#when i wake up i have to really lock in on drawing and stuff

[shokupanda]

me when time moves forward at a steady pace: how the fuck is it more than halfway through july already. this fuckers rapidly sprinting when im not looking huh

[thegnomelord]

Ok, so I loved your dragon reader/ dragon price fic. The detailed courting rituals got me thinking about how different members of TF 141 react to a s/o who has different courting rituals than them.

The one rolling around in my mind rn is Gaz (which I'm pretty sure is a harpy or bird hybrid of some kind) with a dragon reader.

So Gaz tries to court reader through a more fancy version of pebbling. But, instead of giving cool rocks and sticks, it's gemstones and weapons. Yknow, expensive/fancy things that Gaz thinks the reader might want to add to his hoard.

Btw do you have an anon list? If so, is 👑 anon available?

I don't have an anon list yet but you're welcome to be 👑anon!

It's cool to think how they'd try to court you. I hc that werewolves, and Johnny by extension, are really straightforward. Like sitting way too close, hands roaming over your body, trying to lick into your mouth and going "Hey wanna make more of us?"

Ghost, the poor thing, is completely fucked bc he was human before becoming a wraith, how the Hell is he supposed to know? Que him going through Wikipedia articles and watching documentaries of your species courting and mating (having to rub one out imaging you and him in that position ofc) and just stumbling through the whole courting thing.

CW:NSFW

But Gaz? Oooh Gaz—

Safe to say he's fallen ass over tits for you.

It's the way you take care of them, of him, of the monstrous strength used to defend them turning velvet soft when Gaz needs emotional support that has his harpy hindmind demanding to lock you down before a competitor snatches you away.

Only problem — you're not a harpy. And Gaz has no idea how courtship works, as when he asks Price about it (under the guise of just being curious) the old fart just gives him an amused look and tells him to figure it out.

Though harpies and dragons are two different species, he figures there must be some similarities, so he figures to listen to the old fairy tales about your kind and looks for the shiniest thing he can find, because Harpies court by giving gifts and dragons like to hoard and both of them like shiny stuff right?

You're confused like Hell when one day you wake up to find a silver ring with a shiny amethyst sitting on your windowsill. You know for a fact it's not yours as the instinct to catalogue every item in your hoard is as old as the draconic blood running through your veins and you'd remember if you had it.

When you make sure it's not stolen and no owner can be found, (because who'd wear that type of ring in a military base?) you decide to keep it, failing to notice how the way Gaz's pupils get bigger when you put the ring in your pocket.

It is a nice ring, the shine of the gemstone tickling your brain in a pleasant way. The military doesn't allow dragons to have large hoards, most of the items you've gathered over the decades and centuries safely hidden in vaults, but it feels good to have a small hoard in your den.

You expect this to be a one off event. But. No. Every few weeks you find a new thing on your windowsill, from gems to guns to additions to weapons you've expressed you'd like to get. Each new thing leaves you scratching your head, annoyance growing bit by bit as there's never enough scent on the items to track the culprit down and it's not like you can turn the base upside down looking for them (again).

You're unsure how to feel; it's obvious someone is trying to court you, but it definitely can't be Price because no dragon would go about it like this. But you have to admit it's nice to be desired, regardless how odd the method may be.

Then you notice how Gaz has started acting. . . different. He'll ruffle his feathers and flutter his wings more than usual when you two are alone, purposely stretch more often to make your eyes naturally draw to him, sticking to your side as he talks about everything and anything under the sun.

You're also not a fool. You can figure out it's a harpy's way of trying to show off, but without any open hostility you can only assume he's trying to court you. And you let him, you like his presence and the sound of his voice, the way he gives you a lopsided smile and the way his dark feathers shine like onyx gems when the light hits them juuust right and the way he flushes and stutters when your tail wraps around his leg.

Then one late evening when you're doing paperwork you catch sight of something behind your window in the corner of your eye. Like a flash you're opening the window, your clawed hand gripping Gaz's hand before he can scatter.

Gaz's wings spread out wide, a surprised squawk leaving him as he looks into your slitted eyes. "Uh-, I, eh- Hi?" He says, gulping, his newest gift, a very shiny ruby, held in his hand. But what draws your eye are his dark feathers.

You let out an amused snort, "Hello." You purr, leaning in so your faces are close, enjoying the way he flushes from the proximity. "So you're the little thief that's been visiting me."

Gaz's feather puff up to make his silhouette twice as big, his eyes narrowing, a hurt and angry look spreading across his features. "I'm no thief!" He says, insulted that you'd suggest he can't get you gifts on his own. "I-"

"You are," You hum, reaching out your other hand to hold his jaw, and even with his anger he feels his mind croon at how softly you touch him. "You're in the process of stealing my heart."

"Oh." Is the most intelligent thing he can come up with, his pupils blowing wide like he'd just seen the shiniest thing in his life. "Oh."

"Yes," You shrug and pull your hand back to yank one of your scales out of your shoulder, giving it to him as you take the ruby. "Keep this safe for me, yeah?" You hum and then you let him go, going back to your work while he's left dumbstruck, clutching the scale close to his chest.

When it finally settles in his head that you'd just given him a gift, that you'd reciprocated, and given him a shiny gift, oh he's treating that scale like it's the most precious thing in his world. He keeps it close to him, cooing to it in the privacy of his room, keeping it on his pillow so he can fall asleep with your scent in his nose.

He also doubles down on the gifts, but now he's very open about it, to the point you'll have him randomly come into your office to give you something shiny or another weapon, preening so prettily when you praise the thing he's brought back, nuzzling into your neck and fluffing up his feathers. His heart swoons when you show him the small hoard you've made with all the things he's brought you, and you end up spending the entire evening with him cuddled up to you, chirping happily.

"Hey, can I see that scale I gave you?" You ask after a couple of weeks, curious to see how he's treated it.

"Uh, sure." Gaz can swear his heart's beating like a war drum as he watches you inspect your scale, checking for scratches or cracks.

But you find none, it's still as shiny as the day you'd given it to him. Maybe even shinier.

You smile and before he can do anything you pull him close to you by a hand on his hip. "Very well done, little thief." You hum, kissing him. Gaz melts against you, not even your lips able to muffle the happy chirps and croons that escape his chest.

You spend the next few months getting familiar with each other's bodies, lazy evenings spent with your clawed hands preening his wings, Gaz steadily melting into the bed with every brush of your fingers. Kyle taking a few extra minutes in the morning to rub his face between your wing, chirping and crooning.

Harpy mating season comes around and you're caught off guard when you come to your room to find your covers and pillows and entire wardrobe on the ground, turned into a makeshift nest with a very naked, and very horny, Gaz sitting in the middle of it.

His eyes are hazy but he knows you're there the second your scent hits his nose, the most desperate sound you've ever heard leaving his lips, bruised from how hard he'd been biting them to reign his noises in, to keep them only for you.

"Mate-" Kyle whines, shuffles in the nest that has the pretty gems he'd gifted you strewn amongst the fabric, "-need you, please- I-"

One more needy sound is all it takes to have you tumbling naked into the nest in record time, deep guttural purrs answering his pleased coos. He presses flush against you, seeking out your mouth, whole body burning up and his thighs shaking, his cock rock hard.

"I got you, pretty thief." You rumble, pulling him into your lap, his wings spreading out and feathers puffing up, as if he needs to make himself look even more desirable. "What do you need Kyle?"

"Need you," Kyle whines, pawing at your own erection, desperate fingers shaking as he strokes you, "Please- hurts, I need- mate."

You shush him with sweet kisses, your hand sliding down to very carefully stretch him open while avoiding injuring him with your claws, your mind purring at how willingly he opens up for you, wings and limbs shaking as he whimpers against your lips, his mind steadily leaking from his cock.

"You're alright," You calm him when you pull your fingers out, positioning him so your cock head rests against his entrance, not missing how Kyle preens at your strength. "Going to breed you right, gonna take care of you."

"Yes, yes, yes!" Kyle moans are loud as you steadily push your cock into him, his walls clamping down on every inch of your length. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank- mate." His claws dig into your shoulders, clutching you tight as you bottom out in him, his hole clenching you in sync with his ragged breathing.

"I'm here," You hum, barely able to think, "Just relax, let me take care of you." You say, feeling him relax into you, and with deep purrs and lots of praise you begin to fuck him, moving him like a fleshlight on your cock, letting him moan and groan and scream his heart out uncaring who hears it, your ancient blood singing at the thought of his noises being a testament to your abilities as a mate.

Then the tight heat and the scent and just Kyle has your mind forgetting how to think, your body moving on it's own to show Kyle he'd picked a good mate.

[moonalumi]

arguing with ellie n it goes too far

idk if this has been done but um be ready y’all i’m bouta cry

warnings- guys this is kinda sad um, angst, arguing, crying ig, ellie being easily agitated n mean, mentions of death, reader comfort el at the end guys trust!!

“el what’s wrong?” you ask as sweetly as you can. worried about how your girlfriend has been ignoring you and other people all week. she’s just been in her own little world writing and drawing the days away. every now and then you heard little sniffles coming from her direction but choose to ignore it; thinking she’ll come to you when she’s ready to talk but it’s only been getting worse day by day.

she ignored your question again. flinching at your touch and cursing herself in her head for that.

“ellie please talk to me, i made you some food” you comfort once again, reaching out to brush out some tangles in her hair with your fingers.

“i don’t want it.” ellie mumbles out coldy. not even taking her attention away from her drawing.

“okay well i’ll leave it here in case you change your mind okay?” you kiss ellie’s head and unintentionally glance at her sketchbook. somehow she notices and slams it shut. pushing you away from her as well.

“cant you just leave me alone for two seconds?” ellie snaps. her tone of voice taking you by surprise.

“el— i’m sorry i didn’t look—“ you fumble your words. not knowing whether to look at the closed sketchbook or your angry girlfriend.

“i don’t care stop hovering over me constantly, i’m fine stop worrying.” ellie stands up to walk past you but not before you stop her.

“how am i supposed to know you’re fine? you certainly don’t seem fine when you haven’t even had a conversation with me in days!” ellie turns to look at you and you swear her eye contact with you could kill, you forget how mean she can look without trying to.

“drop it i don’t wanna argue with you” she trys walking away again but you grab her wrist.

“please talk to me, what’s wrong??” you beg, and lift your hand to push strands of her hair away from her face.

although ellie pushes your hand away, not roughly though, her touch is still soft unlike her words, “don’t fucking touch me just leave me alone i don’t want to be anywhere around you, just go.”

it hasn’t been the first time ellie had snapped at you like this and said awful things she didn’t mean. for some reason it’s in her nature to just lock away her feelings and attack anyone who tries to push their way in. unfortunately today you seem to be her victim. and after a year of being in love with her, you know her very well by now.

“you really want me to go ellie? cause i’ll go but who’s gonna be taking care of you like i am right now?” you raise your voice at her while picking up things of yours from around her room.

ellie just watches as you pick up your items. sitting there with a lil pout on her lips not saying a word as you stuff more stuff in a bag. but before you can even touch the doorknob to leave she stands up, “wait..” she whispers, if you listened carefully enough you would’ve heard her voice cracking.

