#or at least with more dimension next book

[abitterberryblog]

simple comic doodle of Chapter LXXII (?) from The Will of the Many

[ full page drawing + major spoilers under cut !! ]

thought it would be kinda funny to draw such a serious scene in my doodle style

[dior-luxury]

I know you probably already plan on doing the other characters, but I need at least Floyd with the kiss and make out prompt like yesterday

(Absolutely no rush tho! Loving your work ^^ don’t forget to drink water and eat food!)

Kiss And Make-Out

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - no prns mentioned .

- [𝐜𝐡.] ace . deuce . cater . jack . floyd . epel . silver . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] suggestive themes . mentions of making out . romantic tension

Note: Alright! This will be the last part of the series, so I just decided to add all the characters I didn't do yet. (o´▽`o)

Ace Trappola

It started with a tug. Just a casual grip on his wrist as he passed by in the hallway, waving off some third-year who was teasing him about skipping class again. He barely had a chance to register the way your fingers laced through his before you yanked him—hard—into an empty room, the heavy door slamming shut behind you both.

"Whoa—hey! What the hell—!?"

He stumbled in, nearly tripping over his own boots, arms flailing for balance as he turned sharply on his heel. He looked up, just in time to see the glint in your eye.

Oh no.

That glint always meant trouble. The kind of trouble Ace didn’t know whether to run from or dive headfirst into.

"You—you planned this, didn’t you?" he accused, smirking despite the flush already crawling up his neck. “Dragging me into dark rooms now? So scandalous.”

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you stepped close, grabbed both sides of his collar, and kissed him like you’d been starved for days.

Ace stiffened for half a second, brain crashing like a poorly-coded spell. His hands fluttered awkwardly at his sides before finally settling on your waist, gripping you like he might float away if he didn’t hold on.

When you finally pulled back, he was breathless and dazed. Hair a little mussed, mouth parted like he wanted to ask a question but forgot what it was.

"...Okay," he exhaled, blinking fast. "What—what was that for?"

"Missed you," you said simply, already leaning in again.

Ace let out a short laugh—more air than sound—and shook his head, pretending to be exasperated. “Missed me? It’s been like—what, three hours since breakfast?!”

You silenced him with another kiss, this one slower. Sweeter. You kissed his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose, all while backing him against the wall like a predator closing in on prey.

"Y-You're being so dramatic right now," he stammered, though his voice was soft, almost giddy. “D-Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. You're trying to kill me. Death by affection.”

Another kiss. His neck this time. Right under his ear where he’s most sensitive.

He made the most embarrassing noise.

Ace clamped a hand over his mouth immediately, cheeks redder than his dorm uniform. “You—! You heard nothing. That wasn't a—hey! Stop laughing! I will hex your shoelaces together, I swear!”

But he didn’t move to escape.

If anything, he pulled you closer.

Your kisses were like fire—warm, addictive, burning away the sarcastic quips and cocky smirks he usually hid behind. With every one, you peeled back another layer, revealing the boy who secretly adored being loved this loudly.

Who basked in the chaos of your attention.

Who melted a little more every time you whispered his name against his skin.

“…You know,” he mumbled at one point, voice low and a little shaky, “you really suck at being subtle.”

You smiled into the next kiss. “Good thing I’m not trying to be.”

He huffed a laugh, arms sliding around your back as he finally gave in, completely and utterly, to your storm.

“Well, in that case… Don’t stop.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce had just finished class, books tucked under one arm, a determined look on his face as he strode through the hallway. He was focused—ready to get to his dorm, maybe squeeze in some studying before dinner.

Then you grabbed him.

It was quick. A tug to his uniform sleeve, a strong pull, and suddenly he was stumbling into an empty storage room, blinking like he’d been teleported into another dimension.

“H-Hey?! What’s going on—?! Are we hiding from someone?! Is it Ace?! Did he prank someone again—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You pushed him gently against the door the second it shut, eyes locked onto his like a wolf who'd found its prey. And before he could take a breath—

You kissed him.

Firm. Deep. Like you had every intention of kissing away his ability to speak, think, or breathe. His eyes went wide, and he stood frozen in place like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus.

By the time you pulled away, he was flushed from the tip of his ears to the base of his neck.

“I—I—w-wait,” he stammered, lips still parted in surprise. “W-What was that for?!”

You grinned. “Just missed you.”

Deuce blinked rapidly. “Missed me? I saw you this morning—like, just a few hours ago!”

But then you leaned in again, planting kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, even brushing the tip of his nose.

His hands shot up in defense—though he didn’t push you away. Instead, he clutched your arms like he was trying to anchor himself. His knees might as well have been made of jelly.

“Y-You're really not gonna stop, are you?” he mumbled, heart racing.

You didn’t answer—just kissed him again, slower this time, your fingers tangling in his hair as if you were savoring every second.

He melted. Right there. Right into you.

“…Okay,” he whispered, barely audible. “But don’t tell anyone I like this so much.”

You pulled back, raising a brow. “Oh? So you do like it.”

He groaned, covering his red face with his hands. “That’s not what I—! Ugh… just—kiss me again before I start overthinking this.”

Cater Diamond

It had been a busy day at NRC—classes, club meetings, and then a whirlwind of social obligations that only someone as outgoing as Cater could manage with that ever-present smile. But even someone like him needed a break, especially when the day was dragging longer than expected.

You had been waiting for the right moment all day. Cater had been bouncing from place to place, always surrounded by others, always distracted by something. And even though he texted you little hearts and selfies throughout the day, you wanted more. You missed him—not the filtered, peppy Cater that everyone else saw, but your Cater. The one who melted when you kissed his cheeks, the one who whined dramatically when you ignored his texts for more than ten minutes, the one who looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

So, when you spotted him walking past an empty classroom, your body moved before your mind could stop it. You yanked open the door, stepped into the hallway, and grabbed his wrist.

“Wha—whoa, babe?” Cater blinked as you tugged him inside and shut the door behind you with a click. His eyes sparkled, green and gold with a glimmer of surprise and amusement. “You know, usually I’m the one doing the kidnapping~!”

But before he could say another word, your hands were on his cheeks, and your lips crashed into his.

His back hit the door lightly, a muffled gasp escaping against your mouth as you kissed him again—then again, then again. His fingers fluttered, unsure of what to do for a second. You didn’t give him time to process. You kissed his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, even his forehead before returning to his lips, completely overwhelming him with affection.

“Babe—ha—wait, are we even allowed to be this cute in school?” he tried to tease, but his voice cracked into a breathless laugh when your lips brushed just under his ear. His knees nearly gave out.

Each kiss landed with intention. Soft and lingering, or quick and fluttery, some playful and others dizzyingly passionate. You buried your hands in his hair, and he melted like cotton candy in your arms.

“Aww, you missed me that much?” he asked between kisses, his voice going soft, vulnerable. His arms finally wrapped around your waist, pulling you in. “I mean, not that I’m complaining, but wow—this is seriously intense for a classroom makeout sesh.”

You only answered with another kiss, this time longer, deeper. And this time, he didn’t say anything. His eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting against yours like second nature.

Eventually, when the kisses slowed and you rested your forehead against his, Cater let out a dreamy sigh. He looked dazed, cheeks flushed with a blush that reached the tips of his ears. His hands were warm against your back, and his usual sparkly persona was replaced with something softer—something more real.

“Okay, confession?” he murmured. “I was so over today. But this? You pulling me in here like some drama movie lead and smothering me with love? Total game-changer. Honestly, if you ever wanna ruin my day just to fix it like that, go right ahead.”

You chuckled, and he grinned, brushing his nose against yours before stealing one last kiss.

“Let’s stay in here a little longer,” he whispered. “Just a little. It’s not every day I get ambushed by the best kisser in the world.”

Jack Howl

It started with the echo of heavy footfalls in the hallway—the rhythmic stomp of someone strong, composed, and dead set on getting to his next class without distractions. That someone was Jack Howl, and he was already mentally reviewing the next training regimen he’d be doing after school, earbuds tucked in, his brow furrowed in quiet focus.

You, on the other hand, had been plotting this for at least an hour.

He had been so distant today—not on purpose, of course. Jack never ignored you. But he’d been busy, running errands for Leona, staying late at practice, grunting his usual “I’ll text you later” without realizing how much you were aching just to touch him, to hear his voice in your ear instead of through a phone screen.

So when you saw him walking toward the empty corridor, you struck.

“Jack!”

He blinked, tugging an earbud out just in time for you to grab his hand and pull him forward with a firm yank. His eyes widened in confusion, his large body moving on instinct alone as you dragged him into the closest vacant room and shut the door behind you.

“Wait—what’s going on?” Jack’s ears twitched as he glanced around the dim classroom. “Is something wrong? Did someone—?”

You didn’t give him time to finish. You reached up, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him down to your level—pressing your lips firmly to his.

His body froze. Every muscle locked in place like you’d hit a pressure point. His hands hovered awkwardly at your sides, trembling slightly as if afraid to touch you too roughly.

Your lips kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek. Then the tip of his nose. A kiss on the jaw, one near his temple. You didn’t stop. He could feel your love in every press of your mouth—messy, heartfelt, craving closeness in a way that made his whole chest go tight.

Jack made a choked, very un-wolf-like noise deep in his throat.

“Y-You can’t just… do that,” he finally managed, voice thick and low, his tail twitching nervously behind him. “You can’t just pull me in and kiss me like that out of nowhere.”

Another kiss silenced him—right between his eyebrows. His hands finally moved, wrapping around your waist, large and warm, grounding you to his solid frame. You looked up to see his face flushed crimson, his ears flat against his hair, eyes darting between yours and anywhere else in the room.

“You missed me that much?” he muttered, voice quieter, breathless.

You nodded and kissed him again, softer this time. His whole expression changed. The lines of tension in his brow eased. He exhaled a shaky breath, as if he'd been holding it in since he first walked through the door. His hands tightened around you protectively, holding you against his chest like he didn’t want to let you go again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so earnestly it made your heart swell. “I’ve been too busy. That’s no excuse—I should’ve made more time for you.”

You kissed him again before he could start overthinking. This time he kissed back.

It was clumsy at first. Jack wasn’t the type for public displays of affection, and this kind of ambush? It short-circuited his brain. But now, pressed against you, with your warmth in his arms and your lips seeking his again and again, something in him unraveled.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Just… give me a second, okay?” he whispered, a rare vulnerability in his voice. “You overwhelmed me, and I’m not mad. I just—damn. You’re gonna kill me with those kisses.”

You grinned, brushing his white bangs from his eyes before placing a final, lingering kiss on his lips.

Jack sighed. His tail wagged slowly behind him, betraying his calm facade. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”

He glanced at the door before glancing back at you. “We should get going before someone walks in. But... maybe we stay just a little longer. I think I owe you a few kisses back.”

And with that, the quiet growl he’d held in finally broke, not in warning, but in affection—low, deep, and unmistakably his.

Floyd Leech

It was one of those late afternoons where the hallways of NRC shimmered with sleepy sunlight, long shadows stretching between tall columns. The students were scattered—some still lingering after class, others already making their way back to their dorms. The air was thick with the kind of quiet that only existed in the lull between chaos and curfew.

And Floyd Leech?

Floyd was bored.

His long strides carried him lazily down the marble corridor, shoes scuffing just to hear the sound echo. His blazer hung open, his tie loosely draped like he couldn’t care less—which, in typical Floyd fashion, he didn’t. He hummed some offbeat tune under his breath, mismatched eyes scanning the area for something interesting. Anything.

That’s when he saw you.

You were lingering a little too long near the end of the hallway, eyes darting to the corners, shifting nervously like you were waiting for someone—or hiding from something. But when your gaze locked with Floyd’s, something electric jolted between you.

“Shrimpy~” he drawled, a sly smile spreading across his face as he started walking faster. “You’re actin’ sketchy again. Whatcha plannin’?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped forward, grabbed his wrist with sudden determination, and yanked him—hard—down the corridor.

He let out a bark of laughter, not resisting, even as he stumbled after you with amused eyes. “Oho~ What’s this? A kidnapping? I didn’t know you were that bold. This is kinda fun!”

You didn’t stop to explain. You just opened the nearest empty room—some forgotten classroom bathed in soft, golden light—and shoved him inside with a mix of urgency and giddy adrenaline. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the world.

Before Floyd could even finish turning toward you, your hands were on him. Gripping his collar. Tugging him closer.

Then came the kisses.

One.

Two.

Three.

They landed like raindrops in a sudden storm—fast, breathless, messy. His cheeks, his lips, his jaw, the tip of his nose. Kisses that spoke of longing, of needing, of missing him so much it hurt. You kissed him like you were starved for his touch.

And Floyd? He froze.

His arms hovered in the air for a beat too long, stunned, like his body hadn’t caught up to his heart. Then—slowly, deliciously—his grin widened, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat.

“Well, well, well~ Look at you goin’ all wild on me,” he purred, grabbing you by the waist and lifting you so easily off the floor that your feet dangled in the air. “You missed me that bad, huh? Cute~”

But even as he teased, there was something breathless in his voice. Something tight in his chest.

He leaned into you, his forehead pressing against yours, eyes half-lidded and warm.

You kept kissing him—softly now. Slowly. More like an apology than a storm. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you didn’t want to let him go. And deep down, Floyd understood. He wasn’t exactly… reliable. Not in the usual way. He wandered off. Vanished for hours, sometimes days. Chased boredom with reckless abandon. But here, in your arms, there was a different kind of pull. One that terrified and thrilled him all at once.

“I’m not used to this,” he murmured against your lips, voice quieter now. “All this sweetness. All this… real stuff. It makes my chest feel weird.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth again. “I just love you.”

The words landed like an anchor in the storm of his thoughts.

Floyd went silent.

Then—gently, reverently—he lowered you down until your feet touched the ground again, though his arms never left your waist. He stared at you with a seriousness that rarely graced his face, his usual grin softened into something real and unguarded.

“…Say it again,” he whispered.

You blinked up at him. “I love you.”

He grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you like he was drowning. All teeth and lips and raw, aching affection. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Passionate, hungry, and completely lost in you.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, voice muffled and shaky.

“You’re in trouble now, shrimpy,” he said, arms tightening possessively. “You keep kissin’ me like that, and I’m never gonna leave you alone again. I’ll follow you to class, to lunch, to the freakin’ bathroom.”

You giggled, and he nipped at your shoulder.

“I mean it,” he said, a little louder now, eyes lifting to meet yours again. “You messed me up real good.”

And despite all his chaotic energy, his violent teasing, the jokes and the nibbles—right now, in this quiet space, with your love still warm on his skin—Floyd was just a boy in love. Hopelessly. Deeply.

Dangerously.

And as he dragged you closer again, murmuring silly threats of never letting you go, of biting anyone who even looked at you—he meant it.

Every word.

Epel Felmier

The quiet clack of your shoes echoed down the nearly empty hallway of Night Raven College. It was late afternoon, the soft amber glow of the sun filtering in through the tall windows and warming the stone floors. Most students were off in clubs or retreating to their dorms, giving the campus a rare pocket of calm.

But you were pacing—nervously, purposefully—waiting.

And there he was.

Epel Felmier, your boyfriend, coming out of class with his bag slung over one shoulder, that ever-present look of mild frustration on his face. His lips were pressed together like he'd just finished arguing with someone—or more likely, fending off another comment about how “adorable” he looked. His hair was slightly tousled, the soft lavender locks catching the light just right.

You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he walked just a little too fast, like he had something to prove even when he was tired.

And suddenly, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Without giving him time to react, you rushed toward him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the nearest empty room with a force that surprised even yourself.

“H-Hey—?!” Epel stumbled behind you, eyes wide and cheeks already going red. “What’re ya doin’? Wait, slow—!”

Click.

The door shut behind you both with a soft thunk, cutting off the hallway and leaving the two of you in a forgotten classroom that smelled faintly of paper, chalk, and dust. Shafts of sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, casting golden stripes across his confused face.

“W-Why’d you drag me in here—?” he started, but you didn’t let him finish.

You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him.

Hard.

The kind of kiss that silences words, that speaks of longing, of affection that built up far too long. One kiss turned into two. Three. A trail of warm, fluttering kisses scattered across his cheeks, his forehead, his jawline—so many kisses, fast and giddy, you couldn’t even keep count. Your hands tangled in his soft hair, brushing back his bangs to kiss his temple.

Epel stood frozen in your grasp for a solid few seconds, blinking in stunned silence. His breath hitched.

Then, slowly, his hands found your waist. Tentatively. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold you this tightly. His fingers curled in the fabric of your shirt as your kisses kept coming, soft and hungry, until his breath came out shaky.

