#thanks google docs

[aritany]

taken a punch to ye olde groyne

[the-inkwell-variable]

ROYGBV Tag!

thank you, @drchenquill, for the tag!

RED

Amara nodded slowly. "Okay," she agreed, unable to meet his coal red gaze. "You…have a point." She cast her eyes around the room before settling them on the sink. "Why don't you go to bed? You kept the shop afloat today - you're probably beat. I'll do the dishes."

ORANGE

The acrid rain left cold stinging streaks on her cheeks, but Kia made no move to wipe her face.  Could be worse – it was only drizzling right now.  If it was pouring, she’d have to go find an umbrella.  The sky orange hoodie she’d swiped from the apartment wouldn’t do shit against that kind of rain, though it certainly helped her fit in right now.  No thug would look twice at the girl in an Arkham Asylum hoodie.  They’d assume she was one of them, and they’d be right.

Sort of.

YELLOW

Amara was about ready to give up when she found an open doorway that led to a long wide kitchen the length of three rooms.  The wall across from the door was lined with counters, a few cabinets, and a single stove with a steaming but not quite whistling kettle on its surface.  The walls were blotchy and yellowing, as if tinted by years of pipe smoke. Several round tables, each with four chairs, scattered around the room. 

GREEN

At the farthest one sat an olive green half orc with a shaved head and pocked skin.  She took a large chomp out of a vivid red apple with the fangs that curved up from her bottom lip as she scribbled a note in a thick ledger.  As the half–liefling stepped into the room, tail twitching against her calf, the half-orc glanced up with bored gray eyes.  “I dunno who sent you here, pretty thing,” she drawled, lowering her eyes back down to the ledger, “but we ain't hiring right now.  Try after the winter solstice.  Business usually picks up around the start of the new year.”

BLUE

Cursing, Amara quickly painted a complicated sigil in the air.  Sparky, the spectral hound, appeared in a swirling vortex of sparks.  “track that man - but don't hunt him!  Don't scare him more than he already is!”  Sparky let out a low woof and shot off between the trees, leaving a trail of shining blue pawprints hovering over the soft almost-mud.

VIOLET

Sheriff Kain gave her the saddest rendition of puppy dog eyes she'd ever seen, but he tipped his hat and silently padded out the door.  It was only as the door swung shut behind him that she realized every single patron was staring at her.  Most quickly looked away, but a few were bold enough to continue staring.  Her blue face flushed purple.  She tucked away the bourbon and scrubbed at an invisible stain on the counter.

Tagging @theink-stainedfolk for the From Matcha to Murder snippets (all but orange!)

Tagging @watermeezer - @willtheweaver - @captain-kraken - @leahpardo-pa-potato - open tag!

[empressofthewind]

Mello opens his mouth and a whole fucking wall comes flying out

[daz4i]

pretty pretty

[spicymcbean]

Google Docs just hates Tim for some reason?? Like it keeps trying to correct his name to Tom. Which tricks me into accidently trying to write Tom instead of Tim.

So for shits and giggles I have a new DC oc named Tom.

Now Tom has black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and just shows up places sometimes randomly, you'll never seem him coming either. He's just there. Like this 🧍‍♂️

His friends mistake him for Bruce Wayne's ward Tim Drake. While Tim Drake sometimes gets confused with this random guy named Tom??

I dunno I just find this really funny.

[treecakes]

google docs has given me the answers to these relative pronouns questions 😭

[slime-water-shrew]

Allonormativity and BillFord

(Links mentioned are at the bottom of the post)

I think aimasup puts it best in the caption above their comic linked below “They loved/love each other but not exactly romantically do you get me.” Bill and Stanford’s relationship was mutual and they definitely cared for each other in one way or another, however I don’t believe that love was romantic or even sexual in nature. Both Stanford and Bill show a lack of interest and/or understanding of romance in their respective books as countless people have pointed out, Ford even being referred to as “plansexual” (check out the Love page in The Book of Bill.)

[Photo of a pink page from The Book of Bill. The page says the following: "Bill, have you ever been in love?" "Sure -- tell your mom hi for me! By the way, have you taken a DNA test recently? Not asking for any particular reason." "Seriously, though, have you?" "Asking me if I've been in love is like asking a black hole if it liked your mixtape or asking a subterranean fungal spore network who its favorite animated princess is. I'm a multidimensional specter of chaos that transcends reality, I couldn't possibly care less about which bag of plasma blushes at who or why!" "Okay, but like... You gotta be crushing on someone." "I will light this book on fire." "Methinks you doth protest too much." " "Methinks"? Kill me before you start telling me about your polycule."]

[Photo of a grey page from The Book of Bill. The six fingered hand symbol representing Stanford Pines rests above a block of text that reads "Sixer dreams about a pop quiz that asks him, "What are you attracted to?" Usually writes, "I'm attracted to logic and preparation." Not sure what to call that! Plansexual?"]

And yet it seems that Bill and Stanford had a romantic/sexual relationship in the past. Bill gives you flirting tips and has done several of them on Ford. He gave him rats in the book and the “The “LOVE CAGE”” in the show itself.

[Photo of a damaged and yellow page from The Book of Bill. The page has a drawing by Ford of a pile of dead rats arranged to spell out his name, "Ford". Above the rat drawing is the text "Why?" with an arrow pointing at the rats.]

The karaoke page heavily implies that they went on a date and slept together too.