“what is it?” you ask rather harshly. opening the door and stepping outside.

ellie panics, her eyes widening and her legs unintentionally making their way towards you in a rush, “wait don’t go” she whimpers.

only then do you turn to see ellie’s eyes filled with tears and her panicked expression. her tough angry demeanor changing in a matter of seconds. n that pout on her lips turned into quivering lips.

your own eyes soften at the sight. you can’t help but feel the pain and guilt for making her cry but you knew she needed a wake up call. you needed to let her know you won’t stand there and just take her hits.

“oh el i’m so sorry” you bring her in for a hug. letting her burry her face in your neck and squeeze you into her hold.

“n-no i’m so sorry i—shouldn’t have been so mean to you. don’t leave me” ellie hiccups and sniffles between her crys. getting your neck all wet with her tears and snot but you don’t mind.

“i’m not leaving you baby i just needed to teach you a little lesson i’m so sorry” you leave kisses all over her hair and scratch her back as she calms herself down.

lifting her head up, you kiss her cheek that’s all flushed and puffy n lead her back to bed. cuddling her and forcing her be little spoon.

a comfortable silence over takes you too as you just lay together, “you wanna tell me what’s wrong now?” you whisper breaking the silence.

you feel ellie take a deep breath and intertwine your hands together, “it’s— around the time of joel’s death date, i think that’s why i’m being like this.”

“i’m so sorry ellie” you try and comfort but you know there’s not much you can say or do to make her feel better about it other than being here with her like this.

“can you scratch my back? it felt good earlier,” ellie smiles at you as she asks the question.

“of course, c’mere” you sit up and let ellie lay onto of you as you lift her shirt up to scratch her back until she falls asleep <33

free palestine !!

[ckret2]

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

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

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

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

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

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

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

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

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

####

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

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

"Sure."

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

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

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

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

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

"No I didn't. When?"

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. They were just rude."

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

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

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

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

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

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

"Like I said! He went insane!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But—"

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

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

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

Why had she bothered?

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

####

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

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

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

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

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

"Who was the first triangular president?"

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

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

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

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

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

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

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

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

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

####

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

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

####

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

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

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

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

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

####

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

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

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What. Would. She. Say."

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

"Biiill?"

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

"Aaand?"

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

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

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

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

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

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

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

She'd never heard him apologize before.

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

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

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

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

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

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No?"

####

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

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

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

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

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

"Don't call me that."

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure."

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

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

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

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

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

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

"Eww, Bill."

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

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

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

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

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

####

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

[vagabond-umlaut]

two shots of ristretto, please!

One must have heard of espresso, but ristretto? No?

Well, translated to 'restricted' in Italian, ristretto is another version of espresso, but of a sweeter and more intense quality than the latter— though, you reckon, there's no entity in this world, sweeter and more intense than that white-haired, blue-eyed enigma-turned-menace of yours.

▸ yakuza heir! gojo satoru x uni classmate! fem! reader; TIMESKIP; dad! gojo satoru x mom! reader; FLUFF AND HUMOR GALORE; popularising the headcanon that gojo is so terrifyingly gojo for everyone, except his crush; the said crush's smart & not dense, for the first time in my stories; there is yakuza so there's a gun and there's a tiny bit of violence; brief appearance of utahime, shoko, suguru & nanami; POST-TIMESKIP: the most adorable twins ever, sachiko and sachiro, are back, with tons and tons of fluff!!!!!

▸ belongs to the series 'tang!' — same universe as the work 'every rose and its 'twin prickles'' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

▸ i know i described the reader to be smart and stuff, but the thing is: she is smart, of sorts, that is. and the post-timeskip portion is tooth-rottingly fluffy but not for satoru; sachiko & sachiro will never let their papa get some loving from their dearest mama... AND this is 4.4k wc long— idk how i wrote so freaking much! anyways, whatever it is–

▸ i don't own the characters, the image or the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

Gojo Satoru was born with three things.  

His name. 

His looks.  

And, of course– the baggage certain to tag along with the above two. 

Cup of coffee languishing in the frost of your ignorance, you lock gaze, the first time, with the famous infamous scion of the Gojo’s, an awfully stormy morning at the café your friend works at.  

Said friend looks halfway on the path to sweet, sweet dreams, resting her head on folded arms on your table — smiling, you tuck a wayward strand of hair behind the shell of her ear, and return to your sly spying on the group seated couple of feet away. You think you see Gojo look at you yet another time — it must be an error of your eye, you reckon, given how he's giving a sharp grin to the man across from him, in the very next instant.  

Yeah, that's what it is. No one can possibly switch from shooting that level of thoughtful gaze to that level of feral grin in that short span of time. Yeah, it must have been a mistake of your silly eye.  

Anyways, whatever it is, to say you hate drawing attention to yourself will be the greatest understatement of the century— so you decide to look away for a beat, to avoid even the faintest hint of suspicion, eyes going back to the chemical reactions strewn across the mess you call notes— only to snap back to the white-haired boy, widening in horror from the click! then the scene crashing onto your brain.  

Gojo chuckles, eyes flitting from the gun aimed at the space between his eyebrows to the man holding it. "Aww," you register him croon, that self-sabotaging dumbass, "resorting to such cheap violence so quickly, Zenin-san? Grew tired of a civil conversation already? Tsk. What a pity." 

Another time and you think you'll consider this precise moment to be when you wake your friend up and slowly sneak away into the kitchen then out, via the back door. Another day and you know you'll consider this very second to be when you return your focus to your assignment on carbohydrates, all the while hoping you or your friend won't be cast into a brawl none of you are a part of— 

Too bad it isn't another time or another day, though.  

Biting back a grimace, you shut your laptop and rise from your chair with a loud clatter. 

"Forcing someone isn't really a nice way to make a deal, y'know," you hum, walking over to their table and plopping down onto the free seat next to Gojo, "what is better is to explain the pros and cons to the one opposite to you and try to convince them. Gently. And if that doesn't work, manipulate the hell out of them. But this?" you shoot the metal gun a disappointed glance, shaking your head, "this is a method even I know I shouldn't use to get my rival to agree to something, though I'm not from a criminal background." 

The man– Zenin, you correct yourself; the second largest yakuza clan right after Gojo's family, your memory supplies after a beat – gives a slow look from the weapon to you, a scowl appearing on his features. And barks – voice, a disgusting grating noise to your sleep-deprived self.  

"Who the fuck are you, girl? And why the fuck are you interfering in this?"  

You pause. Okay, this wasn't what you were expecting when you first strolled out here. You were expecting a yell, a scuffle; worst case, the gun aimed at your precious brain. But this? One question about your identity, and the other about your reason for approaching them? You haven't prepared yourself for this! 

Frowning, you cast a glance to your left, only to find the white-haired boy stare at you, staggered, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks; then at your friend who's snoring away like she doesn't give a damn about napping at work; then at the man glowering at you.  

You sigh, rubbing your temples. 

"Who the fuck I am... that's for me to know and for you to find out,” you answer, smirking, before growing serious again as you rush to explain, upon catching a murderous glint in the man’s eyes, “I mean, c'mon, y'all are the yakuza. This should be a piece of cake for you, shouldn’t it?"  

The man's glare only worsens in result; stamping down the apprehension in your mind, you continue, "And as for why the fuck I'm interfering in this—"  

You abruptly fall silent.  

Offering the boy beside you a panicky glance.  

Wondering what the hell you can say in reply. 

Should you say, "I've been listening to you threaten the poor boy for a good thirty minutes now, saying he's gonna face dire consequences, or some shit like that, if he doesn't share the area in the east with the Zenin's or refuses to marry their third daughter— who I'm pretty sure, y'all have made into nothing but a maid, a cook and a broodmare. Poor girl, being spoken of by her own family member to a stranger boy, as if she isn't a human being but something with no life or ambition. But, hey, how you raise your kids is honestly your own problem and I’m not here to drill some lesson into your head– though I guess, folks like you could really use some. Anyways, whatever the fuck it is, I'm here because I JUST CAN'T SEE ANOTHER BEING FORCED TO DO SOMETHING AGAINST THEIR WILL. AND I’M GONNA PROTEST AGAINST IT AS LONG AS I’VE A BREATH LEFT IN MY LUNGS." 

The inner-you tsks at the outer-you.  

You groan inwardly, shifting to the next plan already.  

So, must you say, "Gojo's my classmate, who has been sitting behind me since the first class of the year, and very weird to say, but I have also been finding him here at this coffee shop, every day I visit since that day, sitting at this specific table and scribbling in a notebook for hours at end— and, yeah, way weirder to admit out loud, but I guess I have also formed some kind of attachment to him? 'Cause of which, I feel, I get worried when I see him being actively threatened? And, yes, of course– all the while I totally ignore that he's next in line to a notorious criminal family or the fact that he's never even noticed me once before today." 

Another click! bounces off the walls into your ears, making you draw away from your mind back to the situation at hand. You settle for offering a shrug.  

"Why I'm here is because Gojo is one of my acquaintances and I just can't seem to stand someone being forced to do something against their will." 

Your statement earns a mocking laugh from the man, but before you rush to defend yourself and the fact you spoke the truth, a calloused palm rests on your forearm. Gojo's gaze flits from you to the gun still pointed at him then back to you. You feel a mild tremor in his fingers when they meet your skin. Good heavens, Gojo must be really scared, huh? 

His careful voice reaches you, a far cry from the haughty tone he was employing with the Zenin fellow earlier, "It's best if you leave now. Go take your friend and go away. And don't come back here. At least not until sometime later, yeah? Things are gonna get a hell lot messy and I don't want you to see that." 

For the first time in many days, the buzz of caffeine in your veins weakens, giving way to the thrum of worry you feel at Gojo’s words. Has this bastard already accepted his fate!? Hell no! Not if you can help it!!  

You give his arm a light pat. 

"While I leave you here, all alone, huh?" Shaking your head, you click your tongue. "Nope! Not gonna happen, mister. My parents raised me way better than that. Besides, you might not be knowing me but I've been knowing you for a while now, and despite what everyone says of you being the crown prince, or whatever, in the underworld — I ain't leaving you here, with your life at the mercy of a person who doesn't even have a shred of respect for others' freedom of choice and stuff." 

A noisy yawn sounds in the background, soon followed by a noisier series of snores. Gojo's mouth opens and closes a few times, like a funny fish, before he inquires, voice brimming with disbelief, "You... have noticed me? Since when?" 

You blink, then chuckle. "Of course, I have. Since the first day, if I'm being honest here," you reply, then add as a hasty after-thought, so that he doesn't see you as a weirdo, "I mean, it's tough not to notice you, y'know? Not when you're—" 

A deafening crash interrupts you in the middle of your sentence. You look away from the boy to find the man standing now, face contorted in a mix of fury and desperation while he shifts the gun's muzzle from Gojo to you, then back to Gojo, words leaving him in a harsh yell. 

"THE GIRL NOTICED YOU 'CAUSE YOU'RE THE GOJO SATORU AND YOU'RE HANDSOME AS FUCK. NOW, CAN YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH? AND YOU — YOU SICK, SPOILT GOJO BRAT– YOU SAID YOU DON'T HAVE A MINUTE TO SPARE? BUT HERE YOU ARE, CHATTING YOUR LIFE AWAY WITH THAT GIRL—" 

A second deafening crash reverberates through the small shop– and you think you see your life flash before your eyes– but not before the man drops to the ground, most probably unconscious and hopefully not too damaged to lead a functional life, and very earnestly not dead. The gun clatters to the ground beside him. You turn to your classmate, eyes wide. Gojo returns your gaze, unblinking and slack jawed. 

