#sorry but i gotta do what’s right for me

[brookaboo]

little protector

Katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

Summary: Bakugo and the reader get into an argument that leads to an emotional moment, with the reader upset and their young son witnessing it. The son, who is around four years old, becomes a little protector, comforting his mom and showing love even when his dad is mad. When Bakugo returns, he faces the consequences of his actions with his son's silent disapproval

The argument had started over something small, as they always did with Bakugo. He was stubborn, fiery, and sometimes too prideful for his own good. You’d tried to keep your cool, but his sharp tone and harsh words had worn you down until your voice cracked, tears spilling before you could stop them.

“Why do you always have to blow everything out of proportion, Katsuki?” you said, your voice trembling.

“Because I’m right, that’s why!” he barked back, his crimson eyes flashing with frustration. But the moment he saw the tears on your cheeks, his expression faltered. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead, he scoffed and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The house fell silent except for your soft sniffles as you sat on the couch, wiping at your face. You didn’t hear the little footsteps until a small hand tugged on your sleeve.

“Mommy?” a tiny voice asked.

You looked down to see your four-year-old son standing beside you, his big red eyes—so much like Bakugo’s—filled with concern.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you said, quickly wiping your cheeks again. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead climbing onto your lap and wrapping his arms around your neck in a firm hug. “Daddy’s mean,” he said quietly, his little face pressed against your shoulder.

You sighed, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “He’s not mean, baby. He just gets mad sometimes.”

Your son pulled back slightly, his small hands resting on your cheeks as he looked at you with a serious expression. “Even when I’m mad, I still love you, Mommy. Daddy should do that too.”

His words broke something in you, and fresh tears spilled over, though this time they were a mix of sadness and overwhelming love for the little boy in your arms.

“I love you so much, sweetheart,” you whispered, holding him close.

The front door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway. Bakugo walked into the room, his expression guarded, though his eyes softened when they landed on you and your son.

Your son, however, wasn’t having it. He turned in your lap, crossing his tiny arms over his chest and glaring at Bakugo with all the defiance his four-year-old self could muster.

“Daddy, you made Mommy cry,” he said, his voice firm.

Bakugo froze, his eyes flickering between you and your son. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

Your son cut him off, turning his head away with a dramatic huff. “I’m not talking to you.”

You bit back a small laugh despite yourself, watching as Bakugo looked genuinely panicked for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a frustrated sigh before crouching in front of the two of you.

“Hey, kid,” he started, his voice softer than usual. “Look, I was being a dumbass, okay? I didn’t mean to make your mom cry.”

Your son didn’t respond, still pointedly looking away. Bakugo’s gaze shifted to you, and for a moment, his tough exterior cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “To both of you.”

You nodded, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes. “Apology accepted. But you’ve got some making up to do.”

Bakugo sighed, then turned back to his son, who was still glaring at him. “Come on, kid. Don’t make me beg.”

After a long pause, your son finally looked at him, his arms still crossed. “You gotta say sorry to Mommy again. And hug her.”

Bakugo’s lips twitched into a small smirk as he glanced at you. “You heard the boss.”

He leaned over, wrapping his arms around both you and your son. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice soft. “I’ll do better.”

Your son finally uncrossed his arms, resting his head on your shoulder as he mumbled, “Okay, but don’t make Mommy cry again.”

Bakugo chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Deal, little man. Deal.”

[littlebitofeverythingsblog]

So in short: bioware really gave us a shit product (the writing team SPECIFICALLY) with dragon age veilguard and gaslit us that it was come to form game. I genuinely hate what we got and I hate it even more knowing what could've been. I can't believe how a company had such guts to absolutely destroy their game this hard with little to no regard of fans. Like these same people gotta make ME4 IM GONNA KILL MYSELF

But to be so honest I'm kind of happy they fumbled because of this. They lied about everything. Game being dark,the illusion of "choice" in the game,romances,having the most dialog in the game even tho we can't even go up to companions and talk to them...and thank God they weren't awarded for this shit. I hope they sink because of their hubris and arrogance.

All they wanted was to get rid of this game so they can move on to ME4 so they did little what they could do. Push their political agenda (sorry gotta pull a Bharv now🤭) and reuse what seemed more like a ME version of DA. It never felt like a DA game. ME is an amazing game but very different to DA. They took completely different approach in every way possible when handing the Veilguard and its BAD it's just hot pile of crap.

(the potential this game had after seeing the art book is crazy) I'm so disappointed,angry and sad. After 10 years...yes they had ups and downs but c'mon...THEY HAD THE ARTWORK RIGHT THERE!!! how could it be possible that they removed ALL THE ACTUAL INTERSTING THINGS?! They're incompetent but hey at least we got "educated" and "preaced to" on what really matters in the world (and the world of Thedas) ! Thanks Bioware. What a shit show.

[stupidvillainousposts]

Immediate Werewolf Gene AU Followup with Human Ford

I Have a Feeling This Will Go So Well

Ford: So, if I've gathered the information correctly, my machine-

Fidds: *Hisses Slightly*

Ford: Sorry, our machine creates some sort of energy that alters the user's DNA and transforms them into monsters. Not only that, but according to the situation I'm seeing with Stanley and the children, some DNA alterations are genetic. Do I have that right?

Stan, chilling on the floor: Yep. Sounds about right.

Dipper: Grunkle Stan, why didn't you tell us you had a brother?!

Stan: It was a secret present I had planned for your secret early birthday party. Secretly.

Mabel: Sounds right to me!

Fidds: Kids, why don't ya go upstairs and find somethin' t' entertain yerselves with? The grown-ups need t' have a serious discussion.

Dipper and Mabel: Aww!

Stan, sitting up and chuckling: Go on, ya knuckleheads. Be good and I might help ya bark at Tate.

Fidds: *Under His Breath* What do ya have against my son?

Mabel: Ooh! Okay, we'll go! But you gotta introduce us after! *Drags Dipper Away*

Fidds, once the kids are out of earshot: *To Ford* So... I s'pose ya ain't too happy that we decided t' open the portal.

Stan: My great idea, by the way.

