#he is not a monster he is better than all of you

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

A New World | Yandere Monster's World

Rules | Buy me a Kofi!!! | Commissions(Shorts, ASMRScripts, etc.)

Thinking about an alternate dimension with no humans. No rumors, no myths, and no ancient burial grounds that suggest they might exist. Only the creatures we write about and make stories of. Hairy 5-meter tall hairy giants, vampires that drink the blood of any they can get their hand on, gorgeous beauties that feed on the souls of all they drown at sea. It’s a monster lover’s dream. The races of course are in factions by race navigating peace as best as they can but it continues to be a contentious mission. 

Of course not helping their case, a new species is being introduced to the pool.

You. 

A dimensional traveler meant to test out a better place for humans to live. Of course, your soulless employers drop you in with limited supplies and promise they’ll return you in five years of course if you're not dead. 

But this monster world is far from ready to have a human come to their land. At first, they mistake you for a defanged good-natured vampire; flexing your technology as a silent show of dominance. Typical of those snotty fang-havers….but things get weird when the council of monster representatives finds the Vampires so in awe of your existence. 

“No fangs?”

“Imperviousness to the sun!?”

“You are like nothing we’ve ever seen–”

“Or smelt! Your blood—”

“We’ve never tasted anything more divine!”

After using a small reusable syringe technology is amazing from your pack and give them a couple of droplets. Only for one taste to have the vampires writhing in heat so feverish they can’t help but drool and pull at their suddenly too-restricting clothes.

The other representatives are baffled. Are you a witch?! You have a better temperament than any and you haven’t requested any hearts or weird herbs to sate some hunger of yours. The Witch representatives check you next, doing the usual checkups witches must go through.

“Alright now open your esophagus.”

“Uhm I can’t do that. I can open my mouth, though. Ahh”

“GASP! What on the Withering Lands is that pink thing hanging in the back!?”

“My uvula?”

“Oh my, should you be showing that to us?!”

“Yes, we may impregnate you that way.”

“That’s not how it works for me.”

Though for good measure and their imploding curiosity, they take a sample of your saliva. Learning from those narcissistic vampire they only pour a hint of it into their cauldrons. Taking a sip, their chemistry demands their brain think of an answer and yet….why are their pants wet? Oh dear they’ll need to satisfy themselves quickly or they’ll be unable to stop themselves from pouncing on the odd creature that brought this along.  It brings the council into an uproar some call for your immediate execution, others want to take you for further experimentation, and others hope to have what the vampires and witches were having. 

One of your immediate allies is the Elves the hosts for this council meeting. Escorting you from the courtroom as they mull about possible solutions, willing to hear out what you might have to say. Oblivious to the tension among the kingdoms and each specific problem, you can’t offer much. That leaves the Elf representative, an audacious fifth prince, at his wit's end. Near tears he expects you to watch awkwardly as the sparkling water falls from his eyes, not rub against his back. 

“Hey it’s okay we’ll figure it out. I really appreciate you looking after me.”

Your words fall on deaf ears as the elf is immediately thrown into disarray. Even through his clothes, the warmth of your hands has the most naughty parts of him stand at attention. The tips of his ears are the shade of the planet’s crimson moon and the nails he’d always kept beautifully shaped make indents in the wood. His guards happily fall to restrain the creature responsible only for them to suffer the same fate. 

It dawns on you just how terrible of a situation it is then you realize the door is locked and the monsters suffering from your effect have been thrust into a mindless rut where their all convinced you will solve their problems. 

And maybe you can, after all, you are the only human in this world. If you made these problems surely you can fix them. 

[monstersflashlight]

Hey, I love you content. Really totally love it. Is it weird to say that it makes me relax ?

Anyhow I read a tumblr post today about some really nice gentle giant movers and packers and I wanted to ask you if you could write a human×minotaur drabble/post about the human hiring a company of movers and packers with incredible reviews and these massive human guys show up who are all so nice and sweet and then this more massive minotaur shows up and you think that he would be lifting heavy furniture but he begins to carefully wrap all the delicate items and then he helps in lifting the heavy furniture which makes all the humans huff and gruff but he's making a specific grunt sound once in a while which travels straight down to your core.

You were too stressed that day to focus on him but that doesn't mean that you didn't touch yourself to the thought of him late at night once they all left. Without your knowledge he tucked away a few of your things and he kept coming back to return them to you. You were still unpacking so you didn't actually know how much was missing and were very grateful and always offered him something in return i.e. drinks or snacks or just hanging out for a bit which turns into him helping you out to sort stuff.

One day he shows up just as you have gotten out of the shower and were in the middle of a mastμrbating session and he can smell it on you. It makes him go feral and then after everything's done he gets all cuddly and purrs a little bit (I read somewhere that cows and some bulls purr when they're happy just like cats do)

I'm sorry if this was too long. I love your writing because it tickles very niche and specific interests and I wanted to throw the whole idea out there. Thank you so much if you choose to write this and thank you so much regardless.

A/N: Hi there! It makes me happy that you like my content, thank you so much for being here and reading my stuff. <3 Hope you like this!

Moving company

Minotaur x fem!reader || sex toys, oral sex

When you decided to move, someone at work recommended you a monster moving company, claiming they would do the job in half the time. Which they did. But still was a surprise when a team of four minotaurs showed at your door and started moving boxes as if they weighted nothing. You had never enjoyed watching someone as much as you did that day. Their rippling muscles flexing and bulging, sweat running down their torsos and foreheads as they moved your stuff around. By the time they left, you were wet and ready to get beyond fucked.

But wasn’t until a couple days later that one of the movers, the one with the long hair and pretty hazel eyes, appeared on your doorstep with a box of books, excusing himself and his crew because they forgot to bring that one in. You thanked him, offering him some of the tea you were preparing. He agreed, and you started talking, enjoying his company a bit more than necessary. He left that evening with a smile and your phone number.

And he appeared again and again, always with the excuse of something he forgot to bring you, until you brought it up and he shyly admitted he liked you and wanted to know you better. You (obviously) kissed him that day, and you made out like teenagers. It was fantastic and you craved more and more.

But he was a perfect gentleman, always appearing with a flower or some sweets, glad to be spending time with you without sexual expectations. Or at least that’s what you thought. But you weren’t like that, you were a horny human with a monster kink who was dating a minotaur… and you wanted to get destroyed.

But since he’s not doing anything to make that happen, you get out the big guns, aka: your biggest dildo. You are bouncing on it, on the edge of what feels like a great orgasm when the doorbell rings. You let out a short cry, startled, and consider not answering, but you know who it is. There’s no other who would show up at your house uninvited.

So you put up some pants, and a shirt and walk to the door. As expected, your minotaur boyfriend is there, with a cupcake in one hand and a rose in the other and looking incredibly handsome. You almost moan at the sight, your pussy still tingling.

You see the exact second his nostrils flare and he smells the juices still sticking to your pussy, still wet from your activities. You watch his eyes darken and his body tensing. He drops the flower and the muffin and lets out a tiny groan.

Then he launches.

You let out a screech when his big body collides with your middle and he pulls you up over his shoulder, grunting about mattresses and flat surfaces. You half-heatedly point to your right, to your bedroom, and he kicks the door open with his hoof.

You let out an amused huff, slapping his ass and getting a slap in return, which only makes you groan. That snaps him out of his trance, throwing you to the mattress and kneeling on the floor, pulling your legs to him until your covered pussy is in in front of his face and he’s looking at you for permission.

“Yes,” you moan.

He rips your yoga pants in the middle, his big rough tongue over your pussy in a second as he devours you and groans at the taste. “Were you playing with this pretty cunt?” You nod, rolling your hips against his exploring fingers, trying to get him to push them inside. “So naughty, fucking what’s mine…” His possessive tone makes your legs tremble at the same time he pushes two fingers inside of you and sucks on your clit while you cry out. “Give me the toy, darling. I want to see how pretty your pussy looks around it,” he grunts. You do as told.

He takes no time pushing the toy inside of you, cooing as you groan. He fucks it into your already welcoming heat, your pussy stretching to the brim as he grunts with each thrust as if it’s his own dick being feed into your hungry cunt. You can’t get enough of it, begging for more over and over.

And when his tongue joins, licking your clit at the same time he twists his wrist to get the toy to the perfect angle… You come messily, screaming his name as loud as possible as you lose control of your movements and roll your hips down against the toy and his warm tongue.

You open your eyes a few seconds later to find him lowering his pants and keeling between your open legs. “Now you take me,” he says with a growl, his dick in his hand, way bigger than the dildo…

Fuck yeah.

[rosalettewrites]

through the night.

summary: james barnes has nightmares. this time it turns out worse than he expected.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader.

warnings/tags: fluff, no smut, angst, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, no y/n, no use of y/n, pov second person, cursing, nightmares, mentions of trauma.

word count: 2k.

A/N: this fic is also posted to ao3 under the same title. find the link here!

Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car.

The words haunted Bucky. Not physically, not anymore, but mentally. The words lingered, heavy, leaving scars in his mind and in the junction where the flesh of his shoulder met the cool metal of his vibranium arm. Scars he could never heal, never cover up, try as he might.

He thought he could get over it. Put a bandaid over the pain and keep moving forward, but it was difficult. It festered. Even hearing those words in public, in any context, it sent Bucky into a panic that only you could bring him down from. 

When he met you he swore he'd do anything to keep you safe. You were the first thing in his life that wasn't war, the only thing in his life that was real and good. He told himself if he did anything to hurt you, he'd leave and never return. 

How could he face himself if his hands, ever stained with the crimson ichor of dozens of people, ever laid harm to you? He'd be a monster. Not that he wasn't one already. 

When you first got together, it took at least two weeks for you to convince Bucky to sleep in your bed with him and not on the floor. Even then he was reluctant. Originally Bucky had slept on the floor because he couldn't stand his mattress. After years of one war after the other, he'd gotten used to hard floors and an aching back in the morning. Steve and Sam were right — it was like sleeping on a marshmallow. But ever since you, he'd begun to resent the bed for another reason. 

Bucky had nightmares. Really bad, really debilitating nightmares that either left him starting awake, scream caught in his throat, or with his vibranium hand clutched into the pillow next to him, fingers digging so tight he could rip holes into it. 

But you insisted, and so he obliged. Because how could he ever say no to you? You were warm, all smiles and sweet kisses pressed to his stubbled face, and so Bucky relented. He cautiously draped his flesh arm around your waist, pulled you closer and burrowed his face into the warmth of your neck, inhaling your scent and committing  it to memory (he'd bottle it up if he could). 

The first night with you was terrifying. He laid awake all night, mortified, convinced that if he fell asleep he'd wake up and you'd either be gone or dead, both by his hand. He stayed up, gaze never leaving your face, tracing the curve of your nose and lips and the way your lashes fluttered with every breath you took. He mapped the faint sun kissed freckles over your skin, the smile lines faintly etched over your cheeks, every part of you that he found utterly perfect. Maybe not getting any sleep at all wasn't so bad. 

The next night with you was unlike any other. Bucky didn't get exhausted often, but the moment you climbed into his bed, held your arms out for him and gathered him into them, he fell asleep immediately. Enveloped by the warmth of you and the blanket, Bucky slept soundly for the first night in over seventy years. It was a miracle, honestly. And the next few nights were the same. He thought it would all be okay. Finally. All because of you. 

But Bucky Barnes could never be free from HYDRA. 

The night started like any other. You were staying over, no special occasion, as per his request. He'd begun to enjoy having you over more often than not. The apartment just seemed brighter with you there, happier. He'd even considered asking you to move in with him but an apartment like this was no place for a lady. 

No, he'd wait until he'd get a bigger one. A better one. Then he'd ask you to move in. 

The rest of the night went great. You made him dinner, and then he showed you a movie from the 40s. You'd fallen asleep during it, because of course you did, and he carried you to his bed. He'd originally turned to leave, something about washing the dishes, but you'd grabbed his wrist, mumbled sleepily, and he had no choice but to melt at that and crawl in right next to you. As always, you slept on his left, because then he could drap his flesh arm over your waist and pin his metal arm underneath his head, far away from you. He burrowed his face into your neck, whispered goodnight, and fell fast asleep. 

