#Charcoal Floss

[dragpinkman]

everytime i see skincare morning routine whatever videos on pinterest im like damn you guys are ruining your enamel

[dearreader]

ive been extra vigilante about my oral and dental hygiene the past few months and tonight i went to town on flossing and oh my god my gums are so sore

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ! ( tenth installment ) in which you are forced to plan a corporate event with your office enemy .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; kento nanami

୨୧˚ cw; profanity , smuttish , pure unadulterated fluff

୨୧˚ an; thank you all for the patience 😭😭 so sorry i’ve been busy getting back into uni shit but omg!!! slowburn is peaking!!! also the tag list is officially closed because i have reached the max # of tags!!!

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

Nanami’s morning routine doesn’t deviate from the norm. An alarm clock was built into his genetic code, and he rouses at half past six in the morning. Unfurling his long limbs from the confines of the couch—the suede thing was big, but Nanami was bigger. Joints popped under sheets of muscle and flesh when he gave a hearty stretch, and with that, he was ready to start his Sunday.

Fueled purely on motor memory, he filters through each step of the habitual customs he’s grown to associate with mornings. You’re still sleeping soundly in his bed, and the risk of waking you condemns Nanami to his downstairs bathroom rather than the personal en suite tailing off his bedroom. It doesn’t pose much of an inconvenience; Nanami was nothing if not prepared. The slender closet in his downstairs bathroom housed spare toiletries—handkerchiefs, tooth brushes, soaps and oils.

He brushes his teeth first, watching his reflection with tired eyes. Minty foam froths at the corners of his lips. Nanami collects the mess with his tongue before spitting into the porcelain bowl of the sink. He’s thorough, scrubbing every corner of his mouth, followed by a pass through with charcoal infused floss. Next, the man is dabbing a button of facial cleanser onto a small square of towel, wetting it under the faucet. Scouring his cheeks, then forehead, then nose. His hair is mussed from tossing in his sleep, and if not for the guest upstairs, Nanami would probably leave it as is. But you’re his guest, and for some reason that means something to him, so he slicks back the blonde frizz with wet hands. 

Another staple of Nanami’s morning routine: a good cup of coffee. The machine was expensive—Nanami tends to splurge when it comes to matters that mean most to him. He doesn’t mind spending a little extra on his suit wear, his beloved watches, and certainly not his coffee. Crafted from titanium and stainless steel, it sat heavily on the black marble countertop and whirred quietly as it compressed beans into the filter. 

Ingredients line the island at the center of his extravagant kitchen. Weekends were the only days in which Nanami had enough time to cook breakfast for himself, rather than grabbing a bagel or danish from the convenience store on his way to the office. It was a shame, really, because he enjoyed the gratification of cooking his own meals. And not to toot his own horn, but he was rather proud of his skills. 

He never cooks for two, though. 

Nanami peruses the ingredient assembly line, looking from the organic eggs, to the all purpose flour, to the carton of mixed berries. It would be rude of him not to consider your palate. Did you prefer a savory breakfast? Or perhaps you’d rather have something on the sweeter side like pancakes? He nibbled his lower lip in thought. 

A divine aroma saturates the entirety of downstairs. Nanami focuses on folding a second omellette, tucking the concoction of whipped egg, chopped bell peppers, caramelized onions, diced tomatoes, and grated sharp cheddar on itself with the delicacy of a surgeon. He’s knee deep in concentration, back turned towards his staircase so your presence goes entirely unnoticed. 

Hands clap together somewhere over his shoulder. He jerks with a startled gasp, the fork in his hand clattering to vinyl tiles. Nanami presses a palm to his racing chest, twisting to find your hands just inches away from his ear. What a little shit, you are. He doesn’t waste effort trying to stifle his grimace. “Was that necessary?”

You’re crouched down, retrieving the silverware off the floor. “Now we’re even.” 

“Even?”

“Yeah,” you hand him the fork, to which he blinks at the useless thing. It’s been dirtied by the floor, so Nanami instructs you to toss it in the sink and grab another from the utensil drawer at the end of his pointed finger. As you play fetch, you explain. “Do you know how scared shitless I was waking up in a strange bedroom? In strange clothes?” He’s watching you toy aimlessly with the abundance of extra material bunched up around the trussed waistband of your—his—sweatpants. Nanami’s clothes cloak you more than enough; cotton t-shirt hanging just below mid-thigh, and those damned oversized sweats rolled up in stupidly big cuffs at the ankles stopping over your socked feet. You must’ve adjusted them accordingly when you stepped out of bed. Something akin to apprehension pulled at your face. “We didn’t…”

Blonde brows scrunch as he attempts to decipher your blathering. When you beckon a hand between your chest and his, Nanami abruptly chokes on his saliva. “Are you out of your mind?” He’s quick to sputter, spinning back to face the sizzling pans and contain the tickle in his throat. A white bowl and whisk are gathered into strong arms—homemade blueberry pancake batter sloshes against the wiry bristles of Nanami’s whisk. He pours three more precise circles of batter onto the second frying pan, and the sweet paste fizzles against nonstick cookware. “You were intoxicated, Y/n. Couldn’t even remember your own address.” He paused. “A change of clothes seemed ideal in the moment. Something cozier.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Footsteps pad closer, and you appear beside him, resting your back against the counter. Your head lolls, cheek falling against your shoulder. He can feel your eyes gouging into the side of his face while he flips the pancake triplets. “You changed me?”

There’s a foreign tonality bleeding into your words, something almost playful, and he’s vexed. Are you teasing him? A trimmed thumb nail burrows into the silicone grip of a spatula. Or is that genuine curiosity? “I did,” Nanami gives you honesty, licking his lip as he does so. On it, he tastes a vague note of spearmint. “You needed some help.”

“God,” you touch a hand to your forehead and laugh, “that does sound like me.” There is no perturbation or embarrassment there, only relief, and he thanks God for your uncanny ability to bypass awkwardness in situations such as these. Had the roles been reversed and it was Nanami receiving word that a coworker of the opposite sex had dressed him in a period of inebriation, well, he’d probably send in a letter of resignation to the company the next day. “Sorry for being so difficult for you.”

He wags his head, dismissing the remorse. “Please, your apologies are far from necessary.”

“Oh I think they’re completely neces—”

“Aht.” A spatula stabs through the air stopping a few inches shy of your nose. There’s a sharpness that eclipses sepia eyes behind the crystalline shield of Nanami’s wire-framed glasses; a barbed glance that telepathically urges you to drop the argument before it begins. With that same spatula, he dives below fluffy circles of speckled cake and transports them from pan to plates, divvying up the pancakes into two even portions. “You took the medication I left for you, yes? They were beside the glass of water on the side table.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m feelin’ better already.”

“Good,” he nods with a subtle, tight-lipped grin. “That’s good. Though you should probably get some food down. Fill your stomach with something other than tylenol.” Nanami stops his ministrations, satisfied with the presentation of both plates of breakfast, and pitches you a simple question. “Coffee?”

You practically moan, “coffee sounds really fucking amazing right now.”

Coffee it is then. Nanami proposes that you go settle yourself in a seat, and that he’d handle the rest. Forfeiting another argument, you buckle and slip into a high stool at the breakfast bar that is associated along the island in the midst of the kitchen. Two twin mugs are poached from the highest shelf, crafted of gray ceramic with uneven, white polka dots. He owned a whole dining set donning those same frivolous dots; Nanami always had an absurd fascination with peculiar patterns, they were charming to the man. Perhaps his collection of ugly things were meaningful because of how violently they contrasted to his otherwise ordinary life. In both mugs, scalding coffee brimmed and emanated laces of smoke slithering up to the ceiling. Nanami didn’t bother asking you how you took your coffee—he just knew. Knew from stealing glances at you over the past year, watching you concoct a disastrous potion of lukewarm coffee poured from the communal pot that you so desperately despised, skim milk from the carton in the office floor’s minifridge, and a concerning amount of sugar packets that made him feel inclined to alert your doctor. Nanami does his best to match the ratio of coffee to milk to sugar, gives it a stir, and hopes it’s up to your eccentric taste buds. 

He sets your plate and mug down, sliding it across the counter’s surface to sit before you. Nanami chooses to stand where he is, leaning against the opposite end of the island. His foot, clad in a thick, black sock, taps quietly against the floor. “I wasn’t aware of your preferences so—”

“So you made…” You go quiet, prodding at the unusual combination of food on your plate: a vegetable-ridden omelette on one side and a few blueberry-encrusted flapjacks glazed in a modest squirt of maple syrup on the other. You hate it, he thinks shortly, but then a smile splits on your lips and Nanami fears he may have jumped the gun. “Eggs and pancakes?”

“You do like eggs and pancakes, don’t you?”

“Yes sir,” you respond, enthused. “It’s perfect.”

Nanami cringes. “I’d like it if you didn’t call me that outside of the workplace.”

“What? Sir?”

He hums. “Formalities remind me of work; I don’t like to think about work when I’m eating my breakfast.” He punctuates the request with a sip from his mug. Black, unsweetened coffee scathes his tongue with powerful calidity, but he’s well acquainted with its heat by now, and doesn’t wince.

“I’ll just stick to Nanami, then.”

“Actually, I—” Was it even worth mentioning? That he’d handed you the rights to use his first name last night? The tiny, bothersome devil on Nanami’s shoulder was whispering yes. “Kento will do.”

True, unadulterated glee beamed from your person, wafting a certain warmth across the counter to smack him in the face. “Holy shit, yeah that’s right! I remember now!” Using your fork as an arrow to point at the man, “last night, you told me that. You said I can call you Kennnn-Tooooo—”

“Okay, alright.” He’s jaded by your antics, swatting his hand in the air lazily. It’s too early in the morning to get serenaded by his own name. “Say it normally, or don’t say it at all.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so crazy to think that we’re on a first name basis now, y’know?” You ask before shoveling a forkful of pancake into your mouth, sighing blissfully at the taste. Gratefulness oozed into your gestures, materializing in the way you simpered up at him following each and every bite. Smiles so broad that Nanami wondered if they were out of politeness or if you really just enjoyed his cooking that much.

He can cheers to your observation. “If you would’ve told me five months ago that you’d be sitting across from me in my home—sharing breakfast with me, no less—I would have…” Laughed in your face? Had a conniption? A combination of the two? Nanami trails off into thought, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’d have done.”

So hellbent on sticking to his judgment, Nanami rarely changed his mind about people post first impressions. First impressions were something he valued, both in himself and in others. A snap perception is made based upon the first bits of information he collects from a person, and it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to say that your initial communication was less than stellar. Since then, Nanami’s one-track mind had pinned associations onto you like a bulletin board, assigning your name with attributes like sleazy and trashy and (God, he felt the worst about this one) slutty. This entire time, it was Nanami’s stubbornness and penchant to be right that shielded him from the realization that you were none of those cancerous aspersions. 

You are you.

You are a diligent worker. You are never on time. Your favorite color is (f/c). You are easy to talk to, easy to approach. You like pistachio cheesecake and criminally sweet coffee. You are insecure about your presentation skills, though Nanami can’t understand why. You are determined. You are rarely shy about asking for something you need, a quality he appreciates in someone. You make him laugh. You can’t hold your liquor. With the way you’re drooling over your plate like a hungry puppy, it’s apparent that you like his cooking. And he likes you. 

He… what?

“Yeah, well,” you tilt your head, and the melodic chuckle that follows is enough to yank Nanami from his dazedness. Lifting your mug, you push it towards him in a sort of gesture. “Good thing the past doesn’t matter, huh? We were both lame in the past, but look at us now.” You retract the mug to your lips, taking a swig. “Future us is awesome. Are awesome? Is?”

You mumble to yourself, befuddled by grammar. Meanwhile, Nanami brews in thought. Your undying fearlessness of what’s to come in life always rendered him bewildered. 

“I’m jealous,” he admits, idly tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb. 

You perk up. “Of?”

“Your ability to embrace the future. It’s brave.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” you sweatdrop, itching your cheek. “I wouldn’t call it bravery. Maybe security? I’m—yeah, I’m secure with the route I’ve taken in life.”

“You’re secure with white collar work?”

“I can’t see myself in any other profession,” you smile, flicking him a brow. “What about you?”

Honesty permitted, Nanami would describe his job as the bane of his misery. There used to be a point in his life in which he was sure that this was his ultimate goal: a senior executive position with an esteemed, high-profile company. Younger Nanami was content to endure years of early mornings and late nights with busy schedules jammed in between because it’d all be worth it when he finally tastes that sweet senior title. Except, now he’s tasted it. He’s licked it dry, and despite that, that feeling of fulfillment Nanami had been vying for his whole career remains frustratingly dormant. The notion that this will be his routine until retirement kills him.

He chews thoughtfully on a sliver of pancake before responding. “We touched on this a little over text.”

“You want to travel.”

You remembered. He hums. “I do.”

“And you want a family.”

“I do,” Nanami sighs longingly. 

You don’t make an effort to stifle a chuckle at his supposed foolishness. Shaking your head and cutting your eggs with the blunt side of a fork; “You talk about these things as if it’s all some sort of cushiony pipe dream. It’s really fucking hilarious all things considered.”

“All things considered?” Perplexed, Nanami pries for an expansion. 

