#i dont really like how it turned out but it's fine

[renewashere]

like my first time making a comic! (btw, yes they are at the twins' house, only half way through did i realise that doesnt make sense)

also if you cant read my attempt at cursive the alt/ image description has the transcript :]

Also also kinda a continuation of this ?

[pseudowho]

It was an average Monday morning when you, Nanami Kento's wife, were turned into a cat.

"An unusual Curse," Shoko had said, "not longer than a week, surely--"

"Not--not longer than a week?!" Kento spluttered, his glasses lopsided, and, dangled in front of him beneath the arms (legs-- legs, he reminded himself)...you.

You, with two pointed ears, a long whippy tail, your many toe-beans and a perturbed little head-tilt. On the doctors' office couch, a neatly folded (if a little furry) pile of your clothes.

"Meow," you had said.

"Don't 'meow' me," Kento spluttered again, fixing you with a stern look that barely overlaid his concern. You simply stared up at him, long, and feline, and unblinking...and reached out one little paw, pressing it onto the end of his nose.

Kento sighed; a bone-deep, weary sigh. Shoko put out her cigarette, speaking through a haze of smoke.

"Like I said. Give it a week, and Mrs.Nyanyami will be back to nor--"

"What did you just call her?'

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Mrs.Nyanyami, the cat formerly known as Nanami Kento's wife, wanted for nothing.

"I think that tuna's more expensive than anything I've ever eaten," whispered Yuuji to Gojo. On the other side of the conference room, you sat upon the desk before Kento, waiting patiently for the next lump of tuna (meticulously cut into cat-appropriate cubes) to be delivered in his chopsticks.

As Kento's hand approached, you held it close with paw and claws, to steal the pink fish from him. He looked like a surgeon performing heart surgery.

"I just...dont know how he can look so serious while he's doing that," Gojo whispered back, to Yuuji's frantic nods. Still, they watched this freakish nature documentary with quiet obsession.

A higher-up sat down beside Kento, waiting for the meeting to begin. Jolting back, and grumbling, he did a double take.

"Young man-- you can't bring a cat to a Sorcerer's meeting--"

"That's not a cat," Kento snapped, frosty, "that's my wife."

And so began the rumour amongst the higher-ups, that Nanami Kento had gone mad.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"You should leave her at home--"

"--absolutely not--"

"--really, Nanami...just put the television on, she'll be fine--"

"--unequivocally, no--"

"--why not?!"

Silence. An awkward shuffle on Kento's thick chest. You peeked your head out of the pocket of the cat-carrying hoodie that Kento wore over his shirt and tie, and turned to Gojo with narrowed eyes.

"Meow," you had said, batting at Kento's strings, and hooking his tie out with your paw, to kick it to death with your legs.

"I agree," said Kento, whispering and scratching you beneath the chin until you purred, "he's wrong, isn't he? Stupid Gojo. You'd get lonely. You'd get bored. Yes you would..."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Oh my god...he's gorgeous...you should get his number--"

"--I'm not brave enough...you go. I'll get our coffees."

"--okay, okay..." The woman cleared her throat, sweeping her hair behind one ear with her best smile. Kento looked up from his coffee, with one finely raised eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" He lied, unwilling to help anyone at all before he'd finished his croissant.

"Hi, yeah, I just...can't help but notice you're sitting alone, and my friend-- well she-- she just wondered if she can have your number, and--"

The woman broke off into shrieks. Climbing up her leg, all claws and furry vengeance, was you. She shook her leg, shrieking. You hissed. Your cup of steamed milk clattered over the table, slopping everywhere.

"--o-oh my god-- oh my god, what the hell is this cat doi--"

"I'm sorry," Kento sighed, not sorry at all and dabbing his mouth with a napkin and doing absolutely nothing to help, "it's my cat. She doesn't like company--"

Hisses. Claws. Dirty feral yowls.

"Get this fucking thing off me--"

"I can't take you anywhere. No more steamed milk for you."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

At times, you seemed so human. At others, undeniably cat.

Kento would wake to clattering from the kitchen, bleary and feeling around for you, only to remember, and trace his hand up to the furry, round little patch you'd leave behind on your pillow. He allowed himself just a moment of misery, before getting up.

