#mention these losers

[spacenintendogs]

how embarrassing is it that metallica is my fucking kryptonite

[yashley]

As you all step out, what do you see?  (episode 111 spoiler:)

[pintsofguinnesmakeyoustrong]

NPMD best line deliveries

oh shit! oh fuck!! i didnt think thered be a skele'uhn here ?!? im so fucking scared of skele'uhnz!!!

dont frighten him pokey you nasssssty boy

were going to jail...and with my luck no one will even B O T H E R making me their bitch...

🐦 heyus the thing about a bãrbĕqüe...it brings folks together...from awl wawlks of laife...theyres a storhé behand everyh burrghurr...everyh kehbahhb...

but I...called God a sonofa B word...who am iaieEUGHAHuhuuuh...

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

loser!Reiner has no idea how to talk to you, and practices conversations in his head just to forget every line when you smile at him across the dining hall at dinner and just stares back wide-eyed

loser!Reiner has wet dreams about you and wakes up with a curse, heading to the showers to stand under ice-cold water and try to forget the way it felt to hold you that close (you don't have sex in the dream, just kiss but that's more than enough for his subconscious)

loser!Reiner begs Annie to swap with him when you get assigned as her sparring partner, but loses his nerve when practice starts and ends up on his ass immediately, staring up at you in a daze

loser!Reiner can't protest when you apologize and offer to walk him to the infirmary, and might even play up his weakness a little so he can lean on your shoulder on the way

loser!Reiner hasn't heard the last five minutes of your conversation because he's so distracted by the way the sunlight hits your hair, and the way your eyes crinkle when you're enthusiastic about something

loser!Reiner blushes fiercely when the medic tells him his heart is way too fast, asks if he's sick with anything, has to close his eyes and pretend you aren't there so he can breathe normally again

loser!Reiner who starts writing his wedding vows in his head when you kiss him on the cheek before heading back to your room, tell him to take care of himself, look back over your shoulder with a little wave

loser!Reiner who endures relentless teasing from Bertolt and Annie because he gets flustered beyond belief by any mention of you, but secretly likes it because it's an excuse to talk about you more

[felidaefighter]

Also I am not gonna lie, Dream was 100% right that playing a villain affected peoples' perception of him.

There was a reason we had to fight tooth and nail to get AO3 to recognize the SMP was a roleplay.

There was a reason that /rp and c![character] were created as terms.

There was a reason that every time we made a post about a character we'd have some loser screaming at us that treating "real people" "that way" was "freak behavior" etc.

Younger-audience fandoms have always had these sorts of issues where actor and character becomes blurred, but the DSMP hit during covid times, at the peak of social isolation, when those still in schools (of any kind really) were having their brains permanently altered by the isolation.

I am not surprised, and nobody should be, either.

[vale-n-tina-and-the-internet]

OK SO HERE IT GOES

Ok so story time: This was commissioned by the lovely (not to mention patient and supportive) @greypistacchio for her monumental fic Pieces of Paper we Hold, and it’s going to be the cover for the printed version she’s going to sell to raise money for SA survivors. It’s a great initiative and it comes with loads of merch from super talented artists so go.check.it.out. cuz it’s all kinds of awesome! (For real, the art for the merch is superb 😍)

Also it was my first commission ever 🤯 Nearly crapped my pants with nerves, but Gee was crazy enough to entrust it to me and I couldn’t be more grateful cause I’m kinda proud of the result and to be part of a project like this.

Some progress shots under the cut just for fun

[machveil]

okay, what are our thoughts on Loser!Johnny because I have some loud ones

CW: Fem!Reader, oh no because I was rabid for this when I thought of it, Inexperienced!Virgin!Johnny, oral (fem!receiving)

Loser!Johnny whose charismatic, talkative self somehow can’t land a hookup. he’s not afraid to chat with a stranger, confident when he leans against a bar counter to flirt, but somehow no one ever goes for him. he’s had a couple dates, but they’d never call him back, and if they did they’d have an excuse to not meet up

Loser!Johnny who lies to the 141 about having hookups, about how he’s had dozens of partners - a little too insecure to admit he’s never done anything. he goes as far as to make scratch marks down his back himself so he can brag when they’re all changing. lying through his teeth, a lopsided smile masking his nerves as he talks about how, “Aye, the last lass left with a limp.”

