#kat’s fic ideas

[elvisgasm]

Imagine him talking you through it

[def-ace-ing-it]

If Ao3 is down right now I might actually riot

[cumulo-stratus]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

ahhh hello my lovely ket kat 🍫!! Thanks for the love 🫶

i can still feel you [s.r]

embrace [s.r]

the little things [a.h]

love like a fathers [s.r]

rain soaked sleep [s.r]

thanks for the chance for a shameless plug 🤭

If you want to see more of these check out my masterlist

[ayeliiss]

“Did you just call me an idiot?” Shoto frowns, offense fully taken.

Katsuki ignores him for a moment, leaving the dense question unanswered. His gaze remains set on his dumbass partner though as he stares and gets increasingly irritated at the sight of those ill-colored irises.

His head then pivots to the side and a desperate breath flies from his nasty mouth. "Y'know, there is one thing that's good about you, in the end." “What is it?”

“Your hearing,” Katsuki mutters with a proud scoff, teasingly dismissive. And when he returns his regard to Shoto, expecting to witness a deeper pout etched on that usual unfazed face, disgust takes over him in a flash. Shoto, cheeks flushed bright red and shifty-eyed, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, in a languid motion. "You... you really think so...?" He stutters, voice softer than usual and gaze faltering while throwing timid glances at Katsuki's flabbergasted expression. Katsuki blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. He's momentarily dumbstruck. "I—" Katsuki stammers back, unable to keep his cool as heat rises to his own face. "I WASN'T FLIRTING WITH YOU, YOU FUCKASS!!!"

[scrollonso]

The Lab — Pierresteban

Esteban had learnt years ago what it means to love to the point of slicing apart at your soul to find that last shred of untouched thread to sew the ripped and the torn, put ugly black stitches on the outside and keep the insides where they belong — on the inside — keep them trapped and from leaking and stand without dripping syrup thick misery and heartache and staining his own shadow.

The school reunion had been lingering in the back of his mind, a forgotten flame still flickering. His mother rang him at seven fifty three, voice papery as she read out the venue and date and time and whether or not he wanted to attend so she could RSVP. Esteban had said nothing for two minutes, still trying to wrap his head around the matter.

Esteban likes to fool himself that his voice didn’t crack and he did not flinch as the ghosts from high school swarmed him at once. High school was kind in almost insignificant ways but there are memories he clings to, some people he is not ready to face, not back then, not now, not ever.

Nostalgia is a monster that is not afraid of guts and gore. Esteban is not interested in seeing the tenderest parts of being picked apart and laid in front of him again.

“Pierre declined apparently,” she had told, warmth bleeding over the tinny speaker and seeping into the flesh of his burning ear, everything fiery, hot and pink. Perhaps, she knew, or maybe she didn’t. Acts of kindness, small, unknowing, comforting. Either way it had made him more sure about his decision.

“I’ll go,” he remembers saying as something half ugly rearing his head with a fragile emotion like hope dangling around itself. It was easier now that he knew at least one ghost would not be there. Would not show up.

The storm brewing in the pit of his stomach shows no signs of easing, so he pushes himself to ignore it, just like he is actively ignoring the slew of memories pouring in, the bad, the good, the bittersweet and their common denominator —

Pierre Gasly.

Back in his college days, Esteban had roomed with an older astrophysics major who had occasional bouts of enthusiasm where he would devour a dozen thick books in a week before an important assignment or an exam. Esteban never understood how he did it but he admired him in a strange way.

It was during one of those weeks, in the midst of a reading spree — the genre this time was poetry — he had asked Esteban to highlight a line for him with a garish orange that had hurt his eyes even for the short time it took him to highlight the quote. 

But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.

Esteban realizes this: They have their own story and someone has to leave again for it to end. Again. As always. For a room to feel empty, someone has to leave, someone has to be absent. You cannot emphasize a presence without understanding the void the absence creates. You only realize it is empty because someone you want is not in there. It’s twisted, it’s true.

