping at the end of the hallway and staring at him. He looks up at you for a moment but averts his gaze in shame. He’s a mess, staples missing and bleeding from his seams. His skin is raw and irritated against his clothes, and he’s sure some of his ribs are bruised.

And you, you look gorgeous, in that dress that Dabi’s always liked on you, your mascara lightly smeared underneath your eyes. Have you been crying? He can’t tell. He hopes you weren’t, not for him.

You walk toward him slowly, a little cautious, caught in between yelling at him or holding him. You can yell later, you think. Right now, you just want to stop the bleeding from his face and ice whatever injury he’s clutching at his side.

Approaching him, you bring your hands to rest at the side of his neck, urging him to look at you. He won’t. You sigh and push yourself closer to him. He doesn't move away. He nuzzles his cheek against yours, blood smearing across your skin, and you bring a hand down to his.

Silently, you pull away, tugging lightly on his hand for him to follow you. He stumbles for a moment before catching himself, walking behind you into the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the tub and thinks about when you dyed his hair for him, how long ago that feels now, how you might never do it again after tonight.

He watches you pull a first aid kit out from beneath your sink, rummaging through the supplies and setting them on the counter. You wash your hands and dampen a cloth, before leaning down to gently clean up the blood on his face. You do it all in silence, gently pulling away any staples that are near falling out, careful not to hurt him more than he already is. You remove his jacket from his shoulders and pull his shirt over his head, examining the rest of the seams in his skin. The ghost of a bruise is forming on his ribs, and you stand up to find something to ice it. Touya grabs your wrist before you can leave, his grip limp, tired. You could pull away easily if you wanted.

“Why are you doing this?” He rasps. You pause, turning around to look at him.

“You’re hurt.” You tell him.

“I’m late.” He says. “And I’m–”

“I don’t care.” You don’t care about what you saw on TV, or how late he was. You don’t even really care about the lying anymore, not when he’s bleeding on your bathtub.

Dabi stands with a groan, and you reach toward him to steady him. He takes the cloth from you and rests a hand on the back of your neck. He gently wipes your cheek in the place where his blood is smeared. You close your eyes, feeling the tension in your shoulders leave your body.

“Things are never going to be how they are now ever again, you know.” He speaks, setting the towel down on the counter. He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “You’ll know everything because I’m not going to hide it from you anymore, all of the gory details, everything I’ve done, everything I’m going to do.”

“Dabi.” You try to speak, but he doesn't let you. His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, keeping you focused on him.

“I’m not a good man, and I don’t deserve you. And if I was better, I would let you walk out of here. But I’m not. I’ve always been weak, and I’m not losing you.” He’s desperate, so afraid that you’ll walk away, leave him, tell him he’s too much. “So you have to tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“I want it.” You speak, almost frantically. “Maybe something is wrong with me, but the only thing that mattered to me tonight was that you’d come home.”

“I am home.” He speaks, pulling you tight against his chest. He winces at the pressure on his ribs, but when you try to pull away, he only squeezes tighter. “I’m home.”

You wrap your arms around him, “Sorry your birthday sucked so bad.”

“We’ll try again next year.”

[traffic-duck]

I know I’m late to season six of Mha but I just finished it so don’t laugh at me.

ANYWAYS……

You wanna know what’s hilarious? What’s hilarious is the fact that when Dabi reveled that he was Toya he poured a bottle of water on his hair the the hair dye magically disappeared. If you know anything about hair dye then you know that it doesn’t wash away with just water. This fact has brought me to the conclusion that Dabi has been using the really cheap spray can hair dye that you can get at almost any Walmart. If you have used said hair dye then you know that it makes your hair very crunchy. This also means that Dabi’s hair probably felt like there was 50 layers of hairspray in it at any given point.

[niki-phoria]

pairing: dabi x male!reader (refers to reader as a man once) genre: fluff, slight hurt comfort (?) word count: 1.2k

a/n: this started as a soft fluffy drabble of helping dabi dye his hair and then it spiraled into this

slight spoilers bnha season 06 !!