Fidds: Stanley, please. Beyond that, I just wanna make sure ya know we did this out of love and worry.

Stan, becoming slightly uneasy: Mostly worry on Fidds' end.

Ford: ...

Ford: I'm sorry, could you repeat all of that again? I stopped listening after Stanley’s... after his... when his... tail started wagging.

Stan: So, immediately after we sent the kids upstairs?

Ford: *Nods*

Stan: Well, once upon a time, a man named Filbrick Pines fell in love-

Fidds: STANLEY!

[satorushellokittypjs]

💙Boyfriend!Toji x Fem!Reader💙

•

Scenario: You Wore His Hoodie

‼️MNDI 18+ Warning: kinda NSFW‼️

•

•

Toji huffed, he was staring at you with a blank face. Yet the vein on his forehead was increasing in size.

“So..explain to me why my favorite hoodie has mustard on it?” Leaning into the couch, his arms on both sides of the back, he looked towards you. Too calm, Too peaceful, you knew that this was his expensive hoodie.

And now you’re gonna have to confess you’ve been wearing his hoodies in secret for a good while now.

You fiddled with your thumbs, hands clasped together and sweaty. This shouldn’t have been a problem right? It wouldn’t have been if you’d been more careful.

“Well..i had a corndog today..”

His eyebrows furrowed, oops maybe you should have started out with a different sentence.

“Babe..” he sighed and leaned his head on the back of the couch looking up at the ceiling. “How does eating a corndog..get mustard on my hoodie that’s SUPPOSE to be in my closet?” He lifted his head, “hmm? Lil’ mama i need some answers. You know how much that one in a life time hoodie costed.”

You gulped, yes, you knew it was his favorite custom made hoodie. The one that had his name engraved nicely into it. Very nicely, too nicely. And it has the kind of fabric that’s hard to come by.

He’s worn it all along. He’s never once gotten a stain on it, never once has he ever took it off unless he’s off to work.

And yet, here you were, deciding to wear IT of all times to that fair you went to with your friends yesterday. So, you know you’ll probably have to pay it all back.

You began to tear up, because your pretty brain went to the worst thoughts and so you began to cry out.

“I’m sorry!! I was wearing it yesterday to the fair because i wanted you to be there but you were at work. So as i was eating i accidentally dropped the mustard on your hoodie!! Please don’t break up with me!!” Tears were pouring as your cheeks were tinted and flushed as well as your nose.

Toji’s eyes widened, he sat there for a moment. Were you serious? He chuckled softly, “hon, calm down, calm down..” he leaned over and put his arms on his thighs, tilting his head. “So, you wore it that one time? Just so you would feel like i’m there?” He blinked softly. “Mm..i may let this slide..”

Your eyes widened and the tears ceased so easily. “Really?! Thank goodness, i won’t wear any of your hoodies or shirts or anything never again!”

Toji smirked, “so you do wear my things often? How cute..i should have known i’d have a little thief..” he leaned his hand over, holding your face securely.

“You still gotta repay me though, darling..what are you gonna do for me hmm?”

Your eyes widened as you stare into his serious ones. You didn’t know what to say at first. “I..i mean..what would you like me to do?” You whispered soft.

You suddenly see that look, the one he always gives you before he pounds you senseless into a mattress. The look that could make you come undone instantly. The look of pure insanity for you and you alone.

“Let’s just say for the whole night, you do as i say? Yeah? Does that sound reasonable enough?” He cooed, damn this man had a plan up his sleeve.

You begin to blush, not being able to hold back any naughty thoughts and thats what he wants you to think. Slowly, you nod your head.

“Good girl, now come with me, night starts early in winter”

•

•

[lavender-butterfly-cookie]

https://www.tumblr.com/lavender-butterfly-cookie/767967059709739008/teddy-anon-and-ok-here-i-go-then-lol-and-got?source=share

Teddy anon here and Idea for a another part...imagine if the cookies you adored the most started approaching you lmao...another incentive to be tempted to stay lol! Personally I simp for a lot of cookies so ye lol...like I can name a few...like affogato, red velvet, dark choco, Caramel arrow, Shining glitter, Clotted cream, Royal margarine, cherry blossom are a few examples...named so many incase we had atleast one in common lol...

Still imagine them coming to the castle and being extra cuddly with the reader knowing they are favorites lol!

Boy oh boy- this one's gonna be something huh? (I don't- I don't seee what anyone sees in affogato- I'm sorry. I gotta side with Caramel arrow cookie on this one, why the purple as twink???)

(You had me for Red velvet, Dark Choco and Caramel arrow.)

The idol of your idols

"Ah, Y/N cookie, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've heard a lot of talk about you. Happy to finally meet the cookie who caught the attention of my liege himself. If you ever need some medicine I'll be to wip up a sweet batch just for you."

"A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Y/N cookie. I do hope the gifts chiffon delivered to you were of your liking. I know it was sudden, but after hearing of such a cookie as yourself, I thought it was only right to show my respect and admiration for you."

"Ah, and so I finally get the opportunity to meet the one they call Y/N cookie. Whether intentionally or by accident, you've clearly already made quite a reputation for yourself. I hope the gifts I sent you were satisfactory and it's truly an honor to stand in your presence."

"Y/N cookie, we meet again! It's good seeing you. It's been boring not having someone to speak with at the gate. You certainly left a good impression on his majesty. He wishes for more future interactions with you, and so do I. If you ever feel unsafe then just know I'll be ready to protect you."

"Is that THE Y/N cookie I've been hearing so much about?! Your name's so famous it's even more popular than me, and I've been here longer! It's so cool to meet you in person. Tell ya what, maybe we could hang out after my concert, if ya like. Or you can watch me in rehearsals. Either way, hope I get to hang out with you some time!"

"Ah, and you must be Y/N cookie, the baker themselves. A pleasure to be meeting such an honorable cookie. Word about you has spread like wild fire amongst the republic and frankly all over the the country. If you'd allow me, I'd like to show you around the place a bit. What do you say?"

"Well well, do my eyes deceive me or am I getting the pleasure of meeting the one and only Y/N cookie? Now aren't we just both lucky, hm? I get to meet the baker and you get to meet your favorite dragon rider. A win-win, aye?"