Loser!Johnny who’s desperate for attention, he comes up to you and stays by your side for as long as he can. he’s touchy too, hands clinging to whatever you’ll let him grab. his ears are burning hot when you smile at him, when you laugh at his jokes, god forbid you touch him. his heart hammers against his chest when you rest your hand on his bicep

Loser!Johnny who goes slack jawed when he sees your midriff, cheeks burn a little hot when your neckline is low. he can’t help but stare at you, chest tight when he manages to look away. he feels pathetic, craves any form of affection you’ll give him. he knows he’s screwed when you call him handsome, your innocent little remark making him choke up

Loser!Johnny kisses you messily, all spit and teeth and too much tongue, hands moving to grope whatever he can. you’ve barely touched him and he’s already hard, painfully so as he tries to grind his bulge against your thigh. he’s too eager to feel you, can’t help the pitiful moans leaving him as you press a gentle kiss to his lips

Loser!Johnny who mumbles ‘thank you’s against your neck between sloppy kisses and nips, caught up in the moment - finally being able to be intimate with someone, with you. and, even though he knows you wouldn’t judge him, he keeps pretending. he’s lying to himself that he knows what to do, tells himself that he’s watched enough porn to know where he should touch you

Loser!Johnny who tries to eat you out, drooling against your cunt, spit and slick coating his scruffy chin. Johnny who moans deeply when your hand weaves into his hair, pulling him back. he nearly comes in his pants when you guide him, making him suck on your clit before he dips down to lap at your slit. his legs twitch when you whine, knees digging into the sheets as you tug at his mohawk

Loser!Johnny who flushes from embarrassment when he spills into his boxers, warm cum seeping into the fabric - all because you said his name, whined it with a sharp pull of his hair. he wants to talk to you, say something dirty while you cry out for him, but for once he doesn’t have anything witty to say. instead of praising you, or murmuring something degrading, he runs his mouth against your sobbing cunt

[hualianschild]

falling for all the loser in love characters in a show/book that try to come off as cool and indifferent is so fun cuz their future partner be doing weird shit and embarrassing themselves and you'll be silently screaming and hiding your face cuz of the second hand embarrassment but then you realize this fool with heart eyes is definitely squealing like they got a high school crush and hypothetically kicking their legs and punching the air over that and that helps you calm down

[the-kr8tor]

LOSER HOBIE LOSER HOBIE LOSER HOBIE…

The requests are open?

Then I shall make a request 🤭

Do you know about secret Santa??? Basically it’s where people have to randomly pick their person to whom they will give smt (a gift). And now imagine Hobie has a big and deep crush on you in HS and then he has to get you a gift. He’s just so sweet and thinks his gift out and through for you and when you find out it’s him that got you the most amazing gift, he’s super shy and stuff. 🥰 (maybe he gets a lil kiss at the end, and then he just doesn’t know what to do and can’t sleep at night, debating if he should ask you out. Maybe a shared Christmas night 🙈)

Take your time and enjoy writing, no rush!! 🫶🏻

LOSER! HOBIE!!!!!!! 😍😍 Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (reader is mentioned wearing hair pins before) CW food mentions, High school AU, Hobie has a crush, loser! Nerd! Hobie, fluff.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Your whole class is sat around in a circle, giggles floating above whenever it's someone's turn to give their secret santa a present. You've written on your wishlist that you wanted anything that has anything to do with music, whether it's a poster of your favourite artist, a record, or a pair of headphones, you'd be happy for anything really. The atmosphere is filled with glee, the food that everyone bought for the party sits on a long table. Holiday cookies, cakes, and soda were primarily the common food brought for the potluck, save for a few spaghetti, and barbecue brought by someone who had the foresight to bring something that isn't sweet.