"stop moving," you say, moving onto another section of dabi's head.

"stop getting dye all over my neck," dabi retorts. you ignore him, continuing to rub the dye into the strands of hair. you're careful not to get dye on his skin. dabi checks himself in the mirror, pulling at your hand. "you missed a spot."

"let me finish this part," you part his hair even further, careful around the roots. "you're the one who wanted my help anyways."

"because you wouldn't stop pestering me about it." you both know he's lying. the first time you caught him dying his hair he brushed you off. the day after, a small container of vaseline and hair dye remover were sitting outside of his room, right in front of the door. since then, you've grown to enjoy dabi's company, even seeking him out. neither of you have addressed your new closeness, opting to silently continue pushing the boundaries of friendship. 

"you love it," you nudge him to turn to the other side. "don't know why you're dying it again. you've already announced yourself."

dabi shrugs. "maybe i prefer the black." there's a barely noticeable sadness in his words. you're only vaguely aware of dabi's difficult home life, only getting throwaway lines of information while sharing cigarettes on rooftops or during late nights where dabi's skin is hot against yours and his shoulders shake ever so slightly with overwhelming emotion. you decide not to push it, setting the bowl aside and pulling off your gloves.

"leave it for 30 minutes. try not to stain my bathtub," you say, turning to leave the bathroom. before you can close the door, dabi's hand catches your wrist.

"you're not gonna help me rinse it out?" there's a faux innocence in his voice as he looks at you, a sly smirk threatening to break through his expression. you roll your eyes but don't leave, sitting on the floor and leaning against the bathtub. dabi sits across from you on the closed toilet, reaching over to light a cigarette.

the silence is nice. the familiar smell of cigarette smoke fills the bathroom, clinging to your clothing and staining the tiles in your shower. your mind drifts as you focus on dabi’s exposed chest. you study the areas where smooth skin meets rough scars, jagged lines decorating the man’s torso. in the corner of your eye you can see dabi smirking, leaning back to expose more of himself. “like what you see?” he teases. 

you don’t reply, instead moving closer to him. dabi watches silently as you slowly bring your hand up to rest on his shoulder. when he doesn’t react, you drag your fingers down his chest, along the years of stories you hope he’ll tell you eventually. your hands are cold against his warm skin as your hand moves down to his side, tracing each rib through the muscle. dabi’s hands rest gingerly on your hips, holding you on his lap. 

the intimacy of your position makes you nervous. your mind races with possibilities. what if he leaves? what if he doesn’t like you the way you like him? what if this is all just mindless sex and cheap cigarettes to him? 

you’re saved from your internal debate when your phone’s timer chimes. you switch the device off, ignoring a few texts from shigaraki. dabi ashes his cigarette, maneuvering so his body fits in your tub, head underneath the faucet. 

“i can’t afford hot water,” you warn him. 

“i don’t mind.” dabi stares at the ceiling as you turn the water on, slowly beginning to wash the dye out of his hair. his locks are soft despite the dirt and blood he lets dry in it. you wonder if the feeling of washing his hair is comforting to dabi. he has no reaction as you coax his head into position, letting the water run in different areas. 

washing the dye out takes longer than expected. once the water runs clear, you turn it off and hand dabi a towel. he takes it silently, letting water droplets run down his back and shoulders as he dries it off. “thanks.” his voice is quiet when he hands the towel back. you nod, debating on grabbing a cigarette to prevent the sting of watching him leave. to your surprise, when you look up dabi is standing next to you, eyes staring into yours. deep blue irises are framed by his damp hair and scarred skin. silently, dabi brings a hand up to your chin, holding your face in place. he lends down to press a kiss against your forehead before he lets go, leaving the bathroom. 

