#hence the denial

[mblue-art]

...take my hand, while we dance, on the edge of a knife…

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

I have the smallest crumb of a theory. But what if howdy is mean to Latter because he’s self-conscious of being the only caterpillar (and repressed) and takes it out on his brother as a consequence. Because social expectations at the time gave him an excuse to do so?

no. ok. hoo boy. Allow Me To Be Insane Over The Most Prominent Thought I've Had Since Seeing The Update (about howdy)

i will try to be as eloquent and articulate as possible. ahem:

THAT FRUITY ASS CATERPILLAR IS REPRESSED AS FUCK, ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? DID YOU SEE THAT SHIT?? MY GOD. HOMEBOY HAS ISSUES STACKED ON ISSUES. GET HIM SOME THERAPY.

ok. ok ok ok. Now allow me to be articulate and eloquent

so obviously Howdy is almost certainly queer in the men-loving flavor. if i'm wrong about this my confidence will never recover. But I'm Willing To Take That Chance. so he's definitely queer, right? his.. well his everything points to it, but the final nail in the coffin are his rainbow suspenders from the group Homewarming artwork from Eddie's prolonged breakdown.

but this update i think showed us deeper into that part of him. and i take the shipping goggles off for genuine analysis, so when i say this i believe that there is Serious Evidence and seems Genuinely Plausible - if Howdy doesn't have feelings for Barnaby, i'll eat my cat.

the above is important to say because it Directly ties in to how Howdy treats Latter AND Eddie.

so. Howdy is likely gay or bi, what have you. i'm guessing gay. he obviously has feelings for Barnaby. SO WHAT I'M SAYING IS that i don't think Howdy treats Latter the way he does because of the caterpillar thing, I think Howdy treats Latter the way he does because Latter is genuine and Howdy is not.

what does this have to do with Eddie? well. look at Latter and Eddie in relation to each other. they're both... how do i say... Open. and not - not effeminate, but yes, for lack of of a better word, effeminate. just enough to make one go "huh." and Howdy treats them the same way - dismissive, apathetic, one could even say avoidant.

i wouldn't be shocked if Howdy picked up on their queerness (and if Latter isn't queer, his comfort with himself / his behavior & interests) and is on the defensive about it - likely subconsciously.

and with Latter specifically. Howdy could have also picked up on the way his other family members treat him if they're all also dismissive - as Seeya seems to be as well. i mean, it fits right in line with the time period! homophobia - internalized in Howdy's case (again, most likely). the blatant favoritism, the dismissive nature, it all adds up. even if no one outright knows, that subconscious recognition (or outright suspicion!) will do this

i mean, Latter makes me think of two things. 1) being the only queer kid in a family (especially large). 2) being a middle child. there was a third but i forgor. it felt important! it's gone now! anyway it's also Super telling comparing how Howdy treats Latter (emotional, earnest, open) to how he treats Beeya (oozing stereotypical masculinity)

tl;dr so i don't think it's really "expectations giving Howdy an excuse" as it is "subconscious / internalized homophobia causes Howdy to act the way he does"

as always, take all this with a Hefty grain of salt!

[nukacourier]

Mentally calling Arcade a dumbass for this like I'm not the one writing him being a complete fool

[ask-steven-stevenson]

“Something about borderline personality whatever. But, from what I’ve read! It’s seemingly common. No..? Most of the things are very simple things.”

YOUR SON FLOPS ON YOU.

hiiiiii dad...... i left you alone for a day and i missed you so its time to bother you again.

//@the-flys-buzz (william is. incredibly clingy to his awesome dad💔💔💔💔)

“..h. Hello.!! How are you, kid.?”

[thousandstories]

self promo number 8 and counting

Featuring: a thunderstorm, Wymack providing thematically-relevant backstory, Mary Hatford's ghost continuing to haunt the narrative, the end of an era, and Kevin Day deserving the world.

[stupid-and-cute-are-enough]

for the past 4 days, i've descended into madness over the anon getting turned into an animatronic. behold. 2.6k words @get-rammed i've gone insane

as always, i spew BTS lore in the tags

“Alright, that’s everything,” his Handler announces, finishing the paint on his last claw. They give his hand a satisfied pat. Monty watches as they turn away and begin packing up their things, making idle chatter as they do, offhandedly mentioning that they hope it isn’t too late by the time they actually get to head home. They told him earlier that they’ve got a meeting with the higher-ups once they’re done tonight, and it’s been weighing on him all day.

“I don’t think you should go to that meeting,” he says because he can’t take it any longer.