“…Y-You’re bein’ real unfair right now,” he muttered, his ears burning bright pink. “Springin’ this on me without warnin’…”

You finally pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was completely flushed, lips slightly parted, and eyes wide and glassy—half dazed, half drunk on your affection. He wasn’t used to this. Not like this.

But the moment he saw how you were looking at him—genuinely, lovingly, like he was the only person in the world—it broke through his embarrassment like sunlight cutting through fog.

“…Was it ‘cause I looked mad?” he asked softly, brows knitting together. “I—I wasn’t tryin’ to take it out on ya. I just… had a rough day. Some Octavinelle jerk called me ‘cute’ again and—ugh!”

He groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. “It ain’t even what they say—it’s how they say it! Like I’m some lil’ doll or somethin’. I hate it.”

You kissed his forehead gently, arms wrapping around him tighter. “You’re beautiful, Epel. And strong. And I love you like this—exactly as you are.”

That did it.

He squeezed you like he’d been waiting for those exact words. Like you were the one thing grounding him after everything else had tried to knock him off balance.

“…You always know what to say,” he mumbled, voice muffled into your shoulder. “No one else ever sees past how I look. But you… you see me.”

He pulled back just slightly, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart race. That strong, determined gaze you knew he tried to hide from most people.

“Ya better be ready to take responsibility,” he said, grinning through his blush. “You keep kissin’ me like that, I’m gonna start expectin’ it every day.”

You smirked and leaned in again. “Then I guess I’ll just have to give you more.”

Epel laughed—a real laugh, soft and breathless and boyish, like all the pressure melted off his shoulders in your arms.

And in that quiet, golden-lit classroom, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and the warmth between you, he held you close and whispered, “Don’t let go yet… just a little longer.”

Because when he was in your arms—when you smothered him in love like this—he didn’t feel small or cute.

He felt real.

He felt loved.

Silver

The breeze outside rustled the trees, the sound like soft whispers brushing against the windows of the long hallway in Diasomnia’s east wing. The castle was quiet this time of day, almost abandoned as classes had wrapped up and most students had dispersed. Even the ever-watchful Sebek had rushed off to fulfill some loud, energetic duty elsewhere.

But not Silver.

Silver walked with a steady, unhurried pace—his long legs taking him gracefully down the hallway, the silver of his hair glowing faintly in the filtered afternoon light. His expression was unreadable as always, calm and composed, yet his pale lashes drooped slightly, the telltale signs of sleep gently pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

Not until you stepped out from the side hallway, barely giving him a chance to register your presence before grabbing his hand and pulling him gently—but firmly—into the nearest room.

“Ah—[Name]?” he blinked, his voice low and surprised as the door shut behind you both with a soft click. “Is something the matter?”

The room was some kind of unused study or storage space—quiet, dim, forgotten. A few stray books were stacked in the corners, and light filtered in through half-shuttered windows, casting warm golden streaks across Silver’s face.

He looked at you with soft confusion, his hand still in yours, never pulling away.

You didn’t answer—not with words. Instead, you reached up on your toes and kissed him.

One kiss. Then another. Then another—each one soft, hurried, breathless with affection. His eyes widened, body tensing as your lips pressed against his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, the tip of his nose.

“Wait… ah—[Name]…!” he mumbled, cheeks flushing a delicate rose. “You’re being very… affectionate today…”

But he didn’t stop you.

If anything, his hands—gentle and warm—came to rest against your back, grounding you. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head as he leaned into your touch, just slightly, like a man surrendering to something he knew he could never resist.

You kept kissing him, brushing over the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips, his collarbone, all the places he often forgot were kissable. His armor was off, his guard down, and in this room—with no Malleus to guard, no Sebek shouting in his ear, no duty demanding his focus—he was just Silver. Just a boy in love.

And gods, was he beautiful like this.

“Did you miss me that much?” he asked softly, a gentle laugh in his voice, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he closed his eyes under the weight of your affection. “I’m sorry… I’ve been busy lately. I didn’t mean to neglect you.”

You shook your head quickly and buried your face in his shoulder. “It’s not that. I just… I needed you. And I wanted to remind you how loved you are. That’s all.”

He exhaled, slow and tender, wrapping his arms around you fully now, like the warmth of your presence had melted the last remnants of his knightly restraint. “Then allow me to return the favor,” he murmured into your hair.

You felt him kiss the top of your head.

Then your temple.

Then your cheek.

And finally, your lips.

His kiss was slow. Reverent. A far cry from your giddy flurry of affection—but somehow just as intense. Silver kissed you like someone memorizing the feeling, like someone afraid that if he blinked, the dream would vanish. His hands cupped your face like you were something fragile and sacred, something he couldn’t afford to lose.

“You always find me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Even when I get lost in dreams… you pull me back.”

You smiled, heart thudding like thunder in your chest. “Because you’re my dream too. And I want to live it with you—awake.”

His eyes fluttered open, silver meeting yours, soft as starlight.

“…Then I’ll stay awake. As long as you’re here.”

You held each other in the quiet, the world outside forgotten. Silver didn’t fall asleep this time. No… wrapped in your arms, kissed breathless and full of warmth, he stayed fully awake—for the first time in what felt like forever.

Sebek Zigvolt

The halls of Diasomnia were eerily quiet that afternoon. Most students were finishing their classes, with Sebek himself hurrying to the next duty his unrelenting sense of responsibility had thrust upon him. His boots echoed with a sharp, rhythmic thunk against the cold stone floors, and the usually loud, energetic Sebek looked more tired than usual. The wild look in his eyes had dimmed a bit under the weight of his duties, and he was deep in thought when you stepped out from behind the corner.

Before he could even react to your sudden appearance, you grabbed his wrist, pulling him into one of the empty rooms nearby.

“Hey! What are you—”

Sebek’s voice cut off, his eyes wide with alarm, but his protest quickly faltered as you slammed the door shut behind you, effectively trapping him inside. He looked around in confusion, and his brows furrowed. His gaze locked with yours, puzzled, almost a little nervous, yet filled with that undying, unshakable loyalty.

“[Name],” he started to say, his tone more demanding than usual. “Why have you brought me here? I still have duties to—”

But before he could finish, you stepped up to him, cupped his face, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle peck or a soft, polite kiss—it was fierce, hungry, desperate. Your lips met his with so much energy, so much emotion, that it almost knocked the breath out of him. The sudden closeness of it—the weight of your kiss—caused Sebek to freeze, his wide, green eyes blinking rapidly, as if he couldn’t comprehend the sudden shift in the air between you.

"W-Wait, wait—!" Sebek stammered, his hands moving to your arms as if to push you away. But the moment your lips brushed against his again, he faltered. "This is… this is highly inappropriate! We should not—mmph"

Another kiss silenced him, this time across his cheek, then his jawline. You were relentless, pressing soft, passionate kisses along his skin, completely ignoring his flustered protests. His breath quickened. His body tensed. There was an edge to his nervousness, but there was something else too—something deep within him that wanted this.

"Stop being so stubborn," you whispered against his lips, your breath warm against his skin. "I just want to kiss you, Sebek. Is that so wrong?"

The words hung in the air, hanging heavily on him. His eyes flickered, searching yours, as if his mind was caught in a storm of confusion and surprise. His heart pounded in his chest. His breath was shallow, his usual fiery persona momentarily disarmed by your tenderness.

"Ah... [Name], I..." Sebek’s voice trailed off, shaky and uncertain. His hands, which had previously been trying to keep some distance, were now slowly wrapping around you. His arms snaked around your waist, holding you close as he let his guard down. For a moment, he felt completely vulnerable in your arms.

Then, finally, after a beat of silence, his lips found yours—this time, not because you’d kissed him, but because he wanted to. His kiss was more controlled than yours, more cautious, yet still full of that fervent, wild energy that was so Sebek. His hands, once unsure, now pulled you into him with a quiet intensity. His grip on you was firm, the kind of forceful affection that came from a deep, unspoken need to protect, to love.

"I—" he started, pulling back just a little, his breath ragged. His usual authoritative voice faltered for a moment, giving way to something raw, something real. "I don’t know how to handle this, [Name]. I’m supposed to be the one protecting you. But… when you’re this close… it feels like I need protecting.”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "You don’t need to protect me all the time, Sebek. I want you. I want this."

His eyes softened at the words, the storm of his usual intensity dimming just a little. He let out a quiet, almost reluctant sigh, his head tilting down to rest against your forehead. "You’ve got the strangest way of showing affection, [Name]. But… it makes me feel… something inside."

The words were soft, but his voice held a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. The Sebek Zigvolt who was normally so brash, so sure of himself, was now completely captivated by you, caught in the warmth of your embrace. His strong, confident stance softened as he tilted his head to meet your lips again.

This time, his kiss was more tender—gentle, yet still filled with that passion that only Sebek could give. His hands slid down to your back, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. His heart beat rapidly against his chest as he kissed you deeper, as though he wanted to pour every ounce of his heart and soul into that moment.

When he pulled away again, he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as if he had been running a race. His eyes were a little hazy, and his cheeks were a bit pink from the intensity of the moment. "I… I can’t believe you’ve done this to me, [Name]. I don’t even know what to say. But… I don’t want you to stop."

You smiled softly, resting your head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. "I won’t stop, Sebek. I’m not going anywhere."

Sebek held you tighter, his arms never letting you go. "Then I suppose… I’ll have to get used to it," he muttered, his voice now a little more teasing, a little more confident in its own way. "Being loved by you, huh?"

Your laughter filled the room, warm and soft, and in that quiet, intimate space, Sebek finally let himself rest. For once, his heart wasn’t racing in a battle or a training session. It was racing because of you.

And he knew, deep down, that as long as you were by his side, he would be yours. Fully, completely, always.

⟡ tag list : @dreaming-of-tae @chai-yas @yunar1 @fever-en @sol3chu @alastor-simp

[is-this-even-relatable]

Danny runs an Infinite Realms shop. Curiosities from every dimension, any culturally significant item lost to time, and some cheap china. He’s got it all~

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NEW FIC IDEA JUST DROPPED

Ok so i’ve been steeped in the dpxdc for many a year now. I've seen a bit of everything. I want to combine some of those ideas with a bit of my own headcanon and see what takes shape.

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Danny, half dead and half alive, one of the rarest species in existence, grown up yet still so young considering his immortality, powerful sovereign of an infinite dimension of beings from every possible world and universe, decides to settle somewhere and take it slow. After all, he's got eternity to do so.

So he finds a dimension he thought could only exist in comic books, and thought to himself, Now this, this is a nice place to settle. He loves how many heroes there are in this world, heck there are even aliens! Yet there are many heroes for a reason. With so many dark forces in the universe, it had to produce many bright beacons of hope to balance the encroaching evil. That is another reason why he chose this particular dimension, and this particular city. There was just so much negative energy, too much, in fact, that the heroes in this city, Gotham, could not keep up. He hoped that over the next century or however long he remained in this dimension, that his presence would provide a much-needed balm to the area, and that the sickly dark fingers of cosmic corruption would lessen. If not, well, he could always take a more direct approach. After all, he had the power of infinite universes backing him, one measly dimension’s worth of corruption against him would be like a minnow trying to catch a shark.

With a little bit of time travel shenanigans (thanks, Clockwork!), Danny soon has a perfectly legal identity as one Daniel James Fenton-Phantom, 30 years old (he figures he can pass as such, even though he stopped aging around 25), from a random town in bumfuck Illinois (sue him, it’s familiar). And after a bit of researching, Danny chooses a small street in the rougher side of the city. Not too big to be deemed as suspicious for buying practically the whole block, and out of the way enough to not attract too much attention. He spends a couple weeks getting used to the energy in this new dimension and setting up his haunt. He cleaned up what he was now referring to as “his street” in his head, and got rid of the debris, trash and general wear from the buildings. He hired some locals to renovate one, an old apartment that he was planning on renting out and staying in. He also chose a smaller building, somewhat tucked away in the corner, to use as his own personal store. The rest he leased out for cheap to small and struggling local businesses. He figured it’s the least he could do after already occupying so much space.

Several days later, and voila, his home was set.

[witherby]

Omg I wonder how the brothers would react to flittermouse and Conner even if they aren’t together

“The new meta human we found out about approximately 26 hours ago did not only tell you his name, BUT BROKE INTO YOUR ROOM?????”

“Oh yea I forgot to tell you about that”

Great question!

Dick:

"He was in your room with you?"

It's said the exact same way Bruce asks questions when he's barely suppressing his rage. Flat tone. Flat expression. White knuckles. You know he's not mad at you, but you also know that Conner had better be just as invulnerable as the man whose identity he's stealing if Dick catches sight of him anytime soon. You use your shadows to tuck away the Kryptonite into your pocket dimension so he can't coat his escrima sticks in it.

Jason:

"Why the fuck didn't you do anything!?"

He is mad at you. Conner could have hurt you. He could have stolen you away somewhere and left the rest of your family none the wiser. You have powers! You have training! You know how to behave in a dangerous situation and you disregarded all of that and went to fucking sleep!? His anger is rooted in his fear of losing you, and you both know that, but it still sucks to be on the receiving end of Jason's temper.

Tim:

"The new alien was in your room and all you learned was his name?"

He's not disappointed in you necessarily. He's genuinely glad you're safe, and he believes you when you insist that Conner means no harm, but you couldn't have stayed awake just a little longer to grab more info? He's only got a first name and a physical description to work with if he wants to gather more intel. He's worked with less before, but it's gonna take him at least ten more minutes to track him down with just a name.

Damian:

"I'm telling Father to line the perimeter with Kryptonite dust. Pennyworth, do not set a plate for me tonight, I'm going out."

There was a strange boy in your room with unknown intentions and a currently interminable threat level. He's suiting up. He's sharpening his swords. He's booked a ticket on the next train to Metropolis. He'll burn that city down to find the lowlife that thought it was acceptable to sneak into his baby sibling's bedroom in the middle of the night for unknown purposes! Damian is not coming back until Conner's head is on a pike.

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Mister Targaryen's Curious Bookshop

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, slow burn, Aemond being obsessed with the reader, a little bit of self-loathing and low self-esteem (Aemond), flower shop/bookshop AU

Summary: Aemond thought he would be alone with his bookshop for the rest of his life. Until the flower shop next door came back to life.

A/N: This fic had been sitting in my WIPs for ages. @hotd-bigbang gave me the motivational push to finally write it. And @targaryenrealnessdarling visualised my words so wonderfully, helping me imagine and feel this fic more.

Masterlist Taglist

Aemond had been working at "The Curious Book Shop" since college. It had become his refuge from the chaos of his family life and a break from his studies. He would hide in the deepest corners, surrounded by rows upon rows of books, studying for exams or reading for pleasure.

It was during one of his early morning runs that he stumbled upon his fate. Just around the corner from his apartment complex, he noticed a small bookshop. Something about it pulled him in as if it were calling out to him. The smell of old books gently wafted into his nostrils, and he felt as though he had entered heaven.

Aemond wandered the shop slowly, lazily browsing the shelves. His fingers grazed the spines of both old and new books. He spotted classics like *Frankenstein* and beautifully bound editions of Jane Austen novels, but there was also an entire section dedicated to fresh voices, new writers waiting to be discovered. 

Time slipped away from him until the bookshop keeper, a kind elderly man with snow-white hair, a stout build, and round glasses that made his eyes look larger—like a slightly overfed hamster—tapped him gently on the shoulder. With a warm smile, the man told him it was closing time.

Aemond felt a pang of disappointment. He had only explored half of the shop and longed to uncover every hidden corner. 

From that day on, he became a regular. His visits were so frequent that the old man eventually offered him a job. Aemond accepted without hesitation; it was a dream come true to work in a place filled with books.

Though Aemond had completed his business degree at Queen’s College in King’s Landing, he didn’t pursue the corporate path his mother and grandfather had carefully laid out for him. Instead, he chose to put his skills to use at the bookshop. His mentor appreciated his knack for numbers and calculations, and Aemond soon took over managing the shop’s finances and budgets.

For a long time, Aemond was simply an employee. His mentor guided him through all the shop’s nooks and crannies, revealing the secrets hidden deep within the endless rows of books. But when the old man passed away, Aemond was shocked to discover that, in his will, he had left the bookshop to him.

"Old Valyrian magic," his mentor had said one day as they placed new arrivals on the shelves near the cashier, "is rooted deep in every corner of this bookshop—in every rug fibre, dust grain, and wooden splinter. It is like the skeleton of this wonderful shop."

