#like. invisible ink is a thing. it's a whole. it's a whole thing. just saying. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cobbled-peach · 14 days ago

Text

PSYCHOANALYSIS ── S.R.

Forced into a mandatory "team-building" exercise, you and Spencer bitingly analyse each other under a series of probing psychological prompts.

cw: spencer reid x rival profiler!reader. (sort of) unresolved conflict. more dialogue-heavy. reader has a brother!! a/n: okay so this is going to be a series-ish. think sitcoms where you can watch any episode in any order and it kind of makes sense on its own. i'm obsessed with rivals to lovers, so this is going to be my attempt at that which i dip in and out of when the feeling takes me. if you have any ideas or scenarios you want to see these two in, lmk!! always happy to take requests wc: 3.4k

‘Interpersonal analysis exercises are designed to assess mutual perception accuracy, emotional awareness and implicit bias among team members. They serve as tools to foster trust and improve communication within high-functioning units.’

── FBI Behavioral Science Unit Training Manual, Team Cohesion Module

‘Great. Pop-psych garbage repackaged for federal use.’

Morgan’s muttered comment cuts through the stale air of the conference room, and, despite yourself, you let out a short, sharp laugh, bitten back too late. It earns you an immediate glare from Clare, HR’s relentlessly enthusiastic coordinator, who’s somehow managed to corral half the unit into this claustrophobic space for what she insists is a “crucial trust-building exercise.”

You shift in your chair, the metal legs scraping faintly against the linoleum floor. The folder in front of you is a garish blue, corners already dog-eared and ink on the cover smudged from someone’s thumb. You try to hide your amused smile as you flip it open. The “exercise” looks more like a cobbled-together BuzzFeed quiz than sound psychological practice. The title alone – “Team Cohesion Module” – screams corporate whiteboard nonsense. The word “functioning” is spelled wrong. Twice.

You resist the urge to sigh aloud. The whole thing feels ridiculous. Mutual profiling to “reduce bias” and strengthen team cohesion. As if trust were a commodity you could manufacture in sixty minutes over a packet of ice-breakers and typo-ridden vulnerability prompts.

Trust – real trust – came slow. Hard-earned. From blood and pressure and knowing the exact angle someone covers your back at a breach. Not from bullet points and laminated worksheets that smell faintly of toner.

You glance at Clare. She’s still chirping on about “building bridges” and “emotional transparency,” her hands slicing enthusiastically through the air like she’s conducting some invisible orchestra of empathy. Her eyes flicker to yours mid-spiel. Pointed. You can practically hear her subtext: Maybe if you talked to people outside of cases, you wouldn’t be here.

Your fingers clench around the folder, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You roll your pen slowly between your fingers, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. What you do outside of work isn’t anyone’s business. It’s not like it impacts your performance. You work well, fight hard, bring justice. So what if you prefer solitude between cases? That silence is the only place your nerves don’t buzz like a live wire?

But after the failed Idaho op, the team’s still licking it’s wounds. Which means showing up for them. And Clare, to her credit, has found a way to turn post-case panic into therapy disguised as team-building worksheets. It’s a neat trick, if you squint.

She finishes her introduction and moves to start forming pairs. It’s randomized; you watch her dip her hand into a glass bowl with the kind of dread usually reserved for internal reviews.

And then she says it. Your partner.

Your stomach drops.

Spencer.

Of course.

A cruel twist of fate. Or, more likely, a carefully orchestrated pairing by Clare – who knows damn well the extent of your disdain for him.

Across the room, Spencer stiffens like he’s been tapped with a stun gun. His posture tightens; shoulders squaring with reluctant poise. His jaw sets just enough to reveal the hidden tension behind it. Your not the only one unamused.

His crutches are propped neatly against the wall beside him, rubber tips slightly scuffed from recent use. One leg stretches out awkwardly in front of his chair, ankle rotated slightly to avoid pressure. His cardigan – too warm for this stuffy room, but worn because its comforting, you assume – is half buttoned over a shirt that doesn’t match his tie. It’s a kind of disheveled charm that somehow suits him. You once thought that he looked like an off-duty tragic poet – until he opened his mouth and the words directed to you were anything but poetic.

Now he’s glaring. Not overtly; Spencer Reid doesn’t waste expressions. But it’s in the way his eyes settle on you, like you’re the source of several recent inconveniences in his life. You’ve seen that look numerous times before. Usually right before he hands you a file and points out something you missed.

Morgan leans over, voice pitched low and amused. He seems to enjoy tossing gasoline on this slow-burning fire.

‘Aw, you and Pretty Boy,’ he grins. ‘That’ll be fun.’

You scoff.

‘Yeah, great,’ you say, layering sarcasm thick, your smile tight and all teeth. ‘Can’t wait for the knee-bender to psychoanalyze me.’

Morgan snorts, ‘Just don’t let him intimidate you with his big words.’

He’s already sitting like he’s bracing for impact. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Crutches still within reach – just in case, you think.

‘He’s gonna need that vocabulary if he wants to keep up,’ you mutter, pushing your chair back with a quiet scrape as you trail through the room toward his table. Each step is slow and deliberate, spine straightening like you’re walking into a hostage negotiation. Or a duel.

For a moment, there’s a silent standoff. You’d like to think you meet his sharp gaze just as evenly, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The tension stretches between you with its own him. This is how it always is. In the field, in the briefing room, even once during the coffee line in an Iowa diner. Frown and barely concealed distate, exchanged between you like currency.

Except now there’s a spotlight on it, in the form of Clare’s watchful gaze, her clipboard clutched like it holds the solution to team tension.

‘Agent,’ he greets, voice clipped with all the warmth of a cadaver. His eyes flick up and down, assessing. You can feel the scan, clinical and pointed.

‘Doctor,’ you return, just as flat, and give him a smile that isn’t. Two syllables that both provoke and dismiss him, rolled in sarcasm and tied with a pretty bow.

You set the folder down on the table like a poorly wrapped explosive. You swear you can hear it ticking.

‘Ready to emotionally dissect each other?’ you ask, sliding into the seat.

‘That assumes you have emotions worth dissecting,’ he replies, a beat too late, like he had to think of it. He sounds almost bored, though the faint arch of his brow says otherwise. ‘But I’ll try to remain open.

You hum, low in your throat. There it is. Barely one breath in, and already swinging.

‘Lovely to see you’ve brought your usual bedside manner,’ you murmur, settling deeper into your chair. Legs crossed, one arm slung across your lap, you try to appear deliberately casual.

‘And you’ve brought your defensiveness. We’re both consistent.’

You lean back slightly, proposing a silent dare: you want to start something, go ahead. If this is going to be a war of words, you’re happy to indulge him.

Across from you, Spencer tilts his head, eyes narrowing with quiet calculation. He studies you the way he studies blood spatter. You catch the twitch in his fingers as he turns a page, subtle and involuntary. The faint flex of his jaw when his injured leg shifts beneath the table, making the chair creak slightly. Pain he doesn’t bother to hide.

Maybe he’s hoping you’ll go easy on him because he’s injured.

Absolutely not.

Clare’s voice chimes across the room, shrill with optimism. Somewhat clueless.

‘Okay everyone! Take twenty minutes to go through the prompts. Answer the ones that speak to you and your partner. Be honest! Let your walls down. This is about trust!’

Neither of you look at her.

‘I’ll let my walls down when you takes that look off his face,’ you mutter under your breath, flicking open the packet. The paper feels flimsy in your hands – cheap print stock and overly enthusiastic ink.

‘Which one?’ he asks, mouth curling.

‘The one where you think you’re better than everyone else.’

‘I don’t think I’m better than everyone else,’ he says, deadpan. ‘Just you.’

You skim the page. It’s a minefield dressed up as self-help, each bullet point a potential trigger.

What’s your partners biggest emotional weakness?

How do they handle conflict?

What kind of cases bring out their bias?

What do they bring to the team that no one else does?

Jesus. These aren’t questions. They’re scalpels, ready to carve. Clare’s spelling errors make them only slightly less lethal.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Spencer doing the same – reading with a kind of affronted focus, like the prompts are personally challenging his credentials. His brows furrow slightly, one of his fingers tapping rhythmically tapping against the table. A tic he displays when concentrating.

You can almost hear the gears turning. He’s already compiling answers. Already dissecting you.

You hate that he’ll be good at this.

Hate that you’ll be good at it too.

Because it makes the answers more truthful. More raw. Less avoidable.

The mutual respect between you is overshadowed by mutual irritation. By the way that you push each other’s buttons, deliberately or not. You argue over methods and motives, even over music once, though the memory’s hazy. It’s inevitable that you’ll argue over this.

Around you, the low hum of conversation has started to rise, cautious voices slipping into mildly guarded professionalism. Everyone else is trying to play nice.

Your pen taps twice on the paper. Sharp and deliberate. The sound is precise, slicing through the buzz and catching his attention.

‘Let’s start with this,’ you say, tone kept neutral. You don’t look up, just slide a finger across the line of text like you’re smoothing out something jagged. ‘“What’s their biggest strength as a teammate?”’

Across from you, Spencer exhales from his nose in a sound that’s half scoff, half sigh.

‘That’s your opening move?’ he asks, like he’s disappointed. He shifts in his seat, one shoulder cocked as if bracing for mediocrity.

You glance up. ‘You want to start with the “childhood wound” question? Be my guest.’

His jaw visibly clenches again, and he looks down at the paper.

‘What’s their biggest strength as a teammate…’ he echoes, lips moving around the words with visible disdain. He shifts in his chair just enough for it to creak, head tilting slightly as he reads. ‘Sounds like something straight from the Trust Fall School of Psychology. Can I pass?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ you say, smirking. ‘We’re building bridges, remember?’

That gets a small reaction: the faintest inhale. Then he straightens up, folds his hands on the table with the kind of deliberate calm that feels performative. Like a chess player resetting the board.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Your biggest strength: you challenge assumptions. You push back. You don’t accept the data for what it is – you interrogate it. And you don’t let people coast on instinct. Even when they’re right.’

You freeze for a second. Barely.

It wasn’t praise, exactly. There was no warmth behind it. But it wasn’t an insult either. And that, coming from Spencer, feels almost… intimate.

You almost smile to yourself.

‘Now you,’ he prompts. His fingers have started moving again, tapping a barely-there rhythm against the side of the worksheet. You watch the motion, steady and unconscious.

‘Your biggest strength?’ you muse, dragging your gaze back up to his face. ‘Besides reminding us all that a genius IQ doesn’t equate to social tact?’

He flashes you his own insincere smile then, one that doesn’t reach his eyes and never intended to.

‘You see what no one else does. What we miss. Even when we don’t want to see it. You’re always ten steps ahead of everyone, and you still bother to circle back to us so we can catch up.’

That lands too. He doesn’t react much, but his fingers stop tapping and his spine pulls a little straighter, like he’s subtly recoiling.

Like you’d gotten closer to something than he meant you to.

So you don’t push. You just let the moment drift away.

Instead, you flip the page slowly. The paper scrapes dryly against the table. You drag your finger down it until you find something uglier. A prompt that feels a little more surgical.

‘Here we go,’ you say, tone deceptively light as your finger lands on the question. ‘“What’s your partner’s biggest emotional weakness?”’

‘You skipped ahead,’ Spencer points out, eyes scanning the page with clinical precision.

‘Clare said to find the questions that speak to us. This one speaks to me.’

He scoffs. A quick, unimpressed sound. But he also doesn’t hesitate.

‘You demonstrate classic insecure overcompensation,’ he says, tone crisp and sharpened to a blade. ‘You talk with authority because silence makes you feel exposed. The second you’re not leading the conversation, you’re bracing for judgment.’

Your pen stills in your hand and you blink. Once.

‘Wow. Right for the jugular.’

His eyes spark, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Smug.

‘Clare said we had to make it count,’ he replies, deliberately echoing the cadence of your voice from a moment earlier.

You lean forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table, gaze steady.

‘You intellectualize your pain because you’re too scared to feel it,’ you fire back, voice lower now, measured. ‘You don’t just avoid vulnerability, you sterilize it. You keep yourself above everyone, so no one can actually get in. Because if they did? They’d realize you’re not nearly as detached as you pretend to be.’

There’s a flicker – another tightening of his jaw. One hand curls slightly beneath the table, the fingertips pressing into the wood. Controlled tension. The only tells he lets slip.

From a few tables over, someone lets out a quiet, drawn-out “oof,” followed by a cough trying to cover it.