Stranded in the present, he watches, partly in horror and partly in awe as Pierre, both achingly familiar and unfamiliar, stands in front of him, in flesh, in warmth, in the remnants of dusk and dark.

“Este,” he hears him say, voice still syrupy sweet but also cold like gunmetal and ice and frozen lakes, maybe it is Esteban who is making mountains out of molehills before they’ve even exchanged proper greetings but something is dying in his cage of a body at the mere honorific.

It is both a curse and a blessing for Pierre to consider themselves close enough to keep calling him that. 

“Pierre,” he replies, voice a hollowed out echo, vision flickering between in and out of focus. He feels his mouth dry up. He fakes the familiarity so they do not have to stand in more choking awkwardness than they already are.

Pierre smiles, polite and distant with straight teeth and no shyness, shattering another fragile thing in Esteban. This is not the boy he left behind, the person standing in front of him is no longer a boy but a man. A man he is not entirely familiar with.

“I didn’t think I would see you here. The reunion is tomorrow,” Esteban states, forcing his legs to move — on, past, away. 

His hair is now a dark shade of brown that makes him seem oddly unapproachable. Pierre's cologne smells like a burning thing, an ashy memory, the aftermath of a forest fire.

He shrugs. “Me neither but I was in the area and thought why not.” It’s a breezy reply but the tightness of his shoulders where the fabric of his jacket crinkles and creases give away just how much he is affected by this, by Esteban, by his mere presence.

It’s a terrible thing. The school ground has never felt more vast than it does right in this minute. 

“Charles is here as well.” A statement, an olive branch, an open window allowing Esteban to take a peek inside, a chance to familiarize himself again.  “Want to walk around with me?” Pierre asks, offering a half smile.

Esteban should say no, turn back and walk out of the building, forget about his school and the impending reunion the next day, and hop on the next train to Draguignan and think of excuses that will sound legitimate enough for his friends to not outright cut off contact and paint him as an asshole. 

Instead of doing any of the above, Esteban takes a deep breath and says, “Sure.” 

The doors are locked but Pierre has procured a set of duplicate keys to let them in. Esteban does not ask him why he has them.

“This way we’re committing to only slight breaking an entering,” he says in lieu of an explanation, brazen and confident, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Is it still considered breaking and entering if you have the keys?” he quips back and only gets an open mouthed laugh in reply.

And isn’t that just lovely. Esteban has seen this expression on him so many times, at one point he could draw this Pierre Gasly, with his child-like glee and starry eyes half awake and tired, which is to say, Esteban has known him, intimately, in a way that went beyond being just about the bodies and adrenaline and teenage romance.

Esteban has seen the stars and named them with his own mouth, he’s touched the red on his cheeks and held his face like a gentle thing, a fragment to be cherished for the next eternity. He has constructed an entire universe that revolved and spun solely around Pierre for so long that it’s disarming now. To think about a thing that does not exist anymore.

“Oh, they changed the plaques,” Pierre notes, voice suddenly dropping to a whisper, words held down by a heavy emotion. The wind carries his hair in a soft wave.

It is jarring, to see him lose his poise even for a moment. In his head, the last image of Pierre is achingly close to the one in front of him, dappled in last dregs of sunset orange and dimming light, eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

He tears his eyes away from the man and instead focuses on the plaques that are now blue and green and not gold and black. Realistically, Esteban is aware of the time that has passed and the things that have changed but it still sends a pang through his heart and makes his insides twist uncomfortably as he stares at the blue blue blue and the swirls of the letters in green green green. He is burdened with the fact that his memory will remain a memory buried within him. Things will never be the same after this, the notes will overlap, the gold and black will fade and be replaced by the blue and green.

“You never did this back then,” Pierre says, voice quiet. He’s searching for a lost thing on Esteban and Esteban is looking at the fading mole near his nose. It used to be darker, more prominent.

The lump in his throat won’t budge and he can’t swallow. When he asks, “Did what?” his words are garbled and choked out, roughly pushed out or maybe dug out with a shovel. 