Aemond could feel it too—the raw power lingering behind closed doors, in the creaks of the wooden floor, and the way the air seemed to hum with ancient energy. Or, at least, he thought he did. The truth was, sometimes the shop seemed to have a mind of its own. Doors would appear where there had been none before, opening to reveal strange, hidden rooms. Other times, doors would remain locked no matter how hard he tried, as if the bookshop decided he wasn’t ready to enter.

One day, after stocking the historical crime books, Aemond’s curiosity was piqued when a door swung open just as he turned away from the shelves. This door, unlike the others, seemed to beckon him. It led him not to another room but to an entirely different dimension—a space outside the normal laws of reality.

There were no books written about the bookshop itself, at least none he could find, and so he started documenting his explorations in a leather-bound notebook. In it, he scribbled down every detail, theory, and oddity he encountered. He spent hours after closing wandering the ever-shifting landscape of the shop, venturing through realms that seemed to exist only within its walls. The bookshop was playful—mischievous, even. It would open random doors, then lock them again, guiding him through magical adventures far beyond the world outside.

One room in particular had become his favourite: The Hidden Library. It was a vast, seemingly endless space filled with row after row of books, stretching far into the sky. There were books of every kind—small, hand-sized paperbacks, large encyclopedic tomes, volumes bound in leather with golden lettering, some in languages long dead. History, botany, astrology, science, philosophy—the scope of knowledge was overwhelming.

The towering shelves formed a maze, a labyrinth of wisdom and mystery. At the heart of this labyrinth sat a large oak desk, polished to such perfection that it gleamed like glass. Above it hung an ornate chandelier, casting a warm, amber glow over the desk, perfect for reading or studying in the comforting silence of the library.

But the labyrinth had its whims. The shelves shifted at will, reshuffling the paths and the books. It was both awe-inspiring and, at times, deeply frustrating. There were days when the maze seemed to toy with him, taking him in circles or preventing him from finding the desk. Yet, Aemond knew it was the bookshop's way of showing off—revealing itself bit by bit, granting him access to its secrets.

Aemond often imagined that the Library of Alexandria must have been like this—filled with treasures of knowledge, books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the world, guarded by time and mystery. Here, in his bookshop, he was one of the lucky few to uncover these treasures.

But The Hidden Library wasn’t the only room that fascinated him. There were other hidden chambers—each with its own magic, its own allure. He spent so much time exploring these secret places that he realized the bookshop had become more than just his workplace. It was his refuge, his second home, and perhaps, more than anything, a living entity he had come to understand like a dear, old friend.

Next to the magical bookshop stood an old, battered flower shop. The windows were dusty, and the paint on the rusty frames—once a bright blue—was flaking off. The sunblinds were torn and faded, their colour washed out from years of rain and weather damage.

Aemond’s mentor had once mentioned that the old owner couldn’t keep the shop open because her hands were no longer as nimble as they used to be. “The arrangements she made were as magical as this bookshop,” he would always say. “A shame she had to close it. She had no one to take over.”

The old bookshop owner had seemed melancholic whenever he spoke of the previous florist, smiling wistfully as if he had secretly admired her, perhaps even loved her in silence. Little did he know that he would share the same fate, leaving behind his beloved shop.

But one day, the flower shop next door sprang back to life. The scent of spring flowers began to fill the street, drifting into Aemond’s bookshop. The windows were freshly cleaned, and a new, bright yellow sunblind had been installed, replacing the worn one.

A week after the shop reopened, he saw her. She had messy, short hair in a half-up, half-down style, and a soft smile on her rosy, full lips. Her eyes sparkled as she quietly mumbled to herself, carefully arranging cut flowers in a vase outside the shop.

Aemond didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed watching her. Lost in her own little world, she crafted magnificent art with flowers, leaves, and other natural materials. He marvelled at her creations every time he passed by, often stopping to buy a bouquet—sometimes just to strike up a conversation, sometimes just to be near her.

It was nearly closing time when she appeared in front of him, a bright smile spreading across her lips. Her hair was messy again, with leaves and colourful petals woven into it—likely by accident, as some softly drifted to the ground whenever she turned her head. 

"Hi, I'm your shop neighbour. Sorry for not introducing myself sooner; I had to unpack everything," she said, holding out her hand with a bright grin. "Lovely," Aemond thought as he shook her hand.

“I’ve been to your shop a few times. I should’ve introduced myself, too,” he mumbled sheepishly, a soft blush dusting his pale cheeks. His ears felt like they were on fire.

Her hand was so small compared to his, soft but marked with fresh scars—probably from working with thorny roses or other prickly flowers. She was always creating art, in any form or shape, and it showed.

Her voice was full of joy, and unlike so many others, she looked at him without a trace of disgust or discomfort. She didn’t flinch at his scar or the eyepatch. She didn’t even avoid his gaze, which most people did. She looked him straight in the eyes, seeing him as a whole person. A warm feeling washed over him at that realization—it had been so long since he’d felt this way.

“Oh! Yes, I remember you now. You always buy two bouquets at a time!” she exclaimed, gesturing excitedly with her hands. Her energy was infectious, Aemond noted, and despite the late hour, he felt more awake just watching her. “You must really like your life partner!”

His blush deepened, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that,” he mumbled, feeling the heat rise in his face.

Clearing his throat, he squared his shoulders, trying to regain his composure as he towered over her. But she only smiled more, undeterred by his flustered state.

“No problem,” he whispered gruffly, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He averted his eye, staring down at the cashier counter. Why was he so flustered?

“Can I look around? I know you’re closing soon, but this is the only time I can visit because of my shop hours,” she asked.

He nodded solemnly, and her grin widened as she skipped off into the depths of the bookshop. Aemond couldn’t help but stare after her, his heart still pounding wildly in his chest. His usual calm demeanour was slipping, and his hands were growing sweatier with every passing second.

He watched her roam through the aisles, her fingers gently brushing the spines of books. A soft smile played on her lips, and her eyes sparkled with the joy that seemed to radiate from her. Her skin looked smooth, her hands had been as soft as silk.

Her hair was up in a messy bun, with loose strands framing her face perfectly. He tried not to stare too much, but he couldn’t help himself. She was beautiful—radiant, even. The flower girl from next door.

It was no longer unusual for her to visit him after her shop’s closing hours. Since their first meeting, it had become routine, and Aemond didn’t mind keeping the shop open a little longer for her. He enjoyed the peace, but even more, he enjoyed her presence. She brought a sense of chaos and life into his dusty, meticulously ordered existence—something he had always carefully avoided, but now realized he needed.

This time, she told him in advance where she intended to wander, mindful not to repeat the incident from her first visit. That day, she had innocently ventured into one of the magical rooms, and Aemond hadn't heard from her for hours. Panic had set in when she failed to respond to his calls. By the time he found her, it was nearly midnight, and both of them had early mornings ahead. She explained that a door had appeared before her, opening on its own, and she hadn’t been able to resist stepping through.

Luckily, it was The Hidden Library she had found, a room Aemond knew like the back of his hand. The labyrinth of bookshelves had shifted, subtly aiding him in locating her more quickly than it usually would allow. Other rooms might not have been so kind, and Aemond had been relieved when he spotted her amidst the endless rows of books.

When he found her, she hadn’t been panicked or distressed. In fact, she had a stack of books balanced in her arms, her face lit with pure delight. "This is magnificent!" she had said, her voice filled with awe as she wandered between the ever-changing shelves.

His heart had pounded in his chest when he saw her, but not out of fear anymore. Something else stirred in him—his heart skipped, or maybe it leapt with joy, something akin to a yearning he hadn’t felt in a long time. Aemond was no stranger to intense emotions, but this was different. It wasn’t the fiery anger or the cold, bitter loneliness he was used to; this was warm, fluttering, almost sweet in its intensity.

Crushes were for middle schoolers, weren’t they? He tried to tell himself that, but there was no denying it anymore. Watching her flit through his magical bookshop with that infectious enthusiasm, her joy at discovering something new—it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years. 

He stood there, watching her as she made her way through the aisles, completely at ease in the strange, shifting shop. She never seemed bothered by the oddities or the magic; if anything, it only seemed to fuel her curiosity and joy. And as much as he tried to keep his distance, Aemond couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

Maybe crushes weren't just for middle schoolers after all.

Aemond had never imagined he'd find himself standing in a magical greenhouse with the quirky flower shop owner next door, watching her flit between plants and books with the kind of excitement that only she seemed to possess. The realisation that he had a crush on her had grown stronger with every bouquet she brought him, each one slowly wilting or drying out under his care despite his best efforts.

When she playfully teased him about his inability to keep her gifts alive—remarking that she’d thought a magical shop would do the job for him—Aemond could only smile sheepishly. He had no explanation, other than perhaps his unfamiliarity with the deeper, older magics of the place. Maybe, he mused, if he had studied Valyrian magic more closely, he’d have been able to keep her flowers flourishing. 

Then one day, they found it—The Glass House. It appeared out of nowhere. He had restocked some sections of the shop while she was aimlessly wandering around again. His eyes sometimes drifted over to her. Watching her read passages out of books quietly. Making a note of which book she held longer so he could give it to her when he bought another bouquet from her.

They both turned into the same aisle when the door appeared right in front of them. Just right at the end of the rows of bookshelves where usually a wall was.

She stared at him with big eyes. “Is this normal?” She looked up at him with a bewildered expression. He nodded nonchalantly, he was used to it. “The bookshop likes to play.” She giggled gently at his deadpan words.

“Tell me more.” Her bright smile made his lips quirk up slightly. “Well, I don’t know how the magic works. The old owner couldn’t tell me either. But I found out the doors mirror the moods, likes and needs of the person standing in front of it.”

“Like the Room of Requirement?” Aemond snorted at her question. “More or less. The door stays and only disappears when it isn’t needed anymore. To make room for another door. A few doors had disappeared when my mentor died. It felt like the shop had mourned him.” 

He let his eyes wander over her face. To check if she understood what he was saying. She nodded lowly. She seemed to be deep in thought. Mulling over his words carefully. “There are multiple doors in the bookshop. Not one like in Harry Potter. Maybe even hidden ones. But most of the time they are prominent.”

She nodded softly. Looking at the door that had appeared in front of them. Vines seemed to wind around the wooden front like they were alive. Forming a large tree taking up nearly the whole door. To her, it seemed like the tree in the Nordic myth, Yggdrasil.  "So if I would go through one of those doors, it is like I would go through a portal. Like the wardrobe in Narnia?” Aemond snorted as he put another book onto a shelf, holding “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ” in his hands. Coincidence? In this shop, less likely.

“I see the shop more like the Tardis.” He mumbled. He was reaching up to restock the “Lord of the Rings” bundle packs back on the fantasy shelf. A classic he seems to run out of every week.

“Because the store seems small at first glance but it gets bigger with every new door opening?” She stood beside him, holding the stacks of Agatha Christi novels for him. “Yeah, like that.” He smiled at her, a rare occurrence that had happened more often since they spent time together. She hummed thoughtfully. “I like my Narnia reference more.” Aemond chuckled. “I am hurt.” He pouted playfully at her, making her giggle.

Suddenly the door opened next to her. She shrieked, which made him look up at her. His body was alarmed. Ready to fight whoever dared to scare her. He blushed slightly when he realised what he was thinking. And that he would fight a door for her.

Her fright was not long living. She was too curious to be scared for long. “I can make it up to you. Go on! Go inside and I follow you, Doctor.” He laughed gently. Putting away the last of crime mystery books before turning to the green door. “Well… Geronimo!” He mumbled playfully into her ear. Making her blush.

He turned the golden knop. With a gnarling sound, it slowly opened. A breeze of warm wind blew into their faces gently. 

Aemond held the door open for her to go inside. She shyly thanked him. Her eyes grew big at the sight of what lay behind the inconspicuous door. Aemond had to keep up with her as she rushed inside the door.

She stopped in the middle of the room. Her breathing hitched in her throat as she took in the room overgrown with lush green plants. Her smile reached up to her ears. Her small body vibrates from excitement. “Look! A greenhouse library!” He smiled as he watched her flitter around the room.

Strangely, it wasn’t as humid as a typical greenhouse. It was pleasantly warm or cool, depending on what they needed at the time. On either side of the house stood hip-high plant tables made of stone, filled with plants both known and unknown, their blooms and colourful leaves on display for visitors.

In one corner stood two cosy-looking emerald armchairs with a table between them. They looked so inviting as if they had been waiting for him and his companion. Friend? he wondered about what he should call his shop neighbour. His little flower girl? His heart pounded against his ribcage. What was he thinking? His little flower girl? She was barely his friend—acquaintances, maybe? Slowly he started to confuse himself, distracting him from marvelling and listening to her.

But his heart knew what his mind refused to admit: he wanted her. He wanted to explore his magical bookshop with her.

They moved on. Going into the garden section. She already held three books in her hand. Opening them at random pages to read them at the same time. It was an endearing sight he didn’t like to avert his eyes.

She talked animatedly about the various plants, suggesting that he put her half-dead flowers from the front of the shop in the Glass House so he wouldn’t be so sad when they died. She stopped short when she realized she was alone in another corner of the greenhouse, having abandoned the orchids to return to the centre of the room—back to the two emerald armchairs. Back to him.

The sight of her wide-eyed excitement as they entered The Glass House was enough to make Aemond's heart leap. Plants of all kinds surrounded them, lush greenery spilling over the stone plant tables. Despite the greenhouse setting, the air was a perfect balance of warmth and coolness, catering to their comfort. In the centre of the room were two emerald armchairs, an inviting sanctuary in the midst of the botanical splendour.

He watched her eagerly explore the space, picking up books on gardening and flipping through their pages with a joyful energy that he found utterly endearing. She chattered on about the plants, suggesting with a grin that maybe he could bring her dying bouquets here, where the magic could keep them alive.

Aemond was about to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His mind wandered to the sensation of her small, scarred hand in his earlier—a hand that had felt soft, delicate, and utterly natural in his. He couldn't stop the warmth that spread through him, a feeling he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with. What was she to him, really? His heart wanted to call her something more than just a shop neighbour or even a friend. Something like "his flower girl" seemed to fit, but it made his chest tighten with a strange kind of longing. 

As he stood there, lost in thought, he barely noticed her wandering off to the other side of The Glass House. He only snapped back to attention when he realized she had returned, her presence suddenly close again. She held out her hand, a playful glint in her eyes. "I saw another door opening," she said softly, her voice filled with excitement. "Your bookshop is telling me something. Want to come with me?"

He looked down at her outstretched hand, feeling a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Hesitation flashed briefly before he took her hand, its warmth seeping into his. “Let’s explore the rooms together, then,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with resolve.

She led him through the new door, and they entered a room unlike any other he had ever seen. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, filled with swirling stars, planets, and constellations that shimmered and moved like they were alive. The smell of ancient books filled the air, wrapping around them like a comforting, familiar blanket. It was peaceful, serene—a perfect contrast to the excitement they’d felt in The Glass House.

They both stood in silence for a moment, awestruck by the beauty of the room. Later, they would come to call it "The Sorcerer’s Room," convinced it had once belonged to a powerful wizard—a figure out of legend, someone like Merlin.

But for now, Aemond was content. Content to explore the wonders of his magical bookshop, not alone this time, but with her by his side. And more than the magic of the shop, it was her wide-eyed wonder and infectious joy that captivated him the most. As they wandered deeper into the room, he felt her hand tighten around his, and for the first time in a long while, he realized how much he enjoyed sharing this world with someone who made it feel even more magical.

Since the discovery of The Glass House and The Sorcerer’s Room, she had spent most of her time in both rooms—studying the plants or curling up in the emerald armchair to read. She looked like a cat when she did it.  

In The Sorcerer’s Room, she would lie on the floor and point out different constellations. He would lie next to her, hanging on to every word that left her lips.

“Black tea, steeped for nearly ten minutes with a dash of milk.” He set the large yellow cup with white daisies in front of her on the small coffee table. She smiled softly up at him.  

“Thank you,” she said. She had lost track of time as she read in the emerald chair in The Glass House, a blanket she had crocheted herself thrown over her lap. At his sweet gesture, her heart thudded harder against her rib cage.

His heart leapt again at her soft smile.  

“Am I here often enough now that you’ve already memorized my tea-drinking habits?” she chuckled softly.  

He grinned involuntarily. “It’s an odd way to drink tea,” he teased, “but I like odd things,” he wanted to add.

She giggled softly, making his heart flutter again, before taking a sip. She closed her eyes and let out a content hum.  

“Perfect,” she whispered, her bright eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the light in The Glass House, like stars sparkling in the night sky.

His body warmed at her smile. A rare smile crept across his own, thinner lips. He leaned slightly closer, inhaling the floral scent of her perfume—so fresh and light. He wanted to fall asleep with his face nestled in her neck, to wake up to her warmth every morning.

