#happens all the time but it matters. it really does. i remember the show 'bones' wiki said brennan was 110 lbs. no the fuck she's not.
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the more effective place to really complain about this particular venn diagram of fatphobia and misogyny in media character representation is with live action characters rather than anime, probably and obviously, but the Fairy Tail wiki says Lucy is 47kg (104 lbs).
No. Just no.
#posts i actually wrote#anime#manga#lucy heartfilia#fairy tail#this bullshit is so damaging to young fans' self-esteem. it's not okay.#even the short women in your life with D's/double D's are EASILY upwards of 63.5 kg (140 lbs). and i'm lowballing.#tall thin-'normal' women are easily 72.5kg (160lbs) and up.#no - your average-heighted fat-tiddied wide-hipped character is NOT fucking 47kg (104 lbs). if she is she ain't walkin. hospital bed.#happens all the time but it matters. it really does. i remember the show 'bones' wiki said brennan was 110 lbs. no the fuck she's not.#male writers use your fucking brains and compassion when you design female characters challenge.
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I came for a reason, It's a collab with Lebedek. She doesn't have a tumbler, but she does have Twitter.
https://twitter.com/Lebedek_Vika?s=09
There is a little background to this art, but it is translated from Russian, and everything can be a little complicated and unclear.
........
For travelers, the Multiverse was like an entrance, where even the walls had ears, which is why, due to carelessness, rumors could spread instantly. What Error and Inkoi immediately took into account, since there were threats in this regard from all sides: that the bad guys, that the star ones foreshadowed certain difficulties; other travelers; and the universes themselves even more so. Sooner or later, of course, everything will be revealed, but no matter how hopeless it may sound, they decided to continue playing for outsiders until the last, fighting for the universes for show, remaining on their usual sides.
The snow, which once lay calmly among tall dark spruce trees, was stirred up by red bones, stained by caustic ink, and branches broke under blue threads.
The frosty air was now and then cut through by the dangerous crack of blasters. An ardent battle was going on for one of the universes, which Error had designated for destruction and, no matter what the universe was, the experienced guardians of the version usually spared no effort in battles, remembering the past, turning the matter into sparring, not giving in to the opponent, but also trying to do without any or serious injury. Everything usually ended with someone’s loss, by which the fate of the universe was already determined. But time for this decision was not always allocated immediately.
Blood sprinkled the snow and Glyuche gave a strangled hiss, clutching his ribs, and the brush was instantly thrown to the ground.Error looked at his hand and there was a burgundy mark left on it due to the mixing of blood with ink. I didn’t have time to properly defend myself from the deceptive maneuver, so I exposed myself to attack.
Ink looked around, not noticing anyone nearby, quickly jumped up to Glyucha and helped him move a little further into the thicket, away from the empty space and random extra eyes, which he really didn’t need right now.
The artist fussily examined Error’s overall appearance and shrank all over, fixing his gaze on the dangerously deep wound. He touched the bloody, torn edge of his clothing, where cracked bright ribs were visible, and from under them the light of a glitchy blue soul was breaking through. It was dangerously close to the wound.
-“I’m sorry, I didn’t calculate the strength, I didn’t want it to happen like this, it seemed that you would dodge, as you always did,”- Ink rattled anxiously. “Please forgive me, let’s go home soon, I’ll heal everything,” he continued to worry, darting his gaze from the wound to his face. Glitchy.
But he no longer cared about the pain, he was more amazed at the reaction of his opponent - they had stopped trying to kill each other too long ago, so such fuss about his health made him embarrassed. Even during the times of enmity, there were similar cases when he was treated by an artist after battles to the point of death, but now it felt different after they became closer and stopped competing in the number of broken bones.This care on the part of the artist... he gently put his hand on top of the artist's hand and looked at him with tenderness. There was not a drop of anger or resentment in his gaze.
-"Wait, let's stand a little longer... like this, next to each other."
Ink looked up in surprise at Glyuche and chuckled quietly, calming down a little.
-“Only if it’s a little, then I’ll drag you home, I won’t let you bleed,” - he took Error by the hand.
Also a bit of work process~
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𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | dark-ish!joel miller x reader
sequel to 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | your... relationship with joel, if you can call it that, has become all you know. you might be his only indulgence, but what happens to you when he needs to leave the boston qz?
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | just under 6k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | no episode 2 spoilers/no relationship to the show's plot, extremely dubious consent SMUT (18+ only as always; unprotected sex, non-graphic somnophilia, free use, cnc), angst, graphic depictions of addiction, drug use, and withdrawals, daddy kink, breeding kink, implied but unspecified age gap, degradation and praise, mean!joel but with some hints of soft!joel in there
The lights are on, but you’re not home
Your mind is not your own
Your heart sweats, your body shakes
Another kiss is all it takes…
There were words in your mind, a faint melody echoing, but you couldn’t tell where any of it came from. You didn’t think you dreamt it, but you weren’t even sure if you’d been asleep this morning. Time didn’t seem to move the same way when he was gone.
You were tangled in Joel’s sheets, but suddenly it was too warm for them and so you kicked them off, letting the still air of the room sink onto your bare skin. Your eyes were open sometimes, shut other times… but because the view never changed— the window, the table and chair, the radio— you never knew how much time had passed.
It had to be afternoon when you heard the door open and shut; normally, if he came back during the day, it was the afternoon. You imagined getting up and greeting him, but you knew you couldn’t— too tired, exhausted to the bone, still recovering from what happened before he left this morning. In fact, you were already damn near asleep again by the time he had stepped inside.
He approached the bed, tilting his head slightly as he watched you lay still on your back. He said nothing, just started to open his belt.
“I can’t,” you pouted, but he just grinned at you.
“Can’t say no to me, baby,” he reminded you softly.
“Joel, please,” you whimpered, as he climbed on top of you with a groan, “no— m’still sore…”
“Shh,” was his only reply, his hand reaching into his jeans so he could guide his cock to your opening. He wasn’t even fully hard yet— but he was hard enough, and he forced his head into you with a grunt.
“Fuck,” you sobbed, holding onto him tightly to cope with the pain; he stretched you open and reawakened the pain from before when he’d fucked you for hours, spitting on your pussy to keep it wet when your body had given all it could.
He buried his face in your neck, breathing in deep, whispering a few things you were too caught up in your discomfort to really make out. “Just need you right now,” that was one you remembered— “need you, baby…”
This was pretty typical. Well, it didn’t always hurt this much, but waiting for him all day just so he could come back and use you however he wanted, that was normal. So normal that you’d basically forgotten what life was like before this— before him, before the pills… it was like a memory of a dream, fading faster than you could try to remember it each morning.
He kept you high pretty much constantly, though not nearly enough for your tastes. It was a delicate balance: not enough pills, and you might say ‘fuck this’ and leave him, if you even knew how; too many, and you’d be too fucked up to do what he said— or worse, you might OD. His regiment for you was strict, and designed to keep you addicted enough that you needed him but without getting your tolerance too high.
It was only a few months after this little arrangement started that you moved in. He wanted access to you all the time, and frankly, you only agreed to it because you thought you could find out where he kept the motherlode and steal a lifetime supply of pills before disappearing into the night. Of course, even if you had found the stash, he would’ve found you not too much later— because it’s Joel, and that’s what he does. But it didn’t matter now, because you never found anything more than what he was already going to give you, and that was… you didn’t even know how long ago that was. Everything was sort of a blur now.
He pulled out, but he wasn’t done; he was only stopping to roll you onto your stomach, running his rough hand down your bare back with a soft hum. You hissed as he slid inside you again, but if you knew how to do anything by now, it was how to lay down and take it. Joel admired this talent of yours; “Jus’ take it, baby, mm,” he cooed encouragingly, his thrusts deeper yet slower as he got back to it. “Good girl.”
Even though you were so weak you could hardly grab the thin pillow under your head, you still moaned and arched your back at that. You tried not to think too much about why you craved his approval so much, mostly because deep down, you already knew: he gave you purpose, the one thing drugs couldn’t give you. The pills kept you happy, numb, satisfied; he made you feel like you actually might have some shred of value, even if he was the one who robbed you of your dignity, freedom, your independence of both body and mind.
It was worth it, though. A fair trade, you thought.
“Joel,” you whimpered when his fingers dug into your arm, holding you tight while he laid on top of you; his lips and teeth trailed along your neck and shoulder, his hips grinded against your ass as he fucked you as deep as he could. By now, it didn’t hurt when he went that deep— you’d basically built up an immunity, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t still be sore when he fucked you before he left only to do it all again as soon as he came home. His stamina was impressive at best, dangerous at worst… you might not have agreed to move in here if you knew how often he would want to get his dick wet.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “s’me, baby, m’right here…”
You wondered if he really thought you weren’t sure— you weren’t that high, but it wasn’t the most outlandish idea. Sometimes you woke up to him already inside you, sometimes you drifted in and out of consciousness while he was using you and he didn't even slow down— sometimes he'd give your face little slaps to try to keep you awake, mumbling 'look at me, baby, look up at me with those pretty eyes'...
Maybe you dreamed those, you couldn't even be sure. "So good," he grunted as his pace increased and he fucked you faster. "Perfect little pussy, nice and tight for me."
You buried your face deeper in the pillow to muffle your whines, but he yanked your head back by your hair. “Fuck!” you yelped as he pressed his lips to your ear.
“Wanna hear you,” he explained in a grunt that made shivers jump up and down your spine like lightning. “Lemme hear how much my little whore likes it— let ‘em all hear.”
“Fuck,” you said again, closer to a sob now, “Joel, daddy, please— please, fuck, m’gonna—”
“Gonna cream for me?” he finished for you, and you shut your eyes tight as you nodded. His free hand was kneading your ass, still decorated with a few old bruises from the last time he gave you some nice hard spanks. “Gonna soak my dick?”
“Yeah,” you panted, “yeah— you’re gonna make me come…”
He let go of your hair, instead wrapping his arm around your neck— he didn’t use it to choke you this time, just to keep you close as he pressed himself to you. He usually stayed fully dressed, and didn’t give you anything to cover yourself; you would steal a shirt of his from time to time, only for him to take it back to put on before he left— as if he didn’t have anything else he could wear, you knew he had more than one fucking shirt.
Maybe he just wanted to make you stay naked. Maybe he just wanted to take the scent of you with him when he left. Who’s to say?
“So good, so fuckin’ good,” he praised, groaning loudly as he sped up even more. “Tell me what you want.”
That was code for tell me what I want to hear. “Want you to come inside, daddy,” you sighed, “wan’ it all inside me, please, want you to— to fill my pussy—”
“Fuck,” he moaned, his voice deeper than ever, and a shudder tensed up your insides around him. “Yeah— fuck, keep going.”
“Please, please,” you rambled, your own pleasure ready to burst even though there was still that edge of pain to it all, “wanna be full of your come— wanna… want you to… knock me up…”
He laughed, but then he growled a second later and fucked you more brutally than ever until you bit back a scream. “Yeah? Fuck, you’re such a needy slut,” he spat. “Need my come that bad? ‘Cause you wanna be pregnant?”
You swallowed, nodding as you pretended that wasn’t one of your biggest fears. “Yes, daddy, please— need you, need you, fuck, I need you—”
“Come,” he ordered, “right fuckin’ now, come for me—”
He kept talking, but you stopped listening; when it hit you, it was like your muscles were too weak to do what your orgasm dictated they should— because normally, everything in you would tighten and your toes would curl and your head would fall back and it would be obvious that you were coming for him. Instead, all you could do was lay there and let it wash over you, pangs of pleasure and pain alternating while he groaned and came with you. He coated your walls with every pump, thrusts faltering until his forehead rested on your shoulder with a long sigh.
“Fuck,” he whispered, only indulging in a moment of rest and stillness before he pulled out and got up. It was amazing to you how he could just shove his dick back in his jeans and zip up and it was like nothing happened— amazing, and sad. Meanwhile, you couldn’t even get up off the bed, couldn’t even walk if you tried. He had such an effect on you, and you were just an instinct for him— just a fill to a need, like food is to hunger or water is to thirst. Maybe you sort of liked to be needed, but it wasn’t easy.
“Is it time yet?” you asked.
“No,” he answered quickly, firmly, and you rolled your eyes. He never told you what time you were allowed to get your fix, usually he just told you that it wasn’t time yet. It felt like it was never fucking time. What was even the point of all this if he made you wait? You never made him wait— you tried, but he made it clear your body was his and your job was just to spread your legs when he was ready.
You like to think that you’re immune to the stuff, oh yeah
Closer to the truth to say you can’t get enough
You know you’re gonna have to face it, you’re addicted to love
You were lucid enough now to actually question how and why those words were in your head; your eyes were heavy, but you kept them open to look at the radio. “A song…” you realized aloud.
He looked over at you again. “Huh?”
You summoned your little strength to lift yourself up— just enough to turn onto your side and slip under the sheet again. You were cold again, even though the temperature in the room hadn’t changed. “The radio… there was a song,” you mumbled.
He stepped up to you again. “What song?”
You shook your head. “Didn’t know it,” you said. Because of course you didn’t, you barely knew anything, you were too young to remember before. You barely even remembered last month— the pills will do that to you.
“Well, how did it go?” he asked.
Looking away, you tried to conjure it in your mind, but it was so distant. Did he want you to hum it for him, sing or something? Your throat was tired from screaming all that bullshit about getting pregnant��� it was gonna be a pretty rough go, if you tried that. “I… I dunno,” you mumbled. “My brain’s all… it’s fuzzy. I need the pills.”
He tightened his jaw. “Are you trying to negotiate with me?” he asked, the tone of his voice making it obvious that the correct answer was no.
“I— no, I,” you stalled, “I really can’t remember, I just… maybe if you give me some—”
“God damn it,” he rolled his eyes as he started to reach into his coat pocket. “One. Y’hear me? One.”
Suddenly you were full of energy, sitting up on the bed and reaching for him eagerly. “Yeah, yeah,” you agreed, nodding fervently. “Thanks, s’gonna help, Joel, really.”
You tried to grab the pill as soon as you saw it, but he jerked it away. “Jesus,” he grumbled, “give me a second.”
He set it on the bedside table, taking out a gun from his belt next and using the butt to crush the pill. You watched, enraptured, practically drooling, as he ground the pill into powder and prepared a line for you.
“Do you need—?” he began to ask as he backed away, likely about to offer a rolled up paper or something to make it easier, but you were already face-first in it, holding one nostril shut and running the other across the surface of the table.
One wasn’t much, but neither is a sip of water when you’re stranded in the desert— but it’s still incredible. You hummed a little as you sat back on the bed, tilting your head back. It was already hitting, and you were already feeling better than you had all day.
A one track mind, you can’t be saved
Oblivion is all you crave
If there’s some left for you, you don’t mind if you do
“You remember it now?” he asked impatiently.
“Yeah,” you sighed. “Yeah, uh—” you cleared your throat and did your best to sing the hook, the part that repeated a thousand times— “might as well face it, you’re addicted to love.”
You opened your eyes again for his reaction, maybe hoping he might say something nice about your singing voice or thank you for remembering. That wasn’t quite how it went. “Shit,” Joel hissed, then again, louder: “Shit!”
“What?” you wondered, your voice sleepy and slurred as you sunk back into the bed, ready to go back to sleep— real sleep, the kind you can only get from a hit. It wouldn’t last long, but it would still be better than anything else.
“We’ve gotta go.”
“What?!” you said again, though this time you had a lot more energy, because you heard what he said. He was already shoving things into a bag. “Joel, we— what? Go where?”
“Long story, I’ll explain on the way,” he promised. “Just… start getting your things together.”
What things? “Seriously, we can’t— I can’t—”
“Do what I fucking say,” he said sharply, stopping what he was doing to look at you intensely. “Don’t make me tell you again: Get dressed. Get your shit. We’re going.”
~
The first day was torture. You thought maybe he was getting sick of you, too— you weren’t very… useful. You couldn’t even keep up with him, couldn’t follow as quickly or navigate the rocky, uneven terrain outside the QZ like he could. You held out hope that you were going to get your daily dose soon— he only gave you that one before, never your full allowance— but as it grew darker, you realized he was going to have you skip the day since you wouldn’t be in any condition to hike once you got your fix. He promised, though, that you could have a double dose tomorrow if you were patient. It was still nearly impossible to wait for it, but it was a nice motivator to keep moving.
He never explained where you were going exactly, or why— just that the song you heard on the radio was code for something that he needed to handle. In a weird way, you were flattered that he was bringing you with him, even though all you could think about was going back home and curling up in his bed.
What you expected to be the worst part of this, though, turned out to be one of the only good things about this situation: sleeping. He brought something to roll out on the ground, and it helped, but you’d been dreading sleeping on the ground from the moment you stepped outside of Joel’s apartment. The thing about sleeping out here, though, was that— unlike at home— he held you at night. Sure, it wasn’t the first time you’d cuddled with Joel, but it was the first time you really noticed it— normally, he would hold you while you slept but he’d be gone before you woke up, so you’d really only be aware if you happened to wake up while he was still asleep. Instead, now, it started from the beginning: he motioned for you to lay down with him, opening up his arm for you and letting you rest your head on his shoulder. He held you close, promising it wouldn’t get too cold, even breathing in deeply against the top of your head.
It took you longer to fall asleep than him, and not just because you were craving your fix; you couldn’t really wrap your brain around all of it, and every time you looked up at his sleeping face, you realized how rare it was to see him this vulnerable.