There is no immediate answer. A line marrs the smooth plane of his forehead. 

“Go quiet like that. You’re absent-minded today, Este.” 

Esteban cocks his head to the side and stares at Pierre, as though he is a peculiar thing to be scrutinized. It is not far from the truth at all; rather, peculiar is the nicest word he can currently use to describe the behavior Pierre is displaying. He was not this coarse back then. They were both kinder in ways that remain clouded in nostalgia.

“People change,” he sniffs, keeping his eyes locked on the moon softened features until Pierre looks away and Esteban is left to stare at the sharpness hidden in the gentle slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw. It’s already dark outside. Esteban should leave before before before before he does something that will fill his mouth with regret.

Pierre, somehow, seems agitated by his words. Esteban hadn’t said them to make him uneasy. Of course, they’ve had a history of stepping on each other’s toes and exchanging sharp, biting remarks as a means of affection but it has always been intentional, carefully constructed to ease any worries that may be clinging to their minds. Esteban was just as soft as he was sharp and Pierre knew it, he knew it better than anyone else.

So, when Pierre spits out the words, “It seems like it.” They feel like blades of a million knives pooling near his feet, iron and reflection, and his face — a distorted recollection.

It hurts and Esteban realises he hasn’t stopped hurting ever since he stepped in and it’s all his own fault.

History is repeating itself as they stomp over a graveyard of rotten things buried, trying to stop the dead things from waking up.

They wander the empty halls like forgotten ghosts. In a way, they are just that and nothing more.

Forgotten and ghosts.

Pierre plucks his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans to turn on the flash and Esteban feels a flush settle over his cheeks as he notices just how big his hands have become. They’ve always been big but now that Pierre has grown into them and as bittersweet as it is, he can also appreciate these changes.

He doesn’t think he would have noticed these if they had been together. It would have been a given, both of them growing into — their bodies and each other — details like the size of hands and shape of their molar teeth all taken for granted. Just another mundane detail no one will care to know, a detail that would only make them grow closer.

Now, it seems as though the proof of their time apart is a knife and a wound and a thorn all at the same time.

A thing to hurt, a thing hurt and a thing hurting.

“Oh the science lab is still here,” Pierre says, pointing the flash at the door. Esteban remembers it before he can recognize the place.

“It is,” he faintly hears himself say. The memory flashes and, it is almost a punishment, to remember. 

“Aw, it’s locked,” Pierre sighs after uselessly pushing at the door and trying to twist the handle of it. Esteban is almost relieved about it.

The memory alone is enough to make his heart beat quicker. His mouth is sour with the past, their past.

“We should get back before we’re caught,” Esteban mutters, scuffing the heel of his shoe against the floors. 

He leaves first, Pierre follows him, the flashlight turned off. It’s not dark enough for the possibility of tripping and injuring themselves but it is just dark enough to mask their faces to not hurt more.

Pierre doesn’t say anything for a very long time.  Esteban doesn’t either, as always. 

Esteban had been fond of Pierre. He liked him at some point during high school when he realized that he liked boys too. It was not a big deal, it was never supposed to be. Pierre was a friend, someone Esteban could talk to without worrying about coming off as weird.

Then during their final year, Pierre confessed to him that he liked him. That he liked him as something more than a friend, more more more, like a crush, a boyfriend, a lover, and it scared the shit out of him. 

Esteban had been grateful then, for school to come to an end and college being just an arm’s length away, far enough for Pierre to not continue haunting him. 

Pierre had cried. Esteban had too. It hurt him more, to lie about what he didn’t feel, but he was a boy too. Just a boy. Even if Pierre had more tender palms, more delicate wrists, more softness on his face, Esteban had made himself to be some sort of cornered animal, irrational and solely acting on instinct. 

Esteban went off to college and didn’t come home for two years until he was sure that Pierre had left town too. He worked during the summer and liked a boy and had his first kiss in the storage room of his workplace.