The realization hit him hard. His body grew tense, every muscle and fibre rigid as he looked down at her. His knees nearly buckled as he stared.  

Her perfect little smile haunted his dreams and every waking moment. Her eyes hypnotized him whenever they caught his gaze. She was an enchantress, though she didn’t know it.

He cleared his throat and sat down in the other emerald green armchair next to her, trying to focus on his book. But every five seconds, he lost his place, and after a few paragraphs, he had no idea what he had been reading.

The reason was clear: she, his shop neighbour. The sweet florist next door. A woman so kind and warm that he wanted to envelop her in his arms, keep her close, and never let her go.

He was growing possessive. He caught himself growling at male customers from time to time, surprising even himself. He had never acted like this before. Not with his ex, Alys, or with Floris, the girl he dated for one semester at university.

This was different—a deep, primal urge. To be close to her. To take care of her. To provide for her. To be hers, just as he wanted her to be his.

The more he thought about her, the more horrified he became at how deeply in love he had fallen. His heart raced, his hands grew sweaty, and they trembled lightly, clammy with nervous energy.

The most fatal mistake he made at that moment was looking over at her. His lone, piercing pale violet eye drank in her worried features.  

Strands of hair had fallen into her face, and he watched as her nose wrinkled slightly, one strand tickling it. Her bright eyes examined him carefully, her worry growing the longer he sat like a statue in the emerald armchair beside her.

“Everything alright, Aemond?” she asked, her voice soft. The sound of his name on her lips was enough to make him swoon. So sweet, so innocent.  

“Yes,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “All is well. Never been better.” He rambled, trying to regain his composure.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced. He felt trapped, like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a predator. What was she doing to him?

He couldn’t keep feeling like this—trapped in his own body. It was a sensation he had tried to avoid since childhood, an unhealthy way to cope with anxiety. He knew that well enough.  

Aemond abruptly stood from the armchair and rushed out of the room into the main selling area of the bookshop, trying to hide between the shelves. But he could hear her soft footsteps following him. She had thrown the blanket aside and followed him as fast as her shorter legs could carry her. 

He tried to outrun her, taking sharp turns every few steps but suddenly stopped at a dead end. Cursing himself for not paying attention to his own shop’s layout, he glared at the wall. A part of him wished for a new door to appear so he could disappear, but nothing happened. The wall remained still, unmoving.  

She chased after him the best she could. Her legs were much shorter than his, and while he could take one step, she needed four to keep up. She tried anyway, her eyes fixed on him as he turned corners.

But one of his turns was too fast. He managed to shake her off, leaving her out of breath and disoriented. Her mind raced, trying to figure out where he had gone. Her gut told her to go left, but her head insisted on right.  

Finally, she found him, standing rigid at the dead end. His back stiffened as she approached. "Why are you running from me?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with confusion. He didn’t turn, as if trying to ignore her.

She stepped closer. "Did I do something wrong?"  

"No!" he immediately shot back. She jumped, startled by the suddenness of his response, a gasp escaping her lips.

Hearing the sound, he turned toward her. He had scared her—a thing he vowed he would never do. "I’m sorry," he murmured, reaching out, and she let him touch her arm. Her baby blue jumper felt soft under his hand. "I’m so sorry," he repeated, his voice quieter this time.

"It’s alright," she said, stepping closer. "I’m just a jumpy person."  

She looked up at him, her eyes shining even in the dim light, like stars in the night sky.  

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered under his breath, but she heard it, smiling bashfully.  

"Thank you," she replied, her cheeks heating up.

They moved closer—toe to toe, chest to chest. Aemond looked down at her while she looked up.  

"You have beautiful eyes," she mumbled.  

"No, I don’t," he responded, his tone harsher than he intended.

She frowned at his self-deprecation. "They’re both unique in their own way, and I think they’re beautiful." Her protest was met with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  

"Don’t tell me what to think," she said, glaring at him playfully.

He chuckled. "If you say so."  

She huffed in disbelief, frustrated by how low his self-esteem was. Words weren’t enough, so she let her actions speak for her. She leaned up and kissed him gently.

His breath caught in his throat as their lips met, and a tingling sensation swept over his body. Slowly, he pulled her closer by the waist, careful not to make her stumble. Her arms wrapped around his slim frame, her fingers digging into the wool of his jumper.

The kiss lingered, electric sensations running through both of them. Eyes closed, they held each other tightly. But eventually, they had to come up for air.  

Their chests heaved, eyes wide and pupils blown, but big grins spread across their swollen lips. They didn’t need words—silence spoke volumes, carrying more meaning than a thousand words ever could.

To read more of my work, please take a look at my MASTERLIST.

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[ckret2]

Chapter 53 of human Bill Cipher not properly appreciating the fact that Mabel is his only friend on Earth:

Mabel has read a book about Bill's home dimension and is prepared to interrogate him all about where he comes from.

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

Flatworld, from what Mabel had read, was probably literally the worst place to ever exist. 

The book was a hundred pages of an old-fashioned formal-sounding super boring guy rambling on about the most egregiously evil society Mabel had ever had the horror of reading about.

Society consisted of a bunch of geometric shapes—which in concept sounded half nerdy and half adorable—but they'd made a brutally oppressive government organized by quantity of sides, with infinite-sided circles at the top and three-sided triangles at the bottom, and one-sided lines—women—oppressed into near silence. Career options, educational opportunities, who you could love, were all determined by your sides. Irregular shapes—quadrilaterals that weren't squares, triangles that weren't equilateral, anyone with a side too long or too short—were presumed from birth to be criminally insane. Each generation had sons with one more side than their father—and they had to, because having higher-ranked sons was the only way families could climb out of poverty. When babies were born with too few or irregular sides, poor families abandoned them—or worse—and rich families put them through oft-fatal bone-snapping surgeries to regularize or increase their sides. Knowledge of the third dimension was considered heretical, and anybody claiming it was real was locked in an insane asylum.

There was a lot of mathy stuff in the book about a square meeting a magical sphere and going on educational adventures to the higher and lower dimensions; but most of it passed by her in a blur. When she'd finished reading last night, Mabel had lay in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about dead baby shapes and fighting the urge to wake Bill up just so she could hug him; until she'd finally drifted off and woken up in her own bed.

At least, thank goodness, the bit about banning colors so lower shapes couldn't contour themselves to look like higher shapes was false. But she was sure that at least part of the story was true. And it had happened to somebody she knew. It was a lot to process.

So she processed it the way she usually did the stories that weighed on her: by creating a self-insert and pulling out her art supplies.

####

"You're drawing fan art of Flatworld?" Bill asked warily.

"I wouldn't call it fan art. I'd say it's more of a... thoughtful artistic critique. I don't think I'm a 'fan' of the second dimension," Mabel said. "No offense."

"Sure."

Mabel had designed a shapesona of herself: a pink heart with a rainbow-colored outline, a big sparkly eye, and skinny black stick limbs like Bill's. If, as Bill had said, colors weren't illegal, she didn't see any reason she couldn't be rainbow. The heart shape was maybe unconventional, but Bill hadn't said she couldn't be a heart yet, so she was sticking with it for now.

She'd honestly expected Bill to come over and interrogate her about her creation long before now. Usually, when she was doing art and he was unoccupied, he was hovering right by her, examining her work and dropping hints—some more subtle than others—that she should draw him next. But she hadn't immediately noticed when he'd silently drifted into the room, and she wasn't sure how long he'd been there before speaking up. He was still leaning on the wall, arms crossed, watching askance from halfway across the living room as Mabel worked with her crayons, as if she were playing with a chemistry set and he was trying to figure out if she was building a bomb.

"Is Flatworld really about your world?" Mabel asked. "Did you tell Edward Bishop Bishop all that stuff? With the circles and all the laws about shapes and stuff?"

Bill mulled over the question, staring into space. Mabel had never seen his face look so inexpressive before—at least, not since his first night as a captive, after he'd gotten all the screaming out and had looked too exhausted to feel. "We talked," he conceded. "I'm surprised you got your hands on it. I suppose Stanford brought it up."

Something in the back of her mind pricked up defensively—what was that supposed to mean, he was surprised she got her hands on it?—but she pushed it back down. "Yeah, he told me and Dipper about it when you guys got home yesterday," Mabel said. "But you brought it up to me first!"

"No I didn't. When?"

"A few weeks ago? You mentioned Edward Bishop Bishop."

"I don't remember that," Bill muttered. "I probably didn't think you'd make sense of it."

"Hey!"

"You didn't make sense of it! Ford had to tell you about it."

"Yeah, but—mean!" She shoved aside her drawing and started on another one, grumbling, "I could've made sense of it if I'd looked it up."

What was up with Bill today? He wasn't usually this much of a jerk. To her. Lately. Plus, she thought they'd really had a moment yesterday! But Bill had had a rough couple days. Maybe he was just tired and cranky. 

A wiser person might just leave well enough alone. But a wiser person wasn't exploding in their brain with curiosity about just how bad Bill's life had really been. There was something itching at the back of her head, had been itching since she'd woken up—something about Bill, something important, she was sure of it—but she couldn't quite put together what it was. She just needed to talk to Bill long enough to figure it out.

"So..." She glanced up from filling in a shape yellow, "were lines really executed if they didn't make noises all the time so everyone always knew where they were and they couldn't sneak up and stab anyone?"

Bill scoffed, rolling his eyes, as if the very idea was stupid. "It wasn't that extreme. Making a peace cry is like a human saying 'coming through' when they're trying to squeeze past somebody. Lines are just taught to do it in public because it's easier not to see a line, that's all."

"If they didn't, were they executed...?"

"No. They were just rude."

That was a relief. Mabel had been worried for her fellow ladies. She was plenty noisy, but she didn't think she could remember to make constant sound any time she was around other people. She turned back to coloring her newest drawing, but watched Bill out of the corner of her eye. "Is it true that rich people killed almost all of their babies by giving them surgery to break their sides?"

The corner of Bill's mouth curled in a sneer. "Do I look like a pediatric surgeon?"

"Um." Not a welcome question. She tried to backtrack to something softer. "So, in the second dimension, the outside of your body is just your outline and your guts are everything inside the outline, right?"

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

"So your bow tie is basically in your stomach."

Bill sucked in a deep breath; but quickly caved in to the need to be the most correct person in the room. "More like around my esophagus, but. Sure."

"So, where did you wear it when you were back in the second dimension? Was it on your side? Did you have to wear two so people could see them from both sides—"

"I didn't need a bow tie then."

Mabel stared at him. "What do you mean, you didn't 'need' it? What do you need it for now?"

Bill ignored the question. "You know, I didn't think Flatworld was an interesting enough book to deserve this much attention! Especially not from you. You like fun stories." It felt oddly like he was criticizing her for having read it.

"Well—yeah, but it's about your home! That makes it fun!"

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

"Kid." Bill laughed condescendingly. "Don't give me that. You read an entire book. In the summer. About math. With a downer ending where the narrator goes insane and gets locked up. That's some people's idea of a fun time, but I know it's not yours."

Maybe "fun" was the wrong word—but it was still important. She was glad she'd read it. She'd cared about it. She'd cared enough to know Bill was describing it wrong. "That's not what happened. The square got locked up because he kept telling everybody the third dimension's real."

"Like I said! He went insane!"

"But he's not insane. Everyone says he is, but he's right about the third dimension! It's everyone else who's stupid!"

"So what," Bill said. "The things he knows mean he'll never be able to see the world the way other shapes do, and no matter what he does he'll never be happy with his home. If that's not insanity, what is?"

Last year, she'd heard Bill agree when Gideon called him insane. She'd always wondered. "Is that why you're insane?"

Bill shot Mabel a furious look. That was the wrong thing to say. "Shooting Star—"

(Oh no, she thought, he's using my full name.)

"—what's with the third degree." Bill crossed the room to lean on the other side of the table. He gave her the guarded glare of a guilty suspect facing down a cop in an interrogation room—and trying to figure out whether he could kill the cop before he was stopped. "What do you think you're trying to dig up?"

"I'm not trying to 'dig up' anything," Mabel said. "I just want to learn more about you!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you do! Who doesn't wanna know all about me! And right after I trusted you yesterday! Do you think you're the first person to start digging into my history? 'Hey, does anyone know what made Bill Cipher so crazy'?" Bill laughed bitterly. " You're not even the first Pines to try it. Not even the second."

"That's not what I'm trying to do!" said Mabel, right before it dawned on her that that was exactly what she was trying to do.

"Right. I'm sure whatever you learn will make a nice two-page spread in Journal 5. Another secret you and Fordsy can add to your Mysteries, huh? Think he'll draw the dead babies?"

She thought back to Portland—to asking Ford what had made Bill so awful. I think if anyone’s ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Mabel shook her head. No. She didn't want to be that. "I'm not Grunkle Ford's spy, I'm your friend. I just—I just want to understand you—"

"Yeah, and the 'friends' who understand you are the most dangerous kind." Bill laughed harshly. "Your uncle and brother couldn't figure me out! And Sixer's been trying for years! So what makes you think YOU can?"

He was calling her stupid. He'd been calling her stupid all day. That was why he was so surprised she'd read the book.

"You—shut up!" She wadded up her latest drawing and flung it in Bill's face. (He snatched out of midair.) "All I did was read a book I thought was important to you, you jerk! I thought you'd like that!"

She hadn't meant for that waver to enter her voice. But she was exhausted from too little sleep and worrying about dead baby shapes and worrying about Bill's fear of death and worrying about what Ford had said about not giving Bill a second chance, and now Bill was being a jerk, and maybe he was just exhausted and upset too, but he was treating her like she was stupid—and there was that pathetic little waver.

But it made Bill pause in his onslaught; for a moment, he averted his gaze. Still, he said, "Maybe if you'd thought to ask—"

"You were asleep! I was being nice! And letting you sleep! In my bed!"

"But—"

"Just go away!" She pointed at the doorway.

Bill's face hardened again. "Fine!" He flung his hands in the air and stomped from the room. "Who wants to hang out with you when you're in such a bad mood, anyway."

Mabel glared at her stupid drawings so she didn't have to watch Bill's stupid back as he left.

Why had she bothered?

When Bill was out of sight, she dropped back onto her chair, pulled her sweater over her face, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her head in them.

####

Bill didn't think to smooth out the paper Mabel had flung at him until he was out of the room.

On one side she'd drawn Bill—properly triangular—with an expression that he thought was supposed to be fear and on the other side several angry-looking shapes, pentagons and hexagons, colored gray and black, being led by a pale figure shaped like a human skull and wielding a scythe; and between them, a bright pink heart, standing in front of Bill protectively, hands on its "hips," glaring down the would-be assailants.

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

The bell rang and the shapes began filing out of class, muttering to each other about how they thought they'd done on the test. As the triangle cheerfully left the room, the teacher caught him by the arm again to pull him over. "Just a minute," she said. "I want a word with you."

Oh, he bet she did. Breezily, he said, "Sure thing! What is it?"

"Who was the first triangular president?"

"Wh— Th—" He spluttered indignantly. "There's been like—seven of them."

"Nine. And I'm only asking about the first one."

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

He sputtered again. "That was— That was a multiple choice test! And it was an hour closer to when I'd studied! And I can focus better in the classroom! You can't expect me to remember anything in the hallway. You're using intimidation tactics. How could anyone focus under these conditions—"

"I don't know what you're doing," the teacher said, "or how you're doing it. Maybe I never will. But..." She sighed, and the anger seemed to leak out of her, and that only made him more nervous. "But whatever you're doing—you won't be able to do it forever. What will you do when you're out in the real world and you didn't learn anything in school?"

Her pity was worse than being hated had been. At least when he was hated, he knew she only looked down on him because she had something against him. What did he do with pity? With concerned warnings about the "real world"? He'd never heard anybody use the phrase "the real world" as anything but a threat. He hoped he was never out in the real world.

"Who cares! I'll never need any of this!" He should have shut up there. He didn't: "You're just jealous that me and my family make a million times more lying to everyone than you'll ever get trying to teach them the truth!"

His teacher gasped in shock; but before she could say anything, he was halfway down the hall with no intention of slowing down.

The next day, he stayed home, and his mom visited the principal. The day after that, he had a new teacher.

####

He was stupid. He knew that. He didn't know when he'd gotten stupid—if it was because he'd started touring so much and missing classes, or if he'd always been dumb and just didn't notice it before he registered just how often he was using his all-seeing eye to pick up answers that other kids couldn't see. It had crept up on him. But there it was. He was stupid, and he was too stupid to figure out what to do about it.