"Hello baker! I've been waiting for when you'd come by here. After all, how could one not want to come here on such a beautiful spring morning? I know, you should come have a picnic with me. I promise it'll be worth your time."

[obeymefanfiction]

Mammon: Break'n

Obey Me! Fanfiction (Aug 2020) See my Masterlist Featuring: Mammon x Female Reader Word Count: 1700 Warnings: NSFW, Drama & High Emotional Tension “Mammon, let go.” You snapped unsuccessfully trying to free your wrist from his grasp. “Not yet.” Mammon replied pulling you toward his room. His room was the last place you wanted to be right now. This was one of the few places where he felt comfortable acting ‘familiar’ with you. One of the places he didn’t pretend you were “just some human” Lucifer assigned him to protect. It wasn’t fair. Not after what just happened. “I mean it! Let go of my arm!” You started pulling back more earnestly and his grip slipped. For just a moment you felt only cool air against your skin. You felt both excited and disappointed at the same time as you brusquely changed direction. heading instead for your own room. This was what you wanted right? To get away from him? So, he couldn’t see that this time his words hurt you? So, why were your stupid eyes burning like you wanted to cry? Then two strong arms scooped you up and Mammon lifted you off your feet.

“Mammon!” You shouted, more surprised than scared. He didn’t reply. He only shifted his hold on you so he was carrying you bridal style in front of him. He quickly reached his door and kicked it closed behind him. “Put me d-down!” You yelped just as he dropped you onto the couch. You scrambled back to your feet, not quite ready to give up on escaping. However, when you headed back toward the door he blocked the way. “No! Don’t run! Just yell at me or whatever you have to do! But don’t walk out!” His expression was so conflicted. Not nearly as determined as his actions. The contrast was unsettling. “I’d rather you were mad at me right here.” “I don’t want to be right here!” You attempted to move past him but he always seemed to be right in your way. “Mammon!” You finally shouted at him in exasperation. He winced but only retreated enough to stand in front of the door, looking unwilling to move at any cost. “If you’re not goin’ ta keep yelling then I guess ya need ta listen.” He said looking more broken hearted than you felt. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, . Okay? I hurt ya! I’m an ass! And I’m sorry!” “If you’re sorry then let me leave!” He shook his head. “No, cause ya don’t believe me! Ya gotta believe me first! Even if ya still want ta kick my ass for what I said. Ya gotta believe I hate that I said it.” “Why should I believe you when you say it all the time?” You countered with a glare. “‘I’m just protectin’er, cause Lucifer said to! She’s just some human. She don’t matter ta me.’ and all that after you put your tongue down my throat this morning? That’s bullshit Mammon!” Despite your angry words the tears were escaping, hindering your retort with a sad sniffle at the end. “Awe shit! I’m—shit.” He pulled you into his arms giving you one of his best hugs ever. Why were his hugs the best? It really sucked that you liked them so much. His gentle hand was rubbing your back soothingly. “I’m such an ass . Why the hell did ya even let me near ya when I’m such an ass?” “You’re not an ass… you were just acting like one.” You sighed.

Why did his feelings always have to outweigh your anger? Just looking at that defeated expression was derailing how furious you'd just been. You knew Mammon’s emotional baggage could down an airliner, and possibly even swamp a cruise ship. If he was owning up to his actions with you, then you needed to be careful. As hurt as you were by what happened, you knew his denials about your relationship stemmed from a much deeper hurt than Mammon ever admitted. If you weren’t careful with the situation you would be driving a steam roller over the trust you’d built between the two of you. You’d promised yourself not to hurt him like that. “Great, now I feel like even more of an ass to have you defending me after I made you cry. Shit. Where’s Lucifer? I’m sure he’d be willing to kick my ass for you.” “No.” You sighed. “How about you just apologize for being stupid and tell me the truth. Are you embarrassed that I’m… with you?” “Hell no! It’s you that should be embarrassed. Its me doin’an’sayin’ stupid things. I mean your… just amazin’ _.” His words made you look at him. The pain you saw in those beautiful eyes felt as though you were the one being cut. Like you were the one being punched in the gut. When had his pain become what hurt you the most? Maybe when his happiness had become what made you the most happy? You honestly didn’t know. “I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and you’ll have found someone better’n me. I hate that feeling. And it feels even worse to think they all might start laughin’ at me on top of watchin’ me lose you. It just makes me feel like Cerberus is about to run me down and eat me.” He sighed. “Mammon.” You sighed and wrapped your arms around him. “Guess what? That’s why I get scared when you say stuff like that.” “Whad’ya mean?” You knew you’d have to put this into words or he would understand. He’d know he messed up but he’d place it all on his own shoulders if you weren't careful. Honestly you knew your insecurities were as much to blame as his own. Yet, you hadn’t seen a way to articulate that before now. “Mammon… I’m afraid I’ll wake up tomorrow and what you just said won’t be a lie. That my being with you is the lie. One I’ve just been telling myself. If that happened… and I really was nothing to you? I don’t think I could stand it.” You shook your head. “You could never be nothin’ ta me.” He replied. “I’m still trying to convince myself of that. It might take a bit of time to do it.” You shrug, “I just care about you too much to be something unimportant to you. I feel apprehensive about that side of our relationship. Mostly because this is still really new.” His hands cupped your face and he brushed a tender kiss against your mouth. “It sounds like we both need some convincing. I’m sorry if what I said made it harder for you to believe it, but… you being with me? I’ve never been this happy before. So happy it makes me suspicious its all a dream.” “I’m glad we are dealing with the same problem then.” You smiled back at him. “I know in my mind how good you are, how kind… but what if I don’t really have any claim on you? My heart has belonged to “The Mammon” for a long time now. I can’t imagine convincing it otherwise.” “Then maybe I need to tell ya yer’ my favorite human more often? So yer mind n’heart finally agree that ya really are mine.” “I like that idea, and just in case you didn’t know it already? You’re my favorite too, Mammon.”

“Easy there, human. If you look too cute I’ll have to get into a fight with those lesser demons on the way to school today.” He sighed. “Can’t you tone it down a little?”