In his dream you were there. You usually were, smiling that beautiful smile of yours at him as you laughed at one of his jokes, your soft hand reaching out to squeeze his. 

Only this time the dream changed. The moment your hand met his flesh hand, it changed. His metal arm, as if having a mind of its own, clamped around your neck. It squeezed, and Bucky could see the terror in your eyes. The way you looked at him, with such fear and disgust, and yet he didn't seem to care. 

It wasn't until Bucky felt hands clawing at his arm did he loosen his grip. He opened his eyes and found you pinned underneath him, his metal hand wrapped neatly around your throat. He quickly let go, watching as the indents where his fingers were filled with colour, contrasting against your otherwise flawless skin. Did he do that? No, no, no, no…

He braved a look up at your eyes and immediately regretted it. You looked so scared, so vulnerable. He felt like a beast, a predator looking down into the eyes of its prey, watching it beg for its life silently before its inevitably killed. Bucky decided at that moment that he hated that look. He hated seeing it come from you. 

He choked out an apology, feeling like his body wasn't really his own as he climbed off you, pushing off the bed and exiting the room. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd hurt you. He'd scared you, nearly killed you. He looked down at his vibranium arm, disgust coursing through him.

“Bucky?” your voice cut through the darkness that clouded his mind, and he turned over his shoulder to see you steadily approaching him. Like nothing had happened. Like it didn't even matter. He stumbled away from you, holding a hand out. 

“Don't come near me. I'm… I'm dangerous.”

“Bucky, hey, it's okay —” 

“Don’t. Don't say that.” he cut you off, his voice low and strained, like he was holding back tears. He was. “It's not okay. I hurt you. I could've killed you..” 

You took another step and he flinched, stepping back again. The look you gave him for that felt like a stab to the chest. 

“But you didn't.” you answered, your eyes kinder than he deserved. “You stopped yourself. That counts for something.”

Bucky nearly laughed at that, exhaling sharply as he shook his head. “Stopped? I woke up with my hand around your throat. I didn't stop. You had to wake me up. And even then… for a minute I didn't even see you. I saw a target. I lost control.”

You simply shook your head, wrapping the blanket you'd brought with you around your shoulders like armour. Like protection.

“You didn't lose control. You stopped, Bucky. You got it back. That matters.”

Bucky let out a pained sigh, his palms digging into his eyes as he turned away from you. “But it shouldn't have to. You shouldn't have to deal with sleeping next to a ticking time bomb. You deserve better.”

Bucky's hands dropped from his face, fists clenching so tightly that he was sure the knuckles on his human hand were turning white. “I can't keep pretending like I'm safe. To love, to be around. There is so much blood on my hands, sweetheart. So much that I can't wash away.”

He turned to face you, watching as you walked right up to him, your soft hands reaching out to take his, intertwining his fingers with yours. Why were you still here? Why hadn't you run from him yet? He couldn't tell if you were utterly stupid or not. 

“I know what I signed up for when I started dating you, Bucky.” your voice was calm, soothing. He could fall asleep to the sound of you talking to him like that. “You think I don't see all of that in you? I do, but I stay. Because I see you. The real you.”

Bucky's eyes closed, and he could feel a war brewing inside him. One side yearned for you, yearned to lean into your touch and your words and forget all of this happened. The other wanted to flee. The other was terrified, cowardly, and wanted to run far away from this, and from you. But god, you made it difficult to leave. 

“You shouldn't have to fix me. There are too many broken pieces.” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. Like he'd been screaming for hours. Sure felt like it. 

“I’m not trying to fix you. I love you. And loving you means I'll sit here with you, and help you pick every one of those pieces together until you're whole again.”

Bucky's eyes opened, piercing, wild blues meeting the serenity of yours. Your eyes drew him in, like they always did, and made him feel like everything would be alright. It was funny, how a simple look from you was enough to heal him ten times over, like you were the solution to every one of his problems. 

The tension in his shoulders slowly began to release, like floodgates slowly creaking open. Tears stung at his eyes and his nose, and he dropped his gaze to your hand, intertwined with the cool metal of his. 

“I don't deserve that kind of love.” he mumbled. 

“That isn't true.” you untangled your hand from his human one, and you cradled his face, turning his gaze back to your perfect visage. Bucky took in your expression, your big, sleep-ridden eyes, your pouted lips, your knitted brows.

He could never get that look of fear and betrayal out of his head, but at least you weren't looking at him like that right now. You looked understanding, patient, despite everything that had just happened. How could you just stand there, forgive him and continue to love him? He couldn't believe it, but he also couldn't bring himself to question it.

When it came to you, Bucky felt selfish. You could love anyone, be with anyone that you wanted, and yet you chose him. A former soldier, a brainwashed assassin, a man out of time. He would never understand it. 

Finally, finally he allowed himself to lean forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his hand tightening around yours. 

“You should be afraid of me.” he breathed out, the fight gone from him as he could barely exhale the words out. 

“Well, I'm not. I'm not running away from you, or from this.” you answered, stubborn as always. It almost made him smile. And smile he did, weakly but a smile nevertheless. 

“I don't know what I did to deserve you.” 

“Exist, probably.”

Bucky smiled wider, leaning further into your touch, his arms going to wrap around your waist as he burrowed his face into your neck. And you held onto him. Like something sacred — carefully, fiercely, like he’s both breakable and worth saving. 

Bucky pressed a chaste kiss to the skin of your neck, his words muffled by the fabric of your shirt. “If I ever hurt you like that again —”

You cut him off this time, wrapping the blanket tighter around the two of you. “You won't. But if you do, we'll face it together. You're not alone, Bucky. Never again.”

Behind him, the sun had begun to rise. He hadn't even realized what time it was, or how much time had passed since he'd woken up with his hand around your throat. 

The early morning rays peeled through his blinds, casting a golden light over everything he could see from the corner of his eyes.

The worst of the night had passed, for now. At least this time you were there with him. 

[melonteee]

All this garp talk has me thinking, how would you compare garp and vegapunk as old men participating in the system?

I don't think they're really comparable because Vegapunk hasn't promised himself over to a system or position of 'justice'. Vegapunk was incredibly blinded by his lust for knowledge, to the point he accepted funding from the WG while lives were used at his will to make new discoveries, and I guess there's a similarity in Garp and Vegapunk both wanting to make a better world out of their own means.

But the difference between Garp and Vegapunk is... Vegapunk didn't end up passively accepting the death of people for a 'greater good'. Vegapunk also realises his mistakes, owns up to his mistakes, and feels regret in a way that pushed him to ACTUALLY do something.

He made sure the pacifista bots could never hurt Bonney, he knew this would get him killed, and after being killed, he spread a message to the entire world - defying the world government - in hopes of saving people.

I believe Vegapunk has no belief that what he was ever doing was justice, he just got so invested in science he didn't see how the WG would use his creations against him in disgusting ways - to the point they burnt Egghead down, the island being Vegapunk's magnum opus. He also didn't realise some of the experiments he was carrying out were cruel to living beings until it was too late, but again, he acknowledges he was totally blinded by scientific discovery.

As I've said before, I do believe there's some purposeful inspiration from Oppenheimer when it comes to Vegapunk's story - as Oppenheimer was creating what he thought would contribute to world peace, just to create a nuclear arms race that he regretted and haunted him for the rest of his life. But he was so invested in the 'good' it could do he didn't stop to consider what he was creating could be a monster.

Vegapunk isn't supposed to be a morally perfect character by any means, but I will always commend him a million times more than Garp because he actually put his life on the line and went against the system for a child he refused to kill or see killed. Vegapunk did not passively move against the WG after realising the mistakes he made, he ACTIVELY moved against them. However, once again, Vegapunk had no loyalty to any marine or WG system, so I don't believe he can really be compared to Garp due to how Garp is chained by his marine ideals.

If anything Sentomaru and Kizaru are the two who should be compared to Garp, as one was completely passive when it came to being ordered to kill an old man and little girl, and the other quit the marines right there due to believing the orders too horrifying and too cruel to carry out.

[dead-lights]

nibbles // the devampiros

I was supposed to be making embarrassing old-timey pictures of the DeVampiros for the Vatores to make fun of, I got distracted, and now it's a whole thing. here's some lore!

operation high fang

After the end of Operation Eternal Flame, a group of Vampires came out of hiding to start the initiative. Through a successful propaganda campaign, they branded Vampires as refined and classy, boasting of what they offer through their historical knowledge and charismatic ways. At the same time, they smeared Werewolves as dirty and dangerous monsters, lacking in control. The results were catastrophic for the new Werewolf communities who were still maturing as an occult.

(i compiled all game quotes about the century conflict/surrounding events here - the high fang stuff is at the very bottom, my headcaons are below the cut. also if you don't recognize the guy, he's the vampire Elle bat- and coffin-fucked in the trailers/the guy from the painting over Vlad's fireplace)

My hc is that Elle is originally from Aria, the coven of the arts. Aria had very pointedly decided not to get involved with the Century Conflict - they were artists, not combatants, and few made it past the rank of Prime (which is largely why Elle left - she was hungry for prestige and wanted to grow her power). The result was that the overwhelming majority of the coven, including Elle's parents, were slaughtered by werewolves and spellcasters.

After the war, vampires found themselves in a weakened state and with no allies to speak of, and were terrified of the day when spellcasters and werewolves would rebuild their numbers. To secure their futures, they needed to break the alliance between spellcasters and werewolves. Vlad's conquest of Forgotten Hollow showed how easily humans could be manipulated to be used against their enemies, so they decided to utilize his old techniques to wage a propaganda campaign known as Operation High Fang.

Elle rallied the surviving members of her coven of origin to join High Fang. With their cultured upbringings and familiarity with human art, they were uniquely well-suited to promote this new, classy image of vampires. They were also pretty mad about spellcasters and werewolves slaughtering their kin, and were determined to take their revenge. Also, they were a bunch of classy snobs who did just like going to fancy parties, eating fancy foods, and talking about fancy things.

The first part of this plan required that they infiltrate mundane high society. In the beginning, they mostly played human, gathering information and forming strategies. By the time they started revealing their true natures to humans, they'd built up the social skills and relationships to ensure that they were well-received.

Once they'd rehabilitated the image of vampires in mundane society, they were able to move onto the most vital part of their plan: convincing spellcasters that they're better than werewolves, but that is a subject for another render.

As I've mentioned more than a few times, I really hate making faces in CAS. Since most of the faces in this scene were either not visible or out of focus, I got REALLY lazy about making background sims for this one, with this result:

what makes this even worse is Caleb/Lilith/Lily's moms are identical twins because I couldn't be bothered to make 2 sisters...

1920s clothes by @happylifesims

ferronnière and flower hair ornament by @the-melancholy-maiden

elle's hair/accessory by kiara zurk

blender scene: classic art deco hall

[mionttyn]

#This is more pulling from my own headcanons than any source material #But I have a lot of feelings about the narritive physically changing a character and how well that works with the idea that #Becoming immortal is a slow process more of a slide than an abrupt change #And I have a lot of feelings about diomedes becoming immortal and how odysseus only ever wanted to be a man #And how diomedes was having a much more mortal experience and odysseus experiencing so much magic and monsters and gods #And how every step of the way diomedes only ever politely thanks Athena never argues only does his duty #And how nearly everything odysseus met tried to change him or keep him and how he fought against that with his whole being #Also a lot of feelings about the traditional reward for heros was immortality #This obviously does not include all the times Athena treated odysseus like a barbie doll because ody was 98% not aware of that #Athena post the whole ajax going insane thing: that was fun #Odysseus: great yah super fucking fun love when my allies go mad with desires to torture me to death BTW #Take off the invisibility spell I want nobody trace of it lingering on me I am remaining mortal if it kills me #Athena: definitely not pouting you're no fun one little spell isn't going to permanently alter you #Odysseus: I am not taking any chances any invisibility I have is going to be my own fucking skill and your excellent training not magic #Diomedes: internally:after getting the ability to see through illusions and see gods #Should I mention this to Pallas Athena? Did she mean for me to keep it? Is it bad if I keep using it? #Is it even more disrespectful to not use it? Surely she is aware that I still have this? Surely it would be an insult to her intelligence #To remind her that would be casting doubt on her memory and perhaps it is part of a plan and #Who am I to question pallas athenas plans who am I but her devout weapon better to not mention it or any of the other lingering magics #Diomedes realizing a hundred years after the fact that he is in fact immortal:....should I mention this? #Athena finds it funny to try to sneak magic onto odysseus it's a game for them because their both rat bastards #But not post odyssey it's just triggering then #Actual child solider diomedes by @backpackingspace

Odysseus: demanding Athena take off whatever enchantment she put on him the second the situation ends.