They pause. “What do you mean?”

“I just… I don’t think you should go.” Monty clenches his fists in his lap. It doesn’t feel right. If it was any other lame meeting announced in a staff email, sure, but this isn’t one of those. They were approached in person. No documents, nothing written; just pulled them aside this morning and told them something about enhancing the Handler experience. All of the other Handlers have gone home already, too, and there’s nothing that they could want just his for that meant anything good.

They huff fondly. “I don’t really have a choice, Monty.”

They keep getting ready, a sinking feeling forming in Monty. He tries again to explain that it’s a bad idea again but is gently shut down. His Handler hugs his head on their way out, an act he’d usually eat up and crave more of, but tonight, he feels like rejecting it. It just feels so wrong.

“Sweets, please, don’t go.” He grabs onto their sleeve. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

Their face softens. “I hear you, Monty, but I have to. I’ll probably get fired if I don’t.” They laugh a little. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Worst-case scenario, they dump a mountain of work on me. Everything’ll be okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, big guy.”

—

They announced a new animatronic the very next day.

The announcement made Monty raise a brow because even with his debut as a Glamrock, as rushed as it was, Fazzbear Entertainment still took their time to milk it for all its worth. Surely, with a brand-new animatronic, they’d pull out all of the theatrics. But, no, management had just called everyone backstage (Monty was grabbed by Chica’s Handler because his still wasn’t here, and it worried him. They always tell him if they’re going to be late) and spilled the news.

It’s another gator, which, geez, thanks, corporate. It’s dressed in actual clothes, unlike the rest of them. It’s a little smaller than Monty, with a sleeker design. Monty eyes the new thing up and down. There’s something… wrong with it. Monty feels it. So does the rest of the band. It stands across from them, eyes too wide, taking in too much yet too little information at the same time. Its hands are clutched together, held tightly to its chest. It’s a shambling mess, really. Barely finished and definitely not ready for crowds. The thing really needs a Handler, which only reminds Monty of the empty space by his side.

It’s different from them. It doesn’t fill its body like it’s supposed to. A feeling of uneasiness washes over the room. Even the other Handlers look a little disturbed.

After the incredibly lackluster introduction, dampened by the uneasiness of everyone in the room, management gives up on pleasantries and snaps at everyone to prepare for opening time. They leave without further explanation, not even telling everyone what the newcomer is supposed to be doing. Everyone takes the chance to leave as fast as possible, abandoning the barely functional animatronic where it stands.

Something in Monty tells him to linger, as disturbed as he is. The sinking feeling he had last night returns tenfold.

It looks too familiar. Cautiously, Monty approaches the thing, eyeing the uniform it wears. He dares not to peek at the nametag displayed proudly on its chest. The animatronic tilts its head up at him slightly, or at least it tries. Monty can hear the inner mechanics going, but it remains frozen. He stands uncomfortably in front of it, unsure of what to do. Everything about it feels wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.

He peeks at the nametag, and his world comes crashing down. Surely not. They couldn’t have shoved a whole person, a full consciousness, inside of an animatronic, could they? That technology doesn’t exist, right? Right?

Monty reaches out a shaking hand, staring into the bot’s blank, red eyes. It can’t be. Fazzbear has done some fucked up, shady stuff, but they wouldn’t do this, would they? This has to be too far. It has to. His hand touches their forearm, feeling the all-too-familiar fabric of the Handler uniforms under his finger pads. He meets their eyes, registering the terror behind their blank stare.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, it’s... I, uh-”

“M-” Their voice fries out, and their jaw moves unnaturally. But it’s enough for Monty. That’s their voice. That’s their voice. Monty feels something vile fester inside of him. If he could get sick, he would. That’s them. That’s them in there. They’re in there. That’s his Handler, who he saw just last night, in there.

Their stare is so blank. Their hands are clutched together so tightly. That’s them.

“Oh, sweets…”

His hands slide down their arms to take their hands, snagging his thumb on the cuff of their uniform as he goes. Something there catches his eyes, though, something a human eye would miss, but something he’s been trained to notice. A tiny speckle of blood stained into the fabric. Their blood.

Monty sucks in a breath, his grip on their hands tightening. They were hurt when this was done to them. They bled.

“Let’s go to my green room,” he says. He keeps his voice gentle, but there’s also no room to argue. He doesn’t think they could, anyway. They don’t respond to him or make any kind of movement, so Monty moves for them. Slowly, painfully, he guides them up to his green room, keeping a gentle set of hands on them the entire way. They stumble and would’ve fallen without Monty to catch them. Their tail drags limply behind them. They probably don’t know how to use it for balance yet. The word yet makes Monty’s heart hurt.