You stared at him where he sat for just a moment. Had he really just said what you thought you heard. Mammon’s expression made you have to admit he had. The mixture of shock and the fiery blush on his cheeks were more telling than seeing the words written in Mammon’s own hand. You couldn’t resist the impulse to run after him. Throwing your arms around him from the back with an enthusiasm that nearly knocked him over. To your surprise instead of censuring you for tryinig to topple you both onto the ground, he laughed. Your favorite smile turned your way and the light in his gorgeous blue eyes seemed brighter than you had ever seen it. “Come on,_. We’d better start walking to school if we want to avoid a lecture from Lucifer.” You followed him out the door. He didn’t hold your hand or anything but you felt closer to him than you had in a long time. The two of you were nearly to school when you noticed the small crowd of demons following along behind you. Some of the demons start calling to Mammon. “Hey Mammon. Dragging your human off to school again? You sure they allow pets?” One laughed. “If she were my pet she’d have bitten you by now.” Mammon replied. Raucous laughter followed that response but it didn’t stop the jeers. “So if she’s not a pet then what exactly is she a toy?” “You idiots must be blind to think that. Nah, she’s the most amazing person I know actually.” Mammon’s words startled you and you watched him carefully as he continued to stroll along the walkway as though he owned the realm. “Scum like you’d be lucky to even talk to her. Especially because she’s mine, and The Great Mammon isn’t so forgiving when lesser demons bother his favorite human.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders affectionately and you smiled up at him. You could swear that instead of walking to school that day you were actually floating.

[sondheim-girly]

Sorry if this has been asked but do you have any cherrycola headcanons?

ok you have asked this before but I just couldn’t think of anything but I FINALLY THOUGHT OF STUFF SO IM ACTUALLY GONNA ANSWER THIS AFTER LIKE TWO MONTHS

-firm believer in them having childhood crushes on each other

-but that’s like… well established fanon

-but how do they reconnect is the question

-a few months after canon Cherry’s car breaks down while in the east side driving home from volunteering at the hospital, so she goes to the dx

-that’s how they first reconnect- they end up talking for a really long time while Steve fixes the car

-then coincidentally a week later her and Marcia are in the area and need more gas so they go again, and Cherry talks to soda some more and he works up the courage to ask for her number

-she’s really hesitant cuz she’s very much not ready for a new relationship so soda clarifies that it’s “as friends”

-and she’s like, ok :)

-they start talking on the phone a lot, and she starts ‘coincidentally’ coming around the dx a ton

-soda immediately has a resurgence of his huuuuge crush on her and is yapping about it to two bit constantly

-meanwhile Cherry tries to kinda avoid her feelings for a little bit, but eventually she realizes that she can’t anymore

-u know that one post where this person is saying how when they have a crush they’re like a detective pacing around at 3am trying to solve a murder? That’s Cherry

-meanwhile sodas out here giggling and kicking his feet over her

-Marcia realizes something is up with Cherry, and is like “ok girl u gotta tell me everything”

-Cherry finally admits that she has a crush on soda, but insists that she’s not ready for a relationship so she wants them to stay as just friends

-marbit are the ultimate cherrycola shippers omg

-eventually cherrys like oh fuck I can’t take this anymore I really really like soda what do I do

-and Marcia’s like… uhhh just flirt with him? Make it clear u want him to ask you out?

-and Cherry actually has no clue how to flirt due to the fact that Bob (and Chet) were both wrapped around her little finger since day one

-so she’s like soooo awkward

-and soda is used to girls flirting with him, right? But not girls he actually likes. So when Cherry flirts with him my man is an absolute mess

-I headcanon all the Curtis brothers to be the worst blushers on earth like when they blush their entire face goes bright red it’s terrible

-anyways sodas really hesitant to ask her out cuz he knows about her… failed relationships

-anyways eventually two bit convinces him to, and he does, and Cherry is over the moon!!

-they’re sooooo cute tho I’m sick

[squatch-and-stretch]

Chapter 5

“We… we need a plan,” Stanford says after a while, once they’ve all pulled apart from their group huddle.

“Well,” Fiddleford says, standing up. “Here’s step one; I gotta get you boys all fixed up.”

“What?” Stanford glances at Stanley, then furrows his brows at Fiddleford. “I’m fine.”

“Your eye’s bleeding, hun.”

“That happens,” Stanford says, blinking a few times before angrily swiping at his face with the heel of his hand. “Just an unfortunate side effect of…”

“Let me get ya cleaned up, at least,” Fiddleford says gently once it was clear he didn’t intend to continue.

He moves over to the fridge and retrieves a bottle of water. He’d prefer to use the filtered water from outside, but after the night’s events, he was hesitant to let them out of his sight. He's hesitant to let himself out of their sight, afraid that without their eyes on him, without a direct plan of action, he’ll fall apart.

He's fine, Fiddleford tells himself as he retrieves a clean cloth from the nearby countertop. There's no blood on the counter where Stanford hit his head.

“Does your head hurt any?” Fiddleford asks, twisting the lid off the water and using it to wet the cloth.

“It’s felt better, but I don’t think I have a concussion, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Fiddleford says, flashing the light in his eyes again. His pupils dilate as expected, and are still as round as they should be. “Who’s the president?”

“Ronald Reagan, that bastard,” Stanford says quickly, clearly, and with audible contempt.

“Good,” Fiddleford reassures, reaching out to card his fingers through the hair around his temple. His hair is greasy and a bit sweaty, but not bloodied. “I didn’t break your cheek or anything?”

“You’re not that strong, Fiddleford,” Stanford says with a tired smile. “Bill just has bad balance.”

“And thank goodness for that,” Fiddleford says, gently ruffling his hair before pulling away to retrieve the wet cloth he left on the counter.

“I can handle this,” Stanford says, catching Fiddleford’s hand before it can reach his face. “Just… take care of Stanley?”

“I will,” Fiddleford agrees, reluctantly handing off the cloth.

“And, Fiddleford…?”

“Hm?”

“I… I really am sorry. For everything.”

Fiddleford sighs, turning away.

“I know you are, Ford.”