There was a big difference between being able to see everything, and actually knowing anything. And he might be all-seeing, but an idiot like him would never be all-knowing.

####

A trillion years later, he still didn't remember the name of the first triangular president. And look how far he'd gotten without it.

Lunch was toast and peanut butter. The toaster was the only source of heat he could use without having to ask his captors for access; and peanut butter and bread were the most nutritious foods he could reach without asking his captors to open a cabinet or fridge. He was sick of toast and peanut butter.

He wasn't about to ask Mabel to help him get lunch.

Well. He'd succeeded. He'd known just the right thing to say to get Mabel to lay off and drop the topic. Did he feel accomplished?

He stared out the window as he ate—there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon, beyond the trees, slowly inching closer—and he tried not to look at the picture Mabel had flung at him.

####

Mabel felt dumb about being upset that Bill thought she was dumb.

Because of course he did. Sure, he liked her art and he liked dance music and games without rules; sure, he was a willing student when it came to stuff like making friendship bracelets or artistically mixing sprinkles; sure, he was a weirdo fun guy; but he was also a Smarty McSmartypants, just like Dipper or Ford. And Mabel was the Girl Dipper who brought home C's. And even a weirdo fun Smarty wouldn't want to hang out for long with someone who couldn't keep up with nerd talk. He probably just... put up with her for as long as he could stand pretending he took her seriously, but he'd finally lost his patience...

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

Maybe Ford and Dipper were right about him; maybe he couldn't really change.

Except... there was something he'd said. And right after I trusted you yesterday. When he'd cried in front of her. When he'd told her about his fear of death.

He was being a jerk because he thought she'd betrayed him. But by reading a book?! Why couldn't he ever just explain himself? Did he think whatever was bothering him was obvious, and she was stupid for not figuring it out?

Something she almost but didn't quite remember thudded like a drum inside her brain. Dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dome.

From the entryway, Bill called, "Hey, star girl. I—"

He stopped in the doorway. Mabel had taped 28 pieces of paper together, drawn on a door knob, written "DOOR" at the top, and taped it across the doorway into the living room. Irritably, Bill said, "It doesn't work like that. This is obviously paper."

"Bill," Mabel grumbled. "Go away."

"No. I'm gonna say something to you."

He didn't phrase that like he was giving her a choice in the matter; but all the same, she said, "I don't wanna hear it."

"You know that horror story about a bride with a velvet ribbon tied around her neck, and her head falls off and rolls down the stairs when her husband unties it?"

She did. She and Dipper had read a book of scary stories to each other on Halloween a few years ago while waiting for it to be late enough to go trick-or-treating. In spite of herself, he'd piqued her curiosity. She reluctantly turned to look at him. "Yeah? So?"

Bill was leaning in the doorway, head tilted against the doorframe so he could see Mabel around the paper door curtain. "That's why I wear a bow tie."

Mabel blinked. "Wait—if you didn't, your head would fall off? What part of you is your head? How did it come off? Were you decapitated? Did you get decapitated for knowing about the third dimension—?"

"It doesn't keep my head on; it keeps my skin on."

Mabel's nose wrinkled. "Gross! How?"

"Remember how you said my outline is my skin and all my organs are inside the outline," Bill said. "That didn't change when we left the second dimension! We had to get exoskeletons on our top and bottom sides so solids like you can't stick you fingers in our guts. My bow tie keeps it tied in place."

"Whoa." So that was why they hadn't seen Bill's organs before. "Do you ever take it off?"

"Mostly when I'm eating!" He knocked on the doorframe. "So can I come in now?"

Of course. He'd been using information to buy his way back into her good graces. (No—that was what somebody who didn't think Bill deserved a second chance would think. He was making up for earlier by answering one of her questions about him.)

She took a deep breath, turned to face Bill, and said, "You didn't talk to me like a friend earlier."

"I—" Bill grimaced, looked at the ceiling for help, and conceded, "I mean—It's how I talk to my friends, but all right, I know you're not used to that—"

"Nobody should be used to that!" Mabel said. "What would Love Bunny say?"

"Wh—?! I— Th— You—" His voice cracked as it jumped higher, "What do I care what a cartoon rabbit thinks about—"

"What. Would. She. Say."

Bill's face screwed up in agony. He crossed his arms. "Ugh."

"Biiill?"

Eyes squeezed shut, Bill said, "She'd say my breath smells like I've been eating mean beans."

"Aaand?"

"I'm not going to say it. I won't say it."

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

"This is my penance," Bill muttered toward his feet. "This is my penance. This is fair." He took a breath. "And... I need to eat my nice rice."

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

"I think we're out of nice rice," Bill said, "but I've had the peanut butter of kindness and the toast of remorse. Good enough?"

She considered it. "Yeah. You can come in."

Bill batted aside the paper door curtain and ducked into the room. 

He sat across the table from Mabel and set down the paper she'd chucked at him amongst her others. Mabel glanced at the drawing, embarrassed of it now; but Bill didn't say anything about it.

He just propped his cheek against his hand and started looking over her other art.

Mabel sat there with her hands under her legs, watching his spotlight eyes rove over the table, feeling like she was waiting for a teacher to grade a poster she'd made for class. He saw a stop sign red octagon in sunglasses that was labeled "Bill's parole officer" and snorted. She wasn't sure if it was an amused snort or a derogatory snort. His gaze stopped on her attempt to figure out how Flatworlder anatomy worked, and didn't move farther. She'd probably gotten everything wrong, hadn't she?

She couldn't stand waiting for him to pass judgment on her art. "You think they look dumb, don't you."

Bill took a moment to reply. He didn't look up from her drawings. "I don't think you're dumb, Shooting Star."

"You think I'm dumber than Dipper and Grunkle Ford."

Bill winced. "I don't." At her dubious look, Bill amended, "Only Stanford! And that barely counts, all humans are dumber than Stanford. It doesn't mean I think you're dumb-dumb"

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

"You bet! I'm good at fooling people. All I have to do is say things I don't mean that make people feel the way I want." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "I wanted you to feel like the conversation wasn't worth it. That's all."

She stared at him. "By letting me know you think I'm stupid?!" She chucked a crayon at his face. "You could have just told me you didn't want to talk about Flatworld!" Her voice was getting that stupid waver again. "If I'd known, I would have dropped it! I didn't want to upset you!"

"I wasn't upset, it's just a stupid thing to complain about! It's just a dumb book! It'd—it'd take a real loser to be bothered by talking about a dumb book! I'm not..." He sighed harshly. "I know you weren't trying to get on my nerves, kid. It'd mess up your sticker chart." (Mabel hadn't even realized he knew about her sticker chart.) Almost inaudibly, he added, "M'sorry."

She'd never heard him apologize before.

She let out a slow breath. "Biiill. I don't think you're a loser."

He muttered something she couldn't make out as he flipped his hood on and pulled it down over his burning face. "Forget it. Move on. It's in the past!"

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

She chucked another crayon at his chest. "Then why are you telling me this now?"

Bill shut his eyes; took a deep breath; and, with a look of solemn dignity, and no small amount of pain, he said, "Because. Teddy Tender says. Our friends can't help us feel better if we don't tell them why we feel bad." He almost, almost managed to say it without sounding sarcastic.

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

Bill didn't even like Teddy Tender—he thought he was the stick in the mud of the Color Critters—and he certainly wasn't actually trying to follow Teddy's friendship lessons. He was just... saying something he didn't mean to make Mabel feel the way he wanted. And he wanted her to feel better.

No matter what anyone else said, he could change. And he was changing.

"Apology accepted," Mabel said. "Gold star!" She peeled one off a nearby sticker sheet and held it out.

Bill eyed it, like a man so hungry he was too nauseous to eat eyeing a pizza; and then snatched it from her and stuck it in the middle of his hoodie.

Mabel said, "And... I guess I'm sorry for getting all diggy about your home world." Even if she hadn't known it was bothering him, she probably should've guessed, shouldn't she? With how crabby he'd gotten. "I just got all excited and curious and... kinda worried about you after reading that book?" She sighed. "I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. You probably hated your dimension."

"What? He lurched forward with the vehemence of his denial—"Of course I don't hate my dimension!" Mabel leaned away at the sudden rage that had flared up in his eyes; but it died just as quickly and Bill immediately reeled himself back in, sitting back, crossing his arms: "I mean, come on, kid, use your head: you read a book about a culture. We're talking about an entire dimension. Would you hold a grudge against Jupiter if an ant bit you on Earth?"

Even as casually as he played it off, Mabel was sure he hadn't meant anything as calm and measured as claiming it was technically irrational to hate an entire dimension. He meant—emphatically, with his whole heart behind it—that he didn't hate his home dimension, at all.

Then why didn't he want to talk about it? (Then why had he destroyed it? Or was not hating it just another fiction he'd made up because he'd prefer that reality? Or was the destruction itself a lie? He hadn't mentioned it once since they'd started talking about Flatworld. Or did he think she didn't know about that and didn't want her to know? Or...)

Something had been churning in her subconscious since she woke up, and now—watching Bill ball up around himself as he squirmed around the things he didn't want to say—it finally dawned on her. Two words. Another piece of the Axolotl's poem. She tried to hold the words in her head until she could write them down, repeating them over and over—Misses home. Misses home.

Quietly, she asked, "Then... don't you want to remember it?"

His face spasmed, like it was nearly cracking in two—and then smoothed out. His face was blank. He didn't answer for a moment. "The last time I told a human more than two sentences about where I'm from... he gave me the universe's most depressing geometry textbook."

Oh. Maybe Bill was following Teddy Tender's friendship advice. "That's because you were talking to a boring old-timey math teacher, duh."

He laughed wryly. "You may have a point!"

If Bill assumed anybody prying into his history was either looking for the reason something was wrong with him, or publishing a whole book about the super bad parts... No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk to her. "So you didn't dislike Flatworld? You just dislike the book?"

Bill grimaced. "Did you read Eddie's biography?"

"No?"

####

As soon as he'd buckled himself into his seat for the drive to Northwest Manor, Dipper read the summary on the back cover of Flatworld, and then the paragraph-long author biography underneath it:

Edward B. Bishop, born in 1838 in England, was an accomplished mathematician, writer, theologian, and closet occultist, as well as a professor at the esteemed University of Fancyton. He published twelve books, the last of which was Flatworld in 1884. After sentencing his square protagonist to a two-dimensional asylum for preaching of the existence of the third dimension, he himself succumbed to an ironically similar fate: three months after publication, he was committed to an asylum for insisting that two-dimensional alien invaders intended to conquer the Earth and were persecuting him for revealing their existence, a delusion he maintained until his death from sleep deprivation in 1886. His most enduring legacy is inventing the margarita glass, which he claimed came to him in a dream. 

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

"Never mind, don't worry about it," Bill said. "But no. I didn't like the book."

"You poor thing! All this time you've been homesick for the second dimension, but the only things humans talk about is the bad stuff!"

"Don't call me that."

"Do you want to talk about the non-depressy stuff instead? Like..." Mabel wracked her brain for something nice she'd read in the book. She winced. "Uh... I'm sure there's something. You could choose the topic?"

Bill didn't look directly at her. He just looked over all her drawings again. "Tell me why you want to know so badly."

It was basically the same question he'd asked earlier—what's with the third degree—but his tone was different. Mabel swallowed hard and repeated, "Because... I'm your friend. It's crazy that we've been friends for like a month and I barely know a-ny-thing about who you are or how you grew up! By now, I'd usually know about a friend's family, favorite subject, favorite animal, opinion on glitter, and biggest life dream! Plus all the stuff humans have in common—like, 'do you breathe?'"

This time, Bill didn't argue with her answer. (He could have called her a liar. A month ago, she had just been trying to find out what was wrong with him. But this version of the truth she'd made up was better.) "You already know I'm pro-glitter in all contexts and my life's work is to throw an eternal party. What else really matters?"

"Those are the two most important questions," Mabel said seriously. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you have glitter in the second dimension?" He'd already reassured her that they'd had color, but it was hard to imagine glitter in such a bleak world.

"Sure."

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

She looked around at the morning's art production, pulled over the first drawing she'd done of her shapesona, and grabbed a bottle of glue to draw a thin line around the heart.

Bill watched as Mabel carefully sprinkled several separate colors of glitter on the line of glue, like a master chef adding a precise amount of spice to a gourmet recipe, to create a glitter rainbow gradient; and then he slowly sat up and leaned toward the table again. "So, who's this freak?"

Mabel gave him an exasperated look. She decided he'd meant "freak" neutrally; but she'd clearly labeled the heart "ME IN FLATWORLD," she thought it was pretty obvious who this freak was.

But Bill cheerfully went on, "He's the most hideously disfigured shape I've ever seen."

"Hey!"

"I'm not joking, it hurts to look at this guy. At least he's symmetrical, but woof."

"She's not a guy! She's supposed to be me in Flatworld," Mabel insisted. "She's a powerful lady and I think she's beautiful." She paused. "Can a heart be a girl?" Lines looked boring, but Flatworld said that girls were all lines and all other shapes were boys. (Or were they? When they'd talked at the mall, Bill had been very clear that he considered himself a triangle instead of male or female, which scuttled the "all polygons are male" concept. Maybe Edward Bishop Bishop had made that part up?)

"She can be anything she wants," Bill said firmly. "I don't see any gender cops around here, do you?"

Good point. "And when there's no cops around, anything's legal."

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

"Wise man." Bill leaned forward further across the table and tapped a finger on the deep cleft at the top of the heart. "Personally, I'm more worried about that agonizing-looking birth defect. I'm surprised she survived past infancy!"

Mabel glared at him, but she supposed she couldn't argue. A heart was a pretty irregular shape. And according to Flatworld, almost all irregular shapes were executed in childhood or else imprisoned in adulthood, since they thought irregular shapes would grow up to be depraved, imbecilic criminals—

"Wait," Mabel said. "Wait. Last year, when I called you an isosceles freak—"

Bill cut in, "It was 'monster,' but go on!"

"Was that, like..." Mabel's voice dropped to a whisper, "a slur on Flatworld?"

Bill fought to keep his face straight as he decided how to respond. He went for the funniest answer. "Yes."

Mabel clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked, "Nooo!"

"It's actually pretty impressive a human managed to come up with it!"

"I'M SORRYYY, augh I didn't know!"

Over her anguished whines, Bill went on, "It's just a good thing you didn't say 'scalene'! I would've had to wash your mouth out with drain cleaner!"

Mabel had pulled the collar of her sweater over her face. From within Sweater Town, she asked, "Was that the first thing I ever said to you?"

Bill choked back a laugh. "Yeah, it was."

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

Bill reached under the table to pat the top of her head. "Ahhh, it was funny. Get up here." 

As she climbed back into her seat, Bill added, "I'm getting back at you now, I'm not done making fun of your medical miracle yet. You know what she'd look like as a human? A headless, neckless body with an eyeball shoved six inches down her esophagus." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually... that sounds kinda cute."

"Eww, Bill."

"It is, it's cute. Like a clumsy puppy with a neurological disorder! I guess that's how the hideous Miss Heart here must look to humans!"

Mabel looked over her art again, wondering if she should change her shapesona, considering Bill's reaction to it. 

So, maybe she was creating a freak. She didn't see any shape cops around here. She kept drawing. "I'd be fine," she said. "You like weird freaks! You'd keep me safe."

A stricken look crossed his face. He was momentarily silent as he watched Mabel start another picture. And then, as though he were only considering it for the first time, he said, "Yeah. I guess I would."

His gaze drifted to the wrinkled picture of Mabel's shapesona standing protectively in front of Bill. "Freaks can't afford to tear each other down."

####

(THIS is the chapter that's been giving me hell the last few weeks. Months. Last few months. I'm so glad to finally have it out, and I hope y'all enjoyed!! This chapter probably brings up a lot more questions than it actually answers—and completely different questions based on whether or not you've read Flatland lol—so I can't wait to hear what y'all think.)

[twisted-dork]

Batfam x Spider-Man Crossover But With a Twist?

OKAY, so I’ve been reading if Peter Parker was in Gotham (most notably the ones where Dick Grayson is his bio dad) and I also went to TikTok to scroll through some of the skits which are mostly him in the Lazarus Pits when it hit me

What if (MCU) May Parker was the one to come out of the Pits and is now protecting her Meta nephew or she was able to survive NWH and goes (tells Strange and Peter off for even thinking she would let Peter do this alone) with Peter to another dimension where Spider-Man doesn’t exist but she inherits Peter Spider DNA from either the transportation of going to a new dimension, Peter donating his blood to save her from dying, or simply because the universe thought that would be fun.

