idrawweirdstuffnominors

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Ugghhhhhh LOOK AT HER

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Awwwwwwwww🥹

He is literally so bby 💓

expression practice with josh

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Help! im slipping back into my Bradley Uppercrust era.

Honestly if max and Bradley had a Playlist for them I can see these two songs they might either agreessily makeout to or literally remind me of them

Ugh this song is so Bradley coded^

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Hiii do you think you could write a bill x reader with REALLYYY bad period cramps due to PCOS? I have PCOS and it sucks ass so I would love this🫰🥹

(Yes i can lok as a girl with painful periods too!! Im sorry for the longest wait i was a bit busy with life<3 I really hope you enjoy this

Title: "Forked Up"

You were hunched on the edge of Bill Dickey’s ratty-ass futon, arms wrapped around your middle, legs drawn up. The apartment smelled like instant noodles, dust, and the vague bitterness of unwashed laundry.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The only sound was your breath hitching every so often when the cramps came in waves — like someone took a bent fork and scraped it slowly across your ovaries, back and forth, over and over, carving you up from the inside out.

You didn’t cry. You weren’t a crier. But your face said everything.

Bill looked up from his laptop, which was balancing precariously on a milk crate like that was totally normal, and squinted at you.

“…You look like a cat that got hit by a f*ckin’ truck,” he muttered.

“Thanks,” you gritted out. “That’s exactly the vibe I’m going for.”

You were half-expecting him to go back to whatever rage forum or garbage TV show he was consuming, but instead, he watched you for another second, then closed the laptop.

He stretched — arms cracking, knees popping — and walked into the kitchen.

You didn’t ask where he was going. You were too busy trying not to throw up from the pain.

He came back a few minutes later with a half-warm bottle of Sprite, a heating pad he probably hadn't used in years, and a microwaveable plush shaped like some ugly cartoon bear.

He tossed it at you. “Don’t say I never f*ckin’ do anything for you.”

You stared at the bear.

“…Is this thing supposed to fix my reproductive system?”

“No. It’s supposed to sit on your uterus and shut you up for five minutes.” He sat beside you, letting out a groan like being near someone in pain physically annoyed him. “You want anything else? Tampon? Gasoline? A goddamn exorcist?”

You flinched as another sharp cramp twisted in your gut. Your jaw clenched. “I want a new body. Preferably one that isn’t trying to kill me once a month.”

Bill was quiet for a second. Then:

“More like every three weeks, right? ‘Cause your insides are broken.”

Your eyes snapped toward him.

“…You remembered that?”

He shrugged. “You only screamed it into the void like ten times last time this happened. ‘Bill, my fckin’ ovaries are trying to murder me, it’s like someone’s taking a fork and scraping me like a fckin’ burnt lasagna pan,’ or whatever the hell you said.”

Despite the pain, you laughed — sharp and bitter.

“Yeah. That’s what it feels like.”

“I believe it,” he said, quietly this time.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the wall, shoulders tense like he was trying not to care too much in case it made him soft. But he’d brought the heating pad. He remembered the fork metaphor. He sat here, even when he hated silence.

Bill reached over without looking and awkwardly tugged the ugly bear up to your stomach, then leaned back, arms crossed.

“…You know if men got this PCOS shit,” he muttered, “they’d invent like seven different painkillers, a therapy robot, and a national goddamn parade. We’d get a f*ckin’ Netflix special. But you get a teddy bear that smells like stale lavender and a doctor that tells you to ‘lose weight and drink water.’"

You blinked at him.

“That’s… weirdly accurate.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve listened to you bitch enough to become a f*ckin’ expert.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

He tensed, but only for a second. Then sighed and leaned into it just slightly.

“…You’re not gonna puke on me, right?”

“No promises.”

“Cool.”

And for a long moment, Bill didn’t say anything. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t ruin it. He just stayed there, solid and quiet while your body waged war on itself.

And for him — that was love.

