#(<- specifically just for the satan one)

[journey-to-the-attic]

demon form things i thought were cute :)

[knifebaby3000]

chateau lobby #4 (reprise)

[curtain-caller]

So I'm looking forward to seeing all the interpretations and headcanons people make for The Lucky Contestant (who I will also join in calling them "Lucky"), but I'm curious... Okay, raise of hands, who else here also pictures Lucky as a crafty, greedy, overconfident, sassy, morally bankrupt little shit (affectionate)? Or is that just me? Idk I just get those vibes from their choices in the game (elaboration below)

Like... the implications that they were combing through hundreds of boxes to get a tape to join the show??? That they were counting the boxes and keeping track??? The fact that the only way to escape at the start is to run PAST the giant fucking beast mauling another contestant instead of running AWAY from it??? Not to mention them leaving the other remaining contestants behind in doing so.

The fact they didn't hesitate when Deputy Duck pecked at them, fucking grabbing him by the neck and throwing him against the wall??? That screamed "I'm not fucking around, are you going to cooperate or not?" kind of energy. The way they barely move when they come across the Real Frankie in front of the monitors??? Like, I know you can't move during that segment probably so you don't just miss the cutscene, but in-universe, Lucky has ample opportunity to turn and fucking run, and we know damn well their fear response isn't freeze, it's flight.

Just. The entire noob noob section. I feel like they flinched one time during that and that was when they caught the first one, but only because the explosion caught them off guard. That slowed them down for 1 second, maximum. Hell, I've seen a few players laugh at that part, I feel like Lucky would too. The fact that there's no objectives to even try to escape Frankie's great value Parkour Civilization??? Like, in a game like this, I'd expect at one point for there to be an attempt to just escape the game entirely once shit hit the fan, only for the protagonist to realize the only way out is to begrudgingly play along and win. But nope. Lucky came here for the money, and they're getting that money. AND THE FACT THEY DO??? AND THEY'RE THE FIRST EVER ONE TO DO SO??? The way they just strut back into Frankie's office after their 57th near-death experience and look him right in the eye??? The whole ending segment where they go for another season??? It's not framed at all like they were forced to go again, because the Real Frankie just offered his hand out, and when we cut back, Lucky is casually looking at the ratings screen while standing on top of a pile of corpses. There are open gaps on the floor they can be standing on instead! But nope, just chilling on top of some dead bodies. Obviously we can't tell what their facial expressions are with the mask on, but they don't seem afraid or even all that tense about their situation either. To me, Lucky is the type of guy to go "I'm not gay, but 20 bucks is 20 bucks". Lucky is the type of guy to go "No, I'm taking the 5 million" only to sprint through that fucking door when Frankie whispers "Double or nothing". Lucky is the type of guy to walk past an old dead competitor and mutter "skill issue" under their breath. Lucky is the kind of guy to roll around in the glass money ball for enrichment like a hamster in a hamster ball. Lucky's the type of guy to keep going for season after season, for more and more money, until eventually they're not even doing it for the money anymore, relishing in the adrenaline rush and the glory instead. I just really love the idea that the reason why Lucky made it to the end so successfully was not only because of their skills and quick thinking, but because they also match Frankie's freak. Frankie was right: They need each other. They compliment each other. They enable each other in the worst ways possible. One wants to put the other through gradually more elaborate and deadly situations to increase ratings, and the other runs headfirst into those situations with the same energy as someone going cliff diving. It's like enrichment for them.

[bookwyrminspiration]

sisyphus keeps bitching about his rock but he doesn't even have to pick a new book to read after finishing his current one

[kaisollisto]

last thing u wrote:

((based on this))

(there are no rules :3ccc)

tagged by: @daisychainsandbowties

Ava glares at the juts of Lilith’s cheekbones. She can tell from the sharp stoniness of them Lilith’s not listening to a word she’s saying. It’s this back and forth that usually ends in hours of petty silence away from each other. Ava will say no, Lilith will tower over her and insist. Lilith will grit her jaw and rip her argument to shreds and Ava will find it begrudgingly hot. 