Chuckling at your seatmate who got the ugliest puppy plushie you've ever seen, you don't notice Hobie, aka your maths tutor and the one you've befriended the whole year, shuffling in his seat. He sits adjacent to you, eyes glancing towards your smiling face from time to time. You're well aware of his crush on you, everyone with a pair of eyes could see it. All the side glances, soft touches and the way he occasionally stutters whenever you scooch closer to him at the library are direct evidence of his attraction. And you can't deny that you feel the same, even playfully hinting at your own affection for the said man blatantly in front of his face. The whole class watches the obvious crush and ongoing train wreck that is you and Hobie tip-toeing around the feelings.

So when Hobie got your name from the bucket of names, he was beyond ecstatic, albeit terrified of what he's going to get you for secret santa. Add the fact that you might've picked his name amongst the list has him fidgeting in his seat. It has his nerves on high alert.

He tries to act cool when it's his turn to hand the gift that he painstakingly made for you. The gift consists of countless hours of him sitting with his cassette player, back aching and eyes heavy from staring at the familiar titles of songs that you like most and categorising it to best fit the theme or mood he's trying to convey. With his breath stuck in his throat, he stands up, lanky legs untangling from the crossed position, almost tripping himself over from his untied shoelace.

“Teach!” The nickname you've given him has his heart jumping in place. Your smile widens at who picked your name, the rest of the class watch on with bated breath. “What'd you get your favourite student?”

He softly smiles, handing you the magazine wrapped gift that's topped off with a sparkly red ribbon. “A scientific calculator.” Joking, you feign an offended gasp whilst the class snickers at your known enemy that is maths.

“If it's a calculator then that means I won't need you tutoring me anymore, Hobie.”

Your classmates look at you and then to Hobie, waiting for a clever or even a flirty retort from him. They're used to the back and forth between you two, but you always seem to win and with Hobie walking away with a flustered look and clammy hands.

“Nah, it just means that you've graduated from usin’ a regular calculator.”

The way the whole class rolled their eyes simultaneously in disappointment would have the earth rotate in reverse. You and Hobie are incredibly oblivious to it all. How could he take his attention away from you when you look at him with such fondness? And how could you look away from him when he looks so adorable with his bottom lip all bitten from trying to tamp down his own smile? He looks handsome when he's flustered, more so when he's staring at you all smitten.

Smiling, you wrap the end of the ribbon around your finger. “Can I open it now, or will we just stare into each other’s eyes well into new years?”

Clearing his throat, he finally notices all the eyes on him and you. “Sure, love.” The moment the term of endearment escapes his lips, he swears he heard someone from the circle squeal quietly.

“Okay!” your smile doesn't fade the entire time you were carefully unwrapping the present. Your heart skips a beat at the bundle of mixtapes in your hand. “Oh,” eyes swelling up with happy tears, you can't believe that he remembered every single song you mentioned in passing during the hours of his tutoring. You flip through the pile, each having different titles that fits the songs he mixed together written in his own hand. There's countless doodles dotted along the tapes, each having their own Hobie flare.

Your sudden quietness has Hobie queasy, he suddenly feels like he made the wrong move. “I—” starts, and you immediately spring from your seat to hug him. Before he could get over the shock of it all, you're already unlatching yourself from him. The look on his face is worth a thousand words. His eyes are wide, mouth agape as sweat dribbles from his forehead. It's the middle of London winter, and yet he feels like he's about to melt into a puddle.

“This is amazing, Hobie. Thank you.” You embrace the tapes, placing it right above your heart as you stare at him with so much affection that he would think that you reciprocate his feelings. (You do.)

“You're welcome, love.” His trembling hand reaches for yours. With trepidation, he instead moves further to cup your elbow, thinking that he's not quite ready to hold your hand just yet. Or that you're not comfortable with him holding you when in fact you want it just as hard as him.