Heart thundering in your ears, you hurry to explain yourself, "I–" 

"You smashed that plate on that guy's head." 

Gojo’s blunt words bring you to a still, making your eyes drift to the fragments of the unlucky glass plate, to the unluckier but-totally-deserved-it Zenin, then back to your classmate. A little more awe on the boy’s face and you think his jaw might hit the floor.  

You nod slowly. 

"Yeah, but as self-defence. I mean, you saw how eccentric that man was acting, right? I had to do something to protect both of us," you explain, looking away from the pair of blue eyes watching you closely, to your friend who still seems to be lost in the land of sleep (how much exactly did she drink last night, huh?) to your grey sneakers, voice growing mumbled with every other syllable you utter.  

"But that doesn't mean you've to feel some sort of debt towards me or anything. I too was kind of at mistake then, I guess... what with me rambling so fucking much when there was a literal gun at your head. I should have acted with more tact then – if I had done so, then maybe this mess could've been avoided. I mean, I've never seen these things before in my life, y'know? Except in TV shows, that is. Yet, this foolish me here thought she could just swoop in and save you like some sort of a hero..." 

Sullen, you trail off, face growing warm from embarrassment whilst your mind devises a plan on how to clear up the mess you created, many thanks to your foolhardy nature, when a muffled laugh reaches you. Gojo's eyes twinkle in enjoyment at the bewildered huff you give him.  

"You did save me like a real hero back then, y'know," he says, grinning a wide grin – before it disappears, making way for a much reserved, much shyer(??) version. A giggly voice within you whispers he looks just as sweet as he did with his cute dimples. The boy continues, carding a hand through his mess of white hair, with a casual glance at the man, "And, as for the mess you keep mentioning, don't you worry. Gun shots create more mess than a plate smashed on the head. And if I can clear that within a minute– this won't even take me a full second, Miss Hero. Don't you worry for this at all. But, yeah, thank you." 

Now, you don't really know if it was the sincerity in his voice as Gojo thanked you, or the fact that he has to clean up the mess you made in the first place, or the stunned feeling so clearly visible in the blue colour of his irises when you admitted to noticing him— whatever it is, you find yourself not wanting to leave anything unsaid between you both.  

Moreover, the realization that lives are considered extremely low-on-value in the world of crime, so much that guns are whipped out at the tiny disagreements or boasts are made on how quick a gunshot mess can be cleared by them — this realization doesn't make things any easier for you. 

Giving the injured man and your napping friend a momentary glance, you return your focus to Gojo, whose eyes are now narrowed at his mobile, and speak those words weighing heavy on your mind right now.  

"I really noticed you since the first day, Gojo," you say. The boy pauses his typing, confused gaze darting to you. "But not just 'cause you're the Gojo Satoru, or 'cause you're really pretty — which you totally are, by the way— but mainly because you had ambled into our first class, on the first day, a magnificent hour late, with your two friends— and my first thought seeing you was, what sort of a fucking entitled brat is this guy, sauntering in as if he owns the entire place." 

A beat passes before the boy erupts into chuckles, though the tense quality of them doesn't escape your notice. Pocketing his mobile, he shoots you a small smile. "And what about noticing me after that? It was just my name and looks which kept your attention hooked onto me, wasn't it?" 

The question– the mumbled way it was asked, more so– sends you into a brief bout of musing silence. Gojo's eyes remain trained on you the entire while — quite contrary to the innumerable adjectives you've heard to describe them: oceanic blue, sparkling blue, mesmerising blue, kind-of-startling blue– you think they're just... blue. So blue, you wonder if there's anything as blue as that gaze peering down at you.  

Perhaps not. 

Lips curving into a smile, you hum, "Yes and no. Yes, 'cause that was the main reason why my eyes kept trailing you whenever we were in the same place. No, 'cause they were the reasons only until I realised what kind of person you are, and how very different you're from what I first thought of you. I got new reasons after those." 

"Mind telling me those new reasons?" 

Gojo's nervous question widens the smile on your face. Casting your friend a glance — goodness, how many drinks did she really have at the party she went to last night — you reply, making your voice light and friendly, "Your personality made me curious. You are old money, with good looks to boot— you're literally the heartthrob of every girl on campus! Still, I've never seen you with anyone from them— never with anyone outside your group of three friends — though, I got to admit, the blond boy looks nothing less than constipated for a week, when he talks to you." 

That last comment draws a chuckle from the white-haired boy. The tightness in his shoulders seems to relax a bit, you note with relief. Face still carrying the same smile as before, you continue speaking.  

"And the second point which made me curious was how different you behave in different places. Your voice rings across the cafeteria every day during lunch yet you stay so quiet here for hours at end. You once said you've never been much of a book person, yet I always see you in this shop, immersed in your notebooks. And– what has struck me the most of all is the way you tend to go out of you way to annoy others – I've been sitting in front of you in class for a good three months now, yet you've never ever irritated me in the slightest. Kind of strange, ain’t it?" 

Stunned silence comes as the answer to your question, what with the addressed classmate of yours, rooted to his spot on the ground, blue eyes as round as the plate you had smashed on the man's head some time ago and the expression on Gojo's face, almost as if you've grown a couple of heads in the while you have been chatting with him.  

Or more like monologuing, now that you think about it.  

This guy is always so chatty with others: he was even then with that gun cocked to take his life — then why the fuck is he so unspeaking right now, eh? 

"Oh God, Satoru, I can't believe your plan of lurking in the places she goes to, to catch her eye, worked out!!" "Are you asking her out right now, bro?" "Can you all please move? It's raining like hell outside and I'm not really keen to get my leather jacket wet, thank you." 

The noisy rumbles of rain and thunder stream in through the opened door, before the latter is closed again, snapping you out of your internal monologue, a bit too sudden and harsh for your liking. Three pairs of eyes regard you with an utmost curiosity — you return them a blink before dragging your eyes away and looking at the boy a good foot away, only to find him resolutely staring at the overhead lights. Two pretty long (and pretty weird) seconds pass before you finally decide to tear your gaze away from him to the rain-soaked glass window of the eatery.  

A face with creased brows and warmed cheeks greets you from your reflection.  

Screwing your eyes tight shut in an attempt to ward off an annoying headache you can feel build up, slowly yet steadily, you let out a sigh.  

Friendship with the Gojo Satoru seems good enough but romance with the Gojo Satoru... that doesn’t seem half-as-good, right? 

Right? 

"Wrong." 

Your son's insistent voice, coupled by the tiny fist he slams down on the table, breaks you out of your reverie and you turn to find Sachiro wearing a frown, tears brimming in his eyes– eyes which move away from his father and sister to you, pinning your drowsy form beneath the weight of their moisture.  

Stifling a weary sigh, you place the menu card back on the table and coo, "Aw, Sachiro! What's wrong, baby? Are Papa and Sachiko saying mean things to you again? Are they still teasing you regarding today's incident?" 

Although, you suppose to yourself, catastrophe might suit what happened today, way more than the word 'incident'— what with the shrieks, cries and yells resounding through your flat in the short time you took to get ready for your Sunday lunch at a restaurant. Rubbing his eyes a little, the little boy scoots closer to you and nods weakly, wrapping his tiny arms round you. Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, you direct a stern look at the two sitting across from you.  

Sipping on the welcome drink, Sachiko just shrugs back at you.  

"I'm not the wrong person here, Mom. He is," your daughter explains, pointing a finger at her brother, then retracting it at your frown. Your husband snickers from beside her. “Yeah, sweetness, it’s Sachiro who’s wrong. Getting confused on when’s your birthday is no small mistake. Besides, our darling little munchkins taunt me the entire time if I ever make a mistake, no? Can’t see why they can’t stand a taste of their own medicine, then.” 

The sobs muffled into the cotton of your dress grow in intensity and misery. Sending her father a vicious stink eye, your daughter moves to observe you and her brother, a cute little frown on her face.  

"Okay, fine," she relents after a short beat, returning the lemonade to the table, "Guess I was a little wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have teased him so much, along with Papa, for messing up the date of your birthday. I also should not have said, he doesn't love you, some time back."  

A very weighted moment passes. The little girl jumps off her seat and reaches your side of the table, tiny arms reaching out to wrap around her brother. It takes a minute, and a small nudge from your side but soon enough, your two kids are hugging each other; Sachiro, a wailing mess, whilst Sachiko, being the older of the twins that she is, keeps saying 'sorry's' and patting his head, the exact same way their father does to them in times of their grave distress — when they throw a tantrum and get a nice long lecture from you, that is.  

Fond smile creeping onto your lips, you tear your gaze away from the two adorable angels of your life to your husband.  

Relieved to find him sans any teasing smile, you receive a gentle look from him, his hand reaching out to interweave his fingers through yours. You let him with a content hum, basking in the simple domestic joy seeping in through the sweetly scented air of the restaurant. A pair of plush lips press to your palm; biting back a giddy giggle, you throw the owner of said luscious lips a meaningful wink.  

Though... you doubt how much of your meaning could be conveyed to him... given how the two of you jerk back from each other a mere instant later, at the loud clearing of a throat from Sachiko and an angry 'Papa! Go away!' from Sachiro.  

Stomping back to her chair and settling into it with some effort and a huff, you watch an extremely pissed shadow form over the little girl's face, worsening as she twists and cranes her neck up to face her father. You really, really think your husband must not chuckle in this way in the face of such a thunderstorm— not when your daughter is shooting daggers with her gaze; and certainly not when your son is shooting that gloating smirk at him.  

Another time and you think you’ll look at that glare and at that smirk, then proceed to be on cloud-nine, realizing your children, despite being xerox copies of their father (both in looks and manners), did inherit certain features from you as well— something which a terribly competitive voice inside your head claims, is a great win— now, however, is decidedly no such time.  

Not when the person you’ve loved for these many years and know, will continue to do so for an eternity, looks one step away from being tormented to death– by none but the two milk-toothed lights of both of your lives.  

You watch Sachiko’s frown deepen, more than should be possible for someone her age, then begin. 

"Papa, I'm sorry but I have to break our deal. Sachiro is right. We two are the strongest duo of twins in the multiverse — we can't let you break our team this way. So, what if my brother makes a mistake? He's a young baby and babies are allowed to make mistakes, aren't they?"  

You wonder if she truly understands she was born a mere six minutes prior than her brother... and not six whole years, as appears to be the case right now. Holding back chuckles, you spare the person, addressed in the ‘not-really-apology' apology, an amused glance, then nod your head solemnly at her words.  

"They are, baby. They so are," you agree in the very next instant, then ask, a genuine inquiring inflection to your tone, "But what deal did Papa make you agree to, baby? Sounds pretty serious to me, to be honest." 

"Oh, it wasn't anything, sweet cheeks," your husband begins with an awfully nervous-sounding chortle; too bad, your daughter is quick to beat him to it. Throwing him a smirk, you can only describe to be devious, she looks back at you and grins. "Two weeks back, Papa found me in the living room, late at night, staring at shooting stars through the windows. And I found him walking away from the kitchen, eating a giant chocolate bar. Papa said you’ll be very mad because we didn’t listen to what you said, so, we should make a deal and become a team to keep this a secret from you." 