If Spencer hears it, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His lips curve into something sharp.

‘Projection is fascinating to watch in real time,’ he says, almost lazily. Like he’s amused.

You cross your arms, spine straightening as you meet his gaze head-on. ‘Oh, I feel plenty,’ you say. ‘I just don’t allow it to control me.’

‘Right,’ he drags the word out, slow and skeptical, like he’s rolling it between his teeth. ‘Which is why you’ve spent the last five minutes trying to get a rise out of me.’

‘I don’t need to try, Reid. My mere existence pisses you off.’

He shrugs. The air between you grows tighter, heavier still.

A beat of time passes.

Then—

‘You’re terrified of being boring,’ he says, quieter now, brutally precise. His words a blade pressed to soft skin. ‘You have a fear of irrelevance. You chase conflict like it’s oxygen. You’d rather people fight you than forget you.’

It hits harder than you want it to.

Your stare sharpens, jaw tensing. Across the table, Spencer holds your gaze. Steady. Cold. Not cruel. Just certain.

Neither of you blink.

Neither of you smile.

You don’t realize you’re gripping your pen too tightly until it creaks in protest.

Clare’s voice cuts across the tension with all the cheer of a kindergarten teacher.

‘Let’s keep things respectful, folks!’ Her gaze lands on you two briefly, like the words are specifically for you.

Because this – whatever it is – isn’t disrespect.

It’s recognition. Twisted and unspoken and mutual.

You’re the only ones in this room who can keep up.

Spencer chooses the next question.

‘“What kind of cases bring out their bias?”’ he reads aloud. There’s a follow-up – and what can they do to resolve this – but he doesn’t bother. His tone makes that clear: he’s here to dissect, not soothe.

You don’t hesitate.

‘Children,’ you say flatly. ‘They make you lose your objectivity. Your memory gets in the way. You start to over-identify. Especially when the victim is bright. Or strange. Or lonely.’

You pause just long enough to watch the wave of tension ripple through him.

‘Same with killers from academic backgrounds. High IQs. The ones who look like they could’ve been you, if your life had curved differently.’

At some point during this, Spencer has grabbed one of his crutches and is holding it tightly, fingers curling around it until his knuckles pale. There’s a crease in his temple too; you’ve only seen it once before – the day that he met you.

‘You identify with high-functioning offenders,’ he counters, almost instantly. His voice has dropped in pitch, low and level. ‘Narcissists. Manipulators. Con-artists. The kind of people who get away with things because they know how to play the room.’

Now your spine straightens. Breath draws in a fraction too sharply. You blink once, slow. Trying to decide if you misheard. You didn’t.

‘You get reckless,’ he continues, eyes fixed on yours. Still dissecting. Always dissecting. ‘You assume insight equals immunity. That if you can understand the unsub, you won’t get pulled in. But when the unsub mirrors those parts of you, you stop profiling them—’

He leans forward, just slightly, as if pressing the final incision.

‘—and you start competing with them.’

The silence that follows is taut.

You stare at him. Unmoving. Expression blank, like you’ve flicked a switch and shut off the current.

Your pen slips from your fingers and clatters onto the table. Loud in the quiet. You don’t pick it up.

When you finally speak, your voice is calm. Too calm.

‘Do you actually believe that?’

Spencer keeps his gaze firm, raises his chin by half a degree. His expression is distant.

‘It’s your profile,’ he says simply.

‘No,’ you say, and this time there’s something new in your voice. Not irritation or mockery. Anger. ‘It’s my brother’s, Reid. Try again. Profile me.’

Spencer seems to stutter for a moment. His jaw works once. Twice. Then he leans forward and speaks with a low voice, words too sharp for the volume.

‘I don’t need to try again. I’ve already seen the mold you were poured from.’

Your breath catches in your throat.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me,’ he says. ‘The family resemblance is uncanny.’

‘I’m not him,’ you bite out, standing now. Heat has risen to your face involuntarily, coloring your cheeks pink. ‘I’ve never been him. I never want to be him.’

‘No. But you act like him. Same deflection. Same condescension. Same inability to admit when you’re wrong.’

Something in you snaps. Your hand slams down, hard enough to rattle the pens.

‘You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. You just assume. That’s not profiling. That’s projecting.’

The room has gone still now. Heads have turned. Morgan has frozen halfway through a sip of water.

Clare hurries across the room, spilling pages from her own folder in the process.

‘Okay! That’s—uh—enough partner work for now. Let’s… let’s take a break, shall we? We’ll reconvene in fifteen.’ She’s clearly rattled, but trying to maintain her sunshine-and-safety tone. You don’t even look at her. Your eyes are still locked on Spencer, and his on yours.

There’s no resolution. No apology. Just white-hot pressure.

You turn first. Walk away without a word.

──

No one reconvened after the forced break. You stand in the bullpen, shoulders squared, papers clutched loosely in one hand.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Spencer by the doorway. His injured leg juts out awkwardly as he approaches, usual guarded expression on his face, but slightly softened at the edges.

He stops a few feet away, hands nervously fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, avoiding direct eye contact for a moment before finally looking up at you.

‘So. That was productive,’ he says simply.

You meet his gaze, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

‘I didn’t realize mutual character assassination counted as team-building,’ you reply. Your voice is dry, but you can’t help the flicker of curiosity.

‘Well, according to Clare, we’re better for it,’ he murmurs.

‘Mm. I’m feeling very bonded.’ Sarcasm.

He pauses, as if debating whether to say more. His eyes flicker with something that faintly resembles remorse as he finally adds: ‘Look – I know what I said earlier maybe wasn’t fair. And I’m not great with… apologies. But if I was, I’d say… sorry. For making things worse between us.’

You blink, mouth twitching in disbelief. Yeah, right, your thoughts snap. That’s the most non-apology apology I’ve ever heard.

He catches the flicker of your expression and smirks, clearly aware of how little he actually apologized.

‘I’m better with actions than words,’ he adds, voice bordering on teasing. ‘But the crutches are kind of restricting my action-taking abilities at the moment.’

‘Sure,’ you say, eyebrow still raised, but the sharp edge in your tone dulls a little.

Spencer turns, shifting his weight onto his good leg as he lifts the crutches, the soft scrape and thud of their tips echoing quietly in the open space of the bullpen. Then, just before he steps through the doorway, he calls back over his shoulder.

‘Same time next conference?’

His tone is half-joking, but there’s an unmistakable sincerity behind it.

‘We’ll see,’ you say finally, voice cool.

And his shoulders actually relax a little.

Team Cohesion Module – Questionnaire Exercise Notes

Facilitator: C.M.

Date: [REDACTED]

Participants: [REDACTED] + [REDACTED]

Usual precision w/ words from [REDACTED] → but something about [REDACTED] knocks him off center → defensiveness? Irritation??

(side scribble) find out what coffee the BAU uses!!!!

[REDACTED] matches him step for step → possibly competitive baseline?

Could be a clash of egos Too easy. More like recognition masked as rivalry

Unresolved history??? → ask Anderson what the deal is between them

Sharp interplay → mutual dissection instead of sharing (still more honest than most teams in this room)

No visible cooperation but… weirdly in sync?

[REDACTED] eviscerated [REDACTED]’s worldview in under 20 sec. → actually quite artful.

(note for HR) exercise intensity reached a point where intervention was warranted

Would not leave the alone in a locked room → unless I wanted: breakthrough/confession/homicide

(at bottom) Note to self: don’t pair them again

#cobbled peach #cobbled-peach #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #art's fics #criminal minds fandom #rivals to lovers

149 notes · View notes

transparent-peach · 17 days ago

Text

Hey my beloved human beings!

it’s been a while since i have been able to write. I had so much going on. I slowly fell in love again with Sons Of Anarchy so what’s better than a nice Jax Teller x Reader fiction.

Let me know if you want more of this.😚

Words: 1173

Quiet nights

It happened after a fight. Not between us—between Jax and a man who should've known better than to touch what wasn't his.

"You know you don't have to beat the shit out of everyone who comes near me."

I almost raised my voice. I wasn't angry at him, i was angry at the situation. Again.

"I don't like when people don't know where the fucking line is."

His jaw clenched. His hands were still in a fistful state. A small amount of blood was dried on his knuckles.

"For fucks sake..."

"What is your problem now?"

His eyes were still dark and gave me a slightly terrifying feeling.

"You act like i am some kind of trophy. Ya don't fucking own me, Teller."

I looked into his threatening eyes, maybe for too long. His face changed as i began to walk away. All i wanted to do is take a shower and get a sleep. With or without him.

But i didn't left. This was not a big of a deal,

but i still wanted to be able to think straight. He did things, bad ones, i couldn’t even name all of those.

I needed some time to think, some

time alone. I was fed up with that day. The work was long and draining and to be absolutely honest i didn't needed a family gathering. Or whatever you call it. It was always a mess, chaos and i was relieved when nobody died that night.

But i heard a faint sound coming from the clubhouse. The noise of the crowd started to lower, but they were still having some sort of fun. It was 3 a.m. in the morning.

I took a sip from the cold beer that's been in my hand for almost two hours.

Chibs didn't look at me right away. Just exhaled smoke, staring out into the dark like he'd already had the whole conversation in his head.

Then, without any facial expression, he said,

"So... you and Jackie boy, then."

My stomach dropped.

"Da—"

"Don't lie to me, lass," he cut in, finally turning to face me. His eyes were tired, but sharp. Always sharp. "I see the way he looks at ye. Like he's already lost ye, and hasn't even earned ye yet."

I didn't know what to say. Just sitting there, waiting for him to fight with me. Again.

Chibs stepped closer. His voice dropped, not angry — never cruel — but full of that heavy, fatherly ache only men like him carry.

"Listen, I love that lad. Jax is like my own blood. But he's bleedin' poison sometimes, do ya hear me?"

He pointed a rough, inked finger at my chest.

"And you — you've got a soft heart, love. A heart he could crush without even meanin' to."

"I know what I'm doing," I whispered.

"Aye," he nodded. "That's what all o' us think, right before everythin' goes to shit."

I felt the sting in my eyes, but I held it back. I'd never cried in front of him. Not once.

He sighed and ran a hand down his face, softer now.

"I don't want to see you broken over a boy who doesn't know whether he's diggin' graves or buildin' homes."

"He makes me feel... like I'm not invisible. Like someone finally sees me, Da."

Chibs looked at me long and hard, then flicked the cigarette away and gently put a hand on my cheek.

"Oh, love," he murmured, thick with affection and pain, "He sees you, sure. But I just pray to God he knows what he's lookin' at."

A long pause. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Because if he breaks ye... I'll have to break him. And it'll ruin me, too."

I nodded, swallowing down the ache.

And in that silence, the only thing louder than the night was the sound of both our hearts cracking just a little.

“Come on in, my love. Don’t be out here alone.”

He held out his hand waiting for me to pull up.

I finally gave up on the fight and get back to the bar, to Juice.

“What can i get you, beautiful?”

He asked politely as he placed a glass in front of me.

“Whiskey on the rocks.”

I sat down beside Tig. He was talking about some blonde chick who was trying to get in his pants but Clay had different ideas about that. I smiled a bit, started to have fun again.

“ ‘Kay lads. I need a cigarette and fresh air. Be right back.”

I said it with confidence, then opened the door with my leg. I placed a cigarette in my mouth and began to search my lighter.

“For fucks sake.”

I heard steps again. Slow, but steady steps.

I immediately felt his presence as he opened that damn door.

Blood still dotted his knuckles when he came outside. The sun started to rise, bleeding the sky into deep orange and yellow, like bruises across the horizon.

I was waiting, arms crossed, pacing like I always did when I knew he was losing pieces of himself for someone else's war.

"You didn't have to hit him that hard," I said, voice low, shaking. The silence nearly killed me i had to say something. That’s the way i am.

Because the truth was, I wasn't scared of him.

I was scared for him.

He walked toward me slowly. Controlled. Like a lion that hadn't eaten in days but was trying to be gentle.

"Yeah," he said, stopping just inches away. "I did."

I could smell the adrenaline on him. Motor oil, sweat, danger, all of it tangled in that wild energy that pulsed under his skin. His breath came a little too fast, like his body was still in fight mode but his eyes — his eyes were on me. Only me.

I looked up, and he looked down, and something unspoken passed between us. A shift. Like the final click of a locked door swinging open.

Then he grabbed my face.

Not rough, not soft — just real. His hands warm and calloused, trembling slightly with whatever emotion he refused to name.