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

hey can you write a girl dad josh fic about his daughter meeting milestones while growing up? like her first words, first steps, first day of school, etc?

(YES I LOVE MY FATHER AU OF JOSH BEING A GIRL DAD

“Firsts” – Girl Dad Josh (Father AU)

First Words

Josh had a running list.

An actual list, taped to the fridge.

It read:

– Dada

– Enterprise

– Leonard Nimoy

– Hyperspace

So when your daughter’s first word was “dog,” Josh stared like she’d just committed fandom treason.

> “Dog? Dog?! We don’t even have a dog! This is how it starts. This is how the brain rot begins.”

“She was looking at a picture book, Josh.”

> “A picture book with a golden retriever on the front. This is educational sabotage. She’s been indoctrinated.”

You bit your cheek to hide the smile, scooped her up, and kissed her cheeks while Josh paced, muttering about “cultural decay through toddler vocabulary.”

An hour later, she looked up at him and chirped, “Dada!”

Josh froze mid-rant. Just froze.

> “... Say it again. I need to hear you say it again or I will combust.”

“Dada!” she squealed, tiny arms reaching up to him.

He snatched her into his arms like she was the Ark of the Covenant.

> “I knew you’d come around,” he said, voice cracking. “You’re brilliant. A prodigy. We’ll burn the ‘dog’ thing from the records.”

You caught him wiping his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

---

First Steps

Josh was not ready.

You told him. You warned him. You said, “Babe, she’s been pulling herself up for days now.”

> “That’s a conspiracy. She’s manipulating gravity. She’s not ready for bipedal motion!”

And yet—there she was. In the middle of the living room. Hands out like a zombie. One wobbly step. Two. Then a glorious faceplant onto a pile of pillows.

> “OH MY GOD.”

He sprinted over like she’d been tackled by a linebacker.

She started laughing. Giggling, even. Proud.

> “You think this is funny?” Josh gasped, lifting her up. “You realize you just evolved? You unlocked a whole skill tree, and you’re laughing?! You can get into my figurines now. We’re doomed.”

“She walked, Josh.”

> “Yeah. Into an era of chaos and destruction. You’re smiling but I know you’re scared too.”

But later, when he thought she was asleep, you found him crouched in her room, just watching her breathe.

> “She walked,” he whispered, like he still didn’t believe it.

---

First Day of School

You dressed her. Josh tried but nearly had a breakdown over sock patterns.

> “If they’re mismatched, they’ll judge her. Kids are monsters. Have you seen elementary schoolers?! They eat their own kind.”

“She’s five, not a fandom forum.”

> “Worse. She’s going in raw. No allies. No moderator. No canon to defend her.”

He didn’t stop pacing the entire walk to the car. Or the drive. Or standing outside the school doors while your daughter bravely charged into the building without a backward glance.

> “She didn’t even look back,” Josh muttered, voice wrecked.

“She’s confident. That’s good.”

> “She’s gonna forget me. I’m gonna get replaced by a gym teacher named Brad.”

You took his hand and squeezed. “Josh. She’ll always look for you in the crowd.”

> “She better. Or I’m pulling her out and homeschooling her with DS9 episodes and NASA documentaries.”

That night, she came home and drew a picture of the three of you holding hands.

Josh hung it on the fridge like it was the goddamn Mona Lisa.

---

Every Moment In Between

He reads to her in voices. Bad ones. Half of them devolve into William Shatner impressions.

He gets into screaming matches with other parents on the PTA forum when someone says Pokémon is “too violent.”

He builds her a science fair volcano so elaborate it sets off the smoke alarm. Twice.

When she’s sick, he’s the one sitting next to her all night, whispering comfort and conspiracy theories about germs.

And every night, when he finally stops talking long enough to breathe, you catch him watching her. Just… watching.

> “She’s the only thing in the universe that actually matters,” he murmurs one night, voice hoarse. “And I don’t want to mess her up.”

You wrap your arms around him from behind.