[A Photo of the aformentioned karaoke page in The Book of Bill. The page is yellowed and the text written on it is messy and completely unlike Ford's normal handwritting. It is also filled with spelling errors. It is hard to read so my best attempt to write out what it says are as follows: "I probabbly shouldn't be writin this down but I had such a crazy??? WOW what a. It was a night! And now it's mornign? Cill Bipher.... He did a dream? Karaoke? And then one thing led to another thing and normally I try to be sober but... He mixed a dream drink and??? I gotta say. I just gotta say. Look it's just me and my journal here, I gotta say: This Bill guy he's really got it all figured out. Also the rats were his idea? I get it now. I'm gonna, we're gonna what a time. What a hangover. Gonna sleep. Whole day. Ad aspera asperin -Stranford Pi" The pen then trials off the page and below the wall of mangled words is a drawing of Ford and Bill infront of the stars with mics in their hands singing. Ford is holding a drink in one hand with his eyes closed in a smile and Bill has an arm around him and is looking at him sweetly. The song they are singing is Disco Girl.]

So does this mean they aren’t aroace? Not at all. I believe that the two of them confused obsession for love. As wishwizardliv states in their post linked below “NOBODY CAN TELL ME IT WAS ROMANTIC[.] THAT SHIT WAS JUST OBSESSION ON BOTH ENDS”. Ford was practically consumed by obsession. His carpets, walls, everything down to the windows were made in Bill’s image. He prayed to him and his favorite constellation is Bill. He was a god to him.

[Photo of a page from Journal 3. The page is yellowed and there is a drawing of a few constalations. One being Ursa Major and the other being William. William is a triangle with a bowtie and one eye. The drawings are labled with a note underneath with a arrow "Favorite constellations".]

And Bill was no better. From the stories we have of his past his involvement in any one person’s life is a rarity and the fact that he visited Ford often says a lot. Not to mention I do believe Bill when he offered Ford to rule the universe with him. I think he honestly wanted to have Ford by his side for all of weirdmageddon. Not to mention he carried him around everywhere like a doll and made him out of gold unlike all the other people he petrified. They were clearly obsessed with each other and in our allonormative world that is hard to rationalize unless you assume it is romantic or sexual in nature.

Hana Hyperfixates in their video Gravity Falls and LGBTQ+ subtext: Decoding the Queercoding | A Video Essay, around the 1 hour and 33 minute mark they say “... there’s a lot here about Ford wanting women to notice him, and not a lot about him noticing women. He was a guy in the 80s who wanted stardom and acclaim. Women wanting men in power was imagery he likely was surrounded with growing up.”. You might be thinking “Okay but what about Bill? We know allonormativity exists in our world but how can we say the same for his actions?” Well I have news for you: we can also see Bill Cipher literally being pressured about how “you gotta be crushing on someone” (Book of Bill Love page); it’s clear that even though Bill is not even from our dimension even he can’t escape allonormativity. All of this in mind with how deeply obsessed with each other the two of them were it makes sense they would confuse it for the traditional kind of love and try their hands at dating. Which explains why a triangle that is above love (as he kinda states in the Love page), and a “plansexual” man would go on a date and sleep together. They may not ever actually have been in love but them attempting to flirt and date makes sense when you consider they just confused their obsessions with romantic love. In this context it recontextualizes Bill’s statement in the Love page shown below.

[Photo of a pink page from The Book of Bill. The words are written in white blocky but setchy leaters with a black box around them. The text reads: "Love is a trick. And worst of all. It's a trick you play on yourself!"]

What at first seems like the bitter words of someone who feels like love is pointless could be taken more literally. It was in a sense a trick he played on himself.

As an aroace person myself who has often confused obsessing over fictional characters or gender envy, or just really caring about a friend deeply with a crush, I have to say there is nothing more relatable than that.

Sources & Links

wishwizardliv : https://www.tumblr.com/wishwizardliv

wishwizardliv’s post : https://www.tumblr.com/wishwizardliv/758841130677862400/nobody-can-tell-me-it-was-romantic-that-shit-was?source=share

aimasup : https://www.tumblr.com/aimasup

aimasup’s comic : https://www.tumblr.com/aimasup/758803563813224448/they-lovedlove-each-other-but-not-exactly?source=share

Hana Hyperfixates : https://www.youtube.com/@hanahyperfixates

Hana Hyperfixates’s queer reading video : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFRx3ibU3yU&t=146s

[xxplastic-cubexx]

eternally grateful that no matter the verse within cherik either one of them will always have long lushish hair the other can lovingly comb through

[technically-human]

Fell in love with this fucked up version of Charles and the gang so i drew them !! <3

Here they are spliced up for better quality :3

(Can you tell montys my favorite character ? LOL)

LOOK AT MY FUCKED UP BABIES!! SO PRETTY!!!

I love it so much thank you thank you thank you

[ameliadoesstuff]

[nowandforalways]

I'm back and I'm having emotions about Samwise Gamgee.

I'm trying to articulate why Michael Kurowski's Sam is actually possibly surpassing Bill Nighy for my favorite Sam and is at the very least tied and I think it's because the way that he plays him (and the way that everyone else plays off of him), Sam is allowed to not know things, without his social class ever being the butt of a joke.

Like he was much closer to movie Sam and BBC radio Sam than Watermill Sam in that he was wide-eyed and wondering and very straightforward and emotionally effusive and a lot like what you'd picture when you picture in your mind's eye how Samwise Gamgee acts.

But it was never his lack of knowledge that was the butt of the joke. Or, like, the fact that he was Sam that made things funny, if that makes any sense.

He wasn't being a caricature of a country bumpkin. He was being...a realistic country bumpkin? One who's still a 3-dimensional person with loads of intelligence and also is respected by the people around him?

Yeah. Michael!Sam, man. So freakin good.

[darsynia]

Surprise blurb bomb!

You’re at a conference and a little worried because your boss has enlisted you to present. You’ve got about a day to go, so you’ve been in pacing in your hotel room rehearsing. However, the frustration mounts every time you hear yourself make a little mistake. Your next door neighbor has heard all of this, so they come to knock on your door, checking that everything is alright. When you explain what’s going on, they nod sympathetically, having to present as well. They kindly offer to help you practice, which leads to the two of you falling asleep collapsed on top of each other on your bed. What happens after that? Who’s your babe?