He kissed me.

And it wasn't polite. It wasn't careful.

It was a firestorm.

His lips crashed into mine with years of pain and guilt and longing behind them. It felt like he was pouring everything he'd never been able to say straight into my mouth, trying to burn it into my bones.

I kissed him back like I'd been waiting my whole life for this one mistake.

His hands tangled in my hair. Mine slid under his cut, fingers pressed into his back like I needed proof he was really there. That this moment was real. That he was real.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathless.

Foreheads pressed together. Eyes closed. Hearts thudding like thunder.

"I shouldn't have done that," he whispered.

"But you did," I whispered back.

And he didn't move.

He didn't run.

He stayed.

And that told me more than words ever could.

#sons of anarchy #jax teller #jackson teller #female reader #female #jax teller x reader #chibs sons of anarchy #soa chibs

59 notes · View notes

timetravellibrarian · 6 months ago

Text

He was intriguing. That was a word you could describe Trafalgar Law as. With his expression hidden behind that hat and his seemingly elaborate plans, there's no question he is.

At first when you had met him in the bustling groves of the Sabaody Archipelago you wouldnt have guessed he would become an ally.

The crew had split up, exploring the place known to be a stop for both pirates and nobles alike. You had ended up exploring the market for something new to wear, this time with your own money instead of borrowed money from Nami that lead to a perilous amount of interest.

Little did you know that you were as famous as your bounty poster suggested, bumping into crews that not only knew your friends but also you too.

First impressions matter, no matter where you are and who you're dealing with and the first thing you said when your gaze fell on him there was certainly a lasting impression.

The dark circles, the goatee, the large hat and especially the jeans.

The Surgeon of Death

"You look like a backalley doctor."

Not only did he look shocked, but also offended. Mainly because his own crew were hiding their guffaws horribly, seeing the vision of what you meant.

This was before everything had gone haywire and crews were forced to claw their way out of the doors of death from which Admiral Kizaru and the Pacifistas had the keys to.

Now sitting on the chair beside Luffy in the hospital room aboard the Polar Tang, having flashes of the war playing through your mind left you unaware of the footsteps approaching. The so called "Surgeon of death" had become part of your usual routine, mainly checking on your wounds and informing you on your captain's condition.

You watched as he checked Luffy's vitals. You never left your friend's side since that day, not trusting anyone. Afterall, he was the only one in the crew who's state of being you were sure of.

"Are you going to keep glaring at me the whole time?" His voice broke through your thoughts as you absentmindedly watched him take out bandages he would use to redress Luffy's wounds

"Hm?"

He rolled up his sleeves, allowing more of those tattoos to be visible as he washed his hands. Your eyes fell on those inked hands that both saved lives as a doctor and the cause of unknown terrors as a pirate.

"You're worried about Strawhat-ya?" He stated, lifting Luffy's body as carefully as he could under your harsh gaze.

"Partly," You began, crossing your arms, " I'm curious. Why?"

Law felt something invisible wrap around his neck as soon as his hands had gone off of your captain. He had heard about one of the strawhats having a mysterious devil fruit. One that didn't need the beholder to even lift a finger.

He smirked, feeling your power pressing harder on his neck and allowing little air to flow through his body,"Why?"

Somehow he kept a somewhat confused expression despite the dire consequences of your actions.

"I'm not playing around, Trafalgar."

"I know you're not."

He had a chance to just throw you and Luffy out into sea. You were both anchors afterall. Turn you in for your bounties. Tortured us for treasure. Cut your organs up for whatever sick operations landed him the title he held.

So many questions in your vigilant mind .

"I felt like it," Law said, not being fully honest but also not lying. His eyes didn't leave your face, gauging out your reaction.

"Sounds like something a backalley doctor would say." You let go of him, watching as he took deep breaths to control the panic that he has hidden behind his calm facade.

"DINNERS READY!" a yell from somewhere aboard the ship had called out.

"Sorry for that." You said, no longer looking at him and instead focusing on your unconscious captain. Your fingers had intertwined with his, feeling his pulse at the wrist with your fingers to remind you that he was still alive, even after all the death and destruction of the war

Law hummed in thought, hands lingering on his neck before letting go of the initial threat to his life." I'll have dinner sent to you."

He walked out of the room to join his crew, leaving you to your thoughts as you guarded Luffy.

Two things were decided. One. You wouldn't leave your captain's side until he would wake up.

Two. Trafalgar Law found you just as intriguing.

#one piece #x reader #one piece x reader #luffy #trafalgar law #heart pirates #surgeon of death #trafalgar water d law #law x reader #marineford

140 notes · View notes

spotofimagines · 1 year ago

Text

Dating George Weasley as a Ravenclaw would include...

A/N: This is the longest Would Include I've done, so long there's a read more! But I'm in a Weasley mood lately so here you go!

George Weasley x Ravenclaw reader

He sits and watches you study in the library every now and then.

Sometimes he just wants the company but is too tired to do anything but he doesn't want to interrupt you so he sits slumped in his chair, watching you write or holding your ink for you.

Other times, he will be scribbling doodles for a new sweet Fred wants to sell, heaps of parchment mixing with yours.

He always helps you put your books back when you're finished, traipsing behind you with heavy feet, but helping nonetheless.

You're the first person he comes to for help with pranks. He and Fred come up with the ideas, but you know whether the potion ingredients will work, how to say the spell properly and whether the creature they want to release in the Slytherin common room will destroy the whole school. They really would have been expelled by now if not for you.

You also helped them branch out their business by selling stuff in the Ravenclaw common room since they aren't allowed in there.

You become very popular amongst first-year troublemakers, and the small group of older Ravenclaws set up a space in the corner of the common room to buy the concoctions that will give them more time to finish their essays.

George makes sure none of his antics blow back on you. You work far too hard to have your post-school career knocked because you got too many detentions and failed your exams and he knows it.

Although you are on Filch's bad side for distracting him whilst the twins get their confiscated items from his office. And George's response to that? "Who isn't on his bad side?"

He absolutely rubs it in your face when Gryffindor beats Ravenclaw in a quidditch match, whether you really care or not, that's what he'll be spending an hour doing after he's won.

You have a running deal; you buy him a butterbeer for each match he wins and he buys you dinner each time he loses to Ravenclaw. So far George has had countless drinks. You are yet to have one meal.

He always gives you his things to wear; jumpers, hats, scarves, anything really.

But he will never, absolutely never, wear your Ravenclaw scarf; lord help him you'd think the thing was made of fire by the way he avoids it.

You don't know Oliver Wood very well, but he gave you one of the biggest scoldings you have ever received when George couldn't play a quidditch match because you'd been chasing him in the courtyard with your scarf and he fell over his own feet, landing weirdly on his elbow and hip.

After the stern lecture from Oliver and spending two days in the hospital wing with George and occasionally Fred, who found the whole ordeal hilarious, you didn't tease him with your Ravenclaw items again for a long time. He still avoids that scarf like the plague.

You're the only friend of the twins that Percy can tolerate.

Probably because when you visited The Burrow during Christmas breaks, you talked to him about his work and being head boy without ridiculing him. (And you smack George's arm when he makes rude jokes which Percy quite enjoys seeing).

George sits and listens to you rant when you need it.

He watches as you pace back and forth, words never stopping until you've gotten everything out. Then he just pulls you into a long tight hug before he tries to distract you from your problem.

About half of George's herbology work is written by you, and half his transfiguration work and probably half his care for magical creatures work too if he didn't manage to weasel Charlie into unknowingly writing him an essay every month in his letters.

George 100% tries making a million invisibility products and polyjuice potions to try and sneak into your common room at night, but Hogwarts is much too equipped to let him find success at it.

So you had to find a secret spot in the castle for your late-night rendezvous without teachers or prefects finding out.

At first, it was the girls' lavatories but Myrtle's snooping and laughter made it less than perfect. The ghost whispering in his ear halfway through a makeout session made George far too irritated to go there for a third time.

He leaves you little love notes all over the place, some telling you to keep smiling, some telling you a weird joke, some telling you how smoking you look (and now you definitely have to make sure no one can see these notes except you!).

When you have exams or projects due his love notes get more frequent since he knows you'll be stressed and seeing him less.

He always attempts to eat every meal with you in the great hall. This way you can catch up on what you've both been up to and how your classes have been while he makes sure you remember to take breaks from studying to eat properly.

If things get in the way (*cough* detention *cough*) he will take you out to The Three Broomsticks on the weekend, just the two of you, and maybe Fred, but he swears he told Fred not to come this time!

He told you about the marauders' map a day after finding it because he was certain there was something special about the spare roll of parchment in Filch's office they found under Fred's nose-biting teacups.

It was you nonchalantly guessing there's a spell keeping its contents secret before carrying on reading your book that gave him the best tool he could have wished for.

That's why you're the only other person who knows about the map. You've spent many hours sitting tucked into his side, munching on chocolate frogs and watching people walk around on the paper.

That's how you found out Fred and Angelina were dating but George's excitement to tease them about it more mischievously outweighed your want to learn the details from your friend.

Despite all of George's silliness and trouble, he might just be one of the smartest people you know outside of Ravenclaw.

Not that anyone else believes you when you say it, as his pranks are known to be foolish, but you've seen the way he and Fred create their products and plan their business throughout the years. No one else has the mix of academic and streets smarts to be that successful, you're sure of it.

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader #ravenclaw reader #hp #harry potter #hp imagine #harry potter imagine #would include #my og post

190 notes · View notes

shattered-twilight · 6 months ago

Text

Lyra Catalina Kane Headcanons!

Her favourite romcom is 10 things I hate about you.

Speak now girlie. She has the album in red.

Her first dream job was being a ballerina.

Wasn’t a fan of music until she remembered how her dad died. She isn’t really a fan of music now, she just likes drowning out reality.

Hates being in photos and videos for no reason. Loves taking photos, however.

First to hit the dance floor when the music was just right. Well, she used to.

Has a tumblr blog based on fashion, beauty, ballet, things from her childhood, fan fiction, short stories and romance media. Her account has been inactive for years, but she doesn’t have the heart to delete it. Followers and mutual alike sometimes wonder whether or not she died.

Rip Lyra you would have loved the term romantasy

Would always dedicate time before going to sleep to acting out scenes in her mother’s books.

Had an obsession with flowers. Like she loved arranging flowers into bouquets and flower crowns and knew the meaning behind all of them.

Also had an obsession with astrology and horoscopes. She’s a Pisces.

Personality quizzes girlie.

Her guilty pleasure is girlsgogames games. She loved romance academy heartbeat of love.

She wrote poetry but she never thought that she was ever good at it. Her bedroom walls are filled with words she’ll never say in invisible ink.

Is aesthetics-focused. She likes it when things are pretty and she used to go out of her way to make sure they were (she had a Pinterest worthy bedroom, the cutest notes, etc).

Used to wear fandom t-shirts underneath jackets and hoodies.

Has some skill in cooking because she’d always try to make something for Christmas dinner with her family.

She’s in workout gear with an oversized hoodie or jacket or in pjs.

She used to have braces.

She was an early/advanced reader

Loves cupcakes

She made sport her whole personality when she was seven and when she was 12 her whole personality was being a romantic. She defines herself through her actions and interests, and not much else.

Her and her stepdad (Keith) would go ice skating every winter. Her mum would stay home because it was too cold and she hated the ice. Lyra kind of sucks at ice skating, but Keith could participate in the Olympics and get a gold medal but he was always patient with her. It’s one of her fondest memories of her father.

Her and Keith are very competitive at board games.

Keith worked his little girl to the bone when it came to soccer. It caused some tension when Lyra was younger because she was angry that the standards were higher for her than anyone else. Whenever they lost, he’d point out ways she could improve and Lyra felt like the loss was her fault because he had the highest expectations of her and she couldn’t live up to them. They had a talk and they’ve found a middle ground but it did solidify Lyra’s competitiveness and perfectionism in her early teens.

Lyra had a small group of friends in high school, and a bunch of acquaintances, but after her memories resurfaced she slowly withdrew to keeping herself in the library.

Lyra was a good student and graduated in the top 10 of her year level.

Habitual daydreamer. Has based so many creative assignments and short stories off of the dreamy men and creepy monsters she envisioned as a kid.

Has the sensible daughter, wacky mum dynamic with her mum. Except she’s just a quieter version of her mum (this was before the trauma).

Both of them always plan on going to every Disneyland in existence, but they never do.