> “You won’t. Not as long as she’s got both of us.”

He exhales, shaky. Pulls you in closer.

> “You’re my rock, you know that?”

> “You say that every milestone.”

> “And I’ll say it every damn one.”

“Away Mission”

The living room is wrecked. Pillows stacked like asteroids, blankets twisted into makeshift uniforms, cardboard tubes doubling as phasers. Your daughter’s wearing a too-big red shirt with a glued-on insignia, yelling commands into a toy communicator.

Josh?

Josh is in full Starfleet officer mode—tie pulled across his chest like a sash, dramatic expression carved into his face like he’s hosting a one-man stage play.

> “Commander,” he barks, pointing at a stuffed bear on the couch. “Divert power to the deflector shields! We’ve got a Klingon warbird on our tail!”

Your daughter shrieks with glee. “Yes, Captain! Initiating shield sequence!”

You peek in from the kitchen, smiling to yourself as you rinse a plate.

> “The Klingons are just your laundry pile, Josh.”

He gasps, spinning on his heel with the flare of a man who has never broken character in his life.

> “Lieutenant,” he says, stalking toward the kitchen. “That’s Commander to you. And you're not authorized to talk back to your superior officer.”

You raise a brow, eyes twinkling. “Is this about last night or—”

Before you can finish, he sweeps in like a warp-speed maniac and scoops you into his arms, dish towel and all.

> “Captain’s log: Stardate NOW. We’ve recovered the rebel communications officer. She's feisty. And wildly disrespectful of Federation protocol.”

You yelp, laughing as he hauls you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

> “Josh—Joshua Levy, put me down, I am covered in soap—!”

> “Negative. You’re under arrest for dissent and temptation. The Federation has strict policies about distracting commanding officers with that face.”

You can hear your daughter giggling from the couch.

> “Daddy, beam Mommy to the brig!!”

> “Already en route, Ensign!” Josh hollers, adjusting his grip like a dramatic pirate.

And just as you’re about to protest again, he flips you around in his arms and kisses you. Hard. Deep. So over-the-top it should be illegal in at least seven alien cultures.

The dish towel slips to the floor.

You blink at him, dazed. “...You’re ridiculous.”

> “And you’re mine,” he smirks, still fully in-character. “End log.”

From the couch:

> “Ew! Dad! That’s gross!”

Josh just smirks, kissing your forehead.

> “Kiddo, when you grow up and marry someone way out of your league like I did, you’ll understand.”

You shake your head, leaning into him.

> “Back to the bridge, Captain?”

> “Only if my best officer’s with me.”

> “I’ll allow it.”

And just like that, he sets you down gently, grabs his cardboard phaser, and heads back into battle with his daughter

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

PLEASE PLEASE CAN WE GET BILL WITH A BLACK S/O OR AT LEAST THE ELTINGVILLE CLUB

(if u can't that's fine 👍)

(You may absolutely<3 i hope this is what you were hoping for !

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

"You Smell Like Nerd Rage and Balls."

Epilogue Bill Dickey x Black (POC) GN!Reader

Tags: Canon-accurate Bill, fighting-while-making-out, mutual hatred-lust, insults as foreplay, sexual tension thick as hell, messy toxic crush energy, NO stereotypes, just vibes🧡

---

“God, do you ever open a window in here? Or shower? You smell like nerd rage and—”

You step into Bill’s room and your face twists immediately.

“—balls, Bill. Like. Legitimate. Sweaty. Con-exclusive scrotum.”

He whirls around in his busted office chair, red in the face. “It’s the plastic on the action figures, okay? It’s vintage air! You wouldn’t get it!”

You step over a pile of Dorito-dusted Starlog magazines, eyeing the crusted anime body pillow in the corner like it might bite.

“Vintage air? My dude, this room is one malfunctioning fan away from becoming a biohazard.”

“You don’t have to be here!”