With your teacher calling your name and the sound of the entire class’ squealing and teasing has died down, it's your turn to give your gift to your secret santa. Which unfortunately for Hobie, he's not so lucky to be the recipient of it.

Throughout the whole party, you can't stop yourself from glancing at him across the room. And he can't help but look at you amongst the crowd. But you two always manage to miss each other's loving stare.

After the gift giving, it's time to eat. You barely heard the call because you were too busy with reading each of the cassette tapes and the song lists that are written on each one. And Hobie was too busy trying to fend off his friends’ teasing to have a chance to grab a plate or even talk to you.

Once your friend taps you and wakes you up from your longing, you stand up to grab a plate. Coincidentally, Hobie's already there right next to the table, getting a slice of red velvet cake.

You inhale deeply, despite your more blatant flirting and unabashed teasing, you're nervous to talk to him now that you truly know that he really does like you. That he likes you enough to listen and remember the things you talk about when you're so used to people doing the opposite to you.

“Hey, teach.” You duck to look at him whilst he fights with the cake. “Or should I call you Santa now?”

He almost jumps in place from the sudden appearance and the close proximity. “Fuckin' hell.”

The knife almost falls from his grip, but you're there to catch it without managing to nick yourself or him. Grinning, you help him cut a piece of cake.

“Sorry.” You chuckle as you place the slice on his paper plate. “What'd you get for secret Santa?” Placing the knife down, you lick some extra frosting off of your finger.

He feels like he's being tested by the universe. “A l–lock pickin’ kit.”

You raise a brow, laughing. “You asked for that?”

Shrugging, he smirks. “Might come in handy. Yuri was the one who got me. Y’know how she is.”

“It's because of that one time you lock picked the gym with my hair pin so that we can grab the volleyballs from the storage room isn't it?”

Hobie nods with a smile, “yeah, that and for stealin’ back all the confiscated things from Mr. Burns’ office.”

Your laughter is contagious, making him laugh as he stares at you with endearment. “So it's for the benefit of everyone then?”

“Yeah, don't have to borrow your hair pin anymore, lovie.” His eyes wander all over the place except for your eyes. Knuckles shaking from how hard he grips the paper plate, heart beating louder than the speakers that are playing all the greatest hits. “Have you given it a listen yet?” He points at the mixtapes tucked in every available pocket you have.

“Not yet.” You shake your head, staring at him through your lashes as he flicks his eyes over to yours only to move away once he meets with your own. “I left my player at home.” He nods once, and you can feel his mind giving him second thoughts about his gift. So you immediately remedy it by holding onto his bicep, fingers gently wrapping around as he freezes in place. “I really did love the present, Hobie. It's well thought out, and—” he blinks at you, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows thickly from the anticipation. You gently tug him closer, twisting to fully face him even with your own bashfulness trying to stop your next words.

“— And, do you want to listen to it together?”

“Together?” He asks, and You nod sheepishly. “Together, together?”

“Yeah, if you're free.” It's your turn to second guess as you shuffle your weight on your feet from nerves. “I want to listen to you talk about how you chose the music. And why you think they all pair well together?” You wait for his rejection.

He feels like he's dreaming. “I've got notes,” he said, matching your gentle smile. “I'll listen to the whole bloody thing with you, love.”

You sigh, relieved. Leaning forward, you cup his cheek, hand still unsure, hovering above his skin as you press a feather light kiss on his other cheek. He stands there, chest rising and falling, cake forgotten, and shock evident on his face. Now he knows that he's not dreaming.

“It's a date then.”

[vigilskeep]

i like how when you first go to a location in veilguard you have to walk to the faction home base. it implies that for every single one where the original eluvian location is unmentioned, you walked out of the eluvian in the most random building, and there was an extended sequence cut for time where you had to a) steal it from wherever it was, b) lug it through the streets and c) pester the faction agents into letting you install it somewhere

[heyheydidjaknow]

Two in a row! We’re back in business! We aren’t going for three in a row but I do want to at least acknowledge that Dazai exists if we’re doing the bsd thing now.