He ensures the door stays open as they shuffle into his room, hovering over them until they’ve been cautiously guided to sit on the couch. They don’t need to struggle to stand anymore. Monty doesn’t think he could handle seeing it.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says. It’s a lie. It’s an awful, horrible lie, but what else is he supposed to say?

They try to speak again, but their voice fries into something that sounds like a quiet cry. Their body begins to tremble, their hands clenching around each other even harder. All tell-tale signs that they’re crying, but they don’t have tears anymore. Instead, their eyes just stare into the wall, unresponsive.

“I’m so sorry, sweets,” he says as they weep. He sits beside them on the couch, cautiously wrapping his body around theirs. He doesn’t know if the different sensations will upset them even further, but he also doesn’t know what else to do.

“H-” A billow of steam rolls out of their jaw, rattling their whole system. The sudden movement startles Monty, making him pull away.

“Hey, sweets, you-” Monty glances into their eyes, wide, sightless, terrified, with a slack jaw pouring steam, “you need to calm down. I know it seems like I’m askin’ the impossible of ya, but you’ll overheat yourself, and I dunno how to fix that.”

Their body shudders, unresponsive to their mind. Monty doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. He remembers what they did when he first came online and when he was given his new body. They surrounded him with familiar, comforting things, but his Handler doesn’t live here like he does. At least they didn’t. Their greatest comforts are probably far out of Monty’s reach. He searches around his green room, trying to find anything he knows helps them relax.

He spots a fidget they used to love playing with during his noon charging sessions. It should be simple enough; it just needs a pushing and pulling motion. Nothing complicated. But his Handler’s hands don’t react, even as he pries them apart and presses the fidget into their palm. Their fingers remain tense, not even twitching.

“Okay, something easier. I got it. I’ve got you.”

Monty reaches and grabs one of the oversized plushies lying beside the two of them on the couch. It’s big enough for him to comfortably interact with, so it should be good enough for them, too, right? He places the weighted plush in their lap, tucking its arms in so his Handler doesn’t have to do it themself. It looks like they try to wrap their arms around the plush, but the thing just ends up getting knocked to the floor. The failure to get their arms to work only serves to upset his Handler more as their hands begin trembling, the metal of the digits clinking together. 

Monty looks up at them, scared for them. Scared with them. If they can’t function, they’re going to be decommissioned– not fired, not still alive, decommissioned and dead. Gone forever. Their head has turned slightly, staring intensely at something, so Monty follows their line of sight. His gaze lands on their jacket that they accidentally left last night, draped across a chair. Now a little shaky himself, Monty gets up and retrieves it for them.

He realizes once he gets back that it doesn’t fit them anymore. It used to be so big on them, but it doesn’t fit now. Their favorite jacket, the one they wore every day, doesn’t fit anymore. He drapes it over their shoulders, bringing it around them tightly. Their shoulders are bigger under his hands. Wider. Their body is like his own now and so very, very different from what it used to be.

He retakes their hands, kneeling in front of them. He meets their eyes, which stare deep into whatever kind of soul he has.

“Look at me, Chere,” he says, squeezing their hands, trying to ground them. He’d tell them to breathe with him, but they can’t anymore, and he doesn’t know if that’ll help or upset them. “I’ve got you. I promise. I won’t ever, ever let anything else happen to you. I promise.”

Their hands squeeze his own, and Monty lets out his own version of a sigh of relief. The shaking in their limbs begins to die down, the steam eventually coming to an end. He smiles at them, keeping his hold on their hands solid. He praises them softly, rubbing their knuckles.

Their eyes meet his properly, and Monty can see the hurt and the fear in their eyes. They shift, jaw moving experimentally.

“I… can’t breathe,” they say.

Monty’s heart breaks for them. They try to shift, try to grab onto their jacket and pull it tighter around them, but their limbs won’t cooperate, and the metal of their fingers slips against the satin material.

“Here, you gotta… you gotta grip with the pads of your fingers. Like this,” Monty says, taking hold of their hands and guiding their fingers to do so. A shudder runs through their system, getting their hands to tighten and pull, if only slightly.