She loves driving her brother places and buying him stuff. Her parents always scold her for spoiling him.

Lyra job hopped a lot as a teen, she’d do a job for a few months and then quit to work at a different one, trying to find something that would make her happy.

Has really bad posture that only got worse after the trauma hit. She does remember to correct herself when she wants to put on a ‘strong’ image

Had a music box filled with jewellery that she kicked to pieces after having a nightmare related to her dad, which left a scar on her feet.

Disassociates a lot. She hates it when she runs and she is just so out of it that she can’t feel pain.

Developed a habit of ripping hair out of her head.

Her reactions around her family can be childish. Keith is so happy that she’s still his little girl, but her mum’s a bit worried that her emotional maturity has decreased.

#if only she was written better #that's what fandom's for ig #but we cannot be the ones doing all the work #authors need to help us out here #the inheritance games #tig #the brothers hawthorne #the grandest game #tig series #tig headcanons #lyra catalina kane #lyra kane

86 notes · View notes

baris-thoughts · 2 months ago

Text

I’m going to start posting my mavadi fics I scrapped. Most of them, I didn’t really know how to finish them.

Here’s one I started called Marked.

Mateo didn’t believe in soulmates.

Not really. Not that he thought they weren’t real. He wasn’t one of those skeptics who rolled their eyes and said it was all psychosomatic nonsense or government microchips or mass hysteria. He believed people had connections. Shared experiences. Chemistry, even. He’d seen it happen—between his mom and his dad in the old photo albums, between patients who refused to leave each other’s sides, between friends who always showed up at the exact right moment with the same right words.

So yeah. He knew soul marks were real. He didn’t think they meant anything.

Most people acted like they were the greatest cosmic gift ever delivered—proof that you weren’t alone, that somewhere out there was someone tethered to you by invisible threads and shared skin. For them, every new mark was a message. A clue. A love letter. They drew smiley faces on their arms in the hopes that someone would smile back. They scribbled song lyrics on their thighs, hearts on their knuckles, entire conversations across their collarbones. And they waited. Obsessively. Desperately. It sounded like a fairy tale. A nice one, sure. Poetic, even. But still a fairy tale.

Mateo found the whole thing exhausting.

Growing up, he’d see kids comparing marker lines on their arms, wide-eyed and breathless like they were decoding the universe one squiggle at a time. He’d hear the gasps in school hallways when someone developed a sudden nosebleed, or the giggles when a classmate woke up with “poophead” written on their forehead in mirrored Sharpie letters.

People made jokes like, “Better not get a tattoo unless you want your soulmate to hate you,” and he laughed along. Smiled. Nodded. Played the game. But he never gave it much thought.

Mateo didn’t chase it. Didn’t draw messages back. Didn’t sit up late at night staring at some fresh ink wondering who they were, what they looked like, or what they were doing when they wrote it. He didn’t scribble hearts or coordinates or poetic half-sentences. And he didn’t build his life around finding someone he might never meet.

“Do you ever wonder what they’re like?” people would ask him.

“Sure,” he’d say. “In the same way, I wonder what’s inside a locked box I’m never gonna open.”

It wasn’t bitterness. Not really. Mateo just wasn’t wired for fantasy. Love, in his mind, wasn’t something that was scribbled on your skin by someone miles away. It was something built—day by day, with effort and patience and arguments about where to order takeout. Something earned. Not assigned.

He dated like normal people did. He fell in love once, and it ended like most first loves do—awkwardly, with mutual apologies and silent bruises that had nothing to do with soulmarks. She’d gotten a doodle once on her stomach—a little blue wave—and asked if he thought it meant anything.

“I think someone was bored in math class,” he said.

She laughed. That was one of the better memories.

So yeah, he got cuts. Bruises. The occasional weird red mark he couldn’t explain.

And maybe sometimes, late at night, he’d stare at a mystery scratch or a weird half-heart ink stain and wonder. Just for a moment. But nothing ever lasted. Nothing ever matched.

He figured his soulmate was either boring, unlucky, or didn’t exist.

And honestly?

That was fine.

Mateo had enough to worry about—nursing school, paying rent, making sure his mom didn’t overwork herself back in Carolina. Surviving twelve-hour shifts without throwing up in the supply closet. He didn’t have the luxury of dreaming about destiny. He didn’t need to be mooning over mystery scars.

Besides, it was always the same story. His friends would get hopeful over a birthmark or a shared freckle. They’d fall in love with a bruise and get their hearts broken when it faded. Soulmates were a gamble. And Mateo didn’t play games he couldn’t afford to lose.

Then came the hospital. Residency. Long nights. Bright lights. Lives in his hands. Still, no soulmarks meant anything.

Until Victoria Javadi.

Before he even met her, he heard she’d fainted.

Not exactly rare in the ER, especially among med students on their first rotations. Most showed up in spotless sneakers and crisp scrubs, wide-eyed and jittery until the adrenaline kicked in. She looked the part. Spoke the part. Did everything right.

And then she collapsed.

Dropped like a stone—slammed to the ground beside a “leg” that looked like it had been fed through an industrial shredder. She crumpled on impact, and when she came to, she sat bolt upright, like sheer posture could erase what had just happened.

The nickname came quickly, courtesy of Santos: Crash.

She hated it.

But she earned her redemption during Pittfest. Trusted her instincts. Stood up to her mother. Came back a few days later with a tighter ponytail and tighter posture, pretending she wasn’t running on fumes. She took the teasing with a thin-lipped smile, eyes glassy but unyielding making it clear she'd rather die than go down like that again.

Mateo found himself watching her. Not in a creepy way. Just... curious.

She was young. Brilliant. Ridiculously overprepared in the way people were when they had something to prove. She asked smart questions. Took meticulous notes. Got flustered when he teased her about the alphabetized highlighter collection in her coat pocket.

She looked at him like she was trying not to. Like noticing him was a problem she hadn’t yet figured out how to solve.

It was endearing.

He didn’t push.

Mateo had a rule: don’t date people at work. Especially not skittish med students with obvious crushes and famous last names.

But he noticed things.

The pen lines, for one.

Little doodles on her palm in green ink. “Breathe” written in blocky letters near her thumb. Tiny flowers curled at her wrist like ivy. Once, she had a quote from The Little Prince across the back of her hand, already fading by noon. She chewed her pen caps and sketched like she was trying to write reminders to herself in a language only she understood—something coded, something private. Like her thoughts were spilling out, and ink was the only way she could keep them from vanishing completely.

He never asked her about them. It felt too personal. Like asking why someone talks in their sleep, or what they dream about. But he noticed. Every day, something new bloomed on her skin—stars, hearts, constellations, strange symbols that made him want to Google runes just to see if they meant anything.

Then, later that week, he found matching ink smudges on his hand.

Just a faint green streak near his wrist, like a brush of ivy that hadn’t been there earlier. He rubbed it absentmindedly, thinking it might be from a leaky pen at work. But it didn’t come off right away. And the skin underneath tingled—just slightly. Enough to notice.

It could’ve been a coincidence. Could’ve been a shared workspace, or the kind of everyday transfer of ink and smudge that happens when two people sit close enough, long enough. But something itched under his skin. Not painfully. Not even uncomfortably. Just… enough.

He started keeping track, though he never admitted it out loud. Not even to himself. Just a mental tally. Quiet observations.

When she drew a sunflower behind her ear, one appeared on the inside of his elbow the next day. Faint. Delicate. Like a whisper of ink. When she doodled a crooked star near her knuckle, his thumb tingled all afternoon. He scrubbed his hands in the break room bathroom, with harsh soap and hot water. The mark didn’t come off.

Still, he said nothing.

He told himself it was absurd. Impossible. Magical thinking, or maybe sleep deprivation. But part of him waited for it now. Watched her fingers, the way she idly twisted her pen between them. The way she tapped it against her lips before she started drawing. Each new sketch on her skin felt like a secret message he hadn’t learned to read yet. And each time something showed up on his hand, his breath caught in a way he couldn’t explain.

Soulmates were messy. Complicated. And Victoria? Victoria was already a mess of ambition and nerves, all tightly wound focus and trembling hands. She couldn’t afford the distraction, and he couldn’t afford the hope.

He let it go.

Tried to.

And then she got stabbed.

#mavadi #the pitt #ao3 #javadi x mateo #mateo x javadi #they make me sick

45 notes · View notes

gullemec · 7 months ago

Text

Pandora's Box

Golden Cage - Chapter Two

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: The Boys send you on your first mission and you end up with more than you bargained for.

Warnings: emotional abuse, daddy issues

WC: 4.5k

A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone who liked/commented/reblogged chapter one, it genuinely means so much to me🥹 i've started a taglist as well so please let me know if you'd like to be added!

The Boys, as you’ve come to know them, waste absolutely no time.

After quick introductions to MM, a steady and level-headed founding member, and Kimiko, a silent but incredibly strong Supe liberated from captivity, Butcher starts laying out the plan with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer.

On the coffee table before you sits a small fortune in spy gear: bugs, GPS trackers, cameras, audio recorders, and a litany of tiny devices that look like they belong in a spy movie. The sheer quantity makes your head spin.

Hughie kneels by the table, carefully picking up each device and explaining its purpose. His earnestness almost makes the whole thing less intimidating. Almost. Truthfully, he could tell you just about anything and you'd continue to nod along. Seeing as you've never taken up cat burglary or espionage as a hobby, you barely understand anything he's telling you.

“This one here,” Hughie says, holding up a tiny black button-like device, “is a bug. A listening device. You stick it somewhere, and it picks up sound within about twenty feet. Pretty good range.” He hands it to you, and you turn it over in your fingers, pretending to understand.

Behind him, Butcher leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watches the two of you silently, his eyes flicking between the gear and your increasingly overwhelmed expression.

“Right,” Butcher drawls, pushing off the wall and strolling over. He snatches the bug from your hand, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. “Here’s how this works: you stick this under your dad’s desk or somethin’ that gets a lot of traffic. We’ll be able to hear every dodgy little word that comes out of his mouth.”

You nod, eyes wide, shellshocked. You're taken back to the time your mother brought you to see Spy Kids and you spent an entire month afterward somersaulting around the house and peeking around corners pretending you, too, were a spy. You had even begged her to order you a spy kit through your school's Scholastic Book Fair. The real thing, as you've come to learn, involves much less gymnastics and invisible ink than you'd originally thought.

This is all so ridiculous. You woke up this morning prepared to face another day of monotonous lab reports, mind-numbing thinktank meetings, and unending feelings of inadequacy. Now you’re playing Inspector Gadget with a ragtag group of vigilantes to infiltrate a corrupt conglomerate that may or may not be responsible for your mother’s death.

If you don’t laugh, you’re pretty sure you might just cry.

Butcher doesn’t seem to notice your inner spiral. “Easy as pie,” he adds, smirking like it really is that simple.

“Sure,” you murmur, trying to sound more sure than you feel.

Hughie, sensing your nerves, holds up another device, a thick black disc about the size of a hockey puck. “This one’s a GPS tracker. While you’re planting the bug, Frenchie and I’ll slap these on your dad’s and Monica’s cars. That way, we’ll know where they go and when.”

Your stomach twists. This is all so surreal.

Hughie hesitates, his brow furrowing as he takes in your face. “Look, I get it. It’s a lot. First time I got roped into this, Butcher had me bug the Seven’s meeting room. Thought I was gonna throw up the whole time.”

You gape at him. “Wait, you bugged the Seven? How the hell did you pull that off?”

“I didn’t,” Hughie says with an awkward laugh. “Got caught.”

Your eyes widen. “You got caught?” The words come out more panicked than you intend, and your sweaty palms rub against the worn fabric of the couch. “Oh, God, I can’t— this is —what if I —”

Your mind explores every possibility, every unique way this can, will, go horribly wrong. Monica finds the bug and calls security. Your dad catches you red-handed, his disappointment turning into something darker.

Or, perhaps worst of all, you succeed and uncover the truth, and it will be worse than the weight of the uncertainty you've carried.

A heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder, stopping your thoughts cold.

Your head snaps up, and your eyes meet Butcher’s. His expression is calm but firm, and his grip feels strangely reassuring. For a moment, the world seems to steady itself. You grab his hand instinctively, your fingers brushing his. He notices, clears his throat, and pulls away, leaving you colder than you’d like to admit.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Smarter than Hughie, anyway. Low fuckin’ bar, I know, but still.”

“Hey!” Hughie protests from the floor. “What the hell?”