It’s the only thing they talk about between keeping the space station afloat with life. It’s easy to get lost in the labor of doing the work of what would be fit for a team of 5 but Ava knows they cannot shake the hole that stares back. 

It’s the strange case that drew them here first, a distress signal pinging repeatedly from the bottomless pit and an old recording of 2 fuzzy figures lurking on the other end. There are records of people before them in the current station just adjacent to the pit but never any more evidence of what lies below. There is an elevator that connects to what Ava hopes is the other station but can only be accessed from inside the station they’re in. It looks well used enough to convince her it’s sturdy enough to survive at least two trips. 

Lilith steps closer, close enough to touch her and Ava isn’t ready for that. “I’m not going down there Lil, you’ve seen the reports, people who come here don’t come back and I’m starting to get why.” 

Lilith’s eyes flash with a sliver of something volatile before Ava can take it back, the mistake digs in her throat but she stands up, turning around to look at the old recording once again. The screen has a crack in it that distorts part of the footage but it's clear that there's proof that life has made it down there. It's a jumbled 6 second clip that jumps around, almost unreadable but Ava has a feeling she cannot keep running away. 

Ava can't take her eyes off the clip, replaying it frantically over and over in her mind as a feeling she doesn't want to name wells up inside her. Even if they did go down, Ava would have to go alone because of the Halo. Its faint glow would be more beneficial than risking any energy input for light. 

Lilith is burning behind her no doubt a couple sentences away from strangling her. Ava knows her fingers are twitching. That’s just who Lilith is, she looks out for Ava in an angry way. 

“Ava,” She puffs, Ava can see it in her head, Lilith loosening the lock in her jaw with a wisp of breath snaking between her teeth. She thinks if Lilith wasn’t always knocking her around she’d pick up smoking. But she supposes smoking would detract from the heated sex they always find themselves in. 

There’s a shuffle behind her but Ava is too cowardly to turn around, not quite ready for another argument or maybe something worse. Ava wonders if today’s the day where one of them crosses the line. 

“We don’t know anything, people have accidents or get lost. There's nothing more to it.” Lilith slows down her syllables sounding like a stranger, “We have an ancient artifact that enhances your physicality, there's nothing to be afraid of.” 

Ava doesn’t like it, how dejected Lilith sounds, it’s wrong. It makes her feel wild, she pushes, falling into what they know best, “Maybe for your physique,” Ava swallows heavily the words tumbling out of her mouth searing, “but I'm the crippled one here remember? The Halo gets me to what you would consider your peak physique." She can feel tears of frustrations lining her eyes and she squints angrily at the footage. She brings her knees up to her chest hoping she hadn’t bled too raw for Lilith to notice. 

She knows she hasn’t succeeded, the Halo’s always been a sore spot for both of them. It’s a coin toss, the Halo which gives her strength but is ultimately unstable. The power output is too random and unreliable. It's not sustainable for her in the long run. She is nothing if not at the mercy of a crusty old metal that decides if she can move her fingers or bench five times Lilith’s weight. 

She sulks hoping Lilith will do what they do best. It’s quiet behind her and in her embarrassed tear stricken haze she’s sure that Lilith has fled, parallel to the line that they both don’t dare to cross. 

Ava tucks her head into her arms, her shoulders peeking over her ears and she’s resigned to accepting this endless back and forth for forever. 

She’s musing the list of chores she can do to avoid Lilith when her chair is swiveled backwards to face her. Lilith’s fingers stray far from any part of Ava but she bends to her height kneeling against the cold tiled floor. From this angle her cheekbones are soft, a tangible thing that Ava can’t look at. There’s a vulnerability that clings to Lilith; it feels wrong to look at her so bare that Ava swallows. But no matter how far she’s strayed from her she always ends up at the beginning. 