And with all the seriousness in the world, you begin to count on your digits. “You are probably the most charming, most intelligent, most wealthy—”

“Y/n,” Nanami yawps at your conviction. When you jest, you do it in such an obvious way. He’s come to familiarize himself with the clever quirk of your mouth’s corner, or that playfully irritating glint in your smile-squinted eyes. But now, Nanami can’t find any evidence of joking in your stoney expression. You’re sincere when you say these things about him. It makes his heart pound so viciously that it vibrates his ear drums. 

“Most hard-working man I’ve ever met.” Unfazed by his apparent flusteredness, you finish with a nonchalant shrug. “Just funny, is all, that you of all people are stressing over these things when you have the ingredients to make your ambitions a reality.”

“Your compliments are… thanked…” The blonde ducks his head in an awkward, halfhearted bow, “but I can’t ever hope to truly begin my life when I don’t have the time granted to do so.” Nanami touches an index and middle finger to his temple, rubbing in soothing circles. It doesn’t do much to quell the oncoming migraine that this nightmarish topic never fails to cast upon him. “I’ve tried. Believe me when I say that I have worked my ass off trying to balance my job alongside nurturing a relationship. But I’ve come to realize how unfair of me that is—to ask a woman to bear with my neglect because I got held up at the office for the fifth night in a row. A relationship isn’t much of a relationship at all if both people still feel lonely.”

Unbeknownst to him, his tone had slipped away for a moment. He became bitter, recalling the lineup of failures that made up his dating history. Bitter and lonely. It’s been almost two years now that Nanami has abandoned the dating scene, if not for his sake than for the sake of his next girlfriend. Though, he can’t help but have moments of tenderness in which he thinks that maybe all of his occupational achievements would have been more gratifying if he had someone to share them with.

He clears his throat, lowering his voice back down when he apologizes for getting emotional. 

“Don’t say sorry.” You offer a reassuring grin. “I’m sorry for assuming shit about your life. That was uncool of me.”

“Don’t say sorry,” Nanami parrots, returning your grin with a sheepish one of his own, and tilts his head toward his shoulder. “I didn’t exactly mind the compliments.”

“Conceited bastard.”

He hides his simper well behind his mug. “I’d still like to know what makes you happy, if that offer is still on the table.”

“Why’s that?”

“I just would like to.” Nanami licks his lower lip, eyes grazing yours. “Do I need a more convoluted reason than that?”

Your face reads like a book. It tells him don’t be a smartass, so he yields to your unimpressed frown. “You’re not gonna like my answer. Working makes me happy.”

The revelation doesn’t shock him. “You are demonstrably proficient, Y/n. In my professional opinion, I have no doubts that you’ll be successful.” Nanami does his best to mirror your sincerity. 

“More successful than you?” You tease.

“Oh forget me, I give it five years before you’re replacing Gakuganji,” he laughs gently before pressing a finger to his lips, mimicking secrecy. “Let’s keep that between us, though.”

“The day you take orders from me is the day I can die happy.”

I wouldn’t mind that day.

“But to be honest, I think it cuts deeper than the success aspects. Ah, It’s kinda hard to put it into words…” You take a moment to string together an explanation while Nanami waits patiently. “I’m sort of a mess in my personal life. I fuck a lot of things up, I make bad judgement calls, I can get a little lazy sometimes—I just do shit wrong. Or at least, that’s what I feel like.”

Nanami hangs on every word.

“So, like, to come to work everyday and be organized and–and put on this presentation of competency,” your tongue clicks sweetly, “I need that. I need people to see me that way—I think that’s why it affected me so much when you… when you saw me…”

“At the party?” He clarifies.

You purr in agreement. “Yeah. That. I felt like, I don't know, like I shattered my whole ‘persona’ and you saw me. You really saw me.”

He can’t look away from you. The way you’re visibly shrinking, collapsing in on yourself like a wounded animal. Constricting your own torso with your arms in a self-soothing hug. Are you ashamed? 

When Nanami finally speaks, he keeps his voice calm. Soft and cottony. “Do you always have such degrading thoughts about yourself?”

“I wouldn’t call it degradation…”

“I would.” Brows furrow, and he leans further into the conversation with his elbows on the island’s surface. “You talk about yourself as if you’re two separate people.”

“Don’t you see it, too?” You ask him gravely, as though you’re hinging on Nanami’s opinion. Like his insubstantial assessment of you is the only thing that matters. “You won’t offend me, I swear.”

Unperturbed, he blinks. “Not at all.”

“Then you’re fucking blind,” you cluck. “Those glasses aren’t doing much for you.”

Nanami nips the inner seam of his cheek, unamused. Right now, he isn’t much in the mood for jokes. Not when he now understands the extent of the disdain that you have for yourself. It irks him that you can’t see how rare of a person you are. 

“My eyesight has no relevance, stop deflecting with humor.” “I’m not deflecting!”

“Yes, you are. Now please, stop and let me talk for a moment,” Nanami shows you his palm, and you find your silence. “You are not two people, Y/n, you’re just one. Just you. Sure, you have your quirks and flaws—as does everyone else—but they are what makes you you. They make you nice to be around.”

“You think I’m nice to be around?”

“We meet nearly every weekend now, have you been under the impression that I hated your presence?”

“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes. I assumed you were still hanging out with me because you felt like you owed me. Which you totally did, by the way.” You purse your lip together, stiff. “But, um, your debt has long been paid, especially with this delicious breakfast. So… y’know, if you don’t want to go out, you can just tell me.”

A breathy, humorous exhale huffs through Nanami’s nostrils. “I am a grown man. If I don’t want to do something, then I won’t do it. This,” he gestures between himself then you, “isn’t occurring out of pity or some strange form of charity. You’re here right now because I want you to be, okay?”

That little declaration pulls a coy smile from you, something Nanami introspectively overthinks. He tells himself that you’re blushing, just barely noticeable past your complexion. “Okay.” You whisper, the apples of your cheeks more pronounced than he’s ever seen them before.

Baring witness to a skittish Y/n was not on the docket for Nanami’s Sunday. He’s aware that this little discussion should stop. It was enroute to breaching something—something intimate and foreign and never to be acknowledged between you both. Unspoken chemistry that Nanami intended to let shrivel up and rot within his core because he doesn’t have the strength to snuff out the beacon of light you’ve shown in his life when he inevitably ruins yet another relationship.

But…

“I’ve had more fun in the past month than in my twenty-seven years of life. With you, I mean. So please don’t shun the side of you that exists outside of the office, because you have this spark that I haven’t seen in any of my associates in a long time. I’m… I would be upset if you let yourself turn into another copy-and-paste corporate zombie.”

There is an obvious shift in the kitchen air. It’s blossomed deep and heavy; Nanami feels like it’s become a struggle to keep himself from sinking into the floor. Your gaze is bolted to him, his to yours, in a quiet exchange of consciousness. Can you hear his thoughts? You look at him so intensely, he fears you might be able to hear how beautiful he thinks you look under the fluorescent light bulbs fixed into the ceiling.

You slip off your stool. Nanami watches your trek around the curve of the island. Onto his side.

It’s through feathery lashes that you look up at him.

“Do you find me attractive?”

The spine you have to ask such an audacious question. Visceral palpitations strike through the beating organ in his chest. His hand brushes the ledge of the countertop, then grips it for stability. “Yes.” So attractive, that he felt he could die right now. 

“Even after I vomited on your shoes?”

“I thought you didn’t remember last night?” Nanami goads.

“It’s coming back to me.”

You feign cheekiness. “Yeah,” he swallows, taking a shaky breath for himself. “Still beautiful.”

Beautiful, even with remnants of day-old eyeliner smudges below those doe eyes. Messy in the most enticing way. An urge swells within Nanami, to cradle your precious face and swipe the makeup off your flesh with his thumb. However, you moved first.

Reaching upwards, you pluck the pair of glasses off his nose. He lets you. Folded, they sit on the island.

Nanami gives a subtle shake of his head, tonguing the sharp corner of his lip. “What are you doing?” It comes out hushed, like he’s telling a secret.

“I don’t know,” you reply impishly. 

The following events can only be categorized as amorous. Ever so slowly, your hand touches. Pressing to his chest, feeling every valley and peak on its ascension to his collarbone. It peeks out from over top the collar of his raggedy, white tee shirt, and you feel him there. Offhandedly, he believes this may be the first time you’ve seen him outside of suitwear. Long, languid breaths keep him grounded, but Nanami can barely stand this torture. Though for you, he does. He lets you touch everything you want, biting his lip all the while. 

“What are you doing?” It comes again, more breathy than the last.

You don’t answer, far too enraptured by the panes of his neck. He feels you drag a fingertip down the trail of a vein. Resolve unravels, he’s slipping.

“Kento.”

If he looked into a mirror at this moment, would he even recognize himself? Nanami knows he’s a better man than this. It should take more than the pillowy drawl of his name to snap the wavering thread of self-discipline within him. 

Chest touches chest; he’s got you trapped against the kitchen island. The same island you both were sharing breakfast with five minutes ago. The same island, Nanami kisses you now.

Your face is sandwiched between two large hands. Nanami holds you to him, angling your neck back so he can grind his tongue deeper into your warm throat. There is no buildup, no preemptive apprehension that repels him from committing to bury himself in your mouth. He kisses you with no regrets, just desire and stifling yearning. 

Moans vibrate the slobbery mess. Nanami feels a bouquet of fingers latch onto his hip and pull—he rewards you, sucking sensually against the tip of your tongue. It’s fucking hot. He’s hot. And hard. Nanami’s sweating. He’s grabbing. He’s rubbing. He’s—-

Beep!

The kiss stops synchronously with twin gasps. You gawk up at him, wide-eyed at the sudden auditory intrusion. He’s looking right back down at you, panting. 

“It's the oven.”

“Oh.”

All the passion had seemingly drained, Nanami felt the altar in the atmosphere. With all the reluctance in the world, he pushes himself back to give you sizable space. Unsure of how this aftermath would play out. Awkwardly, he clears his throat, swabbing excess saliva from his chin with a palm. “I uhm—I was baking some bread.”

You nod, avoiding eye contact. “That’s cool.”

You look mortified, and that makes him feel mortified. “Y/n, I’m sorry for—”

“It’s fine.”

His heart sinks to his guts. “No, it’s not fine. Please, let me ap—”

“Kento,” you cut him off, “you didn’t do anything wrong. Like, at all, so stop apologizing. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

Nanami’s brows pinch together, and he gapes at that. “You haven’t done a single thing wrong either.” You don’t seem to believe him, what with the way you sway from left foot to right foot, hands twiddling restlessly. Cautious, he takes a step closer. “You look anxious. I’m by no means kicking you out, but I don’t want to keep you here if it makes you uncomfortable. Just say the word and I’ll call you a ride home.”

A sigh graces your kiss-swollen lips, and you bow graciously. “Please, that would be great, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Nanami says gently, moving to fish his phone out of the pocket of his flannel pajama bottoms. “Of course.”

“I’ll go change out of your clothes—”

“Keep them on, I insist.” He’s quick to halt you. “And leave yours upstairs, I’ll run them through the washing machine. We can exchange them tomorrow.”

“I—okay, thank you.” You look so apologetic, it wounds him. “Thank you for everything. For taking me home last night, for breakfast, for–for this.”

“You don’t have to thank me. But you’re very welcome.”

Your taxi shows up a few minutes later. It’s hard to watch you go, especially when you left him on dubious terms. Were you upset by his kiss? Nanami hopes to God that’s not the case. Or maybe you were appalled? Fearful, even? 

Nanami needs to turn his brain off—this cancerous spiral of thinking would only send him into a dark pit of guilt, and he had a web meeting later in the evening. After washing the dishes leftover from the breakfast endeavor, he sits on the sofa with his head in his hands

You tasted like fucking maple syrup.

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[aspiringhorrorauthor]

Ordered some plant based tooth floss holders, didn’t realise until they arrived that they were pre-loaded. Didn’t realise until I used one that they are charcoal based floss. Fucking evil shite. Here I am trying to help my dental health and this company is fleecing its shite with teeth damaging products. Charcoal in dental products should be banned or at least made to be heavily advertised with warnings

[thegreenwaysblog]

Are Bamboo Toothbrushes Good

Bamboo toothbrushes influence an individual' teeth similarly as. The bamboo toothbrush is really made on a similar kind of hardware used to make plastic toothbrushes. However, here's the most amazing aspect: With bamboo toothbrushes, you won't be staying plastic into your mouth.

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[inkykeiji]

you’ll always be my white rabbit

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut, carnival AU

notes: aaaah he’s finally here!!! happy belated halloween everyone!! i hope you all enjoy carnival attendant!dabi and, as always, please heed the warnings below! | title credit: bad habits by delaney jane

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, dangerous sex, public sex, minimal prep, dubcon, drugs, reader has long hair, overstimulation, degradation/dumbification, praise, marking, fingering, size difference/size kink, dacryphilia

words: 8.8k

synopsis:

Because despite the fact that you’re in the middle of an empty carnival and on a moving ride, there is something distinctly intimate about the entire encounter, found in the way his hands hold you close, palms curled protectively around your waist, fingertips signing his name, staking his claim, in blossoms of blues and purples into your flesh as they grip you tightly; in the way his forehead stays pressed flush to yours irregardless of the vicious motions of the boat, kisses messy and inept as teeth clack and click and chip against each other, wild giggles and half-baked sobs sucked from one throat into another; in the way his eyes glitter with the lights of the midway, sapphire amplified by fuchsia and crimson, neons that bleed into his irises and tint them violet and periwinkle.