But Butcher’s already moved on, ignoring him. “Focus on the job. We’ll be outside in the van, listenin’ through the bug. If anything goes sideways, just leg it outta there.”

The authority in his voice is oddly comforting. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve misjudged him, if there’s more to him than the sarcastic, sharp-edged persona he’s so quick to project.

Hughie looks between the two of you, confusion playing on his face.

Butcher clears his throat. “‘Less of course you have a run in with Homelander. I ain't dealing with that cunt today.”

Ah, yes. There's the asshole who kidnapped you. You nod sagely, grimacing.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins, wolfish. “That’s the spirit.”

You roll your eyes, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Hughie glances between the two of you, his confusion obvious. “Wait, is Homelander actually a risk here? Or is he just —”

“Don’t overthink it, Hughie,” Butcher cuts in, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him wince. “She’ll be fine. Won’t ya?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

But as the plan starts to crystallize, the reality of what you’re about to do settles in your chest like a weight.

Fine is a relative term.

~~~

Frenchie deposits you back where he found you, the cloak of secrecy still intact. Sure enough, your heels and lab coat remain where you left them, an unremarkable crumple of fabric and leather in the shadows. It's somewhat comforting to know no one else has discovered your secret smoke spot, but disappointing all the same that not a single soul came looking for you.

Eight hours. The workday has long since ended, and it’s painfully clear that the wheels of CytoGenix churn on, unbothered by your lack of presence. You collect your things and swipe your badge, heels clicking sharply against the cold tile as the fluorescent lighting hums its dispassionate scrutiny above.

CytoGenix headquarters looms like a monument to ambition, nearly as ostentatious as Vought Tower. Fifty-five stories of cutting-edge labs, supercomputers, and glassy offices stretching high above Manhattan. Your father insisted that keeping most everything in-house kept CytoGenix self-sufficient, giving it an edge against the competition. You wondered if that same logic applied to the crown jewel of the building, his infamous combination office and bedroom in the penthouse. Your mother used to jokingly refer to the family home upstate as your father's vacation home, since he primarily lived out of the office. You couldn't deny that conducting an affair mere feet away from his work desk met the definition of efficient.

You step into the elevator now, the glass box offering a vertiginous view of the city below as it rises. The sight makes your stomach churn, so you focus on the reflective silver doors instead, breathing slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth.

The penthouse is as you remember it, coldly modern and sleek, with wide-open spaces and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the cityscape. Soft jazz hums from a turntable wedged between a pair of file cabinets, a strange touch of warmth in the otherwise sterile setting.

Your father’s mahogany desk is the only thing that breaks the space’s futuristic aesthetic. Stacks of papers teeter precariously, coffee mugs crowd the edges, and there he sits, hunched over a legal pad, scribbling furiously. He barely registers your presence as you approach, only flicking his eyes up briefly before returning to his work.

He says your name flatly, without warmth or curiosity, the same tone he might use for a colleague interrupting his train of thought.

Your heels click purposefully as you move closer, forcing yourself to breathe steadily, to keep your hands from trembling. You can’t afford to give yourself away. He can't suspect that you're here for any reason other than a friendly meeting between father and daughter.

Only, that in and of itself is suspect in your case.

When you look at him now you wonder if you see anything new, a different plane of his face you'd never noticed before, a nervous tic you'd ignored. Something, anything, that might suggest his culpability in your mother's death. Did he know? If so, what did he know? Had he been a passive player, vaguely aware that it was no accident? Or had he orchestrated the entire thing, feigning his grief all this time?

Who was the man sitting in front of you?

“Hi, Dad,” you begin, making sure you sound completely neutral.

“What is it?” he replies, not bothering to look up.

A flare of irritation rises, but you stamp it down. You’d expected this. “I was hoping we could talk.”

That finally gets his attention. He leans back, raising an eyebrow. “About?”

“The internship,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “I just… I don’t think it’s working out. I’ve been thinking I might explore other opportunities instead.”

He stares at you for a moment, blinking slowly, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke he doesn’t find funny. Then he exhales, tossing his pen onto the desk.

“Are you kidding me?” he says, brimming with disdain. “You’re giving up already? How many times have Monica and I talked to you about seeing things through? About doing something useful with your life?”

The sting of his words is familiar, like a bruise you’ve stopped noticing. Still, it’s enough to spark a flicker of anger.

“I’m not giving up, Dad. I’m just saying this might not be the best fit — ”

He cuts you off with a scoff, rising abruptly from his chair. “Fit? Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. The world isn’t about fit, it’s about work. Something you’ve clearly never understood.”

You grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself as he paces, one hand rubbing the crown of his balding head.

“I spent tens of thousands of dollars sending you to school overseas,” he continues, almost at a shout now. “You didn’t need a fancy education for this job but I agreed anyway, because you and your mother insisted on it. And for what? So you could come back here and whine about an internship? Biology isn’t going to help you run a company, sweetheart. Know your place.”

“I’m trying to tell you —”

“No! You don’t get to try,” he snaps, spinning to face you. “You do. You’re going to finish this internship, and then you’re going to take the seat on the board. Enough of this nonsense.”

You can see the veins in his temple pulsing, growing louder with each syllable. It should scare you, the way his anger always boils over so quickly, but instead it just feels… predictable. Like muscle memory.

He's working himself into a frenzy, rising from his desk to pace around the room, reciting old adages about a hard day's work and bemoaning the laziness of today's youth, errant jabs directed toward your personal shortcomings scattered throughout.You absently consider making a bingo sheet with his favorite token phrases to bring to your next family dinner, barely concealing a chuckle at the thought of shouting BINGO! as Monica demurely chews her smoked salmon across from you.

Finally he turns to rest his head on the bookshelves that flank his desk, as though he were seeking refuge from your insolence among the leather-bound books you were certain he'd never read.

Perfect.

As he mutters to himself, your hand slips into your pocket, fingers closing around the small bug. He fades into a dull roar as you focus on the desk, feeling along its underside until you find the right spot. The adhesive sticks fast.

Done.

“You’re right,” you say robotically, standing and smoothing your skirt. “I’ve been stressed. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Stressed? Sweetie, you don’t even know the first thing about stress.”

Have you ever been kidnapped? You think.

Your teeth clench, but you force a smile, nodding as though you agree. Your eyes drift to a velvet painting of lilies above the turntable, the soft white flowers providing a point of focus as his voice fades into background noise.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” you say suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. You grab your purse and head for the elevator.

But something makes you stop, your hand hovering over the button. Something about his anger and the way you learned from your mother how to deal with it, how to defuse the bomb. You turn back to face him as he sits down to resume his work, the rage leaving his body as rapidly as it had arrived.

“You know, I really miss her. Mom, I mean.”

The words seem to strike him like a physical blow. He freezes, his face unreadable. After a moment, he clears his throat and forces a tight smile. “I miss her too.”

Liar. Thief. Asshole.

You say nothing. You leave. You hold your tears all the way down the elevator, all the way down the fluorescent hallway, all the way until ‒

Clickclickclick.

The sound of bitchy little heels, but not your bitchy little heels. The shrill echo of your name, all false sweetness and feigned excitement.

“Monica,” you say stiffly as she approaches, taking in her perfectly laid curls, pristine white blouse, and silk pencil skirt. The picture of elegance, the bane of your existence.

“Darling,” she coos, her saccharine voice grating. She places a hand on your shoulder, her grip just a little too firm. “What are you doing here so late? You’re usually long gone by now doing… Whatever it is you do.”

She says it like she's not quite sure what the hell you could possibly be doing with your time that doesn't involve being hunched over a desk, awash in the glowing blue light of a computer screen. You'd endured many a lecture from Monica about work ethic and potential, always with the implication that you were severely lacking in both departments. You desperately wanted to ask her if she'd ever familiarized herself with things like fidelity or morals, but reasoned it would be easier to just keep your mouth shut.

You force a smile, brushing her off. “Just stopped by to see my dad. Nothing exciting.”

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, you wonder if she sees through you. Can she clock your quickening heart rate, or the sheen of sweat on your face? Does she notice the frizz of your hair, the way you couldn't quite get it to sit the way it had before a hood had been thrown over it? She knows something is off, just not what exactly.

But then the plastic smile returns, all teeth and no sincerity.

“Lovely,” she says, squeezing your arm. “Well, don’t be a stranger. Cheers, darling.”

Monica loves to talk like a posh Londoner sometimes, like she wasn't born in Cheboygan, Michigan. You could vomit.

As she clicks away, you exhale and slip out into the alley. Across the street, the van waits, nondescript under the streetlights.

You’re vaguely aware of the bitter irony as you climb back into the van of the very men who kidnapped you hours earlier, but the relief is undeniable.

“I did it! And he didn’t even notice!” you announce, grinning despite the bizarre circumstances. Your heart thuds in your chest, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

The silence hits harder than expected. Butcher, Frenchie, and Hughie all avoid your eyes, their expressions ranging from uncomfortable to grim.

“Damn,” you say, trying to inject some levity. “Not even a ‘good job’? I was expecting at least one sarcastic thumbs-up from you guys.”

Nothing.

The tension in the van is thick and stifling, coiling in your chest like a lead weight.

It’s Hughie who finally speaks. “Wow, you, uh... weren’t kidding when you said your dad’s an asshole.”

The smile falls from your face. The weight doubles.

They heard.

They heard everything.

Every cutting word. Every ounce of disdain your father had casually thrown your way. All of it.

You feel like you’re standing naked under a spotlight. “Oh my God,” you stammer, your voice small and wavering. “I’m sorry you guys had to hear that. I —”

“It’s fine, ma poupette,” Frenchie interrupts gently. “Do not let it sit in your heart. It is... nothing.”

You nod, grateful for his kindness, but it doesn’t help. The sting of exposure lingers, burrowing deeper. Despite your rather brutal introduction, you can’t help but feel a sort of kinship with the Boys. These men have been through hell, you know that, but something about them hearing your father’s tirade, hearing things you secretly believe about yourself echoed by the man who raised you, feels suffocating.

Your eyes drift to Butcher, hoping for some snide remark or offhanded quip to cut through the tension. Instead, he says nothing at all, his jaw tight as he avoids your gaze entirely.

Before the silence can grow unbearable, a crackle of static from the nearby receiver draws everyone’s attention. Hughie leans forward, fiddling with the dials as a voice filters through, thin and distorted.

Monica.

“I saw her in the hallway downstairs. What was she talking to you about?”

Your father's voice responds. “Bitching and moaning.”

He laughs. Monica laughs. You wince.

Hughie plays with some dials, attempting to improve the sound, pretending like he didn't just hear that exchange.

When Monica's voice filters through again, it's clearer. “I come bearing good news,” she says, her tone syrupy and smug.

“Oh? Do tell,” your father replies.

“Quality Control will be testing the first batch of V2 in a couple weeks. Please tell me I can invite some of my Vought friends?”

Your stomach twists.

“Baby, you know exactly how to make a man happy,” your father drawls, his voice carrying an oily satisfaction. “Of course you can. Now, come here.”

Then, sounds. Sounds you'd rather not hear. Evidently, sounds the others would rather not hear as well, as Hughie quickly flips a switch, killing the audio.

The silence that follows is deafening.

“What the fuck is V2?” Hughie blurts out, breaking the tension. His words are edged with unease, his wide eyes darting between you and the others.

You shake your head slowly, the knot in your stomach tightening. “I-I don’t know. CytoGenix and Vought have done joint projects before, but it’s usually just sponsorships or tech. Nothing like this.”

Butcher leans back with a sigh. His hand moves to his face, dragging down as if trying to physically scrape off his frustration. “I don’t know what it is,” he growls, “but it sounds a bloody sight worse than V.”

Frenchie lights a cigarette, his hands shaking. “If it is anything like the first, then we are in very deep shit, mes amis.”

Your chest tightens further as the implications hit you. V2. A new generation of the drug that turned people into ticking time bombs of chaos and destruction. A knot of guilt begins to form in your chest, curling tighter with every second.

This was your father’s doing.

“Whatever it is,” Butcher says finally, “we’re not letting it see the light of day.”

His eyes flick to you for the first time since you entered the van, assessing. It’s not pity, not anger. It’s expectation.

You realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s already decided you’re a part of this fight now. Whether you like it or not.

~~~

The van pulls up outside your apartment building on the Upper East Side. After the chaos of the day, the sight of the familiar facade feels almost surreal. A part of you wonders how you’re supposed to just... walk back into your life as if everything hasn’t been irrevocably altered.