the action stuns you for a few seconds. dabi has never been openly affectionate before, touches reduced to quick hookups and sometimes, when you’re lucky, an unforgiving grip on your hand as either one of you is patched up after a rough mission. “wait!” you’re quick to rush after him, grabbing his hand. there are a million things you want to ask him. what did that mean? do you like me back? why did you kiss me? but when your eyes meet his again, only one thing leaves your mouth. “stay?” you can see dabi glance towards the door before turning back to you. he doesn’t say anything, letting you lead him to your bed. it’s an old mattress you stole from someone’s dumpster laying unceremoniously on the floor in the middle of your apartment. you sigh, staring down at your fingers, playing with a loose thread on your jeans. “listen… i don’t want to be just another fuck. i like you. you mean a lot to me. and, i want to mean a lot to you.” the silence hangs heavy in the air for a few seconds. you don’t dare to look up in fear of rejection. scorn. disgust. you aren’t even sure if dabi likes men, let alone you. as more time passes you can feel the ball of anxiety in your stomach building up to your chest, pressing down on your lungs, stealing the air from you, crawling up and making tears build in your eyes. this time when dabi’s hand reaches your chin, his hand moves to cup your jawline. his calloused fingers run along the bone before moving up to your cheek. he lifts your face so you’re looking at him through tears. 

“you’re my everything. you’ve never been just a quick fuck. and i’m sorry i ever made you feel that way.” dabi wipes away a tear you hadn’t realized fell. he moves so he’s sitting closer to you, forehead nearly touching yours. “i love you, y/n.” you lean in and press your lips against his. you’ve kissed dabi before, but never like this. this is sweet, full of love, and sweetness. you kiss him again, and again, and again, until you lose yourself in overwhelming love. 

“i love you too.” you whisper. dabi smiles a little, pulling you into another kiss.

[zabala0z]

Hii welcome back to “newbie rips hair out over writing TMA notes” I’m your eternal host and I’m dying here guys.

Haven’t watched episode 39: infestation yet cause i wrote my notes digitally and had this convention today but when doing this, I noticed some new stuff!!

1. In page Turner, Gerard keay showed up. He showed up earlier than I thought. Along with his mom who apparently was dead yall I did not pay attention. 💀 It’s interesting since in Old Passages, we got to see teenage him (still sporting the cheap hair dye) and he said his mom knows about all this stuff which is true since in page Turner, she was all over Jurgen Leitners books.

2. Sarah Baldwin!! I learned this through a mutual but I’m glad I could see some other details. I wonder how disappearing near Old Fisherman Close leads to you peeling off your skin and stapling it. She also was called a smoker and in Skintight, she smoked a ton.

3. In Do Not Open, the truck was called “Breekon and Hope deliveries” who, when reading the transcripts, are the two delivery men who delivered Jons shit in Old Passages. I don’t know if knowing their names was a spoiler (whoops) but they also delivered a pale yellow stole to Father Edwin in Desecrated Host! I was just scouring the transcripts trying to figure that out yall.

4. This is a mild theory but maybe the John in Do Not Open is the same John in Taken Ill??? They’re both named John and that’s all I got but eh

Anyways that’s everything. Might not listen to the next ep until tomorrow night cause man if I see one more mention of teeth or worms or bugs or meat, I will cry. Also it’s 12 am

[femme-from-hell]

🕷 Miguel O'Hara HCs 🕷

・❥・ So I'm finally hopping on this because I can't deny the feral need to write about this herculean man. These are just random thoughts with some 'x reader' sprinkled. ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ

・❥・ Rating: SFW

・❥・ Warnings: None <3

♡ Something in me tells me this man has an at-home gym. Like, I know there is a training facility at the spider-society HQ but Miguel has eyes sensitive to light exposure and lord knows this man doesn't want to be bombarded with the noises coming from who knows how many spider-people working out. He likes his peace and quiet in his home with the lights dimmed so he can focus.

♡ Bouncing off the above point, when Gabriella was little you bet your sweet bippy she would be around him while he worked out. Like, he would have a little plush kids yoga mat next to his while he did stretches for her, a tiny children's low pullup bar next to his so she can play safely. When she was a baby, he would do push ups with her below him and he would blow raspberries on her stomach to make her laugh every time he would go down. As a toddler, he would have her sit on his back while he did planks or hang onto his leg while he did pull ups.