The sky is still a deep blue when you arrive, twined with wispy strands of candy floss clouds, suspended in the atmosphere and wavering subtly with the gentle breeze.

The wind carries the scent of buttersalt popcorn and hard candy on its back, weaving its way through the small carnival—all the game stalls and the rusting rides and the grumbling food trucks—and you breathe in deeply, letting the smell settle in your lungs.

“Hey, let’s go!” Your best friend threads her arm through your own and begins leading you towards the small ticket booth, jutting up from a grassy knoll like a crooked golden tooth.

It’s nearly night by the time the two of you end up in line for the ferris wheel—by far the longest line for any ride here—the last halo of weak coral light bleeding into violet-tinged onyx.

You can’t quite understand why the queue for this particular ride is as busy as it is, gazing up at the rickety structure with a scrunched nose. It isn’t all that impressive; a measly sixty-seven feet tall, with white spokes and silver booths dangling precariously between them, paint chipping and dirty, hinges tarnished with flakes of rust.

“God,” your friend grimaces, front teeth nibbling at the thin skin of her bottom lip, eyes glued to the ride attendant. “I hope he doesn’t do that to us.”

Curiously, you follow her glare, finding a man with inky tufts and low-slung charcoal jeans at the base of the ride, one hand wrapped around the safety bar of the current cart docked at the loading platform, the other clamping inconspicuously over the back of the seat before he flips the whole thing backwards, swift and sudden, the surprised squeals and shrieks of his patrons eliciting a loud, harsh, sadistic laugh from deep in his chest, notes of his amusement floating above the crowd.

“You should consider it a compliment if he does,” a girl behind you says. “He does it to all the pretty girls.”

The notion makes you snort a little—some compliment, scaring the Goddamn life out of your customers entirely without their permission—but it does nothing to soothe the wrinkles of worry written into your best friend’s forehead.

The moon has emerged when you make it to the front of the line, pale rays competing with the colourful glow of the midway, irregular clusters of stars embroidering the velvet night rendered dull in comparison to the twinkling neon lightbulbs encrusting the rides.

It is only when you’re on the platform, sitting down in the tottering seat, that you realize exactly why the line for this particular ride is the longest.

Smirking down at you with lidded sapphire eyes glinting in the flashing cabochon lights, he is breathtakingly gorgeous.

Scars—pink and puckered, edges shimmering silver in the moon beams—cover his arms, climbing their way up his biceps, under his blue uniform shirt, and back out over his collarbone. They inch up his neck and over his cheeks, curved edges etching an everlasting smile across his face. They look soft, the puckered skin glowing in the light of the night, casting a sort of ethereal halo around his form.

“Ladies,” he greets with a noncommittal nod as he secures the lap bar across the bench and over your thighs.

“Please don’t flip us,” your friend blurts, eyes wide and desperate, hands gripping the safety bar so tightly her skin is stretched taut and tight over her knuckles.

“‘Course not,” he says with startling reassurance, though you can see the suppressed mischief playing with the corners of his lips, head bowed while rough hands tug halfheartedly at the frayed seatbelt across your hips.

“Oh, thank you, becau—”

A sharp scream cuts her off as the whole chair abruptly tilts backwards, entire carnival flipped upside down for a split second before it’s right side up again, the man snickering to himself at your friend’s overreaction.

She’s saying something, voice shrill with terror, but you can’t seem to hear her, hands frantically smoothing back down your wind-blown skirt, ears tuned into the frequency of the man’s dark, smooth voice.

He’s only a few inches from your face now, palms still latched tightly onto your seat, blue eyes bright with mirth.

“Pretty panties,” he smirks at you, eyes raking over your body before he tilts his head forward to whisper in your ear. “But they’d look a helluva lot prettier in my back pocket.”

And then you’re off, ride lurching forward as your tottering little chair climbs the spokes of the wheel, higher and higher and higher until you reach the very top, then descending backwards, lower and lower and lower just to repeat the whole cycle again.

You can’t pull your gaze from the ride attendant as your cart passes him by the first time, leaning nonchalantly against the operating booth as his tongue pokes absentmindedly at his cheek, that permanent lopsided smirk welded to his face, his unblinking stare steadily holding your own until it can’t anymore, until the ride carries you away again.

Your friend is still babbling on, but it all sounds muffled to your ears, nothing more than an indistinct jumble of complaints until she’s nudging your elbow, snapping you from your stupor.

“Huh?”

“I said, why is he looking at you like that?” her voice is full of disgust, face screwed up with something sour as she glowers at the ride attendant, who doesn’t bother to toss her a glance.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what did he say to you?”

“What?”

“The guy! He whispered something in your ear before the ride started, didn’t he? What did he say?”

Heat seeps into your cheeks, slow and simmering, and you look down at your shoes, toes pointed inward, nearly overlapping.

“Nothing important,” you murmur, his smooth voice cascading through your mind like thick melted chocolate.

She doesn’t look like she believes you, but she doesn’t push any further either, receiving your answer with an indifferent shrug before returning back to prattling on about safety measures and respect and how the carnival will definitely hear about this incident.

You’re sure the carnival already knows about this guy’s behaviour, sure they don’t give a fuck if he’s been allowed to continue it, but you stay quiet, nodding along in an apathetic daze.

As the ride slows to a stop, you feel the unmistakable twinge of disappointment throbbing in the pit of your stomach, a vague sense of yearning sinking in your chest. It’s inexplicable, the sudden draw you feel towards this man—it’s magical, it’s magnetic; a moth to a light, an addict to a fix, a craving, voracious as it claws at your lungs—and you frown, lips molding into a pout, brain grasping for something, anything, to say to him, to soak up another ounce of his attention before he’s gone forever.

A calloused hand cuffs your wrist just as you’re about to step off the platform, fingers rough against your smooth skin, and you look back in surprise, a sweet little gasp hitching in your throat, unmistakable excitement glowing behind your ribs.

The man with the inky hair and the azure eyes says nothing as he stuffs a wad of worn tickets in your palm, gifting you a quick wink when you glance up at him in question, smirk grown into a grin.

Then he’s shuffling you forward, down the steps and off the platform as he welcomes the next round of guests onto the ride, the chain of tickets searing against your skin.

You’re unraveling them the moment you’re out of your best friend’s sight, breath bated and spine pressed against the back of the funhouse, eyes swallowing down the contents with starving curiosity.

The words U + ME TONIGHT glare up at you, written across the tickets in bright purple scrawl. Flipping the chain over, you find a time and location—11PM @ F. WHEEL—in the same messy handwriting; rushed, secret, just for you.

You and him, tonight. Eleven PM at the ferris wheel. You’ll be there.

    ✰          ✰          ✰        

Murky golden lamplight filters through the dark autumn leaves, casting grotesque shadows on the candy-stained asphalt, constantly moving, shifting, changing as the wind jostles the branches.

Shivering a little, you tuck your hands beneath your arms, hugging your body tightly.

And you wait.

The carnival is vacant now, gusts whistling down the wide aisles, but the rides are still lit up, stationary and motionless, looming over you like massive metal monsters, laying in wait for their masters’ commands.

It all feels eerie, uncanny, like something is distinctly off, something you can’t quite find a word to describe, even as disquiet settles in your belly.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the wind-shivered leaves, curling in on themselves as they cling weakly to the branches and bark, desperate for one last moment of life before a gust sends them fluttering to their death.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

You don’t know a thing about this man, you don’t even know his name, yet here you are: desperate, waiting for him all alone, unprotected and unprepared.

All due to a hazy feeling; dreamy and whimsical, exhilarating and terrifying, a curiosity starved for more.

Something tingles at the base of your spine, pinpricks of ice climbing vertebrae by vertebrae, forcing another shiver to ripple through your flesh, your head turning just as a pair of hands grab your waist, a yelp cracking high in your throat.

“You came!” the man is saying as he spins you to face him, large hands still on your hips, all bright smiles and brilliant eyes.

“I did,” you breathe out, words slightly trembling.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all, gaze glistening with the thrill of it all. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Yeah, right. You really expect me to believe that?”

To your surprise, he laughs loudly, head nodding with a shrug of his shoulders. “Ah, what can I say? People look the prettiest when they’re scared.”

That’s an odd statement, you think, dimly aware of a soft chiming at the back of your mind—a warning of sorts, instantly silenced by his voice.

“C’mon!” he’s grabbing your hand, tugging you along behind him. “Lemme show you around.”  

“So, uh, what’s your name?” you ask as you stroll, arms linked, towards the heart of the midway.

“Dabi,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “I already know yours.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” you snort with a smirk, expecting him to mutter some cliché term—angel or gorgeous or something of that kind—as his head drops, lips at your ear, sugary wisps of your birth name curling around the cartilage.

It sends a jolt of shock shooting through your veins—something electric, something tinged with terror—and you rip yourself away from him, breath coming in fast, uneven spurts out your nose.

He laughs again, echoes of his melody ringing out among the empty fairgrounds.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, residual notes of amusement sewn into his tone. “I heard your jumpy little friend say it earlier tonight, when she was tryna yank you off my ride. Remember?”

Did she say your name? You can’t recall, the moments after the Ferris Wheel ride nothing more than a whimsical blur, full of keenness, enraptured in his aura.  

Skepticism shines in your narrowed eyes, body still leaning away from him. “Really?”

“How else would I know?” he gives you a halfhearted shrug, hands shoved in his pockets; easy, effortless, entirely disarming.

How else would he know? This is the only plausible answer, isn’t it?

“Dunno,” you say finally, mimicking his shrug as you begin walking again. “Guess I’m just not used to complete strangers knowing my name, that’s all.”

“Understandable,” he says through grinding molars, hinges of his strong jaw flexing with the motions.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a lollipop, swiftly tearing the whole wrapper from the treat in a singular gesture before shoving it in his mouth, candy clacking against his teeth.

Old fashioned carnival tunes crank through lofi speakers as you roam the fair, harmonies stuffed full of the pop and hiss of static bathing the grounds.

Dabi shows you around the place as if you didn’t spend a good chunk of your night here already, eyes sparkling with a special type of excitement, full of adoration and pride as he rambles on, words gaining speed the deeper into the midway you wander.

But you let him drag you through it all again anyway, nodding and cooing and giggling at the appropriate times, because it’s kinda cute, kinda sweet, how much he clearly loves this place with all of its worn booths and decrepit rides, speeches peppered with little known facts and personal anecdotes.

You’re in the heart of the carnival when you see it, little gasp of surprise cutting Dabi off mid-story—something about that one time he and his friend walked on the walls of the Gravitron while it was moving—feet slowing to a stop in front of a bright yellow stall, inadvertently pulling on Dabi’s hand.  

On the highest shelf of the Ring Toss game sits a massive Tiffany blue stuffed lion, with fluffy navy fur and big glassy eyes and pointy felt teeth, grinning down at you.

“What?” Dabi asks, eyes following your gaze with mild interest. “You want one?

You look over at him, hand squeezing his. “Can you win me one?”

“Nah,” he waves a hand, dismissive. “Kei stopped teachin’ us how to beat the games ‘cause we were showin’ all the tricks to too many people and it was hurtin’ his business or whatever. But—”

He leans close, nose nearly bumping yours as his voice drops to a rasp, breath infused with sugar and notes of artificial cherry, so sweet you swear you can taste the sting of sugar on your tongue.

“—I can steal you one.”

His eyes glitter, a cheeky smile melded to his face, not waiting for your answer as he jumps over the booth’s counter with all the ease and grace of a cat, the buckles on his boots and the metal in his pocket jingling as his feet hit the floor.

He’s cradling the lion to his chest in fifteen seconds flat, having scaled the prize wall to yank it free from its hook, dislodging a few of the smaller stuffed animals in the process, boots smearing strokes of mud across the faces of fluffy pink bunnies.

“He’s gonna kill me for that,” Dabi says as he lands, as if it isn’t a big deal, voice void of the slightest hint of concern. “Anyway,” he turns toward you, offering the lion. “Here you are.”

“Thank yo—” you begin to say, reaching for the animal only to have Dabi swipe it away from your grasp, fast and sharp, a taunting little smirk on his face.

“Ah! But it’s gonna cost ya,” he smirks, eyes darkening as they search your face. “What? You thought I’d just give this away for free?” he snickers at your stupidity, and its mean, coated in a hard layer of condescension, humiliation pricking your eyes.

Behind him, a ride creaks under the weight of the wind, swaying menacingly with those harsh gusts.

“Wh-What’s the price?”

“A kiss, of course.”

A rush of relief floods your veins, breath held stagnant in your lungs exhaled in an airy little melody, his smile spreading at the sound.

“Gosh,” you giggle. “Could you be anymore cliché?”

“Hey,” he warns, suddenly serious. “I got no problem with upping the price, if that’s what your askin’ for.”

Desperate desire flares pathetically in your chest, clawing at your ribs, bubbling up your throat. “That’s alright,” you squeak quickly, swallowing past the urge. “A kiss will do just fine for now.”

“Suit yourself,” he’s saying as he crushes his lips to your own, a rough palm settling on your neck, holding you in place as a strong tongue pushes the shrunken lollipop into your mouth.