They’d broken up even though they never put a label on their relationship but it still hurt like a human when the fling ended. Esteban had come home that summer and cried in his mother’s arms for two hours, babbling about the boys and their rough hands and how sorry he was to be who he was. 

Acceptance did come a lot earlier than Esteban had thought it would. His dad had awkwardly patted his back and his mother pretended he was just heartbroken. It didn’t matter to them, who had broken his heart. 

He didn’t see Pierre again and stopped thinking about him, as much as he could. There was no use in bringing up old scars and re-opening them till they were wounds again. 

His mom eventually knew. About him and Pierre and how Esteban still felt about him. She tried to help, telling him when Pierre was in town, when he wasn’t, even if it made her sad to do so.

Pierre had been Esteban's friend, a good friend, the closest person he had to a best friend. He was the first person Esteban had brought home and perhaps it was the nostalgia which made it harder for her to see both of them hurting without each other but hurting more with each other. 

They used to be almost best friends and now Esteban cannot stand being in the same room as him. Not because there is malice, not because there was anything, because there was nothing that made him run away. 

He could change it now. He could make the leap, not look at the fall, and hope to reach the other side. 

Esteban does nothing. The silence continues.

“Will you be there? At the reunion tomorrow?” Esteban asks, kicking a stray pebble as Pierre locks up behind him.

Esteban knows the answer. He won’t be. It’s the entire reason he is here.

As expected, Pierre shakes his head. “No, Este. I have a thing tomorrow,” he answers, awkwardly tugging at the bottom of his tee. 

The streetlights are bright and yellow and make Pierre look almost washed out, exhausted. He doesn’t remember seeing Pierre like this. He used to smile a lot more but then again, Esteban used to smile too. 

Esteban nods. “Must be important.”

Pierre flinches as though he was not expecting Esteban to say anything. He composes himself a second later. “Sort of. I don’t want to—” he cuts himself off with a stricken expression on his face.

The last time Pierre had this expression, he confessed to Esteban in the science lab. Esteban had knocked over a skeleton and broke three of its bones. 

The familiar feeling of dread crawls back to him like his own shadow. 

“Don’t want to what, Pierre?” he presses. Maybe Esteban hates himself more than anyone else. Maybe he wants to keep hurting, press on the bruise until the scar opens into a wound. 

“I don’t want to hurt you again, Esteban,” Pierre blurts, face reddening. 

Esteban shakes his head, he has got it all wrong. Pierre has never been the one that had hurt him, it was Esteban himself that had hurt Pierre.

“You didn’t — you weren’t at fault. Not then, not ever.” The words are not easy, they don’t come to him, he has to drag them out.

Pierre looks like he wants to say something. He blinks, eyes big and brown and wet. He might as well drive a knife straight through Esteban's gut.

“Then why did you leave? Why did you never talk to me again, Esteban? Did it disgust you so much? Being liked by me?” he screams, words getting louder and louder, like the sun expanding. 

They don’t draw any attention, the streets being fairly deserted, but Esteban still turns red from embarrassment. It is humiliating to be asked all this. To be seen, to be taken notice of. Pierre is pointing at all the ugly bits of his soul that Esteban had hidden behind carefully sewn blind spots.

“It wasn’t like that, Pierre. I— I was scared, I was confused. I didn’t— it didn’t disgust me… no, it— I liked it, I liked you too but —” there are tears brimming in his eyes as well. The years of compressed memories rising up to the surface, ready to break though and remind him of what he was truly afraid of. 

“But what?” Pierre asks, almost snarls the words at Esteban. He looks at him with wide eyes. The tip of his nose is pink which means Pierre is close to bursting into tears and it should not mean anything for Esteban to remember this except it does, it does and the words are once again, slipping through the gaps of his fingers like sand. 

“But I was scared!” he yells, the words stinging as they leave him.