In the middle of the night, awakened by the pain of craving those pills you were waiting for you traced his features— the lines on his forehead, the slope of his nose, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw.
Having a mischievous thought, your eyes glanced at the jacket rolled up under his head; the right side pocket, he’d pulled out the pill from you from there. Is that where he’s keeping the rest of them? You examined it, wondering if you could somehow reach into it without unrolling it or waking him up.
It definitely wouldn’t have worked, but you didn’t even get a chance to try— when your fingers brushed over the jacket, the sound of your fingers on the fabric just beside his ear woke him up. He just stirred at first, but then he blinked his eyes open and hummed as he held you tighter.
“Can’t sleep,” you whispered, and even though you didn’t think that was good news, he smiled at you and turned on his side— pulling you into him, nuzzling his face in your neck.
“Tell me what you need, baby,” he mumbled just beside your ear.
I need the fucking pills, Joel. “I need you,” you whispered instead.
He rolled you onto your back, kissing up and down the height of your throat, humming soft praises to you. It was so easy to give into him, like second nature: you spread your legs and let his body slot between them, hooking your ankles together behind his back and holding on with trembling hands to his broad shoulders. “Gonna give you what you need,” he promised, and you sighed in satisfaction— you were still imagining tomorrow, when he’d give you what you really needed, but a little dopamine in the meantime would stave off the shakes at least.
He pushed up the borrowed shirt you were wearing, and pulled your panties halfway down your thighs. A second later, his pants were shoved down and he was inside you— and yes, it stung at first, but it was also shockingly comfortable. Not just the penetration itself, but the slow movements of his hips, the kisses on your jaw and collarbone, the way he held you…
“So good, my good girl,” he whispered to you, making you moan shamelessly. “Shh, not so loud— need to be quiet, okay? Not too loud…”
Nodding and biting your lip, you tried your best, but every time he filled you made waves of relief flood your body; it was hard to keep from just saying his name, over and over, like a mantra as he took you to enlightenment.
It was mostly wordless after that, spare a few times you hissed out a yes or he mumbled a fuck, but much more was said in the silence. The way his hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into the softness of your skin, said don’t leave, don’t even move, you’re right where I want you. The way his teeth nipped at your neck said I’m holding myself back, but I can only control myself so much. The way you hid your face in his chest said I know if you look at me now, you’ll see everything.
He must’ve heard that, then, because his free hand brushed your hair back and guided your head to lay down on the jacket-pillow again— he stared down at you, and bent down to kiss away the tear on your temple. Maybe a more gentlemanly sort of guy would actually stop and ask why you were crying, but you knew he already knew that this wasn’t a cry of pain or anguish, he knew that if he stopped you’d just whine and beg him to keep going.
So he didn’t stop, not until he’d made you fall apart to the pleasure and your walls were coated with him once again. Even as weak as your body had become, you still found the energy to give him one more squeeze when he grunted at the end, the rough sound of his pleasure which you took a little too much pride in being responsible for.
Only then did you finally fall asleep, with him still inside you and surrounding you, your whole body going a little numb— yet you were warm, ecstasy running through your veins, thick and sweet like syrup.
~
Some things didn’t change at all: he wasn’t laying with you when you woke up, already re-packing the bag and checking his map one more time. At least he wasn’t totally gone, like most mornings, but of course he’d never leave you out here on your own.
Another thing that didn’t change was your favorite question. You’d probably asked almost ten times already: “Is it time yet?”
It never was— you tried to keep walking, keep following, but each step was worse than the last and your body felt completely drained. Joel apparently didn’t understand this, but the pills didn’t really get you high anymore, not in the way they had when he was just your dealer once a week. You needed them just to feel normal; it wasn’t for fun, you weren’t partying or anything, you just wanted the pain to stop… you just wanted to sleep.
At least you got a few hours last night, but your body could only take so much, and your brain could only survive on so little.
“Is it—” you began as you trailed behind him.
“Don’t ask again,” he ordered, still marching ahead determinedly. “You’ll know when it’s time.”
“How will I know?” you asked, but he didn’t answer, he didn’t even look back at you over his shoulder. He just readjusted the pack on his back and kept moving forward.
The sun was so low you couldn’t even see it past the buildings on the horizon, a tangerine haze settling over the ruins of wherever-the-fuck-you-were, and he was guiding you up a long cement spiral— a parking garage, if you were thinking clearly enough to consider what this used to be.
You were thinking clearly enough to know this wasn’t a necessary path through; this was a detour, and presumably it was where you’d settle for the night considering it had all the necessary attributes of a temporary shelter. You liked this better than the last place— you could probably get inside one of the cars left behind, clean it out a bit, and have an especially secure (and padded) sleeping spot— but there was still one glaring flaw with this plan: it was nearly time to stop for the night and you still didn’t get your goddamn fix.
You’d been saving your complaints in case he went back on the offer to double you up for today, but you couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your hands were shaking— almost made you paranoid that you got infected somehow, even though you had managed to avoid any runners the past two days.
“Please, Joel, m’goin’ crazy over here,” you whimpered, clutching your arm. “I need—”
“I don’t have any!” he finally snapped at you. “I was out when we left.”
“No,” you denied instantly, “no— you’re lying, you had one— you gave me one.”
He sighed, his expression and tone losing their frustration and shifting instead to a sort of solemnity as his shoulders slumped. “It was the last one.
It was like instinct: you ran at him like you really thought you could take him down. Of course, as soon as you reached him, he held you back without even putting much effort into it while you clawed and screeched and and said every horrible thing you could think of. “Fuck, Joel! Fucking fuck you! I hate you!” you screamed.
“You wouldn’t have come with me if I told you,” he offered, as if that were a defense.
“No fucking shit!” you yelped, trying to writhe your way out of his grip on your wrists, but it was useless. So you tried to kick him— and then he went from mildly irritated to properly done with your shit. Shoving you back, he pushed you away and you tripped on a broken chunk of cement; the pain of hitting the ground was nothing— nothing compared to the aching need that crawled under your skin, nothing compared to the twist in your heart that made your eyes and nose burn. Sniffling, you hid your face with your arm so he wouldn’t see you cry.
He knelt down in front of you, sighing like he was about to say something, but he didn’t.
“I need them, Joel, I need them,” you kept repeating weakly. “I’m so— fuck, I can’t even think without them…”
“You can’t think with them, either,” he replied. “They were messing with your head, kid.”
No, you were messing with my head. You made me your slave and now I’m stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere about to go into withdrawals.
His hand came to rest on your knee, and you were too exhausted to even pull away. “You needed to get clean— now’s as good a time as any.”
You pulled your arm down so you could glare at him. “Now, Joel? Cold turkey, hours from the nearest QZ, no doctors or nurses or fucking anything around— now’s as good a time as any?”
He frowned and looked away.
“You know how much you had me on, you know I can’t just stop.”
“You’re gonna have to,” he shrugged. “Unless you have a better plan.”
“We’ll go back—”
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“We— there’s gotta be something on the way, somewhere we can go to get more—”
“There’s not,” he promised. “You’re just gonna have to ride it out. But it’s gonna be so much better when you get to the other side— it won’t control you anymore—”
“Will you?”
He stopped. For a second, he actually looked sad— heartbroken, if you didn’t know any better. After a long silence, his face straightened out again and he looked at you, just as cold and stern as usual. “You know you can’t leave,” he said. “Not because I’m making you stay— because you’ll die if you go alone.”
“I know,” you admitted, only able to whisper because speaking any louder would make your voice break with a sob. “I know, Joel, I know— m’fuckin’ useless, I know—”
“Shh, hey,” he reached forward, hesitantly stroking your arm through the material of his own shirt that you were wearing. “That’s not what I mean. I just can’t let that happen to you— you have to stay here. Just for the night.”
As if tomorrow you’d be free— but tomorrow would be the same, tomorrow might be even worse depending on how bad the withdrawals got. Tomorrow wouldn’t give you some magical way to get home, or to get your fix, or to trust him again after that monumental lie.
Still, you both knew that you had no choice tonight: you were here now and he was all you had.
You didn’t even sleep for a second. The two of you hunkered down in a rotted Land Rover just because, well, it felt like the fanciest option and the seats were in better condition than most; he held you all night, rubbing your back and trying his best to soothe you as the pain grew and grew. You cried into his chest— you wanted to hate him, but the way he held you was the only thing that didn’t feel like pure agony right now. You wanted to blame him, but you subconsciously associated him with the cure; some part of you was convinced he was the cure.
“Hurts,” you choked out, as if this was some new information for either of you; it was like everything inside you was sharp, your toes were curling inside your boots and your brain felt like it was swelling up and pressing against the inside of your skull. “Hurts, Joel…”
“I know, I know,” he soothed, letting you grip as tight as you could onto his arm. “It gets better— it’s gonna stop hurting soon.”
"I think I'm dying," you announced, "am I dying?"
"No, baby," he sighed, "you're not. You'll be fine."
“I think I’m gonna die,” you sobbed anyways. “I can’t— I can’t do this… I just want it to stop…”
“I know,” he said again. That was the meat of it, really: you kept telling him how bad it hurt and he kept telling you he knew. But you couldn’t imagine how he could understand pain like this.
It was quiet for a long time, probably hours. You’d stopped crying— you felt empty of all tears, of all words or thoughts— and just tried to breathe as slowly as you could. Your heart wanted to race even as you sat perfectly still, curled up in his lap, and it scared the shit out of you; so you were doing everything you could to try to get your heart rate down, taking long breaths and saying nothing and keeping your eyes shut as you rested your tear-stained face on his shirt.
His own breathing was the only other sound in the car— you could hear his heartbeat, too, with your ear on his chest, and you tried to get your own to match it. It was steady and strong, not weak and unpredictable like yours; it was fitting, really.
It almost startled you when he spoke; it made your heart pick up again, slightly, but you didn’t react otherwise. “I couldn’t give you anymore, sweetheart,” he whispered, petting your head softly. “I know you fucking hate me, I know what I did to you for this long… you know it’s almost been a year? Since you first ran out of rations and offered yourself instead, can you believe that?”
You were too weak to answer— he probably thought you were asleep, he only got to talking this much when at least one of you was asleep.
“I never felt good about it,” he admitted, “but I was able to let it go for a while. Having you was worth it. I felt like fuckin’ shit keeping you hooked on that crap but I couldn’t lose you— I knew if I stopped, you’d leave. What I didn’t realize was I was gonna lose you to the drugs if I didn’t get you clean. You were too fucked up, baby, you were barely there… this was the only way, m’so sorry, but this was the only way— couldn’t lose you, darlin’, I couldn’t lose you…”
He was holding your limp body so tight, so close, burying his face in your neck; you’d never really seen him like this, he had his moments but he was generally pretty aloof. You wished you had the strength to tell him: I was never gonna leave you, Joel. I was never strong enough for that.
~
You watched the sunrise, through the filthy back window of the car and between the cement levels of the dilapidated garage. Then you watched Joel sleep, and felt a different pain than the shudders of withdrawals that you’d almost gotten used to by now: the pain of loving someone, and having no fucking idea how to survive it. You were still angry with him for what he’d done, and why he did it, but you knew you were going to tolerate it all— and not just because you had to. You needed him now, for much more than just survival.
The shakes hit again, and though you held your fist tight to fight it, the movement still woke him. He opened just one eye first, and you couldn’t help but smile slightly at the expression on his face.
“Drink some more water,” he encouraged you— and you were perfectly capable of handling that task yourself, but he still unscrewed the canteen he’d brought and held it to your lips, tilting it forward slightly for you. With his guidance, you drank a bit more than you usually would have, which was probably a good thing. “How are you feeling?” he asked when he let you stop.
“Better,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it would ever get better but… yeah, better.”
“It might come and go for a while,” he warned you, “but we won’t start moving again until you’re ready.”
You nodded, rubbing your own arm as you noticed a slight chill inside the car. Your legs were still draped over his lap, and he wrapped an arm around them. “M’ready,” you decided. “Just… might need a break—”
“Yeah, of course,” he offered; you’d never seen him so effusive, if that was the right word. He could certainly be gentle, it wasn’t the first time you’d seen that side, but that was usually little physical things like petting your head or cleaning you off with a rag or something. Not words: not promising, in a not-so-obvious way, that he would do anything to take care of you now. That he cared more about keeping you safe than getting to where he needed to go.
Still, you didn’t want to abuse his mercy. It didn’t take you too long to get everything together and head out, setting down a new path that he’d actually explained to you somewhat in advance: past that big tree there, between the two grey buildings, and East for a while…
For most of the morning you were silent— he led, you followed, walking along the uneven ground and avoiding anything that looked like it might be connected to the larger network of infection.
It must’ve been about an hour before you finally found the courage to say something. “I don’t hate you,” you blurted out.
He looked over your shoulder at you, an unreadable expression on his weathered face.
“Just wanted you to know that,” you explained.
He nodded, turning back forward, and you kept moving.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#joel miller hbo x reader#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal smut#joel miller dark fic
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Miles 42 Headcannons ( We got a man yall 🤭🤭
Miles 42x Black Reader
OK first off, THIS IS A 15/16 YEAR OLD CHILD HE BROKE AS HELL
Like he not broke broke but, hell shadow box for $5 and win ts. To me I feel he got a little money saved form how his dad taught his savings, and he got a back account because remember he's like a hitman he gets paid, but he's not like rich enough to the point he buys you like Rolex watches, Catier, Dior vintage bags from the 70's spring collection.
Next, I feel like to me evry says hes like some bad boy to me i just think hes troubled but, hes a good kid. In the first movie Miles acted the same way and in the second movie he's more mature I feel like Miles-42 matured faster since his dad died; he could never play with action figures when no action was taken to save his dad
It very sad how they describe him in fics as like a drug dealer bad kid when really, I think he's just a matured yet still goofy version of Miles like imagine Hobie attitude with miles it practically the same!
Also, more on the dating side of things Miles-42 I believe would not trust his s/o til 3 months later or even more. Miles-42 is a hitman, and he may have been taught people are going to burn your bridge when they have the chance so, Miles stays clear of really revealing his inner turmoil's til he can fully trust you.
But, when Miles does open up he's like a little flower all nice and smells good yet can still have you in the bed sick and tired if tried hard enough, I feel like his emotions would turn more gentler like he wasn't neglecting you but he kind of was condescending when you show a lot of affection and until you prove your real, hell just make the relationship picture worthy and not living worthy.
But an opinion I know people would say is true is that Miles both of them cannot flirt. Remember than most likely Miles-42 dad and Miles-1160 uncle died at or around the same time which means they both experienced the same ' I almost messed up my chances with this cool girl because my uncle/dad didn't teach me how to be a smooth criminal' but to me with how he put his hand on Miles-1160 shoulder..that man had one girlfriend in the 5th grade and he's been feelin himself since then.
Now before you two started dating you have crushes, Miles didn't have many crushes to my idea. I feel like he didn't see it like he thought of kids as friends and if he did like smb it would be like quick and over with simply because he would try to be friends more.
Like imagine you tryna shoot your shot with him and he just asks you what your favorite power ranger...that what I mage would happen but he's 15/16 so instead it him saying ' cool but, not interested' like he's not rude about it but, you would feel he not messin with you,
Buttt if he does have like a real crush on you, I feel like he would try to get to know you by socials than irl, like asking Ganke can he ask for your socials and then following you and from there trying bag you by cheesy but smooth texts. He would ask about your day, what was the homework, what clubs you do ask a conversation starter but, if you feelin him hell asking about music because I feel like Miles-42 and Miles-1160 both have a music bone in them, and you know Miles-42 listens to good music (won't ever catch him listening to mf Lil Pump ass) I also feel like Miles would ask about pop culture opinions to see how you are as a person like do you watch any popular tv shows? Ohhhh your favorite is Greys Anatomy... so you have nothing to do in your time? That what hell thinks.
My last little head cannon is more of what he would do if Ms. Rio liked you, which because he respectful baddies she likes us quickly, so What would miles do if Rio likes us 🧐
First, Miles wouldn't tell but shell know simply because Miles never smiles at a text, it doesn't matter if he won $128302 million, he not smiling until he met our lovely baddie reader now, he is giggling and kicking his feet. To Ms. Rio that's not normal, it gives her a sense of his old self and she doesn't pry into his social like a helicopter parent but, she doesn't take a peek over his shoulder and when Miles does get the courage to tell her she just smiling acting like she aint know.
Miles seeing his mom like would take a big relief off his shoulders because he thought about the reddit stories where the mom is crazy and now, he thinks his momma gonna run us over with a truck and blame it on the next-door neighbor (true miles fashion)
His mom liking you also lets him know he picked the right one, mothers know best when it comes to fake people for some odd reason and if Rio didn't side-eye you when she met you then your good and he's inviting you to his house more often. I'm not going to talking about Uncle Aaron because I feel like they not as close like that but that a head cannon for a sad day.
But, at the end of the day Miles wants us bad 🤭🤭
#black reader#black fem reader#atsv x reader#miles morales x reader#earth 42 miles x reader#headcanon#miles morales#earth 42 miles morales x reader#earth 42 miles x you#CherrixCore
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~Cracked Mask~ pt.2
Jason Todd x fem!reader
pt. 2 to the this
Minors! Don’t! Read! This! You have been warned!
warnings: cursing (I mean it’s Jason Todd so), feelings, miscommunication, frustration. Also smut?!? Maybe?!? Read and find out 😏😘
a/n: I really didn’t expect people to like the part 1 cause I kinda rushed through the ending. But I don’t see any angsty Jason fics that show his more awkward side and thought I would just have to write it myself. So enjoy.