Lilith watches her, before grabbing the arm of the chair stilling Ava’s squirming. Even in the hard lines of her eyebrows, (the ones that knit together at Ava’s insistence to look anywhere but her,) there’s a softness in her pupils, the deepest part of her eyes that Ava has to really look to find. 

Lilith doesn’t grab any part of her and Ava thinks her body would be less aware of it if Lilith just fucking touched her like a normal fucking person. 

“Ava,” Lilith swallows, she looks crumpled, “We cannot keep running. Eventually there will be nowhere else to go, and then what? I just watch you wither away for the rest of my life? Watch you waste away and think 'well we did the best we could'?” It squeezes out of Lilith like a dirty secret, a shame that has festered inside of her. 

It almost makes her feel wrong but Ava can feel the chair shaking, Ava can feel Lilith is shaking. Somewhere along the way Lilith has grazed her knee but Ava doesn’t register it the way it kills Lilith to confess. 

 “I need you.” 

tagging @aromarianne @tragedylure @desognthinking

[yooniesim]

Hold up, I feel like I'm going a lil crazy seeing all these posts from people announcing they're EA affiliates now with codes to get a percentage of your purchases... aren't we boycotting?

[solosatan]

thinking about mc and satan bonding over shared identity issues post lilith reveal. i know this trope has been done to death but theres so much to do with it aghhhhhh

[lighttrls]

doctor who is such a show because the doctor will just say things that are provably false in universe and everyone will just be like. oh okay thats fine. like bitch why are you lying to me i know the facts

[lonelyhumanoid]

Do I dare tell my therapist that I’ve been getting into alternative religion? I’m seriously afraid she’ll think I’m going nuts.

[bestnoncannonship]

With JoAnne Fabrics going out of business I feel it is my duty as a cosplayer, historical costumer, and general sewing gremlin to help teach y'all how not to be reliant on evil overpriced mediocre big box stores for fabric and cosplay supply, cause if I catch y'all going into Homophobia Lobby to get cosplay fabrics imma have to start throwing hands. And frankly you guys all deserve better.

- Find a neighborhood full of brown people. Probably a slightly poorer neighborhod. I know, I know, but they will have small independent fabric stores. Selection in each may vary. Hispanic and Caribbean areas will give you prints that EAT. Muslim areas will give you fabrics with amazing drapery. Indian and Southeast Asian areas will give you beading that would make the House of Worth wet with envy. (Try to avoid oldwhitelady quilting stores unless you are a knitter or are specifically trying to cosplay Kirsten Larson.) (Also ask while you're there for lunch/dinner spot recommendations. Your fabric store guy usually has a buddy with a joint nextdoor with the best *insert relevant ethnic food here* you'll ever put in your mouth.)

- DEVELOP A RELATIONSHIP WITH THE OWNER OF SAID STORE. This I cannot stress enough. Abdul, my fabric guy, can and will get me whatever I want cause he knows me, knows I bring in other young people, and knows I will be back every month for more. Indie fabric stores tend to have older clients. They are anxious to see faces under 60. Just chat with whoever is in there about the kind of stuff you want and need and they will help you. This also frequently leads to discounts. I have not paid listed price for fabric in years and just walked out of Abdul's with 7~ yards of gorgeous teal satin for 10 bucks. Not a yard. Total.

- Do not be afraid of mess. The best shit comes from stores that look like a hurricane went through them. Don't try to understand the organization. (One day, 4 years into your relationship with the store, suddenly the fabric gods will reveal the knowledge to you.) Again, talk to whoever is in there about your project. They'll help.

- Give up on one stop shopping. Get your crafting supplies elsewhere. Like a small independent hardware store. There's usually an old guy in there that reminds you of an uncle who will also help you.

-Worbla and whatever other Cosplay Specific Material you're using is a fatphobic material straight from Satan's hot taint, you do not need it, and any old hardware/tractor supply dad will help you find better, more durable armor/weapon/detailing material. Don't snub your nose at paper mache and plaster of paris. Venetian Mask makers have been using it for years. Balsa wood is also your friend. Hardware store Uncles will teach you to work with both.