Monty steps back to take another look at the design of their new body. A gator, like him. Their hair is soft and synthetic, with a little product to keep it sleek, so at least that wasn’t taken from them. In a bitter-sweet kind of way, Monty can imagine helping them style their hair in the morning when the dust settles. But Monty still has trouble adjusting to his mohawk, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for them right now. How long it’ll take for that dust to settle. They’re smaller than him. Sleeker. A little more compact and able to fit into tighter spaces. Probably equipped with the same processing power Monty has, and he prays to whatever is out there, none of the guardrails. Overall, they’re… built to work. They were hurt, maybe even killed, their body broken, disposed of, and shoved into this body to work. To work! They never get to go home again; they never get to have a life outside of the Pizzaplex ever again, all so Fazzbear Entertainment could have another obedient little worker.

Monty shoves down his anger. They don’t need that right now. Instead, he turns his energy to muster up the best smile he can, affirming the correct motions with their hands.

“There you go, you’ve got it.” His smile wavers a little at their silence. 

They stare at their hands, their new, robotic, alien hands. Hands that don’t listen when they tell them to move. A body that doesn’t listen. They grip around the fabric of their jacket, feeling, in a way, the mechanics whirr in their arms. But they don’t feel the silky fabric anywhere but their finger pads. They feel the warmth of Monty in front of them, holding onto them, but only in broad strokes. It’s not like skin. It’ll never be like skin. There’s no more blood, only coolant (they feel so cold), no nerves, no organs. No lungs. Those things are still there, in a way, in a robotic sense.

All of the essential bits keeping their body moving are still there. But it’s not their body. Flashes of blood and mutilation streak across their vision the longer they stare. They have claws now. And a snout. And a tail. They always thought it’d be kind of cool to have a tail, who doesn’t, but not like this. They don’t want this. They want to go home and lay in bed and fall asleep and hope that this is some god-awful dream. They want to fight with their ID at the stupid maintenance tunnel exit, and drive home tired, and wake up five hours later to come to work and do it all over again. 

“... sweets?”

They look up to Monty, sight still a little unclear. He looks worried. He looks scared. They don’t think they’ve ever seen him scared. He tentatively takes their hands, prying the fabric away before they rip something.

They stay there, Monty kneeling, Handler sitting, staring at each other. Lost, scared, confused. Neither quite sure what to say.

“I wanna go home,” they eventually settle on. They can see the resolve in Monty crack.

“I know, sweets.” He rubs their knuckles again. They’re disturbed by how little they can feel of it. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

They want to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he has nothing to be sorry for, but the words don’t come to them. So, instead, they sit in silence. Awful, dreadful silence.

Eventually, Monty stands, still holding their hands in his. “You’ve gotta be getting… tired,” he murmurs. “Here, I’ll show you how to get charged.”

His Handler know how. They’ve helped Monty settle in to get charged a million times. But it’s different now. They need to charge. Their battery isn’t running low, they don’t think anyway, but the emotional drain is enough for them to take the carefully offered out. Monty gets them set up, gently explaining things as he goes, like what it’s going to feel like at first and how entering standby will kind of feel like sleeping (at least, what he’s pretty sure sleeping feels like). When everything is said and done, and Monty is sure they’ll be out for a while, he turns to eye the big door that separates his room from the rest of the Pizzaplex.

His curtains are closed, and he’s going to make sure it stays that way. For a long time.

[good-beanswrites]

Could you write a drabble for Mikoto and Shidou plus Blood? This request miiight be inspired by the fact that Mikoto mentions his body hurting a lot but doesn't seem to be receiving any medical treatment, either because Mahiru and Fuuta take priority or because there's no obvious cause, and therefore cure, to his pain...

👀👀👀 Thank you, this is such a good combo ough!! It's so interesting how much focus the others get when it comes to physical health, since Mikoto has clearly complained of his condition :( It looks like Milgram is trying to push the idea that he's completely oblivious to his alters, but I spun it where he's aware, just deep in denial. So have some Mikoto angst to get us hyped for Double!

Mikoto should be grateful. He was lucky. That’s what he kept repeating to himself. He had both of his eyes intact. Both his arms. He was strong enough to walk around freely. He wasn’t on the verge of death, or collapse. Thus, he should be grateful no one was offering him any help, because it meant he didn’t need it. He repeated it again. Maybe this time he would believe it.

With a groan, his body rolled out of bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up actually feeling rested. Everything ached. His muscles tightened with soreness. His throat felt as raw as his knuckles, though he hadn’t been using either. He had no desire to lift his arms over his head, or twist around too much, so he didn’t change out of yesterday’s uniform. Maybe the belts and buckles had made it difficult to sleep. The theory wasn’t a convincing one, but dwelling on things like that had never gotten him anywhere.