He tastes heady as his tongue drags across your own, depositing flavours of spicy nicotine and smoky hickory and sweet cherry. You suck on them, savour them, savour him, drawing his bottom lip into your mouth and catching it between your teeth, tongue laving over it in repetitive strokes.

It’s all so good, saliva thick and sticky and burning as you swallow it down, infused with little fizzing sparks that race down your throat to collect deep in the pit of your tummy, setting a small flickering flame ablaze. Dainty fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt and tug, vying for more, but then he’s pulling away with a teasing little chuckle, eyes sparking as his fingers curl around your wrist once again, giving a soft squeeze before he leads you away.

“My friend Jin runs this one,” he says as you reach the southwest corner of the carnival, tapping on the fence surrounding The Scrambler, head nodding at the ride in indication. “It was my favourite as a kid. I wanted to work it, but they stuck me with the good old Ferris Wheel instead.”

“Aw, but the Ferris Wheel’s a classic!”

“Sure,” he dismisses, rabid mind already latched onto something new, unfocused eyes fixing their blurry gaze on you again. “Did you have a favourite ride as a kid?”

“Of course,” you nod, a faint fondness tainting your smile. “The Carousel. That was always the ride I made my dad take me to first.”

“We got one of those,” he says as he pushes away from the barrier with enough force to leave it teetering. “Wanna see?”

The carousel is tiny, adorned with blue and gold lights and a mirror-panelled center, ivory horses, turned yellow and grey from years of use, skewered on poles of twisted gold. Dabi hops onto the platform and hoists you up, placing you on the nearest horse, sidesaddle.

He doesn’t take a horse for himself, opting instead to lean against one of the saddles, elbows perched on the curved edges as he stares at you. The giggle that bubbles up your throat at his penetrating gaze is girlish and uncontrollable, an automatic reaction to having all of his attention directed at you.

Something gnaws at the pit of your stomach, a sort of yearning that burrows deep in your flesh, starved for more of him.

“So. Where are you from?” you ask after a moment of silence, your feet dangling from your horse, swinging absentmindedly, toe colliding with the gilded pole.

“Take a guess,” he teases, the glint of a challenge in his eyes.

“Uh,” you hum to yourself, thinking for a moment, squinting a little as you do so. “Japan?”

“Ding-ding-ding!” he hollers. “What gave it away, huh? My name? My accent?”

“Your accent,” you respond. “It’s—I really like it.”  

“Oh? Is that so?” His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise.

“Mhmm,” you nod quickly. “But—Wow. I mean, Japan? You sure are a long way from home.”

“I am.”

“What brings you overseas?” you ask, looking down at your stuffed lion as your fingers twist in its mane, nervous the question may be too invasive, too personal.

“Ran away to join the carnival.” he says simply with a single shoulder shrug.

“Sure you did,” you roll your eyes, but a smirk toys with the corners of your lips. “Hey, look, if it’s too personal—”

“You think I’m kidding, huh?” he taps out a cigarette, placing it between his teeth.

“Well, I mean—That’s such a famous trope, I didn’t think—”

“I’m telling ya the truth, y’know,” he speaks around the cigarette, filter sticking to his lips, dirty hands coming cup the flame of a silver Zippo. “Ran away when I was thirteen years old.”

“My gosh. Thirteen? That’s so young.”

Dabi hums, puffing out a cloud of thick, tangy smoke.

“Why?” You ask before you can stop the word from slithering off your tongue, curiosity swelling in your voice, clawing at your irises.

“That’s another story for another time,” he says lightly, though his eyes swirl with something dark and heavy, a secret that weights his soul, a collection of shattered memories that he drags with him everywhere, inescapable no matter how far or fast he runs. “Doesn’t really matter anymore, anyway. The point is, I’ve been here ever since.”

“Here? With the carnival, you mean?”

“Yep!” He pops the ‘p’ enthusiastically, eyes suddenly brilliant and shining with adoration again, any traces of melancholia instantly eradicated. “They took me in, y’know? They weren’t worried, they didn’t ask any questions—knew it was none o’their business, anyway—they just accepted me as I was: a homeless little foreign kid, looking for somewhere he could perfectly snap into place.”

“And that space ended up being Shigaraki Amusements.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s more of a home than I’ve ever known—a real home, a true home.” A wistful mist settles in his gaze, hazy and dreamy and full of love. “Us carnival people, we may look like a bunch’a mismatched puzzle pieces, but, in actuality, we fit together so snugly we might as well be airtight. No gaps, no empty spaces, no janky bits that don’t quite lock together…”

“That’s…” Beautiful, special, real. “That’s really magnificent,” you flounder, struggling to piece you feelings into words.

“We all have different stories, different reasons, and yet…” he trails off, reflecting. “Guess all that trauma and bullshit we each seem to lug around does help at least a lil, though,” he winks. “Hey,” he says suddenly, eyes focusing on something over your shoulder, glazed with want. “You wanna go take some pictures?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, yanking you from your horse with such force that your stuffed lion tumbles to the ground, a whine of protest sounding in your throat.

“Wait!” you cry, but Dabi doesn’t stop, deaf with determination as he all but drags you along behind him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It’s cramped in the little yellow photobooth, the seat so small that your legs tangle with Dabi’s—ankles twisted, knees hooked, thighs overlapping—as you wedge yourself in front of the flickering screen.

The pixels dances with static, the interface so basic it must’ve come from the 80s, colourful buttons prompting you with a bunch of selections, a disgruntled little sound falling from your lips as Dabi begins squirming, hands pawing at his pockets for what you’d assume to be money.

The surprise must show on your face when he pulls free a small baggie of white powder—the glinting edge of a razor blade peeking out from beneath the pile—because he laughs, shaking his head a little as he pours out a tiny mountain of snow white cocaine on the ledge in front of the screen.

“You want some?” he asks as he taps out three fat lines, already bent over his work, glancing at you through thick lashes and strands of ink.

“Oh, I—No. Thanks, though.”

“A good girl, huh?” he snorts the first line, fast and sharp, head thrown back and eyes squeezing shut for a millisecond before they snap open again, blazing stare turned on you. “I like that.”

A good girl?

Eyebrows pushing together, you look down at your hands in your lap, a little pout on your lips.

Is it really that obvious?

The question brands your tongue, sucked to cinders as you observe him, mesmerized.

He takes it like a fucking pro, inhaling the last two lines in such quick succession it almost looks as though he snorted them both at once.

Licking the tip of his finger, he drags it across the surface, gathering the excess before sticking it in his mouth. Scarred cheeks hollow as he sucks it clean, pulling it free from his lips in one slow motion, knuckles gleaming with spit.

“What?”

“Nothing, you’re just—you’re so cool.”

He flashes you another one of those dazzling smiles, all sharp teeth and red lips, stained cherry from the dye.

“Glad you think so, princess,” he says before he claps his hands together, the sound echoing in the tiny booth, startling you slightly. “Alright! You wanna take some photos or what?”

Yes, your head is nodding, eyes wide and eager. Yes, you do.

“Let’s do two rounds,” Dabi says as he struggles to pull a worn leather wallet from one of his pockets. “So we each get to keep one full strip,” he explains before you can ask why, reading the question shimmering in your gaze.

You suppose that’s fair.

Dabi insists that you go first, allowing you to dictate the content of each shot, instructions called out rapid fire, sticky with giggles and heavy with grunts as you both hastily attempt to rearrange yourself for each shot, failing miserably every time.

“It’s still cute,” you say as you hold the strip between your fingers, a line of four photos displaying ridiculous faces, blurry from movement and cut off by the borders.

“Of course it is,” Dabi rolls his eyes. “I mean, it’s you. Anything you do is gonna be cute, no matter how silly.”

Heat seeps into your cheeks at his words, his compliment somehow both sharp and sweet, little pinpricks buzzing across your skin. His voice is raw with honesty, entirely unaffected by his own candidness, the comment so blunt it’s almost offensive in tone, as if you’re stupid, as if you should know this already.

“But it’s my turn now, and there’s only one type of picture I want on my strip,” he continues, lips curling up into something sinister, a glint of wickedness in those gorgeous, gluttonous pupils.

You aren’t spared a moment to inquire as his thumb punches the START button, because then he’s surging forward, large hands enveloping your face, calloused fingertips hooking behind the hinges of your jaw as he drags you toward him.

A yelp rattles from your mouth into his as sharp teeth clack together, the edge of his incisors catching on your top lip and splitting it open. But he doesn’t let up, undeterred by your noise of pain, undeterred by the coppery taste of your blood saturating his tongue, and he sucks the wound into the heat of his mouth, eliciting another one of those beautiful little squeals from deep in your throat.  

The first flash goes off just as your fingers knot in the inky tufts curling at the base of his skull, twining the strands around your knuckles before yanking harshly.

He laughs at the pain, a loud, warm sound that spills down your throat, liquid fire that ignites a blaze in your stomach, simmering low and dull.

The second flash goes off just as he shoves his tongue against your own, a domineering presence that overtakes your mouth as it laves over your smaller, weaker tongue, slick muscle pressed flat to slick muscle as they grind together.

Stringy spit, so interspersed it belongs to neither of you now, belongs to both of you now, clings to teeth and lips and chins, slippery as they slide together. Drool oozes from the corners of your mouths, so much that it’s obscene, dollops of it drizzling down your face to collect along your jaw, sticky and sweet.

The third flash goes off just as razor teeth slice into your collarbone, your features crinkling in pain-tinged ecstasy, a gasp of his name cracking in your throat, fading into little ghosts on your tongue.

You can feel his fingers creeping under your skirt, taking the hem with them as they climb up, up, up to reveal dainty pink lace, clinging to supple skin and soiled with arousal.

“These are in my way,” he growls into your skin, the only warning you’re given before he’s tearing through the frail material, ripping it from your body in one swift motion.

The fourth and final flash goes off just as two slim fingers plunge into you, the sudden intrusion forcing an airy whimper from your lips, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulder, piercing his skin through his t-shirt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, clouds of sugary air wafting across your damp skin, his forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. “You’re already so fuckin’ wet for me.”

A peculiar type of awe infuses his tone, and he peers up at you, cavernous pupils outlined by the thinnest ring of blue, shimmering in the dull yellow light. His digits curl without warning, almost vicious in their unexpected movement, two knuckles pressed tight against that plush spot buried deep inside you.

One gentle nudge has you whining out a distorted version of his name, full of fractures, edges of the broken letters catching in your throat.

And he smiles.

It’s nothing but a sharp curve upward of his mouth, teeth sealed behind his stretched lips, and something dark, something dangerous, glimmers in his eyes.

One hard shove has you crying out loudly, eyes snapped shut so tightly your entire face crinkles with the force, words barely discernible on your tongue now, nothing more than a mash of vague sounds that might’ve, once upon a time, been his name.

And he laughs, the melodic sound heavy and harsh in the air around you, notes of amusement threaded through diluted malice.

“So easy,” you hear him murmur to himself, voice rumbling in his chest. “So fucking expressive.”

He gives a few experimental pumps, knuckles rolling over that swelling spot with each plunge into you, unblinking eyes fixated on your face.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you?” he coos, nuzzling his face into you. “Because good girls get nice and wet when they’re supposed to. Christ,” his eyes drift to the apex of your thighs, a little lethargic in their movement, his arm turning a bit to reveal the slick collecting in his hand, staining the lines of his palm as crystalline dewdrops stream down his wrist. “You’re making such a fucking mess, baby.”

A mechanical hiss sounds suddenly, inhibiting you from replying, the machine spitting out Dabi’s photo strip a moment later.

With his fingers still buried in you, his free hand snatches the strip from the tray, eyes scanning it quickly.

“Fuck,” he nearly moans, shoving the strip toward you. “Look at yourself.”

Slowly, your gaze skims over each tiny photo, taking a moment to digest each one. It’s incredible; you’ve never seen yourself more beautiful. Pure primal ecstasy encrusts your features, face warped with pleasure and cheeks shining with sweat, each picture exuding passion, sensuality, authenticity.

“You look gorgeous, but oh, the real thing is so much better,” the hand between your thigh twists, knuckles grinding circles into your g-spot, and you mewl, eyes snapped shut, hips rolling into his palm.

It’s so good, and if he keeps this up you’re going to cum right here, right now, despite the fact that your aching clit hasn’t been paid a shred of attention, only granted a few teasing grazes of the heel of his hand.

Trembles skitter up your thighs, pleasure dousing the fire he had lit deep in the pit of your tummy, flames flaring, furling into a tightly concentrated coil, each stroke of his fingers twisting the blaze into a knot of sunshine.

Except then he’s ripping you from ecstasy��s grasp, untangling his body from yours and sliding out of the booth.

Lids fluttering, you stare at him dumbly, chest heaving and eyebrows drawn, slumped against the booth wall. A gentle breeze caresses your skin, chills erupting in its wake and you shiver, winding shaky arms around your torso.

With a tut of his tongue and a roll of his eyes, Dabi reaches into the booth, hand latching onto your elbow and yanking you out from the tiny booth, calling out an enthusiastic C’mon! as he throws you a breathtaking grin.

Still uncalibrated from the sudden whiplash of his actions, you stumble along with him, breath exhaled in short, uneven pants. Pretty pink lace, soaked and mangled, hangs haphazardly from his back pocket, bouncing against charcoal denim with each of his steps.