He retrieves another rag from the counter, and then has to dig through the cabinets for a bottle of antiseptic. He’ll admit, his organizational system could use some work, but he finds it eventually. He even keeps bandages in the same place, which he retrieves as well.

Fiddleford had taken a few bottles from the remains of what had once been a convenience store, figuring through context clues that it was some substance used to clean wounds. It stung like a motherfucker, but it had kept his arm from rotting off entirely.

Fiddleford soaks the cloth, and turns to Stanley, who has been watching the proceedings in polite silence from his place on the couch the whole time. He stiffens a bit once Fiddleford’s full attention is upon him.

“Take off your shirt,” Fiddleford instructs.

“Woah, Fidds, I didn’t know you were freaky like that,” Stanley jokes, but his smarmy smile is a bit strained. “You heard the guy, Sixer, you’d better clear out.”

“He is not propositioning you, you knucklehead,” Stanford snaps.

“Right, I’m sure he’d much rather fiddle Ford,” Stan’s grin widens. “Heyo! Haha!”

“What! What are you even—“ Stanford’s face flushes.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford cuts in firmly. “Stop goofing around, this is serious.”

“Yeesh, Fidds,” Stanley says, deflating. “I've had worse, I’ll be fine.”

“Just let me do this for ya, Stanley,” Fiddleford insists. “Infections can get real nasty, and I don’ know what I’d do with myself if I’d let ya get one under my care.”

The ‘let me take care of you for my sake, not your own’ was a tried and true method for Stanford, and it seemed to work on Stanley as well. He sags a little, letting out a belabored sigh before delicately taking his shirt off. It was a slow and visibly painful process as sweat stuck it to his skin and he tried to avoid jostling his shoulder, but it came off eventually.

Even in the dim light, Fiddleford could make out a multitude of scars across Stanley’s abdomen. Combined with the ones he’d already seen on his face and arms, they told a story of a life hard lived. Fiddleford knew that Stanley had been kicked out at seventeen– Stanford, as it turns out, was a very sad and very talkative drunk— but Stanford had always assumed his twin was doing fine for himself, so Fiddleford assumed the same.

Clearly, that wasn’t the case, but it also wasn’t the point.

“Sit down against the armrest, will ya?”

In a surprising display of obedience, Stanley folds his arms protectively around his middle and does so without complaint. One hand cups itself firmly over a jagged scar just above his hip, blocking it from view a little too late.

Fiddleford stations himself behind Stanley, taking in the wound. He recognizes the symbol burned into his shoulder, of course, had almost burnt himself against it a few times, but he’s not about to ask how it ended up branded so deeply into his shoulder of all things. Besides, that's hardly his biggest concern right now.

Whatever scabbing might have been present had been torn away by Stanford’s nails, leaving the wound open and agitated. There’s red scratch marks carving their way up his shoulder, but Fiddleford’s more worried about the reddened, swollen skin all around it; the beginning of cellulitis, Fiddleford reckons. Luckily, it only covers a small area, and the foul odor just comes from Stanley’s stained clothes, as far as he can tell.

It’s not too late. Ideally, Stanley would be taking some antibiotics orally, and maybe some painkillers too, but things haven’t been ideal in a long while.

“Alright buddy, keep your mouth closed, this is gonna hurt,” Fiddleford warns.

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be fine, nerd,” Stanley says, waving a hand dismissively. “Nothing I haven’t felt before.”

“You worry me, Stanley,” Fiddleford notes. He wants to steady Stanley with a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t have a hand to spare. “Here goes…”

He starts at the top of his shoulder, wiping at the scratch marks Stanford’s nails left. They aren’t deep enough to draw blood, but they’ve broken skin enough to hurt as Fiddleford wipes them down. Stanley hisses through his teeth, but remains in place.

That is, until Fiddleford drags the cloth lower, down to the actual body of the burn. Stanley’s entire body jerks violently away, and Fiddleford himself flinches back from the sudden movement.

“Fuck!” Stanley grits out, folding forward over his legs, hands clenched into tight fists. “Son of a bitch, Fidds, what do they put in that stuff?”

“I don’ rightly know,” Fiddleford confesses apologetically. “All I know is that it does the trick, if you actually let me use it.”

“Easier said than done,” Stanley grumbles, eyeing Fiddleford over his shoulder. The hurt, the mistrust in his eyes stings a bit, but Fiddleford pushes it aside.

“I know, I know,” Fiddleford soothes, “maybe… Stanford, darlin’, could you hold Stanley still?”

Stanford looks over, eyes wide. His face is clean now, and he’d retrieved his glasses from the back of the couch at some point.

“Um,” Stanford sputters. “I… yes, I can do that.”

It’s clear to Fiddleford that he very much does not want to do so, but he obediently moves over to sit in front of Stanley. Awkwardly, he places one hand on Stanley’s uninjured shoulder and presses the other to his sternum. His gaze lingers on a scar near his armpit, just beside where Stanford placed his hand. It’s a burnt puncture wound, a bullet wound, worryingly close to his lungs. It takes him a moment to tear his eyes away to look up at Stanley’s face.

“I— is this okay?” Stanford asks, his tone uncharacteristically uncertain.

Stanley just rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t complain. Fiddleford gives Stanford what he hopes is a reassuring smile when he glances up at him.

“Ready?” Fiddleford asks softly. Stanford nods, while Stanley lets out a grunt of acknowledgment.

Fiddleford returns the cloth to Stanley’s shoulder. Stanley keens painfully, slamming his head down on Stanford’s shoulder as he grits his teeth and fists his hands into his shirt. Fiddleford winces, but wills his hand to remain steady as he forces himself to continue.

“Sorry, sorry,” Stanford mumbles frantically. Fiddleford understands the sentiment. Stanley just whimpers in response, shaking his head.

“Almost done, Stanley, hang in there,” Fiddleford murmurs soothingly.

He scrubs away at the last section of his wound, makes sure there’s no visible debris stuck within the burnt flesh, and then finally, mercifully, pulls away.

“Done, that’s it, I’m done, y’all right?” Fiddleford says, as steadily as he can.