—-
When you got back to the manor and took a shower you cried.
You didn’t cry cause Jason regret it. I mean you regretted it too. You cried cause you embarrassed yourself in front of your teammate.
You cried cause you had to look Batman, Thee Batman, in the eye and say you failed. You’ve never felt more embarrassed.
You got out of the shower and we’re heading back to your room when Barbara came wheeling over to you.
You put on a fake smile and greeted her as normal.
“what’s up?” You ask.
“what’s up with me? What’s up with you? Ever since getting back from that mission you’ve seemed off.” She said in a kind voice.
“I’m just-“ you swallowed “embarrassed that I failed my first mission with Batman there.” You said quietly.
This wasn’t just patrol, this was a real life big mission and you fail cause you were hit with sex pollen, which you are still trying to wrap your head around on why Poison ivy used that on you.
Barbara gave you a sympathetic look. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Poison Ivy is tough. I didn’t take her down my first few tries.” She smiled.
“Really?” You asked. You had grown up with a poster of batgirl on your wall. You idolized her. She was your hero. It’s hard to think she ever failed when all the girl power posters made her seem untouchable.
“Oh yea.” She laughed. “One time Riddler knocked me out my first time fighting him.” She laughed remembering the good ole days. “Can you believe it? Riddler. He’s so scrawny!”
you laughed along with her and as you settled down she gave you a look.
“The first few missions by yourself won’t be perfect. You have to learn how to hold your own in a fight without Batman being there for backup. No one said it would be easy. But you get better by trail and error. You have to get real world experience of fighting the criminals one on one to be able to stop them. You’ll get it next time” she smiled.
You smiled back at her as your mind drifted back to the mission. It was cut short cause of the pollen.
that stupid fucking pollen.
If you had landed correctly on your fall, you wouldn’t have been affected by the pollen. You wouldn’t have desperately asked Jason to make you cu-
“Y/N. Did anything else happen on this mission?” She asked softly. “Did Jason say anything or do anything that should concern me?”
“No!” You reply almost too quickly. “No, the mission was my fault. He didn’t do anything.”
“okay.” She replied. But as she watched you walk back to your room her gut told her something was wrong. She had to ask Jason, she could always read him and get him to fess up.
———
Barbara sawed out Jason in the Library. He usually came in here to read or hide from Dick. She found him sitting on the couch reading “Pride and prejudice”
“Jace, I have a bone to pick with you.” She stated sternly, wheeling towards Jason.
“Can it wait? I’m at my favorite part.” He says not looking up.
“No it cannot. And you have read that book a thousand times since freshman year.” She says as she moves herself to sit on the couch.
“Jeez. What’yd do to piss off Bruce this time.” He laughed. But as Babs stared him down he stopped laughing.
“I’m here to talk about Y/N.” She states matter of factly.
Jason’s face falls.
Barbara sighs. “I don’t know what happened on the mission, and I’m not asking for you to tell me.” Jason sighs in relief. “But that does not mean that I’m going to let Y/N torture herself with overthink every single detail of the mission. Whatever happened between you two, you need to talk it out. Y/N’s working herself up over whatever happened.”
Jason looked away from her and grimaced.
“Look. Jace, I know you hate talking about feelings and everything but, to work as a team you need to be able to communicate. Y/N just wants to feel apart of this team. But it will always be blocked if you don’t fix whatever happened.” Barbara never breaks eye contact, showing her seriousness.
“Fine.” He says annoyed. “I’ll go talk about my feelings and apologize.” He gets up and walks to the door.
“You got this Jason!” Barbara laughs as Jason flicks her off.
———
Y/N was sitting on her bed folding laundry when she heard a knock on her door.
“Come in!”
Jason walks through the door and awkwardly stands by it. Y/N looks up from her neatly folded clothes to see the last person she wanted to see right now.
“Do you need something?” Y/N asked trying really hard to maintain eye contact and act as if it was a normal conversation.
“We need to talk.” Jason states looking anywhere but her face. “I know your upset that we failed-“ he nervously played with his fingers.
“We don’t need to.” You say turning back to your laundry.
“Yes, yes we do. I need to explain my-“ he explained nervously
“Nope. No. I get it. I was in pain. I asked a question and put you on the spot. It all happened fast after you sniffed the pollen too. It makes you impulsive in your decisions and your-“ you swallowed “your words. I don’t need to hold you accountable for what you said. I-“
“Oh,You mean when I said I wanted you under me since you got here?” Jason cut you off. He seemed to have gotten what you were implying. “Wait you’re upset because you think I lied?”he asked, his face turning almost smug. He had a new found confidence all of a sudden. You were taken aback by the switch.
you froze. You waited for it, for the rejection. You felt tears brim your eyes as you were about to be subject to embarrassment.
“You asked me to help you, how could I not.” You felt a tear start to slip. “I couldn’t say no when you were begging so pretty for me.”
You felt like the wind had got knocked out of your lungs.
“The pollen doesn’t make you lie. The pollen makes you horny to a point of pain. It didn’t make me forcibly dry hump you.” You blushed at the crudeness of his words.
you felt his presence behind you. “I don’t know. I thought you were hot before, but when you were laying there begging for me”
he leaned closer, you could feel his breath on your neck. “I got so hard. Your blushing cheeks and wide eyes, that tight suit of yours. I just couldn’t help myself.” He whispers in your ear.
You could feel your wetness pooling in your panties. You skin felt on fire as his lips gently caressed your neck. You subconsciously leaned back into him.
“I didn’t lie. I wanted you under me since the second you walked through the door.” You felt his hand caress the side of your waist as he spoke. “ and I won’t lie now, I want you under me again, if you’ll have me,” he spoke as he removed his lips from your neck.
You turned around to face him. He looked so perfect. His hair slightly messy with the white tuff hanging in his face, his pink cheeks and eyes clouded by lust.
“I thought I had forced your hand. I thought you regretted it.” You said in a breathless daze.
“I regret I didn’t do it properly. With an introduction, date, and a romantic gesture but there was no time for that when you were in pain.” He said.
you got a mischievous glint in your eye as you looked up at him. “Well if you could restart, how would you have done it?” You ask.
“Well i start it with the simplest thing. The truth.” He had a charming smile on his face, all lust removed. “I like you, would you want to go out with me?” He asked.
“yes.” You said with a giggle. “Then what?”
Y/N watched his face contort to something more sinister. “I’d take you home, after the first few dates, and turn on so music.” He said with his seductive charm.
You turned around and pressed your back to his chest. “Then what?” You asked teasingly.
“Then we start our slow. Kissing you first, letting my hands explore your body.” He whispered as his lips returned to your neck. His hands slowly caressing your sides.
You breathed in a gasp.
“Then I’d lay you down and play with you.” He said as one hand made its way down your pants and the other went up to your chest.
He left wet open mouth kisses on your neck has his right hand slid underneath your waistband. He massaged your core through your panties and let out a moan in you ear.
You whined as you felt him rub your clit through the fabric. You wiggled your hips against his crotch, feeling his boner press into your lower back. His big frame engulfed you as he moved his arms around you.
He started kneeling your breast in his hand as his other slipped into your underwear and slid through your folds.
He groaned in your ear “so wet for me.”
you moaned as you felt a single finger enter you, and slowly pull out before entering again.
You moved your hand behind you and grabbed his bulge. He moaned in your ear before he removed your hand.
“Not right now, this is about you.” He said as he spun you around to face him before leaning in and kissing you.
His kiss was soft, like before on the rooftop but now, filled with so much need. He moaned against you lips and pushed you on the bed, knocking over the neat pile of folded laundry. He pulled away and smiled nervously “Sorry. I’ll fix that later.” He said before quickly kissing you again.
He slotted his hips between you legs and you felt his hard dick press against your thigh. He pulled at the end of your shirt before pulling back and looking in your eyes.
“May I?” He asked.
“Please.” You said breathlessly.
He smirked and took you shirt off. He started kissing down your neck and chest before unhooking your bra.
He looked at your bare breasts and moaned before kissing and sucking down them.
You moaned as he took them in his mouth. And grabbed his hair, tugging. He groaned against you skin sending divers down your spine.
his kisses get lower and lower until he is right above your waistband. He pulls your pants down and returns his attention back your clit. Rubbing as he watches in awe.
He looks you in the eye before moving to mouth at your clit through your panties. You moan again and grab his hair causing him the groan. The vibrations going straight to your clit.
“Fuck Jason.” You breath as he slowly pulls you panties down before spreading your legs open.
“Such a pretty pussy all wet for me.” He said as he slides his fingers through your wet folds.
“Jason please.” You beg.
“Please what?” He teases.
“Please eat me out!” You ask while looking him in the eye.
His facade falls for a second. His wide eyes and blushing cheeks giving away his own nervousness before he smiles his charming smile again.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” He said before he leans down and immediately attaches his mouth to your clit.
He starts to eat you out like a starved man, and all you could do was moan. You gripped his hair occasionally tugging to feel him moan against your heat.
soon you were bucking your hips against his face begging him to go faster. He flicks his younger harder before replacing his younger with his fingers and rubbing your clit faster and harder.
the pressure almost made you cum in the spot but Jason had other plans.
He pulled away causing you to whine pathetically. He laughed before removing his shirt.
he quickly stripped to just his boxers
“Oh I was right. His did have rock hard abs.” You thought as you openly stared at his chest.
He had a scar that went down his abdomen and across his shoulder and chest. He was ripped and had a hard v line leading to his hard cock trapped in his boxer briefs.
“Jeez you’re hot.” You say before realizing what you said.
Jason blushed and laughed. “ I should be saying the same thing to you.” He smiled before leaning back over you.
His large frame and arms cages around your head and you ran you hands down his chest, feeling the ripples underneath your fingertips. You made eye contact as your hands landed on his dick, and squeezed.
He whimpered again. The whimper you remembered from the rooftop. The same whimper you have thought of we you had your hand down your pants last night.
He pulled his cock out and you stared in shock. He was so much bigger than you excepted. But you drooled at the thought of it inside you.
He rubbed the head against your heat, gathering wetness before positioning the top at your entrance.
“Are you sure?” He asked looking into your eyes with the most sincerity.
“Yes, Jason. Please I want you to fuck me.” You said as you slide you hand down to where your bodies meet. You start to play with your clit.
Jason sucks in a breath. “Fuck.” He breath before pushing in.
It hurt at first but Jason paused half way through to let you adjust.
Once he was all the way in, he slowly pulled out before pushing back in, starting a slow rhythm.
You moan and wrapped you arms around his middle, gripping on to whatever skin you fingers could find.
He started picking up pace and moved his head to suck on your nipple again. His hand that was t holding him up, falling down to where your bodies are joined, rubbing circles on your clit.
Everything was too much for you. “I’m gonna cum!” You moan as you squirted on his cock.
He moan at the sensation before ducking into you faster. “You look so gorgeous when you cum. Ohmyfuckinggod…” he said as he quickly pulls out and shoots his cum on your stomach.
He collapses on top of you and kisses you hard.
“Im sorry for making you feel like shit these past few days.” He says breathlessly.
“It all ok now” you say as he looks up and smiles at you. He hugs you and pulls you into his chest.
“I’m gonna take you on a proper date though.”
“I don’t doubt it.” You say as you eyes get heavy———
Bonus:
“For fuck sake Jason, when I said make up, I didn’t me make out. I didn’t have to hear the bed shaking all the way from down the hall!” Barbara yelled as Jason walked out of your room later.
——————/-
requests are open!
taglist:
@igotanidea
@princessbl0ss0m
#jason todd x y/n#jason todd smut#jason todd x reader#jason todd#jason todd fic#batfamily#dc smut#dc x reader#Jason#Todd#Robin x reader#red hood#red hood smut#red hood x reader
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Lol omg at your last ask because imagine dippers under some truth spell and ends up spilling a bunch of secrets that Bill already knew and had stashed to use for later
This is no longer 'last ask' relevant because I had this partially written in my drafts for like a million years - but a Truth spell on Dipper would be very interesting!
So I took this prompt and didn't really answer it except in some ways.
Here's a thing!
“You never bring me any souvenirs.” Bill complains. In an all-too-whiny tone, and an all-too-close lean into Dipper's personal space.
Plus, it's a blatant lie. One Dipper shouldn't respond to.
He does anyway. “I literally brought you harpy feathers last week.”
“Doesn’t count! That was for a ritual you wanted to pull off!” Bill sounds miffed, though he also plants a palm on Dipper’s head and starts ruffling hair. “Now where's the emerald from last March? Or like, the headdress from that cult with all the rabbit bones? The good stuff."
Dipper grunts. He focuses on navigating back out of the cave, turning the clay tablet over in his hands.
Figures Bill would remember all the times he did get something. His memory is excellent. And he’s greedy, because a new toy every time is a big ask.
What does Bill expect, anyway. Not every situation Dipper gets into has something to bring back. What could he even offer? An ear taken off every monster he has to fight?
Wait, no. Bill would love that.
Dipper makes a face. “You've just proved that it's not ‘never’. With examples."
"Sure, but when’s the last time it was cool?”
Dipper sighs. No point in arguing. Bill could go on forever about how 'unfair' it is that he doesn't get trophies from every trip, or trinkets from conquered lands, or, again, ears from every enemy. When he’s decided to complain, no reasonable argument will shake him out of it.
“Too bad, then. You’re only getting some gifts.” Dipper shakes his head rapidly to dislodge Bill’s hand from his hair. "It’s hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to you."
“Hey! I could argue that it’s related! In fact -”
Dipper tunes out the rest of Bill’s ramble, rolling his eyes. Listening with half an ear to Bill's ongoing tirade about being a poorly kept man, and unappreciated in his time.
Despite how much he already has, Bill always wants more. Somehow he sniffed out Dipper’s latest excursion, showing up right at the end and looking for ‘loot’.
Which Dipper, by all rights, should prevent.
Anything magical falling into Bill's hands can cause chaos, no matter how innocuous it seems. The flower incident alone is reason not to hand Bill anything, ever, and the fact that Dipper still does sometimes should be appreciated, damn it.
Bill's complaining on and on, but whatever. Eventually he'll get bored.
In the meantime, Dipper turns the clay tablet around again with a frown. He found something interesting, at least.
Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a language he recognizes. The script is strange, scrawled in different directions. For all he knows he’s holding it upside down. He hopes Bill doesn’t notice until he’s figured out -
"Whatcha got there?" Just as expected - and right on time.
Dipper feels the tablet yanked out of his grasp, unfazed. He doesn't break his stride.
"I found it in the lair, after... you know." Charred bones, explosions - Dipper wishes he could use, like water, or something, but mastery over even one element is powerful as is. "Anyway, that monster was collecting a lot of weird magic stuff, and this was the only interesting thing it had." He shrugs. Then, because Bill will like it, adds, "So... to the victor go the spoils?"
“Now that’s the spirit!” Bill gives him a grin, holding the tablet up to squint at it. Thankfully not turning it around. One point for Dipper, on not looking incompetent.
Still, if anyone can read it…
“What language is this?” Dipper not-so-subtly leans over, trying to peek around Bill’s arm.
"Old Draconic," Bill says, without missing a beat. Humming to himself as he apparently reads the text. Perking up a bit, smile widening. "Oh, hey! Iambic pentameter."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, sapling. I just wish when people did the whole 'ancient poetry curse' thing, they'd get a little more creative. You never see hexameter! Or tetrameter! Not even a tasteful use of spondee.” Bill sticks his tongue out. "Come to think of it - I don’t think anyone’s done a prose epic that made the reader wanna tear their eyes out since Joyce."
Sometimes with Bill, you have to read between the lines. The long, irrelevant babbling lines.
"Just tell me if I need to get Ford or not." Dipper says, flat. He rubs at the bridge of his nose.
Among all the other stuff, Bill said ‘curse’. Never, ever a good sign.
Though the monster he just took down wasn’t a dragon, and that wasn’t really a ‘horde’ so much as something resembling the contents of the Mystery Shack, there’s absolutely no good thing about a curse. If Dipper somehow triggered it -
Great. As if hanging around Bill alone didn’t invite enough bad fortune, he’s picking up parts of his own stupid curiosity.
"Nah, don’t bother with the loser uncle!" Bill waves his concern away, amused. “This is just purple prose! Buncha ‘oooh, bad things’ll happen if you mess with my stuff.’ Totally boilerplate spellcraft with some flowery wording.”
With a shrug, Bill dismisses the whole thing. Which includes chucking the tablet over his shoulder, but Dipper manages to snag it before it falls and shatters into a million pieces.
“Typical dragon horde enchantment. All bluster, no burning.” Bill keeps walking without a care in the world. “They’re full of hot air!”
“So I’m not cursed,” Dipper prompts, catching up to him. “Aside from you, I mean.”
“Flatterer,” Bill says, slightly warmer. He continues, shrugging. “No reason you would be! No dragons in the area, and the warning sign there’s too old. By my guess, the original horde was raided centuries ago! Just another piece of random crap that got dragged into that junkyard." And he ruffles Dipper’s hair again, in the second-most annoying way. "You’re stuck with me, though.”