Thank you so much for this!! I chose Steve, and this is teeth-rotting fluff with my signature little characterization moments. I hope you enjoy!!

gif from @askthesuperhusbands

Notes: Pre-Ultron, no warnings, 2,447 words, first draft so I get it out without fussing

Excerpt:

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

Always On

“The idea of ‘public relations’ has fallen into disrepute, just like ‘human resources’--and I think their tarnished reputations are related,” you say, hands clutching the edges of the wooden desk chair ‘podium’ precariously balanced on the hotel bed. “I know everyone in this room is well-acquainted with the concept of finding common ground with a myriad of people-- Argh!”

You frown, feeling the judgment of the rumpled sheet hanging on the wall. It’s covering the mirror that had pulled your focus away for the first twenty minutes of this practice exercise, but you still know it’s there. At this point, the sheet is a fig leaf covering your dignity and your inability to stay focused.

It’s past midnight, and the long day is getting to you. The introductory paragraph of your presentation is in the bag, but paragraph two isn’t working at all. It’s your thesis statement, the crux of the whole project, and you know you’re fighting an uphill battle. Without help from the well-respected UNITY Project, the governments of the world might try something extreme to keep the Avengers in line. Each year the group of philanthropists, aid workers, humanitarian lawyers, and other notorious do-gooders meet and choose ten groups to endow aid or oversight on. You’re hoping for the oversight, but it’s a long shot. The group has a sterling reputation, and their clout might be enough to get Secretary Ross to back down.

Your hands ache from where you’ve been clutching at your makeshift podium, but you square your shoulders and try again. “What we’re seeking is a partnership, a way to celebrate this team’s efforts and smooth over their rough edges.”

The sheet is mocking you, so you close your eyes and picture the faceless group you’re going to be appealing to.

“Citizens around the world trust your judgment and their heroism. Together we can ease fears and--” You stop, struggling to remember the word you’d thought up in the rental car on the way to the hotel. No amount of squinting at the note cards does any good. Your notes are rain-splattered and ruined in exactly the wrong spot, of course.

Throwing your head back, you let out yet another miserable groan.

Seconds later, there’s a gentle tap on the door. You recognize the pattern.

“Go away Steve, I’m busy dying of frustration!”

There is silence for over thirty seconds, but you’re not fooled. After counting to fifty-five, you stride over and throw the door open right before Captain America’s knuckles strike the wood again.

“Yes?” Your withering glare doesn’t faze him. Steve just raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up in a ‘surrender’ gesture.

“Three ‘arghs’ in fifteen minutes gets a visit, you should know that,” he tells you with mock sternness.

Hot embarrassment has you stepping back in dismay. “You could hear that?”

“A few words of the speech, too,” he nods, prompting another ‘argh’ from you.

Your choices are to spontaneously develop superpowers so you can drop through the floor, or do as you always do in this friendship--or let Steve Rogers be the hero. Your dilemma must show on your face, because for once, he doesn’t wait for you to ask for help.

“Something tells me the board of United International Continuing Acronym won’t be convinced by those noises,” Steve says, using Stark’s nickname to cover for the way he pushes past you into the room. For a few seconds, the fronts of your bodies brush against each other, and the heat from those few seconds burns through you.

By the time you recover, Steve’s already across the room, clearing his throat. “I sympathize, believe me. Doesn’t matter how much public speaking I’ve gone through, it still ties my stomach into knots.” He turns and gives you a look of teasing determination. “I have a few suggestions, but I’d have to swear you to secrecy.”

Your crush surges up to color your voice with maybe a little too much affection as you say, “Captain America has secrets?”

The look he shoots you has the same sort of heat from seconds ago. “Here,” he says, pulling a folded page from his pocket. “This is a new one, but back when they first put me in tights, I practiced my script in a room set up with some of these.”

Steve hands you a drawing of a crowd of people, some smiling, some frowning, some turning to their neighbors instead of looking forward. It’s got all of the charm of his usual drawings, despite being more simple than usual. When you look up at his face, his sheepish expression tells you why. He must have drawn it right before knocking on your door.

“Steve,” you breathe, touched by the gesture but also the way he’s captured the spectrum of audience reaction. It reminds you of everything he’d gone through to be the man he is now, the man you’ve fallen for as inevitably as a crowd cheers for a brilliant performance. You couldn’t help it.

“Not now, all right?” he whispers, a kind of pleading in his eyes. “Speech first.”

You blink at him. Did he just acknowledge that something’s different between you? What is it about this corporate hotel hundreds of miles from the home that’s turned everything deliciously sideways? He’s already on the next Act, and you shove those feelings aside to focus like he’s asked you to.

“My place was a quarter this size, but maybe we can…” Steve trails off, propping his drawing on the draped wall sheet and flipping off all but the lights above the bed. Somehow it works, limiting distractions and changing the covered mirror into an easel for his thoughtful drawing.

There’s only one problem.

“Are you planning to lurk behind me?”

“Well, I’d sit in the chair, but--”

“Steve!” You can’t even glare at him, because all you can see is the glint of the fluorescent light reflecting off of his shined shoes. He pushes off the wall and steps forward just enough so you can see the kind look on his face.

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

There’s no way he could know how romantic that sounds, so you swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod at him.

You start again, and suddenly it works. The chair is a podium. The crowd is real. Steve is somewhere out of sight, rooting for you. You get through the whole thing, and it feels great. You can hear Steve clapping for you through the relieved buzzing in your ears.

Then it all falls apart. When you let go, the chair falls over and smacks you in the face, and the little breeze from your flail of pain knocks the drawing down. Steve rushes over to help, but he bumps into you, and you both fall sideways onto the bed.