He ran his fingers once through his hair, combing out a bit of the mess. Looking in a mirror was the last thing he needed. He made his way to the dining hall. 

The others trickled in for breakfast. His appetite, at least, hadn’t suffered. He hardly noticed the others giving him wide-eyed stares. What were they expecting? Of course he was looking worse for wear, given the circumstances. He ignored them, glad to focus on the hot meal before him.

A hand weighed heavy on his shoulder.

“Mikoto,” Shidou’s voice may have remained calm, but it was urgent. “Do you need some help?”

“Huh?” He shrugged his hand away, offering a weak smile. “I’m fine! Oh, I think Kazui was saving a seat for you over there, if you --”

“-- How about we go to my cell for a moment? Or yours, if that would be more comfortable.”

What was everyone’s problem this morning? Mikoto did his best to keep his voice pleasant. “Really, man, I’m good.” 

Shidou’s expression remained unmoving. Very carefully, he informed him, “you’re bleeding. Pretty badly by the look of it. You’re coming with me.” 

Mikoto blinked. He looked over his shoulder, following Shidou’s gaze. The back of his uniform was torn across the center. A significant splotch of blood seeped into the material, growing even larger as he shifted to see it. 

“...Oh…” 

Back in Shidou’s cell, sad to have left his breakfast plate behind, he slumped into a chair. Shidou gathered together some supplies. As always, he got right to the point. “What happened?”

“I… I’m not sure. I don’t remember anything from last night. I don’t remember most nights, recently. I know that sounds crazy, but…”

“It’s fine. I have definitely heard crazier.” He smiled, something gentle and reassuring. As usual, there was something hidden behind his eyes. It was as if he already knew what Mikoto was up to late at night that earned him so much soreness the following days. He didn’t offer an explanation, though. Mikoto didn’t press him for one.

He winced as he was helped out of his uniform. Removing his shirt revealed the mysterious gash. Shidou’s eyes widened at the array of scratches and scars. Some were fresh, but most originated long before Milgram. Though he didn’t ask, Mikoto answered.

“I’m pretty clumsy, huh?” Maybe this time he would believe it. 

Shidou was kind enough to pretend to. “Here, allow me…”

Shidou got to work cleaning and dressing the injuries. Mikoto closed his eyes. Even though the disinfectant stung, and sometimes those gloved fingers pressed a little two hard, it felt nice to have things patched up. 

“Is there anything else going on? Are you feeling pain anywhere else?”

Mikoto could have laughed. He didn’t. “I’m just sore. And my head’s been killing me, but I’m used to migraines. Perks of the verdict, I’m sure.”

Shidou hummed in thought. 

“Thanks, by the way. I’ll try to be more careful.” Not that he had much choice in the matter, it seemed. But he’d do his best. 

Shidou kept his face straight, but there were traces of pain in his voice. “I will too. I’m sorry, Mikoto. If I had known… I’ve been distracted lately, but I should have paid closer attention.”

“It’s fine,” he flashed a grin. “I know the others are pretty fucked up. And I’m not dying or anything. I’m lucky, you know?”

“I wouldn’t say so. Doctors don’t only treat the dying.”

Mikoto frowned. 

It didn’t take much longer to finish treatment. Shidou gave him a few instructions about the bandages, then offered him a clean shirt. “You’re good to go. I’ll be checking in more often, now. I’ll see if I can find something for your head.” 

“Thanks. Really.”

He returned Mikoto’s torn uniform. “You should talk to Es about getting a new one. Until then, you’ll want to clean this with --”

Mikoto waved a dismissive hand, heading out of the cell. “Don’t worry, I know how to wash blood out of my clothes. Er, that sounds bad. I’m just a clutz, yeah? The blood’s always been my own.”

Maybe this time he would believe it.