Esteban doesn’t realize he is crying until Pierre thumbs under his cheeks. That day in the science lab had Esteban admitted just this instead of running away, there is a big chance that they would not be having this conversation years later, standing in front of their school, a cemetery of their youth.

“So was I,” Pierre admits, tone soft, tears spilling over his cheeks. 

Esteban hesitates for an inhale before he pulls Pierre into his arms. It feels good, it feels like coming home again. Pierre feels different now, bigger, taller, but he is also just as fragile as he used to be. 

They sway in the embrace until they both run out of tears. Esteban's phone vibrates in his pocket. Pierre pulls away with a puff of laughter.

“You should check your phone, Este,” he points out, staring at the asphalt. Esteban looks at the three messages and one missed call from his mother that cover his screen.

“It’s my maman,” he says in lieu of an explanation. 

Piette shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me who it is.”

Esteban wants to, so he says just as much. Pierre's eyes snap to him. He knows this won’t fix everything, not right away, not for a very long time but it is a beginning. A good place to start.

“I want to see you tomorrow,” Esteban confesses. 

Pierre snorts and shakes his head. His hair looks so red, so warm, like the blood in his body. “Can’t do tomorrow.” Esteban's face must fall because Pierrw immediately adds, “I’m free the day after. If you’re still here.”

Esteban nods and nods and nods until Pierre laughs. 

“I do have to go,” Esteban starts, rubbing at his nose. “But I’ll text you. I’ll text you and we can see each other again.”

“Do you even have my number?” he asks, brushing the hair out of his face.

Esteban snorts at the question. What a Pierre thing to ask. “Ma mère does,” he replies, maintaining as much of a serious face as he can. He is the first to crack up and they dissolve into peals of light stained laughter again.

Pierre leaves first this time and Esteban watches his back until the dark swallows him. 

The moon hangs full and heavy in the sky overhead. Esteban thinks of Pierre and there is no silence for a very long time.

[poltergeist-punk]

Sleepovers :]

[pacinglikeghosts]

so, fun fact about me: I currently live with two roommates, who are best friends and both going to school for the same thing, and needed a third on their rent. obviously, I knew that this was going to be awkward, but I was open to it for the year.

however. the more I spend time as a third wheel the more I’ve been thinking. Specifically, a caos fic (or god forbid in this day and age a ronance one) where a third roommate lives with Sabrina and roz in college (or Nancy with Steve and Robin) and it’s just a game of “do these two hate me and also why are they Like That”

idk I just got off a 9 hour retail shift and my brain is actually mush

[seasonal-depression-of-punk]

Walking through ikea and I think I might have an idea for some nice lil short fics for all the people who got traumatized by the slasher fic

It would be a short Joepunk fic where they have an indie show in Sweden and they decide to go see what IKEA in Sweden is like. Then they end up running around like kids and be a total nuisance to all the other customers.

Also they don’t buy anything there because they don’t realize that Swedish crowns make items look hella expensive even tho they’re not once you convert them to dollars

[rokurookajima]

i AM gonna write those ask game drabbles i am i am (manifesting)

[voidcat]

Hi Danyl, would you mind writing some Dazai headcanons? <3

Hi my dearest Kat, for you? Always<3

Despite the impression he gives off, Dazai is a serene driver, who drives like the world outside the vehicle does not exist.

Its a fact only few are aware, as it is an rare occurrence that he is driving— and one is willing to hop in. After all, considering how he acts on the daily, not many trust him behind the wheel.

Night comes with no trains left and an urgency waiting you on the other side of the next day, Kunikida calls out to Dazai, knowing he is slacking off already. Drivers duty is nothing compared to the towers of files waiting on his desk after all, and wait long waiting wrath of Kunikida on the other line, Dazai swiftly goes out, already waiting for you inside the car.

The full moon hung in the dark night sky and earphones in your ears, you steal glances at the normally enthusiastic and loud man besides you— now drown in complete silence, eyes fixed on the road, with an expression not quite blank but not burdened with any thoughts eating away.