He moves as far away as he can on instinct, nearly tripping over the tangle of blankets that make up Stanley’s bed before he slams his back into the counter. Stanford is staring at him, brows furrowed, but he can’t read his expression beyond ‘displeased’. Stanley doesn’t respond, just slumping weakly against his brother.

“I’ll— here.” Fiddleford drops the cloth in favor of the roll of bandages he’d retrieved earlier.

He's so reluctant to get close to the twins again that he contemplates just tossing it in the direction of the couch, but eventually he settles for getting just close enough to place it against the arm rest before backing away.

“You can take it from here, right, Stanford? Won’t be much help bandaging with only one hand, so I’m just gonna—“ Fiddleford jabs a finger towards the door behind him, “work on my prosthetic, or somethin’. Try ‘n’ figure out what to do next. I’ll see y'all in the morning, right? Maybe get some rest, if you can.”

All this is said as Fiddleford shakily backs out of the room. Neither of them say a word as Fiddleford exits the break room and slams the door behind him.

(Un)happy Reunion

Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Fiddleford McGucket | 3,143 words | Mystery Trio Through the Multiverse AU

Fiddleford reunites with Stanford and meets Stanley after 6 months alone in a post-apocalyptic city in some other dimension.

Chapter 1

see notes for future chapters!

If Fiddleford had to describe this world he’s spent the past 6 months in in a single word, he’d probably choose terrible. Other descriptors such as strange, horrible, post-apocalyptic, and dangerous also come to mind. Lately, though, he’s been putting a lot of thought into the word lonely.

There were intelligent species here, once. It’s clear in the almost-familiar design of this destroyed city, in the tattered books written in a language Fiddleford can’t make any sense of, in every little item he comes across. He even has an idea of what they looked like— he’s seen their art, their pictures, their mangled bodies— and Fiddleford has to wonder if Bill understood the cruel irony of sending him to a world that was once inhabited by pig people.

He wonders, sometimes, if he could have found a way to communicate with them, if any of them were left. Would his throat have been able to form the words of their language, or theirs his? Would they have tried to help him? Just being around another living creature that didn’t try to kill him on sight would be pretty nice right now.

Unfortunately, that’s never been what this planet has in store for him, and when he hears something move nearby, he knows it’s a threat.

It must be in the next alleyway, and it’s fairly big— most of the monsters Bill left here are. Fiddleford goes still, staring in the direction of the alleyway and listening for any other sign of movement. It’s quiet for a moment, until Fiddleford hears a loud crash and what sounds like hushed murmuring. So many things have sounded like human voices lately that he doesn’t put any stock into it, just dips into the nearest alleyway in an attempt to escape whatever is making that noise before it even knows he’s here.

It’s an attempt that fails immediately, as he crashes into a pile of shredded metal like an idiot. It slices through the worn fabric of his pants, but as far as he can tell it doesn’t reach skin. It does, however, make a very loud noise, and the not-voices go quiet.

“Son of a gun,” he allows himself to hiss, and he takes off down the alleyway without any further regard to the sound he’s making.

Something steps out in front of him, blocking his way. It’s taller than the previous inhabitants of this planet, but smaller than most of the monsters he’s encountered. It’s built a lot like a person, and not a particularly imposing one at that, so Fiddleford doesn’t slow his roll for a moment. He fishes a knife out of the tattered pocket of his lab coat, and slams his shoulder into the beast.

It cries out, still sounding a heck of a lot like a person as it hits the ground, breaking Fiddleford’s fall. He presses the knife to what should be its throat, and is almost surprised to find smooth, human-looking skin beneath his blade. It’s a familiar shade, even, and Fiddleford can’t help but let his eyes wander further up to its face—

“Stanford?” Fiddleford spits, downright baffled to see his big brown eyes looking up at him.

Stanford opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Fiddleford is being hauled off of him. Something has grabbed the back of his scarf and pulled it tight, tight enough that Fiddleford gags against the construction, tight enough that he’s reminded of Bill’s hand around him, crushing the breath from his lungs, and suddenly he’s being slammed against the brick wall of the alleyway and crushed between Bill’s uncaring fingers and—

“Stanley!”

That’s Stanford’s voice, he’d recognize it anywhere, but how is he here?

“Who the fuck—“

A voice, closer than Stanford’s, unfamiliar but definitely not Bill. It’s a person that’s holding him, and even if he’s struggling to breathe against the arm pressed to his throat, he can deal with a person.

Fiddleford kicks out, slamming his knee between the legs of his assailant.

“Son of a—!” he shouts, but he lets go of Fiddleford to stumble back.

“Stop! Stanley, this is Fiddleford! He’s the reason we’re here!” Stanford says, inserting himself between the two of them. “Well, he’s the reason I wanted to be here. You’re the reason you’re here and we don’t know how to get back.”

Yep, that insufferable holier-than-thou tone is definitely Stanford.

“I’m the reason you’re here?” Fiddleford chokes, rubbing his throat as he tries to regain his bearings. “It’s your fault I’m here!”

“I know that!” Stanford says, turning to Fiddleford.

Stanford looks about the same as he left him, beyond the dark circles under his eyes. Fiddleford knows the same can’t be said about himself.

“Listen, Fiddleford, I—“

“Save it, Stanford,” Fiddleford snaps, shaking his head as he turns towards the other man in the alleyway. “You must be Stanley?”

When Fiddleford first heard about Stanford’s twin, he imagined a carbon copy of his then-roommate. Stanley is not that. They’re nearly identical in the shapes of their faces, the texture and shade of their hair, the slope and color of their eyes, but the similarities end there. Put simply, Stanley looks like shit, with long, tangled hair, an unshaven face, and dark circles to rival Stanford’s, all wrapped up in a ratty jacket over an even rattier shirt. Even the way he holds himself is worrying, the way he’s hunched in on himself like a coiled spring, turned to the side like he’s keeping something just out of sight, eyes weary, teeth grit.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Stanley grumbles, and he draws himself even tighter. Even in conversation he’s locked on the defensive, and with the brief glimpse of an interaction between him and Stanford, Fiddleford can’t say he blames him.

“Nice ta meet ya, Stanley. I’d offer to shake your hand, but mine seems to be missin’,” Fiddleford greets. “Well, not missin’ exactly, I know where it is, but it ain’t doin’ me much good inside the stomach of some rottin’ monster.”