- Elderly people are your bffs. If you see an old person TALK TO THEM. They know how to do all kinds of shit. I know there's a hesitation around old people because of the political climate and a fear that they may be homo/trans/whatever-phobic, but hey....minds are changed by making friends. My elderly Muslim fabric supplier is an Our Flag Means Death fan because of me gushing about the teal I needed for Stede Bonnet. He wishes me happy pride now. He put bolt of rainbow in the window in June and kept it up all summer. And he'd never had a thought about queers before me.

- Don't feel limited to Craft and Fabric stores. Hardware stores are cool. They stock outdoor fabrics and umbrella and furniture covers that are very durable....my first cosplay was made out of patio furniture covers. Also upholstery stores and upholsterers have velvets and damasks and faux leather and real leather and all sorts of rich textures. Most of them will part with a few yards pretty cheap. Second hand sheets and bedspreads and curtains also make some really cool garments. A significant amount of my ren fair garb started as household goods.

- If you are forced to order fabric online, please for the love of all that is holy DO NOT BUY FROM MOOD or any other famous store. You're paying for their branding and their place on certain reality shows I will not mention. Indie is always cheaper for the quality and usually not abusing their workers.

- If the fabric/hobby/hardware/upholstery/etc store you develop a relationship with is inconveniently far from you, see if said owner is willing to take your order via phone and send it to you. You'd be surprised how accommodating people in the crafting and sewing world can be.

It all really comes down to having to form a community. I know finding multiple small stores is a lot less convenient than Joannes. But forming a relationship with a local supplier will, in the long run, yield you much better results AND put money and good back into a community near you.

(And if you're in the NYC area DM me and I'll put you in contact with Abdul. He's the absolute best and I'd do anything to help him and his business grow!!!)

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

Since I hardly ever read Youtube comments on purpose, much less endeavor to carry on a conversation or whatever with someone on there, I will unfortunately subject you all (although I'm putting it below a read-more, so you have the choice to read it or not) to my critique of a comment on that video that made my eyes nearly roll out of my head.

I don't know if it's men immediately associating everything done by [presumably cishet] men with masculinity, or if men are also inclined to associate everything done by women with femininity...but...yeah, that's probably the case here.

And, yeah, I'm sorry, but HOW EXACTLY is "In a Big Country" a "boisterous, masculine, joyous song"?! You know, the song with the lyrics "Stay alive"? The song with the lyrics "Pull up your head off the floor/Come up screaming/Cry out for everything you ever might've wanted"? That's masculine? That's JOYOUS? THAT'S PAIN; DEEP, EMOTIONAL PAIN. Dear god. I'm not sure who doesn't seem to understand masculinity or joy here. Is it me?

Because to me, especially, when I hear the line "Stay alive," I hear someone - gender considered or no - who STRUGGLES to [want to] stay alive, so that it is a deeply-felt, fervent wish that everyone who hears it continues to stay alive because that might possibly be his last hope/dream that he can depend on and take a semblance of comfort in. WHERE DOES JOY COME INTO THAT?

I'm...I'm...once again...ONCE...AGAIN...men fail to comprehend the real emotional depth intended in art. Even when originally shared by another man/men (considering what Tony Butler said on behalf of December's cover, I'm giving all of Big Country the benefit of the doubt that they knew what was at stake in the song - emotionally).

I am just shaking my damn head because I think even Stuart would laugh over that comment. I think he'd be like 'Boisterous? Joyous? Okay, show me where.' "Boisterous" MAYBE in their live performances of the song, and YET Stuart's loud and obvious urge to the audience to "stay alive" during those same performances is as genuine and serious as one can get in rock music, I think. No, I don't know who Stuart Adamson was in real life, never met him, never had the chance to know him or talk with him, etc....but from his music considered primarily, and performances and interviews considered second, I do not think he would genuinely entertain that. Maybe - maybe he would humor that comment in a 'Well, I'm just the artist, but once it's shared with the world it's not really mine anymore' type of way, but I don't think he would seriously agree.