“Neither do you—but look at you. Still glued to your gamer chair, jacking off to the original Slave Leia while whining about how women ‘don’t get real sci-fi’.”

Bill sputters. “That’s not—! You—! You smug—!”

You fold your arms, watching his rage boil over. Face flushed, lips parted, fist clenched around a crumpled Wizard magazine like it’s a security blanket. And you can’t lie...

...you like watching him unravel.

“You’re mad because I’m right. And probably also because I’m hot and you don’t know how to process that.”

“Hot? HOT? You think you’re—”

You’re in his face before he finishes the sentence. “Say it again. Say I’m not hot with a straight face, Bill.”

He twitches. His nostrils flare. He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“That’s what I thought,” you whisper, smirking.

Then, because you hate yourself and you’re bored, and maybe because you know he’s thinking about it too—you grab him by the collar of his vintage Akira tee and kiss him.

It’s instant chaos.

Bill makes this noise like a malfunctioning modem and grabs at your arms like he’s unsure whether to push you away or grind you into the nearest Voltron shelf. He tastes like Mountain Dew and denial. You bite his lip and he lets out a strangled gasp.

“I still hate you,” you mutter, dragging your teeth along his jaw.

“You—you’re insufferable, you smug Tumblr-tier hack!”

“You moan like a Reddit mod.”

He shoves you against the door. You shove him right back. The wall shakes.

Action figures fall. Somewhere, a still-boxed 2004 Darth Maul hits the floor.

You’re both breathing heavy, faces flushed, glaring like you’re about to throw hands—or make out again.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he huffs, still catching his breath.

“Of course not,” you shoot back, licking your lips. “You’re just my favorite pathetic little incel to bully.”

Bill goes quiet.

His hands tremble a little against your waist.

And then—“...Wanna do it again?”

You shove him down onto his creaky, barely twin-sized mattress—the kind with a dent from years of rage-fueled nocturnal anime binges—and straddle his lap. His eyes go wide behind his smeared glasses, cheeks flushed crimson under the sick glow of his limited-edition Akira desk lamp.

“You’re seriously letting this happen?” you taunt, unbuttoning your shirt slow just to watch his mouth fall open. “What happened to all that big man nerd rage, huh?”

He tries to sit up. You push him right back down with a single hand.

“Nngh—s-shut up—”

“You could’ve kicked me out. Hell, you could’ve called your mom.” You lean in, voice low and venomous. “But you didn’t. You just let me drag you to your bed like the horny, bitter little virgin you are.”

Bill whines. Actually whines.

You press your knee between his legs and the way he bucks—desperate, helpless—is almost enough to make you pity him.

Almost.

You run your hands under his shirt. He tenses.

“Wow,” you mutter. “You’re shaking. You that desperate for someone to touch you like you’re not a walking Reddit thread?”

He growls—but it’s high-pitched, caught in his throat. His hands flutter like he doesn’t know where to grab—your thighs? Your waist? His dignity?

“Nnn—I hate you,” he hisses, back arching when you roll your hips against him.

“Yeah?” You bite his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. “Say it louder while I make you come in your boxers.”

Bill shudders.

“You’re not even good at this—!”

“Your erection says otherwise.”

You grind down and he gasps—loud, stuttered, almost embarrassing. You cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you while you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

“God, you’re so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

His eyes flutter. His hands clutch your sides now, nails digging in like he’s trying to hang on to reality. You kiss him—rough, teeth and tongue and dominance. He moans into it, sobbing into your mouth like every insult just makes him more turned on.

And then you pull back.

“If you wanna come,” you whisper, “you have to beg.”

Bill freezes. Looks up at you, sweaty, panting, flushed, clearly humiliated—and way too turned on for his own good.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Say ‘please.’ Like a good little nerd.”

He twitches. The silence drags. His pride is screaming—but his dick is harder than it’s ever been.

And finally—

“…P-please.”

You smirk.

“Good boy.”

Bill’s a wreck beneath you.