♡ I feel like Miguel, despite his demeanor can be incredibly funny. Having said that, I feel like he tried to do a one liner once and a thug laughed at him. He beat the living shit out of the guy and never tried again, that's why he 'isn't funny' as Peter B. put it. When he's with his S/O, he'll lean over and whisper something funny of the foulest nature that is just so out of left field for him and NO ONE would believe you if you said it to anyone else.

♡ This man is so prone to pain, which would explain his ass being so grumpy 24/7. Migraines? His sensitive eye sight, heightened hearing, all of it is like pouring gasoline on a fire. Back pain? Carrying around a dump truck like that Crawling around with those claws, swinging that hulking mass of muscle he calls a body, all of it CAN NOT be easy on the back. He picked up Gabriella once and felt pain in his back, sending him spiraling into a break down going like 'I'm not that old, am I?'

♡ He dyes his hair because there is no way in hell he doesn't have grey hairs. Canonically, he's in his late 20s in the comics (Assuming early 30s in ATSV) so he nearly lost his shit the first time he found one. He never really thinks about mentioning it to you but one night you drop by because you just left something behind only to find him with one of those cheap plastic shower caps one with the fresh dye in and his heart nearly stops. He is so embarrassed but you comfort and reassure him with some loving.

♡ I mentioned above that I think Miguel is prone to back pain so if you offer to give him a backrub he will MELT. Absolute putty in your hands. This man just needs to have someone loving rub the tension from him, I stg. Little kisses on the back of his neck while you do it? He would be in fucking heaven. Absolutely would return the favor and with hands like his you know damn well how good it would be.

♡ Seeing all the posts about Miguel being a 'girl dad' is the cutest shit and I know in my soul it's 100% true. He would without a doubt go into work one day with sticky glitter gloss or a few nails painted after failing to get it all off somewhere on him. He let's her braid his hair and will always encourage whatever it is she's doing by getting involved in anyway he can because he just wants his little girl happy.

♡ I can't get the image out of my head of him sitting at a coffee place with Gabriella, justice brand body bag thrown over him with those butterfly clips in his hair while he sips coffee (Gabriella has one of those noncaffeinated sugary ass rainbow drinks at Starbucks, you know the ones) while she babbles on about elementary school drama and he is invested, nodding along. They have the cutest daddy/daughter dates.

I'm pretty happy with this little mess of ideas. I'll probably make a more concrete/ organized post collection of my ideas, like one for Miguel as a dad, some 'x reader', and definitely some NSFW. Lmk what you guys think, I love to hear from everyone or submit a request! ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

[motherofplatypus]

So I saw this post by @iandoubt and i just have to write a fic out of this.

It's slightly NSFW, because I also use this fic for practice, so please excuse the cheap writing I made ٩(ᐛ)و

***

For Joel, the worst thing about being a red life isn't that he's on his last life and must go on a killing spree to get everyone to join the Legion of the Losers.

Nope. It's that he had to dye his hair, again.

The process of dyeing it is quite fast, but the effort to collect the ingredients are a pain. And yes, it's not necessary to change the color of your hair every time you lost a life, but it's a must if he wanted to instill fear upon those who sees him.

Also for style.

Mainly for style.

Anyway, after spending like a quarter of the session collecting poppies and turning them into red dye and carefully painted over the green streak on his hair, Joel finally finished. It took him like ten minutes max and an extra few minutes to let it dry. Being on the upper deck of the Relation Ship really helped the drying process.

He looked at himself and felt weird not seeing that green streak there.

While cleaning up, he looked at the hatch towards the lower deck, listening to the faint grunts from where the bedroom was. Etho is down there, dyeing his hair himself, and Joel quoted Etho: "I think I can do it myself, it's just like painting, right?"

It's not actually necessary for Etho to dye his hair, but they're partner, and if they wanted to be a functional partner in their last life, that Canadian man better get on with his style.