Kindling

You were supposed to be fun.

He remembered the day he met you in that coffee shop. He had an hour to kill before a meeting. The shop was dead— the local schools had not been let out yet— and you stood behind the counter, eyes flickering from the clock on the wall above the door to the textbook in front of you. He had never been there before. He never had much reason to bother around largely residential areas before then. He had never seen you before. But you were nice to look at, so he approached the counter.

He liked the look you gave him. Cold, annoyed, almost indignant, desperate in the overblown way students often are: it took you a moment to remember your manners. You must have been new in town. “How may I help you?”

“One black coffee, please.” He smiled politely.

You straightened yourself up, not bothering to hide the way your gaze flitted between him, your book, the clock. “How much sugar?”

He blinked. “I said—“

“You’re not a black coffee drinker,” you answered dismissively, clearly distracted. “I’ve served three guys today already who asked for black coffee and then asked for cream and sugar and— no offense, guy— I’m so not in the mood to waste more of my time.” You picked a pencil from between the pages of your book, grabbing a notepad from your apron. “So, how much sugar, and how much cream?”

“Do you know who I am?”

You paused at that, giving him a once over. “No,” you said. “Should I?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, an easy smile crossing his bandaged face. “No,” he replied. “You shouldn’t.”

You tapped your foot against the ground. “Fascinating. So—“

“May I ask you a question?” He nodded at the book. “How come you’re studying so hard at this time of day? It’s not midterm season already, is it?”

You looked down at the floor. “No.” Your brow furrowed. “Why is this your business, exactly?”

“It’s not.” He shrugged. “I’m just curious.”

You swallowed. “Huh.” Regret. “I’m sorry for snapping at you; I’m in a bit of a rush to get this stuff done.”

“What sort of stuff?”

You held the pencil between your forefinger and thumb, rolling it back and forth between them. “I’m helping a friend with a project. I owe him one, and he’s in a different time zone so my part is due in a couple hours.”

He went on his toes, peering over the register to read the textbook’s text. “Forensic pathology,” he noted. “Is your friend a criminologist?”

You shook your head. “A writer,” you explained. “He needs a comprehensive explanation of how corpses rot, and I’m the only one he knows with an understanding of that sort of thing.” You pursed your lips. “What he doesn’t know is that I’m taking this class as an elective and that I also have no idea how a corpse rots. But I can’t tell him that, because then I’d be letting him down, and he’s put so much trust in me and helped me so many times—“

He stopped you. “That’s all?” He held his hands behind his back. “Well, that’s simple enough. Most anyone downtown can tell you that.” His smile brightened. “How about we make a deal? If you pay for my drink and promise that this won’t take…” He looked back at the clock. It was an hour off. He wondered if you knew. “If you promise it won’t take longer than forty-five minutes, I can give you all the grisly details of human decomposition, with added notes accounting for weather, location, and time of day.”

The look of hesitant relief on your face brought him a sense of satisfaction he had not felt in a long time. You took a deep breath. “Sir,” you nodded, “you have yourself a deal.”

“Call me Osamu.”

You were easy. That was what first drew him to you. You had no reason to lie to him, so you did not. You had no reason to respect him, so you treated him like anyone else. The two of you— at least on the slice-of-life flavored stage the two of you played on— were equals, which he appreciated. Not many people offered him that luxury. The ones who did tended to disappear in the night for one reason or another, but you had no reason to, so you did not. Your problems were largely emotional. You stayed out of trouble. You were consistent. You were simple.

More important than your being simple, however, was the fact that you thought of him as a liar.

He remembered the conversation well. It was a Thursday. He had a couple hours before he was scheduled to help his newest apprentice train. The coffee shop was as slow as it always was and you, as always, stood behind it with a casual dismissiveness that would have gotten you beaten were you in different company. You had been in town long enough to know of the mafia— about a month— but had not yet accepted all of the stories you heard as true. You were recounting one of those stories to him, weight leaned against the counter as you described an incident regarding a teenager with phantom black limbs that could, without his so much as lifting a finger, murder a building’s worth of people in an instant.