Dipper ducks and twists, thus freeing himself from the minor torment. “I think I can live with that.”
One would think that chatting with a demon - one as cryptic and ominous and aggravating as Bill - would only cause irritation, at best.
It still does, of course. But when it comes to Dipper, Bill… sometimes lays things out straight. On occasion. Especially when he’s instructing, doubly when it comes to magic. Like he’s trying to pour all the facts he can into Dipper’s brain, overfilling the cup.
If his goal is to overload this one mortal mind, though, he'll have to work a lot harder.
Dipper gets out his notebook, while Bill looks away, and pretends he didn’t see it. Yet another poorly-veiled lesson, with Bill obviously trying to plant seeds re: actually casting curses. Tough luck managing that. His subtle lean towards chaos might escape the unwary, but to Dipper? Bill’s way too transparent.
The fact is, that Dipper absorbs things fast. Even Bill will admit it, sometimes without being prompted.
That Includes stuff Bill doesn't even know he's teaching.
Bill’s also rambling on about historical curses, and how often these things backfire, or misfire. It’d almost sound like a series of unconnected, gossipy anecdotes, if it weren’t for the extra technical details.
And Dipper’s not falling for it. As far as he's concerned, his first curse was his last one.
But then…
Even if he’s not going to use the knowledge, there's no reason not to learn it. Knowledge about making curses can also be used to break them, after all. Taking all the facts Bill smacked a ‘For Evil Purposes Only’ sticker on and using them to shatter an evil plan would be very satisfying.
They’re nearly out of the cave at this point, so Dipper figures it’s fine to let his guard down a bit. The monster's dead, all the traps were cleared out on the way in - everything should be fine.
He clicks his pen a couple times, and asks Bill to repeat that last thing, about the life drain. It gets a snort of amusement, but Bill’s more than happy to elaborate at length. Dipper struggles to keep up with Bill’s rapid-fire speech; he's trying to make this intentionally difficult, damn it.
Bill leads on with careless gestures and an uninterrupted stride. Getting ahead of Dipper by several meters, but Dipper’s got to note down what he says before he has to do something awful, like ask Bill to repeat himself.
Dipper is, in fact, so busy trying to write in shorthand, and walk, and not hit a stalactite with his face, all at the same time, that he sort of loses track of where he is.
And okay, maybe he trips over a rock slightly, and nearly faceplants, bonking against the sudden curve of a wall with a swear.
Dipper takes a step back, rubbing at his forehead. Annoying, but, whatever. There were a few traps around, but he pretty much cleared out the cave on the way in, so it’s probably - oh, hell.
Not fine, he dropped the stupid tablet.
Great. The only really interesting object, shattered into half a dozen pieces. So much from saving it from Bill; Dipper himself fumbled the bag.
He backs up to evaluate the damage -
The stone sinks under his foot, and something goes ‘click’.
With a start, Dipper raises a shield without thinking, arm jerking up as he wills his magic into the gesture. It's solid enough for something done on reflex, but an impact hits hard on his side, with sudden, stinging pain.
And a pretty hard impact, at that. He didn’t get it solid enough, damn it, wasn’t expecting something physical -
Dipper wheezes out a breath, slumping to the ground and clutching his stomach.
Alright. So. He got most of the traps.
He sits down, and lets his head thump back against the stone, teeth bared in a grimace. Stupid. Should have been paying attention.
The commotion makes Bill turn his head, blinking at Dipper sitting on the ground.
Then - because he’s an asshole - he starts laughing.
“I know I’m fascinating, sapling, but really?” He tuts, setting fists on his hips. “Not sure if I should be flattered that you’re obsessed with me, or disappointed that you’re dumb enough to walk right into a wall.”
Dipper sucks in a breath, gingerly touching his side. Doesn’t seem like - he glances down. Sure, it stings, and his shirt’s torn, a long, shallow cut on his stomach, just near the old scar. But that’s about it. Over to his side, an arrow rolls against the ground, stone head clicking against the ground.
Over by the cave mouth, Bill’s cackling. God, he’s a jerk sometimes.
But he must not have seen the trap set off, too wrapped up in his own stupid bullshit, or he’d be less of one. Dipper knows that for a fact. Though he’d really, really prefer he’d never had that experience.
“C’mon, kid. If you’re not even more brain damaged from your bump, let’s ditch this joint.” Bill jerks his head over his shoulder.
Dipper hugs himself around the torso, grimacing. Not bothering to respond. His heart is still pounding, or he’d have a retort ready. Adrenaline’s helped him out in a lot of situations, but not with talking. He’ll get up when he’s ready.
“What, you smash your skull open or something?” Bill raises one arch eyebrow.
Though Dipper knows why Bill’s like this, it’s still deeply annoying. He shakes his head in lieu of a reply. In a second, he’ll be calm enough to tell Bill exactly what he thinks of his incredibly poor bedside - and cave-side - manner.
“Figures. Can’t leave you alone for five minutes without your guts spilling everywhere.” Bill clicks his tongue, folding his arms and stepping forward. “What’s the damage?”
“It hurts.” Dipper says, through gritted teeth. Then pauses. Wait, he meant to say - He shakes his head rapidly, only for more words to force themselves out, unbidden. “I got cut again.”
Again, not what he intended. Dipper lowers his chin, teeth clenched. What the hell, he shouldn’t have said that. Bill’s mocking aside, maybe he did hit his head a little too hard. Once Bill gets the mockery out of his system, he’s going to be a total pest about it, too.
With a huff, Dipper slumps. Settling in for a sulk, waiting for the next jab - But there’s no insult forthcoming. Or argument.
In fact, Bill’s gone totally silent. Which is super weird.
Dipper looks up at the cave entrance, expecting a comment or a question, or at least a huge grin. He tenses up, hunching over.
And meets a frozen, unsmiling face.
Bill dropped his arms, they hang limp by his sides. His expression’s gone blank.
The next moment, he’s right in front of Dipper, kneeling and tugging at his arms with alarming urgency.
“Alright, lemme see.” Bill’s face is very close. Though he’s trying to pull his arms away, Dipper resists out of sheer surprise. Bill growls, eye darting around until it lands on the arrow. “Oh for - Really can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Move.”
Another pull, less hard this time. Like he’s trying to ease Dipper’s arms away.
“Wh- Hey!” Dipper plants a foot against Bill’s chest, but that hardly stops anything. He raises his arms. Holding them up, in fact, like he’s at gunpoint. Where’d this come from. “Don’t get upset, I’m fine.”
“Ha! Good one, sapling. Who’s upset, exactly?” Bill says, teeth bared, and in a deeply upset way. He tugs Dipper’s shirt, up, fingers tracing the cut before pressing into his stomach. “I’m just wondering if I need a replacement mortal this soon into your miserable existence. No big deal!”
Okay, this is too much.
Dipper struggles up, despite Bill trying to shove him down again. Bracing himself on the cave wall, and glaring. “Calm down already.”
“I’m perfectly calm.” Bill says, through gritted teeth. At best he looks miffed, but he’s at least stopped trying to make Dipper lie down in the recovery position or whatever. With a glare, he tugs up Dipper’s shirt, prodding at the shallow cut. “What the hell, kid. I thought you said it hurt!”
“Ow.” Dipper’s stomach jumps at another poke. He smacks Bill’s hand away. “It does, alright? Quit poking.”
Bill doesn’t seem impressed. His fingers trail over the larger, older scar on Dipper’s left side, then glares at Dipper’s stomach like it’s insulted him. A beat, then - “You don’t usually complain.”
“I-” Okay, true. Dipper glares anyway. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t complain because it’s the only option. For all that Bill whines and teases and taunts Dipper, all the time, about being some ‘fragile mortal meatsack’, already rotting before his eyes, he really doesn’t like it when it’s brought forcefully to his attention.
God, he shouldn't have said anything. Ninety-five percent of the time, there isn’t any harm to mention. But when Dipper does ends up showing he is kind of… mortal, and it’s small, he just. Doesn’t bring it up. For all that they bicker all the time, he doesn’t like to make Bill upset.
Bill grunts, mouth turned down at the corners. He stands up quickly, folding his arms. His lip curls up in a sneer. “If you wanted attention, kid, there are way better ways to-”
Oh, fuck that. Dipper flips him off, and starts storming off.
God, this is stupid. Whenever Dipper ever breaks a bone or something, he gets teased about being so weak and vulnerable. Which he is, but neither of them like the reminder.
These days, it also comes with some weirdly maybe-sincere ‘kiss it better’ thing that Dipper then has to disinfect. A lot of hovering, and rambling commentary. Sometimes creative descriptions of how much worse it could have been, and Dipper never needed those, at any time. Bill gets oddly fixated on such random little moments, and it’s just -
Dipper doesn’t like it, is all. Bill gets the way he gets, it’s a lot, and it’s easier just to avoid it. If he were a different guy - a human guy, or even mostly-human monster- Dipper might try to talk to him about it.
But Bill’s a demon. Not normal, barely sane even on his best days, and worse, he’s Bill, so. That conversation would go precisely nowhere.
Behind him, he hears said demon approaching, fast. Stupid jerk. He should be as tall as his real form. That’d be fair. More accurate, too, and then Dipper could properly stomp off without Bill catching up so easily.
Already the bastard is by Dipper’s side. A tall, irritating presence. Hovering close without grabbing on, which adds to said irritation.
Dipper leans away, but Bill catches him around the waist and drags him in.
“Don’t get so grumpy, sapling, you’re fine! A little nick in the outer layer rarely killed anyone since they invented antibiotics.” Though he pinches Dipper’s cheek, he yanks his head away with a grunt. Bill sighs. “Everything’s a-okay here! Looks like I don't have to find a replacement just yet.”
Bill’s an idiot. Dipper scoffs, though an unpleasant feeling crawls in his gut. “Oh yeah? Who would you replace me with?”
“Eh, not like I got anyone specific in mind.” Bill waves that off, nonchalant. “But I have options! Lots of options.” He bumps a hip against Dipper. “Keep that in mind before you go charging off into obvious traps.”
This goddamn liar. Dipper elbows him in the side, because the asshole deserves it.
Not that Dipper’s worried, or anything. From what little he’s heard of Bill’s exes in the demonic rumor mill - Bill’s been, as they say, less than successful. Already Dipper’s outstripped his longest by years.. Bill can lie day in and day out about his options, put on a brave face - but they both know he’s not going to find this again. Not easily.
“Good luck finding another husband, asshole.” Dipper says with appropriate derision. It’s annoying that Bill even brought it up. There’s a good riposte in there, somewhere - but while his brain is coming up with an insult, his mouth runs on automatic. “But I was really worried that you would last week. I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day until you sent a dick pic. It was weirdly comforting.”
Bill turns toward him with genuine surprise. He even blinks a few times, no retort emerging, and Dipper looks back at him with equal surprise.
Until his mind catches up with what he just said.
Dipper digs his heels in the ground, slamming to a halt. Clapping both hands to his mouth, eyes wide.
Beside him Bill nearly trips at the sudden stop, flailing for balance with a swear.
Shit, shit shit. Dipper really didn’t mean to say that. He knows Bill’s not looking around, that he’s not interested. Cynically, that he couldn’t manage it if he was. Last week was just a one-off anxiety, like all the others Dipper’s brain comes up with when it gets too much free time. Totally irrational, and really hard to stop fixating on.
Bill keeps staring. Not angry, just confused, for long enough that Dipper wants to shrink into the ground and melt into nothingness.
Then he asks, “What the hell, Pine Tree?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know why I thought that. I don’t know why I said that.” Dipper cringes into himself, grimacing and ducking his head. He runs a hand over his slightly sweaty face. “I didn't even want you to know I got hurt.”
At that, Bill snorts. “Oh, please. I’d have seen that first time I got your shirt off. You can’t keep secrets from me!”
Dipper folds his arms, internally seething - and his stupid mouth moves to say, “I’ve done it before.”
This time, the silence is tense.
Dipper wipes his sweating forehead again, not daring to meet Bill’s eye. God he shouldn't have -
Before he can think, he blurts out, “I think something’s wrong.”
“Probably!” Bill agrees, with a smile just a little too sharp. He takes Dipper’s face in both hands, eye narrowed. “Hold still a sec.”
As Bill’s eye flickers blue, and the magic between them surges - Dipper squirms a bit, but. Well. If anything’s wrong with him - magically, anyway - Bill’s the best one to diagnose it..
Bill tilts his head to one side, then the other. After a moment, his mouth twists up into something unpleasant, eye glowing slightly brighter for an instant.
Then he sighs, and lets Dipper go. His expression is neutral, except for the slightest downturn of his mouth. His lips part like he’s about to speak, then twist up into a grimace.
Uh oh.
Whatever Bill saw, he didn’t like it.
“What?” Dipper pats his head, then his chest. If there was something weird, magically about him, he - wouldn’t be able to tell, actually. He’s too close to get a good look. Oh god, what if he did hit his head too hard, and something in his brain is bleeding, or worse. “Wait. Am I dying?”
“Worse! You’re telling the truth.” Bill claps his hands together. Though he’s smiling again, it’s brittle and annoyed. “Don’t suppose you know any curse breakers that aren’t your great-uncle?”
“Not really,” Dipper admits. Bill's words catch up to him, and he bites his lip. Then, because the situation deserves it, “Fuck.”
Protection curse. The tablet.
Damn it.
A part of a horde, from a long time ago. Messed with. It should have been something less awful. Like warts, or sprouting plants from his skin, or a big fireball. Pretty much anything else would be less awful.
Truth curses are rare, they’re difficult as hell - but judging by the words spilling out of Dipper, he’s caught a pretty strong variant.
Of all the curses that could hit him. Why this one.
Hell, maybe it’s intended to be the worst curse possible for the ‘thief’. That would explain how targeted this feels.
And knowing Dipper’s luck, that part was explained on, like, the back of the tablet.
“Welp! Good thing I’m not short on contacts, kid.” Bill grapes his shoulder, shaking him a bit, before he trails an arm over Dipper’s shoulders. “Who wants some fumbling idiot uncle to fix this kinda spell, anyway?”
Dipper would! If it was feasible. He makes a brief attempt at shrugging Bill’s arm up before letting his shoulders slump.
The idea of Ford hearing about this is….
Dipper sucks in a breath through his teeth.
Ford really would have a way around this. He'd certainly have the best intentions, Dipper’s certain. He'd...
Also not have the best sense of boundaries.
Though he'd be doing it for the right reasons, he'd ask the wrong questions. Out of concern, and arguably valid worry; he's never fully believed that Bill can't influence him. Despite how many times Dipper’s tried to explain it to him, Ford just can’t wrap his mind around certain truths.
With this curse, though. Between poor social sense, the Pines curiosity, and what Dipper might blurt out, while compelled to answer -
On this, Dipper agrees with Bill. They’ll have to find something else to break this.
In the meantime, he’ll manage, like he has all the other times his life has sucked. Hardly the worst case scenario. If Bill had been cursed - someone who lies like he breathes - Who knows? Give it a few days, and he might just explode from all the backed up bullshit.
“Wait.” A horrible thought strikes. Dipper reels on his husband, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”
“What, me? I’m a perfectly moral human man,” Bill says, resting a hand on his chest, lifting his chin with pride. “A boring sentient mammal who’s never found curses entertaining.”
Yep, Bill’s fine. As always, it’s Dipper who gets the short end of the stick.
He breathes in slowly, and lets it out.
Yeah. Still sucks. He’ll deal. Cursed, but not dead. In danger, but not the worst - and his husband’s being annoying, which means he’s perfectly fine. There’s a solution too - it’s just going to be a huge, annoying process getting to it.
“So,” Bill says, slowly. Drawing the word out in a long string, while he finger-walks his arm up around Dipper’s shoulder.
Uh oh.
Speaking of annoying…
“Watch it,” Dipper hunches his shoulders, not daring to look his idiot husband in the eye. “You’re this close to sleeping on the couch for a month.” Not a big enough threat, Bill’s still thinking- “Or for a year.”
“Oh, sure,” Bill says, in a distracted tone. His fingers pause on their walk, one ‘leg’ poised on Dipper’s clavicle. They hold the position for a long moment, tapping out a little marching step - and seconds later, his palm slaps down on Dipper’s shoulder. “So, Pine Tree! How do you feel about this ‘Bill Cipher’ guy?”
Though Dipper resists, and he really tries to, the words slip out past his teeth, his lips form the sounds -
“I love you.” God. Damnit. He clenches his fists, as Bill’s sheer smugness radiates from him like heat. “And I’m thinking about shoving you off a cliff right now.”
When Bill paused, Dipper thought he might have fended this off. Wishful thinking, really, Bill’s almost impossible to stop. Dipper used what leverage he had, but all he’s managed to avoid are the worst, most invasive questions.
When it comes to Bill, that’s pretty close to a win.
Not that it’s going to feel like one.
Bill has, in fact, been encouraged. Now that he’s heard something he likes, he leans in like a weird creep. Dipper can practically hear the leer in his voice. “And on a scale of one to ten, how handsome am I?
“Ten point five,” Dipper needs to loosen his jaw or he might break a filling. Being pumped for information is bad enough without pumping up Bill’s already ridiculous ego. “You bastard.”
Bill’s chest puffs out, there’s a strut in his stride. The grin is so wide now Dipper’s pretty sure it should hurt- and if he dares to pucker up, he’s not getting lips on his awful face. “And am I the most clever and sexually amazing guy in the universe or what?