Sweat dripping down his temples, shirt halfway off, glasses sliding down his nose while his hips grind up into nothing—desperate, stuttering, failing.

And you?

You’re lounging right on his lap, straddling him, trailing slow little kisses over his neck like you’re not actively torturing this man with affection.

“Still doing okay, nerd boy?” you whisper with a smile, your hand ghosting over his cock again through his boxers. It’s the third time you’ve gotten him close. His thighs twitch like you’ve zapped him.

“D-Don’t call me that,” he mutters, cheeks flushed. “You think this is funny?”

“Kinda.” You grin. “You’re squirming so much. I didn’t even touch you that time.”

He groans and covers his face with both hands.

You lean in, kissing the underside of his jaw.

“Poor Bill. All this tension. All this buildup. Just one word and I’ll let you finish.”

“What word,” he spits, glaring at you under his stupid, fogged-up glasses.

You lower your voice, drag your nails lightly down his chest.

“Tell me how bad you want me.”

“Tch—no. That’s—You think I’m gonna just—bend over and—” His voice cracks. “Say some cheesy fanfic line like—like ‘oh please, I want you so bad—’”

You tilt your head. “...But you do want me so bad.”

He goes silent. His hips jerk up again, involuntary, the ache in his groin beyond words now. You pull back a little, smiling down at him as his chest rises and falls in shallow, helpless breaths.

“C’mon,” you coax, brushing your fingers just barely along his waistband. “You’ve been so good. Just admit it, and I’ll make it worth it.”

Bill groans through gritted teeth, fists clenched in the sheets.

“I swear to God if this is some twisted RPG seduction check—”

You grind down softly.

He gasps.

“Say it, Bill.”

“...Ffffffffuck.”

You kiss his temple. You wait.

And finally—

“Okay—! Okay, I—I want you. So bad. I want you to touch me, I wanna—fucking finish, I—”

He looks away, ears bright red.

“—I want you, okay? Happy? You win. You win.”

You smile.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

And then you slip your hand under the waistband and stroke him properly, and Bill falls apart. His voice breaks into these beautiful, shocked little moans, hips jerking up uncontrollably, arms tight around your waist like he’s trying to stay tethered to Earth while his whole body loses control.

He comes with your name on his tongue, half-gasped and half-spoken like it surprises even him. You kiss him through it, slow and soft now, brushing hair off his sticky forehead as he twitches under you.

“...You okay?” you murmur afterward.

He exhales like he just passed a death saving throw.

“I h-hate you,” he stammers, breathless. “You're the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You smirk, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Still want me, though.”

“…Yeah.”

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

ok hear me out... a smutty and fluffy BillJosh fic where they 69 each other 🤭 if u end up doing it, thank you!!!<3

( here are ur two boys kissing my good sir

Title: “Issue #69: Repressed and Repulsive”

(Bill x Josh | Epilogue-era | NSFW | Bitter sexual tension > 69 > weirdly soft ending)

> The basement was hot, airless, and choked with the scent of old Funyuns, dirty socks, and something that might’ve been expired lube. Josh hated being back here.

But not enough to leave.

“Nice to see you haven’t cleaned since the Bush administration,” Josh muttered, stepping over a mountain of DVD-Rs.

“You’re one to talk,” Bill snapped, not looking up from his monitor. “You look like you crawled out of a Reddit thread on crybaby disorders.”

“Bite me.”

“Say it again, see what happens.”

They locked eyes. Josh’s throat tightened.

“Still the same loudmouthed asshole, huh?”

“And you’re still a whiny, obsessive bitch with a superiority complex.”

“God, I missed you,” Josh spat, voice thick with something he refused to name.

Bill stood. The chair creaked like it wanted to die.

“That why you keep coming back?” he growled. “Hoping I’ll throw you a bone? Pat your sad little head?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’re still good at something.”

“Try me, Trekfreak.”

Suddenly they were chest to chest, pressed into the wall, mouths crashing in a kiss that was more teeth than tongue. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even coordinated.