He followed the sounds of cups and kettle and coffee machine, and leaned against the doorway with sleep-mussed hair and a squinting, teenagerish glare.

You were up on the counter, all four paws and determination. You had gotten as far as switching the kettle and coffee machine on, and heaving the cupboard open with your tiny limbs. Kento watched as you tipped your head sideways, managing to drag two mugs out in your teeth. He winced as they almost smashed upon the counter.

"Come on," Kento rumbled, his voice rusty with sleep, "let me do that."

You meowed at him, batting at the air with one angry paw when he stepped closer. Kento huffed, raising his hands in surrender.

"Fine," he tutted, "but I'll pour the water."

"Meow."

"Why? Because you don't have opposable thumbs, darling."

The fur stood up along your spine. You turned around, and around, in a circle, then sat upright. You turned your back on him while you waited for the kettle to boil. Your tail flicked from side to side, irritable. Kento waited, too, reaching out one hand to stroke your ears.

You nudged your back paw out, and pushed his mug off the side to smash on the floor.

Silence.

"...what is wrong with y--"

"Meow."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Skitterskitterskitter.

Distant meows.

Kento groaned, rubbing down his face. He checked the clock, frog-blinking; two in the morning. He groaned harder.

Skitterskitterskitter.

Thunk.

More distant meows.

"Please just come back to bed," Kento moaned into the hands pressed over his face.

SkitterskitterskitterSKITTERSKITTER-- rustlllleerussstle--

Directly over his face.

"Meow--"

"I am begging you--"

RustlerustleTHNKskitterskitterskitter.

Distant meows.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"I miss you."

You raised your head to look at him. Your purring hitched. Your ears tilted.

Kento had murmured, his low voice barely audible. The only light in the living room was the ever-changing light of the television screen. Laid on his back on the sofa, with you curled on his chest, Kento stroked down your back with longing.

You crept up his chest, pressing your cold wet nose to his, and purred. Nose to nose, and cross-eyed, Kento could have cried.

"I really miss you," he repeated, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Your claws dug into his chest, just a little. You rub, rub, rubbed your warm furry head along his jaw until he sniffled, and gave a choked little chuckle.

He fell asleep with you on his chest that night. In so many ways, it was familiar; home. In so many others, you were gone forever.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Meow."

Kento shuffled. His chest felt heavy...warm. His belly felt warm, too. And his lap, and--

Kento's eyes shot open, his head lifting up from the couch.

You bit your lip, naked on top of him, and smiling. Human. An angel.

"Oh, my love," Kento moaned, crushing you to him in a bear hug from shoulder to toes, "you're back-- I missed you, I was so worrie--"

You batted an arm out, swiping last night's wine glass from the coffee table beside you, to shatter on the floor.

Silence. Kento blinked slowly, looking from the wine glass, to you. You felt your cheeks grow hot, swallowing hard.

"God, I...sorry, Kento. Force-- force of habit--"

[witherby]

we NEED more mermaid and damian content 😔🙏

(i dont know if ur accepting requests but maybe we could get a glimpse of Jon? its fine if not!! just a silly thought!!🫶🫶)

ANYWAYS I LOVE UR WRITING (and im new to ur blogs 😿)

I haven't read any of the comics... Jon is the kind one and Kon/Con is the bad boy with the attitude, right? I sure hope so, but if he isn't, then it's an AU, take it with a grain of salt! Haha.

Here's your "glimpse" of Jon 😈

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader, part 6!

The Masterlist is here!

You're awoken from your sleep by a familiar disturbance in the water.

Swish, swish, swish. Swish, swish, swish.

You bump harshly into the sides of your castle spire as you practically claw your way out, long tail unfurling as you get free, and you propel yourself eagerly towards the top floor where the opening to your tank is located. You're a blur in the water, stirring up the aquatic fauna and creating ripples from how fast you're going. You barely pay it any mind, too overjoyed by the presence of a person you didn't think you'd get to see again.

Your sense of time is shaky, especially after breaking your own routines in the wake of your separation from Damian, but you'd know that summons from anywhere. You could feel its disturbance from a mile away.