Odysseus: who constantly reminds Athena that he has great plans to grow old and die with his wife so don't even think about getting any ideas.

Odysseus: side eye diomedes who has started fucking glowing he has so many enchantments on him: bro you should talk to Athena about getting those removed. You're going to end up immortal or some shit

Diomedes: who has been a solider since he was 5 who has intersting thoughts about his own personhood who has a much more traditional relationship with Athena and would rather literally stab his own eye out with a rusted sword than speak out of turn: I don't know what you're talking about

[palemoonlightandnightshade]

It was nice to see Dedra in the exact position Syril was back in season one. In the interrogation room waiting for Krennic. Look how the tables have turned. Her obsession with finding the Axis mirroring Syril's obsession with finding Andor. Both endeavors ending up rather pointless. The rebellion has moved on from Luthen. Arresting him won't help to put down anything. Dedra there in the shop being all smug that she finally caught her prey. Then Luthen shattering that hollow victory for her. Just amazing.

Also I liked how they showcased the hierarchy and who is where in the food chain of the Empire. Syril with Dedra, Dedra with Partagaz, Dedra and Partagaz with Krennic. In Rogue One it gets better when we see Krennic with Tarkin and Vader. In Andor Krennic is a big deal to every character he interacts with but there's always a bigger fish. Both Vader and Tarkin are more than willing to do worse than what he does to Dedra to him. And of course we have Tarkin and Vader with the Emperor. It's astonishing how these idiots think they can work with the system and climb up the ladder when they're all disposable to the one guy that has all the power and cannot care any less about any of them.

In the end they're all victims of the Empire really and what's sad it's that they never realize it. Yes they have relatively better living conditions and most probably don't get to face the atrocities they commit. Like major Partagaz was keeping up with the Ghorman campaign from the safety of his big office on Coruscant. But even they are victims. There are no benefactors here. No winners. No truth. No greater good or a worthy cause. Only a self-serving monster. Only the Emperor gets to have all the power. Only he gets to have what he wants. And they are upholding and fighting for the very system that has oppressed them.

Don't get me wrong I think they all got what they deserved. Except my poor baby Lonni another unsung hero of this rebellion of unsung heroes. I'll never get over it. Luthen you bastard! You could have gotten away along with Kleya and Lonni and went to Yavin. Instead decided to stay and die and kill my poor boy. At least his family is tucked away safe. In my head he's still alive on Yavin with his family.

I keep thinking how chaotically hectic and out of depths ISB must have been during that year with them losing three competent and seasoned supervisor along with Major Partagaz. Like instead of keeping Dedra and Partagaz they simply discarded them because they were always replaceable and expendable to the Empire. They had to learn the hard way how insignificant they are.

Every time I remember Dedra's fate the feeling of satisfaction puts a smile on my face. Now that's a fitting end to her character. Partagaz too. I like to think with how intelligent he was after listening to Nemik's manifesto he came around. Obviously too late. But I kinda don't have sympathy for him to be honest. I mean he was alive and around before the Empire. He knew how things were under the Republic. Maybe things weren't all that great towards the end of it but still. Also him deciding to end it then and there instead of trying to repent or otherwise fight back, I mean I guess he didn't want to end up like Dedra but we don't know that. He could have very well put all of that on his subordinates, got away somehow and found a way to rebel. Instead he chose the easy way.

[neogotmysam]

nct dream free use gf part 2

(part 1) dreamies using you, all day, anywhere but its sooooo much nastier and filthier

using you in public, letting strangers touch you and your dirty cunt, making fun of you for how wet you’re getting over some creeps getting off to you

triple penetration with the j line….you have never felt fuller in your life…jaemin thrusting in and out of your ass while jeno and jisung try to fit their massive thick cocks in your one tiny pussy

you can feel jaemin jisung and jeno’s cocks rub against each other inside of you through the thin muscle separating your ass and pussy

haechan getting horny at the park so he just puts u on his lap grinding into you while people walk by, asking you if you think they know he’s fucking you 

jisungie spreading your icky little cunny, watching how his long thick fingers alone can be enough to stretch and fill your tight hole

haechan is a bastard. a true asshole. he’ll pull your pants down, no prep or lube, thrust his cock in your ass, making you scream with so much pain, and your tears just get him off

jaemin walking in on you riding mark and then shoving his cock down your throat, cumming all over your pretty little tits, and then rubbing the cum into your skin like moisturiser

chenle, our mean dom, slapping you till you cry, shoving his fingers down your throat making you gag, all while saying “what a desperate whore” “what would your family think seeing you like this?” 

jisungie having the biggest cock but has no idea what to do with it, too shy to ask you, so he ends up fucking you every night when you’re sleeping, you wake up everyday with his cum spilling down your thighs

going to the gym with jeno and jaemin, spreading your legs open, spreading your pussy for them to see as motivation to finish the workout faster and come devour you

gooner hyuckie loves shoving things in your pretty pussy, loves seeing you whine with the stretch, the bigger the better, be it pens, cans, cucumbers, dildos, he loves seeing you all full for him

passing out after being choked, just to wake up to jeno fucking you roughly into the mattress and jaem pinching and prodding at your tits

chenle filling your squishy walls up with a monster dildo before tying a vibrator to your clit…overstimulating you till you’re crying

hyuck inspecting your cunny in the shower, mark using his fingers to scoop out all of the cum left in your pussy, all while jaemin rubs soap all over your tits, pinching your nipples

jeno slapping you and choking you till you’re a blabbering mess calling you a disgusting whore cuz hes sure you secretly like it

mark guiding you onto jisungs cock, forcing you to take him deeper and deeper, before sliding his own cock next to jisungies, forcing you to take both of them at once…

yall SEND ME ASKSSS!!! any of ur worst disgusting pervy gooner thoughts are more than welcome <3 (also should i make a part 3-)

[twistedteatime]

Mistakes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Scorpio!Reader

A/N: This one took a few turns. Not as long as I'd have liked, but I reached a spot I'm content to end it at.

Warnings: LANGUAGE (really you should be expecting this from me by now). Violence. Threats of torture. Fat shaming. Bullying. Implicated bullying of a child.

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: A new recruit is making a nuisance of herself and trying to step in on your man and your friends. You educate them on just what it is that makes them all take you seriously.

Series Masterlist🔹MASTER Masterlist

Previous Entry: Flowers

AO3 Link: Mistakes

*******

Mondays sucked, Tuesdays could often be worse, Wednesdays were better, Thursdays were kind of halfway between happy and drudgery, but Fridays…Fridays were good.

Except this one.

This one had been ruined.

Some new recruit decided to ruin it for you.

She went by the name of Brea. It wasn’t even her real name; you knew her real name as you had been the one to catalogue and archive her personnel record after verifying everything on it. Her real name was Janice.

She was possibly the most sensorially caustic annoyance you’d ever encountered. The very sight of her was offensive on multiple fronts. The sound of her was worse.

Truthfully, on any other person, the shade of orange she had dyed her hair would have looked good. On her, combined with the rest of what she wore, she looked like a dollar store knock-off version of Natasha and sounded like the voice box in it had been set to play back way too fast. Like a chipmunk version of some tar monster of Tartarus.

Then there was whatever perfume she wore. Whatever bubblegum pink pit of sugar syrup and hydrangeas it crawled out of was no doubt happy to have exorcized itself of it. You wished you could do the same and you were highly tempted to bring sage to work with you in an attempt to rid the compound of it.

That wasn’t what ruined your Friday, though. No. It was her insistence on pushing herself at Steve and Bucky while trampling over everyone that stood in her way. No matter how big or how small they were.

As assaulting as she was on your senses you knew damn well it was worse for them. Bucky had already complained about it on the ride home. You had moved in together after several months of dating and after he admitted he enjoyed the peace and quiet your property afforded. That and the proximity to where you both worked.

Not close enough to be at risk of anything but closer than his apartment. On clear days and nights you’d ride in with him on his motorcycle. Yet since the arrival of the tar pit you’d been the one driving most days.

You weren’t about to watch her give him yet another migraine. Him or Steve. Not after what you had just discovered. You may have picked on him at times and teased him, but much like Bucky had been in their youth, you were protective of him and of those close to him.

Particularly when neither he nor Bucky could figure out how to politely disengage a female without coming off as rude. Usually it was cute and you didn’t interfere. You knew beyond a doubt that Bucky’s heart was yours just as much as yours was his.

You weren’t threatened by her. Far from it. You had been annoyed but now…now you were angry.

Fridays were your favorite days. Fridays were the days that Bucky visited with coffee and scones and kept you company. This one, however, she had crossed a line.

Not only did she corner Bucky again, assaulting his senses with her perfume, she had stolen your scone, and touched him.

Without his permission.

Among other things you found absolutely intolerable.

“Mmmh…fuck this is so good.” She moaned and Bucky looked at you as you walked up, her hand on his vibranium arm.

“You have three seconds to remove your hand from his arm before you lose fingers. The scone was enough on its own but get your hand off and back off.” You said sharply, authoritatively and she jumped at first, moving back until she looked at you.

Her body relaxed. Her alarm was quickly replaced by derision. You were aware of why.

You were, to her, just a librarian with a fancy title Bucky happened to be dating. She had no idea what you were capable of. Nor did she have the sense to believe people when they said not to mess with you.

“I can’t do that. Not if he’s going to help train me.” She said and you looked at her.

“Oh…you need help training?” you asked, head tilted, and Bucky looked at you.

He knew exactly what was coming, and she nodded.

“Yeah. I mean, he’s an expert in the use of knives and hand to hand combat. I’m sure he could show me a thing or two on the mat.” She smiled, shifting her body this way and that, showing it off, yet Bucky’s eyes were glued on you still.

“Doll…” he started and you looked at him, “I can get you another scone.”

“Please do, my love. I’m going to be famished by the time you get back.” You said with a smile and he sighed nodding.

“Don’t…you know…” he said and you just smiled sweetly at him, “No repeat of Shelly.”

“Then you might wanna be quick about it.” You said and he nodded before starting to walk away, Brea followed, and so did you, pulling her into the training room by the arm where Nat was, “You don’t get to train with Bucky just because you want to. First…you gotta work your way up to it. I understand you’re new and…that…you…may have not read all the way through the internal policies pamphlet you were given. It covers what you do and do not do with everyone individually. Like trying to pick up Mjolnir without permission, talking to people’s children without introduction, touching Bruce’s plants without permission, or touching Bucky without his permission.”

“Oh no…” Nat said below her breath as she wrapped up her hands, “Uh...I thought you weren’t training until next month.”

“I’m not, but she needs extra special one on one training time.” You answered with a smile; one she knew all too well.

You had plans and something more than appeared was going on.

“Wait…I wanted training with Bucky.” Brea said and Nat looked at her coolly, understanding the situation very swiftly.

“Sargent Barnes does train recruits but not at your level, just like she said. You’d last two seconds with him. You have to work your way up, from the bottom, just like everyone else.” She said and Brea looked at you then her.

“So I have to start with the librarian?” she asked incredulously, her face on the verge of laughing, and you just started for the locker room.

“No. You’d start with Agent Fitz. ‘The librarian’ as you call her is who you train with before you train with me if she’s in a mood to train. You really shouldn’t judge people by appearances.” Nat replied while looking her over, “It’s a mistake and one you can’t afford to make in the field. Everyone is a threat. Assuming that someone isn’t one because of the job they hold is a mistake.”

She soon found out how much of one it was when you returned.

Time and time again she hit the mat hard. You knew she was getting increasingly aggravated with not only you but also Natasha. The Black Widow had made it her job to sit down and critique everything that Brea did.

“You’re getting too emotional.” She said and took a bite of her apple as Bucky walked in and leaned against the doorway.

“This isn’t fair!” Brea shouted angrily while getting back up, “Why the fuck is this cow trained to fight if all she does is sit around on her fucking fat ass surrounded by moldy fucking papers all day?!”