The giggles last for a glorious few minutes, and then he says, “Okay, since everything went sideways, can I make it worse?”

You’re lying on a bed with Steve Rogers and his smile is like an early sunrise, so you say yes.

“The concept is good, but you sound like you’re using big words to impress. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not really us. Tony’s irreverent, Clint’s the salt of the Earth, and Bruce is the kind of scientist that puts everyone at ease, at least until he turns green.” Steve turns onto his back, but he doesn’t get up, which feels consequential, despite his criticism. “Nat’s public persona is standoffish but not pretentious, and I’m--”

“You’re folksy,” you interrupt, still stinging from the unfortunate truth of the word ‘pretentious.’ “The epitome of ‘plainspoken.’”

Steve shoots a look over at you, and you realize those two words are exactly what he meant.

“The guy next door,” you add. Inside, you’re crumbling a little bit. Does he think you’re pretentious? Are you pretentious?

Steve rolls to face you again, reaching out to brush his thumb gently across the place the chair had struck you. It’s covered by your hair, but he somehow knows exactly where it is.

“You still have a full day left of the conference before it’s your turn. I could have colored that drawing and given it to you tomorrow, but that wouldn’t have helped tonight.” He pulls his hand back, but sets it on the bed between you. “That’s what makes us a team.”

You’re confused, but comforted nonetheless.

“You paint with words. It’s not that different from art, and every artist chooses how much effort to put in each piece,” he explains patiently. “It’s the same for this. You’re representing everyone, and that means you have to save some of that energy for the physical part of it. Not everyone realizes that.”

“Oh, God,” you blurt out, sitting up. “You are a symbol, just like you said. You’re always on, even at the Compound! How much energy does that take?”

He looks up at you, and the truth in his eyes is painfully intimate. “It’s not as bad now. When I came out of the ice, it kind of felt like I was still in tights. Always exposed for the greater good.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s your job to book him for events. You’re the one shoving him onto the stage.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Steve says, sitting up and framing your face with his hands. “It was worse before, when it was Tony or some random person at SHIELD sending me out. I trust you. This conference was your idea--”

You scrunch up your face with guilt at that, and Steve gets this look of determination on his face. The next thing you know, he’s leaning forward and kissing you. It’s electric, stage lights blaring, orchestra in crescendo, and the velvet curtain rolling closed on the triumphant final scene to the roaring of the audience applause.

Then he’s pulling back, standing, and running his hand over his face. “That was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“It was a masterpiece,” you say, looking up at him with your hands clutching the blanket and your heart in your eyes.

The way his nervous tension completely leaves his body is even more reassuring than the softly-spoken “Oh. Good,” he lets out. His encore wins all the awards your heart has to give: “I didn’t practice that at all.”

Joy colors your voice. “You’re a natural.”

Steve’s ears turn red, and he says, “Well, I should let you get back to it. It’s past one--”

“You could stay,” you rush to say, standing up and stepping past him to pick up the drawing. Behind you, he makes a strangling sort of coughing noise, and you realize what you’ve said. “To practice!”

That just makes Steve gasp your name, clearly amused and scandalized in equal measure, and you groan in frustration. Feeling giddy just destroys your cognitive abilities.

“The speech! What is it about this hotel??”

“A new medium. Canvas instead of watercolor paper. A speech instead of short stories,” he says, setting the fallen chair back upright.

“You know about those?” you ask, surprised. You’ve made a point of working on them only during your downtime.

He has the grace to look apologetic. “Tony made a comment once, that I’d turn up in one of your stories if I offended any world leaders, when I was sent to the UN Grand Assembly.”

“Shit, I forgot I threatened him with that one time when he was being an ass.” Your grumble ended in a colossal yawn. “What time does breakfast start tomorrow?” The conference is a multi-day affair, and missing the early meal had not set you up to stay awake through the panels today. “I won’t have any time to practice this tomorrow night and you’re right, I really need to clean up the wording,” you add, feeling your elation at the kiss drain away with worry.

“Then let’s keep at it,” Steve says, taking the drawing and setting it back up on the sheet. He turns and gives you as wicked a look as you’ve ever seen on his face. “The speech, I mean.”

You wake up to the alarm with a sore neck, your dress pants digging into your hip, and a bed partner. He’s the farthest from a pain in the neck as a man can get, but falling asleep fully dressed with your head on his shoulder wasn’t the wisest decision you’ve ever made. You pull in a deep breath, trying to clear out the mental cobwebs scattered in happy glitter, and Steve tenses up under your head.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately.

“Don’t be. I’m the one who should have left you to sleep.”

You sit up so he can slip out of bed, knowing that he needs to put distance between you for his own peace of mind.

“Be honest: have you ever voluntarily abandoned a woman who needs your help?” you tease. “In all seriousness, you were a huge help last night, and I’m sure that was outside your comfort zone. That was probably the most I’ve ever seen you talk outside of lecturing Stark!”

“I didn’t even notice,” he says, pulling the sheet off of the mirror expertly folding it over in the corner of the room.

He’s faced away from you, so you indulge in a back-arching stretch while muttering under your breath, “You have no idea how hot that is.”

“Right back at you,” Steve retorts, looking back at you with the sheet in one clenched fist. “I need to get going. Want me to pick up breakfast for you?”

You’re off script and floundering, trying to reconcile the sexy rasp in his voice with this attempt at professionalism. It’s exactly the kind of relationship you’ve always dreamed of, and you find your heart slipping further into romantic oblivion.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you,” He says, holding out a hand to help you up. Once you’re standing, Steve holds your gaze and lifts his eyebrows in a very clear question. Heart pounding, you nod, and he takes your lips in a brief but fervent kiss. He moves back, pausing at the door. “I just thought of something, but it’s--”

“Tell me anyway,” you interrupt. “You don’t have to alter your wording for me.” It’s maybe too symbolic and cheesy, but you’re sleep deprived.