Did he miss you as much as you missed him? You hope so. Oh, you can't wait to be reunited!

You break the surface with a happy trill, arms extended to embrace your favorite caretaker, and flop over the lip of the tank with him in a tangle of limbs. Your arms encircle his shoulders, webbed fingers skittering against the familiar texture of the wetsuit, and you nuzzle into a head of black hair with a coo.

He's here! He's here, he's back, he's finally with you again! You're so happy —

"Ah — whoa! It worked! I can't believe it!"

You stiffen, eyes snapping open as you process that voice.

That's not what Damian sounds like.

When you take in more details, you come to understand the mistake you made faster and faster. The shoulders you're hugging are too broad. The hair you're nuzzling is too long. The wetsuit you're touching is a different color. The caretaker you're holding is too tall.

You draw back, chittering, and stare at soft, blue eyes, instead of your favorite glittering green.

"Hi!" The boy greets cheerfully. "I'm Jon Kent, your new primary — wait, no, waitwaitwaitwait!!"

You push yourself away from him and turn to get back into the water, but a pair of arms around your waist halts your progress. You snap your teeth threateningly, and the land creature at least has the decency to look chagrined. He's lucky you're too hungry and tired to put up much of a fight at the moment.

"Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you," he insists. "Look, look — I brought you a bucket of food, and I grabbed you some new puzzles and toys, and I'm in a wetsuit! Bruce told me you know what that word means, because you used to swim with Damian."

You elbow Jon roughly in the stomach. He groans, but continues to hold you. There's not enough of your tail currently in the water to slip away, either. You hiss, annoyed.

"Please," the boy insists, "give me one chance! We don't have to be best friends, but you need care. You're underweight, you're overtired, and my dad says you need those patches on your tail looked at. My job is to help. I just want to help you."

Jon tugs you close, mindful to stay out of swiping range of your claws, and rests his chin on top of your head.

"One swim. I won't touch you anymore, either. Let me at least pop into your tank to clean up the discarded food and straighten up the place, okay? Just one swim together. Deal?"

You squirm and wriggle, snapping your teeth a few more times to try and slip out of his grasp. Unfortunately, Jon is stronger than he looks, and you really are overtired. The fight doesn't last much longer before you're slumped against him and panting slightly.

"Please," he murmurs again, using your name to get your attention. The fins on the sides of your head twitch, and you finally weigh your options.

A long amount of time has passed. When you see Damian walking people through the tunnels under your tank, he no longer looks at you. You are exhausted, and bored, and lonely. You miss him terribly.

You have caretakers. They are not Damian, but there are still people that come to see you and maintain your home. Jon wants to be one of those people.

You do not have to like Jon, but he has offered to play with you and look after you like Damian once did. You don't want a new playmate, but...

Maybe...maybe it will be okay. Your heart yearns for Damian, but you can nurse that particular wound yourself while letting others tend to the physical injuries. You can allow someone else to occupy your time, as long as you don't get too attached lest they, too, get dragged away from you.

Was that the problem? Was Damian taken away because you wanted him to be your life partner? Would you be able to maintain a bond with someone else as long as you remained unmated?

Jon gently calls your name again. His grip has gone slack around your waist.

"Can we be friends? Or at least cordial?" He asks you, very patiently. "Pretty please? With sprinkles on — you're a mer, you can't have sprinkles — uhhh, with fish flakes on top?"

Hmm. This new caretaker is a little bit stupid, but he's got the spirit.

Fine.

Your shoulders slump, and you hum and turn towards the bucket he set a few feet away. Jon perks up immediately.

"Really!? Thank you! Thank you so much, oh, you have no idea what a relief this is!"

He lets you go and you shimmy back into the water, leaving your head above the surface as he grabs the bucket and holds it out to you.

"Here you go. If you want more, I brought two. You can have as much as you want, I promise!"

Your eyes dart towards the doors, where you watched Bruce take your favorite person away, where there is no sign of his return, then they flicker back to Jon, and you take the bucket.

Everything will be fine. It won't be the same, but it will be fine.