“Tony would be very upset to hear you calling the Archives moldy.” You said calmly and Bucky spoke, holding his anger as it simmered in the cold blue of his eyes.

“She handles a lot more action than you’d think being in Archives. Just because she’s an archivist here doesn’t mean she wasn’t anything else before.” He said and she looked at him alarmed, “Yeah…I heard you…and no, you’re not at a level to train any higher, and I checked with Fitz. You’ve skipped your training assessment.”

“Oh dear…” you sighed while shaking your head, “Well…at least I didn’t break anything.”

“Yet.” Natasha corrected and looked at Bucky, “You bring anything for me?”

“No. I’m not a vending machine.” He retorted while moving off the door to walk in over to you, pulling you close to him by your waist with his right arm, the left hand was busy holding the bag with your scone in it, “Go bother Bruce.”

“Bucky…I’m in the middle of a lesson.” You said while Brea scowled as she stood herself back up, “Unless people are done.”

“You know…what…I’m…I’m not done yet. I’m not taking what I said back. You…are a fat…chair warming…cunt.” She spat and the air shifted as Bucky looked at her coolly, a silent warning she had just stepped over a line, “You don’t deserve to be here, to be with him, to have…anything!”

You waited. It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard any of this before. You had.

Plenty.

Bucky had just never been present for it before and you knew very well that he was at a new level of furious. Still, this wasn’t addressed at him. It was addressed at you and you would handle it.

In a manner.

“Are you done having your tantrum?” you asked, your voice even, calm, and low.

“No!” she spat and continued on her tirade, spitting out a level of vitriol you were well used to from not just there but years preceding it, “I worked my ass off to get here! Do you have any idea of what I’ve had to do to get here?!”

“Yes. I do. I’m the fat, lazy, greasy, mooing cow librarian that filed your personnel record, Janice, as well as the background checks, testing results, and assessments. I know every…last…thing…that you did to get here.” you answered and smiled while tilting your head, “All of it. You graduated at the top of your classes, all of them. Every last one. Even ones…that…strangely don’t exist…hm…fascinating.”

“What…I…they do…” she sputtered and flinched as Nat bit into her apple again, just looking at her calmly, knowingly, and Bucky just raised his eyebrows as he looked at you.

You didn’t respond to him, you just blinked slowly at your adversary, “Do they? Hm…absolutely fascinating. Would you like to know what’s in my personnel file? I suppose you imagine it’s a bunch of cow pastures and transmutation experiments to give me a human countenance. Sadly, no…it’s…not that outrageous. It does however…contain nothing but the truth. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, not all of them exactly what you’d consider ‘above board.’ Now, not all your records are falsified, and you are indeed calculating. So…calculate this: There are four people in this room. One…can crush people’s extremities. One…has been known to electroshock people and has indeed done so to the other. One…has kept people in closets giving them only the bare minimum of sustenance after psychologically torturing them in an abandoned and run down funhouse. One…has bullied several people here including a small child. Three of the four have varying records for long range shots. One of the four has also skipped that assessment. One knows this because one was talking to the armorer Sharps the other day over tea.”

“You know…” Natasha said, chucking her finished apple over her shoulder into a bin, “Steve said Sharps was pretty off the other day when he went to see her. I was meaning to ask you if you knew why.”

“Yeah…he said the same thing to me.” Bucky said and you nodded to both of them.

“Yeah…I do. Sharps, tough as she is, she really doesn’t like it when her little butterbean is upset and crying. She didn’t want to tell Steve. You know how protective he is of that little girl. She asked me to look into it. I finished my investigations earlier.” You answered and looked at a scowling Bucky, “That reminds me. We’re babysitting tomorrow and I ‘promised’ Sharps that I wouldn’t buy Minnie any ice cream and that I wouldn’t take her to the carnival.”

“Hmm…and I guess you told her that you wouldn’t buy Minnie funnel cake either.”

“Exactly.” You said and smiled up at him before glancing over at Brea as she slowly backed away, “Just like I promised Tony that I wouldn’t tell Steve or Loki that someone made that small, precious, precocious little child cry just because she was excited to show them her new book she made at school and she wrote some words backwards.”

“I heard my name.” Loki said as he walked in and looked at the gathering, and the now rather peaky-looking Brea, “I see you are schooling an infant whelp once again.”

“I’m attempting to.” you answered with a smile and he looked at you, thinking, and slowly smirked.

“You’re up to something. I know that glint in your eyes.” He said, head tilted, “She must have done something quite terrible for you to be addressing it personally.”

“Whatever do you mean? I am doing nothing and I am definitely not telling you anything.” You replied and smiled as Natasha spoke instead.

“Someone made Minnie cry. Apparently she made a book in her class and someone made fun of how she spelled things.” She said and Bucky nodded.

“Steve doesn’t know yet.” He said and Steve walked in next making you smile more.

“I don’t know what?” he asked and you took a deep satisfied breath in while looking at Brea, “I got a text to come here…from…what’s going on?”

“Hm…yes…yes you did.” You said with a smile.

“You promised Sharps you wouldn’t tell them anything…” Brea said and you nodded.

“I know…and I keep my promises. So…I’m not the one that’s going to say anything. Am I, Bucky?” you asked with a smile and he shook his head.

“No. No you’re not. I am.”

*******

A/N: Hmmm...was that a hint of Steve maybe having a budding relationship? Hmm...maybe.

Series Masterlist🔹MASTER Masterlist

Previous Entry: Flowers

AO3 Link: Mistakes

Taglist: @highhopes1008 @badatlovesorry

[hiddensneker]

I love your comic where Frohicky makes sure Kai is eating properly for someone his size because affection being displayed though food is already a trope I love dearly.

But also— if you think about it, in a way, by refusing to eat as much as he needs to, which seems to be born out of him refusing to “give into the monster” (given he implies that if he ate as much as he needs to he would risk hurting others); Kai is, likely, putting others more “at risk” than he would if he just ate what he needs. Because, if he were to get actual urges to eat his loved ones, wouldn't that be more likely if he was, y'know, underfed?

His drive to punish himself is making him make worse choices and it makes me 🥺 I'm glad he is getting support from someone who doesn't just tolerate the “monster” part of him but actively finds it attractive, damn he needs the reasurance—

This is real and true but also it’s not entirely just a “I don’t wanna be a monster “ issue for Kai.

My Kai has always had problems with eating ever since he was a kid bc he couldn’t afford to be consistently feeding himself and nya. When he joined the ninja he got a lot better with it but sometimes when he gets to depressed he goes back to limiting how much he eats.

When he became part bug, he also had a mental break down from all the trauma in his life catching up to him. So he went back to refusing to eat properly and has been using the “oh I’m a monster I can’t eat otherwise I’ll lose myself to my instincts” as more of an excuse. Apart of him does believe it but the issue is more about Kai just not treating himself well when he breaks down.

Either way frohicky is not having any of it! He’s not going to let anyone starve under his roof! He’ll make sure to cook Kai as many lasagnas as he needs!

[frost-eyed-autumn]

He gives her a look of question, and watches as she... summons? Creates? ...a bunch of wolf-like creatures, but not like anything natural.

They bare more the appearance of something between a wolf and a man, or maybe a damn gorilla. The one other key thing that stands out to him is the white and red skull-like face, which seems to follow a theme similar to the weird bird she had made a mirage of before. He wonders idly if that's some sort of trademark of the creatures she creates with her Ability, but considering those other gray monsters didn't follow the theme...

Well, something to ask about later, he supposes. One more item in an ever-growing list of questions he has.

The look she briefly gives him is... disconcerting, to say the least, especially on account that he's still figuring out exactly all that her Ability is. He's met a lot of other Gifted before, some whose Abilities go beyond the fathomable, and at one point some kind of monster that wasn't an Ability at all and couldn't be explained.

Suffice to say, he knows a little bit more than the average person about the things that are out there, and while he couldn't exactly be called a nervous man, he's smart enough to know that caution is warranted with anything powerful and unknown.

He knows without needing to be told that he's better off having Neo as an ally, because whatever she is, she would make a dangerous enemy.

It takes him a moment to grasp her question - admittedly, he hasn't dealt with a ton of nonverbal people before - but she's expressive enough that the general meaning doesn't take too long to interpret. It's a lot easier than trying to read someone with more closed-off signals like Mori, whom Chuuya has had practice dealing with for years and still struggled sometimes to hone in on exactly what he might be thinking.

"Ideally, this'll be the last we have to worry about this group, one way or another. Even if we don't manage to get them all, their organization will be devastated enough that it's not likely to spring back up."

If one or two escaped, he wouldn't lose sleep over it. Survivors weren't always a bad thing. No one sent whispers of warning through the underground quite like people who had personally witnessed what happened when you stood up to the Port Mafia.

There were a few stray gunshots periodically echoing through the halls, and Chuuya didn't rush to find them when his people made small reports in that they had cleared out another room.

It's only when he hears a few of his people scream and then go silent that he comes to alert, swiveling without a word to move towards where he was sure it had come from ready to fight whatever he found there ; one of the upper hallways.

He didn't take the stairs or a ladder up like most other people would. Instead, he simply jumps, right up to the platform 20 or so feet in the air above, and easily clears the railing without being slowed down for a second. The hallway itself is dark, a steady breeze drifting from somewhere further within, and the only thing that tips him off to the bodies of his guys laying on the floor are the small flashlights on the barrel ends of their guns.

"Hey!" Chuuya's quick to check the nearest body, rolling the man over, but the chances of him being alive are basically nonexistent, judging by the fact that his throat is blown wide open. Chuuya gritted his teeth with a furrowed brow. "Tch!"

Maybe from a bunch of bullets or some kind of shrapnel, but he hadn't heard gunfire or an explosion. Maybe a gun with a silencer...?

Something lightly tickled across his arm, his eyes halfway adjusted to the dark, halfway obstructed by the flashlights laying on the ground, but what he could manage to make out only made his brows furrow tighter in confusion as small particles drifted through the air all around them in a thin cloud.

"Dandelions...?"

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃 '𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑', Neo has been thinking about the possible applications. It's something that comes naturally now, because of her Semblances evolution. And it's in large part because there's no elaboration- as if it's not needed- which means it's something that applies to anything and everything. Tangible and otherwise. It's something that, had it been a semblance, would have been classified as something unbelievably enviable- and incredibly dangerous. Now, seeing the state of the area behind him, her eyes blink wide, giving her own little whistle of astonishment at the sight.

Neo lifts a hand as Chuuya barks out his orders, and makes a 'wait' gesture.

Large, wolf-like creatures spool out of her shadow, and begin sniffing the air. Like hunting hounds, they immediately begin tracking the scent of escaping personnel- and Neo settles down atop a nearby crate, legs swinging as she makes a 'shooing' gesture at the startled mobsters.

Go on, follow the dogs, idiots.

Luckily the Beowolves require little in the way of mental strain to act as little more than glorified trackers- so she doesn't bother reinforcing them too much. If they get destroyed, they get destroyed- and it's not really an issue. As they pass the bodies strewn on the ground, however, she takes careful note of something, and then outlines the ones that are still breathing in pale pink light. That done, she turns to Chuuya, and holds up the blade of her weapon, tilting her head as she makes a downward stabbing motion.

This is an extermination, right? So if he wants to do it himself, he'd better speak now, before she gets up to get working again.

While she waits, however, she gives him a careful look-over, as if searching for injury. There's none to be found on her, if he bothers to look- and it's a little disappointing that she didn't even have to activate her Aura to take a hit or two.

...huh. That makes her wonder- how does his body handle the backlash of that power of his? She'd be fascinated to know, honestly, and if it makes her stare look a little predatory- pupils contracting slightly in a way that doesn't look quite right- well. That's a subject for later. For now, she's mostly glad he really is as obnoxiously powerful as he made himself out to be. It almost makes her smile- almost.

Smug little creature, indeed.

[g-glitchy-v2]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

(Click to read more about MemorySwap) ⤵

⊹ ࣪ ˖ HAD TO REPOST DUE SOME STUPID SHI SORRY 🙏🙏 (Im losing it.)