“I’m looking forward to another collaboration,” he says, flashing you a brilliant smile.

Note: I may have to write a sequel with what happens AFTER, given that I impulsively wrote this and missed that the prompt was 'what happens after that' I feel so dumb haha

[goatsandgangsters]

gdocs offered me many helpful suggestions on my last binding christmas fic

[kaisollisto]

(Based off of the reality of having a metal ring in your back as a constant reminder of your fate and how that affects you as a person set in the Switzerland arc)

“Does it hurt?” 

Ava’s pressed face down into the pillow sleep curling around her limbs. She hums, she can’t remember what she says, she’s exhausted. Her arms are tangled beneath her pillow. She holds her fingers tightly between each other, her bones ache from the pressure but her hands no longer shake. Ava hasn’t experienced this before, a fear that haunts her at night. (She finds she cannot stop dreaming about dying. It’s stifling in the cover of night trying to figure out where she is.) 

She slowly opens her eyes and squints in the darkness. Beatrice is facing her a furrow in her brow that Ava knows she’s doing unconsciously. Ava’s lip quirks a smidgen, Beatrice looks funny. It’s a bit silly to her, Beatrice no doubt working out a solution to an unknown problem that Ava has yet to see in the middle of the night. In her sleepy state she wants to laugh at the imaginary cogs churning in Beatrice’s head. 

Beatrice scooches closer and Ava panics, her skin can taste the dust of Bea’s forearm. She hoists herself up on her elbows, turning to face Beatrice. “Wha?” Ava’s shaking off bits of sleep from her mouth when Beatrice repeats herself. 

“Does the Halo hurt?” 

She doesn’t know if she wants to answer that. Ava peers over Beatrice squinting at the harsh light of the digital clock on Beatrice’s side. Ava loves it, it reminds her of the early 2000’s and the aesthetic of waking up to an alarm to go somewhere. The clock blinks an innocent 1:43 Am, and Ava debates on letting her head thump back down. 

She turns her body on her side, she can feel the halo shifting in her back and it makes her want to throw up. The sides of the halo press against her shoulder blades and Ava resists the urge to yank it out. She grits her teeth and settles ignoring the skin of her back pulling tight to accommodate for the ring. Beatrice is still expecting an answer and Ava can’t lie to her, she pulls the covers of the sheet up to her chest hoping to bide more time for an answer. 

"Everything hurts Bea," Ava smiles, "getting my ass handed to me is hard work."

Beatrice frowns displeased but looks at her through her lashes, it's unguarded, the stress and worries of the world stay out of their room in the dead of night. Her lashes are so pretty and Ava wants to curse the soft glow of the moon. There’s just enough moonlight to illuminate her eyes but overshadow her freckles. Ava swallows down the taste of defeat, she can’t win, she thinks. 

Her gaze is soft, Beatrice is looking at her and it’s different yet the same. The same feeling in her chest constricting her lungs, the same soft gaze of Beatrice. Beatrice who likes what she sees in Ava when Ava can barely see where she begins. She doesn’t like to dwell on it, the truth of the matter being what belongs to Ava.

If she closes her eyes she can pretend just a little longer. She can give herself the hope of the future and what comes after all this. She can put down the fighting and the artifact and live. Ava doesn't want to think about it anymore, at least not tonight when Beatrice is here with her. 

Beatrice is soft. She knows it from hours and hours of training. She's felt it when Beatrice corrects her form, in the way she talks. She speaks from a place of care like she has turned the harsh words in her brain over and over to soften the syllables spoken to Ava. And Ava doesn't linger on it, the meaning behind it, (Ava didn't think she'd make it this far, finding a person who cares quite like Bea does.)

And Ava's got it bad, she knows she's fucked because Beatrice doesn’t say anything about her language and Ava can't not tell her the truth. She looks down, her hand fiddling with the bed sheet underneath them. 

"It doesn't hurt," if she thinks about it she can feel the fibers of the cotton between the pads of her fingers. "But it's very uncomfortable." She doesn't want to find the response in Beatrice's eyes, content to hear it from her voice. The soft British lilting accent that holds her just as soft as a touch. 

She waits, she can picture Bea’s mannerisms with her eyes closed but maybe she should check just to be sure. Ava peers up at Beatrice and she’s suddenly closer. Her eyes really are pretty, there’s a depth to them that Ava wants to spend an ungodly amount of time studying.

“Can I help?”

[adhdo5]

INEFFICACY - an HOA webweave

absoluteconceptofbeauty // Raleigh, NC Municipal via screenshotsofdespair // WebSMP - thepikachusorcerer // Cicada Days - Will Wood // WebSMP - spider-shoes / WebSMP - sunsplatteredfeathers // Fatigue - John Brosio / WebSMP - sunsplatteredfeathers, adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer // Daylight Town No. 3 - Jing Zhiyong // WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer // The Flood - Jessica Haywood / WebSMP - gaysneeg / Sally's Interlude - Everybody's Worried About Owen / cobra-bubbles // WebSMP - adhdo5 // Cicada Days - Will Wood // WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer / zinesbycee / gec 2 ü - 100 gecs // WebSMP - adhdo5 / WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer / Little Crazy Love Song - Mary Oliver // dappermouth / unknown, via deactivated user / salivasisters on twt / Julia Igosheva on Unsplash / Little Crazy Love Song - Mary Oliver / saiwormoon on twt / Converse County - Raccoon Tour // Julia Tsukurova on Unsplash / mothcub / dimespin / unknown, via goodpokemoncenterreviews // Utopia - Jessica Haywood / Same Tasks - 8485 / WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer / peklo - sukinapan // WebSMP - gaysneeg, thepikachusorcerer / Same Tasks - 8585

Thank u to @thepikachusorcerer for being cVwoop and to, among others, @sunsplatteredfeathers and @gaysneeg for playing touys with us and making HOA a whole terrible world to exist in <3

[syringesyrup]

More tummy worship? Please? 👀

CAN YOU PEOPLE LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

nsfw below cut. Get the fuckoutofmyface. TRANSDEW FOREEVERRRR (like scotland forever).