This time, Dipper snorts.
“Definitely not.” He ignores the sharp, indignant sound next to him, tilting his head in thought. “For one, there’s succubi and incubi, so. Sexually, you’re not even on top amongst demons.” He glances over at the offended ‘o’ of Bill’s mouth. “And I know you’re not the most clever, because I win our debates nearly half the time. Maybe you’re up there, but not the most. And that’s just the surface level stuff.”
Dipper doesn’t have a complete cosmological view of the multiverse, but he has learned a lot. Mostly stuff he picked up from his husband, and demonic gossip. It’s absolutely enough to go on a long, long ramble about how Bill most likely doesn’t rank number one in anything. If Dipper avoids the topics where he actually is.
He’s barely fifteen seconds in before Bill starts scowling, with a grumpy hunch to his shoulders - But screw him.
Dipper starts smiling, just a bit. Then, to be a dick, he adds,
“The ten and a half is just me, anyway. To the average human, you’re maybe an eight..” Dipper continues, over another spluttered protest. Again, true; not everyone likes the slightly inhuman maniac cyclops look. “Six with your personality.”
Bill groans. “Ugh, you pedant.” He squeezes Dipper’s shoulder, jostling him slightly. “C’mon, you know what I meant! What’s the real - “
“Don’t ask questions if you can’t handle the answers,” Dipper warns, jabbing Bill in the chest. So far it hasn’t been too much, but it could be. Time to draw a line. “I will suck so much fun out of this for you.”
Bill Cipher, unintentional teacher once more. Now Dipper knows the curse isn’t about perfect truth. When he can deliberately misinterpret a question’s intent, and can go on tangents - that means he has loopholes. There might even be more, if he tries.
And if they can’t get this settled soon, he’ll need every one of those he can find.
“Clever brat.” Bill’s frowning, but he can’t disguise the amusement in his voice. His eyebrows wiggle, his arm hauling him close - "Go ahead, then. Anything else you wanna share?"
"I know two and half ways to kill you, Bill Cipher." Dipper gets right up in his face. He won’t let Bill push this any further. "Don't tempt me to use them."
Being face to face like this, Dipper watches Bill’s eye go wide - ha, didn’t expect that, did he. With that threat, he’ll -
Start cackling. And weirdly, turn a little pink. Dipper feels all the momentum he had whoosh out of him like sad balloon animal.
“Boy, you are a saucy one!” Bill whistles, low. He places his hands demurely on his cheeks, fluttering his eye at Dipper with amusement. “Oh, yeah. Talk deadly to me.”
By this time, Dipper figures he should be used to stumbling into demonic flirtation. Only it turns out it’s basically fractal in nature, and he keeps running into new and newer edge cases.
“Fun as this is - we gotta get you cleared up, and no time like the present!” Bill’s calmed down enough to scoop an arm around his waist, leading Dipper onward. “Can’t have you babbling everything to everyone, y’know?”
“What, you don’t want me telling you everything?” Total bullshit. Dipper elbows him in the side. “I thought you wanted to get in my head.”
“Hey! I didn’t ask for our game to be set on ‘beginner’ mode. That’s boring.” Bill flicks his fingers - but he’s got his ‘evading questions’ look on. “You’re lucky I’m so- oof.”
Another elbow, harder this time. Bill grunts, but capitulates. Rubbing at his eye briefly, he sighs.
“So! How many of my secrets would you say you know, Pine Tree?” Bill tightens his grip on Dipper’s waist, tugging him closer. “And I’m talking about the ones that I wouldn’t enjoy getting out in the world.”
“More than I can count.” Dipper says without thinking. Then, with thinking - “Oh.”
Dipper hadn’t considered how much Bill’s taught him, before this exact moment. How much he’s learned. Even unintentionally. Especially unintentionally.
Crap, even his threat before was kind of -
Shit. There’s definitely, absolutely, no way can they go to Ford about this. Total recipe for disaster.
“See? We both got liabilities in play here.” Bill moves easily as Dipper picks up the pace. If anything he’s amused, and not feeling nearly as urgent. Another reason he’s an idiot. “All we gotta do is get you patched up quick, and no more loose lips sinking ships! Easy-peasy.”
“It better be,” Dipper mutters. Nothing ever goes right for him. And by extension, them.
“Trust me, kid! I got this handled!” Bill snaps his fingers - and smacks Dipper’s butt with a wink. “I know some guys!”
#answers#Not my best work but I haven't posted in a while so here's a thing!#I will get better at writing I swear#There are references to the whump fic in this just so you know#It is canon that Dipper didn't die but the how and the aftermath are for the sequel#Anyway whump sequel is going decent and I have some ideas for other stuff#Don't worry Dipper Ford wouldn't even think to ask you the questions you're worried about#He assumes that Bill would never ever let you know those facts#And technically Bill never told Dipper either of those two and a half ways but you learn a lot from being married for a few years#I don't have any more interesting tag facts other than that don't expect a timely sequel to this because I have so much stuff to complete#I hope it's at least fun to read!
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Health and Hybrids (III)👽👻💚
[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]
PART ONE is here PART TWO is here and this is Part Three 💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts
Where we last left off... Boy had a break down, stole a medical cot, took a nap. Bone Appetite. Oh yeah and maybe he made a friend. Maybe
Trigger warnings for: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my awful attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.
💚👻👽👻💚
Sleeping in a puddle of your own fluids gets really gross after a while.
Danny grumbles quietly. Ew. It’s all…blood and plasma and goo and ectoplasm and various other nasty body liquids he doesn’t actually want to identify.
Gross. He’s soaked the mattress some too.
And he wants food. He can feel the empty cavern where his stomach ought to be rumble with wantwantwantwant. It makes his core whine—when his body is too damaged to be human, sometimes it treats itself as if being human is his obsession. He wants, because having human food and water and safety will make him more human again.
…Maybe he can snatch another one of those NastyRibs today. They’ve got meat. Protein.
Danny’s tail lashes as he considers going to the cafeteria again. But what if he gets lost? And loses his cot? It’s a nice cot. Much better than dirt and far superior to the container.
Maybe it is just smarter to go to sleep again? The more he explores, the more likely it is for someone to see him. To find him. To put him back in the container.
Danny presses closer to the cot mattress, his fluids squelching up around him. And what if the one thing finds him?! The thing he couldn’t bite?? That’s not safe! He can’t get picked up by it again! He can’t fight back! What if it crushes his core??
His curtain pulls back with a sharp skkkhsk of metal rings on metal bars. Danny bares his teeth and hisses, and—
—Oh. It’s the buzzing human again. Danny slowly lets his damaged muscles relax. It purrs in a language Danny can’t hear (did he lose his tiny ear bones??) very quickly and very pleased as it chats about something. Whatever. It’s not a threat and it’s a good distraction. Danny rolls onto his side so he can watch.
It makes a sad noise. Danny perks up. Why is it sad? Why would it—? BAGEL! Actually it doesn’t matter why the human is sad because it gives him a bagel. With cream cheese. Untoasted!!
Carbs go down sooooo smoothly. He doesn’t even get any crumbs stuck between his mostly-present teeth. It’s good. So good.
The buzzing human buzzes away, leaving Danny in a cloud of agitated air and a vague sense of concern. Concern? Did something happen?
The immature human voices come back. Danny perks up. They sound familiar, but they lack the vibrational quality of the buzzy human. It will be harder to tell what they want and where they are.
A face pokes past the curtain. Danny’s sight is too poor. He can’t recognize it. He hisses.
The buzzing child slides back in with a hvmmmmvm to put itself between Danny and the new face. Good. Bad, if the human gets hurt, but good that it doesn’t want Danny to get hurt either.
The new face doesn’t attack them either. It makes a long, drawn-out noise that Danny is mostly sure is a complaint or three, but the buzzing kid hops around, free and light, and zips off and zips back.
Danny peeks from under his arm.
Oooh. The new human has clean blankets. He does want those. Maybe they’ll sop up the fluids he’s sitting in. Now…will they offer them? Will Danny have to fight them for it?
His tail flickers. If they’re more like ghosts, he’ll have to fight. Danny doesn’t want to. They’re young humans. He might injure them without realizing. But he really wants those sheets. Maybe he could steal them very quickly…?
Danny doesn’t have much time to wonder though because he is snatched off the mattress??
He almost bites the buzzing human before he recognizes the buzzingbuzzingbuzzing under the skin of the human holding him in its grip. Why is he being held?! Is this a threat??
Is he going back to the container??
There are more young humans here suddenly, taking his bed and—hey! Taking his cot! They pull off the mattress, drag it off somewhere, and Danny won’t bite but he will phase through the arms of the small human and leave.
So he does.
It’s not comfortable to find another empty conference room and to hide there. But young humans are impatient.
They’ll leave Danny alone.
…eventually.
For now, though he’ll just hide his core under the table. It’s scratchy carpeting and hard wood on his sensitive core and he’s cranky and tired and he misses his cot.
If that red and blue thing tries to pick him up again, he’s going to bite him.
*
The hand that wakes him up is not the blue and red human this time.
Danny thinks it is, at first, and bites it as soon as he reforms. But this human yells and drops him, so it is not! Fantastic. Danny slides through the wall—
—And the human tugs him back into the conference room by his tail. Hello?! What?? Ow??????
Danny barely has time to bare his teeth before the whole world is spinning and moving fastfastfast and—
He plops onto his cot. Or. Danny is plopped onto his cot. He’s. On his cot?
The hell?
It’s. Danny sniffs. Pokes the mattress. There are new sheets on it. One layer underneath feels bouncy and tense, like it’s rubberized. But it’s his cot. Undoubtedly. It still sort of smells like all his juices rotting.
The buzzing human zips into the curtain that hides Danny’s cot. It and the new adult human start arguing. And then the adult starts buzzing.
Danny’s back is all tense and he doesn’t understand. Weird. Weird. Weird. Weeeird.
The adult goes away. Then Danny’s left with the younger buzzing human, and three strangers.
They’re so blurry. At least the humans that vibrate endlessly are red. The rest are a random mystery to him—splotches of warm reds and yellows on black, which is just dark enough to screw with his recently lacking depth perception. Fantastic.
Danny presses his face into the pillow.
His more-familiar-human buzzes off and is back in a flash—this time with a half-dozen different fancy breads.
They smell nice.
They look nice. Probably. Danny inches closer. There’s some spots of red, of blue. There’s probably fruits in them. Sugars, carbs—if there’s a lot of oils in them, that’s good for fats as well. Danny really needs the extra calories at the moment.
He almost goes for them. He does. But he doesn’t want to encourage that stupid picking-him-up behavior, so he leaves them be and pretends they’re not there, in the hopes that the young humans go away before he starts showing off his teeth about it.
The red human inches closer, and makes cunning little Don’t You Want It? noises. Danny’s neither a baby nor an idiot. He keeps a narrowed, half-formed eye out.
The buzzy human buzzes closer.
Danny stretches out his claws. A little twitch of pain and they solidify nice and sharp in the yellow light.
The buzzing human wisely takes a step back. And leaves the breads on the end of the cot.
Smart.
Danny doesn’t touch them until all four humans are long gone, their voices lost to the base. After that, though? Each pastry is gone in one bite.
Danny makes himself invisible, wishes for darkness, and he rests.
*
There’s more food on the end of his cot when Danny wakes up the next morning.
Granola bars. Dried fruits.
…Oatmeal.
It takes forever and makes his back and tail ache like crazy, but Danny swaps his cot with one of the other little cots in this large, medical wing. His aura flares in the hopes that he’ll cut out cameras, but who knows if it will actually works.
Of course, it would work on another ghost, hopefully, and warn them to Stay Away! I’m mean! if they wandered into his territory. But otherwise, who knows? Maybe Danny’s too sick to actually be scary.
Danny sleeps behind a new curtain that night.
He doesn’t like that things that remind him of the container are chasing him.
*
The red human buzzzzes back into his old cot space the next day. When it sees that Danny is gone, it cries.
Danny carefully makes himself invisible. Just in case.
The human buzzzzzes away and doesn’t come back for a moment, until it does, bringing back one of the darker human-shaped blobs. One talks, and then the other, their voices as chattery and annoying as when birds get upset with other birds.
More whining. More noise.
Danny rolls over, puts the pillow over his head, and pretends he doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t hear any footsteps. He doesn’t see the curtain jiggle. Danny thinks he sees feet poking out from behind his curtain, just the once, but he doesn’t—
Something touches his invisible form. Danny flinches back into visibility, and—shit. Shit. Shit. They’re touching him. They’re touching him on purpose.
He tries to go intangible. The hands slip through him, but it’s not enough; they know he’s hiding here now, and now something is going to come get him.
A hand brushes his core. Danny whines.
The hand. Stops. Pulls back. Something— it’s flesh-colored and soft and is held out for Danny to investigate.
Brown-black tears plop out of Danny’s sockets without warning.
…Oh. It’s a band-aid.
It’s. It’s so simple in its familiarity. It’s soft. It’s rubbery between his fingers. The little paper peel. The—its—
…It’s probably fine. If. If they’re bringing him a band-aid.
Everything still hurts, but the background ache is easiest to bear when he sleeps it off, hour after hour of praying his body knits itself back together. He tries not to think about the things he’s lost. The physical, tangible flesh he’s lost. The brain matter. The organs. The…hopefully he hasn’t lost a limb, but he has a feeling chancing a transformation to look isn’t going to go well for his overall health and wellbeing.
Danny’s core keens. He wants Frostbite. He wants Mom and Dad. He wants Jazz. He wants someone to put him into a safe bed with ice packs and to bring him soft foods and to lay beside his core and purr and he wants someone to take care of him.
He wants someone to take care of him.
Danny needs someone to take care of him so badly.
…Danny drops his intangibility. Some of his body becomes borderline corporeal, even. He has no idea what he looks like or how bad the damage is exactly, but he hears a muffled gasp and an acute intensification in the buzzing, sharp and high and scared.
That’s not a proud, smug response. That’s not a mean, gleeful response.
Okay.
Maybe…Maybe Danny is actually safe here. Maybe this won’t hurt too.
Danny doesn’t remember everything, but he does end his session slathered in clear cream, wrapped in cloth bandages as well as two young humans can manage, and with a band-aid stuck against some cavernous hole in his forehead.
He’s even awarded a blueberry muffin for his bravery.
(Good for him.)
#Bart: AAAAAAAAAAAH HE'S LEAKING AAAAAAA#Bart: ROB. KON. HOW DO YOU BABY PROOF SHEETS???#Tim: What? Why would you need to—#Tim: Oh shit. Uh. I think your friend's decomposing#Bart: I— THAT'S BAD. RIGHT?? THAT'S BAD??#Tim + Kon: *shrug*#Wally: Hey. Bart. Would you like to explain this. *holds up extraterrestrial lifeform by the scruff*#Bart: NO THANK YOU :) THANK YOU FOR FINDING HIM *speeds off*#health and hybrids#dpxpdc#dcxdc#dp x dc#faer fic#dcu#dcu crossover#danny phantom#(almost forgot that one)#tw body horror#tw gore#tw medical#cryptid!AU#spooky lad
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You can't just say Aethdew sexting while Dew's on tour and get away with it
I'm so glad you asked about this. It's been plaguing me for literal weeks. (@miasmaghoul can back me up on that).
Enjoy. <3
Aether's phone buzzes late. Well after midnight, like usual. He doesn't know what time it is where Dew is--earlier by an hour or two he guesses. He'd like to say he's keeping track. That he knows exactly where they are. He kept track for the first week or so. Looked at all the pictures, watched the videos. But that started to crack something painful open in his chest. Loneliness. Jealousy. He made the right choice--he knows it. But man, it doesn't make the ache for the stage any less. He wants to be there with them.
Mostly, he wants them all here with him.
The message doesn't wake him up. Sleep has been elusive since his pack went on tour. He finds himself awake most of the night--sleeping in fits during the day. Curled up in sunspots. Dragging Sunshine into a nap with him. His mind wanders less in the sunlight.
The TV is on low. Still on the show Sunny left it on when she went to bed, kissing Aether on the temple and telling him not to stay up all night. The light flashes over his face, he's watching, but he isn't. It drones on, something about baking that Cumulus probably loves.
Aether looks at his phone. He knows it's Dew before he really looks at it. He's the only one who texts him in the middle of the night. Heedless to time and basic human decency. Aether is grateful for these middle of the night texts. He gets one almost every night. He probably won't mention it to Dew--then he runs the risk that they'll stop.
Droplet: Can't sleep.
Aether shakes his head. He thinks about asking what time it is. Asking more details. Asking him why, exactly, he can't sleep this time. But he doesn't really want an essay on the shitty hotel bed and the scratchy sheets. Or how the bus is too loud. He just wants Dew.
A: How was the show?
D: hot. Good I guess. A show. You know?
Aether does know. They run together after a while. Blending until it's hard to remember what happened in France and what happened in Spain. He doesn't miss that part, the exhaustion, the bone-deep fatigue that you have to push through every day.
A: hotel?
D: yeah. Rooming with Swiss. Wanna help me sleep?
Aether looks at the text. Tries to smother the desire already curling in his gut. Of course he wants to help Dew sleep. He wants Dew to be here so he can press him into the couch and kiss him breathless. Wants to sheathe his fingers inside Dew's over-warm body and finger him until Dew begs.
A: you could ask Swiss.
D: don't want Swiss.