—

[SINCE TUMBLR DECIDED TO BE A F#CKING BA#STRAD, I CAN'T ADD THE DAMN LORE HERE. IM SO SORRY Y'ALL. (I tweaked out so hard that i hit my own face.)]

(So basically, Chara is a smol child that's trying to be nice as much as they can and carrying Temmie around, while Temmie is a smol scared fluffball that's just too tired. Asgore is a good father and deserves tons of hugs. Frisk misses MK so much and is seeing nightmares as Asriel does his best to cheer up his dad and sibling and is trying to comfort Frisk and help most of the monsters in underground. Creepy is the new lead of the royal guards and is getting cooking lessons from Asgore as Toriel treats her like shit. Papyrus is chill and lazy ahh, not even doing anything other than sleeping, smoking and drinking. Muffet is also chill and a nice person even though she looks grumpy and serious, and monsters turn eachother to dust in her bar. Grillby is too shy to get out of his house and his house is his comfort place, and some fucking monsters are making made up rumors to make others think he's bad when he's actually not. Mettablook is an total *sshole i hate him so much he's such a jerk and loves to make fun of people because he thinks he's better when he's just a fucking b*stard. Napstaton is just a smol baby that deserves the world, and since Undyne is dead, nobody is able to fix body as it gets older and more damaged, meaning he'll be trapped in that body if it completely gets broken. Undyne died because she was a backstabber and was too hungry for attention, and deserved to die since she betrayed her only friend. Alphys died because of Undyne, maybe she wasn't the best monster in the underground but still wasn't that bad and was the one training Creepy before her death. Toriel is a b*tch and i also hate her, she's the worst queen, wife and mom ever. And lastly, Monster Kid just deserved better because he couldn't even live his life properly since SOMEONE forced or fed him with those buttercup flowers, and now he's Temmie, but doesn't remembers anything.)

—

In case if you wanna check the more detailed versions ⬇️

-> Chara

-> Temmie & Asgore

-> Frisk & Mettablook

-> Papyrus

-> Creepy(Sans)

-> Muffet

-> Napstaton

-> Asriel & Grillby

-> Alphys

-> Undyne

-> Toriel & MK/Monster kid

—

> I don't think if i really have to make a "If you're wondering;" part in here too, since there's nothing much to add. I mean, yeah, Sans is a girl in MemorySwap, just like how it was in MemoryTale. And instead of her and Papyrus being "Skele-bro's", they both are "Skele-siblings". And, even though MemorySwap looks like a "swap au" for MemoryTale, it's actually not since some things aren't really swapped, and is actually changed. (For example; In MemoryTale, Muffet isn't a shy spider who stays in her house the whole time, but in MemorySwap Grillby IS. In MemoryTale, Papyrus is actually nice, but in MemorySwap, Creepy(Sans) isn't really that nice. In MemoryTale Memory(Sans) has anger issues, but in MemorySwap, Papyrus is pretty chill and wouldn't give a shi if the world is burning.) If i remember that i forgot to add smth, i'll just make a small "Update" and add it here so y'all can know :D (Ofc, if anyone is reading these all-)

—

About ships –

Toriel x Asgore – Well, fuck no. Toriel was never a good wife, mother and queen. She's still blaming Asgore for leaving her, not even wanting to accept that it was because of her. Asgore deserves better. No.

Any ship that includes Papyrus in it – Well, eh- Because Papyrus is so insufferable. I mean, this man is too lazy to tie his shoe laces. If you wanna be in a relationship w him, you gotta do ALL THE SHITS and im %100 sure this man would never finish the tasks you give him. He wouldn't even get up and come to you if you asked him to. I don't think anyone could tolerate him when he's like this. So, i don't really prefer to put him into ships. It would be like taking care of a baby since he's a grown ass man that doesn't even does any of the chores. And, i don't want him to get shipped w any of the other Papyruses 🙏 (Im not a REALLY fan of fontcest sooo....) So, no.

Any ship that's: Creepy x [Anyone from MemorySwap] – No. Because others are either too older than her or is too younger than her. I don't like it when the age gap is more than 3-4. So, no.

Any ship includes Mettablook in it — NO. JUST NO. THIS MAN IS A F*CKING *SSHOLE. DON'T PUT HIM IN ANY SHIPS. PLEASE. NO.

Undyne x Alphys — No. Undyne already can't feel any emotions properly. Not like being emotionless but ehhh- She's aroace. And shipping these two is not healthy. Undyne literally betrayed her and caused both of their deaths. No.

Any ship that includes Frisk, Chara, Asriel, Temmie, Monster Kid – NO. Do i have to explain myself? I don't think so. NO.

Memory x Creepy – Well, these two don't get along well and hate eachother. And since my "Sanses" don't really count as "Sanses" for a reason, shipping my "Sanses" doesn't really makes this "Sanscest". AND even though i prefer yuri over yaoi(i hate it.), no. Don't ship these two. C'mon y'all they hate eachother. Not like enemies to lovers shit. Im talking about HATE. I mean, imagine a classmate that keep annoys you, calls you names, makes fun of you, bullies you physically and makes you get embrassed infront of everyone. You would hate that *sshole, wouldn't you? Yeah u would. That's how Memory treats to Creepy. Respectfully, no.

Grillby x Muffet – HEALL YEAHHHJH– *cough* Yes. Well, im not a fan of every Muffet x Grillby but well, hear me out. These two give(at least in this au) girly boss and "give me attention and i'll explode" ahh grown ass man vibes. (To me, at least). They could be shipped, not a canon ship though. I mean, just approved by me ig. But not canon. Idk. *Slams hand to table* APPROVED. ✅️✅️

—

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Im tired y'all. Tired of writing these all over and over. Im tired of my life. F*ck this shit. I need to draw but im not allowed to because my mom isn't comfortable with the shit im drawing. She's acting like im drawing nsfw sh*t or smth. I hate my life. And hate my family. And hate myself. I wrote lots of sh*ts here but it kept getting deleted. I don't wanna keep write every single shit here AGAIN. I don't even know if anyone is reading these sh*ts. It's just pressing a small heart shaped button but it means so much to me. Im having another breakdown rn bc im tired. If you're reading these all, thank you. You're awesome buddy. Im tired. Really tired. It feels like im talking to a brick wall. Hey brick wall🧱. How's yo wife? Good? Damn. Brick by brick. (Im mentally i'll.)

(Sorry for any grammar issues- I read these again and again but i sometimes miss some small mistakes so if there's any, sorry about it 🙏)

[juliettejwnewinesa]

💥 PART 8: Dead Men Can’t Love You (But I Can) 💥

Pairing: Si-eun x Reader (Weak Hero Class) Word Count: ~1.1k Warnings: Dark themes, possessive behavior, manipulation, threats, gun violence, PTSD triggers, mentions of past toxic relationships, implied dubcon undertones (tense but consensual), dirty talk, strong language, unhealthy coping, power play, aggressive behavior, smutty undertones, reader has trauma linked to Beom Seok, cliffhanger.

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

The door creaked again.

Another warning shot. Another second slipping through your bloodied hands.

But Si-eun? He wasn’t shaking anymore.

No—he was calm now.

And that? That scared you more than his rage ever could.

Because when Si-eun went quiet, it meant something inside him had snapped clean in two.

And he wouldn’t stop until someone was dead.

Your name left his lips like a curse. Like a prayer.

Like the only thing that could tether him back from the edge.

But you weren’t sure he even wanted to be saved this time.

You tried to steady your breath. Tried to remind him you weren’t glass. You weren’t something to lock away in a shed while the world burned.

But Si-eun… Si-eun looked at you like you were.

“Stay behind me,” he muttered, cocking his pistol again, jaw locked like steel.

“You can’t take them all, Si-eun.”

“I can take him.” Low. Dangerous. “He’s mine.”

The pounding on the door grew louder.

Voices outside. Laughter. Mocking.

Beom Seok’s voice like nails dragging over your old scars. “Come on, Y/N. You miss me, right? You miss how I used to fuck you better than this coward could ever dream of.”

That did it.

Si-eun didn’t hesitate. Didn’t breathe.

He kicked the door open.

Gun drawn. Chest bare. Your name like a snarl on his lips.

You barely had time to follow when bullets cracked the night open.

Si-eun moved like an animal. Like the kid who survived hell in bathroom stalls and underpass fights had finally let the monster loose.

But even as the world turned to screams and smoke outside that shed, he kept one hand locked on you. Pulling you behind wreckage. Behind his body. Always behind.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Like losing you would be the only thing worse than dying.

You pressed against his back, gun shaking in your hands, whispering his name over and over.

But he wasn’t listening.

He had Beom Seok in his sights now.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” Si-eun spat, voice shaking not with fear, but something deeper. Older. “You don’t get to breathe her name again.”

Beom Seok smirked. Like he knew something you didn’t.

“She never told you, did she?”

Your heart stuttered.

Si-eun froze.

“Told me what?” His voice cracked like broken glass.

Beom Seok’s grin spread slow, venomous. “About the night she begged me to touch her one last time.”

The world tilted. Your breath caught.

It wasn’t true. But Si-eun—

Si-eun’s hands clenched tighter around the gun. Around your wrist.

You shook your head. Frantic. “Si-eun, don’t listen to him. He’s lying. He’s fucking lying—”

But Si-eun wasn’t looking at you anymore.

Only at Beom Seok.

And the storm behind his eyes?

You didn’t know if even you could survive that.

to be fucking continued…

taglist~@kkarisdrafts @alwaysgenerousvoid @kingsoowolves @kixxxm16@kkarisdrafts @mirwors @shadowmoonlight0604

[lvrsturniolo]

Dont you have a forest to lurk in? -m.s

gravity falls au by @nickssidewitch !!

dipper pines!matt x pacifica northwest!reader

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

You were halfway through your vanilla milkshake, headphones in, zoned out, when you were pulled from your thoughts by the bell above the diner door chiming.

You didn’t even have to look up to know it was him. The sudden drop in your mood was cue enough.

Matt Sturniolo.

His boots are muddy, and he carries his journal under one arm. He’s always got that stupid journal.

You kept your eyes on the table.

Unfortunately, he didn’t take the hint, or maybe he did and just has a big fucking mouth.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, thought this place would be too poor for you” he said as he passed your booth, voice dry like abs annoyed, just from the sight of you.

God forbid a girl enjoy a milkshake for ONCE. You took one earbud out, slow and unimpressed. “Don’t you have a forest to lurk in? Or a monster to stalk in imagination land?”

He raised an eyebrow, pausing with his hand still on the back of a chair. “Don’t you have a mirror to argue with?”

You blinked at him. “Wow. You practice that one incase you saw me?”

“Nope,” he said, sliding into the booth behind you, back to back like it was just coincidence. “Came naturally. Like your talent for making everyone hate you.”

You clenched your jaw and turned back to your milkshake. “Just because you’ve read every dusty book in that creepy shack and think you’re smart because of it, doesn’t mean you get to talk to people like that. I mean seriously, if anything it just makes you even more odd, Matthew. Because you run around the forest with Chris for 12 hours a day monster hunting your imaginary ghosts.”

“I don’t talk to people like anything,” he muttered. “Just you.” He smiled sarcastically. “Oh and also, you talk about speaking to people a certain way, but you genuinely have zero friends because you think you’re better than everyone else. You talk to people bad all the time. AND for your information, the monsters are real, all I’m trying to do is solve the mystery of this town. Either way it’s better than sitting around a boring old mansion all day by myself, like someone does.”

“Charming, truly. And maybe I don’t want to be friends with weirdos, like you for example!” You say, annoyed with the boy. I mean who is he to say you have no friends? What does he know? His only friends are his brothers, and that’s just because they’re as weird as he is.

You stabbed your straw into the cup like it was his face. He flipped open his journal, pages rustling behind you like mosquitoes in your ear.

Gravity Falls had a population of barely more than a thousand and somehow, you still run nto him constantly. Like a curse. Or a VERY snarky raccoon in plaid. Maybe he’s stalking you or something.

You shoved your earbud back in and turned the volume up. If he wanted to play loud mouth, that just meant you’d win the silent war, and maybe he’d shut his fucking mouth.

lil sum sum because the second I saw this au I TWEAKEDDD I love gravity falls sm. Kiki you never ever disappoint truly 😝

[ladymaycrush]

NEW FIC: "Sketches of You" pt. 1/2

What to Expect: A slow(ish) burn, v soft and sweet, tame and mild

Description: You were just trying to quit your job. He was just your favorite regular. What starts as a crush quietly unfolds into something real and unexpected.