+Image she and Peter got de-aged to 20’s and 5-8 years old so now she is looked as a single mother

(I’m going with the second idea cause I thought of it more later on but anyway’s)

So now she’s got to take care of little Peter while also dealing with the fact that she’s now Spider-(Wo)man (and even though May Parker as Spider-Man is Spider-Ma’am I feel like she would go by Spider-Mayhem solely because Peter came up with because he never really got to choose it and he just came up with it off the top of his head and she was like okay) at least she’s not the one and only Spider-(Wo)man but now she’s got to deal with a kid crawling on walls for fun.

To make it even better can you imagine that before she made herself known as Spider-Mayhem or realizes that she now also has spider abilities Peter gets kidnapped by The Joker (cause of Parker Luck) and Aunt May (now younger but still protective) was not going to let that slide finds out where Joker and Peter are and starts beating the sh*t out of Joker with a baseball bat (that randomly got off the streets and the bat was so far the safest option that led her to question why the street filled with so many weapons?) while all the Joker’s goons do is watch because Aunt May most definitely have the Mom Glare and if the goons know one thing is if a mom cares enough about her kid to go after THE JOKER of all villains and doesn’t seem to care if she’s caught then she’s a woman they are not fighting. So Aunt May beats the Joker up until he’s immobile (paralyzed) Peter is just sitting in the chair tied up sighing as he shakes his head he did try to warn the guy because while Spider-Man doesn’t kill, Aunt May would kill for Peter especially since he’s all she has left (of Ben). When May is done with the Joker she unties her nephew and picks him up to sit on her hip before leaving she kicks Joker where the sun don’t shine and then makes her way off.

The next day she was able to go to work at Gotham’s Library which surprisingly had good pay that she hopes Peter will be able to go to school soon and maybe she might be able to get her soup kitchen running again or at least help some of these people out a bit more. As she’s stacking books back on the shelves (with little Peter holding the next book as he follows her around to help) she notices that a tall man keeps staring at her but whenever she looks back at him he looks back at his book embarrassed. She only chuckles at him before continuing her work but she was able to see the white strands of hair in front and his green eyes.

Masterlist

[dungeon-master-mike]

disclaimer: this is a really wack theory, i'm aware. but bare w me, or don't lol.

All of Mike's closet is blue. All his blankets are blue. His basement carpet is blue. His bedroom walls are blue. Almost all his outfits the whole show contain blue including his shoes from S3.

He even wraps himself up with a blue blanket at the Byers. (mike is gonna fucking love the song i'm blue)

I would think this was typical color coding... If this show wasn't about a group of people exploring a dimension that's you know, entirely fucking blue. This is what initially caught my attention. It's just.. Too much to not mean something.

Mike's nickname is 'Frogface,' which is strange. The rest of the kids' nicknames are all discriminatory, but frogface? What makes this more interesting is the fact within the life cycle of the Demogorgons, the first two stages are frog-like. They're even given names based on that. This is from the Upside Down section of the S1/S2 BTS book. Dustin and the group have a discussion on this in show. This nickname may serve as foreshadowing.

and then.. there's this on the same page... alright.

(i am just now realizing how much this picture reminds me of The Thing, in a way lol)

Mike in season 5 is wearing a sweater with literal democreature heads on it. It's not subtle at all.

During their tunnel mission in s2, Steve says this. Very weird wording. I go into that a little here.

Every film/story hung up or mentioned by Mike are all about an alien or someone from another planet (except Conan). In superman, the dark crystal, star wars and conan the barbarian, the main characters are all orphans. Even in Lord of the rings, another story brought up by Mike, the main character is an orphan. Really would be a big coincidence if this wasn't intentional.

I've made a separate post discussing it, but The Thing being in Mike's basement and staying for the entire show really intrigues me. I do think, in some way, Mike is the show's Thing.

Star Wars is a new poster for Mike in S5 as well 👀 (assuming at least)

Now, I'm not saying that Mike isn't human and is from the Upside Down. Except, that's exactly what I'm saying. I hate saying it because it sounds so fucking bizarre LMFAO. but that's kinda what i'm getting from all this? Like, once you connect all the weird things about Mike and his place in his family, it begins to make sense. It explains almost everything I've seen people mention about Mike in regards to the supernatural.

(get ready for a bunch of whys and hows cause it's a fuck ton, i apologize)

It's why/how:

- He literally drowns himself in blue. Maybe on some sort of subconscious level, it reminds him of the UD. Or perhaps it's just foreshadowing.

-Smalltown Boy is in his playlist. It serves as double meaning. The show would essentially be tying his queerness with the sci-fi/supernatural side of the story. Mike realizing why he's felt different his whole life - He's gay, but also an alien. Because he's a humanoid alien, no one suspects a thing - not even him. Because he's not visibly queer, no one suspects a thing.

- Karen treats him differently compared to Nancy. (Do Karen and Ted know where he's from? That's another discussion. But I think they're hiding the fact he's adopted). It's there if you choose to acknowledge it. This feels like one of the biggest pieces of evidences because of the way the show avoids addressing the reason why.

- Mike is there in the demogorgon life cycle for some reason. If it were for scale comparison, a height would've been provided. Height isn't mentioned anywhere in the book. The section is called "monster morphology"

- Mike was so sure Karen would take El in.

- Mike's wearing that fuckass sweater next season (foreshadowing)

- Vecna calls Mike "his friend" and knows who he is.

- Mike is suspiciously in frame when the others talk about people being flayed and who is the actual source of everything. Will mentions trapping something up there with them when El closed the gate. Hm. "If the brain dies the body dies." Well, a heart's also important. And who is that again?

- all these shots exist (+ fuck ton more). Mike is consistently framed as being part of the UD or "a monster" all along that nobody is seeing, fitting in with his whole invisibility

- He somehow reaches into the UD on Halloween

- He manages to pull Will out of his visions so easily

- Mike is always there when Will senses something connected to the UD approaching or nearby.

- He saw El in the void (the same way that Demogorgon did),

- He intuitively knows so much more than he should about the UD despite not even having gone there, and when he eventually does, it's only briefly. And he just so happens to get grabbed by the vine while he's escaping.. Just to be okay? Change nothing narratively? Okay.

- All the stalker shots

- Mike looks nothing like his family

- He's visually set apart from his family consistently. Giving very much an orphan not fitting in.

-Why they posted this picture of Mike during s5 filming. The same photo that's meant to be with the rest of the family photos but is for some reason singled out... and sat over a children's version of a story that is about a family.

- There's two episodes that feature the name "Monster." "The Monster" 1x06. Mike makes El feel like a monster. "The Monster and the Superhero" 4x03. Mike and El fight in this episode. El is the superhero... So who is the monster?

- My mutual @bobokahn also brought up that Mike may be hearing things others aren't in these scenes. Mike already has his ears covered before Lucas and Dustin..

- The demogorgon imagery in his basement and his weird looking lamp that suspiciously looks like a demogorgon egg or something alike (not saying it actually is though lol. imagine that tho).

-He also has a board game that remains in the same spot the entire show called "Upwords." "Family Fued" is taken away after s1 while the stack remains the same..

Upwords....

- Mike seems like he's missing something. My mutual @brionysea explains perfectly here what I mean.

The list goes on and on but you get the idea.

@madwheelerz also made a post about this a while back. it's actually what first made me look into this more.

(referring to a kid literally named Mikhail. fucking MIKHAIL!!!)

essentially mike next season:

[limerlove]

hey baby, how’re you? so i just watched bound again, and i was thinking.. corky! ellie and violet! reader.. maybe? and ellie bends reader over counter, spanks her a little, straps her down while reader worries of her husband coming in. but ellie fucks her so good, she’s completely cockdrunk.. just maybe..

bound to fuck | ellie williams

tags: eighteen+, daddy kink, cheating, strap sex, slight voyeurism, degrading, kinda toxic!ellie, breeding kink.

an. i am ovulating and i finished a request in a reasonable amount of time! wowowowow. but hi baby! thank you for the request, i feel like i did a shit job, but i hope you enjoy it. anyways, i'm done starving my abby lovers. beefy blonde coming up next — pic credit.

wooden bookshelves, shelves with his favorite reads or at least presenting himself to be a man of literature. each book filed became decoration, pretty covers with a lot going on, but never something he could actually pick up. not quite deemed worth his time. always trapped in the responsibilities of his den but your husband keeps on a loose leash. truly, it’s his mistake. 

he’d been the one to hire her in the first place. a contractor needed to fix a few mishaps in the house and you couldn’t help yourself. no, not one bit. tattoos scattered randomly across her sun-kissed skin as if done on a whim, freckled shoulders exposed in the white tank top she wore. wet,auburn hair lightly styled with gel, a few strands framing full cheeks. from the first look, she became your nightmare. beautiful green eyes disguised in greed. 

it all happened so quickly, the heat of the moment taking a hold over any sense of responsibility. the sparkling diamond held weight but none in your heart, especially as she bent you over the white stone countertop. pants shoved down to your ankles, her cock wedged deep inside you as you stare at the oak door of your husband’s office just past the common room. 

“is this what you want? fucked like some type of whore, huh?” ellie smacks the fat of your ass, digging blunt nails into your unmarked skin. “last time wasn’t quite good enough. yeah, i know, baby. not very fun when you don’t get to come.” slender hips slam into you again as you whimper, touching a particular sensitive spot for you. 

“i’ve been so good, daddy. please, can i cum tonight?” ellie more than surprised with your manners. not even having to remind you of how to speak with her. you give in — granted, she’s already fucking you into another dimension. “i-i, c-can’t, fuck, s’hard to talk.” 

“and why is it sweetheart? can’t keep up?” ellie sends another slap to your ass, claiming the skin with her touch. gripping  your hips, she brings you back over her cock as her hips roll. “s’good for. yeah? always need daddy’s cock inside you. your husband can’t fucking satisfy you even if mine is made of plastic.” maliciously, she chuckles and you feel your cunt pulsate. crying for a release, practically begging. 

“ah—” you try to compose yourself but ellie shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. she pushes too far, sometimes. getting off to your crook husband in the other room, completely unaware his wife is getting fucked by the hired help. “els, stop being so cruel.” 

“hm, why so glum? it’s not like you actually give a fuck. pussy just needs to be filled by me. if you can’t fucking handle it, maybe you should grovel back to his medicore dick.” she leans over you, takes a breath before whispering in your ear. “what’s it gonna be, angel? want me to finish or want to go back to faking it?” 

meanwhile her pace is punishing, bringing you closer to the precipice of completion. slyly slipping her hand between your legs, toying with your clit as you gasp. “sh, baby. tell me what you want. want me to slip out and let him finish you off?” 

“fuck no.” softly, you moan her name. “want your cock, no one else’s.” 

“you sure? not afraid of being caught? could come at any moment.” the double innuendo is lost on you as you feel the familiar build in your stomach. “could spoil it, maybe. watch me as i fuck my pussy. your pussy belongs to me angel. daddy’s good girl, only mine.” 

the noise of your wet slick echoes, you know you’re close. ellie has gotten you there enough to know it too. “c’mon, i’ll do what the old fuck can’t. put a baby inside this pretty belly of yours. make sure you come home with me. forever knocked up and fucking mine.” you cum at her words, body twitching in bright white light. your vision blurred as you slump against the countertop. 

gently, she presses a kiss to the nape of you neck. your body heaving, attempting to catch your breath. “it’s okay, angel. s’good for me, yeah? mhm, s'alright. i got you.” her calloused hands smooth over your soft skin, taking her time to bring you back down to earth. “wanna go again?” 

you nod, glad she can’t see the stupid smile on your face. “better be loud this time. i mean it. you’re coming home with me tonight.” 

[letoasai]

dp x dc Chronos

An idea that’s probably been touched on before but well.. once more! 

~

It had begun with a meltdown. Being a fifteen year old was tough. High school was the time in your life where you were picking up life skills without even knowing it. Social skills, study habits, responsibilities stacked on responsibilities. It all seemed rather unfair when their brains weren’t done developing yet or… whatever Jazz had been telling him one afternoon. 

The point was, being a teenager wasn’t all making memories and messing around. It was hard. Add on dying to that work load and things got complicated. Add on a ghost portal that allowed ghosts to come and go as they pleased when you were the only one that could safely stop them and things got stressful. 

Parents that were trying to kill you…went without saying. 

Become a king of a realm by fifteen, and see how you handle the sudden workload. Danny had been holding up fine, until he wasn’t. Until a particularly loud boom in his parents lab from whatever their latest torture invention was cause a tremor of fear to shoot up his spine. In an instant, panic was sparked. He wanted to leave, he thought about it often, but how could he just leave Amity Park behind? Would it be better outside of his parents house? Could he live alone?

The fear latched onto his core, and not being able to relax in his own haunt was apparently counterproductive to a healthy, happy halfa. 

Before dying, Danny hadn’t been familiar with panic attacks, now, they weren’t entirely uncommon. One moment he would be overthinking in his bedroom, the next he’d be on his bed or the floor curled up in a ball. Tears flowing and throat clogged, he would sob under the weight of his responsibilities in silence. He doubted his parents would notice, but he hated to worry his sister. Being quiet was a must.

It was one of these episodes that had led to Clockwork appearing in his room, lifting Danny up into his arms like a child without even a weak protest. A post-it was left for Jazz so she wouldn’t worry and the king was returned to the Infinite Realm for a night. 

That was the start of Danny spending time in Clockwork’s citadel any time he was feeling overwhelmed. Being outside of time, he was given the time to relax, sleep, or study. It lessened the burdens of trying to be a normal high school student, hero, and king all at once, or at least gave him a safe place to crash. 

At least once a week, Danny made his way into Clockwork’s lair, long since allowed to enter on a whim unless expressly told otherwise for a day or two. For all Danny was king, he did his best not to interrupt Clockwork’s work and he knew beings from other dimensions popped in from time to time. 

If Clockwork didn’t want him meeting them, he was going to take his opinion to heart and make himself scarce. 

Danny wasn’t sure why he got the privilege to hide behind the ghost of time but he didn’t shun the offer. Any chance to get some sleep was a good one when he had ghosts like Skulker or Johnny waking him up at three in the morning with their bullshit. 

Danny floated over a sofa, backpack forgotten on the floor and books hovering around him. The crown that hovered above his head kept going back and forth between being covered by ice or green flame. It seemed to do what it wanted like a living creature. 

Danny had his own room in the citadel now but he was positive the sofa was put in Clockwork’s viewing room just for him. 

He slept there more often than not. 

“Hey Clockwork.” Danny called. He’d be ignored if Clockwork was deep into peering into the past for future, but would otherwise get an answer. “Can i ask you a question?” 

In the time it took Clockwork to turn to face Danny, his age had altered subtly, five or ten years younger than middle aged. 

Danny had always thought Clockwork had three ages he shifted between. His child form, middle aged adult, and old man. The longer Danny stayed in the citadel though, he learned that wasn’t the case. 

He’d seen Clockwork go from an old man, to a man about twenty. He’d slowly shift younger and younger through his teens until he stopped in his child form. Danny had seen the opposite too. Clockwork as a young preteen growing into an adult in the span of a breath. Dark circles would appear under his eyes and laugh lines etched into his face of a much older man but Danny wouldn’t have called that form elderly. 

It was fascinating. 

“What can i do for you, Majesty?” Clockwork asked, a hint of a smile already curing his lips. He likely already had the conversation they were about to have memorized. 

Danny groaned. “Can’t you just call me Danny? Majesty is so… so…” 

“Accurate?” 

“Bleh…” Danny muttered, slowly floating until he was upside, but his book turned with him so he could continue to look at it. 

Clockwork only laughed at him, that soft noise that said he was amused at Danny’s plight, but Danny was far from offended by it. 

“You’re the master of time, right, but were you the god of time too?” He pointed at his textbook, crown on top of his head doing slow flips. “Chronos?” 

“Ah,” Clockwork chuckled, arms crossing over his chest. His de-aging had abruptly stopped and he instead started growing older again. “Indeed. We are the same.” 

“Really?” Danny perked up and went back to skimming his book while rotating in the air. The edges of his wispy hair were looking like smoke. “So you were an ancient Greek god? That’s cool.” 

“Yes and no.” Clockwork said with a shrug. “Time is a funny thing. I was there, of course but more in the capacity of their stories. I predate the Greeks.” 

“Huh,” Danny hummed, growing quiet again as he read a little more but Clockwork didn’t return to his parade viewing. He instead waited for Danny to continue. “So wait, you were one of the first… titans.” he read. “Cool.” 

“Yes.” Clockwork agreed, “That was a very long time ago now.” 

Danny quirked a brow at a line in the book and glanced back at Clockwork. “‘Destructive and all-devouring’, huh?” 