While waiting for him to finish, Joel decided to add extra details on the upper deck and the sails. He avoided going to the bedroom or lower deck to check on Etho, he wanted to be surprised by Etho's work (derogatory).

After some texturing and choosing better color gradient, something that took more time than collecting those poppies, Joel decided Etho might be needing his help.

He went to their bedroom, and the first thing that came to mind was "Did Etho just killed someone here?".

The bedroom was red. All red. The white sheet of their beds looked like someone just got murdered there, and Etho was sitting on it, entire body tainted with red dye except his white hair, looking defeated.

"I know you said it'll be just like painting, but I didn't expect you to paint everything except your hair!" Joel's mouth was gaping, trying to find a word to express his bewilderment. "How did you even do this? There's more dye on the ceiling than there are on your hair!"

Even with half of his face covered with mask, Joel could see just how embarrassingly red Etho's face was.

Joel took the dye away from Etho and pulled a chair from the corner. He gave Etho a sign to sit there. Without complaint, Etho obeyed, trying to hide his face away. Joel left the room for a moment and came back with a towel in hand.

He tossed the towel to Etho and moved next to him, preparing to dye his hair. "Clean yourself up, or do I need to do it myself as well?"

"You know, if you wanted to do it that badly, you just have to say it." From the way the side of his cheek raised slightly, Joel could tell Etho is making that snarky smirk.

His eye twitched and he grabbed Etho's hair like he's snatching wig. Etho screamed.

Joel decided he will just dye Etho's bangs. Maybe a bit more, as long as the white still the dominant feature of his hair. He had tried to imagine Etho with red hair and he hates it (not like he thinks about his partner that much, he's not that obsessed).

Five minutes later, Joel almost finished with dyeing one side of the bangs. It was relatively quick. However, it's a different story for Etho, who had to listen to his partner nagging nonstop in that five minutes.

"God, you're so pathetic. I mean, look at this!" Joel turned Etho's face and lifted some strands of hair to wipe a red stain. "If I left you alone any longer you'd be Hellboy by now."

"Joel, my ears are about to fall off if you keep nagging."

"Nagging is for losers. I'm not nagging, I'm scolding!" Joel moved to the other side and paint the white hair red. "You with your bloody dye and hair. If you can't scare the other with this, I'm ending our series."

Now, it's Etho's eye that twitched with annoyance, and he wanted to retaliate.

Etho grabbed the hair that's just dyed, feeling the dye still fresh and wet on his skin, and aimed it at Joel's face. Instinctively, Joel tried to dodge, but it was too late. The finger with the wet dye, originally aimed at his cheek, brushed upon his lips instead, giving Joel a rosy red lips.

Etho exploded into laughter. "Nice to see you there, pretty lady." Etho spoke between his laughter.

Heat crept up on his face that Joel thought he'd combust. Etho was laughing harder when Joel's face went red as a tomato, he nearly fell off the chair.

Joel clenched the dye in his hand and was more than tempted to just pour the whole thing onto Etho's head. But he thought, where's the fun in a quick revenge?

And so, Joel decided to make his revenge as slow and as painful as he could.

Joel moved in front of Etho, and without a single word, he sat on his laps.

The sudden weight on his laps instantly made Etho stopped laughing. His eyes were set and locked on the man in front of him. The man on his laps. But the weight wasn't the thing that got his attention.

Their waists were practically touching. Separated by the fabric of their pants, their tools are pressing one another.

The silent didn't go unnoticed by Joel. Seeing that he had won the first step of his petty revenge, he decided to step it up. "Nice to see you too, handsome man. This pretty lady needs to sit down for a while, you don't mind, right?" He smirked, both to tease him and to declare victory.

If Etho's brain was audible, Joel would hear a lot of sirens and stuff crash and burn. And when Joel moved himself to get a better position, there would be an explosion sound.

Joel returned to dyeing the hair red, as slowly as he could. Each stroke of the brush took at least a minute, and each stroke of it sent Etho's mind further into the blank mindscape.