It was starved.

Bill’s hands yanked Josh’s shirt up. Josh moaned, but slapped Bill’s wrist.

“If you’re gonna manhandle me, do it right.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Bill growled—and then shoved Josh down onto the couch with the grace of a bag of bricks.

Josh, breathless, sprawled back. “Top bunk, huh?”

“You’re lighter. And I ain’t breaking my neck for you.”

Their pants hit the floor. Curses and insults flew between kisses, spit-slick and flushed. Bill’s beard scratched along Josh’s inner thigh, and Josh gasped.

“Jesus Christ—warn a guy.”

“Don’t like it, leave.”

“Shut up and sit on my face already.”

Bill barked a laugh.

“You’re such a needy little bitch.”

But he did.

Bill’s heavy weight settled over Josh’s chest, thighs straddling his face. Josh whined, muffled, and tugged him closer, nose buried deep, breath shaky.

Then Bill leaned down, took Josh into his mouth, and suddenly the insults stopped.

For a moment.

Then it was soft groans and the wet, sloppy sounds of two bitter nerds trying to outdo each other with their mouths.

Bill moaned low in his throat.

“Fuck—you taste like Mountain Dew and shame.”

Josh gasped, pulling back just enough to pant, “You taste like spite and gas station wings.”

But neither of them stopped.

It wasn’t graceful. It was sweaty and loud and full of angry eye contact and desperate noise. Josh gripped Bill’s thighs like they were lifelines.

And when they finally came—choked, shaking, breathless—it was like something snapped loose.

Bill collapsed beside him, panting, chest heaving.

Josh wiped his face, dazed. “...Well.”

“Shut up,” Bill muttered.

Silence.

Then:

“You, uh. Wanna stay? Got some MST3K episodes queued up.”

Josh blinked.

“...Yeah.”

Bill didn’t say anything. Just flicked on the TV.

And when Josh slowly leaned against his shoulder—Bill didn’t move away.

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Yandere lucky the rabbit–dark deception

Man I miss his voice it was like perfect for his character im so happy his Voice actor actually made a song for the game

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

It still blows my mind that like 3 years ago when I was 19 i wrote a freaky fred x reader fanfic on wattpad not expecting much but like bro it blew up and now im literally working on the sequel which is supposed to take a darker theme because in my first book I felt like the romance was too fast so now in my sequel they are actually going to fall in love it isnt going to be fast paced break neck speed attraction towards each other.

Art by @doublemaximus

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

A messy pete drawing

Lowkey digging it tbh

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Guys i had a sad thought / realization about pete

Lowkey what if he likes zombies because he feels like one because of how he always delt with his brothers and father abusing him and bullying him constantly. Like hear me out—

Pete latching onto zombies because he relates to them That makes so much emotional and psychological sense.

Zombies are numb, worn-down, and voiceless. (Pete never talks back to his father) They just shuffle along, taking hit after hit, existing in a state of decay—kind of like how Pete might feel like he's not dead but he doesnt exactly feel alive either—emotionally in a home where he's constantly belittled and ignored. Or literally made out to be the freak or something that isn't seen as human or (normal)

They’re always being shot at.(petes dad constantly attacking pete have it be verbal abuse or straight up abuse) hacked apart—and maybe Pete internalizes that, feeling like that’s how his family sees him. Not a person. Just something in the way.

And yet zombies never stop. No matter how broken they are, they keep moving. Pete might admire that resilience in a bleak, twisted way—"If I can be like them, I can keep going too." Or he likes how zombies attack and go after people. Kinda like him taking back power in a twisted way.

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Ughhhh hes literally so perfect 🐞🐞🐞

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Guys lowkey im going to still do eltingville writing but i lowkey I have headcannons for francis from A Bugs Life THE FACT HE FUCKING LINES HIS LIPS AHHHHH! HE is so slay

🎪 Francis the Ladybug – Circus Performer Outfit Headcanon 🎪

---

Overall Aesthetic:

Flamboyant, gender-bending, and unapologetically extra. Francis leans into his stage persona with a bold and theatrical outfit that walks the tightrope between masculine flair and feminine form. It’s androgynous with attitude, designed to dazzle the crowd while still letting him throw punches if needed.