Author's Note: I had fun with this one! It is not as juicy as I usually am...idk...maybe I was feeling a lil sentimental HA! I reallly hope you enjoy! ^.^

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

There was a very specific kind of misery reserved for people like you — people who spent most of their twenties pretending they didn’t want more.

More than stale air and coffee-stained aprons. More than fake smiles stretched across counters. More than endless, chirpy “what can I get started for yous?” when what you really wanted was to disappear behind a sketchpad and not emerge until you’d drawn something worth staying awake for.

You were three shifts away from leaving the coffee shop for good.

Three shifts from finally chasing something real — animation classes, freelance gigs, whatever you could scrape together.

It wasn’t a plan so much as a loosely assembled panic attack, but it was yours. And it was happening.

No more telling yourself that “stable” was the same thing as “happy.” No more hiding doodles in the margins of inventory lists like a fourteen-year-old.

No more…

Well.

Except maybe a little more crushing on Regular Number One.

Doug.

Didn’t know his last name. Didn’t even know his real job.

All you knew was that his laugh had this ridiculous way of making your day feel thirty percent better, even when some finance bro was yelling at you about almond milk shortages.

And when your jokes landed — which was often, with him — his smile looked less like polite customer and more like this is the best thing I’ve heard all week, please don’t stop talking.

Which was dangerous.

Because Doug was… older.

Not “ancient,” not “should be writing Civil War letters,” but still — 23 years older than you.

You used to mercilessly roast you best friend for falling for older guys. And now here you were, dodging heart attacks every time Doug said something like,

“You’re a little menace, aren’t you?” with that crooked grin that turned your spine into spaghetti.

So yeah. The crush? Thoroughly, aggressively unspoken. Or at least, it had been.

Until today.

Because today, he noticed the doodle.

It started like any other Monday — syrup on your shoes, 900 identical cappuccino orders, the register trying to die in protest.

You were just wiping down the counter when Doug slid up to the bar, a little early for his usual order.

You didn’t even look up at first.

“Hey, Trouble,” you said, defaulting to the nickname you used to keep your voice from cracking around him. “You want your regular oat milk latte?”

“Actually…” He hesitated. “…what’s this?”

You looked up — and felt your soul leave your body.

There, right behind you on the specials board, in giant, treasonously visible marker, was the doodle you’d done earlier: A scrappy little cartoon kraken wreaking havoc on a coffee shop.

Complete with a tiny, grumpy barista yelling from the counter: “One at a time, you monsters!”

Doug was grinning at it like it was the first thing he’d found genuinely amusing all week.

“You drew this?” he asked, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “Please tell me you did, or I’ll habe to interrogate everyone here until someone breaks.”

You wiped your hands on your apron, throat tight

“Uh… yeah. Guilty.”

He lit up – not just amused, but genuinely delighted.

“You’re insanely good,” he said, in that half-laughing, half-serious way that made every compliment sound like a half-joke.

“Do you do this professionally, or just for sport?”

You could feel yourself blushing down to your soul.

“Thanks. I’m actually leaving the shop soon,” you blurted, unable to stop yourself. “Going to, uh… try to do this stuff for real.”

He leaned both arms on the counter, eyes bright.

“Wait — seriously?” His eyebrows shot up. “That’s awesome. About time someone around here weaponized their weirdness properly.”

You laughed — and then immediately wanted to cry because it was him making you laugh. Again.

“You better keep drawing,” he added, mock-stern.

“You’ve got one of those dangerous combos – funny and talented. That’s how empires are built. Or cults. I’m not picky.”

“Wow,” you said. “Finally, a career goal I can get behind.”

He laughed — a bright, full sound that practically bounced off the espresso machines.

Then he did something that almost short-circuited you: He pulled a napkin out of the holder, borrowed a pen from the counter, and scribbled something down.

“Here. Consider this my application to be a part of whatever comes next.”

He slid it across to you.

It was a tiny doodle — a miniature kraken, winking — and underneath it, in all caps:

“DOUG (A.K.A. TROUBLE MAGNET) — TEXT ME WHEN YOU’RE FAMOUS.”

(And his number.)

You stared at it. Then at him.

And for the first time in months of half-flirty banter and buried feelings, he looked just a little nervous.

Which was when you realized:

Maybe this wasn’t just a one-sided crush after all.

Maybe it wasn’t just you.

Maybe Doug had been quietly falling, too.

-

End of Part One

-

The espresso machines were powered down.

The chairs were flipped onto the tables.

The lights overhead buzzed with that faint, end-of-night hum that always made the shop feel lonelier somehow — emptier than it should.

This is it, you thought, wiping your hands on yout apron one last time.

One small step for a barista. One giant panic attack for my future.

You still hadn’t texted Doug.

The napkin with his doodle and number lived in the back pocket of your jeans, slightly wrinkled from how often you’d unfolded it just to stare at it like a lunatic.

You’d tried to come up with something casual — something clever — but every draft in your head sounded like it was written by a Victorian widow gasping at the sight of a bare ankle.

So you said nothing.

And maybe that was for the best.

Maybe the moment had passed.

The bell over the door jingled.

You turned, heart stuttering out a jazz solo against your ribs —

And there he was.

Doug.

He was wearing his usual long sleeve button down and that wide, easy smile that always made it ten times harder to breathe.

“Am I too late for oat milk mayhem?” he called out. Already smiling like he knew the answer.

You smiled, despite the static crawling up your spine.

“We’re technically closed,” you said, walking out from behind the counter. “But for you, I could probably sneak you a rogue biscotti. Black market style.”

He laughed — and God, you were going to miss that sound.

“I’m not here for caffeine crimes,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I, uh… got you something.”

You blinked.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cut you off, waving a hand. “Just… take it.”

He held out a small, wrapped package — messily wrapped, like maybe he’d tried to make it nice and immediately given up halfway through.

Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact felt electric in that stupid, cinematic way that made you want to scream into the void.

You peeled back the paper carefully.

Inside was a hardcover sketchbook.

Heavy, beautiful — the kind of thing that screamed “take yourself seriously” even when you didn’t know how.

On the first blank page, he’d drawn another tiny, winking kraken — this time holding a coffee cup triumphantly over its head.

And underneath, in his classic, sharp, all caps handwriting: “FOR ALL YOUR FUTURE CHAOS”

There was no phone number tucked inside this time. No extra note.

Just the weight of the moment — careful, intentional, hopeful.

When you looked up, Doug was watching you with a nervous kind of pride, like he wasn’t sure if you’d laugh or run for the emergency exit.

You clutched the sketchbook to your chest.

“This is…” you swallowed hard. “Doug, this is — seriously, this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth tipping into that mischievous half-smile. 

“Well, statistically speaking, most gifts from customers are just trauma and coins from 1997. So. Y’know. Hope this breaks the streak.”

You laughed — choked on it, really — because if you didn’t, you were definitely going to cry.

“Thank you,” you said, meaning it more than you could ever cram into those two words.

He rubbed the back of his neck — a gesture so boyish it made the age difference feel like a joke the universe was playing on you.

“You’re gonna do great,” he said, softer now. “I mean it.”

You both stood there for a second, caught in a space between worlds — the old one where you were just the barista and he was just the guy who tipped too much and laughed at all your bad jokes…

And the new one, hanging just out of reach, waiting for someone — either of you — to be brave enough to cross over.

You hugged the sketchbook tighter.

“You should let me buy you a coffee sometime,” you blurted, before you could overthink it to death. “Y’know. When I’m not contractually obligated to serve you one.”

Doug’s eyes lit up — really, fully lit up — like Christmas came early.

“That sounds dangerously close to a date,” he said.

“Well,” you said, tipping your head with faux innocence, “only if you promise not to draw krakens in my sketchbook.”

“Fair,” he said. “But no promises if it inspires me.”

The bell over the door jingled again as another customer poked their head in — probably someone wanting to see if the shop was still open.

Doug jerked his thumb toward the door, backing away with a wink. “I’ll let you get back to your criminal empire,” he said. “But… call me, alright? Text. Whatever.”

He smiled again — softer this time, a little vulnerable around the edges. 

“I will,” you promised, sketchbook clutched against your heart like a secret.

You would.

Maybe not tonight.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon. 

Because somewhere between the oat milk jokes and the tiny winking kraken, You’d realized something: Doug hadn’t just given you a way to remember this place.

He’d given you a reason to believe the next chapter might actually be better.

-

End of Part Two

-

You sit on your bed with the sketchbook next to you, running your thumb over the cover like it’s some kind of protective talisman.

You’ve stared at Doug’s number for days now. Overthought every possible opener.

Finally — without letting yourself think about it anymore — you type:

“Hey Doug, it’s Lenni. Just wanted to say thanks again for the sketchbook. It’s already full of questionable life choices.”

You hit send before you can chicken out. It feels like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean.

Less than two minutes later, your phone buzzes:

Doug:

“Hey!! Glad you texted. 

And hey – sketchbooks are supposed to be full of questionable decisions. It’s called “process”.”

You breathe out a tiny, nervous laugh. Okay. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. 

You type:

“Good to know I’m already on the right track. Might even win an award for “most deranged sea creatures drawn before midnight.”

Doug replies almost immediately:

“You’re a prodigy. 

  I’m proud.

Expect to be haunted by fanmail and squid merch by this time next year.”

You smile down at your phone before you even realize you’re doing it.

You hesitate a second longer — heart pounding — and then type:

“I owe you coffee. Y’know, since I’m not behind the counter anymore.”

You stare at it for a second. Hit send. Clamp your phone in both hands like it might try to escape.

Doug’s typing bubble appears. Disappears. Reappears.

Doug:

“I’d like that. Coffee sounds very good.”

And then, a second text:

“You can even bring a sketchbook if you want. I’ll bring… poor life advice.”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. 

You type:

“Perfect. Tuesday?”

Doug:

“Tuesday. I’ll find us somewhere with strong coffee and weak moral boundaries.”

You bite your lip, grinning. This — whatever this was — felt real. Easy. Good.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t scared of what might happen next.

-

End of Part Three

-

The coffee shop Doug picked wasn’t trendy.

It didn’t have velvet couches or a menu full of ironic lattes named after indie bands.

It was small, a little beat-up around the edges — the kind of place that smelled like burnt espresso and old books.

The kind of place you could breathe in.

You spotted him through the window first — hunched over a table, doodling something on a napkin with a cheap ballpoint pen.

Your heart kicked hard enough to make your fingers twitch.

You can still run, a voice in your head said.

Or, another voice countered, you can finally see what happens if you stay.

You stayed.

The bell over the door gave a cheerful jingle as you pushed it open.

Doug looked up immediately.

And smiled.

Not the polite customer smile.

The real one.

The one you’d memorized without meaning to.

“Hey,” he said, standing like he couldn’t decide if he should offer a hug or just keep being awkward. “You made it.”

You grinned.

“I see you’ve already started defacing public property,” you said, nodding to the napkin.

He made a show of hiding it with his elbow.

“It’s important to establish dominance early,” he said.

“They can’t kick me out if I own the napkin.”

You laughed — loud, surprised — and all the nerves you’d been carrying cracked just a little.

He gestured to the chair across from him.

“Sit. I promised poor life advice and I fully intend to deliver.”

You slid into the seat, shrugging off your jacket.

“Only if you’re ready for unsolicited doodles and dangerous levels of optimism.”

Doug’s eyes lit up — that same ridiculous sparkle that had gotten you into this mess in the first place.

“Oh thank god,” he said. “Someone to balance out my pessimism and misplaced rage.”

When the waitress dropped off drinks, Doug took a slow sip, gave you a sidelong look and drummed his fingers lightly on the table.

“You know,” he said, almost like he was thinking out loud, “when I first saw that kraken doodle, I honestly thought: yep, that tracks. She’s exactly the kind of menace I hoped she’d be.”

You laughed again, feeling the warmth pool in your chest.

“High praise,” you said, mock-serious. “Most people just call me ‘mildly concerning.’”

Doug grinned.

“That’s just ‘endearing’ with worse PR.”