"Papa made that deal– only to divide us. So, our strong team can be destroyed and he can easily defeat us and keep you all for himself, Mama," your son chips in, puffy eyes narrowed into a very hard glare. Your daughter agrees vehemently from the opposite side.  

Your eyes drop to the glass of lemonade before you; you try your best to stifle the yawn.  

This fight over your affection has been going on since the time your children turned four or so... and despite them nearing an age of six in few months, no end can be seen in the horizon, to this war raging within your home...  

And as for the matter of Sachiko being awake way past her bedtime? You reckon you can't really do much on this, other than repeating the rules and the reasons behind each one of them– especially of punctuality and an adequate sleep– to her, like you did the last time... though, you think of toning your lecture down a little this time, considering it wasn't a video game but a meteor show she had stayed awake for... besides you too used to be — okay, no, wait, what??? 

Your husband's sheepish grin collides with the incensed glare you aim his way over the table. Letting out a frustrated huff of an exhale, your face turns away from his, choosing to stare at itself in the clean glass windows instead — too, too mad to acknowledge that white-haired, blue-eyed menace of yours, whining apologies with a pitiful gaze.  

You screw your eyes shut and let out a sigh. 

Being married to the yakuza king, Gojo Satoru, is a story, you deem, it couldn’t have been better, but being married to the sweet fiend, Gojo Satoru?  

Oh, sweet– no, strike that, you fucking hate that word—  

Oh, sour heavens above.  

That's a different story altogether. 

▸ if you've reached this point and still love me and/or my writing, istg I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH. writing something inspired by one's self-ship is so satisfying but so difficult, ngl. A BIG TYYY TO YOU WHO IS READING THIS LINE RN AFTER READING THIS MONSTROSITY OF A ONESHOT *sniffles*

▸ masterlist

[kazumist]

HAVING THEM AS YOUR CLASSMATE .ᐟ

✩ — includes: various x gn!reader. fluff with a hint of crack. no cws. wc: 1040. please do reblog !! it helps me a lot :DD

xiao — !

the one who would stay in his seat if you fell asleep in class. he doesn’t know why he’s staying—it’s already lunch break and he should be eating, not staying with you doing nothing but just looking at your sleeping face. with venti going up to him and wondering why he’s still in his seat, xiao just told him to eat lunch without him for now. 

he thought of waking you up; however, who knows what your reaction would be? would you be mad at him for disturbing your rest? or would you ignore him and continue dozing off? xiao didn’t get a chance to do anything because, as he was wondering, you had woken up. yawning, you look around and see the classroom empty except for the two of you still being there. but xiao soon left you alone after he pointed out that you had a bit of drool on the side of your lips. he left almost immediately, embarrassed, before you could even ask why he was still there with you.

childe — !

he’d simultaneously annoy the living hell out of you. poking your cheek, stealing your stuff, or even locking the classroom door on you if you’re about to walk in. anything that’ll piss you off, he’ll do it just to see your reaction. one time, he kept poking your cheek during class, and you accidentally yelled at him while the teacher was discussing. the ending was bad, but gladly, the teacher heard you out, and the two of you got kicked out of the class until the period was over. during the whole time you glared at childe, while he just cheekily smiled at you as if what he did was just something small and it wouldn’t be that bad at all. 

but you were mad at him—it’s been going on for what? weeks? months even? you were getting enough of it already. you had no idea why childe had been doing this but it pissed you off, really. (it’s his way of getting your attention because he can’t bring himself to actually hold a proper conversation with you.)

kaeya — !

he’s a bit similar to childe. but instead of annoying you, he flirts. he never shuts up, either. at every single conversation you have with him will always have a stupid pick up line from him, and you’ll just smile at him with an imaginary irk already forming on your forehead. he’s lucky that he’s pretty—but it’d be better if kaeya were to never speak a word in general. 

to those small walks together in the hallways, or to those small notes he silently passes onto you during class, his flirting gets worse and it eventually turns into a never-ending cycle of him just asking you out and you denying him every time. it tires you to decline him, thinking about why he doesn’t even bother to give up. but maybe it isn’t bad to accept his invitation to a cafe date once, right?

albedo — !

albedo is the one who’s really good at art. you always find albedo’s art to be beautiful. i mean, who wouldn’t? he really has a talent when it comes to art, especially when it’s sketching and painting. there was one time where you noticed that albedo’s sketchpad was in kaeya’s hands and he was skimming through it (with albedo’s permission, of course). 

you never know what that sketchpad contains. it’s not like albedo prevents you from touching it; you just never really asked if you could view the content of it. he called you to show some of albedo’s sketches, and you really thought you were going to see drawings of landscapes and such. you didn’t expect to see yourself in his sketchbook. you felt your mind go blank for a moment—albedo has been sketching you? it’s not even one sketch, there’s a few of them, actually. when albedo realized that kaeya was showing you his sketchpad, he never grabbed it out of his friend’s hands so fast. he also took a hold of your wrist and dragged you to somewhere more private to talk.

cyno — !

the famous class president. he’s got everything, really. the looks, the smarts, you name it. but one thing you didn’t expect from cyno is that he tells jokes. corny jokes, to be exact. after being assigned to be seatmates with him for one quarter of the school year, you honestly felt nervous about it. you haven’t properly talked to cyno unless it’s about school related things and all. so you didn’t really know how to act around him in general. 

but surprisingly, you just randomly heard a joke come out of his mouth once when you two decided to stay at school a bit longer to study. although the joke was, well, corny. what you didn’t expect, though, was for cyno to explain the joke in full detail as to why it was hilarious for him. who knew that the president of your class had such a side to him? even if you don’t find his jokes funny, you still find him cute when he tries to explain and reason out why they're funny to him.

tighnari — !

tighnari would notice your struggles when it comes to academics. it’s kind of weird for you, though, since you never really made it obvious. he doesn’t make fun of you, though. of course, he decided to help you with it. you two would meet up at the library, and he would do some small tutorials for you just in case you had difficulties with the lesson and all that. if the library seems packed (this usually happens during exam season), you two would either stay at each other’s residence or go to a cafe for a peaceful ambience.

you are honestly grateful for his help, but you can’t help but think, is he doing this for pity? but if it were to be caused by his pity for you, what’s the reason behind those cliché moments of you accidentally brushing your hands on the same book? or those times when he lets you stay at his place if you accidentally end up studying so late? there has to be another reason for it except for pity, right?

[vxnillavampir]

3 am - Leon S. Kennedy.

i don’t really know what this is? i was listening to mitski one night and i bet you all know how the rest of that goes.

warnings: angst, mentions of trauma, kind of fluff? i guess? it’s not smut that’s for sure. not proofread and with all of my stuff i just want to say my account is 18+ only mdni!!

word count: 1217 words

pairing: leon x gn!reader

(a/n) sooooo this is kinda my first writing post on this new account and I just want to say hi, if you’re new here…hi hello. I used to write for tlou on my old blog (rxllingstones)! i honestly didn’t know how to end this so it feels a bit rushed but anyways, enjoy!

You open your eyes to the dark bedroom you shared with your boyfriend, trying to mentally prepare for what the rest of the night is going to entail. Shifting your spot on the bed to face him, you find Leon lying there—already awake. His drained expression conveyed that he had been having nightmares. His body language told you that he had been lying awake for a while, and you knew that you had to do something to make him feel better. You reached out to him, your hand gently gracing his arm."Leon?" Your voice was barely above a whisper but it was enough to draw his attention towards you. His expression had already softened slightly.

"Yeah?" His voice was shaky like he was trying to hold back tears. Instinctively, you bring your hand up to his cheek to comfort him, your thumb rubbing small circles along the soft skin. "Had a nightmare?" You ask even though you already know the answer. He nodded sheepishly before sitting up on the bed. His head fell in his hands as he tried to hold back tears desperately. He was so tired of crying about the same. Exact. Thing. Over and over again. He felt as if he was only allowed to talk about the matter a certain amount of times, and once he reached that quota he had to just keep it to himself the best he could. You stay quiet, letting him take his time to process whatever he wants to say next.

After a few moments, he speaks. "I just keep thinking about that night," he says, his voice breaking as he struggles to keep the tears from coming.

"I'm sorry." You were able to hear through his mumbles. Those words broke your heart. "Baby, you never have to apologize for being upset..." You try to soothe even though you know the two of you are going to go into your usual pattern when he wakes up in the middle of the night. He wakes up from a nightmare, he feels guilty about it, you comfort him and the whole thing starts up again a few days later. Looking at the clock on the nightstand it read:

3:23 am

You sit up on the bed as well so you can rub small circles along his back, the gesture easing him into your embrace. Leon leaned his head against your shoulder as you rubbed his back before completely face-planting into your lap, adjusting himself so he could get comfortable in this new position. You felt a sense of comfort as you watched Leon settle into your lap, content to be in your embrace. You enjoyed the feeling of being needed and appreciated, and you were glad to be able to give him the comfort and security he needed.

He always looks so small like this, no matter his size or stature, he looks almost petite. You bring your hand up to caress his cheek and wipe away any leftover stray tears. "I'm here baby, let it out..."

You just held him. His golden locks were entangled in your fingers as his head rested in your lap. You watched as his muscular form shook, Leon's sobs being muffled by the fabric of your checkered pajama pants. You felt yourself tearing up, your heart aching for him. The sight of him breaking down like this was enough for you to feel just a little bit of his pain. The ice-cold emptiness eating away at your heart, the feeling nearly suffocating.

You wanted to comfort him, to make him feel better, to make him know that he wasn't alone. You wanted to tell him that everything was going to be alright, but you couldn't. So you held him, in silence, feeling the warmth of his tears and body against your own. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you in as if you are the only thing keeping him afloat. He would just sink and disappear if his arms weren't around you like a life preserver.

Leon shifts slightly so he can face you, his icy blue eyes showing signs of exhaustion. "It's just... I can't escape it, you know? The screams, the chaos, the feeling of helplessness." His voice trembled with the rawness of his emotions. "I'm just so scared that I'm going to lose everything."

"If you're not scared, you're not human." Your words hang in the air for a moment and they couldn't be more true. After Leon encountered those soulless monsters again and again in different forms, it was nice to be reminded that although these feelings are awful, they're a reminder that he's still alive. He's still somewhat himself. Leon clutched onto your words like a lifeline, desperate for the reassurance that you were truly here for him. Your soothing touch and comforting words echoed in his mind, pushing back the darkness that threatened to consume him. "I'm not going anywhere."

In that moment, he allowed himself to believe in the words you spoke. He found solace in the bond you shared, in the unconditional love you offered.

Letting out a shaky sigh, his arms leave your side and his hand finds its way to yours, intertwining his fingers with yours in a silent gesture of trust. "You always know the right things to say to get me to relax," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I promise you that I'll do everything I can to make sure you're safe and that what happened in Raccoon City never happens again." His grip on your hand tightened slightly as if clinging to you as an anchor in the storm.

Your eyebrows stitch together in a concerned expression, your free hand still messing with Leon's blond strands of hair to try and soothe him. You can hear determination and fear in his voice as he speaks. "I know, angel, I know..." was the only thing you could say in response. Life is unpredictable and you can't change fate, but the way Leon was speaking with his voice full of vindictiveness, you can almost believe him too. "Now, how can I get you to relax, hmm?"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Leon's lips as he gazed up at you, his eyes still moist from his earlier tears. He appreciated your understanding; it meant the world to him to have someone who truly comprehended the fear and pain he had experienced.