“Where are we going?” you rasp out, the toe of your shoe catching on the concrete in his haste.

“You’ll see,” he hums out in a little sigh, eyes bright with mischief, giving your hand an enthusiastic little tug.

He winds through the fairgrounds effortlessly—past the food trucks, between the game stalls, looped around the Starship 3000—finally coming to a stop at the base of a mediocre pirate ship raised on a faded blue platform, decorated with pieces of warped plywood painted with crashing whitecaps.

It’s one of those pendulum rides that swings to-and-fro, gaining speed with each whoosh past the axle until it reaches a maximum—crests, climaxes—before it gradually slows to a stop again. Dabi leads you up the steps, metal groaning beneath your feet, rubber soles whining against the pebbled surface.

“What are we…?”

A loud laugh catches in the thick atmosphere, heavy and suffocating and entirely different from the laughs that have come before it—lighthearted laughs that had rung with innocent amusement. The maliciousness infused in the melody slices through your cheeks, haunting whispers that caress your skin with icy fingers, that promise to know something you don’t.

“Sit down in the middle row,” he instructs as an answer to your question, jutting his chin at the stationary ride as he climbs behind the control booth.

Without moving, your eyes dart between Dabi and the ride, questions leaving your mouth slow and cautious, heart beginning to race. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” he shoots back, though that easygoing, liquified grin is still present on his lips, dopey with manufactured ecstasy.

Despite his seemingly carefree nature, chills crawl over your arms, blood turned frigid with inexplicable dread.

Something isn’t right.

“Oh, come on,” he goads at the incredulity molding your features, beginning to solidify, tight and tense. “You really think I’d do something to put you in danger?”

The question shimmers in the air, cushioned by silence, your tongue turned sluggish in your mouth, saliva collecting in pools at the back of your throat.

“Nah, princess,” he continues, though his voice quivers a little, struggling against the force of  restrained irritation. His smile twitches, stretched abnormally large across his cheeks, so wide it looks as though it’s been carved into his face. “I would never.”

And although his tone is still perfectly playful and pleasant, something buried deep within his words glints, something hard and sharp that warns you best do what he says, something that assures you this isn’t a request, it’s an order.

“You can trust me, pinky promise. I just wanna show you a good time, okay?” he pauses, allowing his question to marinate into a soothing salve, softening your features, sincerity restoring some trust. “Now, sit down.”

Your body reacts immediately, automatically, prey instinctively responding to predator, and you slide into the middle booth, a sinful flicker of pride fluttering in your stomach as he purrs out that you’re such a good girl for him.

Dirtied fingers, nails uneven and framed with grime, crawl across the control panel, expertly flicking switches as they go, each one another razor ripping through the air before his palm slams down on a glowing green button, a tired beep responding in affirmation.

The ride creaks to life, rusted metal screeching as the motors whir and the boat begins to rock, slow and steady, back and forth, speed increasing incrementally with each repetition.

Dabi hops over the operating rail with ease, big black boots landing heavily against the platform, the entire floor trembling beneath his weight.

Then he’s bounding towards you, a twisted smile that’s all teeth plastered across his face, and launching himself onto the moving boat with practiced ease, slim body slinking almost gracefully into the middle row, slotted right up against yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you laugh, equal parts terrified and impressed, breath tangling in your throat. “You’re a total madman!”  

He joins in on your laughter; loud, shrieking, inhuman, amplified by the roar of the wind, notes elevated with the gusts, carrying far across the midway. Large hands curl around your waist as he continues to snicker, yanking you into his lap with sudden strength, your thighs padding his hips.

The unexpected movement has a startled scream clawing at your chest, panicked eyes finding his instantly as he presses you close to his body, maniacal laughter still spilling from his lips, spoiled syrup encasing you in its sticky embrace.

“Dabi!” you squeal, voice high with terror. “Dabi!”

“Relax, I got you!” his fingers flex on your hips, accentuating his point. “Hold onto me!” he instructs, words twined with the whipping wind. Your body obeys, dainty fingers knotting in the jersey material of his shirt, skin stretched tight and taut across trembling knuckles.

And then he’s kissing you again, warm bubbles of glee spilling into your mouth, popping on your tongue before they buzz down your throat, sugary sweet and full of acid.

It burns, but they keep coming, and you keep swallowing them down, willingly, greedily, drowning in him from the inside out.

It’s already so much, throat raw as he keeps rushing down it, senses overwhelmed, senses overridden by it all—the rapidly accelerating sway of the boat, the calloused fingers bunching your skirt around your waist, the hard lump buried in rough denim, hot and throbbing as it grinds against your bare cunt—yet your soul’s starved for more, desperate and woozy and please, please, please!

Your fingers are already sore and stiff from being clenched so tightly,  the muscles in your thighs already aching from tensing around his hips, a futile attempt to keep yourself from slipping off the ride, his bones digging into your plush flesh.

“This ride is set to last for five minutes and thirty seconds,” he breathes into your mouth as the boat climbs higher, forehead resting against your own. “Think you can be a perfect little girl for me and cum on my cock before it ends?”

“Uh-huh,” you’re nodding, motions vigorous, eyes glazed with desire as they search his face, vivid, voracious.

“Yeah?” he breathes, the tip of his nose nudging yours, gaze glittering as it sears into your soul. His eyes search your own for a moment, almost as if he’s confirming something unseen, unbeknownst to you, before he nods once, stare darting downward. “Then get my cock out.”

Delicate fingers wander to the heavy chrome buckle and pick viciously at the leather laced through it, clawing at the brass button of his jeans before shoving the waistband down just enough to free his cock while his hands keep a firm, secure grip on your waist, safe.

You don’t get to admire it, not even for a second—nothing more than a glimpse of a pretty pink tip and a glistening glaze of pre-cum—Dabi lifting your hips with one hand as the other wraps around the base of his shaft, holding it steady and lining it up with your cute little hole.  

A hiss catches on your teeth as he shoves his cock into you, harsh and fast and sudden, features twisting in pain and fingers flexing tightly, nails piercing through the thin fabric outfitting his shoulders and gorging on his flesh.

“That’s it,” he soothes, though his voice is rough around the edges. “Be a good little whore for me, take my cock.”

It feels as though he’s ripping you in half as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug against your cervix, cunt struggling to accommodate his girth as delicate flesh tears itself open for him, keen and eager and oh-so-desperate.

“Shh, shh, baby,” he hums over your pathetic little whimpers, the term of endearment drenched in condescension, a mocking pout molded to his lips. “Aw, you’re doing good so far, c’mon, give me the ride of a lifetime, yeah? Make this a ride to remember.”

Fierce determination ignites behind your sternum, head nodding as you blink bleary tears from your gaze, desperate with the desire to please him, to prove yourself to him, to be the best he’s ever had.

The pace is merciless right from the start, imposed by the rapidly declining time limit, hips relentless in their pursuit as they rock hard and fast against his own.

He meets you with just as enthusiasm, grunts vibrating in his chest with each rut up into you, large hands gripping your flesh as he forces you to bounce on his lap, flame-hardened fingers kneading your ass, blunt nails marring soft flesh with purple-tinged indents.

For a moment, you’re lost in the sensationalized pain, time slowing as the seconds dribble on by, slow and thick like saccharine syrup, bouts of pain shooting through your gut with each slam against your cervix, pleasure chasing it high and fast with each drag of his cockhead against that spot, pussy fluttering desperately around his massive cock, repeatedly gorged with it.

But then the boat falls again, whooshing past the axel to swing high on the other side, gaining speed, gaining height, and a scream shatters in your throat, hips slowing to a sensual, stuttering grind.

Dabi laughs at your startled reaction, nuzzling your cheek with his own just before the boat falls backwards.

“Time’s ticking, baby,” he shouts over the bellowing threads of the wind, eyebrows lifting in enticement, strings of ink flying up from his face as the boat swooshes again.

And, truthfully, you want nothing more than to make him proud, to make this the best ride of his fucking life, want it so bad you can feel your own slick leaking all over your inner thighs and down your ass.

But it’s fucking terrifying, blocks of lead dropping in your stomach as the boat swings again, splashing acid up your throat, toxic and mixed with desperate desire.

Tears of fright, of frustration, shield your eyes, thick and gleaming as you hiccup on your words, smashed to shards in your throat. Your whole body trembles in his arms as thorns of ice claw up your spine, knuckles cracking as you readjust your grip on his shoulders.

Dabi’s hips are still moving, calloused fingers digging deep bruises into your skin as he forces you to keep riding him—galaxies in the shape of his fingerprints, full of swirling violets and dark navys that will take weeks to fade, blood vessels bursting under his grasp, signing his name into your body in the prettiest mini masterpieces.

“Look at you, huh? Acting as if you’re so scared,” he’s spitting, flecks of saliva smattering across your cheeks, sick little freckles that cool and dry with the next whoosh of the boat, his features curled in a sneer. “Acting as if you aren’t fucking loving this, you little bitch.”

A palm stings your flesh, stark and sudden, prickly warmth spreading through your ass at the impact. It forces a strangled squeal from your throat, and your eyes shut tightly, body cowering into his, a reflexive response.

“But that’s alright, sweetheart, you don’t have to tell me,” he continues, sharp glints of malice in his eyes, slashing through the artificial euphoria swirling in sapphire. “No, your precious lil pussy does that all on it’s own, ‘cause a whore’s cunt will always give away her true feelings.”

Embarrassment floods your cheeks, burning hot as it unfurls under your skin, hiccuping out pitiful little cries.

“Yeah, that’s right, princess. I can fucking feel the way that sweet cunt flutters and gushes all over my cock every time I do this,” he grunts as his hips push up with vigorous determination, hands keeping you still and pinned to his body, cockhead grinding into your favourite spot, holding the motion with the boat as it freezes in the air, suspended for only a moment before it’s dropping again, whirring past the axel to swing up, high and fast, on the other side.

You’re crying harder now, sobs that rip through your lungs and crack your ribs, fear burning in your throat, each ragged gasp of air another mouthful of nails scraping past the gummy walls of your throat.

But, oh God, it’s so fucking good, pain and terror only working to compound the pleasure, elevating your senses and you can’t stop: can’t stop weeping, can’t stop chasing it, can’t stop wanting so much more.

“Yeah,” he breathes, almost whining it out, head nodding with the timbre of the word. “Fucking cry harder for me, more, more. God, fuck,” his voice breaks on the curse, eyes rolling in his skull. “Little fucking crybaby, you look so fu-fucking pretty with those tears on your cheeks.” His tongue flattens against your face, dragging from your jaw to your bottom lashes, mopping up salt water and leaving behind a thick gleaming trail of saliva. “And all for me, huh? All because of me.”  

He sounds almost proud of himself, chest heaving against your own as gluttonous pupils gobble down your expressions, gaze searching your face with such vigorous obsession it almost feels as though he’s attempting to swallow you whole, down those big black holes ringed with blue that devour everything they touch, and you’re suffocating, you’re suffocating.

“What if I let go of you, right now?” he questions with airy enthusiasm, sadism gleaming in those voracious eyes, the question a slap of reality, bringing you back. His fingers loosen a little, tapping with teasing, with warning, against your hips. “Do you think you’d fall to your death?”

He looks almost morbidly fascinated by the question, a sick haze misting his eyes, wondrous and full of awe.

“Wouldn’t that be something, huh?” he continues in that same faraway lilt, dreamy and floating on grotesque fantasies. “To die right after I stuff you full of my cum? You’d die happier than ever before, I bet…Should we give it a try?”

“No, Dabi!” you’re screaming, the protest high with panic and heavy with spit, clutching him so hard your nails break through his skin, stuffing themselves full of flesh and tissue, blood staining the lines of your nailbeds.

“Oh?” he blinks, pulling back a little, genuinely surprised. “Did I startle you, baby? Are you scared?”

“Please, please, please,” you’re sobbing as you smush your face into his neck, whole body clinging to his. “Please, don’t let me go! I’ll do anything, just—Don’t!”

“Alright, alright,” he’s saying, voice suddenly soft with pacification, like he’s soothing a child. “I won’t let you go. But if you don’t make me cum by the time this ride is over, I’m gonna make you do it all over again.”

Your ribs shiver beneath the erratic beating of your heart, your head nodding in jerky little movements as sticky affirmations spill from your lips.    

Your hips begin moving again, uneven little bucks that are guided by his hands, hushed praises spilling from his lips, nearly drowned by the wind.

“That’s it, baby, yeah, just like that,” he encourages you, a hint of patronization garnishing his words. “Look at you, huh? Being such a brave little girl for me, fucking yourself on my cock.”

The metal safety bar, purposefully left up so he could fit you onto his lap with relative ease, grinds against the notches of your spine with every roll of your hips, uncontrollable whimpers streaming from your lips.

Strands of your hair whip around your cheeks with each rush of the boat, Dabi’s face so close that your locks embrace him, too, twirling around his neck and tangling in tufts of ink.

Your combined thrusts gain speed in tandem with the boat itself, each rock forward forcing you to accelerate, desperate to keep up with the ride’s pace, desperate to cum as its speed crests.  

Your stomach swoops as the boat plunges downward again, gasp exhaled into Dabi’s mouth, his slick tongue curling greedily around the sound. Howling gusts mimic your cries, high and broken, taunting in the way they coil around your forms.