Once in a while after turning the white strands red, Joel would purposefully moved himself. Feeling the soft brush of their pants that got Etho to moan silently while trying to not looking too flustered, it was a sight to be seen.

He would like to do this all day. Teasing his partner into oblivion, filling that head with nothing but the friction of their pants and the soft sound of his breath mixing with the pleasure moan that Etho himself made.

He would love to do this all day, but the circumstances won't allow them. Sooner or later, they will have to return to the game, be it willingly or have someone hunt them down.

With one last stroke and one last movement that pulled the longest moan Etho made, Joel got himself up from his partner.

"Alright, we're done. Let's get going." Joel turned himself away faster than he should've. Despite being the one deciding to move away and getting his revenge, he found himself already missing the pressure between his legs.

"Joel." There was a long silence before Etho called his name. Joel turned around to see Etho already standing behind him. Even though Etho was only slightly taller than him, Joel couldn't help but feel a bigger pressure being this close with him.

"What?" Joel finally spoke, his voice was squeaky beyond his control.

It was clear as day of the desire within Etho's eyes, as well as the lies he's gonna say. It was disappointing to know he would not be able to hear it, but something tells him he would not hear it now.

Etho pulled out a flint and steel, and those eyes smiled softly at him. "The ship burns, everything burns?"

Joel took the flint and steel with a smile that matched his partner. 'The ship burns, everything burns."

[possum-quesadilla]

New Lonely Remnants chapter, “But you see, it’s not me, it’s not my family”, is here! Please read the warnings before proceeding!

Here are the extras!

- The lyrics for this chapter’s title are from “Zombie” by The Cranberries! Heheh, zombie. It is meant to be from the Shoggoth’s perspective as it sees all of these memories and is disoriented by them.

- “There were other various items as well; a few faded colorful thread friendship bracelets, a raggedy old plush cat, a few colorful rocks, and many more buried under the photos.” - The friendship bracelets were mostly from his twin sister, but one of them was one Lydia made for him when they first met. The plush cat is his favorite childhood stuffed animal (his name is Binx!), and the rocks are from all of the various national parks he’s visited.

- “That stack seemed to be a bunch of family get-togethers. Dozens of kids and adults having cookouts, dressed in similar formal outfits. Photos inside and just outside churches, many people smiling brightly at the camera. Lydia found herself softly frowning as she and Barbara both leaned in close on either side of Adam to get a good look. “… is that… his family?” ” - Lawrence was part of a large extended family that met up often, and went to church together every Sunday.

- “The one on top seemed to be someone taking a picture with.. Lydia thought maybe an old Sony Cyber-shot in a mirror, their face primarily obscured by the camera. They seemed to be wearing dark baggy clothes, posing awkwardly with a peace sign from their free hand.” - Lawrence got that camera for his 13th birthday, most of the photos in the box from that point on were taken by him! It stopped working, but Emily insisted on keeping it for the memories. It’s in her office at Lydia’s house.

- “Bella. Her name is Bella.” - Readers of both my fics, yes his twin is this universe’s version of Bela! She is very fundamentally different in this fic. She and Lawrence were inseparable before he left. They never fought or anything, he just left without a word. She never really found out what happened to him.

- “It was a very young Lawrence, posing in front of a roadside sign that read “Now leaving Louisiana”. It was obvious he was the one holding the camera. His hair was cut horribly choppy and short, with random longer patches and a horrible purple dye job. His eyes were glassy, and he had deep bags and dark circles prominently under them. He had one small tattoo on his arm as opposed to the many he later had, his nails were painted black as per usual as he held up his free hand in the universal ‘rock on’ sign, and he was sticking his tongue out, revealing a tongue piercing.” - He is 16 here, the day of him running away! He cut and dyed his own hair, did his own stick-n-poke tattoo, and even pierced his own tongue. Don’t do all that, folks.