Aether stares at the message. Three words and he's already chubbing up.
Show me he texts back. Slipping his free hand into his sweatpants and wrapping his fingers around his cock. Let me help.
The next thing Aether knows his phone is ringing. He fumbles with it, trying to answer the video call and keep his hand on his dick. He half expects Dew's face to fill the screen, instead he's met with his cock. Hard, already flushed red at the tip and shiny with pre. Dew's spidery fingers are wrapped around the base. Aether watches the way his stomach muscles jump as his fingers contract and release. Dew's sweatpants are pulled down to his thighs, bare toes pressed into the white tile floor, already curling.
"Tell me what to do," Dew whispers.
"Are you in the bathroom?" Aether asks, narrowing his eyes and trying to get his barring. Dew snarls.
"Does it matter, come on, Aeth. Please."
It's the please that gets him. Always is. It's a rarely used weapon in Dew's arsenal, but it's lethel. Aether can't deny him when he asks nicely. Why would he want to?
"Go slow, tell me what it feels like."
Dew's breath stutters. Aether watches his hand drag up the length of his cock. Watches it kick in Dew's palm.
"Better if it was you."
"Wish it was," Aether says. He's fully hard now, heavy in his own hand. He matches Dew's pace, mimics his motions. It's almost enough to pretend it's Dew's skinny hand. Aether bites back a moan as Dew rubs the palm of his hand over the flushed head.
"Aeth," Dew whines after a few minutes. He's shaking a little. "Need more."
Aether knows the feeling. Body screaming for him to just move, for more, for something rough and desperate. "Yeah, yeah, faster now. It's ok."
Dew groans when he finally lets loose. Aether matches his rough pace, precum soaking into his sweatpants. Listening to Dew pant and whine as stands, dick in one hand, phone in the other.
Aether watches Dew's pre drip from his cock and onto the tile and he thanks Satan for good internet connections and better phone cameras.
Dew makes a noise Aether knows too well. Gut punched. Desperate. He can see his toes curling. Can see the fine shake in his thighs. Aether longs to reach out and touch him. To be the one with his hand wrapped around that cock, to feel the pulse of it. He squeezes his own, balls drawing up tight against his body as he watching Dew drag himself closer and closer does him in.
"Aeth--"
"Me too, let me see it. Come on Dew, make a mess for me I wanna--"
Dew swears, his rhythm falters. His cock kicks in his hand and Aether watches as he cums across his own knuckles and onto the floor. The video shakes as Dew tries to keep the phone in his hand as he cums. Gasping. Aether wishes he could see his face--could watch the way his eyes roll back in his head--next time. He doesn't need it, the sight of Dew cumming is enough to send Aether over the edge. Groaning, spilling into his sweatpants and over his hand. He digs his teeth into his cheek and tries to keep his eyes open--watching as Dew wipes his hand off on his pants and pulls them up.
Aether drops his head back against the couch cushion and tries to breathe normally.
Dew's face fills the screen next. Flushed, still panting. His hair is a mess. He smiles at Aether, wide and dumb and sleepy. Aether can't help but smile back at him. He feels insane. He feels like if he tried hard enough he could reach through his phone and drag his fingers over Dew's cheekbone.
"Better?" he asks.
Dew nods. "Still miss you though."
"Few more weeks, Firefly. And it'll be my hand, I promise."
"Hopefully more than your hand," Dew grins. He tries and fails to stifle a yawn.
"Go to sleep, Dew."
Dew frowns. But he steps out of the bathroom and kills the light. Dew's face is illuminated now by only the light from his phone and the TV, droning in the background just like it is for Aether.
"Same time tomorrow?" Dew asks.
Aether nods, "I'll be waiting."
#comet writes#ficlet#Aether Ghoul#Dewdrop Ghoul#Aether/Dewdrop#Dewther#Ghost fic#ghost fanfic#ghost fanfiction#unedited
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It's been eight months since the process began.
Hard to recognize you now. Does anyone detect the flesh that trembles and aches underneath that frame? Not that it matters anymore.
I remember those early days. Bright faced and full of ambition, proudly strutting around campus. The long winded conferences and discussions on transhumanism. That passion in your eyes, I thought you were committed to something greater- Until I glanced the way you crossed your legs, squirmed as they showed the new developments.
I remember how you stared at the videos, watching the procedures- The way the implants bore into the marrow, the way the skin wept as each pin and screw tore into bone. How somber you would seem when gentler methods were proposed. Don't think it went unnoticed.
Eight months ago, you and your friends. Small group of stoners, burnouts, the odd postdoc. Late night drinking after labwork, the way your leg bounced as they announced their discoveries, we mused on our own ideas. You weren't as drunk as you pretended to be when you volunteered to be our subject.
Do you remember the first time? They say you never forget. We didn't have any anesthetic on hand, but you were so brave. Tried to play your ache as bravado, but the way you thrashed as we splayed apart those fingers. The little pool forming between your legs. A few RFID chips, a few wire inlays over your tendons- An experiment in artificially produced muscle memory. I knew before you got off that table that you wanted more. And I craved to give it to you.
Wasn't long before you came to us. What seemed to the rest of us like some fleeting stunt became a vocation. A laundry list of modifications, dozens of academic papers, speculative technologies, little-known materials and decade-old experimental surgeries. You'd been compiling this for a while. Tell me, reading those papers, did you get off then? It's almost sick, really.
Of course, we obliged. Garage skinweaving, drinking beer and passing blunts as we worked our way up your arm. A new interface now. This time aimed at generalized gesture control and interface with the bots your RFID chips were paired with. The spinal implants came next. The way you thrashed in the stirrups, arching as we flayed you. The little spurts dripping with each shot of the airgun, pushing the electrodes deep into your vertebra.
Bit by bit, your little project continued to escalate. I remember when they first started getting reservations. The way our eyes met every time you were on my table, how it was always *me* that you tried to grab- High as we often were, eventually it was transparent. You're not a good actor, little bot. I tried to preserve some of that modesty you'd forgotten, cover your little messes when and where I could. Besides, in the swirl of blood and bile, it would have been hard to detect your little indulgences.
It was Kari that left first. Do you remember her? She was your best friend. You'd talk for hours, known each other since childhood. Chose the same college. She still comes to visit sometimes. Pleading for you to remember. She always leaves in tears, and I always taunt her, saying that perhaps if she'd stayed things wouldn't have gone this far. She wants to avenge you so, so desperately, but it's all there on paper. Your signature, clear as day, forfeiting yourself as medical surplus. No longer a person, just a collection of spare parts and playthings, to be molded and shaped by inquisitive minds like your own.
I remember, winter break. We were having drinks when you shoved the phone in my face. Some new bipedal bot, clunky and barely humanoid.
"That."
"What?"
"I want- I want to be that. I want to be... her."
The tone at the table shifted. They looked at me, nervously, waiting to see my answer. Sheepishly sipping drinks, awkward laughter. Just another drunken fit. Your little stunts actually got Nathan clean. If nothing else, you served as a model of what happens to the intoxicated and ambitious. The distant stare you began to develop, datastreams and wave feeds jacked directly into your occipital. Tasting and hearing the sounds of people's lives, dreams, questions. Overstimulating, wasn't it? Shopping lists, vent posts, horny lewds, murder, live death, news, letters to fucking Santa- It was so cute watching you bump into things at first. The way you'd dribble a bit, staring off into space as the unseen world filled your new sensors.
I remember when I had to revoke your driving privileges. Driving behind a few smart cars, the way you began to breathe. Tailgating, chasing them like a dog before landing us in a ditch. Everyone was so shaken, but all I could do was laugh. You were so upset, but I sat with you until the truck came. The last straw for Nora, unfortunately. But not for me.
Every month, something new. Our little heaven, our iron paradise, dingy dorm turned operating theater. The equipment you and I cobbled together, stitching new devices and instruments capable of keeping up with your ever changing body. A garden singing with the hum of machines and the rhythm of pumps. The scent of blood, whiskey, and sex perfumed the air.
The few that remained had become desensitized. Stopped seeing you as a friend and just another project to help get by. A few voyeuristic volunteers chipped in, eager to see the former prodigy wired in the dorms. Some didn't believe you could have ever been human. Just some elaborate puppet, dangling like a Shibari angel. Some thought it gruesome when they saw the entrails, but I could only ever see the beauty of a work in progress. They saw the now, but I shared your vision. I saw what you were becoming, what we were making. We even started charging admissions for some of the other students. Our little sideshow, showing off an unfinished art too bold for the public eye- Or perhaps a coveted sculpture, prized by mine hands and my hands alone.
I helped you drink and eat for a while. Tethered to life support, you couldn't move much. I set up a cot next to you, so you could always get me when you needed. Sometimes I laid underneath you, head resting gently against what soft tissue remained. I'd always pretend to sleep when you struggled in your bonds, trying to grind against me, loosen your wrists enough to touch me. You tried to be so quiet. But I had learned your new quirks, the particular hum of your fans, the little stutter when your auxiliary coolant pump started kicking in. Learning your new speech. The way you sang.
I remember the new legs. You weren't stable yet. We had to put you through your paces. Watching old Boston Dynamics videos, I came up with ideas. Proudly taking you to parks and bars, inviting strangers and passers by to kick you, beat you, try and break you. You disappointed a few times, but the fault wasn't yours really. I hadn't made you strong enough yet. The way you gagged in shock when your leg bent backwards, metal splitting and oozing an inky black. I ran you home, carried you in my arms to the car.
Soon you were able to take it. The people came, spitting, and beating, and breaking you. And every time, you got back up. You were even polite about it, thanked them for their contribution to improving your durability features. You felt slutty every time, and I loved seeing it on your face.
I was so proud.
Do you remember it? Somewhere in there. The way you invited me into your body, tasting me, feeling me one last time before you surrendered. It was a tearful afterglow, but I remember the warmth of those now-cold cheeks- The salt of your sweat and tears on my lips as I brushed what hair remained to the side. It was going to be okay.
You screamed as we began. My hand and it's tools whirring inside of you, peeling you apart, tearing out the organs you no longer needed. The blood spilling from your lips, choking on yourself as I kissed you. The way your eyes fluttered, slowly losing yourself. I felt you quiver around my arm, pulsing and contracting as you came. I couldn't help but taste it. Biting the soft of your stomach, the last pieces of you I would be forevermore deprived of once your vision reached it's fruition.
I cried when it was done. All the reservations, all the pain, all the shame I felt finally bubbled forth. I had given you what you wanted. Always. But could I take this next step? Could I honor your wishes? Could I bring myself further?
I couldn't disappoint you. Now now. You had trusted me, and time was running then. You weren't going to die on my table. I set to work, unaided, frantically tearing away that head and suspending it in the biogel. I preserved as much of the corpus collosum as I could, rigging up the pumps and neural adapters to keep you sentient, alive, well. Oxygenators, artificial spinal fluid, new filtration to remove waste pooling under the dura mater, needles to regulate myelin levels and neuron interactions, artificial stimuli to remind you, somewhere in that buried well of consciousness, I was still out here. Still working, toiling, for you. I hadn't broken your trust yet. I kept your skull.
New eyes. A unique biomechanical composite detector, largely proteins with a few living components nestled between wafers of biofilm, borrowing inspiration from the ogre-faced spider. New teeth, metallic and sharp, predatory and pure. A new voicebox, synthetic polymer tendons vibrating like a larynx- The voice you always wanted. I hope to hear it sing.
Its been nine days since you came online. I haven't heard much from you. You drool and drone, carrying on. I catch you exploring your new body sometimes. It's a sight to behold.
Maybe this is what you wanted. To be some little toy, a chirping little pet. A marvel of engineering and science, an erotic sculpture of silicon and synthetic divinity.
But sometimes, I miss her. The girl who spoke for hours, hands dancing over the keyboard writing code and huffing at smut. The walks we took, the long academic discussions. I look at her now, hardly recognizable, but I'm so proud. I stifle my own yearning and appreciate what she has become. What she was always destined to be. You wanted to be broken.
And so I did.
Maybe one day, soon, the extruders will finish wiring together your neural interface. You'll come awake again, and can appreciate this new form to it's fullest.
My hand awaits you there, my love~
You always know how to make this girl blush and cry wow. I'll never be able to stop thinking about this.
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Aziraphale and Crowley have learned to mildly enjoy Maggie and Nina's presence ever since (what Nina has termed) 'The Weirdest Fucking Shopowner's Meeting She Has Ever Seen'
(Maggie just calls it 'The Night She Got To Throw Fire Extinguishers at Demons')
Now, the two couples meet up once every week or two at Nina's shop after closing, solely for Aziraphale to gossip with Maggie about the going-on's of the street
(And, for Crowley and Nina, to drink a very large amount of caffeine and liquor while their respective blonde counterparts talk.)
Soon enough, after trying to explain what on Earth a 'Taylor Swift' is, and "Why on Earth is everyone walking into his very respectable shop talking about vibes??" Maggie finds out that Aziraphale is very behind on modern entertainment. Far, far too behind.
Suddenly, the meetings have become 'Two Humans (and a Demon) Attempt to Educate an Angel on Things He Would Really Rather Not Know About and Absolutely Does Not Care About in the Slightest, Thank You)
(The demon is not much help at all, according to Maggie and Nina. He spend about 95% of the time cackling when he sees Aziraphale's reactions to the oddest things he can think to show him.
Maggie and Nina have tried (multiple times, using multiple techniques) to keep Crowley quiet during these visits
(Crowley is positive that his sarcasm and clever comments are essential to this project, regardless of what they think)
They start slow, knowing the essentials are required before dumping pop music all over Aziraphale and his predilection for 18th century entertainment.
They go over various things they consider simple, starting with common terms the 'youth' use
Maggie tries very, very hard to keep a straight face while explaining why humans kept yelling 'mood' everytime they see Crowley sitting somewhere, slumped and curved in a way only an occult being that originated with no bones, and in the last 6000 years has still not aquired the knowledge of how to use them, could sit
(It turns out Crowley wasn't quite sure why they did that either. He is very pleased to find out that he is, in fact, a 'mood' and will NOT stop bringing it up, very smugly, to Aziraphale
Once it's learned, Crowley demonstrates the word Yeet, over and over, throwing literally everything in sight at Aziraphale whilst dramatically screeching the word, for a week straight
He stops when Aziraphale throws a empty journal at his head (and he was very disappointed that Aziraphale didn't even say the word when he did it)
They escalate to songs next, ones that the Angel would have never heard ("Clearly for very good reasons, dear, surely it has never rained men on this planet, I'd be quite aware of it. Had it happened, there would have been a very large amount of paperwork involved"
When they arrive at the topic of Taylor Swift, Crowley, oddly enough, suddenly has a lot of things to attend to at his apartment, "Nope, Angel I do not need help, it's a very personal matter and it involves lots of demon-y, menacing, spooky things, better to not involve yourself, you stay right there"
(Nina pointedly does not miss how red Crowley's face gets when they start playing Love Story as he rushes out of the shop and into the Bentley
Aziraphale heads back to his shop for the night, alone and slightly concerned for Crowley's well-being (more than the usual amount of concern he has for Crowley at any given point)
He does however, find himself humming a tune he can't remember the name of, something along the lines of a Great War perhaps? He makes a note to ask Maggie about it later on
Crowley drives home, completely confident that nobody is the wiser about his fondness for Taylor Swift or for a certain Angel (He is always very confident when he's wrong)
And if the Bentley plays Enchanted on repeat the entire ride to Mayfair, Crowley will never tell a soul.
#aziraphale#crowley#good omens#azirafell#ineffable boyfriends#ineffable husbands#crowley good omens#good omens aziraphale#aziraphel#crowley x aziraphale#crowley aziraphale#aziraphale x crowley#aziracrow#crowly#crowly x aziraphale#crowly good omens#nina good omens#maggie good omens#nina x maggie#maggie x nina#good omens fic#good omens headcanons#good omens hc#aziraphale and crowley#crowley and aziraphale#maggie and nina#good omens crowley#otp: ineffable#ineffable idiots#GOheadcanon23
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People accuse the Darkling of...
⚠️TW!: Genocide, sexual assault and abuse⚠️
People accuse the Darkling of lacking empathy.
Well that's what immortality does to you, my friend. The human brain is not designed for this kind of thing. It's miraculous that he wasn't insane by the start of "Shadow and Bone".
He also willingly stopped feeling emotions because they distracted him from his goal.
Furthermore, he was raised by a mother that kept telling him to never believe in love and always tried to isolate him from people he could bond with.
And I don't think you call someone "unfeeling" when he seems concerned about what will happen to Ravka and the Grisha or when you remember his reaction to his mother's fall or when he saw the woman he loved lose her entire soul, her very being right in front of him. The man could feel. But his emotions were buried deep within.
People accuse the Darkling of being a murderer.
Yes, he was, I agree.
But so was Alina, so was Mal, so was Nikolai. Everybody killed people.
"But Nikolai didn't kill out of evilness"
Neither did the Darkling. He didn't do it because he enjoyed it, he wasn't a sadist. He killed because he was fighting a war. At times of peace (if there was any in Ravka) he didn't go around shooting people out of boredom.
People accuse the Darkling of lying to Alina.
He lied to Alina because she was a new and, apparently, naïve person that he couldn't just trust from day one. He was the leader of an army that was already in danger of being hunted down if the King changed his mind. Why should he trust her? Why should he tell her his secrets? Is she his lieutenant? Is she part of the royal council? No, I don't think so.