“Your arm!” Stanford exclaims belatedly.

He grabs for Fiddleford’s shoulder, but Fiddleford quickly smacks his hand away, a shudder running through his body at the phantom sensation of someone grabbing at what remains of his arm. He steps away, eyeing Ford wearily, almost expecting him to try again.

He doesn’t. He brings his hand back, tucking it to his chest for just a moment, hurt in his eyes. After a moment, he clears his throat, straightens up, and tucks his hands behind his back.

“I take it that’s a new development?” Stanley says, watching Fiddleford carefully. The matching scrutinizing gazes of both twins sets Fiddleford even further on edge.

“I would never have allowed such grievous injury to come to him under my care!” Stanford huffs, glaring at Stanley.

Fiddleford barks out a laugh, shaking his head.

“And who’s god-forsaken vanity project brought me here, Stanford?”

“Easy, Fiddlesticks,” Stanley cuts in before Stanford can respond. “None of us are happy to be here, but he—“

Fiddleford raises his hand. “Shut yer yap.”

“Okay, rude—“

“I mean it, don’t ya hear that?” Fiddleford hisses. It’s barely audible, not like Stanford and Stanley’s rustling in a nearby alleyway. Something is moving through the main streets.

“I don’t hear shit, except some hillbilly interrupting me wh—“

“I hear it,” Stanford says, and Stanley throws his arms up in frustration.

Click-click, drag, click-click, click-click. Three functional limbs, one dragging along, moving at a gradual, unhurried pace. The time between each step suggests a step length of perhaps a meter. It’s large, too large for Fiddleford to deal with without his arm, but likely small enough to fit into this alleyway. Stanley seems pretty tough, and Stanford had somehow held his own for 6 years in Gravity Falls despite its many dangers, but he wasn’t about to trust either of them in a fight against whatever unknown beast was approaching.

“It’s coming from—“ Stanford whispers, and despite the low volume, Fiddleford cringes at the sound.

“I know,” Fiddleford snips quietly, “follow me.”

Fiddleford doesn’t bother to check if either of them listened— Stanford reacts well to confidence, and with any luck, Stanley would as well— before he’s slinking out of the alleyway, carefully watching his step this time.

“Come on, dumbass,” Stanley hisses, and Fiddleford spares them a glance. Both have moved to follow, but Stanford is hesitating, looking behind him even as Stanley grabs his arm and pulls him along behind him.

“I just want a look—“ Stanford mumbles, shaking Stanley’s hand off.

“This ain’t Gravity Falls, Stanford, an’ I won’t hesitate to leave you ‘n’ your brother for mincemeat if you don’t hurry yer asses up!”

Stanford immediately turns towards Fiddleford, eyes wide, mouth parted in shock. Fiddleford glares at him, lets him truly believe he means it (Fiddleford knows he wouldn’t leave Stanford or his brother, damn him) before he turns back around and continues on the way. This time, Stanford and Stanley follow without any further prompting, though Fiddleford hears what sounds like an amused snort from Stanley at Stanford’s sudden obedience.

[the-smallest-gremlin]

i now work for a week straight this is gonna be great!!!

[hinamie]

binding vow

[toxintouch]

hii!! I just read cold spots and it was AMAZING!!! Im not sure if you wanted to continue the fic, but if you don’t mind could you continue with Veres part? I don’t know what you would write about but I just feel like that fic has so much potential to be a little 3 part series or something 🙏

<- Cold Spots TYSM ANON!! I put the Vere End at the beginning for ease of reading. For the sake of folks who would like to read this as a stand-alone... I think u can? With the knowledge that the premise of Cold Spots is that Mhin and MC/Sparrow went ghost hunting. Vere is said to have been responsible for a handful of local ghost stories, so…of course he makes some mischief.🦊 Also MC needs some Winter wear, stat.  A very light Possessive Vere warning in this btw, though perhaps in a roundabout way.  Plausible deniability is so important to him.

You putter around in your room at the Wet Wick as you go about your nightly routine. The occasional cheer or thud from below only accentuates your nervous energy, punctuating your reluctance to settle down and get into bed. You smooth the covers with your bandaged hands and fluff the pillow before extinguishing the lamplight. You tug the bedding up above your shoulders, fighting to get comfortable. As your eyelids finally start to droop, the flicker of a shadow catches your attention.   It dances and sways and bends and grows until suddenly it is right in front of you.  On top of you. Silken, blood red drips down onto your face, a knife gleam smile too close for comfort.  You breathe in a gasp, wondering if you should scream. “Vere, what–” “Shhh,” he coos, pressing a finger lightly to your lips.  His breath is hot against your skin. “I only came to keep you warm, pet.”

Heat Signature

“Poor thing.” Vere purrs.  “Your lips are so cold.”  He leans ever closer, his mouth hot over yours–hovering.  His other hand reaches for your face as well, nails trailing against your cheek in a teasing caress.

You feel even the thought of being cold leave your body, replaced instead by the unusual thrill he commands, that strange enthralling sway.

That heat you’ve come to associate with Vere; sweet tendrils of want that nestle in your bloodstream.

You squirm a little, though you can’t move much with him looming over you.

(You should probably do more to protest his intrusion into your room, you think to yourself, though, the majority of you is–curious, daresay even far too eager to–)

“Whatever trouble did you get up to that left you in such a state?”

At this you scoff, tilting your head back into the pillow and effectively knocking Vere’s finger from your lips.  

“As if you don’t know,” you accuse.

Vere looks entirely unperturbed by you shaking him off, his lithe fingers traveling freely along the newly displayed skin of your throat, making your pulse jump.

Vere chuckles at that, dark and silky.

“Being tight lipped about your adventures, hm?”  He angles your face just so, ensuring you meet his sharp eyes, his nose brushing up against yours.  “Not that it matters.  It so happens I do know what you’ve been up to.  Trespassing in places that don’t belong to you.”

“...It was an abandoned building.  I don’t think it really belonged to anyone.”