You glance back at the men in the van, your kidnappers turned allies, and feel a pang of awkwardness. “Alright... goodbye, I guess?” you offer, uncertain.

Butcher gives a dry, humorless smile. “In a week’s time, come back to the laundromat. Bring some clothes, do laundry like a good little citizen ‘til one of us shows up. If you’ve got a tail, they’ll think you’re just there to bleach your knickers.”

“Okay, I can do that,” you reply quickly, trying to sound more confident than you feel. Deep down, you want to prove yourself to them, to him. To show you’re not the helpless daughter your father paints you to be, in spite of what they heard today.

In spite of what you think of yourself every day.

You climb out, but before you can take more than a few steps toward the building, a hand grabs your elbow. You turn, startled, to find Butcher standing there.

“Let me walk you up,” he says, his tone gruff but somehow quieter than usual.

You blink. Butcher? Offering to walk you up to your apartment? You glance back at the van and catch Hughie and Frenchie craning their necks, their expressions mirroring your own disbelief.

“Uh... sure,” you say, fumbling for words. “I mean, I’m fine. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t respond, just nods toward the building. Reluctantly, you lead him inside.

The elevator ride is suffocatingly quiet, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but his expression is unreadable.

You feel a little silly leading the man into your lavish, paid-for-by-daddy apartment, knowing that he'll rest his head on a cot in the basement of a laundromat tonight. You wonder idly if he has an apartment to call home, or if, like your father, he too shits where he eats. You wonder why he feels the need to come in and see the apartment, but nothing about him being in your space feels intrusive.

When you open the door to your loft, you hesitate for a moment before stepping inside. “Well, this is it,” you say, faltering.

He follows you in, his eyes scanning the space. The eclectic decor, a mix of warm woods, mismatched textiles, and knickknacks, feels so far removed from the sterile confines of CytoGenix. You can’t help but notice how out of place Butcher looks here, yet oddly... fitting.

You watch as he pokes around, taking in the details. The art prints on the walls. The stack of books on the coffee table. The half-empty cup of tea you’d abandoned this morning, now cold.

For a moment, you imagine him here. Standing in your kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. Slouched on the couch, the trench coat swapped for something softer. Following you up the stairs to the loft.

Your cheeks burn, and you shake the thought away violently. What the hell is wrong with you?

His voice cuts through your daydream.

“I had a proper cunt for a dad too,” he says, his tone soft and almost hesitant.

You blink, caught completely off guard. “Oh?”

He doesn’t look at you, instead focusing on a small photo on the shelf, a candid shot of you and your mother from when you were small. He picks it up, his thumb brushing lightly over the glass. “Used to say the same shit to me and my brother. Called us lazy, useless... worse things, sometimes.”

His voice is flat, but there’s something frayed there too.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say. “I’m... sorry,” you manage.

He sets the photo back down and finally looks at you. “Don’t be. He’s six feet under now. Good riddance.”

There’s no malice in his tone, just a hollow sort of finality. For a moment, the Butcher you’ve come to know, the sharp-edged, foul-mouthed enigma, feels human.

But as quickly as he let the walls down, they slam back into place. “You got your mum’s autopsy report here?” he asks, clipped.

You nod, the sudden shift catching you off balance. “Yeah. I’ll get it.”

You head upstairs to retrieve the manila envelope, your hands trembling as you pull it from its hiding spot. When you return, he takes it from you without a word, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

The two of you stand there, the silence heavy. You want to say something, anything. To thank him for helping you, to ask about the man behind the trench coat, to yell at him for upending your life in the span of a single day. But the words stick in your throat.

It’s Butcher who finally speaks. “I’ll look into it,” he says, tucking the envelope under his arm. “See if it’s legit.”

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then, without another word, he turns and heads for the door.

“Well,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder, “I’ll see you in a week.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The sound of the lock clicking into place feels deafening in the quiet that follows.

You sink onto the couch, the events of the day crashing down on you all at once.

An eternity seems to have passed since that midnight phone call, since the sterile voice on the other end of the line informed you that your mother was gone. The grief had consumed you, left you hollow and detached, moving through life like a shadow of yourself. You had gone through the motions, not even making the slightest effort to force life into your flat affect. Every single day you met the world with a brave, numb face, waiting until the apartment door clicked shut before allowing the full-body, hyperventilating sobs to overtake you.

And then, in a single day, everything changed.

You glance at the photo Butcher had touched, your mother’s warm smile frozen in time. The guilt of betraying your father gnaws at you, tangled with the confusing comfort you felt among the Boys, and your inexplicable attraction toward the man who had both abducted and protected you.

Shaking your head, you retreat to your room, shedding your clothes and crawling beneath the covers. The too-big bed feels impossibly empty, and you lay there staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on you.

You stare half-lidded at the ceiling waiting for the familiar pull of your chest as the first sob claws its way out. When the tears finally come, they’re violent and unrelenting, wracking your body until it physically hurts.

Eventually, exhaustion claims you, and you dream of your mother.

Taglist: @mystic-writings

#billy butcher #fanfic #fanfiction #theboys #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher fanfic #william butcher #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #the boys #the boys tv #billy butcher x you #karl urban brainrot go brrr #billy butcher the boys

65 notes · View notes

daflangstlairde-art · 27 days ago

Text

"ivory void"

1,084 words; Ink belongs to comyet, Dream belongs to jokublog

Content warnings: Dissociation (incl. derealization, depersonalization, dehumanization), traumatic memories, bad self-worth

—

You can leave the void, but the void will never leave you.

…And that's about where the whole paragraph can end. The whole story. There it is, laid out neatly: the start and end of Ink's life. Well, "life". 'Existence' would be more correct, maybe.

And it doesn't have to be the Void. Just… a generic void. An umbrella term, if you will. It could be an abandoned concept of an AU. It could be a blank canvas. It could be the Save Screen, or it could be the Antivoid. That doesn't matter.

It's all the same in the end. And it just… it never goes away. Ever. It can change shape or context or quantity, but it's always there. To say Ink carries a piece of it with him would also be incorrect, as that would imply it's something separate from him.

It isn't. That's the thing about the void. It just becomes a part of you. It becomes you. You become it. One and the same, intertwined.

Here it is now, for example.

The scene is domestic. Today has been a slow day, really, a nice day. The sun is setting in Underswap, surface; painting the room a bit golden. Blue and Dream are in Blue's kitchen. Making… food. It smells nice. Their voices carry over.

Ink is sitting on the back of the couch. His brush laid on the couch at his feet.

And the void, his dear friend, always with him.

A shadow. In the same way a shadow isn't something separate, it is you outside of you. It is your shape; you where the light is absent.

And Ink is so good with a spotlight. He's so good at directing it, whether at others or just the right parts of himself. Highlighting exactly what he wants seen and nothing else. Chasing the shadows away or stuffing them to the side. Only sometimes the light catches something, there, at the outskirts, but nothing beyond that. He's so good at playing his role — the tech support, the stage hand, the director, the audience, heck, even an actor himself. Paint yourself red for a fight, blue for a tragedy, so on and so forth. The audience see what you want which just so happens to be only what they want, nothing else.

Here is the actor. Here is the stage hand. When the show is over, the 'actor' disappears, because it is a thing you do, really, not who you are. You're an actor when you're acting, heh, pretty obvious.

Hm. Stupid. So deep. So philosophical. He's zoning out again then.

It's like everything is coated in a thin, invisible film of void. Or, maybe, it's Ink who's wrapped up in it like cling-wrap or latex all over. A barrier between him and everything else, every object he could theoretically touch.

Between him and the rest of the living room. Him and the kitchen. The voices in the kitchen, the smell of dinner permeating the house. It's… it's…

…The void will never leave him.

It's part of him. He's part of it. The start and the end and also everything in the middle. You can't march towards obscurity if you're already there. The lines aren't blurry, they're nonexistent.

He's… staring at his hands. Flexing his fingers.

…Dead.

Soulless. Literally. No life streams underneath. He doesn't feel hunger at the smell of cooking meat and whatnot that wafts from the kitchen. It's nice, but it means nothing. Glitter and stuff. Flavor text, haha.

His hands. His fingers. Plastic and wood and marble and stuff. He wonders if Pygmalion can repeat that fun trick. Then casts the thought aside — that would require love in order to work, and, well. If Ink's Creator loved him to begin with…

…Hm. So deep. So philosophical. He's voiding out again.

The hollowness of his ribcage. Of everything inside of him. Absences are only noticeable when you shine the spotlight on them, so Ink tends to keep it away from there.

But light has a tendency to refract, and your eyes adjust, and suddenly he's sitting on the back of Blue's couch and staring at his hands and everything is just numbers and objects. Suddenly he's never been more aware of the hollowness inside, except that's not true, because he's always aware of it, it's him, and it's always there, and it always will be. Dear old friend, heh. He wonders if Galatea was solid marble on the inside, at least. Hm, no, she wasn't marble, he's misremembering.

And the outside, the outside… glitter. At least glitter is pretty under the spotlight, heh, draws the eye and all. Flavor text. Might as well be pleasing to consume, compensate for the lack of nutrition and satiation. The hollowness that remains.

Hm. Ink is… Ink isn't. An exercise in contradiction, but he makes it work. The answer to the question, how can you have an 'antithesis' without a 'thesis'? It's him. He's the antithesis. Unfortunately he's softblocked from synthesis, due to, y'know, lacking that pretty important first step.

"You've heard about one or two philosophers, we get it," he mutters in humor. His own voice is so… it's… hmf. Well. Sound can't really travel in nothing. You can't scream into the abyss, actually, which is funny, because he has.

He did.

A lot.

He screamed and screamed and. Cried. Hurt. Begged. He walked around. Did cartwheels and stuff.

And white, and white, and–

"We're dooneeee~!" Blue declares in a loud sing-songy voice, walking out of the kitchen at last, judging by the sound of his footsteps.

Ink doesn't turn to look at him, not out of any decision for it; he feels like marble, a little, or… ah, no, what was it, ivory? Ivory, he thinks. He can't remember, nothing new.

"Ink?? Are you gonna try it??"

"You don't have to," Dream's voice floats in too. Heh. Maybe they're the crazy ones, talking to the ivory flower on the wall. At least it's pretty. "We know you can't really digest it, but you can still try a bite just to taste,"

He flexes his fingers. They're not real. They're not people.

"I made sure to add a few extra spices in there to make it more flavorful mweheheh!"

"Blue we were following a recipe-!"

…That's okay. Ink isn't real. Ink isn't a person. He can make it work, he thinks. He can leave the void once more. It will always wait for him, and he will always come back. How kind.

22 notes · View notes

derangedanomaly · 1 year ago

Note

I’ve just seen that you did my request and I love it, ty!! (I was the one that requested the weird sleep scenario)

I’d like to request something again, bad sanses + star sanses with a gender neutral skeleton reader that sorta has powers like a genie. They can float, turn invisible, (still has most of the powers a usual sans has) and are very mischievous. The way they can grant wishes is giving someone a marble looking thing and when that person makes a wish, the marble will break and they’ll have to repay reader with something (can be either something shiny or some bones to chew on) they also don’t have a bottle, that’s the only genie thing they don’t have lol

Can i be 💤 anon?

Ah! Hello again anon💤! :D

Yes, that request was quite fun to write! Ok, since there are so many characters, they're probably not gonna be very long, still, I hope you'll enjoy this!

(Sorry for taking so long!)

Au Sanses x Genie reader

(Nightmare, Killer, Dust, Horror, Error, Dream, Ink, Swap)

Nightmare:

Nightmare actually found your powers quiet mesmerizing at first.

He interrogated you about the powers, and pronounced that your powers aren't very much helpful to him..I mean, yeah, you can grant wishes, but what exactly can- OH MY GOD IS THAT THE LIMITED BOOK HE WANTED BUT COULDN'T MANAGE TO GET?!

Keeps you around simply just for granting wishes 💀 (Asshole)

Doesn't really like the way your powers operate, but can't really do anything about it 🤷‍♀️

Please, don't try to scare him by turning invisible, he might just kill you.

Your relationship has a very rocky start...but you both slowly started to get along.

I swear...he has a constant headache just by your friendship with Killer.

He would do anything in order for you two to stop pulling these stupid pranks on him.

Sometimes likes to stare at you while you're floating around. He just finds that really cool. (Bitch is not gonna admit that 💀)

He hates how much he loves you 🥰

Killer:

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

Killer always felt like the odd one among the bad sanses...they all had their own perspective best friend, but he didn't have one.