"He lied to her about who he is!"
Isn't that the same lie he was telling to literally everyone for 400 years? You say it like he did it because he had something personal against her. It really shows how clueless all of you are for the matters of politics and ruling. Read a book ffs.
People accuse the Darkling of committing genocide.
He didn't. He was actually a victim of one.
I can't believe this accusation even exists
People accuse the Darkling of being a sexually creep towards Alina.
Aside from the fact that neither I nor the author herself consider him as one, are we talking about those moments where they already were enemies? Do you know what an "enemies-to-lovers" trope is? Do you know that in this kind of trope attraction and aversion are the primary ingredients?
Or the fact that, in the Grishaverse, the very rules of consent are different. How can you or anyone put modern laws into a fantastical universe where people with magical powers exist and things are run differently? Each universe has its own setting, structure and rules. Why are you putting your contemporary ideals and ethics there? What are they even doing there in the first place?
People accuse the Darkling of being manipulative towards Alina.
If you accuse him as such, could you please DM me the passages from the book where he did that? Because even I can't find them.
And I'm talking about before his big reveal as the "villain". Because after that, those moments are again taken as the actions of an enemies-to-lovers trope.
But where he was manipulative before that?
Good luck trying to figure out the impossibly ambiguous scenes where Leigh tried to paint him as one in S&B and failed.
People accuse the Darkling of being power-hungry
I agree, he sought power. But as far as we know he never wanted power exclusively for himself. In RoW it was revealed that even the Fold was the result of him trying to stop the wars:
Wars ended and began again—and again and again. Grisha were not accepted; they were resented in Ravka and hunted abroad. Men fought them with swords, then guns, then worse. There was no end to it, and so he had sought an end. Power that could not be questioned. Might that could not be reckoned with. The result had been the Fold.
The amplifiers? To control the Fold and stop the wars.
The nichevo'ya? Used them to lower the losses of his army.
The throne? Unlike his predecessor, he seemed to be involved in paperwork, listening to his advisors, feeding his army and trying to deal with all the deserters from that army.
"You try to defend him and his actions!!"
Actually we're trying to protect him from your stupidity and inability to read between the lines and past the narrative. And the Darkling has become totally evil in the eyes of this fandom because:
A) the narrative really did him dirty. Always talking about his atrocities and villainous actions.
B) the fandom is really clueless and stupid about the ways of leadership and ruling and I will die on this hill. You have NO idea how treason must be handled, or political intrigues are working and it shows from the very first second you open your mouth. "The Darkling scarred Genya!" Welcome to the world of "treason is met with consequences". "The Darkling lied to Alina!" Welcome to the world of politics.
Also, it's the double standards that kill us. You forgive Kaz for killing people for money but spit on the Darkling for doing it for a selfless purpose. You love Nikolai for trying to usurp the throne, but hate the Darkling for doing the same when he did it to bring a change to Ravka.
The Darkling was an anti-villain. Anti-villains are characters with a noble, sympathetic goal but the means to achieve it is through violence. And these characters are meant to stir sympathy towards the reader and are, almost always, tragic characters.
Now whether someone forgives his actions or excuse his character is always up to the reader.
But let's not pretend like the heroes did better. Or the fact that you probably wanted him to act like a forgiving, kind-hearted fairy godmother after one thousand years full of shit to the point that he broke, said enough and stood up against the violence and atrocities his people were suffering from. He decided to fight fire with fire and I find that understandable, just like the majority of his supporters in this fandom.
#i know and recognize his crimes and still stand by him#because he did something even if that something was too distasteful for you#the darkling#pro darkling#aleksander morozova#pro aleksander morozova#grishaverse trilogy#shadow and bone#grishaverse
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TW for this post, talking about suicide in Dead Poets Society
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For anyone else who has read books like “All The Bright Places”, “The Perks Of Being A Wallflower”, “The Virgin Suicides” or “If We Were Villaind”, then you probably know the theme/debate of who suffered more from the suicide, the victim of it, or the people left behind and I kinda want to explore that in Dead Poets Society.
Neil is clearly out leading man, you’ve gotta love him, he’s one of those characters that everyone wishes to know in real life, full of passion and promise and humour. Neil connects with the audience by feeling real, by making mistakes and getting into trouble and having very real problems. The movie focuses on him and the other poets for around 1hour 30min.
I remember the first time I watched it, when Neil shot himself I thought that would be the curtain call, THE END, no more story to tell- so I was shocked and mildly comforted by the fact that there was another 30min of everyone’s lives after the fact. I think this fact is what springs to mind the debate I’ve seen a lot before of “who suffered more” but I’ve never seen the argument happen over a piece of media that has real substance and meat on its bones to lend to the debate.
I’ll explore all of my previous examples to show my point:
“All The Bright Places” - the first sort of “fandom” I’ve seen think about this. The book follows Violet and Finch, both suicidal, one lives, one dies. This story, unlike Dead Poets Society, essentially ends after the death of Finch. There is maybe five minutes of reading dedicated to Violet’s reaction to the funeral, but not much else.
“The Perks Of Being A Wallflower” - This example will be slightly different from the others. Charlie’s previous best friend did kill himself, but it’s neither the focus nor mentioned very much in the novel. The book does follow Charlie’s suicidal ideation, loneliness, and sexual assault, and a large part of what we see in the novel is the people around Charlie reacting to Charlie’s pain. This book had the best debate on the matter (I think anyways) but Charlie is very much alive, he is able to heal.
“The Virgin Suicides” - Honestly, not a good example because do the times it was written in and it’s attitude towards mental health (or rather, the characters attitudes) but it felt necessary to mention. The book shows very little sympathy for the girls milking themselves, it’s always stated very monotonously what they do to themselves and how it ends with a big emphasis on the parents and neighbours etc left behind. Given the time and attitudes, however, it’s seen as a sort of curse, so the idea isn’t exactly explored well.
“If We Were Villains” - Most of the book is spent in flashback, with the end revealing that to Oliver that James committed suicide, it’s basically a very large nostalgia trip with a fun little ribbon of heartbreak at the end that doesn’t get the chance to be truly explored.
You may notice here that most of the suicides, or metaphors for death of oneself, happen at the end of the novels, it isn’t a main focus and is usually followed by THE END.
DPS has no problem exploring consequences and actively mentions consequences throughout the novel and movie, of how A will lead to B.
I don’t really know where I land with DPS and the “who suffered more?” debate. It’s hard to measure pain or sadness, they all suffer for what happens to Neil, they all grieve it, too. DPS has the most substance to talk about, but it feels almost inappropriate too. Yes, Neil was the one lose his life, his future, his love and his passion, his story was cut short (I FUCKING HATE MR PERRY) so, of course, I’m compelled to say Neil suffered most, because frankly, he did. But there’s also the aspect of “those who were left behind”, it seems Todd and Charlie feel almost a bit of betrayal towards losing Neil, and the others become subdued and lost with grief, you can feel that there is no warmth anymore. There’s also Mr Keating, who sobs over the society verse book, who probably feels some responsibility even though it was Neil who mislead him.
Everyone’s lives are changed, main by Mr Fucking Wise Guy Perry.
It can be considered an inappropriate debate to have, but it’s also morbidly interesting. Neil’s life ends, but the others are changed forever, and since you can’t measure suffering by a true meter, it’s hard to say who hurt more, not that it’s something that should be debated with vigour anyways.
I know I probably left a lot of important relationship stuff out. Would love to hear other thoughts on this, also this is just my opinion! Completely fine to disagree:)
#dead poets fandom#dead poets society#todd anderson#neil perry#anderperry#the dead poets society#gerard pitts#richard cameron#dps#steven meeks#knox overstreet#charlie dalton#mr perry hate club#mr keating#dps boys#dps headcanons#personal vent
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A/N: this isn’t linked to any specific fic, also it’s kinda sloppily written sorry
Part Two Here
A Few Things Alucard Loves About You
This one is when you’re a human and you know he’s a vampire:
- When you eat with him, he loves how you’ll sit at the table and eat a normal human meal while he’s sipping on blood bag(s)
You can be a human or vampire for these next ones:
- Asking him for help when you’re bleeding
So one time when you had cut your hand you went to your loving boyfriend Alucard for help getting patched up.
In the moment it happened you somehow completely forgot that he was a vampire, because all you thought was “I need his help.”
It wasn’t until you asked for his help that you remembered and felt terribly inconsiderate for asking him.
You apologized and tried to leave but Alucard stopped you because internally was so overjoyed that the first person you thought of going to for help was him. He told you it was alright.
You asked him if he was sure he’s sure and he told you he was, so you trusted him.
Alucard didn’t show any signs of how he was fighting all his urges to have a small taste. It wasn’t because he was worried you’d get scared, it was because he knew that you would feel bad for asking for his help if you saw his struggle.
And he won this fight, so now you almost always go to him when you need help to take care of an actively bleeding wound.
- Alucard might scowl but when you take his hat off his head or steal his glasses off of his face and wear them jokingly
- He also loves it when in the bedroom you wear his shirts to sleep in, it reminds him how small you are compared to him
- When he’s wearing his gloves, you’ll trace the symbol on them or just kiss it
- He loves it when you playfight with him, you trust him not to get aggressive
- When you trust him to kiss your neck- sometimes you will make the joke “no biting” and he finds it funny (but you only make it on good days)
Not only can Alucard take Baskerville’s form and have the Hellhound be a shadowy figure connected to Alucard’s body, but Baskerville can have its own physical form completely separate from Alucard. I’m making it this way because I can, since it’s not confirmed if Baskerville is a familiar or actually one of Alucard’s forms. But anyway:
Alucard loves how YOU ACT LIKE BASKERVILLE IS A PUPPY
You play fetch with what you hope isn’t human bones and scratch behind his ears asking “awe who is my good boy? You are! You are!”
You will even fall asleep cuddling the surprisingly fluffy demon dog, and Baskerville just lets it happen
- Alucard has been through a lot, so man just needs a good cry every now and then, y’know? Sometimes he’ll want to talk about it, and he loves how you’ll listen without judgment…. but him opening up is a rarity. So when you just let him sob into your chest without pushing him to tell you what’s the matter means the world to him
- He feels bad about it… But he also loves how you could be sleeping like a log because you’re exhausted from a long day/night’s of work, and somehow you’re up right away when he wakes up from a bad dream.
Sometimes you’ll be able to feel it, like something changes in the atmosphere and it wakes you up. Sometimes he’ll start shifting around and it wakes you up.
You both prefer it when you wake up before him because you’ll wake him up, pulling him out from the dream before he falls too deep into it. But sometimes you’ll wake up at the same time he does.
To him it doesn’t really matter though. In either situation you are up for him so he doesn’t have to deal with it on his own. You stay up for however long you need to in order to comfort him. You’ll hold him close, reminding him that it was only a dream and he's in your arms.
There are so many more things, but these are just a few
#hellsing ultimate#hellsing#alucard hellsing#hellsing fandom#hellsing fanfiction#alucard#alucard fanfiction#hellsing alucard#alucard x reader#alucard x you#alucard headcanons#alucrd#baskerville#vampire
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Bungo Stray Dogs Headcanons, but it’s only the characters that I think deserve more attention
I'm currently on a BSD kick, so have these headcanons while I feel ✨Inspired✨
I'll take requests for other characters, these two are just the only ones I have inspiration for right now.
Tw: Aku’s a yandere so yeah. He’s also kinda just a violent disaster of a person in general.
Ryuunosuke Akutagawa
🖤‼️ I got one word for you, and that word is Yandere. Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. If you manage to catch his eye, he will kill to keep you by his side. He’s certainly a dangerous one, so watch your back! Yes, he will kidnap you. You kinda brought this on yourself by searching ‘Akutagawa x reader’
🖤‼️He has no idea what love is, actually. He just knows that the world is a dangerous place and he’s the only one strong enough to protect you. It’s going to be a while before he can put a name to this strange feeling, so just sit tight while he figures it out.
🖤‼️Gets a lot of advice from Chuuya, mostly. It’s not that everyone else doesn’t already know that he’s helplessly in love with you, it’s that they’re all scared of him. Chuuya is the only one who isn’t, and thusly he is the advice giver. He actually gives surprisingly good advice, despite his rather angry personality.
🖤‼️It’ll be a while before he trusts anyone else around you. Eventually, you’ll basically be an honorary member of the Port Mafia, but for the LONGEST time he refuses to let anyone else even speak to you. Chuuya does not give a fuck, and visits you while Aku’s out on a mission. Don’t worry, Short Ginger’s got your back. He’ll be your best buddie and wingman.
🖤‼️He has absolutely no clue how to socialize like a normal person. You think Dazai took the time out of his busy schedule to teach Aku how to function socially? Absolutely not. He was too busy turning Aku into the perfect killing machine. Aku is incredibly blunt and literal about everything, and he takes everything way too seriously. 90% of jokes will fly straight over his head, which is pretty funny in its own right.
🖤‼️Gin is the first person Aku trusted with you. She’s his sister, after all. You’ll likely become friends with her, which pleases Aku. He wants all the important people in his life to get along.
🖤‼️If you’re not already a secret badass, become one. Just trust me. Aku is very into that. If you suddenly whip out a gun and save his ass by shooting a bitch without hesitation, he’ll be hooked forever. He’ll be so stunned in the moment that he won’t be able to function properly. Remember that scene in season 3, episode 11? Where he just said yes to everything? Yeah he relapses into that.
🖤‼️Please validate him. Tell him he’s the best and the strongest. He needs to hear it from somebody he cares about. And maybe try to convince him to not seek after Dazai’s validation so much. Does his opinion really even matter? I mean, he certainly doesn’t seem to care about Aku.
🖤‼️He spends more time in the infirmary than out of it. This hard-headed idiot pushes himself well past the limits of what his frail body can handle LITERALLY EVERY FIGHT. You’re going to be spending a lot of time sitting by his hospital bed hoping he’ll wake up from whatever coma he’s currently in. Somebody needs to tell him not to push himself so hard, and it may as well be you.
🖤‼️Please make him take care of himself. Force feed him if you have to, but this boy needs a sandwich. Good gracious, he’s a fucking toothpick. There is no meat on his little toothpick bones. Make him bathe, too. At least make him wash his hair and put on deodorant.
🖤‼️No, he will not let you steal his coat. He will get you a matching one, if it’s really that important to you.
🖤‼️Aku opposes physical affection at first, especially in public. He can’t have people thinking he’s a softie! Eventually, he’ll warm up to it. Only in private, though. Unless he happens to be jealous. Then he needs to show this other guy who you belong to.
🖤‼️Over all, probably the third most dangerous pick in the show. First being Fyodor, and second being Shibusawa Tatsuhiko. It’s not that he lacks power or ruthlessness, just that he has a very obvious issue that can be fixed with some hard work and dedication. He needs lots of validation, and to have some sense beaten into him from time to time.
Edgar Allen Poe
🤎🦝 Oh gosh I love this underrated mf so much- there really isn't enough content of this sweet introvert baby- Anyway, Poe is the sweetest, shyest little bean pole. I think he would like someone who won't abandon him at parties. *ahem* ranpo *ahem* He would also love it if you would read his stories and give him positive feedback. Please. Just do it. He deserves it.
🤎🦝He does have some… interesting… mood swings. Honestly, he can be moodier than most girls on their periods (i can say that, because I’M a girl). One minute he’ll be happy and cheerful, and the next he’ll be Tamaki-Amajiki-ing in the corner. If you don’t know what that means, go watch My Hero Academia.
🤎🦝He and Karl are a packaged deal, obviously. I’m sorry if you have some deathly fear of raccoons (if you do, then why the heck are you simping for raccoon man??) but that’s how it is. Karl is his best buddie, and will be your best buddie too. Look on the bright side, you get to pet a fluffy raccoon!
🤎🦝You met during one of the ADA’s office parties, which Poe attended to show Ranpo his latest novel. Unfortunately, Ranpo is easily distracted and abandoned poor Poe within five minutes. Seeing the incredibly nervous introvert in the corner, you decided to talk to him. Congratulations! You now have a second shadow! Poe is so incredibly insecure in social situations that he will cling to you for as long as you’re willing to put up with him, even if you’re also introverted.
🤎🦝If you like to write, he would love to read your writing! He’ll give you pointers on how to make your writing better. Y’all meet up regularly to discuss your latest projects, read each other’s work, and give each other tips and ideas.
🤎🦝He is WAY too shy to confess to you on his own. He writes so many letters, but never has the courage to send them. He also practices with Karl daily, and still can’t handle the pressure. Somebody please help him-
🤎🦝He tries to ask Ranpo for advice (probably a bad idea) and Ranpo outs him immediately. (“Oh, you’re crushing on y/n, aren’t you?”) Ranpo advises him to just confess already. The World’s Greatest Detective definitely already knows that you’re crushing on Poe. It doesn’t take a genius to see how much you’re pining for each other!
🤎🦝Cafe dates!! Library dates!! Anywhere decently quiet and calm. Poe really doesn’t like large crowds, so maybe no big social gatherings. He enjoys just relaxing at home and reading next to you.
🤎🦝Loves physical affection, but is so so so shy about initiating it. Please just grab him and snuggle him so he doesn’t have to worry about it. Hold his hand! Give him kisses, if you can reach! He absolutely loves to cuddle. With how tall he is, he makes a great big spoon. He could probably just envelope your entire body with his.