And for the last motherfucking time (I WISH!!!), just because a woman/femme sings on a song does not automatically make it feminine. WHAT is it with people and 'perceived gender does something = that thing that was done is now apparently gendered'? Although, of course, that fails to consider that anything "non-feminine" that men do is normal (because men are the default) and anything "non-feminine" that women do is now assigned female [task/title]. Like, jesus, for fuck's sake, it's almost like IT'S JUST THE SHADOW OF THE PEOPLE WE SHOULD BE. (I'm dying on that hill.)

The real thing, in my grain-of-salt of an opinion, about this cover that deserves to be pointed out instead is that it finally reflects the intended emotional depth of the song, supported largely by the added, closing lyrics of the song: "Sometimes it's hard to stay alive." Because that's what Stuart meant by the song. He listed all of his observations about how difficult life had been lately ("I've never seen you look like this without a reason/Another promise falling through/Another season passes by you/I never took the smile away from anybody's face/And that's a desperate way to look/For someone who is still a child"), presented his coping mechanisms ("I'm not expecting to grow flowers in a desert/But I can live and breathe/And see the sun in wintertime/In a big country dreams stay with you/Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside"), and then said, 'BUT IN SPITE OF ALL THAT, if I can't go through with all of this - if all of these things don't work out for me – I hope they work for you, because I want you all to stay alive; do as I say, not as I do' - "Stay alive."

December's cover of this song sees the original writer's intent and renders it poignantly, lyrically and in the music - and damn well perfectly.

I could've just said that one sentence ^ though, and it would've made far more sense than whatever the hell that dude said about gender expectations. lol

[akuzondotcom]

Obey Me! Brothers Eyes ft; My HCs. More info on My HCs listed below!!

Lucifer:

Lucifer I wanted to look the most Mature and Handsome. I gave him slit eye pupils and ocular scarring on one eye. I imagine he got his cross shaped scar in the war, it being a mark of a curse his Father laid upon him. Because of this curse, which I imagine to be mortality, I made him look slightly sickly, with translucent skin and pallor. I imagine he’s only got a few thousand more years left to live.

Mammon:

Mammon I gave golden freckles and one golden eye. I imagine he got this eye colour from an attempted spell to try and make his eyes turn golden in hue. However because he failed his spell classes, I imagine this failed, giving him heterochromia and 50/50 heterochromia in one eye. Lucifer scolded him for his reckless behaviours. Also I HC him as Aboriginal Australian, has nothing to do with his eyes specifically but I wanted an excuse to say that lol.

Leviathan:

I Imagine Leviathan has the least humanoid Demon form (it being a massive aquatic reptile) as such he struggles to maintain a convincing human form. This shows through with his eyes, them being dark and unblinking. I imagine instead of traditional blinking he has a nicitating membrane that covers his eyes from dirt and debris. He does however require eye drops to moisten his eyes when he’s away from water. I also imagine some of his scale pattern is still visible in his human form, Showing mainly around his eyes, neck, back legs and arms.

Satan:

Satan is the most humanoid of the demon brothers. Having light freckles, regular rounded pupils, and a more youthful appearance then his other brothers. The only sign something is different is the sigil in his eye, a sign of a spell he performed to grant himself more power.

Asmodeus:

(Note I HC Asmo uses any pronouns so I may use she or they when talking about him) Asmo was difficult as I picture her as a shapeshifter, them changing their body suit the trends. However I decided his most common form has rounded feminine features, long spiky lashes, and few demonic features that he deans cute (black sclera, slit pupils, pointed ears and sharp fangs etc). I imagine they wear light makeup, just enough to accentuate her features.