Doug blew on his coffee,

“So. Animation, huh? You aiming for world domination or just a mild cartoon empire?”

You shrugged, feeling your cheeks flush.

“Honestly? I’d settle for making something that makes people laugh. Or feel less alone. Y’know… if I can survive the first year of total financial ruin.”

Doug snorted into his cup.

“You’re gonna be fine. You’ve got the most important thing already.”

You tilted your head.

“Which is?”

He set down his coffee.

“You’re funny..”

He smiled — soft and a little shy around the edges.

“You can teach people a lot of things. You can’t teach them that.”

The sincerity in his voice almost knocked the breath out of you.

You fidgeted with the sleeve of your sweater, smiling down at the table to hide how much it hit.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Doug shifted, clearing his throat like he felt the weight of it too.

Then, in typical Doug fashion, he immediately undercut it:

“Also,” he added, completely straight-faced, “you know how to weaponize sea monsters. Which is honestly… just good life skills.”

You burst out laughing, and the tension between you both snapped, leaving something lighter behind.

You talked about everything after that — cartoons you grew up on, terrible jobs you’d had, dream projects you wished you had the guts to start.

Doug told stories about weird freelance gigs he’d taken when he was younger — you noticed he never got too specific about where he worked now.

And somewhere between a story about him accidentally setting off a fire alarm during a voiceover session and a terrible impression of a pretentious art student, it happened.

He dropped into a voice —

Deep, slightly growling, dripping with mock-evil charm —

and your brain short-circuited.

You knew that voice.

You knew that voice.

It wasn’t just familiar.

It was iconic.

It was Plankton.

You blinked at him, completely stunned.

Doug noticed your expression immediately and froze mid-sip.

“…Uh-oh,” he said, setting his cup down carefully.

“That’s either the face of someone who just realized I’m horribly allergic to oat milk, or…”

“You’re…”

You shook your head, laughing breathlessly.

“No way.

You’re Mr. Lawrence.”

Doug winced, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Guilty,” he said. “Doug Osowski. Professional idiot. Voice of your favorite childhood villain.”

You stared at him — at the familiar twinkle in his eye, the mischievous grin you’d fallen for without even knowing who he was — and laughed so hard you had to clutch your stomach.

“You’re Plankton,” you gasped.

“And Larry the Lobster,” he said helpfully. “Old Man Jenkins, too. But mostly, yeah — I’m the tiny evil guy.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

Still reeling.

Still feeling like somehow, this made everything even better.

“Well,” you said, grinning across the table, “I guess it’s too late to be cool about this.”

Doug leaned forward on his elbows, smiling that sweet, slightly lopsided smile you adored.

“Good,” he said.

“I was hoping you’d be terrible at playing it cool.

Would’ve been boring otherwise.”

- End of Part Four

-

You stare at the ceiling when you get home, still riding the aftershock of the night.

You had coffee with Doug.

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled yours twice.

You found out he’s the voice of half your childhood — and somehow, that only made you like him more.

The weirdest part?

It hadn’t felt different once you knew.

It had still felt like him.

You roll over, grab your phone off the nightstand, and — after only a minute or two of second-guessing — type:

You know, you really buried the lead with the whole “secretly a cartoon villain” thing.

Almost immediately, three dots appear.

Doug:

“Was trying to seem mysterious. Pretty sure I just came off like a guy who mutters to himself in line at the post office.”

You grin, thumbing out a reply:

“Not a bad look, honestly. Endearing in a “should we call someone?” kind of way.”

Doug:

“Perfect. That’s my whole brand. Mildly concerning but still emotionally available.”

You laugh quietly, biting your lip to hold it in.

You type:

“Mission accomplished.”

There’s a pause — just long enough for your heart to start doing gymnastics again — and then:

Doug:

“Hey… Seriously though. Tonight was really fun.”

You stare at the message, feeling it settle warm in your chest. 

You tap out:

“It was. I’m really glad we did it.”

Doug:

“Me too. You’re even better when you’re not stuck behind a counter pretending not to want to throw coffee at people.”

You let out a breathy laugh, feeling something soft and new blooming quietly between your ribs.

You send:

“Next time I won’t have to hide it. (The coffee-throwing part, I mean.)”

Doug:

“Dangerous. I’m into it.”

Doug (another message, a few seconds later):

“I hope there’s a next time.”

You reread that one a few times before answering, heart thudding in your ears.

“There will be. If you’re not too scared of what else I can do with a Sharpie and poor impulse control.”

Doug:

“Terrified. Definitely showing up anyway.”

There’s a long, easy pause after that. Not awkward — just… full. The kind of quiet where you don’t have to say everything right away because you both already feel it.

Finally, Doug sends one more:

“Sleep good, Kraken Queen. Talk soon.”

You tuck your phone against your chest, smiling into the dark.

Maybe this wasn’t the story you thought you were writing for yourself.

Maybe it was better.

-

End of Part 5

-

The next few weeks fell into a rhythm — one you hadn’t even realized you were desperate for until you were living it.

One week later — the bookstore “date”

Doug showed up ten minutes late, hair still mussed from whatever chaos he’d gotten into that morning, holding two coffees and a sheepish grin.

“You said ‘meet me by the comics section,’” he said, handing you a cup, “and I heard ‘bring caffeinated peace offerings.’”

You spent an hour debating the finer points of bad graphic novel covers.

Doug kept making up fake, overly dramatic plot summaries until you had to physically lean against a shelf to keep from collapsing laughing.

He bought you a ridiculous sticker from the register on the way out — a cartoon octopus wearing a cowboy hat.

“No notes,” he said, dead serious. “This is art.”

You stuck it on your sketchbook later that night and smiled so hard your face hurt.

A few days after that — voice acting chaos

You were sketching in a park when Doug called, voice rough with laughter:

“Emergency. I need you to settle a bet. Is it funnier if a shark has a French accent or a Brooklyn one?”

Without missing a beat, you said, “Obviously French. Existential dread fits a shark.”

He laughed — a full, delighted sound — and you ended up on the phone for an hour, tossing out increasingly ridiculous character ideas.

You hung up feeling weightless.

Another week — late night ice cream

Neither of you planned it.

You were both just… awake.

Doug texted at 10:43 PM:

Hey. Wanna go make poor nutritional decisions?

You met halfway at a neon-lit ice cream shack that looked like it hadn’t been renovated since 1973.

Doug got a root beer float. You got something covered in rainbow sprinkles.

You sat on the curb and talked about everything and nothing, your knees almost — almost — brushing. 

At one point he bumped his shoulder into yours lightly, grinning.

“You’re dangerously good company,” he said. “I’m going to have to start scheduling terrible people into my week just to balance it out.” 

You laughed, not trusting yourself to answer without sounding like a Disney movie.

And now — tonight.

It wasn’t technically a date.

You were just “hanging out.”

Which explained why your hands kept fidgeting and why Doug looked like he’d spent an extra five minutes pretending not to care about his hair.

You were sitting side by side on a bench outside a late-night coffee shop, your sketchbook balanced on your lap, the world around you soft and humming.

Doug was watching you doodle — quietly, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“You know,” he said after a while, voice low and casual, “I could watch you do that all night.”

You smiled without looking up.

“You’re just hoping I’ll draw something embarrassing.”

He chuckled.

“That too,” he admitted.

“But mostly…”

He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure how much to say.

You glanced at him — really looked at him — and felt that slow, inevitable pull you’d been pretending not to notice for weeks.

Doug caught you looking.

His smile faded into something softer, more serious.

And without really thinking about it — without letting yourself second-guess — you closed the sketchbook.

Shifted a little closer.

Doug’s eyes flickered down to your mouth — just for a second — and that was it.

That was the whole decision.

You leaned in first.

But he met you halfway.

The kiss was easy.

Uncomplicated.

A little laugh-breath escaped against your mouth when he tilted his head to fit better, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening either.

His hand found your knee, steadying you both like the world had tipped a little.

You pulled back first, just an inch.

Doug’s forehead bumped lightly against yours, and he whispered — voice rough and warm:

“About time.”

You smiled so wide you thought your face might crack open.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “About time.”

-

End of Part 6

-

You didn’t move for a second after the kiss.

The world had tilted — just slightly — like someone had nudged it off center without warning.

You could feel the curve of Doug’s smile against your forehead, the easy, quiet joy of it.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you properly.

And grinned.

Not a cocky grin.

Not a “yeah, I knew you wanted me” grin.

A stunned, almost disbelieving grin — like he’d tripped into something wonderful by accident and couldn’t quite believe his luck.

“You good?” he asked, voice rough with a laugh he hadn’t quite let out yet.

You nodded, a little breathless.

“Yeah. You?”

Doug rubbed the back of his neck — classic, endearingly awkward Doug — and said,

“Well, my heart is somewhere under that bench, but otherwise… solid.”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand.

He reached out gently, tugging your hand away.

“Don’t hide that,” he said, voice softer. “You have one of those laughs that makes people want to write better jokes.”

Your heart did an Olympic-level flip in your chest.

You stood there for another second — both of you not really knowing what to do — before Doug finally shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and tilted his head toward the street.

“C’mon,” he said. “Before I think of fifteen more things to say that’ll make this weird.”

You fell into step beside him, walking slowly down the sleepy sidewalk toward the parking lot.

The night air was warm, buzzing faintly with the far-off sound of cars and crickets.

Doug bumped your shoulder lightly with his.

“Just so you know,” he said casually, “I had a whole plan for tonight. It involved being charismatic and mysterious. Maybe even quoting something clever… and instead I kissed you like a middle schooler who just won the lottery.”

You snorted.

“Flawless execution.”

“I know, right?” he said, grinning. “I really pulled it together.”

You both laughed — low, giddy, private — the kind of laugh you’d been craving without even knowing it.

The walk to your cars took maybe two minutes, but it felt longer — stretched out, sweet and slow, like the world was giving you both a minute to adjust to whatever you were now.

When you reached your car, you stopped, leaning back against the door.

Doug rocked on his heels a little, like he was weighing something.

Then he reached out — tentative, almost shy — and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear.

It was such a simple, stupidly tender thing that you almost forgot how breathing worked.

“I had a really good time,” he said, voice low.

“Better than… I dunno. Most things, lately.”

You smiled up at him, feeling it all the way down to your toes.

“Me too,” you said.

“And not just because you finally admitted you’re secretly an animated sea villain.”

He laughed, bright and surprised.

“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping back just enough to let you open your door, “you can add ‘mild public menace’ to my resume.”

You opened the door but didn’t get in yet.

Neither of you moved, really.

The night hummed around you, and somewhere in the background, the world kept spinning — but here, in this little pocket of parking lot and bad lighting and hearts beating too loud, everything felt exactly right.

Doug stuffed his hands back in his jacket and smiled — the soft, real one you were starting to realize he only gave you.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” he said.

“You better,” you said, bumping your shoulder against his again.

Doug lingered a second longer — like he wanted to say something else — but instead he just grinned, shook his head like he couldn’t believe any of this either, and finally turned toward his car.

You watched him go.

And when you finally slid into your own seat, heart hammering, you couldn’t stop the grin that broke across your face.

This wasn’t just a crush anymore.

It was something real.

Something happening.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt like it was only just beginning.

-

End of Part 7

-

You were supposed to be asleep.

You’d brushed your teeth, turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and even tried to close your eyes.

But your brain had other plans — and every single one of them looked like Doug.

The way he’d said “about time,” like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for weeks.

The way he’d touched your hair like it was allowed.

The way he’d looked at you after the kiss, half-stunned and whole-hearted.

You rolled over and grabbed your phone from the nightstand.

The screen lit up your face like a flashlight under a blanket.

You stared at the last text:

Doug: 

“Sleep good, Kraken Queen. Talk soon.”

You hesitated.

Then typed:

You:

“Still awake.

Still grinning like an idiot.

Your fault.”

You hit send before your self-preservation instincts could scream.

Maybe he was asleep.

Maybe you were oversharing.

Maybe—

Your phone buzzed almost instantly.

Doug:

“Good.

I was hoping I wasn’t the only idiot.”

You let out a laugh — small and stupid and delighted.

You:

“Do you always kiss people like that or is it just me?”

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Came back again.

Doug:

Just you.