Eyes back on the moon, you notice it’s bigger than usual if your perception isn’t deceiving you— and presenting itself wrapped in rainbows, a halo of yellow, red and slight green, the light of the moon itself offering the missing blue for this little art piece.

No matter how proper or rocky the roads may be, the car drives swiftly; you have to think for a second to recall the last time you have experienced a car ride this smooth, safe and sound; you have forgotten just how peaceful these can be, remembering once more why some people drive the night away to clear their head.

With music slowly taking over, the moon shining like this is its last day in the universe, the pitch black sky as if in a pocket dimension, and Dazai, now a completely different man next to you, you are nulled to sleep.

Only when the music has come to an end and Dazai is nearing a resting spot does your eyes open again, watching the moon light dance on his face— a new side to him, a new sight of Dazai Osamu you have reached the honor of witnessing.

[chaosfairy18]

The shower incident

A little fic inspired by something @bigmack2go told me. Has brief talks about sex regarding a minor (17) but nothing graphic, it is just Skittery freaking out his little brother gets older and mature. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skittery loved his little brother. He really did.

Ever since Tumbler had been born when Skittery was four years old, he’d instantly lost all feelings of jealousy over getting a smaller sibling and knew he would protect the little thing with everything he had.

That hadn’t changed now, 17 years later, when Skittery was 21, had two boyfriends – one of which he played in the same soccer team as – and loved them more than he thought he could love someone. Because Tumbler was still mostly his number one priority, next to his mother – not his father, he’d been divorced for a reason.

But as much as he loved him, he was still an older brother and as such it was his duty to embarrass him.

So, when Skittery heard his brother sing in the shower – he didn’t even know he did that, but there was always a first time for something – he didn’t even think before getting his phone out and starting to record it. It wasn’t terrible, Benny at least hit most of the notes, but he’d still send it to Swifty and Bumlets later to laugh about his rendition of various songs from Rocky Horror Picture Show he’d been playing in the background during his shower. He’d not sung in the beginning, but now he was – kind of badly – singing along to “I can make you a man.”

Skittery got closer to the door, snickering quietly to not get too much of it into the recording. He just got into “Hot Patootie – Bless My Soul” when someone inside the bathroom laughed: “You could at least try to hit the notes.”

Someone that was definitely not his brother but instead his brothers ‘best friend’ Kat.

Before really thinking about it, Skittery ran away to his room – door open so he could hear if anything else happened – and tried to not scream because his brother was alone with another boy locked in the bathroom while he was allegedly showering, and they had music on. What were they doing locked up in the bathroom together in the first place??

He didn’t want to entertain the idea that they actually had been showering, he couldn’t take that, but what better alternative was there? He hadn’t even known Benny was gay or bi or- well that he liked other boys at all. And one would think that he’d mention it at some point, especially with how much time he spent around him and Bumlets and Swifty.

And now his little brother was locking himself in the bathroom with his best friend – who Skittery also hadn’t thought he liked men – and covered up whatever they did with music. Tumbler was seventeen, basically a child, so how-

The lock could be heard, and the door of the bathroom opened. “So then see you in two days, right?”

“Yeah, see you then!”

Skittery crept down the hallway, just fast enough to see Kat go down the stairs to leave the house, Tumbler still in front of the bathroom. As his brother was just staring at him, he said: “I’ll uh… go showering now. You done?”

“No, I need to shower.”

“Didn’t you just shower?”, Skittery raised an eyebrow. That had been the whole cover of whatever he had been doing in there after all. And his hair looked a bit wet.

Tumbler grinned, hands fidgeting. “No, Kat showered. I was just- well in. Was wearing clothes though!”

Skittery took a few deep breaths to not scream or punch the wall. For a few moments he thought about questioning this whole thing further, which would probably lead to his brother being annoyed or actually admitting they had made out or done whatever and Skittery wasn’t ready for this kind of confirmation. “Yeah just tell me when you’re done.”, he said and turned around, this time closing his door.