“You look so fucking gorgeous like this,” he breathes, stare shimmering with a sort of twisted admiration, looking at you in a way unlike anyone else ever has, with those azure flames licking at his monstrous pupils, a stare that makes you feel as if you’re drowning and floating all at once.

But he’s right, you do look gorgeous, the carnival lights glittering in the tears caught in your clumped lashes, rendered endless versions of themselves; gleaming trails of salt staining your smooth cheeks, hair crusted to your skin; chin and lips shining with translucent pink, slicked with spit and oozing blood, victims of his teeth.

Another hiccup stutters in your chest, whole body trembling in his arms, but you push yourself to keep fucking, to keep tugging those gorgeous sounds from deep within his chest, soft whiny moans and guttural grunts puffed out into your mouth, melting on your tongue.  

Because despite the fact that you’re in the middle of an empty carnival and on a moving ride, there is something distinctly intimate about the entire encounter, found in the way his hands hold you close, palms curled protectively around your waist, fingertips signing his name, staking his claim, in blossoms of blues and purples into your flesh as they grip you tightly; in the way his forehead stays pressed flush to yours irregardless of the vicious motions of the boat, kisses messy and inept as teeth clack and click and chip against each other, wild giggles and half-baked sobs sucked from one throat into another; in the way his eyes glitter with the lights of the midway, sapphire amplified by fuchsia and crimson, neons that bleed into his irises and tint them violet and periwinkle.

Even flying through the wind, with the background rendered nothing more than an indistinct blur of dribbling colours, he is still so breathtakingly gorgeous, eyes bright with manufactured euphoria, pupils gaping and voracious for you, for your pleasure, devouring every single change in expression—the quirk of your bow, the crinkle of your forehead, the pucker of your chin—as his hair clings to his face, spikes of ink dripping with sweat, lips slicked sheen with your spit and licked ruby-red raw.

Sparks of adrenaline sprout in your veins with every rock of your hips, surging through your blood and leaving your body hypersensitive; overwhelmed by the harsh embrace of the wind, by his teeth on your flesh, scraping his essence into your skin and sealing it with his slow, sticky laves of his tongue, by each drag of his cock against that spot, starbursts of fire exploding in your tissues, tiny supernovae that disperse star stuff to collect in your gut, melting into one massive roiling ball of fire that wreathes tighter and tighter and tighter until it finally bursts, cunt clenching almost violently around his cock, his name a shattered scream on your tongue.  

“Ah, f-fuck,” he gasps, hands guiding you to keep riding him. “You’re being so fuckin’ good for me. Yeah, yeah, that’s it, cum all over my cock like the good girl that you are.”

It’s so much, too much, and you can feel it gushing from your cunt, smearing across your inner thighs and dribbling down to soak the waistband of his jeans.  

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, praises still falling from his lips, grip brutal as he forces your hips to keep moving, hard and fast, ass rubbed raw from the coarse denim clothing his thighs.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he’s nearly growling now, teeth clenched, jaw flexing, eyes blazing. “Fuckin’ take it.”

So you do, eager to be his good girl, quivers shooting through your body with each catch of your swollen clit on his slick pubic bone, sore cunt fucked raw and pulsing weakly, wrecked voice grating your throat.

Only three more drags of your hips and he’s cumming with a vicious snarl, pelvis jerking as his cock throbs, stuffing you full of thick, burning cream.

But he doesn’t stop, even as the boat begins to slow, still rutting against you pathetically, forcing tremors of pain-tinged pleasure through his veins as he chases residual flares.

And despite how unbelievably painful it is, you let him.

You let him, because he’s the best drug you’ve ever taken, the highest high you’ll ever reach, the most beautiful collection of art you’ve ever witnessed—a living, breathing painting; a walking, talking symphony; a constantly morphing storybook full of tall tales and folk myths, each glimmering with shards of truth—and he’ll be gone just as quickly as he appeared.

Because he’s like wisps of thick smoke curling through the night; soft, potent, entirely ungraspable, slipping through the cracks between your fingers, settling into the lines of your hands. He’s a shooting star flaring through the void sky, brilliant, beautiful, burnt out in an instant, never to occur again. He’s a singular spark from a sparkler, caught in your palm, singeing your skin with a blistering heat for a mere moment before it disappears, forever.  

He’s gone by the next morning, the whole carnival and your stuffed lion gone with him, the only indication that he even existed at all stuffed securely in the pocket of your jacket; a strip of four pictures, colourless and grainy, full of ink and ivory.

[justafeweggnoodles]

Chaotic Art Journal

(there is nothing else to this, just enjoy some chaotic art made with charcoal, collage and some other things thrown in (im going to kinda explain the spreads / artworks))

Front cover: Watcher eye thing, its going to keep appearing through out so that's something. Text: They are always watching

Inside of cover / Page 1: just the start of the book Text: A collage of thoughts. To begin press X. Entertain Them.

Page 3/4: A list of things I like drawing and some prompts I came up with and didn't do. Text (black scribbles): Mushroom. The Stories we tell, Guide the worlds formation. The ones who watch. Prompts.

Page 5/6: So this was just a cute pastel sketch then the rest of the book was black scribbles so I added some, the writing has to do with the Everything's Interconnected AU but I haven't covered it before. Text: Fairy Floss Duo. The forge burns. The power of knowledge takes.

Page 7/8: soooo um Mr Sunshine from Pikuniku and eyes with pupils made from coins. This was once again originally did not have the black writing. Text: Free Money. He kills YOU. Our perception lies. What do you SEE.

Page 9/10: Cabaret by Penelope Scott lyric reference and my friend's character, Emily. Text: Am I a fucking cabaret to you? Emily.

Page 11/12: OOOO look life series imagery and random photos from the newspaper. Text (the pencil this time cause there is no black text): The canary will always go first. If you stop trying it will burn. You can't escape. They make the rules. There is always the next game. Play again?? Yes. They always watch.

Page 13/14: More lyrics, this time a full 2 page spread of them. They are from Blueprint by Slowly Slowly. Text: Call the cops, somebody stop me. RIP my sick head of off this body. WE are the gods now, we say what goes. Off with the fairies, horns up, eyes closed. 666, just make a wish. Please promise you'll always have time for this. Back to basics, back on our bullshit. I'll get the hang of it. You be my blueprint.

Page 15/16: this is about a character I made to go in the Everything's Interconnected AU. She is from a time right before Kingdomcraft and grew up with the rulers, but she wasn't alive when they ascended to their thrones. What happened to her??? Text: She died before them ALL. The candles guide the souls to HER.

Page 18 (page 17 was blank so I left it out): It is a bit hard to see but here is the girl talked about in page 16 and 17. Text: The Rapids Keeper.

Page 19 / 20: Talking about the watchers with a little bit of front cover thumb nailing visible. Idk what the general consensus is with the life games but I think that the players where taken and have no memory of their home and between games they are in a prison thing. Text: THEY took us from our homes. They are always watching, always.

so that's it. hope u found that interesting. There are more pages left some maybe one day I'll update u guys with what gets made (if it gets made). Now im going to go and try to tag this, which is going to be... interesting.

[magnetothemagnificent]

Do you have dental advice for people who struggle to take care of their teeth due to disability, depression, etc? I'm afraid of needing dental work but oral hygiene is really hard for me.

Alright so my advice as a future dentist (current dental assistant, not a dentist yet):

1. Find a toothbrush you like. Doesn't matter what brand or what kind. What's important is that you brush. If a toothbrush with cartoon characters on it is what will motivate you to brush, get it.

(If the brush head is smaller, though, than the usual adult brush heads, just remember to spend a little more time on each tooth since smaller brush heads cover less surface area).

If an electric toothbrush is your jam, get an electric toothbrush. Just get a toothbrush.

2. Find a toothpaste you like. Doesn't matter what brand or flavor. They pretty much all have the same ingredients. I would highly recommend toothpastes for sensitive gums, like Sensodyne or Oral-B, because if you haven't been practicing consistent oral hygiene for a while, your gums are most likely very sensitive. But really, any toothpaste is good. Just stay away from the charcoal stuff, it's more likely to do nothing at best and cause damage at worst (especially if you take medication).

3. Try to brush twice a day, but no more than three times a day. Brushing a whole bunch one day doesn't make up for not brushing the day before, too much brushing can damage your enamel with the abrasion.

Brushing once in the morning and once at night is ideal. Try to brush before you eat breakfast, or at least half an hour after you eat. Brush for about 2 minutes, making sure you brush each surface of your teeth.

Your teeth have five surfaces, three that are accessible via brushing: Make sure you brush the sides that face your cheeks, the sides that face the inside of your mouth, and the biting surfaces.

4. Try to floss once a day. There are different flossing methods now, find one that works.

-Traditional string and fingers

-Handheld floss picks

-Electric water pick

There are pros and cons to each, but the important thing is that you floss. Flossing is important regardless of whether you have food stuck between your teeth; flossing helps remove plaque deposits between your teeth that can build up and cause irritation to the gums. Make sure you floss between each tooth. If flossing a certain groove brings up a large amount of debris, floss that area again until the string comes out clean.

5. Drink lots of water. Unfortunately, this isn't a "as long as you're hydrated situation". Other beverages can be great for hydration, but they're either very sugary or acidic or both, which aren't good for maintaining the pH in your mouth. This doesn't mean you have to give up your favourite drinks- just make sure you also drink plenty of plain old water, especially during and between meals. Do whatever you can to incentivize drinking water: fun water bottles, fun drinking straws, alarms, whatever it takes.

6. If you struggle with remembering to brush your teeth and/or floss, set alarms to remind you.

7. Try to reward yourself for practicing good oral care. Maybe put on a short YouTube clip while you floss and brush, or play a song. This may sound corny, but have a chart that if you reach a certain quota you reward yourself. It'll help you turn oral hygiene into a habit.

8. If you can afford it, try to see a hygienist to give you a full clean. At the very least they'll help get your teeth back to a baseline, and then all you need to do is maintain it. Some places will have free or reduced cost dental clinics, so keep an eye out for those if cost is an issue. Hygienists don't do any drilling or invasive dental work if that's a fear you have, all they do is essentially a very thorough brushing and flossing.

9. Keep a toothbrush and toothpaste in your shower if time and spoons are an issue, that way you can brush your teeth while bathing, knocking two out in one. Likewise, keep a toothbrush and toothpaste by your bed if getting out of bed is an issue. If you can, you can try to buy a bunch of pre-pasted disposable toothbrushes to keep by your bed, so that you don't need to worry about even having to apply toothpaste to your toothbrush.

10. Don't give up if you fall off the wagon. If you forget to brush your teeth one day, you always have the next day. If you brush your teeth but didn't floss, at least you brushed. If you flossed but only gargled mouthwash, at least you did something. Something is always better than nothing.

Best of luck!!!

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

"Creative" Miniseries

Warnings and Information: Because some of these get suggestive, we're gonna say Minors DNI.

I went down a list of creative hobbies at random, so some of these may not necessarily "fit" our 501st boys in blue. This is more a creative writing exercise than a serious list of headcanons.

If I miss someone from a certain unit, or you want to see so-and-so with a different creative hobby than the one I went with at random, let me know and I can do another part just for them. It doesn't have to be in the form of a request, but you're welcome to make one (it'll be easier to keep track of that way/guarantee I'll see it)!

Captain Rex 

If his cyare was a photographer, he keeps their photos on the inside of his chestplate, anywhere really, but the most important one is over his heart. They don't stay very nice for long due to friction, but that's okay. He keeps extra copies and dutifully replaces them when he gets a spare moment. He started doing this after Umbara. The photo he always, always keeps over his heart is of him taking care of his brothers. He doesn't know why you snapped that photo of him stepping off the gunship, one arm tucked around an injured, unpainted Shiny and the other free hand patting someone on the back. But there's something about the way he looked to you behind the camera that made you take the picture. It's the picture that came after it, though… A delicious and sultry little snapshot of you posing suggestively with his helmet. That one, he keeps very, very well hidden. 

Tup

If his cyare was a jeweler/beader, he proudly boasts all the experimental jewelry. On more than one occasion he wishes he had his ears pierced, but he knows it'll just end badly if he ever has to take his helmet off quickly for any reason. You made a hair-tie for him once as a sort of compromise. It was made of a dark leather cord and the odd tear-drop shaped bead kicking around in your box of materials that hung so beautifully, delicately, from the cord; nestled between two spherical beads on either side. It was more of a sea glass blue than the proud navy of the 501st, but it looked nice against his hair all the same. He used to wear it around his wrist when he slept. He's not sure when he lost it. But it was his favorite thing you'd made for him. So when you make him a replacement, something similar that he can keep around his neck this time, he makes a great effort not to lose this one. 

Jesse

If his cyare had the patience for a needle and thread, he finds secret details added to his blacks and his other fabric wear in embroidery floss. Miniaturized star charts. An animal or a flower he told you about from his last campaign. Short jokes when you had the time to meticulously plot out each letter to make them all legible. Strings of coordinates. Kamino. Your home planet. Where you first met. Where you had your first… ahem, "flight" together (or nearly did). The next place you wanted to go on a date. Jesse ends up getting a lot of cogs stitched into his belongings, usually with a note that reads "If you can find all the icons of the Republic I've hidden, we get to do whatever you want the next time you have shore leave. There are 16 cogs. You have 12 standard hours to find them all. Good luck, ARC trooper~" and Jesse always finds them all. 