“It’s bullshit, obviously.” You took a sip from your water. “I don’t get what they’re trying to prove; if they wanted to scare me, they’d come up with a half-decent lie.”

He did not have to smile around you— to you, he was nobody— but he did regardless. You were fun. “I know him,” he said. “I tutor him.”

You scoffed. “Yeah? What do you tutor him in?”

“Martial arts.” He took a sip from his coffee, which was thoroughly diluted with copious amounts of sugar and cream. You were right; it was bitter. “He’s not very good. He keeps trying to think of himself as a hand-to-hand combatant when he’s much more suited for support and has such a large inferiority complex that he loses all sense of strategy in exchange for a slavish need to validate his existence. In other words, he is close to useless.”

And, of course, you groaned tiredly. “Why are you encouraging them?” you asked. “You already know I know it’s bullshit; what kick do you get out of me already knowing?”

“I’m not lying,” he insisted, knowing you would not believe him. “I’ve been with him on hits before; a couple months ago, we killed thirty people in cold blood.”

And you laughed half-heartedly— as you should; to any regular person who did not know about how many bodies they had hidden, these claims were beyond ridiculous— and said, “Well, I knew the man that trained you, and I know he has a small dick, so what do you think of that?”

“I’m just glad to know he isn’t a pedophile.”

“Shut up and drink your coffee.”

He wondered what you thought of him sometimes. For the first week or so, you asked him questions, but you learned quickly that he was never going to give you satisfactory answers. You probably thought he was an ass, but you still talked to him like you would a peer, so he kept showing up. You must have thought he was a dick. He was sure that he was by your standards.

Once, on a Sunday, he had to attend a funeral. He had some time to kill before, so he walked into the coffee shop, clad in clothes nicer than what was typical, and ordered.

You looked him over. “You got a date?”

“No,” he replied, cheerful. “I have a funeral in an hour.”

You set his cup in front of him. “Oh. For someone you know?”

“My boss,” he explained. “He died the other day so we’re doing a service.”

“Oh.” Your brow furrowed, sympathy making way for confusion. “I’m… I’m sorry, but did you like him?”

He shrugged. “He was alright.”

“How long were you under him?”

He considered it. “A couple years?”

“Oh.” You nodded. “So enough time for your nonchalance to be weird. Cool.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s not as if he were my father.” He leaned back in his seat. “He was bound to get shot eventually; I’m just surprised it took this long.”

“He was what?”

“Shot,” he repeated. “In his sleep.”

You lowered your voice, looking around the cafe like someone would come out to shoot the two of you. “What,” you mumbled, “like an assassination?”

He nodded, looking around courteously. “Exactly. But it’s alright; they won’t stick around too long, I’m sure.”

“How come?”

He leaned his head on his hand. “I don’t imagine whoever did it could get very far out of the city. People are upset that he’s dead; I’m sure someone will lash out.”

You crossed your arms, swallowing thickly. “You know most people don’t speak so casually about people getting shot or whatever.”

“Well,” he shrugged again, “it happens often enough. It’s not like being formal is going to bring him back from the dead; who cares?”

“Don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you…?” You searched for the right word. “… I don’t know, shaken? He was a coworker, wasn’t he?”

He took a sip from his coffee. “Yeah.”

“So, isn’t his death a bit shocking?”

“Not really.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, actually, that’s a lie. It means I’m in line for a promotion, and I thought I’d have to wait for him to die of a heart attack for it, so I’m happy about that.”

You cradled your head in your hands. “I don’t think you get my meaning,” you insisted. “Do you not feel anything for his death?”

He set the mug down, meeting your eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I don’t.”

Your questions were simple. “Why?”

“Because,” he answered, “His death was inevitable and his life’s impact on mine was nearly nonexistent. All he did was give me orders; why would I care if he died?