“I was young.” Clockwork agreed, not bothering to deny it. “We all have that phase.” 

“Uh huh… How did this rule of yours coincide with Pariah Dark?” 

Clockwork grew older still, his beard starting to grow. He also relaxed into a floating/sitting position. “They didn’t really. Much of what you are reading is a mortal human interpretation. If you think stories in your high school become exaggerated, you should hear the true origin stories of the ancients sometime.” 

Danny was snickering. “I’d actually like that but none of them like talking about stuff like that. Did you really eat your kids?”

“Something to that effect. I’m afraid i was not a very good father. I was at a very different place in my life then.” Clockwork said. He didn’t sound particularly proud of it, but he didn’t look broken- hearted either. 

Danny didn’t quite get it. Clockwork had basically been his ghost guardian long before he’d even known that was a thing. He probably would have just assumed Clockwork would make a good dad. Then again, being a ‘present’ dad was probably tough for the god of ‘time’. 

“Hm,” Danny hummed and flipped the page while floating right side up again. He rubbed at his face, the constellation freckles across his cheeks twinkling. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” Danny muttered, clearly reading through a paragraph. 

Clockwork’s shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter. It wasn’t usually this easy to coax Danny into doing his homework. 

“You died. Zeus kills you. Did Zeus kill you? Your son?” 

“Yes.” 

There was a moment where Danny’s face warped into something like grief before it disappeared, suspicion forming in it’s place. “Did you know that was gonna happen? Did you let Zeus kill you to maintain a good time line? Did you know you’d just be the ghost master of time?” 

Clockwork just smiled and shrugged. 

“Ancients!” Danny cursed. “Are you serious? You were looking that far ahead already? Even then? That’s insane.” 

“I have not confirmed or denied anything. On the other hand, we all have our talents.” Clockwork mused. “Does this knowledge entertain you?” 

“I mean, it’s cool.” Danny muttered again. Clockwork wasn’t usually so chatty but he was more likely to tell him past things opposed to future things.

He went back to reading and Clockwork went back to his viewing clocks. It was only a few minutes before Danny spoke again. 

“The Elysian Islands. Are those in the Infinity Realm?” Danny asked, “They sound familiar.” 

“Yes.” Clockwork mused. “And before you ask, Zeus didn’t actually have anything to do with them and Pandora would get huffy at the mere mention of it.” 

“Are other gods in the infinite Realm?” 

“Some, but not many of the ones in your book there.” Clockwork said, twirling the staff in his hand. Danny could tell he was doing something along the time stream but Danny had no idea what and he didn’t ask. He was not looking to get sent on another timeline errand. “There are other places where they reside. Some even living. Those in the realm however, are your subjects.” 

“Oh.” Danny muttered, getting the same sour look he got when he was reminded he was king. 

Clockwork lowered his staff, done with his chore. He hovered closer to Danny now, ruffling his hair and dislodging his crown which spun around of its own accord on top of Danny’s head. The sentient accessory very much attached to its new wearer. “If there are any in the Infinite Realm who find you lacking, you need not pay them any mind. Pandora, Fright Knight, or Frostbite would be more than happy to deal with them. You have every right to be here.” 

Danny just grunted. Peer pressure was hard enough at school. It was worse in the Infinite Realm. “I’m not looking for fights.” 

“You do not need to prove yourself. You’ve done that enough. You must merely be you to succeed. You are balance, and balance in life will find you soon enough.” 

“Awe, you haven’t said anything cryptic to me all day. I was starting to get worried.” Danny muttered, a smile tugging. 

“I would never make you go without.” Clockwork said with a fond roll of his eyes. He was so old now that his beard nearly touched the floor. 

“Ancients forbid.” Danny muttered, snagging his book out of the air. “Wait, did you say there were some living? Wait.” His mind whirled to a previous school assignment. “Isn’t Wonder Woman’s dad supposed to be Zeus. Is Wonder Woman your granddaughter?” 

Clockwork just smiled and ruffled his hair again. “Don’t you have homework to finish?” 

“Oh Ancients! She is. Classic deflecting. Holy crap.” 

He let himself drop onto the sofa, over dramatic with his realization. “You have ties to the Justice League!” 

Clockwork did sigh that time. “A charming notion, i suppose.” 

“You’ve as good as admitted it!” Danny grinned, pleased to have learned something new. Had it been anyone else, he might have thought he learned something Clockwork didn’t want him to know. Clockwork knew everything though and only let slip what he wanted to. 

“You are a hero yourself, Danny. No need to be enamored with the League.” Clockwork turned to go back to work, eyes scanning screens before him. 

“Yeah but they’re real heroes.” Danny grumbled, opening his book again. Clockwork’s lack of response meant he wasn’t going to answer that line of thinking. “Fine…” 

The two of them were left in a comfortable silence for a few minutes more until Danny broke it himself. Even though Clockwork knew it was coming, he still jumped when Danny gasped harshly from excitement. 

“Saturn! You’re Saturn! Saturn is like, one of my top three favorite planets!” It was the pure joy on Danny’s face that had Clockwork laughing this time. 

“You would have a top three.” 

“Of course i do!” 

The door had been flung open for him to now talk about space and precisely why he had so many favorite planets specifically. Clockwork let him, happy to let one of his obsessions take its course. Talks about space banished all thoughts of the Justice League and ‘real heroes’. 

Danny knew he’d have to take his history books with a grain of salt. Eaten children or no...Clockwork had always been a good guardian to him. ~~ I might add on to this...  It’s almost like Danny was reading the same wiki page on Chronos that i was... lol 

Part 2  and Part 3 

[allpiesforourown]

more hatman brainrot takeover incoming

sy was a normal dude before being transmigrated into the role of 'hatman', a role specifically meant to evoke sheer terror into the masses who are getting too close to seeing into the other dimensions of the world, and lbh has been trying to dissociate from his entire life's bs since he was old enough to sell drugs to dumbass college students so he could pay for his moms medicine (she still dies, and his dad showing up later to claim him as his heir does Not Help)

he's trying a new strain given to him by dear ol dad, who's big into fashion drugs himself, which is how lbh and hatman!sy meet for the first time, but sy being sy, he is Instantly Enamored by binghe's whole everything, and doesnt wanna give binghe even more trauma, so he doesnt really scare him, cue the beginning of a very confusing and erotic trip for binghe

binghe is now obsessed with the entity with the insanely green eyes who seems to only ever visit whenever binghe is trying to enter another plane of existence (only ever touching him gently when hes paralyzed, sometimes even lightly smacking him when binghe tries to ask questions in the tripscape, but his eyes are so kind, and binghe is so horny) which is precisely against Company Policy, and eventually somebody above sy figures out he's visiting the same victimtransgressor and threatens to demote sy from hatman to transdimensional paperpusher in the departed souls dimension

now sy has to figure out how to convince binghe that he's actually something to be feared, gives him a REAL fright (dumping binghe's mind into the abyss), and binghe being binghe, he's deeply upset by this shift after spending time getting to know sy and being treated so "sweetly", and spends the next 3 years tracking down anyone else online who has seen The Hatman so he can figure out why sy suddenly hates him and prove to the hatman that he's worth crossing over into their world for, even going so far as to invent a machine that will trap the hatman in the material world (at least until he fan figure out how to make him stay on his own)

it leads to a lot of the wrong hatmen being captured and sy getting into a lot of trouble with the higher ups who are trying to keep him and the rest of their operation from being found out, and it wouldve all gone according to plan, except binghe manages to successfully catch him while sy is visiting liu qingge, but not successfully enough create a corporeal form for him, and it leads to sy thinking binghe is doing this on purpose for torturing him

the delicious misunderstanding of it all~ gonna stop there for now cuz i havent thought of how they reconcile this shit but i need binghe and mobei jun to both get high together and mobei meets his own hatman sqh who ends up being more terrified of of mbj and gets harrassed into helping catch sy for binghe

Dude the world building here is INSANE I need you to make this a best selling book idea

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #10 – meat4meat (ed. Gray Levesque)

This is I think the first book I have ever read before it was published – as of posting the crowdfunding campaign is still ongoing! - so it’s a fun novelty to be able to say that I received an early copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. The book itself is also – well okay no, ‘fun’ is probably not actually the correct word, but it’s a body horror collection that succeeded at making me physically queasy at several points so it’s an unqualified artistic success in at least one dimension.

meat4meat is a short story horror anthology – specifically body horror, extra specifically body horror as written by trans and disabled authors (to quote the marketing copy, ‘by those who know it best’) – properly speaking it is an illustrated anthology, but that art wasn’t ready for inclusion in the copy I read, so I’ll stick to talking about the writing. Within the very vague remit the book sets out for itself, there’s no real unifying theme or much of a throughline between the eighteen stories included. They’re all very much short stories – I don’t think any were over twenty pages? - and flipping between them is a study in serial whiplash. Writing style, subject matter, thematic concerns and perspectives, even just conceptions of what ‘body horror’ means all vary drastically from story to story.

To be clear, I consider this a huge positive – it’s an anthology that really lives up to the potential of the medium, and makes an honest effort of capturing the diversity of perspective that’s pretty clearly part of the artistic project here. It also just keeps the reading experience from ever dragging or getting monotonous – if I do not vibe with one author (as is inevitable with these things), there’s a dozen and change others with entirely different takes on the subject. Even if it is somewhat grating to have one story use different paragraph breaks and spacing from the next.

I’m on record as often being pretty annoyed with how ‘horror’ as a genre label is used in books these days – which is to say how often it ends up being life-affirming tales of togetherness and found family but cast from the universal monsters catalogue – so for the sake of consistency I should really praise meat for really living up to the genre label. Even the stories happily framed from the perspective of something monstrously inhuman and happy about it are more than fucked up enough to still be compelling reading.

I’m also very much on record as thinkingthat horror is far better suited to short stories than novels; the extra length of which seems to bring a pressure towards explaining things and giving neat, validating endings on the one hand and on dragging out the tension past what the reveal can sustain on the other. This book’s an excellent case study of that – most of the stories are bare handfuls of scenes, hitting a particular beat or bit of imagery with as much force as they can; very nearly all of them can be summed up as ‘something really fucked up happens to someone’. Triumphantly happy and reassuring endings are thin on the ground, extended denouncements nonexistent. If anything, there are a couple stories that probably could have used a bit more space to breathe – ending up feeling more like imagery without the connective tissue or context to really make it land – but that’s just the natural tradeoff of the format forcing focus and writing economy.

Speaking of imagery – the book advertises itself as a body horror anthology, and it is not lying. There are several stories I would really recommend skipping if you have a weak stomach (which is, in this context, high praise). There’s also several stories that do take a more symbolic or oblique tack when discussing the ruin and gore they make of the human body (a couple of them are some of my favourites in the whole book), but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the most memorable by far are the gleefully, explicitly vulgar and carnal ones. Here meant in the most literal sense of being fixated on the mess and meat of your body, the way parts of you can swell and suppurate and rot and burst before your eyes (though there are one or two that leave you acutely aware the only difference between horror and niche erotica is framing and perspective).

The anthology is themed around trans and disabled authors, and it’s really very interesting how different stories lean into that. Some are very literally and directly about e.g. the misery and desperate hope of looking for a doctor who can help you until you’re willing to look past every red flag from one who says they will, others are far more symbolic or metaphorical (or else simply aren’t stories I would have though to view through that lens if they were in any other book). There is little (though not no) body horror in the sense of shocking and gory violence or something directly inflicted upon you by an obvious outside force. Instead it’s the horror of the body being usurped or broken from within, horrifying parasitism, some invisible injury or lack making it impossible to do what is expected of you, or a terrifying transformation that’s only dimly understood as it’s lived through that predominate. There are, unsurprisingly, quite a few stories that are in one way or another about the horror of pregnancy, of some disease or failing leaving you so disgusting as to be exiled from conventional society, or both.

While there isn’t much of a unifying subject or throughline between all the stories in the book, the organization and ordering of them actually does a very good job highlighting similarities between specific pairs or small sets of them. One story that is in some sense about or preoccupied with pregnancy or disfigurement or parasitism or romantic connection will be followed by another with an entirely different setting, plot and subject matter which is still very interested in the same theme. It works very well to give the book a sense of cohesion and structure, and makes some of the stories feel like much more than the sum of their parts.

This is definitely a book for a very specific audience – the kind who will read a first story that starts with strange pupating growths breaking across the narrators chest being described in careful and loving detail, and happily power through as it mostly just escalates from there. But for that audience, I absolutely recommend giving this a try.

In which case, the crowdfunding campaign is still active until March 11th – you can back it here.

[oddberryshortcake]

Fun fact: we still don't know what was/ happened in Silver's dream!

Neither the prefect's and Grim's solo dreams, that was Mickey's dream 👀

That's the thing...I don't even know if Silver had a dream.

There's a chance he was missed just like Yuu and Grim were, or if he was in one, he was almost immediately made aware he was in one because of his unique magic, which in itself is still really mysterious,

I may be reading too into it, but Silver is definitely still a character with a lot of mystery surrounding him. We know what happened to him and who his biological parents are, but we don't entirely know what's wrong with him yet.

And Yuu even relates to Silver a couple times in book 7, and they at least have one connection- Mickey

The whole reason Yuu and Grim even make it out safe is because Silver has knowledge on how dream traveling works and is able to somehow locate them without even really remembering who Mickey is.

Mickey also describes Silver in book 6 as a mysterious stranger with unique eyes that was literally inside of his dream room. But Silver doesn't seem to remember any of that.

Silver also states that it's only possible for him to dream walk into dreams of people he's close to/has association with, so that would mean either Mickey is somehow close to him but he doesn't remember why, or it's just a strange occurrence like Yuu being able to contact Mickey through their mirror that had them cross paths at some point. Either way, both Yuu and Silver are communicating with someone who is implied to be outside of Twisted Wonderland.

Yuu and Lilia also find some similarities between Yuu and Silver (could be interpreted as Yuu and Lilia relating Yuu's problems with Silver's own, but Yuu also states that they've been having weird dream visions the whole game and it's getting more prevalent, and we still don't actually know why Silver falls asleep uncontrollably, we just have theories. It was never formally answered in book 7.)

The only dreams MC has in-game are sort of visions of the past (being the Disney films) coinciding with the overblots that happen in reality. We don't know much about Silver's dreams other than he can travel into other's dream and also 'dream rooms' like Mickey's.

Also having unique magic that can only work if you're asleep is strange, because it's not possible for it to cross over into the waking world.

Since he spent pretty much all of his life in a sleep spell, there's a chance he could've gotten it in the 400 years he spent asleep, and maybe being able to travel into the dreams of people from other dimensions like Mickey was possible. At that, why is it possible for Yuu too?

I really wish these plot points were touched upon more in 7. The loose ends part bug me but maybe this could mean that we'll get some answers for Yuu and Silver in the next book...Maybe 😭

[gin-juice-tonic]

Hello. It's me again. I'm sure you've realized by now what this type of introduction to a post is leading into. I'm going to bring up another page in the bill book. This entry is going to be less about "proving" anything, but rather it's just something I'd like to discuss. (Also just a warning, this one ends up a bit long due to how many photos are included!)

As I have said before. I had many many thoughts, and I am liable to talk about them until they're all talked out. I want to focus on a single page again (Or I guess, a single double page).

Sorry for the kinda small image here, but don't worry. I'll point out the part I want to talk about.

What I find strange about these pages in particular, aside from the fact that it starts to become written like some sort of noir novel and that Bill has chosen to speak like a femme-fatale, is the new idea it suggests to us:

Bill at some point told Ford he was from another dimension.

I say "at some point" because Ford doesn't react to the idea like this is new information here. Why do I find that strange? Well, for one thing, there's never anything that would indicate Ford knew this pre-portal.

To start, we know that Bill introduces himself to Ford as "a Muse"

Notice the way Ford speaks about him. "From a higher plane, divine, otherworldly". He makes some guesses on the second page (spirit, alien, dream, etc), but nothing to indicate they've discussed the whole other-dimension thing yet. Of course, this is still early, so let's skip further ahead.

Here's where we start talking about other dimensions.

Bill has told his "weirdness dimension" lie to Ford, but there's no implication that he himself is from this dimension. And not to mention, this dimension hasn't been destroyed, so naturally it cannot be the one he talks about in the Bill Book pages.

Regardless, Bill is still being referred to as a divine thing, unknowable and even possibly not real. Safe to say he isn't inter-dimensional yet, so let's continue.