He sighed softly, his body finally beginning to relax against your comforting touch. "Well, cuddling always seems to do the trick," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of playfulness, attempting to lighten the heavy mood. Leon shifted position, allowing you to maneuver more comfortably beside him and you couldn't help but crack a slight smile at his change in demeanor, feeling an odd sense of pride wash over you. It was nice to know that Leon was going to be able to have a good night's sleep now thanks to you. These restless nights usually end up bringing the two of you together, making him strong enough to face another day of the everyday horrors he has to deal with. He feels that he could face any monster that comes his way with you by his side.

dividers by the lovely @cafekitsune <33

© vxnillavampir 2023 - don’t copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my works.

[crushedsweets]

so I can't find it, but when the proxies were helping clocks, you mentioned that Tim doesn't like it when she screams or cries. Something about it bothering him. I wish I could recall.

OK SO i also cant find the post (cuz of tumblrs tagging system) buuut i'm gonna use this to ramble about clocky meeting the proxies again, since i sorta adjusted it...

in my au, O/S syndrome refers to slender sickness. it usually starts with the operator taking COMPLETE control over someone's body and mind, and then slenderman 'stealing' them and making them do his bidding (clean up operator problems) which results in them having a 'proxy mode' vs their 'normal' mode

so clockys backstory goes as usual, then towards the end she starts slowly getting O/S syndrome. i sort of want her introduction to toby/the proxies to be ALMOST a reflection of how toby and clocky canonically met. (her getting hurt cuz of him, him helping her as an apology)

so around the time natalie replaced her eye with a clock, O/S syndrome fully set in. while sick, she couldn't form memories, she had inhuman strength, an insatiable bloodlust - just became a general menace, and because bodies started dropping all around tuscaloosa with operator symbols slashed into walls, the proxies had to intervene.

it started with toby stalking her while she's stalking her next victim. her and toby get into a huge tussle and she locks onto him as her next victim. he chooses to play cat and mouse and run off to the forest, having her follow. i'm imagining an almost comical scene where she's slashing around branches and stuff with a machete and he's like 'ahhh cant catch meeeee' and she's screaming obscenities. . .

then by time he ends up at the cabin, tim or brian probably knock her out since she's, yknow, a huge threat. a bat to the back of her head.

and she would wake up in their spare 'storage' room thats filled to the brim with boxes, old bikes, massive stacks of newspapers, cds, etc. she'd probably have her wrists zip tied to an exposed pipe and she'd be losing her fucking mind. screaming at the top of her lungs, thrashing around, whatever. "LET ME GO YOU FUCKING FREAKS LET ME GO ILL KILL YOU ILL FUCKING KILL YOU"

the way to slowly heal O/S syndrome is being around slenderman(aka in his forest) for a long time, until the Operator loses grasp. the way to quickly deal with O/S syndrome is to um.. no nice way to put this. slendermans jaw unhinges and he oozes this gross fucking black tar-like goo, and drinking it (or putting it into pill capsules and taking those) makes the operator let go. it doesnt really have a taste, thank god, but it is thicker than water.

so it would be a whole ordeal of toby coming in like heeeeyyyy... lol... and he would think shes REALLY BADASS because he's never met a woman like her (so strong, loud mouthed, violent, etc). plus he's kinda lonely in general so LMFAOOOO . so he wants to befriend her, and is kinda ignoring the fat that she's mad as hell.

but she's in so much agony. from the O/S syndrome to getting hit with a bat, she's screaming and crying and never shutting up. throwing up, trying to literally bite and kick the proxies if they even bring in water. so toby would be 'designated' to her because "well youre the dumb fuck who brought her here, you deal with it"

he'd probably have to trick her into taking one of the pills or putting the sludge into an opaque water bottle or something. after the first bit is ingested, she quickly gains more clarity. he'd try getting a cot or air mattress set up for her. bring a book and drawing supplies. he wants her to trust him. within a day or two, she'd already start feeling immensely better and the operator is letting go - and toby would stupidly trust her, and completely undo the zipties, and she'd run the fuck off, and he'd be like FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK. and not even a week later, she'd come back. because she's horribly sick again. and she'd beg for the stupid pills.

and she'd start to trust toby, and eventually kate. . and a little bit brian. but she would still not fuck with tim cuz it is true, he would hate all the screaming, and would occasionally bang on the door and shout at her to quiet down.

but yeah . . thats how she gets situated with the proxies and her O/S syndrome is healed. :3

[tropesaregoodsoup]

Fresh Pet: Chapter 2

part 1

They woke up groggy, but… refreshed. Like waking up after a broken fever. The bed was comfy and warm, but as they went to stretch, they found they couldn’t move their arms. They opened their eyes at this, and felt their breath hitch as they saw the same leather cuffs around their wrists. The memories flooded back as they tried to sit up, but the chain was pulled taught, and they found themself having to scoot down on the bed just to give themself enough slack to really sit up and look around. This time the chain was longer and connected to the end of the bed. The muzzle was gone though, a small victory. They wiped their eyes, still crusty from the tears, and, for the first time since the club, they assessed their situation. The chain was made of a heavy metal and there was a lock where it connected to the cuffs and another where the chain ended at the foot of the bed. If they were going to leave, they would have to find a way for Whumper to undo their bindings, they had never been too interested in lock picking, and certainly didn’t have the strength to break metal. 

They remembered back to the room they had first woken up in. The way Whumper had looked at them with concern. The certainty they'd had when talking about Whumpee as their pet. This couldn’t be their life. What did a pet even do?

They didn’t have to wait long for answers as the door across the room unlocked with a click and opened. It was Whumper. Alone this time.

“Hi!” They hurried over with two plates of food. “I brought breakfast. I hope you like the bed. I thought it might be a bit jarring to have you sleep in your kennel your first night. Baby steps and all that.”

There was only one thing on their mind. Now that they could talk. “I want to go home.”

“Why?” Whumper didn’t miss a beat, setting down the plates and pulling up a chair beside the bed. It caught Whumpee off guard.

“... What?”

“Why do you want to go home?” It certainly sounded like a genuine question.

“I had a life there-”

“A very stressful life.” Whumper seemed prepared for this conversation. “You were constantly worried about rent and food and whether you had enough money just to go out to eat.”

“But I had friends. I went out with them. Yes, things were tight sometimes, but it was mine. It was my life. I want it back.”

Whumper sighed. “Yes, your so called ‘friends’…” They put quotations around the last word. “The friends that only went out to clubs, basically ignoring you once they got there. But I saw you. You don’t like loud places. You don’t like flashing lights, and you don’t even drink. Can you really think of anything you had in common with them?”

“I-” That couldn’t be right, but they found themself at a loss for words. They did like hanging with their friends. Whumpee had fun with them, they did always find a reason to drink though, even when staying in for a movie night. “We did other stuff. We hung out, we had fun-”

“Are you really going to tell me you didn’t feel left out? They never did anything you wanted to do. You like puzzles and painting and drawing. You didn’t get to do any of those things in your old life. A pet like you needs enrichment. You’ll get that here.”

Enrichment? This person was insane, but it got Whumpee thinking about everything that had happened. How they had been drugged and kidnapped. How obnoxiously right Whumper was about their life, about their ‘friends’. Their breathing had sped up again, but not in anxiety or fear this time. They were angry, and the more they thought, the angrier they felt. At their friends for never really listening. At the ‘agent’ that drugged that at the club. At that stupid tall woman that just stood in the corner of the room and encouraged this crazy person. And most of all at the crazy person who pretended to care. Pretended that all of this was for their own good.

“Fuck you!” They were seething. “You. You had me kidnapped and drugged and-” They gasped. Something cold had hit them. Water, they realized. Whumper was holding a spray bottle.

“You do not talk to me like that.” Whumper’s voice dropped dangerously. Their concerned demeanor and the debate had distracted Whumpee from just how constraining their position was. But that voice brought everything crashing back as they found themself trying to back away, halted again by the unstretching chain.

“Say it.”

Whumpee was still reeling from the spray bottle. “W-What?”

“You will not talk to me like that. Repeat it.”

“I-” They paused, they really did not want to say that. But apparently Whumper wasn’t in the mood to let them debate about it, and sprayed them again. Whumpee decided there must be ice in the bottle for it to be that cold. Whumper didn’t say anything else though, just looked at them expectantly.

“I don’t want to be a- a pet.” They tried to prepare, to cover their face this time, but the chain stopped them again and they got another hit of ice on their face. It was too much.

“Fuck! Fine! Just stop.” 

Another spray. 

“What the hell!”

Another.

“STOP! I- I’m sorry!” Their voice broke. “I’m sorry.” Their breathing was ragged again, but this time from crying. “Why? Why did you keep doing that? I said I would say it.” Their voice was small and it sounded pitiful.

“Good pets don’t use those words.”

They hated this. They hated the cold. They hated the different texture on their face when the rest of their body was dry. They waited though, every nerve on edge for the next spray. After a minute of nothing, they reluctantly looked up. Whumper was still just watching, their face hadn't softened.

“We can move on when you’ve repeated both phrases.” Their voice was cold and harsh. It scared Whumpee. More than anything else that had happened since this whole ordeal started, and they couldn’t find it in themself to go against Whumper. “I won’t- I won’t talk to you like that.”

Whumper just stared.

“And… Good pets don’t use those words.” Whumper’s change was instant. Their face and posture relaxing into one of concern. And, to Whumpee’s relief, they set the spray bottle down.

“Good. I want you to know that I don’t want to resort to such things, but I will if you insist on being disobedient. Here.” Whumper leaned forward and Whumpee found themself flinching away, but Whumper just pulled out a rag and started drying their face. “You don’t need to be scared of me. None of my punishments will cause you harm.” Their voice was gentle, and, combined with the soft, dry rag, it was almost comforting, it might have been too, if Whumpee hadn't heard the implication of that last sentence.

Whumper had other punishments.

They sat back when they were done drying Whumpee's face and pulled out a bag of what Whumpee could only assume were bite sized cookies. 

“You did obey though. You deserve a treat. Open up.” They pulled out one of the cookies. 

“I- Um… Thank you, but I don’t need that.” Their heart started pounding nervously even from the simple rejection. Fuck. If Whumper's punishments worked this fast, they needed to find a way out sooner rather than later.

Whumper just laughed lightly. “Be good now.” And they were, they didn’t want to risk any more punishments.

Humiliation and shame burned through Whumpee’s face as they ate the cookie. They felt a warmth spread through them though. Like the comfort of home. 

“See, treats are good.” It was condescending and they felt another surge of anger run through them, but the warm feeling washed it away as quickly as it came.

“They’re drugged.” They should have been angry at this realization, but they just couldn’t hold onto the feeling long enough.

“Just some nice, positive reinforcement. Now, we eat breakfast, you wash up, and then we’ll go for a walk.” 

Like a pet. Whumpee thought. Though, they did take something else from the statement. They didn’t know how long they’d been there, but they weren’t sure they wanted to know that just yet. Better to start with something small. “What time is it?”

Whumper just laughed and ruffled their hair. “Oh, pets don’t worry about that.”

The answer bothered them more than they would have thought. Like they could feel their autonomy being stripped away. Whatever was in the ‘treat’ must have been wearing off because Whumpee was acutely aware of the mounting panic as their breath sped up again. They had never been good at hiding their emotions, and their discomfort must have been very apparent as Whumper started making reassurances.