🤎🦝Apparently he’s also rich?? Not certain if this is canon (edit: it is!!!) or not but we’re going with it anyway. That way, he can spoil you. If you like to read, he will buy you so many books. You’ll never have time to read them all. Artist? He’ll buy you art supplies! Any other hobbies? Taken care of. Saw a cute necklace/dress/outfit/whatever? It’s on your doorstep within a week.
🤎🦝All in all, a phenomenal pick. Perhaps the best in the show (in my opinion, anyway). Yeah he’s super clingy and insecure, and has some interesting mood swings, but he’s still just a good lad who deserves all the love in the world. Plus he has a pet raccoon, and that’s just really cool.
#bsd#bungo stray dogs#bsd x reader#bungo stray dogs x reader#bsd poe x reader#bsd edgar allen poe x reader#bsd Akutagawa x reader#bsd ryunosuke akutagawa x reader
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is
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: graphic violence, kidnapping, one mention of frequent hospital visits, vague allusions to The Victory Project and everything that comes with it, Trauma
Summary: Alice Warren is a lot of things and you happen to love every single one. After she mysteriously disappears one day, it’s the only thing that keeps your rage and fear laser-focused.
A/N: Dear followers, today I offer you headcanons that nobody requested with a weird poetry vibe. Tomorrow? Who knows. Also I might’ve taken some liberties with how the simulation works, but hey. Hope you enjoy!
Alice is compassionate.
The first time you meet her, you aren’t looking for it – you aren’t looking for anything at all. Weeks after weeks of hospital visits have exhausted you completely, worn you down to the bone. You’re sitting in a cheap plastic chair in a long, bright corridor, not a single thought in your head; all you want is just to curl up in your bed and sleep for fifty years straight. Maybe you’d still wake up tired.
That’s when you hear her sweet, concerned voice, asking you if you’re okay.
You’d assume a surgeon working a long shift wouldn’t be the one to chat, but surprisingly, you’d be wrong. She really wants to know if something’s the matter. People rarely come here for some happy reasons, she tells you. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay.
You cry in her arms for what feels like hours – in the arms of a complete stranger who keeps reassuring you, never once noticing how you stain her work clothes with tears.
Alice is a good friend.
It’s been a few months. You can’t remember the time when she wasn’t your friend, can’t imagine a life that wouldn’t include her. You meet as often as you can, talking about nothing and everything, sharing the things you wouldn’t share with anyone else. It’s like you’re on the same wavelength all the time; you simply get each other.
You keep reminding Alice that she doesn’t have to see you every other day. After all, it’s hard to imagine a job more demanding than hers – you’d understand. And every time Alice tells you that it’s fine. That she loves what she does and she loves spending time with you.
“I’d go crazy sitting at home all day,” she laughs.
Alice is loveable.
You collect the moments you share like you’d collect rare flowers, saving them between the book pages for later. Alice pulling you in a dance in her living room, giggling as you end it with a twirl. Alice showing you her new sundress, asking for your opinion about it with casual intimacy. Alice clinking glasses with you, stars in her eyes.
You think your friend is beautiful. You don’t allow your thoughts to go further than that.
Alice is valuable.
The last time you see her, Alice is venting about her boyfriend – all valid things, you must say, you’d be venting too. Your advice to dump him becomes less and less humorous every time you repeat it. Anyone can fall on hard times - not everyone turns into an entitled leech over that. She tells you it’s okay. Deep down he’s a really good guy, and fights happen. That’s just a part of life.
You think that “deep down” must be quite deep indeed, but you don’t voice it. She clearly loves him, and if she chooses to give him that love then he must deserve it on some level. Either way, it’s not for you to decide.
That night, Alice is wearing her favorite skirt and a big striped sweater. A description burned into your mind as you have to repeat it over and over later.
Alice is gone.
It happens overnight – nobody knows where she went and nobody knows what might’ve happened.
No, she didn’t have any enemies.
No, she wasn’t acting any differently than she normally would.
No. Yes. No. Thank you, that means a lot.
You put up posters with her face every day and cry yourself to sleep every night.
Her boyfriend is standoffish. He’s never liked you and sees no need to pretend otherwise now. You’ve always hated him, didn’t you? You never believed in him. All you wanted is to see them, true star-crossed lovers, apart.
Time and time again, you try to mend that bridge just so you can have the hope of ever finding your friend, but her boyfriend isn’t having any of that. You chalk it up to his wounded pride at first, never denying him the right to resent you. Yet something bothers you about it nevertheless.
Something is off. That’s all you can say and that’s all that you really need
Alice is nearby.
It takes time. It takes effort. It takes an ungodly amount of unimaginably awful podcasts, but you finally get the full picture. It’s terrifying, it’s impossible and it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the only option.
After a few days of rehearsing the whole things in your head, you follow Jack – you’ve finally managed to learn his name – to what used to be his and Alice’s shared apartment. For someone trying to conceal a brand new human right violation, this man is incredibly careless. He’s so assured in his invincibility that he doesn’t even bother with varying his routes.
You know what you’re doing is illegal, but it doesn’t matter at this point. Doubt is a luxury you can’t afford, not anymore. The law has failed Alice and her boyfriend has failed her too; you aren’t about to do the same.
The door has three locks, yet they’re so shitty that you manage to bypass them all with a few tweaks here and there – you’re lucky today. Jack must’ve gotten sloppier with time. Or maybe he never cared in the first place. Who knows.
Doesn’t matter.
You pass through the hallway and enter the bedroom.
Alice
is
right
there.
It’s a first time you’re seeing the device in action and, for a moment, you forget how to breathe. Gasping, you will yourself to look away from her, from what this despicable stain on humanity has done to her, and stare at Jack instead. He hasn’t entered the simulation yet, but he’s about to do it.
For just a moment, he stares back with fear and confusion in his eyes, and that gives you more than enough time to lunge for his throat.
You fly into a blind rage – one that you’ve never felt before and will never feel after. He tries to fight back, tries to crawl away, tries to plead, cry, scream; you can’t hear any of that. It’s all just noise, buzz in the air. You tear into his flesh with your bare hands, pulling it apart like a rabid animal. His hair is a perfect length to be wrapped around your fist.
You drive him face-first into the floor a few times before his body goes limp. You then do it some more.
You haven’t fought anyone since kindergarten.
You sit up and press your back to the bed frame, gasping for air. Your face burns and you can taste the metal – he must’ve landed some blows. Could be better, could be worse. You’ll live.
Alice.
With the shaking hands, you – gently, ever so gently – you take off her bounds and tie Jack up, just for good measure. It’s okay. They aren’t a part of the device anyway, not really. Those things that keep her eyes open, however, sure are.
What would happen if you just took them off? Would it hurt Alice? Would she survive? Would it cause some type of horrible, irreparable damage to her you can’t even imagine right now? You don’t know. Frank was careful to keep the details away from the general public – the only thing he, unfortunately, was kind of right about. His followers never questioned the inner workings of it all either.
So no way out but through.
Without hesitation, you put the second pair of these nightmarish goggles on, you stare at the changing pattern on the ceiling, you feel your mind go numb. It suddenly occurs to you that, as much as you’ve planned ahead, you really have no idea what you’re doing right now. You aren’t even sure if you’ll keep your memories or come out of this alive.
But there’s no point in wondering. Knowing the answers wouldn’t change anything. You’d try to save her anyway.
“Alice!”
She stands in the middle of a little-too-clean vintage living room, eyes wide, staring at you in numb horror. You realize that you must still be covered in blood – or maybe you aren’t, you’re so agitated that there’s no way to tell. Maybe you look perfectly normal right now. Maybe she’s simply scared of you because you’re a stranger in her perfect house, a stranger who snatched her perfect husband away.
You’ve thought that your tears have dried out completely months ago. For the first time tonight, you’re proven wrong.
“Do you… Remember me?” you ask in a shaking voice, stepping closer carefully. Alice is frozen in place, a weirdly vacant expression on her face. “Do you remember me at all?”
No response. You have no way of knowing what she’s thinking about, but at least she’s there. You’re grasping at straws, trying to come up with something, anything to say. Something that would convince her to let you help.
“Let’s get out of there. Please,” you plead. “If- When we get out of there, you won’t have to speak to me ever again. But please, let’s just-”
You don’t get to finish. Alice wraps you in a tight hug and you start sobbing into the crook her neck.
In a minute you’ll find out that Alice knows a way out – she’s had her own investigation while you had yours. In two minutes you’ll find out that at least one other woman here knows what’s really going on, always did. In five, you’ll leave this awful place behind, chased by a squad of things you aren’t sure are even human.
But right now, this very moment, is just for the two of you.
Alice is safe.
Time crawls at a snail’s pace, but after one day inevitably comes another. Both of you start therapy. Jack gets arrested – for some miraculous reason, you don’t kill him that night after all. The Victory Project comes under investigation; the details are kept under wraps, partly for “the benefit of the survivors’ mental and physical well-being”. You’re sure as hell there isn’t a thing in the world that can damage your mental and physical well-being even further, but there’s nothing left in you to fight this decision. This isn’t even an argument. It’s better to let it go.
You spend every night with Alice and she spends every night with you. You pour your hearts out to each other like never before. In a way, your friendship has changed fundamentally; in a much deeper way, however, it stayed the same. You cook Alice dinner when she comes home after a long day and she lets you sleep in on weekends. For a long time after the whole thing is over, she resents anything resembling housework. You can’t hold it against her.
One night, when you’re watching some endless TV-show - you’ve carefully curated your watchlist to avoid anything 50s-themed - Alice asks you point-blank if you regret it. The violence, the pain, the fear. If you regret hearing about him so much before everything went down, hearing Alice defend him as he was planning to take her life away.
Of course you know the answer. You’ve always known it: no, you don’t regret it at all. You’d go through it all a hundred more times if it meant setting her free. You’d search for months and years and decades if it meant finding her in the end. You’d beat this pathetic excuse of a man again and again, until there was nothing left of him anymore, if it meant letting her choose her own path.
And it’s not her fault that a person she gave all her love to never appreciated it. That’s on him. And Alice deserves none of his shame.
“But what if I left you?” she whispers, some unspoken urgency coloring her tone. “After… Then what?”
You look at Alice and she looks at you, her face illuminated by the TV. There’s a familiar, heartbreaking fear in her eyes that she can’t quite shake; worst of all, a completely understandable fear. You take her hands in yours.
“I’ve meant every word,” you whisper, brushing her knuckles with your thumb. “If we never spoke again, I wouldn’t do anything differently. I mean, I’d live a way sadder life, but that would be my problem.”
Just as the last word leaves your mouth, she kisses you as a promise to stay, to commit to you freely and without force. And you kiss her back, fervently, with endless yearning – as a promise to always find her, to always be there. To love and be loved generously, to love on purpose and to stay by choice.
And after what feels like forever, finally, Alice is home.
#alice chambers#alice warren#alice chambers x reader#alice warren x reader#alice chambers imagine#alice warren imagine#florence pugh x reader#florence pugh imagine#don't worry darling#seal writes
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TW: body horror, death (life series, not really descriptive)
Some people love the toy gag, others are tired of it, I just find it a fascinating plot hook whether he is a toy or not. The head canon that Joel calling Jimmy a toy repeatedly actually turns him into one is everywhere and I love the concept. While brainrotting over this, I had an idea.
Imagine with me, for a moment.
Jimmy is a completely normal human, has been for as long as he can remember. He wholeheartedly knows it, and so does everyone around him. It’s just Jimmy, the completely normal human. Sure, he struggles with his self image a bit, but confidence is key! Fake it til you make it!
The life series happen. He dies first once. Twice. He’s not quite sure when or how it started, but people start calling him a canary. The canary in the coal mine, simply an omen of the death to come. A shock of yellow in the dark and grim, extinguished too soon. He thought nothing of it. It was just a phrase, a nickname. Nothing of any real importance, not definitive about him in particular.
Then he met his soulmate.
It only made sense it was through death, an explosion, the first death on the server. Tango being the coal mine to his canary, they said. The parallels grew, the amount of people mentioning it grew, the amount of times he heard the word canary as synonymous for him grew.
It wasn’t even always bad. Tango called him Songbird as a term of endearment, and it was rarely ever said with truly malicious intent.
But just because it wasn’t bad didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
It hurt when he bolted upright in the middle of the night, back feeling like it was on fire. It hurt as he barely choked back a scream, the skin on his back ripping open. It hurt when hollow bones and bloody golden feathers tore through the gaps. It hurt when fully grown wings developed in a matter of minutes, while Grian had described the process of his own wings growing as a weekslong process, from the forming to the baby wings bursting out to the wings being large enough to fly. It hurt when he cried, even as Tango held his hands, fretting and confused.
But he pushed through it, because that’s what Jimmy did. When things went wrong, when the universe had determined he was the perfect punching bag, he kept going, to show just how poor of a decision it had been.
So he got used to the wings. Eventually learned to navigate with the new weight on his back, stopped bumping into every door frame and tree and chest. He even started building up his wing strength and resolved to talk to Grian when this mess was over to see about flying lessons.
Then he died, a third and final time, and he was thrown to a new world. When he came to, he was human again, no evidence he had ever been any different besides the dandelion yellow flowers scattered around his spawn point. Not even scars on his back where the wings had pushed through in their golden, scarlet glory.
It was just an effect of the life server, the code had gone wrong, he was back to the way he was supposed to be. All of these explanations he heard when he asked the others, most just waving it off. After all, servers changed how they looked all the time. Nothing was wrong.
Jimmy tried to believe them, he really did. But when nightmares come of blood and hollow splintered bones tearing his back to ribbons, phantom pain still making him wince, it was difficult. None of the other changes had ever been that… painful. Real.
Still, he kept going. Found a desert, built up a town, established a law. He was a sheriff now, dedicated to his Empire and making sure things were right. So what if a stuck-up god decided to make fun of him? So what if he was called pathetic, a toy? Those things didn’t define him. He was human, through and through, no matter what he had been just a single world ago.
Even if he was shrunk by a potion. Even if the comparisons to a plaything became more and more frequent. Even as all respect for him was lost, nothing but a mockery of a sheriff.
It was after the second time getting splashed with the lore potion that it happened. He was small, they weren’t turning him back, and he was just so, so sick of all of this. The Hermits had been brought in on the joke, and now almost everyone he talked to brought it up in some way. Tango was kind enough, he didn’t, and Scott… well, Scott said other things.
Toy.
It was almost like the word was echoing around in his head as he sat in his sheriff’s office, despite the rage it filled Jimmy with. He wasn't a toy! He was a living, breathing human being! He didn’t have plastic skin, or stuffed intestines, or a pullstring, or soulless glass eyes that couldn’t see anything, not really, not truly.
Every time someone called him a toy seemed to flood his mind, and tears pricked his eyes. Is that really all he was to these people? To his friends?
The air suddenly grew thick and heavy, and a lightning hot pain shot through every nerve in his body. Unprepared, he fell to his knees, barely keeping a pained screech from escaping his lips. He swayed, barely keeping himself from falling over entirely.
Jimmy didn’t know what it looked like as his insides scrambled and dissolved and hardened and numbed and hurt. All he knew was the feeling of his bones dissipating, of the phantom sensation of something stabbing his arms and legs and torso, of his back aching as something pushed its way through, so similar yet so different to the wings he had once grown to treasure.
He didn’t see the way the tears in his eyes blended in with their growing glassiness, or know how his torso looked as the organs unspooled themselves inside of him to make way for stuffing. He doesn’t realize until later that the thing protruding from his back is a pullstring, one that doesn’t give him the option of silence if used. He had to look in the mirror to notice the stitches that had woven their way into the seams of his toosofttooplushnotrealenough body.
He avoids reflections after that, because he is not a toy, no matter what his image says. He can’t be.
He doesn’t know why this happens. Why he seems to be forced to bend to the wills of those around him, to their perceptions of him. He knows he’s human. He has a real, beating heart, even if his chest just feels full and still from the stuffing inside of it, a complete and utter lack of organs. He breathes, filling non-existent lungs with air. He thinks, he feels, even though his head is full of cotton and his face seems empty and lifeless.
He’s- he’s human. He is, always has been, so why does he keep changing?
Maybe one day, someone will see the signs. One day, someone will tell the shapeshifter what he is, about the powers he can’t control, about how he’s not the universe’s punching bag, not on purpose. They’ll teach him to control his powers, so that he was the one who determined his form, not the whims of others.
But today is not that day.
Today is the day a plush sheriff squares off against a god, hides from his soulmates of past lives, and longs for the ability to cry all the unshed tears in his unbeating paper heart.
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look, writing body horror is fun. plus i thought of the concept of jimmy being a shapeshifter without control of his powers was a cool solution because as far as he knows, he is human. and he is, most of the time. his power is just very, very easily influenced by repetition.
also i like the idea of mumbo finding him and being like “your powers are acting weird? mine did that last season, it was the moons fault” and jimmys just “my what now”
#this was longer than i anticipated#but it was fun to write#solidarity gaming#jimmy solidarity#empiresblr#hc x empires#toy jimmy#human jimmy#tw body horror#body horror#transformation scenes are fun#jimmy solidarity fic#team rancher#flower husbands#only briefly#can be romantic or platonic#e!jimmy#e!solidarity#empires s2#empires smp#jimmy is not a toy#at the same time#jimmy IS a toy#canary jimmy
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