--

Damian makes his way stealthily through the halls. The other staff members know he's not supposed to get near your tank, and if they caught him now, the jig would be up.

Luckily for him, the other staff are all idiots, so when he finally makes it to the door and swipes his father's pilfered key, the lock clicks apart and he waltzes inside your enclosure with a grin.

"Princ —" he starts to call, only for the rest of his sentence to get caught in his throat.

He watches Jon Kent, the new caretaker, adjust his wetsuit and put a rebreather on, then jump into the water where you're spinning around in cheerful circles to play with him. He watches Jon carefully spin with you, then get dragged further into the tank with your hand on his wrist. He watches a gentle smile paint your face before you swim too far down for him to see you anymore.

It took months of work for Damian to build that level of trust with you. Months. And this moronic, gap-toothed, clumsy little plebian had come in and done it in two measly weeks? Was he that skilled of a Mer caretaker?

Damian leans against the wall when his knees threaten to buckle, feeling sick.

No. Maybe he wasn't an expert handler. Maybe you just liked Jon more.

Damian was aware of his decidedly "prickly" personality, and for the most part it suited him just fine. You certainly didn't seem to mind, especially after warming up to him. Was there any warm up at all, with Jon? Or did his winning smile and people-pleasing attitude charm you instantly?

Would you eventually give him some of your scales, too?

It doesn't matter, he thinks, quickly stumbling back out of the room with a thundering pulse and burning eyes. He's seen the joy on your face. His misguided sense of importance, of thinking you needed Damian in order to be happy, of thinking he meant just as much to you as you did to him, was clearly wrong.

You'll be just fine.

[portals-posts]

Lost cause

Wife!Ambessa Medarda x Fem!Reader

A/n: Making this cause noone else will😡 also "reader" is lowkey sensitive in this(same)

Summary: Y/n slowly realises her Wife isnt 'playing' how she says she is and is hurting her in the process

Its late at night when Y/n realises that her wife, the almighty, Ambessa Medarda, isnt in bed with her. And after a short amount of contemplating, she decided to go looking for her knowin she wont be back in bed for awhile.

After walk around in the cold and empty halls, she finally heard her faint voice, coming from a near room. Opening the semi-heavy door. "Bessa, Why dont you come back to bed?" She asked fidgiting with the edge of her midlegth nightgown, interuping her talk with one of the new Noxian "warriors/spies", Maddie Nolen. "I need to finish up somethings" Her thick accent replied. "Cant you finish it in the morning, tomorrow?" Y/n asked taking a few steps closer with a soft timid voice. "No, it must be finished now." Ambessa firmly said, fixing up the heavy pieces of her 'uniform'. "Mrs. Medarda, Let me take you back to your room." Maddie offered. "Oh n-no its fine-", "Yes take her back." Ambessa interupped,motioning Nolen toward Y/n. "O-okay" She lowly replied, taking Maddies arm and heading to the door and back to the room.

The next day, she knew Ambessa would act like nothing last night happened and expected Y/n to do the same. "You've looked like you've seen a ghost, my love" Ambessa said leaning against the dark colored doorway of their bedroon. "I've just been.. thinking" Y/n replied, turning back to fix up the rest of their shared bed. "About what, darling?" She questioned, pushing herself off the doorway before closing the doors behind her. "Just.." Y/n said with a small pause, sitting on the freshly made bed. "Don't you think that maybe were going to fast with this whole 'war' thing?" She asked playing with her fingers. "No, and there's no reason you should be worrying about any of that" Ambessa explained, sitting next to her, before moving a loose strand of hair out of her pouting face. "B-but I am" She replied in a low whisper, "I just think we s-should leave Kirraman out of this, I- I mean she just lost her mother and-" "All the more helpful she can be" Her wife interupped her, taking her smaller hands in hers. "Yea- but- I just feel bad, using her and her grief like this." Y/n explained with a anxious studder attached, as she rose off the bed. "I feel really bad" she finally said breaking into tears. "Kirraman will find Jinx, and do what she pleases." Ambessa's accent fills the room as she rises from the satin sheets of the bed, almost hovering over her wifes tearful face. "And what happends, happends, it just matters how it gets done." Ambessa explains in her usual riddle like speaking,before headout the door of their shared bedroom, leaving her wife all alone, thinking if this is the right way to really do this.