[i3utterflyeffect]

Seeing how small the slugcats are compared to him makes this even funnier. No one can can ever know lmao.

the thing is that the color gang and SC are both slugpups in this au! they are smaller than the average slugcat, about half the size if i had to estimate? it's hard to tell since the screenshot i found has them under a grass/junk(?) foreground. I imagine that the youngest are closest to a quarter of the slugcat's size, while the eldest are only one head smaller!

at the point beckons finds them, they are just under half the size of an average slugcat (give or take), but SC is smaller (and was deemed essentially harmless, hence his hesitance to kill them; ACTUALLY harmless. ofc he was still WRONG, but uh, he couldn't have really known that as SC's dangers are not seen from a physical scan imo.)

i also underexaggerated their size because it's funny to make them small

also please do not take my art as gospel on their size iterator puppets are actually SO small sdkjghskdgkjdsh--

^ all in-game screenshots, white slugcat is pulled from the same screenshot as Five Pebbles. red is an approximation of the size

[amtrak12]

... Okay how the fuck am I supposed to write a summary for a 'stream of conscious' style fic that covers ~2.5 seasons worth of story in 14k words? Everything I try clashes horribly with the fic's vibe 😩

And by 'stream of conscious', I mean present tense, intentional run on sentences mixed with partial sentences, less names/more pronouns (benefit of writing m/f for once), minimal dialogue, doesn't get into the weeds of - anything really - but especially not canon plots. It just highlights the differences due to the soulmark AU. Like the entire fic is basically a summary already??? How am I supposed to tease it in a way that matches the format? #stumped

[freetobecelestial]

day 5 of starcrosseddeancas drabble event : cowboy boots

“Dean, please! We need to get going! Before the dead have all risen and walked off!”

“Cool your jets, Sammy! We’ll get there faster if you’d quit screaming every ten seconds!”

Dean looked around his room once again, though fat load of good it’d do; they weren’t there four seconds ago either.

“Dean, you’re brother is going to pop a blood vessel if we don’t leave now.”

Dean shot around to see Cas standing in the door-still just as incredibly jarring-with his most impatient face on.

“Yeah, Cas, I know, I’m almost ready, I’m just looking for one last… thing… THE DEAN CAVE!” And he took off like a bullet.

There, on the floor next to one of the boxes, were his cowboy boots.

As Dean turned around, boots in hand, Cas was just behind him inside the door, looking around.

“Dean, what is the ‘Dean Cave’?”

“Oh Cas, I’m so glad you asked.”

“GUYS, PLEASE!” Sam shouted from down the hall.

[foxgloveinspace]

Ok ok ok ok. So time. Is a circle. And Vessel is a person who has been reincarnated, and loved by a god in every life that they find each other. And this is the life that Vessel has finally been able to ascend to be with Sleep? ~And Time is A Fucking Circle~

[tottwritesfanfic]

...i don't have a problem, i don't know what you're talking about.

anyway in other news, I think I know what my NaNo project for this year is going to be.

Also yes, typos are my planning love language, at this point if there aren't a few red squiggles on the screen i'm clearly not doing it properly.

Also also, I absolutely called this scrivener master file for (mostly haikyuu fanfic, there's like 30 fics in this monstrosity) "Not Digimon". I hope no one ever had any expectations that my filing system made sense. Send help.

[curiositykilledtheradiostar]

YALL I GOT A 96% ON THE GAY ROMEO ANALYSIS I WROTE FOR ENGLISH CLASS. LOVE WINS

[aylaaescar]

getting to know Zae so here are my questions - do you think that they could somehow end up in a fwb with Chase or Tallys? how would Zae get along with Blade?

.....man yeah. yeah, they really would.

ngl you've kind of hit their type on the head, lol. Zae's original romance in Wayhaven was Ava (stoic leader who doesn't like to be overly emotional), is currently Mason (grumpy, sarcastic, flirtatious. FWB to lovers romance), and you are surely familiar by now that they have a thing for Blane in WTS that they're probably in denial of bc they've been rivals for so long. lol. so Tallys would absolutely, 100%, without a doubt be Zae's type. like I know this in my heart. Chase would be a good contender as well, but he might also fall into the same category that F and A from Wayhaven and WTS respectively fall into? an absolutely wonderful friend who they get into mischief too, but isn't Zae's cup of tea romantically. idk what it is about them that falls so hard for the stoics and the grumps, but gosh.

at any rate, yeah, I could def see them having a FWB relationship w Tallys! and likely falling pretty hard for her, buuuut... idk if they'd make a solid lasting couple? they might want different long-term things and not have enough in common to make it work, but hey, you never know

as for Blade, yeah, I would hazard a guess that Zae would also have a big fat crush on him LOL. they do like a stoic leader. I think they'd probably also not have enough in common to last as a couple though, plus I feel like (w both Blade and Tallys), that denial of romantic feelings might hurt Zae's feelings? but as said before: hey, you never know

[cherribunnyfemme]

Wrote some absolutely raunchy disgusting porn on my AO3 🥰

[a-pirate]

How do you deal with personal mirrors in fiction, especially when some aspects of them are positive/better "What ifs"?