Until you came along.

Killer's so clingy towards you after you became best friends...

You guys do a lot of stuff together! Many of them include pranking the others though..

Killer keeps on flirting with you in hopes of scoring a date with you. And if you don't get his flirting, then he'll just cover it up by saying that it's just a friendly banter. (It breaks his nonexistent heart though :(

The first time you scared him by turning invisible, he got very angry, until noticing it was you. Then his whole mood shifted as he just laughed it off. (Bro is a simp)

He was, and will be, so confused that you don't have a bottle. Like what do you mean that it doesn't work like in Aladdin?!

He likes to bother you with very useless wishes, "I wish for that remote on the table to appear in my hands." It was in front of him.

Bro is BROKE ASFF!!! His wallet cries after every wish he makes.. he could repay you with something else than money..but he didn't like to give his stuff away.

Dust:

Dust is a closeted nerd...so of course the first thing he does is whip out his book and write down everything about you.

It's his first time seeing a genie. Of course he's gonna ask a lot of questions!

He loves to study you, to the point where you felt like a wild animal in the Zoo.

He's silently sitting on a nearby chair as you grant Horror his wish, staring at you.. studying how your powers work.

It's gotten to the point where you're getting kinda creeped out..

You, at first, thought that he wanted to make a wish or something, but when he denied it just as you asked him.. you got confused even more.

Bro is staring so much that he eventually stops studying your powers, and is instead studying you.

He now notices even the smallest things about you.

Is getting a little obsessed, not gonna lie, but it's cute. So you'll allow it ;)

Horror:

His reaction to you being a genie is actually very wholesome.. (surprisingly). He wishes for his Au to not be in deep starvation..and for them to finally get out of the underground. Basically, kinda resetting everything that's happened after Frisk left.

You sadly can't grant this wish of his, which leaves him sad and angry. But you do give him a giant meat. (Which made his mood a little better.)

You started to feel sad for him after this moment, so you started to talk to him regularly. Which he enjoyed.

Horror's not much of a talker, so he'll just listen to you most of the time.

It's also partially because he likes to listen to your voice.. ❤️

Horror likes the sound that your powers make whenever you grant a wish, so he's always nearby whenever you're granting wishes. (It's just a little bell that sounds off)

Becomes attached to you, very quickly.

Defends you from Nightmare to the best of his abilities.

Horror's the tallest of the Sanses, (my HC) so he'll be so mesmerized when you float up higher above him. He won't lie, he likes this change. Having to look up for once instead of down.

He likes how your powers operate. It seems fair to him. 🤷‍♀️

Error:

He immediately took advantage of the fact you can grant wishes.

He wished for so many things! Such as; getting Classic's autograph, make Ink disappear, have a popcorn maker, wishing for chocolate,...

He actually doesn't like how you can float. He can't wrap his strings around you and pull you along now! >:(

You're getting on his nerves by being friends with Killer though.

After Nightmare, Error's your next target. Every.time.

Seriously sick of it. If he could, he would seperate you and Killer.IN HEARTBEAT.

He really, really.. really wants to hold your hand, but his Haphephobia doesn't allow him to 💀

Please, don't try to scare him by turning invisible. He WILL crash.

Dream:

He thinks that you must carry a big burden on your shoulders, if you're a Genie. So he gets really concerned if anything really.

He tries to pull you away from granting any wishes, every.time.

He's so cute.. dragging you away to hang out with him to forget about your work.

But he does want to see how your powers operate.

Finds it amazing that you can float, turn invisible... everything really!

After your long persuadation, he gives in and makes a wish.

His wish is really sad...he wishes to have his brother and Au back. He wants to reverse time! Which, as we know, you can't do. It's against the rules to change what was already done. So you politely decline, explaining him exactly why.

Dream's a really understanding person, so of course he doesn't mind it or isn't angry.

What was past...is past. What matters now, is that you're here in the present. Nothing else should matter. ^^ (his words)

Ink:

Immediately, Without hesitation, nor any filter, he asks; "Can you make me feel emotions?"

You don't grant his wish -> he sulks.

He's a forgetful shit, so he'll forget that you're a genie at times.

It's like he's on repeat at the start of your relationship. He finds out you're a genie -> wishes to feel emotions -> you decline -> he sulks -> forgets 💀

Be prepared for this at times.

But after knowing you for awhile, he finally remembers and stops asking you that damn question.

He doesn't have much opinions about you tbh. He's seen some shit, so he's not all that fazed from you being a genie.

The part that shocks him the most is that you don't have a lamp. (His reaction is similar to Killer. Bro confused you for Aladdin 💀)

Y'all have a rocky relationship 🤷‍♀️

Don't worry though, after you get to know each other a bit more, he'll cling to you like a Koala.

Swap:

Similar reaction to Dream. He feels concerned for your mentality.

Everyone's always going to you to grant their wish, but Swap's soul is too kind for his own good. Instead of wishing something for himself, he asks you; "What do you wish for?"

You cried that time. (He was scared that he did something wrong 💀)

You started treating him as if he was some precious gold. Which got him flustered.

He treats you as if you were his queen. Brings you food, helps you out a lot... You name it.

He just feels so much love for you, it's unbelievable.

Doesn't mind your little pranks with Killer. He just sees that as your little escape from work. Which he feels happy for. :)

He just smiles softly whenever you prank him with Killer in tow.

He's so patient and kind towards you😭

Doesn't mind you floating around or the fact that you can turn invisible, you're you, and that's something he never wants to replace.

#undertale fandom #sans undertale #undertale #sans x reader #nightmare sans x reader #dust sans x reader #killer sans x reader #error sans x reader #horror sans x reader #dream sans x reader #ink sans x reader #swap sans x reader

186 notes · View notes

mattzerella-sticks · 4 months ago

Text

There is something about this page...

I think we're going to find out that the "Queen" did not 'choose' to enter a bad trip, and that she was pushed towards it through some type of manipulation.

The first panel looks like she received some type of relay, especially if you take into consideration the little splotch of white against the ink black backdrop, right along where the eye meets temple. It looks almost like a bloodstain. Did she get shot with a psychic bullet that gave her an invisible lobotomy? That caused her to have a personality shift in the following third panel?

My first instinct is to lay the blame at Etienne's feet. We know he has mental powers, she looks to be suffering some kind of psychic damage, and he was suspiciously... absent... in this issue. He appears in three panels, only speaks in two. What he says is that "if they have the chance (to kill her) they should, because she's an unknown variable".

I think that this "Queen" could have achieved her goal. I think she could have made Heaven on Earth. And Etienne gamed the risks out in his head and calculated that there was a slight chance she could go nuclear down the line and cause the end of the world, so he sets her off early and - while the entire continent of Europe is lost - it's an acceptable loss compared to the entire planet they would have lost had she been allowed to continue her mission and, somewhere along the line, she goes berserk.

We already know he is the type of person to kill one victim instead of four when faced with the trolley problem. An acceptable sacrifice.

HOWEVER

I also have this nagging suspicion about the "Queen's" origins, and it has something to do with this panel -

"...I was asleep through the whole thing."

ASLEEP?!?!

If Masumi was in Japan the same time Isabella was, then we know that the "Queen's" shift happened in the day. She blocked out the sun with her display of power. Not to say that Masumi has an average sleeping schedule, but on its face the excuse just makes no sense. If the "Queen" really was tearing reality apart, I don't see how the resolution of this conflict would take longer than a few minutes, maybe a few hours at best (unless we see something involving the Pyramid slowing the "Queen" in the next issue).

So what if Masumi was in a different kind of 'sleep'?

We know that when Masumi feels intense despair, a kaiju rises up to destroy things. This has happened before. However, in her appearances she hasn't really had great leaps of emotion in any other direction, like intense anger or intense happiness.

What if she can manifest different creatures based on how she's feeling, and this "Queen" was actually a 'kaiju' representation of her ecstasy? Or what if this was her original power, and something happened that made it flip and only be activated by despair? Did someone interfere? Etienne?

I want to draw some attention to a panel from a previous issue that was about Masumi, at her gallery debut. Look at her eyes.

Familiar, right?

Even the backgrounds are similar.

And thinking about how the Power Fantasy is a pastiche of super heroes but especially X-Men, mutants, and their dynamics. Etienne is Professor X, Heavy is Magneto, etc.

I, at first, assumed Valentina was the Jean Grey. The Omega with godlike powers, much like the Phoenix.

However, the Phoenix has had a storied history throughout the Marvel Universe, as a bringer of life and of destruction.

So what if Masumi was the Jean Grey of Power Fantasy? And the evolution of her power is that ANY intense feeling causes some type of psychic creature to appear?

And she was 'asleep' throughout the Second Summer of Love because she was channeling the "Queen" in Manchester? And something happened to her which then affected the "Queen", turning her into a threat? What if this was Etienne's doing?

This is all conjecture, but conjecture is all I have right now while trying to fill in the missing gaps of 'The Second Summer of Love' that have yet to be provided using the clues available to me.

We know Val was there, and she was not just an acolyte of the "Queen" but also in love with her. Heavy was busy with his kid but he showed his support of this growing movement for love, sex, and drugs. Magus wanted her gone, but he also sacrificed a LOT of his own people to stop her and it hit him HARD he wanted her out before she became a threat. Eliza sold her soul to take the "Queen" down.

That just leaves Etienne and Masumi. What were they really doing during the 'Second Summer of Love'?

#comics #comics meta #image comics #the power fantasy #kieron gillen #tpf etienne #tpf masumi #tpf second summer of love #if i learned anything in analysis interpretation and critical thinking it is to look at what's not being said #and do i think there was probably a reason etienne did what he did IF it is shown he set the Queen off? yes #the Queen was altering reality at a level that went beyond brainwashing #we all saw the cops' faces with the butterflies they were whammied #it's those subtle cues you need to look for #god i love this series #one of the best comics in 2024 AND 2025

22 notes · View notes

3lliesan · 5 months ago

Text

"Move."

Time.

Yuu didn't have much time.

They realized this after the Dwaf's Mines, the running, the fight, and the trip back from Crowley's office. Ever since that black ink sunk beneath their skin, there was no way to stop it from slowly killing them even faster unless they somehow found a way to release it.

Even before all of that, Yuu knew that their 'heart' was weak. Not having as much strength as when 'she' lived.

Yuu was almost fine with just being invisible. A passing wind, that a few would notice, and forget just as quickly when they're gone. That would leave less pain and bitter tastes...

...

But...

That feeling.

The running with a purpose to achieve something.

The trust in each of their hearts to continue living.

Going against the odds even if things seemed hopeless.

The victory.

A glimpse of any color will do. Just as it did back then.

drip. drip. drip

ba-dump. ba-dump.

There were drums in Yuu's ears right now. No. Heartbeats. Everyone was doing their best to keep themselves alive and find ways to do damage to the Blot creature behind the bloody red queen, and a close friend of one of the people involved.

[Doodle Suit] can only hold out for so long, about half the people fighting were only first-year students, and that incompetent excuse of a headmage was probably too busy to hurry up and get reinforcements to arrive.

Though, most importantly..

"...fuck--!"

Yuu was currently having a problem of their own right now.

Riddle's spear pierced their arm, pinning it to the ground.

And it took a lot of effort for them not to scream.

It stung more than any ordinary arrow. Like a parasite, it was eating away at their limb. Flesh dying black the more time passes. The ones that noticed wanted to help, shouting out in concern, but unable to do much since they needed to focus on fighting for their lives, with Yuu, the one leading the whole thing down.

Is this really it? This was how I'm going to die? What can I even do if Trey uses his unique magic? I doubt it'd lessen enough damage for anything to be done. Am I going to see the fight til' the end at least..?

Sounds went back and forth like a broken record. Yuu tried to block out the entire world with the sound of their heartbeat.

bam. bam. bam. bam.

bam. bam. bam. bam..

Is there really nothing that can be done? Come on, think! Anything!

---

"There's ghosts in the mines?!"

"You've got to be kidding-"

---

"What, you a chicken or something?"

"Who are you calling a chicken, huh?!"

"idiots- do you want to live through this or not?!"

---

"Here's the plan..."

---

"I don't know how we're still alive! Hah- haha!"

"... Bahaha-"

---

"Oi, Yuu- or should I call you prefect now~?"