“And that’s where you’d be wrong,” Vere says, “everything in this city belongs to someone, darling.  You just don’t know what belongs to who yet.”  He peers down at you with laughter in his expression, though there's a distinct edge to it that you can't quite place.

“So, you're here because that building belongs to you...?”

“Hmm, amongst other things.  However shall I make you apologize to me for this most egregious offense?”  He asks airily, shifting until he’s beside you rather than perched over you, resting his cheek in his hand and letting his eyes slip closed. He's the absolute picture of unbothered leisure.  

(You’re not fooled–he’s simply waiting for you to let your guard down before he pounces.)

You open your mouth to deny any debts on your part (though, if your ghost hunting spot was indeed Vere’s hideout, you really do feel guilty) but Vere cuts you off before you can speak.

“Alas, I suppose it’s not mine anymore.  Within a week it will reek of wet dogs and cheap booze. It's a lost cause now that those drooling reprobates know it's inhabitable.  A pity.  By Eridia's standards it really was divine in its heyday.  Good wine, music, dancing.  There was this portrait artist who would paint the performances…”

His tone remains light as he reminisces.  But the look he pins you with is dangerous: his eyes gleaming bright, his canines bared in an irreverent grin.

“I had such hopes and dreams of reviving the place myself.  Some of the dances were very scandalous.  You never did share with me your stance on dancing, did you?”

You stumble out an approximate answer.  It’s…harmless information to give, isn’t it?

Though, judging by how pleased Vere looks, you wonder if you should have refused to say.  He looks positively wicked as he ponders your answer aloud.  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of talents to share.  In another life, perhaps I'd have put you on stage.  Though, I admit.  I find myself partial to a private show.”

And–as expected–the moment you let your guard down, he's in your space again, crowding you.  Heat and proximity and the softest brush of his lips against yours, light enough to send a thrill down your spine, curiosity and a want so deep it surprises you.

“Well?”  He purrs.  “Care to audition?”

You can't hide behind the excuse of supernatural sway or charm or the thrall of hypnotic sunglo eyes.  It's not Vere's power that controls you. It's your own gnawing desire; starvation and longing that draws you to him despite all sense.

Kissing Vere is heady.  Dizzying.  

Kissing Vere is like being in conversation with Vere–a constant of giving and taking, being chased after and running to keep up.  It’s enticing and alluring and decadent and never quite enough, over too soon even as you feel yourself losing air, the rush of blood and sensation threatening to overwhelm you.

He gives a parting nip to your bottom lip as he pulls away.

Then another one, playful, to your jaw.

When he presses his face into the side of your neck, you expect him to bite again.

What you don’t expect is for him to nuzzle into you, inhaling deeply before heaving a great sigh, his tail flopping lazily to land across you with a thump.

He’s officious as he rearranges the covers, ensuring your arms are tucked carefully away from him before he’s willing to fully settle into the bedding, pulling the blankets up around the both of you like a den.  He hums something low in his chest as he tucks himself up alongside you, long tail curled around your waist. 

It’s rhythmic–

purring.

And it’s…soothing, actually.

The weight of him, the warmth.  The incessant lamplight of the Amaryllis District, shining ever present through your window, is dim–tolerable, even, courtesy of Vere's magnificent shadow manipulations and the blankets sheltering you. 

The constant noise seems to fade away as well, obscured by the sound of purring. “Falling asleep when you have me in your bed, pet?  You really do try your luck…”

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Aite, female character and general inclusivity rant incoming. Hate it and want to make a post? Sure. But give me the respect I gave those who inspired this and don’t tag me in it:

People immediately bringing the ‘female character’ argument into things drives me insane. Like we know she’s a female character, but trust me, that’s got very little to do with why people dislike her.

Are some people misogynistic? Absolutely!

Are most people misogynistic? No.

When we talk about Galadriel, and Luthien, and Elwing, and Aredhel, and Nimloth, and Melian, and Nerdanel, and Ahsoka, and Padme, and *insert literally any female character from any fandom here*, being female has nothing to do with it. It barely crosses our minds.

So for the love of all that is good, stop bringing ‘but she’s a female character! Anyone who sees her as anything but perfect, or thinks the male characters made better choices than her is obviously horrible and misogynistic and would never do this to a man :(‘ Into arguments.

I don’t care how few there are in the work. You can explain why you like her without blaming people for hating on the fact she’s female when 95% don’t. There are very literally hundreds of other reasons people interpret fictional events which portray the fem char negatively.

Especially in work like the Silm which is written by a canonical in-universe historian with basic backstory. We have every right to see him as unreliable and play with what that could mean. Doesn’t make it misogynistic if we want to see female characters as more shifty than they’re outwardly portrayed. Many of us often do the same with male characters, and even if we don’t, you have no right to judge someone so harshly when you barely know a thing about them outside an online persona. 99.9% of people don’t even consider male vs female when they write these things. And it’s not because of some weird subconscious misogyny either.

This is mainly aimed at those who bring this up over. And over. And over again in some weird attempt at guilt tripping people into ‘liking’ characters.

On the topic of things people do that make no sense, if characters are stated as being white, and an artist draws them all white. You have no right to say they’re being racist or whatever else you want to come up with.

Nor do you have the right to slander anyone who casually points out the character is white if others draw them as anything else. If we can call out whitewashing, we can talk about the opposite too. As long as the person isn’t being outright rude, have a conversation.

And don’t get me started on tagging pieces of fanart and fics specifically created platonic with a ship. Like the work? Great! Now respect the intentions of the person who created it.

No one in a fandom space, especially artists and writers, owes inclusivity of any kind when running off canon source material. You want to blame someone for a boring cast, blame the author! But even in general? You don’t get to force or guilt others to create content - original work included - that fits your ideal.

Yes I’m a writer and artist of original and fan content. Yes I’ve experienced all of these directly or indirectly.

Sincerely, a young brown woman tired of all the double standards.

[deoidesign]

quick traditional piece for fun ^^

[buwheal]

BEACH OUTFIT 💥💥💥💥

He used to surf the web back in 98'.

[sinigangrobot]

Artemis Fowl - Alex Rider Crossover #40

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[bacchuschucklefuck]

love thinking kipperlilly spends her afterlife looking for lucy in a familiar forest