“Oh no, no, calm down, it’s okay. I forgot you’re used to knowing those things. Most of the pets don’t think about that. Um…” Whumper’s voice was quieter the next time they spoke, like they were searching for an answer. “It’s nine in the morning. Does that help? Oh, please calm down. Do you want another treat?”

Whumpee shook their head. The answer did help actually and they were calming down. Whumper seemed satisfied, but Whumpee had realized something else. They were completely reliant on Whumper. At least as long as they were like this. Whumper was their only connection to the outside world, and at times, likely the only source of comfort they would fine. The thought sent an awful shiver down their back, but they didn’t have much longer to think on it as Whumper interrupted their thoughts with a loud, cheerful voice.

“Good. Now breakfast.”

-

Thank so much for the nice words on the first chapter! I got a good laugh out of it, because, of all the stories I have on my google doc, this is the least fleshed out one.

[andkisses]

♡ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴ : txt ! he's sick ♡ masterlist ♡  

being sick is never, ever fun. but with you at his side, taking care of him? it definitely makes everything more lovely

ot5!txt x gn!reader (a little something for each member); the rest under the read more | 1.3k total

warnings: general being sick stuff, nothing severe; mention of taking medicine; pet names | genre: fluff, you taking care of him, him being Whipped

♡ sᴏᴏʙɪɴ : “i’m glad that you’re here”

he’s cold, but he knows it’s just his fever. he knows you know too—you always seem to know everything when he’s sick. you know what medicine to bring him, what food to make. he could have sworn the last time you came to check on him, you had a halo (he knows it was you standing in front of the light. you are still an angel, though). when he wakes up from a nap, he sees you reading in a chair beside his bed. you really are an angel. he isn’t sure he said that aloud, but he makes sure you do hear him when he says, “i’m glad that you’re here.” you look up from your book, delicate smile on your face, and soobin thinks he’s found a new way to fall in love with you again. you mark your page then step over to him, feeling his forehead before leaning down and planting a gentle kiss. you push at him, silently telling him to move over. soobin doesn’t want you to get sick, but he selfishly misses your touch, misses being able to hold you and kiss you on your temples and your cheeks, and so he scoots over without a fight. you slip in beside him, head resting on his chest, and soobin could have sworn he’s already getting better. “of course,” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his chest with your hand. “i wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

♡ ʏᴇᴏɴᴊᴜɴ : “you’re not doing this alone”

with his head pounding, and feeling like any kind of light is trying to kill him, yeonjun hears the distant chime of his doorbell. well, it’s not that distant. he’s in the living room and the door is just right there but to be honest everything feels so far away he’s so sick. he’s too tired to get up and reach it, and almost too tired to care when he hears a key slot into the lock and the door creak open. yeonjun drags himself up into a sitting position, peering through the dark. he’s not sure if he’s seeing it right—you, with a grocery bag of things in your hand, shaking off your shoes and walking toward him. “hi baby,” you call out, reaching him. you laugh, and it sounds like bells. “you seem confused,” you say, laughing. you ruffle his hair, and yeonjun finally feels okay again. “i am,” he croaks. “why are you here?” he watches you walk to the kitchen and unload your bag—medicine, his favorite food. “because,” you say, walking back over to sit beside him, wrapping him in a hug. he feels selfish, wanting you as close as possible even though he’s sick. he melts into your touch, sinks into your frame. you place a kiss on his temple, and he shivers just a little. he can feel you smile against his skin, and he feels at peace. “you’re not doing this alone.”

♡ ʙᴇᴏᴍɢʏᴜ : “can i get you anything?”

you run your hand over his forehead, threading your fingers through his hair, and it feels like he can finally breathe again. “can i get you anything?” you ask, sitting on the edge of his bed beside him, and beomgyu decides he doesn’t deserve you. not like this, with you giving up your day off so you could take care of him? shouldn’t he be the one spoiling you? letting you spend all day in bed while he does everything for you? make you your favorite food, set up your favorite drama to watch, draw the most perfect bath? he’d find a way to lasso the moon if it meant making you feel better. instead you’re doing everything for him, and he’s so sick and so in love he can’t stop you. when you do anything for him, even just brushing hair from his eyes, his heart grows and beats so hard in his chest he’s sure you can hear it. “gyu?” you prompt, and with sudden clarity, beomgyu knows exactly what he wants. “a kiss?” he says softly. “i know you might not want to, but—” when you place your lips on his, he relaxes, reaching up to hold onto your hoodie. “kiss you?” you echo, going back in to kiss his cheek. “i always want to kiss my boy.”

♡ ᴛᴀᴇʜʏᴜɴ : “let’s be pathetic together”

whenever cold season comes around, taehyun is always arm’s length away with vitamins in his hands and his beautiful smile. yes, he loves you very much. he’d try to find a way to bottle up every drop of ocean water if you asked him. he’s convinced his friends are sick of hearing him talk about you and how amazing you are and your accomplishments. he keeps his distance when you get sick because he can’t take care of you if you’re both down and out now can he? accept… it didn’t work this time. when he manages to peel his eyes open from an exhaustion-induced nap, he finds you in his lap, curled up under a blanket, small frown on your face. he’s slumped into the corner of the couch. the tv loops back to some hallmark rerun he’s convinced he’s seen—but it might just be all these movies are the same. when he looks back at you, he sees you’re awake, eyes tired, nose red from constant tissue use. “how did this happen?” he whispers, voice hoarse. you look up at him, and yes—he’s sure of it now. even as sick as he is, he’d still do anything for you. “the movie? it’s because one of them thinks small towns are not for them, but—” taehyun laughs, and you start laughing too, sitting up to slump right back into his shoulder. “no, this.” “being sick?” you ask, and he nods. “it’s your turn,” you say, wrapping your arms around him to prevent escape—as if he’d ever leave. “let’s be pathetic together.” taehyun moves to put his arms around you, pulling you closer. he feels you both relax. the tv movie keeps playing. he places a kiss to the crown of your head. “let’s.”

♡ ᴋᴀɪ : “you said you needed a distraction”

“surprise,” you call out, elongating the sounds, and kai isn’t sure when he woke up or when you got here. his nose is so stuffy he’s convinced he’ll never smell fresh air or your perfume again. you’ve left the lights off, which he’s grateful for, because wow is this headache something else. he squints, searching for you in the dim midafternoon light that’s sneaking around the curtains. there—just by his door with— “is that my switch?” he asks. you nod, rushing over and shooing him with your hands to scoot over. he complies, still tired, but this means he can steal some of your warmth now. you sit propped up, and kai rests his head on your side, arm thrown over the top of your legs like a seatbelt. he watches as you boot up his switch, paging over until you get to animal crossing. “really?” he whispers, too tired to speak much louder. “i haven’t played in years.” “i know,” you chime, freeing one hand to run your fingers through his hair. kai is sure now that your touch is now his favorite thing—he can keep experiencing it even when his nose remains forever stuffy because this cold is neverending. “i know,” you repeat, and kai watches in confusion as his old island does not show up, but timmy and tommy at the counter talking about island packages. “i took the liberty of restarting your game. now we can do it together.” you smile down at him, and kai relaxes further into your side. “you said you needed a distraction, so here we are,” you say. “what do you think?” kai sighs, looking up at you like you hang the stars in the sky. “it’s perfect.” you laugh, ruffling his hair again. “i think you mean i’m perfect.”

[escapetothelake]

Was Laura and Bob already submitted? If no, can you please do? 🤲

sorry this took a hot minute!!

angst under the cut

who made the first move: robert approached laura first when he saw her sketching on the bench. he found her mysterious nature intriguing, and invited her to a bookshop cafe where they could talk more, surrounded by soft music and nice art.

who kissed who first: i think their first kiss was mutual. robert was sitting next to her on a park bench, his arm nervously placed around her. she looked up from her book, they locked eyes, and they both leaned in.

who started the relationship: after they went out a few times, they just kinda.. became exclusive?? robert because he genuinely felt a connection with laura, and laura for the same reason, but also because robert's presence brought her peace of mind and didn't add hassle to her life. it's nice to not be alone with your own thoughts.

who remembers things: laura has a great memory. robert is well-meaning, but can be a little forgetful when it comes to smaller things. laura gives him a notepad and a pencil and tells him to write down things he needs to remember, and sooner or later, his workspace, the fridge, and the doors in the house are littered with them.

nicknames for each other: laura goes for "bob", "rob", "robbie", or "bert". sometimes she says his name with a french accent—it's an inside joke they have. robert calls her "honey", "babe", or "my girl".

who is more likely to pay for dinner: robert has pretty steady employment, so he usually pays.

who normally cooks: laura's a better cook than robert. he likes it when she teaches him, because she always says that he has the capabilities to become better if he puts his mind to it.

who remembers anniversaries: they both do.

what would they get each other for gifts: robert likes to get laura flowers, books, or art supplies. he also gets her music pieces, records, or tapes. laura's the kind of person who gives drawings or works of art for gifts. she has a bunch of old books as well, and she learned to make art pieces with them.

most trivial thing they fight over: not that this is trivial, but laura tends to isolate herself, or "wander off" for a while and not leave any notice or tell robert where she's going. robert gets concerned, and laura feels that he's being overbearing.

how often do they fight: they're both pretty chill, so they don't fight that often.

who uses all the hot water: laura loves a good bath. her and robert sometimes bathe together, too.

who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working: laura has to, or bob will try to fix it himself.

who leaves their stuff around: laura kinda shoves her stuff into drawers, but keeps a pretty neat and minimalistic house. when robert's stressed, he'll leave his stuff laying around.

who remembers to buy the milk: when robert's going out for work, laura will usually say, "bob, we need milk." she just hopes he'll remember to actually pick it up.

who controls the netflix queue: they're the kind of couple to watch the same shows—usually one or two episodes a night. robert mostly adapted to laura's tastes, though. i could see them watching thrillers, mystery, drama, documentaries, and the like.

who steals the covers at night: laura. robert sleeps pretty still. sometimes she'll wake him up by accidentally kicking him in her sleep.

who cusses more: if laura's really irked, she swears like a sailor. she's pretty chill most of the time, but she has mild road rage tendencies. there have been a couple of times that robert had to stop her from getting into a fight.

who does most of the cleaning: they try to split domestic tasks, but since bob works more, laura usually takes over.

what’s their favorite non-sexual activity: doing artistic activities together. sometimes they'll draw each other, or read with their legs all tangled up together.

who’s the cuddler: robert. sometimes, he holds laura like she's gonna go somewhere. laura doesn't really mind his clingy tendencies, so she kinda just lets him hold her.

who’s the big spoon/little spoon: usually it's robert big, laura little.

who’s more dominant: mostly laura. robert will do anything she asks, in and out of the bedroom.

who is the dirty talker: bob mostly uses affirmation/praise phrases. laura is more of the "dirty talker".

what do they do when they’re away from each other: laura's pretty independent, so she doesn't mind being away from bob all that much. in fact, she actually enjoys having alone time every once in a while, especially because it helps her creatively. on the other hand, being away from laura makes bob a little uneasy. he likes to call her every so often, just to check in.

what would they do if the other one was hurt: bob kinda likes being taken care of and "babied" by laura because it makes him feel safe and wanted. in that sense, when she's caring for him while he's sick and/or injured, he enjoys the attention. if laura were sick or hurt, bob would be a little more distressed, but he likes to have the chance to cook for her and care for her in return. he sees it as an opportunity to show his affection.

a headcanon: occasionally, laura will leave little drawings around for bob. it's almost like a game at this point—he likes to see if he can find them all. sometimes she'll doodle on a sticky note and slide it in his notes, his books, in his coat, his shoe, his lunch, or some object in the house. she really enjoys the excitement he expresses when he find them. in return, he began to write loving little notes on the back of the drawings and re-hide them among her things. at first, it was pretty surprising to laura, but she keeps them all.

after her death, dale finds a box in her house full of little notes with drawings on one side, and affectionate phrases on the back. he puts two and two together and realizes that they were co-made with robert, and his realization is confirmed after a handwriting analysis. after robert is cleared of suspicion of murder, dale gives him back a number of laura's possessions, the box with the notes included. dale excuses himself from the room, but not before he hears the box open and robert begin to sob.