“You want the last of it?” Swiss asks as he twirls the dying joint in his clawed fingers. It’s ember is dwindling now, almost touching the tips of Swiss’ fingers as he holds it carefully in his claws. Dew hums with a shake of his head as he lays his head on Swiss’ stomach. He hooks a claw under the multi ghoul’s white tank top and folds it up to his chest to expose his warm tummy. He presses his face into it immediately and groans as he breathes in Swiss’ intoxicating scent of ash and whatever that new cologne is. Swiss’ stomach shakes as he laughs, glazed eyes peering down at Dew. Dew only draws his hands up lazily and squeezes Swiss’ stomach, suffocating himself in the pudge of the multi ghoul’s stomach. He tries not to think of the way it slightly folds over Swiss’ waist band now and fails. He breathes heavy onto Swiss’ skin and sighs, turning his head up again to the multi ghoul to try and distract himself from the bizarre thoughts he has about Swiss’ body.

Dew watches through lidded eyes as Swiss inhales sharply, smoke seeping into his parted lips. He tosses the stub of a joint into the ashtray on the nightstand and looks down at Dew, smiling at the red of Dew’s eyes and his sleepy face. “C’mon.” Swiss huffs through smoke, patting rhythmically on Dew’s shoulders as he lays unmoving on Swiss. “You’re breathing all hot on me down there.”

Dew hums against his bare stomach as he exhales a hot breath onto his skin. He’s in the mood as well, as per usual, but is far too comfortable with his face pressed to Swiss’ body. It’s warm and surprisingly soft and he just smells so nice. Dew wishes he could move and get things started, he really does. If Swiss’ tummy didn’t make his brain fog over every time he got his hands on it, they wouldn’t be in this position. Literally and figuratively.

Swiss adjusts his hips under Dew, gliding along the fire ghoul’s chest with a wince. It’s way too easy to get him going when Dew pays attention to his stomach. As if its Dew’s fault that Swiss’ body is impossible to ignore. The soft pudge of his stomach and the handful of raised scars that Dew has left behind with his own teeth many times. He’s glad that they left a mark. Maybe he did it on purpose each and every time.

What really drives Dew up the wall about his multi ghoul’s stomach is the tattoo marked just above Swiss’ waistband. How could he not stare at it? It’s Dew’s fucking name. Dew recalls fucking Swiss within an inch of his life after he got it done, outlining the fresh ink with his own little marks to compliment it. He still couldn’t believe Swiss was crazy enough to do that. He even made a passing comment about getting their favorite water ghoul’s name as a tramp stamp. Dew couldn’t save Swiss from Rain’s bizarre reaction if he tried.

“Helloooo? Earth to Dewdrop?” Swiss asks as he runs a hand through Dew’s pulled back hair, ruffling his bangs. Dew looks up from where his eyes were glued to the ink and squints at Swiss through glazed eyes. Swiss huffs a laugh at him before he leans forward and runs a claw down Dew’s spine, making the ghoul bite his lip and adjust his legs to arch his back. Swiss watches with a hazed smile as Dew lifts his ass in the air before pushing his face back down into Swiss’ exposed tummy.

“You gonna stay like that?” Swiss asks through a smirk. Dew only gives a grunt in response. Swiss sighs before he hooks his claws under his shirt and pulls it off, exposing his chest as well. Dew peeks up at him and stares. He doesn’t know how he’s shocked each time he sees Swiss’ body. His broad chest and wide shoulders and each scar and blemish and his chest hair and his fucking tits-

“Damn, you’re stoned.” Swiss laughs as he watches Dew stare. Dew glares up at him before lowering his face back into Swiss’ tummy, flicking his tail at Swiss. The multi ghoul watches his spiked tail flick with a hum before he lays back, lip pursed in thought. Dew knows that look. It’s when Swiss has something absolutely evil planned that usually leaves Dew wrecked with the best aftercare of his life. It makes him throb and draws a whine out of him. It’s not exactly intentional on his behalf but at least it lets Swiss know that he needs him badly right now.

Of course Swiss knows. When do they not need each other?

Swiss stares down at him with the same evil look and glazed eyes before he tilts his head at Dew with a droop of his ears, innocent and dangerous for Dew. He folds his arms over his chest, blocking the sight before he hums and pouts his lip at Dew.

“Wanna fuck?” Swiss asks, plain and simple. Dew moves his head up and sneers at Swiss.

“How romantic of you.” Dew says with a roll of his eyes. Before he can even shoot another glare at Swiss, he’s pushing Dew’s head back down into his stomach as he yanks his hair. Dew winces loudly and scrambles for a moment before settling. It’s Swiss. He’s safe.

“Do you even deserve it?” Swiss asks with venom dripping from his tongue. Dew moans into the heat of his skin, knees shaking against the mattress as he looks up at Swiss with pathetic eyes. Swiss hums, pleased with his reaction before he releases the grip on his hair and his face softens. He pats Dew’s head with a frown and a shift in his brows.

“Can I try something, baby?” He asks kindly. Dew knows it’s not a front. He switches like this often to make a mush of Dew’s brains when he fucks him. But this is different. It’s genuine and void of any malice. Dew hates that he feels like he has to ask. Why would Dew say so no when Swiss leaves him in the stars with each touch, no matter how devastatingly haunting on his skin or how ironically heavenly it is?