Beelzebub:

Beel has mostly humanoid features, save for his eyes. Instead of having a pupil and iris, he has one large multi compound pupil. Meaning instead of seeing one large image he sees thousands of tiny images, like a fly. Because of this I imagine he’s short sighted, and colour blind. However he is amazing at noticing form movement. Again much like a fly. Also my friend HCs him as a light skin black man so I do as well :).

Belphagor:

Belphie I wanted to make slightly more intimidating. I wanted to make him look gaunt and sickly, experiencing pallor, and with his eyes more deep-set. I also imagine his eyes have a spiral in them, one that if you stare into to long you can’t help but sleep. Also again, same friend HCs him as black so I do as well lol. Shout out to my boy Kris.

The Rest of the Casts eyes are coming soon. But for now we have the brothers!! Lemme know your HCs and who knows maybe I might take them on board lol.

[sixeyesonathiel]

marriage is a battlefield, and satoru gojo refuses to lose. not to burnt toast. not to your gremlin hoodie theft. and definitely not in this petty domestic deathmatch where the first to file for divorce admits defeat. unfortunately, you're cute. and evil. and he’s starting to like it.

wc — 1.3k | masterlist.

satoru wakes up to the smell of something burning. which would be alarming if it hadn’t happened every single day since the government decided two powerful jujutsu clans should seal their fragile alliance with the unholy sacrament of marriage. his marriage. to you. a domestic horror show.

at first, he’d entertained the possibility that you were just a bad cook. a humble menace, if you will. but by day four of waking up to incinerated toast and the smoke alarm going off like a cursed tool crying for help, he’d realized the truth: you were doing this on purpose. and worse—you were good at it. eerily consistent. you even timed the alarm to scream exactly one minute before his dream about vacationing in okinawa could finish.

and satoru, being satoru, found that infuriatingly hot. which was, frankly, a problem. one he refused to admit, even as he glared at the ceiling and considered if his dignity had also melted in the toaster.

he pads into the kitchen wearing socks, judgment, and a grudge. the tile is cold beneath his feet, and his hair is sleep-ruffled in that charmingly tousled way that only makes his frown more dramatic. it flops over his eyes like he’s a suffering poet. your back is to him. the toaster is on fire. again. you’re humming the melody of satan—some j-pop tune suspiciously upbeat for a war crime. your robe is pink and fuzzy and has a suspicious stain he suspects you’ve preserved out of pure spite. maybe you even gave it a name. his left eye twitches like a cursed seal unraveling.

“you know,” he says, leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a sad husband magazine cover shoot, one arm braced overhead for effect, face set in weary suffering, “some husbands wake up to kisses. or, like, edible food.”

“then you should’ve married someone else,” you chirp, devil incarnate that you are. you don’t even look up. you just stir your suspiciously dark coffee with the spoon that clinks against the chipped mug like a ticking time bomb, and let the toaster burn like a war crime. your foot taps along to your little murder melody. casually. as if you weren’t desecrating breakfast.

“i’m starting to think you burned the prenup too,” he deadpans.

you finally glance at him. eyes sparkling like you were born to torment him specifically. and unfortunately, it’s doing things to him. terrible, weak-willed things. his stomach flips. he blames the smoke.

“i taped it to your mirror,” you say sweetly. “next to the note that said ‘cry about it.’ did you not find it?”

his soul leaves his body. he gasps. dramatically. insulted on a spiritual level. how dare you. he clutches at his chest like a betrayed prince in a historical drama. he stumbles back half a step, just for theatrics.

“you are trying to get me to file for divorce,” he hisses, holding up a spoon like a cursed weapon of vengeance. it glints under the kitchen light like it has seen war. “don’t lie to me. you want out so badly you’re staging breakfast-related psychological warfare.”