Dogma

He counts himself lucky his cyare delights in drawing him so much. Portrait studies in all sorts of mediums. "I have something new I want to try! Will you model for me, please?" Watercolor. Oil pastel. Gouache. Pencil. Charcoals. Colored pencils. Ink. Heck, even crayon. You take such care to capture every little detail of his face, his tattoo. It was dependent on the medium, but sometimes the details of his tattoo were so crisp, it was like looking himself in the mirror. You've drawn him up in his armor a few times, but you find the impersonal plastoid so… "blasé" (which had been an odd choice to express your disinterest). You'd much rather be drawing him. His face. Just all of him posed in anything and everything he wore (or didn't) while looking so disciplined and compliant for you. You've even hinted you'd love to do some… anatomical study sessions with him, whenever he thinks he's comfortable with the idea. 

Fives

He counts himself very lucky he didn't get himself thrown out of his cyare's pottery studio the first time he wandered in and found them in the middle of throwing at the wheel. Building a vase to replace yet another decoration that had been ruined in a bout of roughhousing by pulling up and pushing in the lump of clay in your hands. "Hah. You sure know how to work your hands and fingers. Bet you have really-" and he'd been hasty to shut his mouth with the gentle ticking of one of your brows in a go on, I dare you sort of fashion. All his worries were disarmed with a simple laugh when you said he was welcome to watch you work, but you'd prefer to have a little warning next time before he came barging in. The clay moved so fluidly, so effortlessly in your hands as you built beautifully balanced vases and designed intricate pitchers and teapots for the Jedi Temple, Fives suspected you could throw in your sleep. And, oh yes, you certainly had expert control of your fingers whenever you promised him a more "private demonstration". 

Echo

He thinks his cyare has the voice of an angel. They sing. They can croon, or warble, and they can get somber and bluesy. It's all beautiful to Echo. Suddenly that song he was sick to death of on the radio goes from barely tolerable to beautiful, and almost hauntingly so. His cyare could take an upbeat ditty popular on the dancefloor of 79's and turn it into something romantic and heartfelt by slowing down the tempo, and drawing out the words just the right amount. And you could do the opposite, too. He's almost positive you could take a funeral dirge meant to be sung quickly under one's breath while they hastily buried the dead in their armor could become so soulful and twice as meaningful. Your voice is like magic to Echo, and it soothes him to hear you sing as you wander about the house.

Hardcase

He's always had a bit of a hard time sleeping thanks to the leak in his growth jar that made him hyperactive. His brothers have made more threats to tape or tie him down into his bunk than he can count. So his cyare, clever thing that they are, comes up with something so simple, Kix is kicking himself for all these sleep inducers he could have saved himself had Hardcase started using this sooner. He loves the dirty jokes he can make about his cyare's hobby as a crocheter. "They're a hooker in their spare time! And they've got a whole room full of WIPs and chains, too! I get to help if I promise to behave." It's right about the point that he brings up all the various types of yarns and threads and everything in every color under the sun that they've collected from all over the galaxy that people realize Hardcase is talking about how many blankets, dish cloths and table runners (whatever the kriff those are) his darling's made. "Why the kriff did you have to make it all sound so kinky, Hardcase? You're telling me they just made you a blanket?" It's not just a blanket to Hardcase. It's far more comfortable than those scratchy GAR sheets. It's soft, and it's warm, and because this was something that cannot be made by machine ("Those articles on the Holonet are full of it! Crochet CAN NOT be replicated by machine!") and instead, with an amount of patience that would make his head spin, just for him, Hardcase finds himself falling asleep and staying asleep much easier than before. 

Kix

He's almost glad that he complained about a lackluster medical infographic he'd been asked to distribute to his brothers in front of his cyare. "That's… that's the worst visual artwork they could have possibly chosen on how to perform the Heimlich Maneuver." You had taken one peek over his shoulder as you removed the shoulder bell that bears the shattered red cross on it and agreed. "That's absolutely awful. And their layout is atrocious; who the kriff designed this? Not someone in the GAR, I hope. I can do better than that." You fired up your graphic design software and spent the next several hours tweaking with the design of a new handout. No silly novelty fonts that made it hard to distinguish an "N" from an "M". Concise bullet points of medical information that was easy to understand. You consulted him to make sure it was up to snuff after several hours, and Kix could have collapsed in his euphoria when you asked him what he thought of an additional handout you'd thought of and had started working on. You remembered his complaint about this new medical drama going around the galaxy and how it was full of false information that a lot of his brothers had taken to heart. "Cyare, you're a lifesaver!" It makes you laugh between his kisses when you remind him that you're only a graphic designer, and he's the medic. 

[Masterlist] [Bad Batch + Wolfpack Edition] [212th Edition]

[brodudemanbroski]

HELL YEAH DIFFERENT LOOKS WITH THE FOREIGN KIDS THAT’S WHY I DRAW PIP WITH HIS BURN SCARS & A TOOTH GAP IT MAKES THEM FEEL MORE REAL

YEAHHHH!!! I DRAW PIP WITH A TOOTH GAP TOO. now, since you mentioned differences once. I shall ramble.

Pip: For differences in teeth, I draw his canine teeth and he has a gap in between his two front teeth. He has never gone to a dentist, not even with the adoptive family I gave him. Small fun fact for you. Idk it’s fun. His differences in appearance: He has small bits of acne under his bangs, he has freckles along his face and body, and I’ve started to consider burns but I keep forgetting, sadly. I forget freckles a lot too, but SHHHH.

Damien: I have many MANY different kinds of teeth styles for him. Some with all sharp teeth, some with proper fangs, but they all involve braces. Because he would just loveeee braces (he hates them), he tries to break the brackets thinking it’ll make them go away faster, but that will only make them stay longer. His dentist hates him so much as he is rude and has tried to bite them. Appearance: His fingertips have faded ashy look, not burnt, they are just.. ash, because of his fire powers. He used to clean them but got too lazy. He doesn’t have any differences other than proper animal features, I like to think he has a goat tail when he gets older and has horns that he hides in his hair but that’s mainly it. Bags under his eyes, though born with it.

Gregory: He has had braces, which if is brought up he will have a full blown fit. He is a mint heavy guy, he has actually forced Christophe to have some of these mints, I will sometimes drawn his canine but that is rarely. Appearance: I don’t draw him with freckles (i forget), but I have mentioned that he has had freckles in roleplays! Only on his face. Gregory has small scars on his hands from past fights and injuries, he is prideful of them because he knows they tell a story without words.

Christophe: I.. love… his differences. I always love to draw his teeth. They are chipped, missing, and stained. I draw his canine as well, I believe they are sharper than average ones. His teeth are chipped from getting injured so often and getting rocks in the face while digging through holes. He has been forcibly made to brush his teeth countless times by his mother and Gregory. He hates the dentist so much that they have to hold him down and hold his mouth open or else he bites and tries to attack. Appearance: I haven’t drawn him with scars yet but he would have many from when he came back from being attacked and killed by the guard dogs. He would also have scars from other injuries, as I HC that everyday is a new injury, big or small. Christophe has a mole by his eye, haha im hilarious.. i added that feature and then remembered he is “The Mole” so. He also has acne from being so unclean, I like to believe that he forgets hygiene exists so he is often greasy and dirty, which causes the acne to show up. Bags under his eyes AND CHAPPED LIPS. HE GOES THROUGH IT.

Pocket: I haven’t discussed him much for appearance yet as at the time of making the teeth guide, I wasn’t much of a Pocket and Estella fan.. now look at me. I love them. He has his buck teeth ofc ofc, how would we ever forget that. I feel like his teeth are straight and pretty alright, and he uses his toothbrush way too hard. He probably brushes his teeth after every big meal and FLOSSES. Like a mad man. I like to think he has one chipped tooth from one random moment and that’s it. Appearance: Freckles dude, we love them. Freckles. He probably has small spots of acne as well, nothing that extreme.

Estella: She would have the straightest whitest teeth, perfect in every way and she would make sure of it. She brushes constantly and makes sure everything is spotless. I draw her canine teeth as well. Estella uses that expensive charcoal tooth paste or whatever that claims is better, but is probably the worst. Appearance: Again, she has no acne, no freckles, no scars. She doesn’t even have a bruise. Estella has a skincare routine, she has no freckles or scars. But has a birthmark on her ankle, but never shows it. She dislikes it as she feels it’s a wound on her perfect skin.

Rebecca: She has a gap between her teeth, which later on she gets braces so her teeth are perfect. She brushes a lot and flosses. I don’t draw her canine teeth all the time. Rebecca would grind her teeth at minute due to stress and worry, which ruins her teeth a great amount. Definitely a dentist’s favourite. Appearance: She has freckles, YES I FORGET I GET IT, on her face and body. She has acne around the sides of her face and on her nose, which she tries her best to hide and get rid of but nothing works. I like to think she also has sensitive skin, having to use special soap. She would have bags under her eyes,

Mark: He had/has braces and wears a retainer later on, not the invisible one. He got braces because of how many gaps he had between his teeth, his parents wanted his teeth to be perfect instead of gappy. He also takes good care of his teeth, similar to his sister. I don’t draw his canine teeth, so sad. Another dentist’s favourite. Appearance: I haven’t thought much on this, he probably has acne on his nose and chin, which he tries to clean and get rid of. He would have chapped lips as he dislikes the feeling of chapstick on his lips and feel bad about it. Mark would have bags under his eyes, like his sister. He has small scaring around his nails from picking at them out of nervousness and habit. He would also have sensitive skin and allergies that makes him have to have special soap.

(somewhat outdated tooth guide for foreign kids. “Fang” means canine teeth in photos, there are a LOT more on that page but I stuck with our lovely little foreign kids.)

There wasn’t any Rebecca and Mark on the original sheet because I hadn’t remembered they existed yet sooo.

[storyspothub]

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[muchamocha]

Bakusquad Toothbrush HCs

Kind of a shitpost, but still what I envision them to have as toothbrushes. [ Also, the bakusquad are roommates in this- ] EDIT: This was really fun to make! I kept putting it off but it became the most fun thing I've written in a sec

btw, banner is not mine. unsure who the original creator is but found it here first @kingkatsuki

BAKUGO

If brushing your teeth was a recorded event bro has a perfect record

He got an electric one after the last brush snapped on him

Mindset was that if it was thicker and mechanical he wouldn't be able to break it

Hasn't done it yet, so...

MINT. The mintiest of mint. Bring him the gel hand sanitizer equivalent of toothpaste.

He is very adamant about having clean breath and no germs

Almost scary when it's that early in the morning

Bakugo has super good teeth all around, but he still acts like he will form a cavity from thin air

Kind of the group mom cause he will make everyone floss

Don't get him started about popcorn kernels

Honestly his brushes look a lot like Kirishima's, but not for the same reason

He just scrubs really hard, so the bristles lay flat and look traumatized HANTA

The store was out of the usual go-to brush so he bought a charcoal bristle one

There was never any going back

Eventually he switched to charcoal AND bamboo handled

Our boho hippie king

Usually not a picky guy, but loves using charcoal toothpaste

Curiosity got the best of him after the toothbrush

Hanta's teeth are still a little crooked even after retainers all through school but it suits him

Also it's super unfair that he has perfectly sturdy teeth and can pretty much get away with not brushing them at all

Because of this he has a bad routine

Everyone else has minty fresh breath and he's all fog horns at 12PM sometimes

Bakugo passive aggressively leaves him notes on the mirror to brush him damn mouth. In all caps. With skulls at the end. ASHIDO

Will not use any other kind of toothbrush unless it's pink in some way

Won't do it.

Honestly besides Bakugo the best routine tooth-brusher in the gang

Flosses daily and takes super good care cause she has genetically bad teeth

HAS to use an enamel protection toothpaste (has bad sensitivity)

Does the thing where you bear your entire mouth in the mirror and brush them cute

Hums and does lil dances too

Gets the rest of the squad to join the dance if they're awake and around

At some point as an adult she owned a singing toothbrush

Like the ones for kids

Loved it though cause she could sing and dance with it, it's where the habit came from tbh KIRISHIMA

Toothbrushes fear him

There's one in the trash every two weeks and he can't help it

Chompers have no mercy no matter how gingerly he tries to brush em

Has been gifted brushes for birthdays unironically before from Mina

He hates mint toothpaste with a passion and refuses to brush his teeth before breakfast cause of it "It makes the bacon taste wrong! One meal won't hurt."

Lowkey buys the cheapest brushes at times cause they won't be around long anyways

Has a bad habit of being known as the gagger

It'll be 9AM and he's just absolutely going ham on the reflex startling the others awake

Kirishima's defense is that it gets all the bad smells gone KAMINARI

He did have a normal one before it got old and thrown away

Was just chilling at the store and remembered he needed a new brush

He was in Home Depot

Like he came home and put it in the bathroom like it was any other day

Nothing was said. Not a word. From anyone

They assumed it was just for cleaning grout, or other cleaning purposes

One day Denki nonchalantly walks out into the living room brushing his teeth thinking bout what he needed to do that day

Everyone just stares from their spot "What...is it the bedhead?"

Once Bakugo storms up to him asking what the hell he's doing with a utility brush in his mouth he's more confused

Takes the squad a sec, but eventually they get Denki caught up

They never let him live this down

He's got a normal brush now tho

[complete-idiot-in-love]

Once Upon a Witchlight: Episode 50 (SPOILERS AHEAD)

I'm so sad that I have to wait now for the next episode, how will I survive without my goofy bitches found family???