Skittery: I need to bleach my eyes and ears

Bumlets: I’d prefer you didn’t doll. What happened?

Skittery: Heard Tumbler

Locked in the bathroom

With Kat

Swifty: Oh shit

Bumlets: We'll come over

Or do you want to come here?

Fifteen minutes later Skittery stood in front of their apartment – it was really all of theirs, with how often Skittery slept there and stayed there. Bumlets opened and hugged him before leading him to the living room, Skittery not protesting when he just pulled his head down to rest under his chin and pulled him close on the couch. He probably needed it.

“Tell us what happened. If you can.”

Skittery sighed and explained the entire thing to them, Bumlets patting his head all the while.

“You think they were really having shower sex?”

“Swifty-“

“He said he had to shower after, so he couldn’t have been in the shower with him, right?”, said Skittery wanting to believe it to be true.

Swifty shrugged. “Well he still watched Kat shower, probably.”

“Don’t say it like that. And he’s too young for sex in general.”

“How old were you again when you and Blink-“

“Boys.”, Bumlets interrupted. “Maybe less talk about what they did okay? Do you want to talk to him about it? Not what exactly happened, just if he has something with Kat. He knows you wouldn’t judge.”

Skittery hummed, just trying to hide his face more in Bumlets’ neck. “Don’t wanna ask about it. But if I don’t it’ll just happen again because he thinks he got away with it.”

He probably had to either way. No matter what, he’d need to have a shovel talk with Kat if there was something happening. And either force them to leave their door open every time or evacuate the house.

“At least you didn’t get the flirty twin.”, Bumlets joked, referencing how his own little brother had been dating Kit, Kat’s twin, for half a year now. “Flipper was whining a lot about how he wasn’t sure if he meant their playful flirting in drama class because he’s always like that.”

“At least Flipper talked to you about it.”, retorted Skittery. Was he really that untrustworthy? Or didn’t Tumbler feel comfortable with him now?

Swifty took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m sure he trusts you Mica. Might just try to figure it out, you know?”

“But why in the shower?”

“Forget about that for a little while. Why don’t we watch Addams Family and I’ll make you a hot chocolate?”

Skittery a bit wanted to protest that he didn’t need it and it probably wasn’t that bad, but he knew they were just doing it because they loved him and wanted to help. This wasn’t just for him it was also for them and he appreciated that.

They watched movies until they fell asleep, Skittery – at least for a while – forgetting he’d have to have a talk with his brother soon.

[dipplinduo]

🔪🏜️🪲🌸

i'll get you somehow dipplin

(Context: this ask game)

hey @dusk-the-ghost-trainer how ya doin' ya' ain't being slick LMAO

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Answered a bit before getting to this ask :)

🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

In-depth reactions/predictions or completely unpredictable & unhinged stuff like some of this stuff on Bet You'll Fall in Love With Me (I fucking love the absolute fuck out of our small lil' community energy we got going on over on AO3 xD):

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

I also did this one already and it was more than 50 words SOOOOO THAT COUNTS AS ANSWERING IT AGAIN LOOOL #dodged

🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them

Currently I do not, but I am a big, big animal lover and I was raised with 4 dogs and 2 cats total! Also some rodents. <3

[thena0315]

What if Velasco and Muncy were introduced in Season 21 along with Kat?

Kat being brought in from Vice

Velasco being brought in from Undercover

Muncy being brought in from Gangs

To start off as the next generation of SVU detectives and be a chaotic trio

[fabdante]

genuinely i love the idea of a 'write this in your style' challenge and the idea has not left me since @skullgirrl mentioned it, how many DmC/DMC fans would be like into that?

[korpuskat]

MY FAOVRITE RAMAATTRA AUTHOR UPLOADING A BIRTHDAY FIC

I had to!! Even if @t3chborb didn’t suggest a birthday-centric fic, I had to!! It’s his first birthday since they were revealed 🥹

[scrollonso]

i need the opinon of a marcmarc expert for this.