---

🪶 Top:

A deep crimson peasant-style blouse (like from Renaissance fairs), with dramatic puffed sleeves gathered at the wrists.

The sleeves are covered in bold black polka dots, mimicking ladybug wings — a cheeky nod to his species.

The neckline dips just low enough to tease, but not reveal. He keeps it laced just tight enough to be smug about it.

---

🖤 Corset:

Over the blouse, he wears a tight black underbust corset — leather or brocade, depending on the night.

It cinches his stocky frame, giving him a surprising curve that throws people off — especially when paired with his confident strut.

The corset has silver eyelets, ribbon lacing in the back, and maybe even a small red rose detail off to one side (because he’s dramatic).

---

🩶 Bottoms & Boots:

Fitted black pants — sleek, sharp, and flexible enough to fight in.

Thigh-high black leather boots with a ridiculous heel (because he absolutely can fight in them and will).

The boots have a slight platform, making him a bit taller than his usual stout height — not that he’s insecure or anything. (He is.)

---

💄 Accessories & Makeup:

His lashes are naturally long, but he enhances them anyway. Eyes lined in smoky kohl.

Definitely lines his lips, occasionally glittery gloss.

He wears clip-on earrings when he’s feeling especially spicy — maybe little red hearts or tiny knives.

Wears fingerless gloves with studs or rhinestones, depending on the mood.

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Guys canonically francis from a bugs life is a pretty boy

🐞🐞🐞🐞

His outfit when he isnt performing ^

His outfit when he is performing !^

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

THANK YOU THANK YOU THAMK YOU THANK YOUUUU @waffleofwisdom

Underfell Pete be like “I respect women” or smth

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

I need more dad bill with a daughter fics I love them they are so good

(YES YES YES!

Title: "Main Charater Energy"

You’re chopping onions when you hear the front door slam. Your daughter storms past you — coat half-on, backpack dragging, face red and splotchy — and vanishes into her room.

Bill looks up from his laptop, one boot propped on the coffee table. “That’s not normal,” he says like he’s narrating a crime scene.

“She didn’t say anything?” you ask.

“Not a word. Just a grunt. Sounded like something outta The Exorcist.”

You wipe your hands and follow her down the hall. Ten minutes later, she’s in your lap, tear-streaked, small fists clutching your shirt. You stroke her back, ask her to breathe. Eventually, she tells you.

It was a boy at school.

He called her a “stupid bitch” who “only likes Star Wars ‘cause she wants attention from boys.” He told her she was “flat,” and that “no one will want to marry her unless she gets a boob job like Pokimane.”

You sit frozen, rage boiling under your skin. And Bill — Bill — is standing in the doorway now, face pale. Silent.

You’ve never seen him silent.

Then he turns on his heel and walks straight into the kitchen.

CRASH.

You find him three seconds later — the cabinet open, a glass shattered in the sink.

Bill grips the counter with white knuckles. His jaw’s clenched so tight you think he might crack a molar. You touch his arm.

“Bill—”

“I’ll kill him,” he says, voice low and shaking. “I swear to Christ, I’ll f***ing kill that mouth-breathing, Twitch-watching, Fortnite-brained sewer spawn—”

“Bill, you can’t—”

“Don’t you dare tell me I can’t. That feral little proto-Incel said that shit to my kid? My daughter?!”

You stay quiet. Let him rage. He has all the right too and you well you are trying to hold yourself back as well.

He slams a drawer shut.

“I get bullied. I get called names. I grew up eating cafeteria pizza with a fucking paper towel because the lunch lady said I ‘chewed like a lizard.’ But she’s nine.”

He finally turns. His eyes are glassy. That scares you more than anything.