You stared at him, meeting his cold, bottomless eyes with ones aflame with passion. “You sound like a serial killer,” you said.

His smile was as vacant as the rest of him. “I feel like one.”

You were fun until you were not. If asked to identify when your relationship— acquaintanceship, friendship, whatever you called it— stopped being fun, he would point to an otherwise inconspicuous Monday morning three weeks after the funeral. The two of you were splitting a cinnamon roll. It was your break and you got a discount and you had no desire to eat a whole one. You were talking about something silly— a friend of yours had broken up with your other friend— when you had stopped in the middle of a sentence to look out the window, seemingly distracted by something. Witnessing this development, he turned to look out the window too, only to see that the scene outside— an overcast sky, street populated by people rushing on their way to work— had not, in fact, changed since he last looked out the window. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

Your words were soft, eyes transfixed on the window. “I need to buy a decent camera,” you murmured. “Or write. Or paint.”

“You want to take a picture?” He looked out the window again. The scene was still the same. “Of what?”

“Leave me alone, Osamu.”

“I’m not messing with you,” he said. “I just have no idea what you could possibly be looking at.”

“Sure you aren’t.” You gestured with your fork, not looking in his direction. “You have a reputation. I refuse to indulge you in something you’ll clown on me for.”

He sighed. “You are being so over dramatic.”

You shot him a glare. “I told you my friend’s boyfriend got stabbed last week and you said, and I quote, ‘I wish I could say the same.’”

“Yeah, but that was a joke.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny.”

He crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not my fault you have a lame sense of humor,” he protested. “Why won’t you tell me?”

You peeled your attention from the window. “You wanna know what I think?” You gave him a cold smile. “I think you’re so neurotically obsessed with knowing everything that whatever joy you’ll get from knowing will be totally outweighed by the amount of pleasure I get at getting to make you squirm for once.” You stuck your tongue out. “You’re the nihilist. Suffer under the weight of your ideals, dipshit.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Do you seriously think I can’t get you to tell me? Is this the hill you want to die on?”

“What if it is?” You crossed your arms, mimicking his pose. “What if it was really emotionally impactful to me? What if it was literally nothing and I’m just fucking with you? What, are you going to torture an answer out of me?” Your smile grew. “I get why you do this now; this is fun.”

He huffed. “You’re such a child.”

“No, you’re just easy to read.” You reached for your drink, cradling it to your chest. “Lenin gave himself a heart attack when he came to power, you know; it’s not healthy to obsess like that.”

He crossed his arms. “It was a stroke,” he grumbled. “He died of a stroke.”

“See, like that. You have issues.” You crossed your legs. “ Maybe it’d be good for you not to know.” You covered your mouth as he leaned forward and adopted an all too familiar smile. “And so help me if you try and seduce me into telling you what I saw so help me I will laugh you out of the room.”

His face soured. He stared you down, and you stared back, unphased, because why would you not? The two of you were equals as far as you were concerned; this was how you treated your peers, and despite the fact that the two of you barely knew each other in any meaningful way, you knew him enough to know what the rules of the game he was trying to play were even if you did not know what it was called. “I could kill you,” he said. “I know plenty of ways to do it. I know how to make it hurt, too.”

And you, knowing you had won, replied, “You could, but you won’t. Who would serve you your coffee?”

The two of you stared each other down one last time. Finally– and mercifully, he liked to think– he looked away. “You win.” He tossed his hands up. “That’s all my cards.”

Your smile softened at the edges. “Good.” You sat up. “I’m not going to tell you what I was looking at, but I can tell you how to see it, if you want. That way you get to know but you don’t get to be all smug.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved you off. “Because I’m not allowed to win, right?”

“If I knew you weren’t going to try and rule-lawyer me, I would just tell you.”

“I spend too much time here.”

“You said it.” You set the fork and the cup down on the table. “Close your eyes.”

He groaned. “I am so not into meditation.”

“Is that backtalk I hear?”

“No, no,” he relented, closing his eyes. “I’m with it or whatever. Now what?”