“oh, sweetie,” you coo, flipping blackened toast onto a plate with the smugness of a cat knocking a glass off a table. the plate already holds two other casualties. “i don’t want out. i want you to want out. i’m playing the long game.”

long game. she says. like this is chess. like she’s some evil strategist in a romance anime and he’s the fool who underestimated her power. (he did. and he regrets it daily.) his eye twitches again. he’s starting to suspect it’s permanent.

he sits down at the kitchen table like it personally offended him. he folds his arms with the poise of a man entering battle. he makes eye contact with the toast. it stares back, dark and crispy, like it knows what it did. like it enjoyed it.

revenge mode: activated.

by noon, he’s already replaced all the sugar with salt. moved your favorite mug to the top shelf—the one that says “world’s okayest spouse.” changed your alarm to 5:47am because that’s a cursed time. a liminal hour where nothing good happens. he even puts the bathroom mirror slightly off-center just to watch you suffer.

you retaliate by vacuuming at 3am. with jazz music. loudly. wearing heels that click like tiny war drums. you twirl the vacuum cord like a lasso and blow him a kiss when he opens the door, eyes bloodshot and betrayal deep in his bones.

he retaliates by changing your ringtone to a baby crying and calling you ten times in a row during your nap. it echoes through the apartment like a banshee. a cursed infant banshee.

you steal his hoodie. his favorite hoodie. the one that makes him feel safe. the one that smells like peace. and you wear it. with confidence. standing on the kitchen counter, sipping from the mug he moved, like a gremlin goddess claiming her throne. your ankles swing above the sink, feet bare, expression smug. your hair is messy, the hoodie swallowing you whole, sleeves flopping every time you lift your arm.

he walks in, sees you perched there, and feels something in his soul crack like bad porcelain. he’s still holding a toothbrush. his mouth is half-foamed. betrayal stings.

“that’s mine,” he says, offended. his hair is damp from the shower, sticking to his forehead in adorable defiance of gravity.

“we’re married,” you reply, sipping obnoxiously. “congrats. you played yourself.”

he dies a little. again.

she’s small. and evil. and currently drowning in his hoodie like some kind of adorable demon. and he hates it. he hates how cute you are. how tiny. how you always stand on tiptoe to reach things and refuse to ask for help because you’d rather fall off the counter than give him the satisfaction. your brows furrow every time you climb something. your nose scrunches when you pretend you’re fine. you grunt when you jump down like a dramatic toddler.

he buys a second stool just so he can hide the first one every morning. he even installs a mini security cam to watch you suffer in 1080p.

you retaliate by labeling all his skincare with wrong steps. “cleanser” is now “serum.” “toner” is now “shampoo.” he puts eye cream on his elbows and screams into the void. his pores are crying. his dignity is gone.

one day, he finds the marriage license in the freezer.

“why is this next to the fish sticks?”

“because that’s where frozen mistakes go.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to strangle you or kiss you or both. probably both. he’s losing.

he’s losing the war. the bickering, the pettiness, the coordinated chaos—it’s becoming a rhythm. something domestic. something dangerous. he starts waking up early just to watch you frown at the crooked painting he moves an inch every day. he hides the remote. you hide his socks. he calls you a gremlin. you call him a manchild. and the weirdest part?

he starts to like it.

the apartment smells like incense and burnt toast and cheap citrus cleaner. your slippers are always one step behind his on the welcome mat. there’s a pile of throw pillows you both pretend you don’t use but secretly nest into like raccoons. his sunglasses are missing again. you’re hoarding them. he knows it.

one day, he watches you pick a fight with the rice cooker because it beeped at you too aggressively, and something in him just clicks. you stab the buttons with a butter knife and hiss at it like a possum. your hair is sticking up from static. your sleeve is falling into the rice bowl. you’re swearing under your breath in three different dialects.

he’s doomed.

he’s going to fall in love with you. hard. embarrassingly. and when he does, you’re going to laugh in his face and steal the last dumpling. and he’ll let you. he’ll even give you dipping sauce.

but not yet.

because tomorrow, he’s painting your shampoo bottle with disappearing ink. and you’re going to hide his blindfolds. and maybe—just maybe—he’ll look forward to waking up to the smell of toast on fire again.