“She’s not like me,” he says. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

You put a hand on his chest.

“She is like you,” you say gently. “That’s why she’s gonna be okay.”

Bill swallows hard.

“I wanna burn his fucking Roblox password and tell him his favorite streamer’s getting sued for tax fraud.”

You blink. “…That’s oddly specific.”

“He was probably repeating something that acne-riddled YouTuber. They’re all the same. Little boys with microphones and no dads.”

Then he stops, eyes distant.

“I’m gonna go write a list.”

You raise a brow. “Of what?”

He points at you like it’s obvious. “Creative, legal revenge tactics. Obviously. I mean its not like I can burn down another building."

---

Later That Night

Bill sits beside your daughter on her bed, a stack of comics beside them.

“You’re not gonna get in trouble for what he said,” Bill mutters, flipping a page. “You’re gonna grow up and be a fucking legend. He’s gonna grow up and make apology videos for his Twitch ban.”

She smiles, just barely.

Bill ruffles her hair.

“Also, if anyone ever tells you to get a boob job before you’re old enough to rent a car, tell them your dad says they are fucking stupid with worm brain.”

“What’s worm brain?”

“Exactly.”

———

The next Monday

It starts with a phone call during lunch.

The school secretary’s voice is cloyingly calm, like she’s about to offer you a coupon for coffee, not tell you your daughter got sent to the office for violence.

Bill’s chewing on a piece of beef jerky when you hang up. “What happened? Did she finally snap and go full Carrie?”

“She punched that boy.”

Bill’s eyes go wide. Then he grins.

“No shit.”

---

At the School

You both sit on the uncomfortable little plastic chairs across from the principal, who looks like she’s never had a single thought not approved by HR.

Your daughter’s beside you — arms crossed, face red, knuckles bruised.

The principal sighs. “While we understand emotions can run high, physical violence is never acceptable behavior in our school.”

Bill leans forward, voice dripping sarcasm. “But sexual harassment and verbal abuse is fine, right? Long as you do it without leaving a bruise?”

“Mr. Dickey—”

“She was being harassed for weeks. A kid called her flat, told her to get a boob job."

“Those are serious accusations.”

“You think? Maybe if you’d handled it the first ten times she reported it, we wouldn’t be sitting here!”

The principal clears her throat. “Regardless, your daughter did throw a punch, and the student in question was injured.”

“Good,” Bill mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Good,” he says louder, sitting back with his arms crossed. “I hope he cried. I hope he called his mommy and she took away his gaming chair. I hope the other kids laughed when he ran off with tears on his Minecraft hoodie.”

You elbow him. But not too hard.

“She defended herself,” you say firmly. “She didn’t start this.”

The principal gives you a tight, polite smile. “Be that as it may, we’re assigning her in-school suspension for the day.”

Bill scoffs. “You’re punishing a kid for not taking shit from a future failed podcaster. Real inspiring.”

You reach over and squeeze your daughter’s little hand. She looks worried — scared, even.

So you kneel in front of her, meet her eyes.

“We’re not mad at you,” you say. “You stood up for yourself. You did what we taught you.”

“Violence isn’t—” the principal starts.

“—the first option,” you interrupt. “But it is an option. Especially when adults won’t help.”

Bill pats her on the shoulder. “Next time, go for the stomach. It’s more humiliating.”

“Bill.”

“I’m just saying.”

---

In the Car

Your daughter sits in the back seat, chewing on a Capri Sun straw like a toothpick. “I’m gonna be in trouble at school tomorrow.”

“Yeah, probably,” Bill says. “But he’s gonna be too scared to talk to you, so that’s a win.”

You glance at her in the rearview. “How hard did you hit him?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. He started crying. And he called me a name I didn’t understand.”

Bill grins like Christmas came early.

You sigh, but you’re smiling too.

She’s learning the world’s ugly. But she’s not going to be small in it. Not afraid.

Not with you two in her corner.