A/n: Sorry this came out a bit later than i intended. I trying my best abd I will def do a 2nd part to both ambessa and caitlyn🤭🫣

Finished: 1:09 (1/5/2025🎇)

[jellyaibo]

horrors of the nuclear family

ig this is a "sequel" piece to my bot comic , in the light of more inanimate insanity coming soon this 2025 ! buy our plush !

my thought process below to those curious bc i like ranting abt this one thing:

i dont think a lot abt ii but when i do think abt it seriously i think of bot, how unfair is it to just be brought into this world to serve as a "replacement" . a thing to fill a void, you werent made out of love as much as your creators try and make it out to be, just an experiment

and now what? they are fine with you being who you are now but what else is there? is bot really happy with how things have turned out? and in the end its just the same as what cobs AND mephone did...even if unintentionally. creating a thing for an act just to be a character like in a play, when the curtains close what else is there for bot?

bot is only going to be their darling child, their creation, seen as nothing more nothing less...is it not a little scary?

[a-whispering-echo]

PDA

hi! bad sansuary prompt for 'PDA'! i wrote a quick thingie for this one because character interactions are hard to draw.

this is written for the band au, but i dont THINK i mentioned anything too 'human' about them? all you really need to know i guess is theyre human, in a band, and Killer, Horror, Dust, Cross and Nightmare are a poly <3

Dust sat hunched over the apartment’s battered coffee table, scribbling in the margins of an old, dog-eared notebook. A mug of lukewarm tea sat beside him on the coffee table, untouched since Cross made it an hour ago. The faint hum of music filtered in from another room - Nightmare’s low-fi playlist, he thought, though it was hard to tell from here - and the scent of whatever Horror was cooking wafted lazily through the air. Dust’s pen stuttered against the paper as his wrist cramped. Fibro was a bitch today.

The sanctuary of his quiet moment was shattered by the telltale creak of Killer’s heeled boots on the hardwood floor.

“Oh, Dusty~!” Killer’s sing-song voice echoed through the room, and Dust groaned inwardly. The energy Killer exuded was like a hyperactive puppy on sugar, and Dust was just not in the mood. He hadn’t slept properly in… well, longer than he cared to admit.

“What.” Dust didn’t look up, didn’t stop fiddling with his pen.

“What, he says,” Killer huffed, plopping down on the couch beside him with exaggerated flair. “What! Like I’m not the literal love of your life walking into the room.”

“Bold of you to assume that title,” Dust muttered, though the faintest smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

Killer leaned in, propping his chin on Dust’s shoulder. “What can I say? I’m a bold guy. Now, c’mere.”

Dust froze as Killer wrapped his arms around him, hands resting firmly on his stomach. “Get off,” he grumbled, attempting to wriggle free.

“Nope. Not until you admit you love me.”

“Killer.”

“Dust.” Killer nuzzled into his neck, and Dust could feel the grin against his skin. “You’re so tense, habibi. You need to relax. Let me help.”

“I relax just fine without you.” Dust’s voice was tight, but he didn’t pull away again. It wasn’t that he hated Killer’s affection; he just didn’t know what to do with it. Especially not when Killer turned it up to 11 in front of everyone.

“Yeah, sure,” Killer teased. “Your shoulders feel like concrete, but go off, babe.”

Dust finally turned his head, fixing Killer with a glare. “Can’t you go smother Cross or something? He’s into that kind of crap.”

“Nah,” Killer said, nonchalant as ever. “He’s out grocery shopping with Nightmare. Horror’s cooking. That leaves you, my grumpy little void of a man.”

“I hate you,” Dust deadpanned, though the blush creeping up his freckled cheeks betrayed him.

“You loooove me,” Killer singsonged, placing a dramatic kiss on Dust’s cheek. “Admit it. Just three little words, and I’ll let you go.”