“Yes, please, anything.” Dew shakes, the tips of his claws poking ever so slightly into Swiss’ waist as he stares up at him with blown pupils. Swiss whines at the sight of Dew and his sweet yes before the grip on his hair returns and he’s yanking Dew up into a hard kiss, clanking their teeth together hard enough to make Dew’s lip bleed. And fuck if it doesn’t make Dew’s eyes roll back into his head and thrust his hips hard into Swiss’ own as he kisses him brainless.

Then it’s over. Dew doesn’t even register that his lips aren’t on Swiss’ anymore until the multi ghoul is pushing his face back into his stomach and placing a hand under Dew’s body, making him arch his back again. Dew groans into Swiss’ skin, trailing his hands back up to palm at Swiss’ stomach again as he buries his face into the now healed ink that screams his name.

He feels Swiss’ tail wrap up around his thigh, slipping under his boxers and out again above the waist band. He curls it there, gripping Dew’s boxers with the limb before he drags them down slowly but desperately. Dew moans when the air hits him, cold against his red hot thighs that are already coated with slick. He adjusts his knees, preparing himself for Swiss to slide under him and eat him out like it’s his last meal on Earth.

Swiss’ hands move down to Dew’s head again, grabbing him by his horns and shoving his face lower. Dew feels his heart skip when he breathes in Swiss’ scent, strong and sickening in this area. He desperately grabs at Swiss’ waistband and fuck him for wearing these gray sweatpants again. He hooks a claw under the waistband with his mouth already watering at the thought of having Swiss in his mouth in mere seconds. Maybe Swiss was thinking of something different. He wouldn’t mind having his throat fucked in this position. The weed dried his mouth out anyways.

Before he can even drag Swiss’ pants down an inch, he feels something hot press against his cunt. Dew tries to register it and turn to see but is swallowed whole by the burn in Swiss’ eyes. He’s staring down at Dew, his massive hands still wrapped around the nubs of Dew’s horns. His eyes are burning red, a sign of his fire element raging through his body. Dew stills as he watches the multi ghoul’s face turn in a way he’s never seen before. It’s new and horrifying. Dew can never ever guess his next move.

Swiss leans down ever so slightly, his pupils sharp as he watches Dew. There’s still something pressing against Dew in between his legs. He’s so high he can’t even think of what it could possibly be. Was Swiss’ knee always so warm? He doesn’t get to dwell on it before Swiss grips his horns and bares his fangs, a threatening look on his face as he stares through Dew’s contrasting eyes and opens his lips to speak.

“Stay.”

Dew can’t even say a word as he feels something push inside him, hot and curled and ridged. It slips inside of Dew and there’s something sliding against his clit with it. Dew’s mouth falls open and his head twitches as his mind urges him to bury his face back into Swiss’ skin and scream. He can’t. Swiss is so locked onto him and holding his gaze prisoner in the palm of his hand. All he can do is let out a moan that doesn’t even register in his own ears. Swiss’ pupils go wide as he does it, expanding so far in his eyes that Dew can barely see the red glow of them anymore.

It’s when whatever is inside of Dew digs deeper and opens him up that Dew can’t take it anymore. He tears his hands away from Swiss’ stomach and grabs his arms, clawing at them as he arches back and slams his face down into Swiss’ body, shouting again as he’s filled.

“Swiss!” Dew cries, squirming under his grasp. Swiss moves his hands to Dew’s own, intertwining them and holding them against Swiss’ chest. The multi ghoul’s heart is beating heavy against his chest as he places Dew’s hands there. Dew whines at it, staring up at Swiss’ with his eyes lidded and almost rolled back in his head.

“Wha-“

“Don’t move.” Swiss whines. “Oh, please don’t fucking move. You’re perfect.” Swiss groans as he bucks his hips up and Dew can feel himself gush slick. It drips down his body and begins to pool onto the sheets, soaking them under Dew.

“Wha-what are you-“ Dew tries again before he feels something thrust inside of him, drawing another cry out of Dew. Swiss reaches down and tugs his pants down, freeing himself at last. His cock slaps against Dew’s face, leaking onto his cheek as the fire ghoul winces at the heat of it against his face.

“It’s-oh fuck-“ Swiss gasps when Dew breathes against him, hot breath circling around his cock. “It’s my tail.” Swiss chokes out.

Dew pauses.

What.

“What?” Dew asks, suddenly not as high as he thought he was.

“Well you were waving yours around and I thought ‘Wouldn’t it be funny?’” Swiss cries as Dew moves against him, making his eyes flutter. “But now I’m just fucking realizing how very much connected my nerve endings on my tail are to my dick.”

Did Mountain fucking lace them? There’s no way a simple joint could pull this thought from Swiss’ mind. Swiss did a lot of crazy shit when he was high but this has to take the fucking cake.

“If you don’t fucking touch me I’m going to just fuck your face myself.” Swiss growls through a moan as he pumps his tail inside of Dew. The twin rings pierced through the spade of his tail slide against Dew from the inside, making his knees shake and almost give in. The so called threat of Swiss face fucking him makes his mind go so blank that he forgets to even answer Swiss.

“Dew, baby.” Swiss whines. “C’mon, give me something.”

Dew can’t even think any comprehensive thoughts right now. He can only bury his face into Swiss’ stomach and weakly wrap his hand around his cock, jerking him with a shaky hand. It’s enough for Swiss. He rolls his head back with a loud curse as he grabs at Dew’s horns again and twists his hands around them. Dew moans weakly at the sensation. This weed is kicking his ass right now. He can feel every twist and curl of Swiss’ tail inside of him. Each slide of the twin rings, the ridges where the length of his tail meets the spade, the slide of the rough skin against his clit as his slick leaks down the thing. It’s somehow worse than Swiss’ stupidly useful piercing on his cock.

“Faster, fuck.” Swiss chokes on his own drool. “Faster, Dew.”