- “ “… Juno got loud. Belligerent. More so than usual.” It reached out to fidget with the end of it’s tail, wringing it in it’s hand. “I-.. he-… Lawrence always had a smart mouth. Knew it would get him in trouble, but I-… he did it anyways.” Lydia saw his shoulders begin to lightly shake. “She grabbed the clothes iron. It hurt… so bad.” ” - It won’t really be specified in story what happened, so I will say it here: Juno was drunk as per usual, but so was Lawrence. Juno was saying rude things and Lawrence kept talking back. Juno got angry and decided to burn him with a clothes iron. He immediately packed his bags and left.

- “… couldn’t stay another second after that. He knew he’d die if he did.” - GOTCHA WITH ANOTHER “I Saw The TV Glow” REFERENCE!

- “There were many of what seemed to be Lawrence on the road for a few years. Pictures of random roadside attractions, at the signs of various towns, of him at bars and concerts and even camping in national parks. His hair varied in style and color, and dark circles were always present under his eyes. A concerning number of the photos had him with a bottle of half-drunk cheap vodka in his free hand. His clothes were always raggedy, and he always looked at least a little bit grungy.” - He didn’t have very much money, but what he did spend was on hair dye, tattoos, and alcohol. Hence why he was always dirty and in old clothing. He briefly joined a band and toured with them, but ditched them after a year or so to keep drifting.

- “One photo had him proudly showing off a bright green binder in the middle of a crowd of colorfully dressed people, his smile more genuine than it had been in any of the previous photos.” - Baby’s first Pride!!! He was 20.

- “Someone who sounded rather… sassy, let’s say.” - It’s Otho. I don’t know how to politely describe the way that man talks. It’s movie Otho, btw, not musical Otho!

- “… always were the most… potent out of all of us, little brother.” - I wonder what this means? Hmmm. Also misgendering wtf Otho

- “With that, the man turned on his heel, clacking away in his pristine black dress shoes until he rounded a distant corner. The sounds of his footsteps suddenly halted then.” - Otho teleported away once out of sight. Our Shoggoth can do that too! If it had enough energy and harmony with it’s host, which it does not.

Tag list: @raineisinkless @c0zmo-writes @musical-fiend @katslitterbox

(Want to be tagged in future updates for CorpseJuice / LoopJuice? Let me know!)

[high-on-the-dying-sun]

London After Midnight CKY crew x Fem!reader

Warnings: bit of "suggestive" mentions of adult content and grass AKA weed

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Words: 1,215

London was quite a beautiful place. It was large with beautiful architecture. But of course you and the boys were destined to destroy it.

You, Bam, Ryan, Dico, Rabb and Rake all were shacked up in a small cheap rundown cottage. Bam stood by an open window with some type of melon in his hands. “Dude! What are you doing?” Ryan asked, “waiting for a victim.” Bam Declared. Isn't that just nice. “Oh dude look somebody's coming drop it! Drop It!” Dico edged on and right as the person walked under the window Bam dropped the Melon. And you only made it close enough to the window in time to see the aftermath of it. The person underneath freaked out and was cursing out Bam and Dico. “Man we have been here for not even a day! Don't get us kicked out of the goddamn country!” Ryan screamed at Bam. This week is going to be killer.

Midnight. You all decided to go out to a bar, well “pub” as the Londoners called it. But thanks to Dico doing his mocking accent you were all thrown out rather violently. But that's not going to stop any of you.

Bam was on his skateboard doing tricks as we followed his lead. It was painfully late in the morning now and chaos had just begun to brew. You all shortly arrived at a new hotel because someone - Bam to be exact got you all kicked out of the last. You can only wonder how long this one would last. And guessing by the current events maybe 12 hours at the most.