Dust sighed heavily, the sound laden with equal parts exasperation and fondness. “Fine. I tolerate you. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Killer’s grin widened, and he kissed Dust’s cheek again, lingering this time. “Now, how about a real kiss, huh?”

“No.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“I said no.”

“Okay, but hear me out- ”

Before Killer could finish, Dust grabbed a pillow from the couch and smacked him square in the face with it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable,” Killer shot back, undeterred, even as he rubbed at his nose. “Seriously, Dust, just let me love you. Is that so hard?”

“Yes,” Dust said flatly. But there was a softness in his tone, a quiet resignation that Killer knew meant he wasn’t as annoyed as he pretended to be.

“Fine. Be grumpy. But I’m not going anywhere.” Killer leaned back, resting his feet on the coffee table like he owned the place. Well, he did, Dust supposed.“So get used to it, babe.”

Dust groaned, slumping further into the battered couch, his notebook now abandoned on the coffee table. He felt Killer’s eyes on him, full of playful mischief, and he knew it was far from over.

Sure enough, Killer shifted closer, his hands already reaching for Dust’s waist. “Mwah mwah mwah mwah- ” Killer peppered exaggerated, smacking kisses along the side of Dust’s neck, his voice an over-the-top symphony of affection.

“UGH, get OFF, you fuckin’- you’re slobbering all on my neck!” Dust twisted, trying to squirm out of Killer’s iron grip.

“Never!” Killer laughed, clearly revelling in Dust’s irritation. “Your neck deserves to be cherished, and I am just the man to do it!”

“Cherish yourself into traffic,” Dust snapped, though the redness of his ears gave him away.

Killer gasped theatrically, clutching his chest as if wounded. “Rude! And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“A moment of you annoying the hell out of me, maybe.” Dust wiped at his neck, grimacing. “I’m gonna need to shower now.”

“Oh, don’t act like you hate it.” Killer leaned back with a smug grin, draping himself across the couch like a cat who had successfully knocked something off the counter. “You’re just mad because you do like it and you don’t wanna admit it.”

Dust threw him another glare, but Killer only winked.

“Fine,” Dust muttered after a beat, leaning forward to grab his notebook again. “You win. Now shut up.”

“Victory is mine!” Killer declared, throwing his arms up triumphantly before pulling Dust back into another side hug, this one blessedly less slobbery. Dust grumbled but didn’t fight it this time, letting Killer rest his head against his shoulder.

They sat like that for a while, Killer humming some off-key melody under his breath and Dust trying (and failing) to refocus on his writing. The warmth of Killer’s presence was annoying, sure, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

“Love you, Dusty,” Killer said softly after a while, his voice unusually gentle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dust muttered, tapping his pen against the notebook. But this time, there was no bite in his tone. Just the quiet comfort of someone who knew they were loved, even if they’d never admit it out loud.

“…Love you too.”

[side-of-honey]

LEGEND tells of a LEGENDARY COWPOKE… whose sharpshootin’ skills were the stuff of LEGEND

Sorry for this one. I really am. I kept mixing up the furious five and the feisty five and then I thought about it for a little too long

(Please DO NOT repost my art to other sites :) )

[mangogator]

i made a wahrk! i think it turned out pretty good for my first time using sculpey :}

saavedro for reference and a picture of his sad little face

[puppppppppy]

tw flashing images, implied death

please for the love of god reblog this, it took me 3 days

[akranshkiyma]

suddenly & current experiencing MAJOR Majima brain rot..... n there will be more to come ,,, , ,

[marblerose-rue]

attack for @/pi_peeppeep_pi (art fight) !!!

[the-kipsabian]

[semothekat]

Yayyyyyyyy

[cinnabeat]

this is completely out of nowhere but i think i will be old and gray and it will be pkmn gen 79 and i will still be sitting there in my probable rocking chair saying "oh i cant wait until they make a pokemon special anime"

[godsfavoritescientist]

Building off of what I wrote in my fic "Sparks," I'm really compelled by the idea of Ford genuinely no longer being interested in sailing around in a boat with Stan by the time they were seniors in high school.

I like the idea of it not being just a symptom of the resentment that had been building between them, nor it being a dream of Ford's that only paled in comparison to west coast tech, but it being a genuine loss of interest on Ford's end. I think it complicates things even further in some really juicy ways.