[ritzy-reminiscence]

─♣️─ Lackadaisy : Lacka-Lacy !

⸝⸝ tl;dr : lacy hardt has been on my mind recently, and after trying and failing to draw her properly i decided to make some general headcanons for her instead !

Despite being Wick's coffee fairy, Lacy doesn't like coffee at all. Or, well, she used to, but after drinking too much coffee after running on no sleep for ages and then suffering a day's worth of being locked in the bathroom,, let's just say she doesn't really want to drink coffee on a regular anymore. And if ever she does drink coffee, she prefers it with lots of milk and as sweet as she could take. And she'd want some cookies nearby as well, to munch on between sips.

She likes tea, actually ! Lemon tea, specifically, with honey in it. Or if that's not available, just plain water with lemon slices in it. She's not against sipping on lemonade during her breaks, either.

Speaking of,,, Lacy feel like a citrus girlie to me. I feel like she'd like anything with citrus in it. Especially lemons. Oh yeah, she loves lemons. Lemon cake, lemon cookies, lemon pie, the whole shtick. I daresay she likes to snack on lemons too, without juicing it or anything. She hates grapefruit though. She'd rather be held hostage than eat a single grapefruit. She says it's because of how messy it gets, but really I think she just hates the taste :skull:

And adding on to the point above ! I feel like she likes the color yellow (surprise, surprise). And turquoise. To her it's a really pretty color combination, and it reminds her of summertime,,, with freshly cut oranges in a cold metal bowl,,, and lemonade,,, and lounging on a chair in the backyard with the yard just mown.. (now i want lemon and oranges too)

I think her and Mordecai would get along if they knew each other. Not because of the whole "we both have bosses that drink alcohol and directly support the bootlegging business" thing, but more of the "we both like to keep things tidy and organized" thing. They wouldn't even talk to each other. They'd have eye contact for like, 0.5 seconds and they just understand.

Ironically though, Lacy's workspace always looks like a bomb had been dropped on it. There's books and sheets everywhere, half-sharpened pencils and pens devoid of ink spilling from the upturned plastic cup she uses to hold her writing materials. It's a miracle that Lacy manages to find her way around her desk without losing any important documents.

Oh, Lacy tries, believe me. Every morning and every afternoon before she goes home, she organizes her stuff by color, size, function, the whole nine yards. She's even got labels for everything! But sometime in high noon where everything starts getting so busy she couldn't tell left from right and up from down,,, well, let's just say that her current schedule doesn't really leave any free time for being neat.

She lives in a shared apartment ! As much as she wants to know her roommate, the circumstances of her work and the situations she gets herself into doesn't leave much room for socializing.

No sleep for Lacy. None .

Well, there's a bit of sleep for her, but it usually occurs in the late late late hours of the evening, where she has to open the door to her shared apartment as quietly as she can and then tiptoe across the room so that she wouldn't wake her roommate up. And even then it takes a while for her to sleep -

She keeps small potted plants by her windowsill ! Sure, she doesn't have the time to actually care for them, but she still strives to water them every now and then and give them air and keep them in a place where the sun shines.

Compared to her workspace, Lacy's house is,, actually pretty tidy? Well, her side of the apartment, anyways. When she has free time, Lacy would sweep the floors and reach under the sofa and bed to get rid of any dust bunnies. And although her roommate cleans up after themselves pretty well, Lacy couldn't resist washing their dishes or make their beds. It's gotten to the point that in the rare moments where she and her roommate do talk to one another, they quipped about Lacy being a cleaning fairy.

Lacy left their dishes rotting in the sink for about a week after that little joke, even though it's her turn to wash the dishes. :skull:

(And this isn't even a headcanon but like,, the name 'Lacy' just suits her so well ?? Like I look at her character design and then I look at her name and I'm like "Yup. That looks like a Lacy, alright.")

Oh, and one last thing -- being Wick's babysitter personal secretary had pretty much trained her to clean up after messes and follow up on meals and just,, pretty much be a maid ..

Whether she's conscious about it or not, she'd be cooking healthy meals for her roommate or leaving notes that remind them to take care of themselves. Of course, the roommate would love to tease Lacy for this, but considering what happened the last time they did that ,, keeping quiet seems like the better option -

[nepsah]

day 12 ! this is... a cropped vers of the full pic bc i think narrowing it down to this is better than including um... more of the trees??? the sky?? idk. its all the same shade of purple anyway /shrug

im soooooo not used to drawing stuff like this but how else do u get skills:tm:

When you are more aware of yourself again, you realize that Tsoji (it must be Tsoji) has stuck something to your chest. A bracelet has been secured around your wrist as well, with a small metal disk that rests over the visible veins. Tsoji is driving. The sun is setting. Atsia notices that you are ‘awake’ and pats one of your knees gently.

“Those are to monitor your heart rate,” he says with a nod to your wrist. You were staring at it too obviously. “You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to, but it… it’ll make it easier for us to tell if something’s wrong.”

You don’t understand. What could be wrong…?

Atsia’s expression takes on that pitying smile that you can’t decide if you hate (since when did you have opinions like that?). He pats your knee again- oh–... you asked that out loud, didn’t you?

“We’ve noticed that it’s a little hard to tell when you’re upset. The monitor is just to help us see that sooner so that we can avoid any more dissociation episodes if possible,” Atsia says. 

“I don’t- what is diss-disso-” you struggle to pronounce the word. Your tongue feels heavy and unwieldy. Did you lose time again?

“It’s… it’s like when your mind kind of… leaves your body for a little while. Everyone does it a little bit, but doing it too much is usually a sign that something’s wrong,” Atsia explains. He seems more worried about upsetting you with each word.

Was it dissociating when you settled back-seat in Tsoji’s mind, in the hospital?

Are all the times that you’ve lost time dissociating? Where did you go?

Tsoji looks back over his shoulder at the two of you. That alone is enough to make Atsia give your knee another squeeze.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s normal for someone who’s had a really traumatic incident to do it,” his voice is soft and soothing. The purple-orange haze of his aura stretches out over you, coating you in a comforting blanket. He… he really, truly wants you to feel better. Again, as always, it’s baffling to you. Shouldn’t you be used to that by now? You know them both to be kinder than you thought was ever possible.

You still don’t really understand… but as you sit in the confusion, rethinking every time you seem to have disappeared from existence only to ‘wake up’ in a different situation than you last remember, a growing sensation of fear pools in your belly. How much time have you lost? And what were you doing when you lost it?

Slowly, your hand slides over Atsia’s that is still connected to your knee. Your fingers hook around his palm, allowing him to squeeze the tops of your knuckles with this thumb. You are trembling, the heart monitor is beeping with increasing frequency. (They are both concerned.) You lock eyes with Atsia - the same black eyes as Tsoji’s yet somehow less all-devouring.

“Did I hurt you?” you ask. Even to you it’s plain from the wavering tone that you are terrified of the answer.

The vehicle slows to a stop. The three of you rock gently forward when it finally stops moving. Tsoji spins his driving seat around slowly. All around you, the sounds of the forest creep in. Wind whistling through trees, birds you cannot see singing to each other, and the far off cry of something you don’t know the name of. It feels like an eternity of silence coated in background sound goes by before they finally, finally answer.

“You’ve never hurt anyone,” Atsia says. His voice is soft, barely a whisper over the sounds of nature and your own overactive heart.

Tsoji moves closer to the two of you. Reaches out to take hold of your other hand. Gives it a little squeeze.

“But I remember-” your mouth protests. 

Tsoji shakes his head, and the words die in your mouth before they finish leaving. “You scared people. You didn’t hurt them.”

“But you wanted-” your mouth starts and this time it is you who clamps your mouth shut with an audible click. Pain shoots through your tongue as it is sliced by your teeth- too slow to get out of the way. It’s only a small nick, but the taste of blood fills your mouth anyway.

The twins share looks. Tsoji’s conflicting emotions swell and then burst into guilt. He drops his gaze, but does not drop your hand. “I’m sorry, Kiki. I was… it was, and is dangerous to be out here. I didn’t want to move you before you were ready. I wasn’t sure that what happened wouldn’t happen again and be worse.”

[nyaagolor]

Henlo, back at it again! While thinking about some stuff, here's what i imagined for this AU for the Area Zero Squad:

- Nemona: Were-Lycanroc, a rather big monster with Nemona's battle love cranked up to 11. Once aggressive to everyone and everything with an impressive will to fight, gets "tamed" after the protag defeats her and gets recognized. Now less bloodthirsty and a big puppy (at least to her friends), although still wants to challenge everyone... Nemona doesn't know she exists.

Arven: Were-Skwovet, calmer than Nemona's Alter Ego, and usually won't attack... unless you have bad intentions or you look at Mabosstif funny. He's *really* protective of him. Can be found around Paldea stealing Berries and other food, although no-one knows what for...Arven knows of his existence, due to somehow remembering his transformations.

Penny: Were-Glaceon, an incredibly reclusive and shy monster, she only attacks if her personal spaces are invaded. Becomes a bit more outgoing after Penny's storyline, although only with her friends. Her Vees see her as a sort-of kin, for obvious reasons (and they aren't in danger). Penny knows of her existence, not because she remembers her transformations, but for other clues around her room (I mean, if i woke up with ruined clothes, a slight coat of ice on the walls and pawprints around the floor, I would have a few doubts)

The protagonist can be what you want, there's no specific mon for him/her!

Oh, and they're a pack, because it fits.

(Note: i still think that Arven's Mon is not the right one... any ideas?)

Drew the designs for Nemona and Penny!! Decided Nemona would be a dusk form Lycanroc bc Orange. Love all the stuff u wrote, I especially dig how some are aware they’re werewolves (awarewolves?) and others just have no idea. Makes for some really fun stories :3c. Didn’t draw Arven bc I can’t decide what he would be either. I’ll keep brainstorming!!!