You and Bam were now skating in the hotel's hallways looking for Rabbs' room. You two had come up with a plan to prank every one. Finding his room you slowly opened his door. Rabb was curled into a ball snuggling up to his pillows holding onto it as if it was a person. Damn, that's sad - relatable but sad. Bam made his way into the bathroom and scooped up a cup of toilet water. you stood by with the camera in your hands. “Dude, the water had piss in it! This is gonna be great!” “This is going to be gross.” you corrected “you filmin?” Bam whispered; you nodded at him. “I'm Bam and this is the potty mouth.” “the potty mouth?” “It's a working title!” Bam explained “anyway - I'm Bam and this is the potty mouth!  he whispered, he crouched down to Rabb slowly opening his mouth and dumping the cup into his mouth. Rabb awoke with a gasp inhaling the piss water.  you and Bam jumped up into the air with laughter “What the fuck?” Rabb Coughed out as you and Bam ran down the hall to Dico’s room. 

You and Bam had a rather helpful prank for Dico in your eyes. you see Dico has started balding at a rather young age. So you and Bam thought you would help him out a bit. “Bam take the camera.” you directed. Bam took the camera away from you and silently you walked into the room's kitchen and found a pair of scissors; walking back to Bam and Dico as Bam was getting close up shots of Dico’s sleeping face and balding head. Slowly you kneeled down next to the both of them and Bam pointed the camera at you. “Hi, I'm Y/N and this is midnight barbers.” You announced and started to clip Dico’s hair and Bam put out his hand to grab  it and put it into a small plastic bag that smelled faintly of weed. “Oh yeah this is fantastic!” Bam exclaimed 

After cutting Dico’s hair and learning that he was a surprisingly heavily sleeper it was off to Ryan's room for the both of you, but that needed to wait. You went back to your room and grabbed some tape and some green hair dye. “Y/N let's get this show on the road!” Bam yelled, shoving the camera in your face. “alright!” you told him and walked away but turned around suddenly and hit Bam in the stomach. “Ow, you bitch!” he said, doubling over in pain as you laugh. “That's pay back.” “for what?” “you know what.” you informed.

After fighting with Bam for a few minutes that left you with a soon to be an absolutely haggard bruise on your thigh in the next few hours. You two finally got to Ryan's room. You took the camera from Bam to film him. He took the bag of Dico’s hair out of his back pocket. “Im Bam and this is mustachio.” he said as you passed him the tape. He got down on his knees and pulled out a few strands of Dico’s hair, putting tape on it and sticking it onto Ryan's face. Ryan twitched a few times that made both you and Bam jump. Finally yall had Ryans face covered to make it look like he had a beard. “That looks horrible.” you say to Bam:  it's not that Ryan looks bad with a beard it was the fact that Ryan's hair was blond and Dico’s hair was almost black. “It could be worse, it could always be worse.” Bam said, turning on his heel and walking away eager to get to your last victim.

“Hey, do you got gloves for this?” Bam asked as you were  walking to Rake's room. “Absolutely not and you're doing it. I'm not turning into the wicked witch of the west today. “ you retorted. 

Finally you got to Rake’s room. He’d gotten a room at the other side of the hotel. He was probably trying to get away from everybody's hijinks. But it was Bam there was no escaping him. The only way you got out of it was to help him. Once you got into the door you didn’t find Rake in bed but on the couch sleeping sitting up. “Perfect, he's just in the position I want him in.” Bam whispers, putting the camera on the table. “That sounds gay.” you committed but he just ignored it. “I'm Bam and this is the mad scientist” you rolled your eyes at that. Given the fact Rake hangs out with you and the Jackass guys it was common to forget that he was an actual scientist. Bam took out the electric green hair dye and started to coat Rake’s hair in it. It was mostly patchy and uneven. But it's gonna be great in the end. “Wait Bam how are we going to wash this out?” you asked as Bam got up and whipped his hands on his pants. “That is not are problem anymore; Y/N look! It looks like I fisted a goblin!” He said, shoving his hands into your face. 

It was around 4 in the morning now. You and Bam were sharing a room so you two could come up with your plans. You were laying down comfortably now nursing a warm beer you found laying around the room. Without warning Bam came running out of the shower and  jumped up onto the bed making you spill the beer “Bam!” you yelled all he did was smile. “Thanks for helping tonight.” Bam said, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you into a side hug.