Like, imagine going through high school slowly losing more and more interest in the dream you've shared with your twin and only friend ever since you were little kids. How do you break it to him? How do you explain it to him without making it sound like a rejection of him? Without it making him hate you?

How do you explain it without it feeling like a spit in the face to all the hard work he's put into a plan that started out as a way of him comforting you by telling you "it doesn't matter what people say about you, you're going to be an adventurer who sails away into the sunset and never has to hear their mockery ever again, and there will be babes and treasure and heroism, and then they'll all see how cool you really are!"

And all through high school you think to yourself, "he's going to move on to more realistic dreams any day now, and then I won't have to say anything about it!" But no matter how many times you mention something else he could do with his life that he seems interested in, or bring up the challenging logistics of traveling around long-term in a boat, he sounds just as committed to the childhood dream as ever, and completely oblivious to how apprehensive you sound.

So resentment grows, little by little. Because that's easier than confronting the soul-crushing levels of guilt that are building up inside of you, every time you don't take an opportunity to tell him you don't want to do the plan anymore. You don't have a single person in your life who modeled how to have difficult conversations for you. As far as you know, having this conversation with Stan would crush him into tiny little pieces and then he would hate you forever, and you can't stand the idea of losing the only friend you've ever had.

So tensions grow. A lack of interest turns into a bitter resentment that, if you were really being honest with yourself, is directed more at yourself than it is at Stan.

And then the falling-out happens, and it seems like you were proven right. Stan hates you now, and he's never going to forgive you for giving up on his dream. But two can play that game, so you try to hate him too. Because if you hate him too, then maybe it won't hurt as much that he never came back. That he never even turned up at school, or by the boat, or in through your bedroom window in the middle of the night. He knows what dad's like, and how he says impulsive exaggerated things when he's angry, and haven't you both dealt with his harsh words countless times before and been able to dust yourselves off and joke about it later? So why isn't he back at home, joking with you about how absurd your dad acted that night, being impossible and belligerent about ruining your dream, but at least now you're even, because you've ruined his dream too.

-

And now imagine you find out he risked the lives of everyone in existence to bring you back, right after you had accepted your fate was to die killing Bill. It would be terrifying and confusing and infuriating. If he cared so much, why didn't he do something to reconnect with you sooner? Why did he ignore you in favor of trying to make it big without you? Why didn't he take the infinitely safer and simpler action of reaching out to you without you having to track down his address and send a desperate plea for help? You were convinced that he didn't care enough to bother with you unless you had an important enough reason for him to come. But even then, he thought your plans were stupid. He didn't want anything to do with you, not even with the world at stake.

Did he save your life out of guilt? Does he pity you that much? It doesn't add up with what he did in the decade leading up to shoving you into the portal. And the dissonance between the version of him in your head that hates you, and the man who held out his arms to welcome you back to your home dimension, is so strong that you feel like you're being lied to again, like you're back in the depths of gaslighting and manipulation that Bill put you through, even though there's no way that's what Stan is trying to do... right? You can't figure it out, so you run away from it. You don't want to know the answer to whether or not Stan hates you, because you don't know which answer would hurt more, so you try to make him hate you more than ever, because at least then you would know for sure how he feels.

And in the end, after he sacrifices his memories for you, and for the world, things seem clearer. The layers upon layers of confusion and anger and hurt seem to have washed away like drawings in the sand, leaving behind the simple truth: that you two had an argument, and didn't move past it for forty years, and despite everything you put each other through, you both still want to re-connect.

So you sail away in a boat together.

And at first, it's wonderful. It's exactly what you want. It feels like an apology to Stan, and a thank-you for saving the world, and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to heal the rift between you two, and it's good to be back on earth, and you wonder why you ever doubted the dream you two once had.