[princessvanellopevonschweetz]

The Japanese version is a little more specific! (I'll put it in the tags.) Freaky boys reserved for the official English translation only.

they're all such freaks

[fandoms-x-reader]

Defense System

Requested By: @space-dragon-ace

Oneshot

Summary: MC loses everyone in a crowd. To find the others quickly, they yell, "MC is a good for nothing human!" and wait to see what happens. OM! Cast x Reader Word Count: 851

You were apprehensive about going to this event in the first place.

You had just gotten back to the Devildom after being away for some time and you were still readjusting to the way things were down there.

But, your friends had all insisted on taking you to an event that occurred in the streets of the Devildom.

There were going to be tons of food trucks, vendors, shows and so much more.

They promised you that you would have a ton of fun ~ so who were you to refuse to go?

It was only after you got to the event that you began to regret your decision to go.

You had all shown up in a large group, but it seemed that everyone had their own things that they wanted you to experience.

All fifteen of your friends almost immediately went their own way, wanting to get something from a specific vendor to bring back to you or wanting to get you tickets to a show.

They were in competition mode and whenever that happened, you knew that it was hard to get them back on track.

There were tons of people surrounding you; and, despite your best efforts, you couldn’t see a single one of your friends.

You were a bit frustrated at this point, mostly because you had only agreed to go for them.

And, now you were standing in the middle of a crowd of demons, by yourself, unsure where to go or what to do.

You wanted to call someone on your D.D.D. but with how busy it was around you, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to hear anyone even if they did pick up the phone.

You thought about using your pact to summon one of the brothers; but, you didn’t think you were at the stage where that was exactly necessary.

Especially since summoning could cause the brothers pain if it isn’t done properly and it had been a while since you tried to do it.

Unsure of what else to do, you decided to be a little mischievous and test your bond with the others a bit.

You took a deep breath before shouting into the crowd, “Y/N is a good-for-nothing human!”

You paused for a moment, looking around once again, but when you still couldn’t find anyone, you let out a small sigh.

I guess that didn’t work…

“Alright, who said that?!” Mammon shouted, suddenly barreling through people to reach you.

“Oh, there you are!” you said, relieved at the sight of a familiar face and completely forgetting about your little joke.

But, there were fifteen people suddenly rushing to your side who did not forget about what was said.

They each came to you, one by one, hot and heavy and ready to throw punches.

You listened as they each began to throw insults toward this imaginary person as they searched the crowd for who could possibly be the culprit.

You tried to interject a few times, wanting to tell them the truth, but every time you opened your mouth, you were interrupted by another angry person.

“Y/N, did you see who said those words about you so we could find them?” Diavolo asked you, concern in his eyes as everyone turned their attention to you.

You were holding back a laugh as your cheeks dusted pink from all of the attention.

“Sure ~ it was me,” you admitted and their faces turned from ones of anger to confusion.

“Why would you say that stuff about yourself?” Beel asked as innocently as ever.

“Geez, Levi, you’re rubbin’ off on ‘em,” Mammon pouted, causing Levi to look extremely guilty.

“Relax, everyone,” you replied, stifling another laugh.

“I lost you in the crowd and I thought it would catch your attention enough that you would come find me. Looks like I was right,” you explained.

“Well that was risky,” Belphie stated. “Satan nearly lost his mind,” Solomon agreed quietly.

You couldn’t help but notice how adorable they all looked, pouting at the prank you managed to pull off. 

“I’m sorry, really. But, I thought the purpose of bringing me to this event was so that I could experience everything with all of you. Not for me to stand alone in the crowd,” you added.

You could feel the tension in the air shift as they realized that they had left you alone and understood where you were coming from.

They completely abandoned you in the middle of this large event. No wonder you pulled that stunt.

They promised not to leave you alone again and they each took you to their favorite parts of the event, making sure that at least one person was with you at all times.

They made you promise that you would never try something like that again.

You had fifteen people who were ready to fight for you at the drop of a dime, and saying something like that, even if you were joking, would always set them off.

Because they cared about you far too much to let something like that slide.