Your voice lowered. “Breathe in.”

He inhaled.

“And out.”

He exhaled.

“Now,” you continued, “what do you hear?”

“You talking to me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You asked.”

You huffed. “I– look, besides me, what do you hear?”

He paused, considering it. “People outside,” he said. “And the air conditioning unit. And the milk steamer.”

“Good.” He heard you sit back in your seat again. “And physically, what do you feel?”

“Isn’t this a panic attack thing?”

“Answer my question.”

He considered it. “It’s cold in here.”

Your voice was soft. He wondered how exactly this place stayed in business for how quiet it was. “What do you taste?”

“For giving someone who was just talking about flirting–”

“I have a point. What do you taste?”

He meant to say, ‘My mouth.’ What came out was, “Cinnamon and icing.”

He heard you smile. “Good. Open your eyes.”

He did, blinking at the light. You were back to looking out the window; the scene had not changed.

You nodded towards it. “Now, look and tell me what you see.”

He looked between you and the window. “A tree,” he said. “And people.”

“Look at the tree, first.”

The tree itself was, by his estimation, the same sort of tree that could be found just about anywhere in this part of town. There were fewer as the years went on, he knew– there was some government initiative to get rid of the trees on the side streets– but the tree itself was unextraordinary. “It’s dead,” he noted.

Your eyes didn’t leave the window. “It’s overcast.” You sounded a million miles away. “The light from the sun is hitting it from the other side, so the side that we’re on is dull and dark. It’s casting a shadow on the table, on your face.”

He looked down at the table. Sure enough, in the low light, cold shadows laid across the table like faint veins.

“The people,” you continued. “What do you see in them?”

He shifted his attention to the passersby. “People going to work.”

“How are they dressed?”

“Warmly.”

“What color are their clothes?”

“Dark. Are we at the point yet?”

“Almost.” You took a breath of your own. “Now, take all of those things together, and look back out the window again.”

He did.

Nothing had changed. His heart caught in his throat.

“It’s more now, isn’t it?”

He looked back at you.

You witnessed that mundane scene with the seeming awe of an acolyte before their god. It was as though you had never seen a street or a tree or the sun before, as though you would never see it again.

With a horrifying ache in his chest, he realized that he had never seen anything quite so beautiful or enviable as you in that moment. “So,” he asked again, voice tinged with an entirely unbecoming and uncharacteristic reverence, “what are you looking at?”

“I’m not looking at anything,” you replied. “I just remembered how lucky I am to be alive, here, with you.”

He wondered if you would mourn for his indifference like he would.

[sluug-juice]

Doodles of Bill and Pyramid Steve (due to the new lore from Alex H. it's canon that Bill owns a flip phone)

[keferon]

Isn’t Vortex a fucking torture freak tho? 👀👀👀

Yep. He is. He is a lot of things actually. The more you learn about him the more fucked up it gets

[turtleblogatlast]

Shockingly underrated thing about Leo is that he’s legitimately charming when he wants to be?

He’s the Faceman! He’s persuasive! That’s not just some random title he gave himself with no backing to it. People will listen to him. Even if they think he’s being annoying or if they’re upset at him, people listen to him anyway! There’s a reason his bros push him out front to talk to people, and when this happens, that talking nearly always works.

Moreover, Leo knows people. He looks at them and takes into account how they act and what they’re like as he makes his way through the conversations. It’s easy to forget this aspect of Leo’s character because he only brings it out when he really needs (read: wants) to, but it really is a notable part of him that always love to see.

And I say charm in particular because he has a knack for not only getting people to pay attention, but for getting people to stay and listen to what he has to say.

[moeblob]

Look, I rewatched all of Bravern to try and make more sense of it now that I know plot twists and stuff and honestly how does Lewis never ask anything about the cockpit that he was in for four seconds. I think he should mention it. I think he's allowed to talk about it.

[oifaaa]

Who’s your favorite dc loser

Oh I'm sorry let me introduce you to him