"Say that again and I'll show you a demonstration with the word, defenestration." Yuu retorted without hesitation. It was still too early in the morning, they hadn't had coffee in two days, and being addressed formally never failed to weird them out.

"...You look like a pretty guy, but you're freaking scary, you know that?" Now what is that supposed to mean?

Ace sighed, making himself right at home on the previously dusty sofa. "Anyway, as I was saying. I've been wanting to ask this for a while."

"What's up with that sword? You've been keeping that thing with you since the entrance ceremony, and it's not even in good condition."

Ah, right. You've been bringing that broken blade around in its sheath. Now that both Ace and Deuce know that it's only half a sword, that makes it seem even stranger.

"What, is it a family relic? Ya trying to look cool or something?"

"That's.. uh..."

... Well, it's not like Yuu could say anything about it being the one thing tied to their past or something. The atmosphere would turn weird.

---

Yuu's eyes locked right at the unsheathed red blade, in its usual purplish glow during battle. Ever since Yuu figured out how to convert blot to magic power in small amounts, they thought that they'd never need to use the same weapon again from the previous world.

tick. tock.

They pushed their body up with their left arm the best they could, ignoring the pain from the other side.

tick. tock.

Their vision getting blurry, crawled with any remaining strength they had.

drip. drip.

There was no time to have any fantasies of an miracle to appear, nor was there any time to drown in the despair of the current reality.

. . .

The muscles were begging to stop. The fight was still ongoing. Sounds of running, dodging, clashing, and casting was heard.

There were also an air of anxiety, tense, unnerving feeling in the air.

Along with fatigue.

...

Oh, right.

I'm tired.

Taking a small nap should be fine, right?-

No, I would definitely pass out, or worse..

Give up.. then what would all that be for..?

Why am I... even trying...

----+----

"W-We did it?"

There was a moment of silence as the three tried to process what had just happened.. If the dead monster on the ground was an indication of anything.

"We won..."

"Hooray!"

"We did it!!!"

...

what is it?

Was it because we won? We survived it together? Was it the thrill?

As Yuu started having strange thoughts, they stared at their friends for a while, broken weapons loosely held, still dazed... but not from the same thing as the two boys, too happy to notice how uncharacteristic it was.

Yuu couldn't pinpoint it in a few simple words to brush it off as something cliche. No matter how many literary works they could find to somehow find a way to describe it, it wouldn't feel right...

And for the first time. Yuu wasn't sure if they wanted to figure it out whether it was a good or bad thing.

...

'I want more of it.'

----+----

"...Damnit!"

Reaching out to the purplish hue, so close yet so far, nameless continued ignoring the pitch black crawling up their skin.

drip. drip.

"Just a little... more..!"

Crawling up the neck, pulse dimming bit by bit, soon syncing with the booming of the chest.

drip. drip.

"Move."

A glimpse was all that was needed. Even if You became one with the abyss. A single strand of color in a monochrome plane was enough.

So.

Drip. Tap.

"Move, damnit!"

As soon as Yuu clenched the weapon...

-BOOM!

"...Eh? The attacks..."

"They're all dissolving and gathering towards one place...?!"

So I may or may have not decided to dump any ideas here as practice until I get back on ao3 since something is better than nothing... haha- Yea, this is brain vomit. Please do the same whenever you read what I make THANK YOU! :DDDD

(P.S: Could you tell that this is one of the few times I'm describing atmosphere and feelings? It's so complicated. And I'm going cry :'D)

@twisted-drawritings @karmicpunishment @mellosdrawings

52 notes · View notes

arthur-lesters-ass-hair · 5 months ago

Text

SPOILERS FOR PART 50

What the fuck why is this guy so much of a submissive isn't he a cultist

Orthur saw a cowboy movie four times I'm laughing my ass off because all I can envision is Brokeback Mountain

He CANNOT get on this horse and refuses a stool

Poor John trying to help- 'you were resting!' my man is trying too hard to keep this little brit from curling up

Who tf is John Wayne *Googles* oh THATS John Wayne

He can't drive this car (horse) for the life of him

Everard definitely saw Arthur suck ass at riding and nodded sagely to not laugh

IS THIS BLACK KNIGHT FUCKING SCOTTISH OH MY GOD

Does anyone ever notice John checking them out

Day of Wrath mention!!!!!

What the fuck what's happening SHUT UP YORICK

OH FUCK OH FUCK MOTHER DARKNESS OH NO

Oh this old bitch is absolutely a god no doubt

Green eyes? Hello gorgeous exotic milf

Knights are like 'does she know you baby? You sure you wanna talk to her? Blink if you need help!'

What the everloving shit is she doing with that man's greying hair

CHANTING

Oh she hates orders more than the people who killed her child- dayum Greek God coded

Also LILITH MENTIONS

SHES CANONICALLY HIS (KAYNES) DAUGHTER I FUCKING CALLED IT I CALLED IT

Oh she's genocidal alright that makes way too much sense

FEEDS ON FEAR YOU SAY???

Kayne's genetics are working hard

Paranoia planting yayy

Lilith is older than the earth??? Milf

MALEVOLENT MENTION??

YOU'RE SAYING NO TO THE ROTTONG MILF??? hot

Arrogance? Yes.

Oh not a good smile

'GOOD'?

Oh she's angy

I want this lady to dominate me

That was threatening

Houdini ass

Oh shit Lilith is like 'im baaaaaaack!!!' frfr

Wonder how Kayne feels about this hope he's a good father

Dark Knight being a thing of Mother Darkness feels too obvious

Is it the twink? Antwon? Probs. He's dead he's too innocent

Not working together??

Oh FINAL STONE?

Lilith is Thanos

Yorickkkkkkk pleaseeee

OH he's just a silenced poor little guy with autism

Healthy argument surprisingly

I hope Lilith gets a female voice actor- all these old women then BOOM female

'just saying???' fair enough

He'll absolutely not honour his word in the way Arthur hopes but oh fucking well

'hope'? YES this podcast is about hope

Oh the knight is talking

Alia or whoever she is??? Definitely not human

Seraph??? ANGL? Oh witch fair enough

Eyes and tongue? Ardur?

Human connection??? Oh she's a Yorick with tits and no tongue

Oh fuck what's the knight yelling about

KELLIN MENTION

Yeah Yorick phone but lady

What's the knight- oh he's just curious aggressively

Telling the truth? Damn orthur

Telling damn near the whole truth? Sexy but confusing

Knight is reasonable

Way too reasonable

He's evil or going to die or worse

Damn Alia is evil one way Google maps

Oh she wants to chat to the brit poor choice

HAH THE HORSE IS 'JOHN WAYNE' THANK YOU YORICK

Harlan has definitely seen the cowboy aus

WAS a vanguard wtf?

Okay telephone Alia doesn't want Lilith to win fair enough

Two souls? No shit

A role to play? Fuck this ominous shit goddamnit harlot githrie

Damn he wants a palm reading

GOOD? Huh

At least he's also confused

Arthur is fucking dead fym final act

Oh she's dead in the future

Invisible ink or something? Maybe John's special eyes

HOPE MESSAGE YES

MALEVOLENT is all about hope even with the whimpering Brit

'trust his words in the end' Is this about Yorick or John???? Fak that's gonna make conflict

PIT MENTION

They need to hug

Okay he's being hopeful that's good

They're both being hopeful!!!

Yayyy!!!!

Still ten episodes left we're so fucked

THEY ARE BEING NICE TO YORICK YAY

oh no his autism is leaving

Poor baby

HE'S BECOMING SOMETHING ELSE YAY

Awwwww he's their little autist son who is definitely going to betray them awwwwwwwwww

YAY

EPS over I am happy

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #arthur lester #arthur lesters body parts #yellow malevolent #boylife #arthur malevolent #malevolent john doe #malevolent john #jarthur

45 notes · View notes

kaiyax1 · 6 months ago

Text

ford defense essay I wrote a while back, it’s not great

In the world of fandoms, The Gravity Falls fandom has been known for its passionate discussions and debates, but one recurring trend has sparked much controversy: blaming character for flaws. It is okay to blame characters as long as there is concrete evidence, however, this is not the first time the Gravity Falls fandom has blamed a character for things. For example, one of the most famous videos in the Gravity Falls fandom’s history is a video essay that I unfortunately have been unable to locate about how Mabel is to blame for weirdmageddon. There are now of course countless videos defending Mabel, however when one character gets away from the controversy, another rises. Now let us examine our new “hated” character, Ford Pines. Everyone's favorite six fingered nerd. A recent video that was made about a month ago titled “EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT FORD IS WRONG!” While this video does bring up several good points it does not conclusively demonstrate Ford’s selfishness. In this essay, I will explore common criticisms Ford faces and why many of these claims can be easily countered against with the right arguments.

Ford and stan’s relationship:

The first topic I would like to discuss is Ford neglecting to help Stan after he got kicked out. This is often one of the first things people bring up when it comes to claiming Ford as “selfish”. If you go back and rewatch “A tale of two stans” and watch the fight between Ford and Stan before Stan got kicked out you will notice one major thing. Stan never said Sorry, all he did was suggest they go treasure hunting. While I will agree that Ford should have helped Stan, he had every right to be upset at stan. Most people would be angry if their sibling ruined their future, especially if they didn’t apologize, And it is not like Ford never helped Stan. For example, in the official gravity falls book “Lost Legends” there is a comic featuring a younger Ford and Stan about the two twins trying to find out who stole their father’s gold chain. When their father pushed the blame onto Stan, Ford immediately defended Stan claiming that he had been with Ford the whole day so there was no way he could have stolen the chain. This proves that Ford was not afraid to stand up for stan but he simply could not defend stan when it came to this.

The portal and Bill Cipher’s manipulation:

Another common criticism ties Ford’s relationship with his brother with his decision to build the portal. This decision was not made in root of selfishness but in the fact that Ford was being manipulated by Bill Cipher. Bill convinced Ford to build the portal by claiming it would benefit humanity and advance Ford's research. By preying on Ford's trust and drive, Bill turned Ford's greatest strengths into his greatest weaknesses. Making this character less of an example of a selfish one and more of a victim of manipulation.

Restarting the portal:

My next discussion is about Ford getting mad at Stanley for restarting the portal. Ford was grateful for Stanley saving him, but he also knew how much danger it could’ve caused. I will say in Stanley’s defense he didn’t know but still Ford did have a right to be upset. This is actually one of the topics I have a harder time defending Ford on, seeing as he did write his warnings in invisible ink. However, Ford wasn’t trying to be rude; he was expressing his concern. Though as much as I hate to admit it, I just can’t defend ford when it comes to this that much. While Ford's reactions were not perfect however, his frustration came from a place of concern for everyone’s safety, not from a selfish intent. Ford wrote his warnings in invisible ink due to at the time of writing being in a place of paranoia due to Bill.

Fiddleford’s mental state:

Next up I would like to bring up Fiddleford becoming mentally unstable. Ford did have a hand in this yes, but it was not his fault. Fiddleford made the memory gun on his own after they met the Gremoblin. Ford even told Fiddleford he didn’t like the memory gun and told him multiple times to get rid of it. Fiddleford even multiple times used the memory gun on Ford to erase memories. Ford did not cause Fiddleford to make the memory gun, Fiddleford made that decision on his own. Yes, Ford did have a hand in the reason Fiddleford made it but he was not the cause.

Ford and Mabel’s bond:

I would now like to mention the claim that Ford does not love Mabel as much as he does Dipper. Ford loves Dipper and Mabel equally, he spends more time with Dipper because he sees himself in him. It is natural to spend more time with certain family members due to similarities in interests. However, even if you do that doesn’t mean you love them more than another family member. Ford loves Mabel just as much as he loves Dipper, it is unfortunate we did not get a lot of Ford and Mabel interaction but that does not mean Ford does not love Mabel. While there are not as many examples of ford and mabel bonding it does exist. One example is in the episode “The Last Mabelcorn” in this episode, Ford gives Mabel the task of retrieving the unicorn hair to help protect the Mystery Shack. Once Mabel succeeds, Ford tells her he is proud of her efforts. This moment while brief highlights Ford’s respect and care for Mabel even if their interactions are less frequent than Ford and Dipper’s are.

In conclusion, Ford Pines is a complex character whose flaws are what make him human, not villainous. Critics often ignore the actual context behind many of his actions and understanding his story requires you to do more research than just the show.

#gravity falls #stanford pines #ford pines #bill cipher gravity falls #bill cipher #stanley pines #fiddauthor #billford

30 notes · View notes