Promise.

Doug (again):

“You kiss like someone who’s been stuck in a slowburn comic strip for years and just found the final panel.

Which is unfair.

Because now I’m doomed.”

You buried your face in your pillow, trying not to squeal.

You:

“Doomed how?”

Doug:

“Like… I’m going to start doing stupid things.

Like writing your name in the margins of my script notes.

Or turning down plans because I’d rather hear you describe a cartoon idea for 45 minutes straight.”

Your fingers hovered, heart thudding.

You:

“That doesn’t sound stupid.

That sounds kinda perfect.”

Another pause.

Doug:

“Careful.

Say one more thing like that and I’ll be at your window in a trench coat with a boombox like it’s an 80’s teen movie.”

You:

“Joke’s on you. I live on the third floor and I would let you in.”

Doug:

“Dangerous.

I’d fall harder.”

You stopped.

Let the weight of that settle.

Soft and late and a little dizzy.

Then typed:

You:

“I think I’m already falling.

Not gonna lie.”

Longer pause this time.

And then:

Doug:

“Same.

It’s kind of terrifying.

And also kind of the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time.”

You closed your eyes, smile tucked against your pillow like a secret.

You:

“Goodnight, Trouble.

I’ll try to sleep now.”

Doug:

“Sweet dreams, Kraken Queen.

Don’t draw anything too cursed without me.”

You laughed softly, heart full to bursting.

You:

“No promises.”

You set your phone down.

And this time, when you closed your eyes —

you slept.

Really slept.

The kind of sleep you only get when you know something good is finally, finally happening.

-

End of Part 8

-

Outside, the night air wrapped around you both — cool and quiet.

Doug walked you to your car, hand still loosely linked with yours.

When you stopped at the curb, he looked down at you like you were a secret he couldn’t wait to keep.

You tilted your face up, not asking — just waiting.

He kissed you again — slow, sure, less surprised this time.

Like he was catching up to something his heart already knew.

When he pulled back, his hand lingered at your waist, thumb brushing soft against your jacket.

Then he hesitated — just a beat — and said, almost shyly:

“Hey… you wanna come see the studio?”

You blinked.

“Like — your studio?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s mostly empty this late. Just me and a few dusty SpongeBob figurines haunting the halls.”

You stared at him, the idea settling somewhere between your ribs and lighting a small fire.

“Seriously?”

Doug shrugged. “Figured I’d give you the real tour. You’ve already kissed the villain, might as well see where the chaos gets made.”

You grinned — already nodding.

“Lead the way, Trouble.”

Doug’s smile could’ve powered a streetlamp.

“Try not to faint when you see the original Mermaid Man prop toaster,” he said, opening your door for you like a gentleman. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

You slid into your seat, heart hammering in that delicious, giddy way.

The night wasn’t over.

It was just getting interesting.

-

End of Part 9 

-

The building was quieter than you’d expected.

No buzzing fluorescent lights. No hum of conversation.

Just the low whir of distant AC and the soft click of Doug’s keycard as he unlocked a side door.

He held it open with a small bow.

“Welcome to the mother ship,” he whispered.

You stepped in slowly, eyes wide, heart thudding.

The hallway smelled faintly of coffee, carpet, and… was that crayon?

Doug flicked on a few lights, bathing the hall in soft, yellow glow.

You passed framed animation cells on the walls — some you recognized instantly. Others looked like relics of forgotten pilots and inside jokes.

Doug pointed at one that featured a muscular seahorse with a suspiciously smug expression.

“That’s Tony. He only appeared in one episode, but he haunts the break room fridge.”

You laughed quietly, trying not to disturb the hush around you.

As you turned the corner, Doug motioned toward a hallway with a glass door at the end.

“Studio’s this way. Sound booths are down there. And over here—” he opened a nondescript door with a dramatic flourish, “—is where I occasionally commit crimes.”

You stepped inside.

It was… cozy.

Not messy, exactly — just lived-in. Paper scraps, doodles, stacked sketchbooks, open scripts. A lamp on a filing cabinet. A half-finished drawing of a squirrel in a mech suit taped to the wall.

“This is your space?” you asked, stepping further in.

Doug followed, flicking on the lamp that cast everything in a warm pool of light.

“Yep. The lair.”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely.

You wandered in, taking it all in — a figurine of Plankton perched crookedly on a shelf, a post-it on the wall that said “REMEMBER TO EAT,” a notebook lying open with a scribbled list:

• Squirrel mech pilot name??

• Shark with French existential crisis

• Kraken Queen (YES.)

Your breath caught.

Doug saw the direction of your eyes — and didn’t move to hide it.

“Been, uh… thinking about you,” he said, sheepish.

You turned to look at him — fully, intentionally — and felt your heart flip over in your chest.

“You wrote me into your brainstorming?”

Doug stepped forward, hands sliding into his pockets. “Kinda hard not to.”

You sat slowly on the edge of the small couch tucked in the corner of the room, sketchbook still in your bag, but fingers twitching with the urge to draw.

Doug sat beside you, not quite touching, close enough to feel the static charge between you.

“I used to dream about places like this,” you said softly. “Studios. Stories. Being part of something weird and wonderful.”

Doug smiled, voice gentle. “You belong here. You already do.”

You looked at him — and he was already looking at you.

The distance between you shrank.

Like gravity had quietly redrawn its rules.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you whispered, “I’m gonna kiss you again.”

Doug tilted his head, smirking.

“Pretty sure I was counting on that.”

You kissed him.

Slower this time. More sure.

His hand found your cheek, fingers brushing your jaw with a reverence that made your pulse stutter.

He tasted like warmth and peppermint. Like trust. Like yes.

When you pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “I can’t believe I almost didn’t text you.”

Doug chuckled — low and breathless. “I was five seconds from summoning you with a kraken sigil drawn in sidewalk chalk in my driveway.”

You laughed — helplessly, lovingly — and curled a little closer to him.

He pulled you in, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like he’d been waiting for this exact shape to fill that space.

The room hummed with quiet. With color. With potential.

On the desk, a little sticky note fluttered in the air current from the vent.

Kraken Queen – give her something epic.

Doug kissed the top of your head, fingers idly brushing your arm.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make something amazing.”

You looked up at him, heart full to the brim.

“Maybe I already am.”

-

End of Part 10

-

Doug’s arm was still around you.

Your head rested on his shoulder, the low hum of the desk lamp the only sound in the room.

The walls were lined with color and sketches and half-captured ideas — but here, in this small, warm pocket of quiet, everything felt sharpened.

Heightened.

You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The way his thumb traced lazy circles on your side.

The way the heat of his body reached across the tiny distance still left between you and pulled at something deeper than want.

When you looked up at him, he was already watching you — eyes soft, intent.

“Do you always do this?” He murmured.

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

He smiled — slow, crooked, devastating. “Get inside people’s heads and rewrite the whole plot.”

Your breath caught.

You sat up a little, turning to straddle his lap — knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest.

“That a compliment or a warning?” you said.

There was a beat — thick with anticipation — and then his hands found your hips, and he pulled you flush against him.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Both.”

The kiss started slow.

Hot and unhurried.

His mouth moved against yours with that maddening, deliberate kind of care — like he’d been dreaming of this and didn’t want to rush a second of it.

You rolled your hips instinctively and felt the way he groaned into your mouth, low and desperate, fingers digging into your waist.

“Jesus,” he breathed, barely pulling back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tugged his shirt up over his head — messy and impatient — revealing warm, freckled skin and a body that felt more like a story than a statue.

Something real.

Something earned.

Doug leaned back against the couch, letting you take him in. His eyes were dark now — full of heat, yes, but also reverence. Worship, almost.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

You leaned in, kissing down the side of his neck, tongue tracing just beneath his jaw.

He exhaled hard, head falling back, hands gliding up beneath your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts — feather-light, like he was still asking permission.

You shivered, pressing into his touch.

“Okay?” he asked, voice rough. “You’ll tell me if I-“

You nodded — breathless. “More than okay.”

Your shirt came off next, tossed somewhere onto the floor — who cared? — and then his hands were all over you, sliding up your ribs, holding you like you were something fragile and wild at the same time.

The heat between you built in slow, aching waves.

Skin on skin.

Mouths trailing over collarbones, shoulders, stomachs.

Laughter slipping between gasps.

His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips teasing just beneath the waistband of your jeans.

You met his eyes.

“Still okay?” he asked again — voice gentler this time, lower.

Your lips brushed his, just barely.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

Doug groaned — like the words undid something in him — and then his hands were on your belt, and yours were on his, and the couch dipped beneath your weight as you tangled together fully.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t choreographed.

It was soft and frantic.

Teasing and tender.

Full of stuttered moans and whispered names and limbs that didn’t quite know where to go — but somehow always found each other anyway.

His body curved around yours like instinct.

Yours opened to him like trust.

And when it finally happened — when the tension broke, when your name tumbled from his lips like a confession — you felt it in every part of you.

Not just lust.

Not just chemistry.

But something that had been quietly building in the cracks between laughter and late-night texts and shared stories.

Something that felt dangerously close to falling in love.

-

End of Part 11

-

[bochowssinner]

🪽 GUEST PT. 2

summary: they're your family, and you accept it immediately.

warnings: talk of blood.

a/n: went a little overboard and shakespeare came out. bert and joan are not racists in this, fyi. part 3?

the hunger was the worst at first.. all-consuming, like every vein was on fire. you laid there trembling, listening to the crack of bone and snarl of a monster.

then the pain came. your body, ripping itself apart. uour heart shredding under your ribs, flesh rebuilding, skin reweaving itself into a new shape. there were benefits eventually—speed, strength—and so on.

you woke up to the sound of soft singing and a banjo playing. the soft texture under you and warmth covering her body indicated that you were no longer in your ma's kitchen, laying on the hardwood floor, but rather in front of a fireplace, laying on a rug. you craned your neck weakly from your position on the floor to look in the direction of the singing voice, and there was a woman sitting on the couch, her eyes closed in comfort as she sang. joan. your body felt heavy, as if you had been sleeping for days and anvils were on top of you, holding you to the floor. you had some memories of what had happened before, but you couldn't recall your family or your previous life. they were your family now, and you knew it deep down in your heart.

you weren't wearing your wet blood stained nightgown anymore, but rather a clean one that had been ironed just for you. your skin had been cleaned and smelled like a fragrant soap bar. who changed your clothes and scrubbed the blood off your tainted skin? you weren't sure, but you hoped it was the woman sitting on the couch. bert leaned against the kitchen counter, pouring him a glass of moonshine. the kind that made his throat feel like he had swallowed a cup of hand sanitizer, but he enjoyed the sensation after a few swallows.

“how you feelin', baby?” his voice was sandpaper-like, but quiet and almost gentle. he brought the glass to his lips for a moment and walked up behind joan, leaning down to kiss the crown of her brunette head. it was strange the way the world looked after.. sharper, colors different, like you’d never seen them properly before. everything more defined, clearer.

you didn't respond to his question, instead reaching up to the side of your neck and feeling a bandage covering the puncture wounds to allow them to heal properly. the puncture wounds ached slightly but weren't painful, almost like a warm heartbeat in your neck.

"you ain't eaten in days, girly. been sleep the entire time. gotta wait 'til night to eat, but i got somethin' for ya." with the banjo placed on the couch, joan spoke, getting up and walking to the kitchen, her bare feet lightly tapping the groaning floorboards. she came back with a raw chicken breast in her hand, crouching down and holding it to your lips.

normally, if someone tried to feed you raw chicken, you would grimace in disgust, but this time, your stomach rumbled. pink, smooth chicken breast right by your lips. you took a bite of it with your teeth and silently swore it was better than anything you had ever eaten in your life, your eyes closing in delight. you ate the whole thing in a few minutes and it satisated your hunger lightly. but you craved blood, flesh, and bones.

remmick walked down the hall and into the living room, his hair tousled and clothes wrinkled. he must've been sleeping, you though, and he hummed in agreement as if he heard what you were thinking. he sat on the couch with a dad like groan, settling into the soft cushions with his feet propped up on the ottoman.

you didn't feel scared for some reason. you just felt... calm in this spacious living room on the rug. it was quiet, except for joan's occasional hums and bert clearing his throat.

you were home.