(this section has been edited from its original wording)

Here Fiddleford and his idiosyncrasies enter the fray, and Ford debates telling him. Fiddleford is aware they're building a portal to another dimension, so it would not be that far of a stretch in that vein for Ford to also explain that Bill himself is from one. But Ford's attitude toward the situation veers towards the less scientific. Ford still considers Bill to be something divine, and is worried Fiddleford would think black magic is happening.

Worrying that Fiddleford would think he's gone mad is one thing, but the emphasis on black magic and fiddlefords superstitions strike me as odd.

I understand there are likely several varying reasons why Ford wouldn't want to tell Fiddleford about Bill, even if Ford DID know he was from a different dimension, however:

If Ford had something to suggest Bill's essence was more scientific in nature, I.E. him being from another dimension himself, I think he would've put that into consideration in that when deciding whether to reveal him to Fiddleford, or at the very least would've given up the emphasis on his superstitious nature.

I'm not trying to say he would've actually fully revealed it to Fiddleford if this were the case, but I think the thought process around the concept of doing so would be different.

.

We're closing in on the portal test now. Ford refers to him here as a "non corporeal entity". He is non corporeal so long as he exists only in the astral plane... but is that what Ford is talking about? Or does he believe Bill has only ever existed in the mindscape? Does he know yet? I don't think this page actually includes much of an answer, I just figured it should be included.

The next-next page does have Ford cheekily refer to him as "imaginary" though...

Fairly soon after this, the portal incident and the betrayal happens. Could it be possible that somewhere within these pages, Bill spilt his home dimension backstory? I'm still inclined to think not.

These questions have no definitive answer, but I am led to wonder:

1) Bill's whole dynamic with Ford is that of a "Muse" inspiring intelligent minds throughout history, wouldn't the reveal of him being from another dimension call this dynamic into question?

2) If Bill is something from another dimension, wouldn't asking Ford to build a portal to a dimension totally-not-at-all-related-to-him become suspicious? Would Ford not question his motives at that point?

(A later edit: As has been pointed out in the reblogs, some of what I have discussed thus far fails to take into account the mental state Ford could be in due to Bill's abuse/manipulations. Expecting perfect logic and reasoning from him like the two questions above are asking for may not be fair. I am leaving them in this post so the aforementioned reblogs continue to make sense, but again, how his prolonged abuse factors into his logic and decision-making should be taken into consideration.)

.

.

I have just a few more post-portal pages to show to continue my long winded discussion with as well.

The pages about Exwhylia read a bit weirdly, admittedly. The first page Ford states he thought this was Bill's birthplace, the second page he states he believes Bill came from somewhere similar but was mysteriously destroyed.

If Ford thought this 2-D dimension had been reduced to an atom before he got there, how could he have planned to go? And I should hardly call being destroyed by a monster a "mysterious" method of destroying. Whatever the explanation for the way these are written is, I don't think they read like Bill has ever spoken to Ford about his home dimension.

Additionally, he mentions his "quest to defeat Bill" is what led him here, which I feel implies he learned of this place after being portaled.

I wish I had a good closer for this mini-essay, but the questions I asked above the Exwhylia section were originally supposed to be it. I don't believe Bill had told Ford about his dimension. That's the end of the sentence.

MAJOR ADDENDUM:

I can't believe I missed this (I can believe it) but.. In the book of Bill, Ford refers to Bill as "extradimensional" after their very first meeting!

Pinpointing the answer to my timeline question supposedly to this exact moment. In my opinion, if you combine this with everything I've mentioned above, no part of this idea from the book of bill makes any sense at all. You might remember at the beginning of this post, Ford guesses at what type of creature Bill is... two years after this last page here was supposed to have been written.

Additionally, if he had known there was an "extradimensional" creature in gravity falls at this point in time, I should hardly think it would've taken him two whole years after that to think of the idea that the Falls' weirdness may come from out of our dimension! (Not to mention in J3 he tells us the idea was told to him directly from Bill. Two years elapsed between these conversations? Knowing Ford, not likely. Again, even if Bill somehow did avoid telling him that whole time, I think Ford very well could've figured it out on his own by then.)

[mysumeow]

──YANDERE ACE DRABBLE

ᓚᘏᗢ WARNINGS: Reader is referred to with gendered terms like girl. Yandere Ace. ᓚᘏᗢ SUMMARY: Headmage Crowley assures reader he found a way back home. Ace attempts to impede it. ᓚᘏᗢ WORD COUNT: 984 ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: Ace as a yandere is a thought that greatly amuses me. He's a silly mix between a tsun and a yandere which is kinda ironic within inself but I find the idea fun. I had this halfway written and today i decided to revisit it to finish it haha. I'm trying to finish the many drabbles I've abandoned D:

⸝⸝⸝

Ace holds on to his claim of him liking you only as a friend (... sort of) as if his life depended on it. Even if he sabotages any means of your escape from Twisted Wonderland.

First, he tries to make you doubt Crowley’s veracity.

“The headmage told you that? The headmage?” He repeated it slowly. “You’re trusting that guy after everything he has put you through?”

Headmage Crowley was, with little room for argument, not the most trustworthy person on this land. Yes, he has his instances of being helpful, but you can count the number of said instances on your fingers.

That’s why Ace’s concern didn’t seem too far-fetched to you.

“I could at least try it.” However, you were dreaming of returning home from the first time you sat foot in this place. You couldn’t just give up like that.

“What if it fails and it kills you?”

The weight with which he blurted those words took you off guard—he’d said them with absolute conviction.

“Are you... perhaps worried about me?”

“You’re a naïve, magicless girl who knows nothing of this world. I’m simply looking out for you,” he was quick to retort, as if offended by your conclusion. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Aw, you’re worried about me,” you teased him. “You’re such a good friend, Ace.” you reached out to pinch his cheek.

“I’m not,” he swatted your hand away, both tips of his ears and cheeks growing red. “Geez, you can be annoying sometimes.”

Used to his attitude, you just chuckled at his response. You couldn’t help but wonder why everyone in this stupid college was at this level of emotional constipation. And if not everyone, a good portion of the student body wasn’t an exception.

Ace racked his brain trying to convince you to stay. He couldn’t waltz into the Magic Mirror’s chambers like he owned the place and destroy it, nor could he threaten the headmage. All he had left was to convince you not to go back to your world. Or implant fear into the fatal what-ifs of the mirror malfunctioning. Deceive you.

His words were half truths. Yes, there were a couple of cases of the mirror sending living beings into another dimension, but they were presumably dead since the subjects never reported back, nor did they send any signal of making it out alive.

But it was a long, long time ago. Maybe millennia. Since then, the arts of magic have strengthened and perfected, minimizing the margin of error. It was plausible for the headmage to have found an irrefutable way back to your universe.

A fact Ace didn’t like one bit. To the point he sneaked into Professor Trein’s office and seized one of those old dust-covered books that archived many accidents that happened because of the mirror.

Sleepovers at Ramshackle happen often enough for Riddle to not even bat an eye when Ace must report to him that he’s going to spend the night over there.

“Oh, do come back with this homework done, Trappola,” Riddle dropped the pile of textbooks on Ace’s awaiting palms. Of course, much to Ace’s dismay. “I’ll personally revise it and do corrections if needed. Am I not such a great housewarden?”

Ace had a couple of thoughts that would differ from that claim, but he nodded along, not fond of the idea of getting collared.

The next step of his plan consisted of roping Deuce into lying to you as well. It wouldn’t be easy, given that he tended to be more sincere (in comparison to himself)... However, no matter how much Deuce attempted to be a goody two shoes, the fact that the news of you going back home would devastate him increased the chances of it being easier to convince him.

Ace surmised such, at least.

“Leaving? The headmage actually found a way to…?” Deuce trailed off, an evident ache within his chest. After some contemplation, Deuce accepted the inevitable. Deep down, he knew the day would arrive. Eventually. Although he’d hoped for it to be later. “I-I’m glad about it! I really am. You know how important of a deal that is.” To go back to where you belong and see your loved ones…

“That’s not the point, Deuce.”

“Then which is it?”

“The problem is that you both are blindly trusting that headmage’s word. Everybody knows how unreliable he can be. Don’t you think so?”

Deuce opened his mouth to refute; yet the longer he thought about it, he couldn’t come up with any good argument.

“Well, Crowley can be reliable. Sometimes.”

Ace’s lack of conviction was evident in his deadpan expression.

“Are we talking about the same guy? The one who abandons us to our own devices during hardships? The one who made the prefect deal with these past overblots? A magicless student, at that.”

“Okay, fine. I get it. You’ve got a good point there. What should we do, then?”

“We’ve got to convince the prefect to not head into the mirror. I borrowed a book. It contains logs of past attempts to send people back through it. None of them successful.”

Deuce eyed the book. “Those happened a long time ago.”

“Yeah, but the prefect doesn’t need to know that detail, duh!” Ace rolled his eyes.

“Ace—” Deuce caught the meaning behind Ace’s words, and, as much as he wished for your friendship to not come to an end, there was a voice nagging him at the back of his mind. “We can’t do that.”

“Don’t be a wimp about it.”

Deuce clenched his fist. “Hey!”

“And we’re not doing this for ourselves—we’re doing this for the safety of our prefect.”

Despite a certain sense of doubt pestering him, that was enough convincing for Deuce. This wasn’t for himself or for Ace. It was for you.

Yes, that’s the sole reason. He assured himself.

[cipherstarling]

Lipbalm [Stanford Pines X Reader]

Set in the Nightmare Realm, you two are outlaws and reluctant allies, trying to find a way back home.

Tags: Suggestive, Pining, Fluff(?), Enemies to Lovers

*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──✧

You happily unpacked a little bag full of makeup onto the glossy counter of the bathroom. Mirrors surrounded you both, the perfect time to do your makeup.

"God, even interdimensional dive bars have the same flashy bathrooms as we had on earth."

You hummed happily, dipping your thumb into a tin of what Ford assumed was lip balm. You pressed your lips together, it smelled nice!

"Hurry up, we don't have all night. The longer we're here, the more ground bounty hunters cover around us." Ford grumbled.

You sighed, mood soured slightly by his haste. The muffled sound of the bar outside was nice at least, if you had to listen to Stanford's bitter words. You fixed him an unimpressed look through the mirror.

Ford leaned next to the door, ear perked up in case someone entered the bathroom, six fingers tapping impatiently against his forearm. You held a brush in between your delicate fingers, painting color onto your cheeks and under your eyes. He dared not let his gaze drift towards you too much, but he knew you were grinning at him.

Dive bars were for hedonists and people seeking the bottom of a bottle. Ford didn't really relish being here, but they needed to make contact with an important Altraxian dealer, if he were to get the parts he needed for the portal back home.

"You know, Altraxians love makeup. They consider it an art form, as well as a form of war paint." You mumbled as you painted swirls onto the edges of your lids. Ford perked up at the mention of the alien species. Of course, that was one way to get him to be less mean- information, knowledge. You quietly cheered as the wrinkle between his brows eased. His hands immediately reached for his pen and journal. Ah, how he wished he had his leatherbound book back in Gravity Falls. You were a well of knowledge, an anchor in the confusing dimensions of the Nightmare Realm.

"Is that so? Are they a warring species? What is their political climate like, to be able to appreciate art and war in equal levels? I have only seen one in passing, it turned it's nose and mandibles at me and walked away in disgust…" Ford rambled, scribbling into his book.

As always, Ford didn't give you time to answer each question as he scribbled away. You fell into the Nightmare Realm years before he did, but he was already so knowledgeable in it all. Stanford Pines had a thirst for knowledge that impressed you. It's what kept him alive in this realm- and if it kept him less angry, you'd entertain his questions.  

"That's because a nude, unpainted face is considered an insult to their society." "Hmm, intriguing. And what of tattoos? Do they value it, seeing as it's permanent art on your body?"

Your eyes drifted to the intricate markings that disappeared under Ford's rolled up sleeves. No doubt they continued well past his toned biceps, you've seen glimpses of it underneath his shirt before. Your cheeks flushed, but thankfully, the light was dim here. "Huh. I don't know. Never really talked to one before. Which is why we need to be extra careful, and play by their rules."

With a click, you closed your little bag and strode over to Ford, who was engrossed in his writing his little notes. He hadn't noticed how close you were until you tapped the top of his journal, nudging it downwards so you can meet his gaze. "The dealer is Altraxian. We'll need to suit up if you want the sciencey doo-dad you told me about." "I know that." Ford rolled his eyes "And it's called a cryo-compulsor cog." "Yeah, that, for your portal." you nodded. "Right…" You stared at Ford expectantly, a flicker of mischief in your wide, seemingly innocent eyes. "That means you need to prepare for that as well. I'm not talking to them alone." "I thought this robe would be sufficient? I even made sure to wash it this morning." You sighed at the infuriating man. True, he did trade his torn and dusty trench coat for something much softer and velvety. You hated to admit it, but he looked damn good in a suit. It was near maddening, but for his sake and yours, you wouldn't tease him for it.

"Mhm, yeah, you need makeup." "Pardon?" Ford incredulously asked. Your grin turned sharper and more mischievous as you took a step closer towards Ford. He blinked, locking up as you got close enough for him to smell the floral scent of your hair. Something alien yet alluring all the same. "They won't talk to you if you show up like this. Y'know, "When in Rome" and all that! We'll stick out like sore thumbs!"

Ford's eyes flitted around your face, distantly admiring the way you skillfully painted patterns into your eyeliner. Your lips were plump and redder than usual, cheeks alive with rosiness and accentuating your eyes. Distressed, he started to stutter.

"I-I don't- Ugh, Fine. Don't… Don't over-do it." Your eyes brightened, light passing through them like a small comet.

"Great! Now, close your eyes." you whispered conspiratorially. He wanted to protest, but all he could manage was a gulp. He closed his eyes, sighing in resignation. 

Your expression softened somewhat. He trusted you to get this close with him. Despite being the only other human in the nightmare realm, he barely gave you a fraction of his trust. You weren't sure if you could even call this a friendship. His presence was necessary to your survival, and vice versa. His smart yet cruel words often earned you both another day alive in this hellscape. Now, the same man who often offered nothing but dry scientific facts and cold words was quiet. You took a moment to admire the way the wrinkles around his weary eyes softened.

The tension built around you, ensnaring the air like a hungry snake. Distantly, you noticed how the bar music lulled to something slower.

You situated yourself between his legs. One hand rested on the counter he leaned on while the other dragged a brush lightly across his cheek.

You were so close now, brush held near his face and ready to condemn him with your touch- and makeup. Altraxian men didn't wear a lot of makeup. They wore sigils painted on their faces and slathered a ridiculous amount of rosy paint on their cheeks. But Ford already had red cheeks, so you needn't paint over that. You worked lightly and quickly, lest you risk annoying him and thinking too much about your quickening heartbeats. A shy, distant part of yourself screamed at the way your noses almost touched at the last flick of your brush.

God, pull yourself together, you're doing this for survival!

Being so focused on your work meant you missed the way Ford's six finger hands gripped the counter tighter. The tick on his jack was pronounced, his brows softened at your light caress. You missed the way he stopped breathing at the sensation of your soft knuckles gliding over his jawline.

You sighed, leaning back to look at your work. Ford's eyes were still closed. Upon closer inspection, you notice how dry his pale lips were. Honestly, when was the last time he drank water? Moisturized??

So to remedy this, you leaned in once again, thumb dipped with fruity lip balm. In one fluid motion, it went over his lower lips, slowly, carefully.

The world held it's breath as your gaze lingered on Ford's softened lips.

After a small eternity, you forced yourself to look away. Your eyes fluttered upwards, meeting Ford's coffee brown eyes, wide with shock. Cheeks red from embarrassment and what you suppose must be anger.

Dear god.

You stood frozen as your brain caught up with what you just did.

"Shit- sorry! Force of habit! We don't exactly have lipstick here!" you squeaked in one breath.

Stepping back as if you were burnt, you gave Ford his space back.

"Your lips were chapped," you murmured, looking away.

Ford's hands twitched. You looked away in embarrassment, body aflame with something you dare not name.

You prayed to the Axolotl and all the stars in the sky that the ceiling of this shoddy little dive bar would collapse on you- or better yet- for a blackhole to unravel you at a molecular level. Anything to escape this unbearable silence.

"It's… It's fine. They were quite dry." Ford's smooth, deep voice filled the awkward silence. You blinked, quietly sighing relief- at least he wasn't angry at your intrusion. You turned to hurriedly pack your makeup away.

"Don't touch your face! The sigil will smudge!" You huffed, after seeing him faintly touch his face in the mirror. In your haste, however, you missed the way Ford brought a hand to his lips. Chasing the fading warmth of your fingers from moments before. They tasted sweet.

English isn't my first language and I do struggle sometimes with present and past tense writing. Feel free to correct me and my grammar!