Dew tries. He swears he’s trying to give Swiss more relief but his entire body is quaking as he’s rocked forward by the surprising strength of Swiss’ tail inside of him. He lets his hand fall away from Swiss’ cock and rest on his hip, whining as he buries his face back into the comfortable pudge of Swiss’ tummy. He just wants to lay here until he cums or wakes up or sobers up or just dies.

That’s a bit dramatic. But at this point?

“No, baby, no.” Swiss curses. “Mother fucker.”

“I’m sorry, I-I-“ Dew tries to speak as Swiss thrusts faster in him. “I can’t think.” Dew admits shamefully. He’s never been fucked this stupid so fast. Rain has his way of dumbing him down into a puddle in almost record time but this? Dew just can’t even believe it’s real.

“You’re okay.” Swiss reassures. “Fuck, baby, you’re doing so good.” He coos, running his hands down to cup Dew’s tear stained cheeks. Dew doesn’t even remember when he started crying. It’s all a fog.

“Can I fuck your face?” Swiss asks through a gulp. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.”

Dew whines, gripping Swiss’ wrists and nodding. Swiss brings his head up immediately, grabbing his cock and slapping it against Dew’s lips. Dew opens his mouth weakly, taking Swiss in and stretching out his tongue. He unglamoures it as it slides it, long and forked at the end. Swiss moans low in his throat as Dew wraps his tongue around him and gives him a small but reassuring jerk. He shoves himself inside of Dew’s mouth and back into his throat. Satan bless this little ghoul and his lack of a gag reflex. Who would Swiss be without it?

Dew moans as he tastes Swiss, hot in his throat and surprisingly sweet. Dew thinks of cranberries before Swiss’ hands are grabbing his face again and shoving him down to the base of his cock. Dew’s eyes water for a moment as his nose presses into the tuft of curls swirling at the base. Swiss leans up to get a better angle and Dew almost loses the last bit of his sanity as Swiss’ stomach presses against the base of his nose. He’s not sure Swiss’ even realizes how fucking hot that is.

“So fucking good.” Swiss babbles as he begins to fuck into Dew’s throat at a quick pace to match the one he’s set with his tail. His tail is now wrapped around Dew’s thigh, squeezing as he fucks into him with it. Every slide of it inside of Dew makes him want to scream. The slide of Swiss’ tail against his clit doesn’t do him much good either. The sound of Swiss’ tail pulsing in and out of him is what really does it for Dew. It sounds wet and filthy and Dew can’t wait until Swiss does this again in an angle where Dew can watch it slide in and out of him.

Swiss picks up his thrusts, digging himself deeper inside of Dew’s cunt and his throat. He’s close, Dew can tell. The way his nose scrunches up, his labored breathing, the way his left ear keeps flicking with each strangled moan Dew lets out that vibrates against his cock. And, oh fuck, the way his stomach is flexing as he fights it off.

“Gonna cum.” Swiss warns. Dew whines high in his throat as Swiss thrusts faster inside of his cunt and presses harder against his clit. Dew was ready to cum the moment Swiss was inside of him. He moves his arms back and wraps them around Swiss’ thighs, gripping hard at them as he lets Swiss abuse his mouth.

“Fuck, please say you’re close too.” Swiss hisses as his rhythm goes sloppy and fast. He’s losing his composure, clearly seconds away from shooting down Dew’s throat. Dew moves his own tail up, wrapping it around Swiss’ own and squeezing it. His eyes flicker at Swiss and it’s all the multi ghoul needs.

He yanks Dew down into a final thrust, spilling down his throat as he yells Dew’s name like it’s a sin. It’s scorching hot and startles Dew for a moment before he hollows his cheeks around Swiss, yanking his orgasm out of him and drinking it greedily. When his tail digs just an inch deeper inside of Dew, the fire ghoul yanks himself down onto it and buries his face into Swiss’ stomach with a choked cry as his eyes slam shut. He tightens around Swiss’ tail and gushes around him, spraying his tail and Dew’s thighs with cum as it soaks the mattress.

After a second longer, Dew’s knees give in and he falls stomach first onto the wet mattress. Swiss pulls his face away from his stomach, yanking him up into his arms as his tail slides out of Dew. It makes Dew wince and flail, still so overwhelmed by it all. Swiss is kissing him immediately, gentle and warm with the taste of weed still on his tongue. Dew’s hands land on Swiss’ chest, patting him weakly as he tries to breathe.

“Fuck.” Swiss breathes. “Are you okay, baby?” Swiss asks as he adjusts Dew in his arms, cradling him against his chest. “You did so good.” He praises, running a hand down Dew’s spiked back. “You’re so fucking perfect, Dew.”

“What-“ Dew gulps. “the fuck?”

“Are you okay?” Swiss asks again, nudging his nose into Dew’s neck. “Did I hurt you?”

Dew shakes his head. “What the fuck.” He says again.

Swiss kisses his neck, leaving a small little purple glow that seeps into Dew’s skin. It’s his favorite way of transferring quintessence and healing. With gentle little kisses that warm someone up like hot coco.

“Fine, ‘m fine.” Dew breathes. “I’m okay.”

Swiss nuzzles his neck again, purring loud enough for Dew to feel it. He kisses his skin senselessly, pouring quintessence into him. He grabs one of Dew’s hands and drags it down to his stomach, pressing Dew’s warm palm into his skin.

Dew preens at it, feeling his own purr jump to life as he squeezes Swiss’ tummy. Swiss begins to kitten lick Dew’s face, placing warm kisses against his cheeks. “So sweet.” Swiss hums, kissing the corner of his eye before he rubs their cheeks together with a chuff.

“Stop that.” Dew scolds. Swiss pauses before he pushes Dew back, climbing over him as he presses his head into Dew’s stomach and blows raspberries. Dew shrieks, kicking at him with a laugh as he yanks on Swiss’ horns.

“Swiss!” Dew laughs, breathless again.