But then, after the first long journey you spend on the sea together, when you get back home to dry land, Stan is already talking about planning your next adventure out on the open sea. He recaps every adventure you had on the first trip, over and over again, and he wants to chat with you all through the morning and long into the night, and you don't have the words to explain to yourself that you don't have enough social battery for this, and suddenly you're slipping back into the horrifyingly familiar feeling of Stan being overbearing and needing space from him and how could you think that? How could you think that about him after everything he's done for you and everything he's forgiven you for? But the longer this goes on, the more you realize that you still don't want to spend the rest of your life sailing around with Stan. It's great fun in moderation, but the idea of your whole life revolving around Stan and going on adventures with Stan and being in a boat with Stan with no time to be by yourself thinking about your own things and figuring out your own dreams makes your skin crawl with a claustrophobic kind of panic that you still don't know how to put into words forty years after the first time this feeling grabbed you by the throat and ruined your friendship with Stanley.

But the first time this happened, it nearly ruined his life forever. You can't let yourself feel this. You don't feel this. You're happy to spend the rest of your life fulfilling Stan's lifelong dream, and making up for the time you crushed his dream, and sure, maybe he crushed your dream once too, and maybe it would be nice for him to support your dreams like you're now doing for him, but you can't say that. He saved the universe, and it would be horrible and ungrateful and cruel for you to try to voice these feelings, especially when you don't know how to voice your feelings without it making other people feel like you twisted a knife into their gut. So you try to pretend the feeling isn't there.

You go out on a boat with Stan again. You planned out another incredible journey together, and this should be fun, and you should be happy about this, but the unspoken feeling you shoved as far down in yourself as it could possibly go is eating you alive. The worst part? Stan is starting to notice. You have never been good at hiding your emotions. The trick to it has always been to convince yourself you don't feel it at all, and not think about it, and that has always worked like a charm. But whenever the emotion claws its way back up to the forefront of your mind, you can tell Stan knows something is wrong. So you can't even give him the happy ending he deserves. You can't even convince him that you want to be here on the open seas forever with him, like he deserves. And you keep trying and trying to hide it, but Stan keeps asking in roundabout ways, like "You're being awfully quiet, sixer," and "whats that look on your face?" and eventually it comes exploding out of you like a shaken-up soda bottle dropped on its cap.

And then it's like you're back at home in New Jersey again, standing in the living room while dad grabs Stanley by the shirt. It all comes pouring out of you, in the worst possible way, with the worst possible phrasing, like a pandora's box of monstrousness, and Stan tries to fight back against the sting of your words, but you're made out of acid and you're burning through him and you can see it on his face, and there's never any coming back from this, not this time, you'll just have to either jump into the ocean or become a monster forever, so Stan can hate you more easily again, and-

-and at the end of the outburst, you're still on a boat in the middle of nowhere in the ocean with your brother, in dangerous waters, and you have things to do to keep the boat running smoothly.

You can't run away from him. He can't run away from you. You're stuck here for at least a couple more weeks, even if you turned around and sailed back towards shore right away.

-

And the thing that compels me so much here, despite how unbelievably angsty it all is, is that it sets up a situation wherein the Stans might end up forced to actually address the decades of resentment and confusion and wanting-to-reconnect-throughout-it-all that they thought they could gloss over and heal with enough time spent adventuring together on a boat. They might end up forced to actually address the crux of the issue that drove them apart in the first place: Ford wanting a little more space to feel like his own person, and to feel like he's able to have his own dreams, too.

It wouldn't happen easily, nor right away, but if they were stuck together on a little boat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by magical creatures they have to protect each other from in order to make it back home alive, then after they had one fight where they brought up all the things they silently agreed to never bring up again, it would probably happen many more times, and each time it would leave them both angrier at each other than ever, until eventually something honest slipped through amidst all the saying-anything-except-what-they-mean bickering. And once enough of these honest moments slipped through, then they would have a thread to tug on to start to unravel the gargantuan knot of their decades of unresolved conflicts.

And then, eventually, maybe Stan could learn that he can have a good friendship with his brother without needing to be glued to him at the hip, and Ford needing a certain amount of alone time doesn't mean he dislikes him or wants to abandon him, and Ford could learn that he can be honest and have a meaningful connection with someone without it driving them away and making them hate him.

[ry--chu]

(marina has not been paying attention to pearl’s story she’s too distracted by pearl’s tiny little ears)