Anyway some assorted headcanons:

- How animalistic u look is determined by how much tera energy ur normally in contact with. For people like Nemona who are constantly using a tera orb, their transformation is more dramatic. For someone like Penny, who rarely uses a tera orb and isn’t a paldean native (less access to environmental tera energy) the transformation is relatively mild. The professor? When they transform, it’s impossible to tell they were human at all

- Nemona hears about the terrifyingly strong beast in the forest and keeps going out to fight it, only to wake up on the ground all scratched up in the forest at sunrise. She starts to think the beast knows Hypnosis for its uncanny ability to put her to sleep. Somehow, despite the obvious connections, she never realizes she’s the beast in question

- Being a werewolf doesn’t change your personality or what you want, just your inhibitions and manners. Nemona always wanted to battle her heart out, but never could bc of various social conventions, so during her transformation all that pent up energy is released and she just goes bonkers. Penny transforms and no one knows bc she still never leaves her room

- Penny sets up a camera after the first transformation because she’s shocked a Glaceon so large could wreck her room without waking her up. When it happens a second time after the next full moon, she now has video evidence— only to realize it’s HER. She initially panics, then realizes all she does is eat leftover pizza right out of the box and hide under the bed the whole time which is what she would do anyway if sleep deprived enough. She elects to just lock all her doors and windows and never tell anyone, since she’s unaware that werewolves are a Thing in paldea

- Whatever Arven is, Mabosstiff keeps him in check. Also now that I think about it, maybe Arven is an artificial werewolf? His parent tried to get him to be a werewolf on purpose so he could better adapt to “paradise”, so maybe he’s a Cyclizar? With the professors being the ‘raidons? in that case maybe Arven has different transformation rules and stuff. I’ll think abt it more

- No one except the protagonist and possibly a few trainers (Geeta, some of the professors?) know the beast attacking people in the forest is a werewolf. Nemona is fast and her transformation is pretty beastly looking anyway, so in the thick of battle everyone thinks she’s just a really big pokemon. It’s only people who manage to defeat her / tire her out that can slow her down enough to see that she has a humanoid shape and might be more than just a Very Large Dog

- I’m lame and love emotion based transformations, so I think the adults can control their shifting to various extents but the kids can’t. The more emotionally well adjusted you are, the easier time you have controlling yourself, to the point where some adults even have control over their shifting during full moon nights

[vmlnrznotfound]

H.S

The time had to be passed midnight or something and the temperature kept getting awfully cold, or maybe it was just Shuji who wore less clothing. Mist is exhaled as he pants. He has climbed up to your bedroom window, cursing under his breath as he sees it locked. He raises an arm to knock at it. He stops, however. Looking at you through a gap in the curtain you didn't draw properly.

The cold would kill him and it would be trouble if he gets caught. But you look so gentle. Few seconds he begs himself to grant just to stare at you. It was his highschooler boy heart that ached to see you like this— to wake up next to you in future when you live together. Few seconds. He reminded himself. It would be creepy too— to stare for too long so he knocks.

It takes him a few knocks on the window to wake you up. He is melting when he sees you rub the sleepiness off your eyes. Cute stuff. He thinks. The gentleness on your features doesn't last long as you hurry to open the window. “Go up,” You shiver at the cool breeze “I'll be there in a minute.”

It happened often and it repeated again. Not that he's complaining except for the fact that it's cold out on your rooftop. Sneaking into your room was a better option if it weren't for your younger siblings who you shared your room with. He wishes there was a fire in front of him where he seated to warm him up.

Cursing, he looks up at the moon. He scoffs. It reminds him of you. He recalls minutes ago when you were sleeping. He’d kill to wake up next to you, just a little older and you're already married to him— he fantasizes. He'll surely miss the moments that repeated on these nights— sneaking up at the rooftop. Then he recalls, you told him you'd be up in a minute. Liar. He groans, the cold getting him.

Small noise of your footsteps makes him smile when you reach towards him, bending down to where he’s seated. He takes note of your actions. First, you place down a thermos. Second, you shove cup noodles and chopsticks in his hand. Third, you take off the blanket off your shoulders and wrap it around him. Fourth, you looked in rush. You have only two hands to carry stuff.

“The jacket. Scarf. I'll get it-”

“Don't leave,” He has a grip on your arm, “I'm alright.” He tugs you to sit beside him. Maybe he can be cheezy and wrap the blanket around both of you, just like his highschooler heart wishes. But no. Instead, you're wrapping the blanket around him properly as you hold the ends while you scold him for being reckless. He smiles nonetheless.

You take the cup noodles from his hands and rip off the top. Pouring the boiling water from the thermos, you also snatch the chopstick as you stir the cup noodles. You're taking care of him. He melts at that. He was almost waiting for you to feed him too but you just shove the cup noodles in his arms. He laughs at himself for thinking you were gonna spoon feed him. He reminds himself to not get too carried away when you spoil him.

Itadakimasu. He mumbled before he dives in.

“What happened,” He guesses you noticed the little scratch on his face.

“Uh...fought? Cops chased after.”

You hum in acknowledgement.

You hug your legs after another gush of cool wind. “Where is your jacket?”

He smirks at your question, something smart about to come out of his mouth. “With you.”

You were indeed wearing one of his jackets but that's not what you asked. “Shuji.”

It wasn't hard to answer I forgot to wear one. But he’s Hanma.

“Nah check your closet. You have them all.”

“You keep on giving me those.”

“You keep on stealing. Really tho I'm a little broke right now, I'll have nothing to wear if you keep up this.”

You quiet down, deciding not to say anything cause your genuine worry seemed like a joke to him. You wonder if he notices that you're annoyed. He does. Tho he’s not gonna show that he knows. As much as he's happy right now that you're worried, he had to ease your mood. But it backfires and he sees you're more worried now.

“What are you doing?”

“It's your jacket anyways-” He stop you midway when you were unzipping his jacket.

“Keep it on,” His tone came out more serious than he thought so to lessen the tension, he adds “You’ll catch cold honey.” He finishes the cup noodles, placing the empty container beside him.

You quiet down yet again as you hug your knees. His lips tug up when he sees a blush more prominent than it was due to cold. It was probably cause of that nickname. He sees it through you when you try to maintain a nonchalant look to cover up the fact that you're flustered. It has him fantasizing again. How one day, he’ll be stepping under the roof you two share, announcing— honey I'm home. How one day, he’ll be tired from work and will be welcomed by your hugs. How one day, he’ll be late and be welcomed by your kisses for him to recharge. But it also saddens him— that one day, when he calls you honey, you won't blush like you're doing right now cause you'll be used to it.

The blush on your face was now gone and there shared a comforting silence. It was there was a minute or two before it started getting uneasy. He sees how you look at the scratch on his face. He begged the time to go fast. That way, you'll be in front of him as you patch him while scolding him. But time didn't stop or changed speed for anyone.

You had established taking the relationship slow when you said yes to dating him. That was long ago and a longer way ahead of him with you. So he wonders. After getting further in the relationship, will there be a time when you would patch him up? When you would scold him?

“Does...does it hurt?”

That's right. There's a long way ahead of him with you and he has already started to get impatient.

“It hurts, doesn't it?” You cup his cheek with your hand, thumb grazing right below where the scratch is located.

“Marry me.”

You didn't realize when it started snowing, or how fast or slow the time is going, or that the blush was back on your face

He grits his teeth at his stupid confession. It's stupid but he doesn't regret. There's hardly times when Hanma Shuji is serious. He knows it too. So it was necessary that he would say it. Cringing more at the fact that he’s actually a little serious about the marriage. “It should be only you for me.”

“Shuji-”

“So promise,” He holds your hand that was cupping his cheek. With his corrupted hand that had written sin at the back of it. But it's gentle. Gentle just like the moon when it reminded him of you. Grazing your hand just like you did under his scratch, he continues with his confession. “When we get older, when we're finally forward in our relationship—” A few seconds he begs himself to grant to finally say what he wished, “You'll say yes and you'll marry me.”

[spicy-outer-space]

I've been convinced

Angst writing that I did for the discord. Am unreasonably proud of it

Tw for heavy angst , blood, and death (and probably other things too but I'm not sure)

‎

Characters:

- Starry belongs to @'buc-eebarnes

- Zara belongs to @'tippytanpies

- Thea belongs to @'seraph-draws-stuff

- David is mine

- Mark is (technically) from AHWM, except I think he's very ooc here whoops

Mark couldn't sit still. They were already arriving to some old abandoned house, but it was taking too long, and he couldn't stop thinking about Starry who was passed out, bleeding, in the back seat. He didn't dare look for the fear of accidentally locking eyes with Thea or David. (Starry'll be fine, she's strong, it's fine)

‎

He hopped out of the car before it even fully stopped, tripping on his way and recieving a concerned squeak from Zara. He opened the back door, got Starry out of the car and started walking towards the house (Zara quick to follow him) before the sound of the engine had the chance to die down. He tried to ignore how limp and cold and small Starry felt in his arms. (They're still breathing. It's fine. Everything is ok. It's gonna be fine)

‎

He was halfway to the house when he realised something was wrong. Behind Zara's constant stream of quiet apologies and how loud his own thoughts were, he didn't notice it sooner.

‎

There were only two sets of footsteps crunching on the gravel: his and Zara's.

‎

This realisation caused him to stop in his tracks, earning another startled squeak from Zara as they almost crashed into his back.

‎

Why haven't Thea and David gotten out of the car yet.

Something was wrong

‎

Despite his brain yelling at him about Starry, Mark turned around and started taking long strides back towards the car. Thea. He can't lose two of his friends in one day. He won't. He refuses to

‎

He could see from afar how David lifted its head at the sound of footsteps getting closer. Mark tried to keep his voice level when he started speaking

‎

"Get out of the car."

‎

No answer

‎

"David, wake up Thea and get out of the car."

‎

Mark could see how much effort it took for David to shake his head.

‎

"I can't do that. I'm sorry, Mark," his voice is quiet, but Mark still felt his world get knocked out from under him

‎

This isn't really happening. It can't be happening. It must be joking

‎

Mark reached forward, opening the car door and somehow not dropping Starry in the process (some part of his brain was screaming that her pulse got weaker. He hoped he was wrong)

‎

"David. David ge--" he had to stop and swallow hard before continuing with a shaky voice, "get out of the car. Both of you. Ple- Please"

‎

David was smiling, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. It shakes its head. His voice is barely above a whisper now

‎

"It's too late for us, Mark. You know that. Go save Starry, they still have a chance" David weakly flaps his hand. Mark is pretty sure it was trying to wave him off.

‎

Mark's brain chimes back in at that point, agreeing with David (Starry's breathing was definitely more uneven now, he can't afford to waste any more time-), but his body refused to move.

‎

"Thea?"

‎

The pause drags on forever. He already knows that it's no use, but that doesn't stop him from hoping

‎

This is taking too long

‎

Just as Mark turned and started walking away he heard David speak up "...hey, I think... I think you should go to Stan's after this. It's safe there. He'll look after you."

‎

Mark stopped walking, but he didn't dare turn back around. (The adrenaline was wearing off and he was already tearing up, turning back to face his friends? One of whom is already dead and one who's actively dying? He would have broken down right there and then)

‎

"Just.... Tell him I'm sorry, could you? You don't have to stay with him, but, please-"

‎

"Sure"

‎

And with that, Mark started speeding towards the house, where Zara was already nervously standing in the doorway, twisting their arms in uncertainty of what to do next. He shouldn't dwell. Life is for the living, after all.

‎

‎

‎

.

.

.

A good while after the sound of footsteps disappeared into the house, David tilted its head and pressed a kiss to Thea's forehead, before resting his head on top of hers

His voice was barely there now, a sound that could easily be mistaken for the rustle of the wind, or maybe a calm exhale.

.

.

.

"See you soon, sis"