Sorry that this one's extra long, I added in some pre and post episode comments uwu

Final episode before I have to wait :(

OOOOOO FANART INTRO!!!!!

THE GANG AS POKEMON OMG YES!!!!

Are they gonna be streaming on Youtube now or was this a one time thing? (I hope they stream on youtube)

I want to join the Discord so badly but my social anxiety won’t let me :(

Derek is back! Frost must’ve got over his IBS!

Soundboard noises (Of course Derek does the best one lmao)

I love all the funny noises and voices they do, I wish I was as vocally talented as them

YOOOOOO, THEY’RE GUESTS AT PAX!!! SO PROUD OF THEM, WISH I COULD GO

Mikey’s sweater looks so soft, I wonder where he got it (I fuckin LOVE sweaters fr fr)

The ring of chaos one-shot was so good, I love Joetetee and wish he could come back

Mikey gaslighting people with a FNAF reference is so damn funny, he truly is a gaslight girlboss while Torbek is a girlfailure

I WOULD TOTALLY WATCH A MUPPET MOVIE WITH THEM, I FUCKIN LOVE THE MUPPETS

Mikey says “Here we go” when Rich mentions the muppet movies like my friends when I gush over my hyperfixations lmao, Rich definitely has talked about this before ALSO FUCK U DISNEY FOR STOPPING THE MUPPETS FROM MAKING MORE MOVIES, THOSE ARE COMEDY GOLD

I’m glad they all switch positions and don’t make one person a perma-DM :)

I actually have a bugbear character from waaay back in 2018 so if Torbek makes the race popular I’d be VERY appreciative. They’re one of my favorite races along with satyrs fr fr

 “Torbek’s bringing sexy back” HAHA

DEREK IS FULL-TIME AVANTRIS, DOES THIS MEAN ALL 6 OF EM WORK FOR AVANTRIS AND WON’T MISS A SESSION ANYMORE?? FROST CAN FINALLY HAVE A GUYS NIGHT!!!

Twin dads with man buns /j

Mikey keeps using his Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss actions to get more people to watch the ring of chaos one shot, very funny :)

Derek is a #gamer fr fr

“Derek is bussing fr fr”

Grinko Gladfrown, Mourning Font, Krepe Lacroix, Thorbek and Giddyon Charcoal /j

Andy doing his dancy dance in the background is so gender fr fr

I love these goofy bitches, they’ve spent hour doing NOTHING but I don’t mind cause they’re hilarious

I would love a studio tour, their cables probably look like spaghetti but their knick knacks are probably so poggers looking

I CAN WATCH THEM AT PAX ON TWITCH ON THE 1ST??? YOOOOOOOOOO I CAN’T WAIT!!!!!

Rich SHOULD DM someday, I bet he’d do a great job

Finally we’re getting bean footage after an hour of jokes but I honestly wouldn’t care if they made a 4 hour video of just them fuckin around

We finally met Will and he’s got a knife! “What do you have?” “A KNIFE!” “NOOO”

OH SHIT, HE CALLED KREMY A CROC

Favorite comment: “​forgot how much I love torbek, he's like a wet cat that has alcohol poisoning”

All the little “Friend on the other side” References Kremy does just strengthens my belief that he’s based off the movie

Emergency broadcast: Five fully grown men are arguing with a literal child

Carnival Lecroux need a swear jar fr fr /j

“We could totally murder a horde of kids” FROSTY WTF???

Frost “flossing” and Kremy + Gricko talking about VBucks is so damn funny, more interactions for my Actor AU fr fr /j

MIKEY ACTUALLY GOT A HAT FOR WHEN GRICKO DOES THE 45 DEGREE BODY TILT OMFG

“You can call me Morning Floss!” “I wish I was dead!” SAME KREMY, SAME

“All of you are so damn embarrassing, you’re lucky I love y’all” - My S/I with their head in their hands

KREMY NO, DON’T OFFER KIDS ALCOHOL!!!!

Kremy and Gideon spiking their Sierra Mountain Mist is so canon. My S/I would totally try to drink with them but be absolutely disgusted at the mixture

Kremy and Gideon are drunk lmao

“FR FR, THIS DRINK BE SKIBIDI PHANTOM TAX ON GOD!” WHAT???? I UNDERSTOOD EVERYTHING EXCEPT FOR SKIBIDI AND PHANTOM TAX, IS GRICKO DRUNK TOO???? “This ain’t no Ohio drink. You a straight rizzler fr fr, giving me this skibidi drink” GRICKO PLEASE, STOP!!!

“We don’t know what children like, we ran a carnival” HAHA, GOOD ONE FROSTY

These dudes should never interact with children /j

“Y’all’re so weak lmao, straight up unpogger girlfailures. You definitely let people diss your fly girls” - My S/I messing with them because they’re a gremlin

“We’re both trying to protect our found family” HE SAID THE THING OMFG, KREMY SAID THE THING!!!!! MY S/I WOULD BE SO FUCKIN HAPPY TO KNOW THAT THEIR DAD ACTUALLY SEES THEM AS FAMILY!!!

IS MORNING MIST POISON??? ARE WE GONNA DIE????

These fuckers got a whole side campaign of quests to do /j

Wouldn’t Bavlorna’s place be better than Yon? She’s the one that likes children after all

“What is gyatt? What is amogus?” Hootsie and I are very much in the cringe zone as the only two party members young enough to understand the slang Gricko is using

TORBEK IS CURSED TO BE A(R/U)TISTIC!! (We would draw pictures together fr fr uwu)

Gideon is a coward, he’s turned into Torbek! /j

Kremy is a kleptomaniac (So basically the same lmao)

Rich with the 80’s rad hat is so funny for some reason??

Frost is forced to confess to doing bad things even if he has to lie about em (He’s a masochist lmao)

Gricko is magnetic and got stuck to Torbek’s back HAHA

Gideon’s a cowardly vampire LMAO

“DON’T CUT GRICKO’S THROAT, TORBEK’S NOT DONE DRAWING HIM YET” HAHAHAHAHA

Why are they always trying to kill Gricko??? It’s funny but weird

WERE-GATOR KREMY RETURNS!!!!!

New favorite comments: “Werewolf thief and a cowardly vampire, what a pair” and “Avantris News: Four adult men sacrifice a green child to appease child gods”

NAT 20 TO ATTACK TORBEK FROM KREMY BUT NIKKIE DREADED IT

My S/I would be so confused at this chaos, I’d probably over with Hootsie and Juniper knitting because they don’t drink soda or alcohol (Based off myself irl)

“These fucking dumbasses, they’re lucky I’m sane in these moments” - My S/I

So excited to see Torbek’s masterpiece

Carnivale lecroux is spelled the fancy way, makes sense for someone like Kremy to spell his business like that (I’ll probably forget and still spell it carnival tho)

I love just listening to them talk about movies with each other, it's really nice :)

Nikkie hoarding mementos from witchlight behind the DM screen is so sweet!

UNICORN OUTFIT FOR KREMY?????

HAHA KREMY GOT THROWN OUT OF LITTLE OAK

GRICKO, STOP DRINKING THE POOP WATER!!!!

When TORBEK is disgusted by you, you know you fucked up!!

Oh thank the gods, it was a prank by will

CANDY??? TORBEK AND I WANT CANDY!!!!!

Besties who share a sweet tooth and trauma/abandonment issues stay besties forever

“The water in the pool does more than just quench your thirst!” “NOT ANYMORE” Gideon/Torbek unison joke!!!

I love Nikkie and her horde of dolls :)

“I also agree with Torbek, we need to kill that bitch of a hag!” - My S/I

TELL US THE STORY ABOUT THE WENDY’S BATHROOM WHEN Y'ALL WENT TO GENCON

Gricko got the diarrhea this episode lmao

“Fill up squirt” sounds so suggestive

Empty capri sun Gricko is so funny

DISPLACER BEAST KITTY!!!!! YES!!!!!

How many days/nights have these guys been in Prismeer? 4? 5? 6? (The only times I remember them sleeping is: Night at the inn, Frog palace, Mushroom forest high, Pixie camp sleepover, Jabberwock death and now here at little oak)

If Torbek was gone for an hour and that was five years, most of these kid’s parents probably don’t even realize they’ve been kidnapped and are missing

It’s canon to me that my S/I and Torbek sleep on a pile on the floor like Gricko does with Hootsie (Besties with abandonment issues and a love of physical affection uwu)

Who the hell names their kids Bongo and Flute???

My S/I Canonically knows Goblin but I feel like they wouldn’t tell Gricko or Torbek cause they like to eavesdrop in those two’s dumbass conversations lmao

BONGOLLOMEW??????

“Skibidi on god” “fr fr no cap” “BUSSIN!!” I’ve changed my mind, I hate these people /j

DO I ACTUALLY GET TO LISTEN TO AVANTRIS AND CHILL??? POGGGGERS!!!

Gricko turns into a milkshake via Frosty’s mage hand /j

THEY ORDERED $400 WORTH OF PIZZA FOR THE RING OF CHAOS ONE SHOT???? THATS SO FUCKIN MUCH, MACE!

Nikkie loves Fortnite and that makes me happy bc I like Fortnite

Thank you Derek for teaching me waterdrop and breaking nose sound effect :)

[magz]

current dental products that magz use + review

Colgate Periogard Toothbrush - a soft bristle toothbrush. way more gentle than average toothbrush, which helpful if have sensitive gums or difficulty control strength in hand consistent.

does not specifically have to be this brand. used to use coco floss toothbrush which was even more gentle. used to bleed way more with normal toothbrush bristles, even lost part of gum line as result thus soft bristle better for magz use. colgate periogard more affordable + easier to get (for magz) than cocofloss toothbrush also.

-

Coco Floss dental floss (with refill) - main product, a soft floss made of coconut fiber to use between teeth. the marketing is more focused on sustainability and environmental friendliness - however, not continually affordable. any floss fine as long as can use it - though interdental picks and proxybrushes can work better if have shaky hands. because cocofloss fibruous, ocassionally have split ends if too rough on it...

alternative of water flosser more expensive (do not have) but more sustainable... if can handle have tool that shoot water, potentially messy.

-

Davids Toothpaste - a nano-hydroxyapatite toothpaste, comes with a tool to squeeze out more toothpaste from the tube. magz personally use alternate between normal fluoride n this. nano-hydroxyapatite an artificial form of what teeth are made of, with potential to aid in rebuild teeth material (small level). kinda cost bit more than average toothpaste... use small amount when do use.

Not fan of specifically Davids spearmint toothpaste taste and not sure if amount of baking soda have adequate low levels for toothpaste (too high can be issue).

hydroxyapatite toothpaste Is more commonly used in Japan, but hydroxyapatite derived toothpastes were invented by NASA.

(Do not have same risk of overdose as prescription high concentrated fluoride toothpastes, which don't recommed if have inadvertent swallowing). However, don't get Davids *charcoal* version of toothpaste or any charcoal toothpaste, they are generally too abrasive for teeth n charcoal have potential for mess with medication (over-counter n prescription)

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Orabrush Tongue Scraper - specified tool for cleaning the tongue, as toothbrushes are not great at it. works pretty alright. has good handle like toothbrush so though. drink water afterwards tho, as it scrapes salive on tongue too. Does not activate magz gag reflex somehow unlike when use toothbrush for tongue.

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PUR gum (xylitol) aspartame free - xylitol useful for make teeth slippery, thus make it harder for food to get stuck to some teeth surface. spearmint flavor specifically not have good aftertaste. Is a dental hygiene recommended gum. Potentially affordable for amount can get (in bulk).

chewing gum is useful for thinking and habit also, though normal sugar gums not great for teeth, so xylitol gum have best of both. Does not specifically have to be this brand but has its own benefits (it have listing where ingredients derived from and avoid common allergies)

Warning: xylitol can be dangerous n fatal for pets so keep out of reach (magz not live with the pets atm, so is fine). is like concentrated chocolate n grapes level of danger for dogs and cats.

Ran out. sad.

(bonus: 4% hydrogen peroxide, which dilute in water for disenfectant. AFTER brushing teeth. use very infrequent.)

[nsharks]

So, I just realized, does ghost have toothpaste and toothbrushes in the house? Did he give one to Twix when she came? Do they floss their teeth?

This is such a random ask. I was just thinking about the essentials of a first kiss lol

i didn't feel like getting into all the details like how they use the restroom or how do they brush their teeth haha

if ghost had that stuff... it's been five years so it's probably out. i imagine they use natural toothbrushes from twigs and leaves, and you can use charcoal and water to clean your teeth. they all keep up with it for sure just like they keep up with bathing

[online-at-the-perfect-time]

V important ask inspired by the fact I am brushing my teeth rn, what kind of toothbrush would the LIs use??? Soft bristle??? Charcoal??? Electric??? What are their brushing habits, have any of them had braces??? What toothpaste do they use??? Maybe god awful artificial fruit kids toothpaste??? If I said I would pay them 5 cents for every full size toothpaste they’d consume how much would they manage to eat before barfing??? This is the end of this v normal ask, because I’m done brushing my teeth, have a good day I hope you’ve got good teeth statistics

🦷

we didn't know how to answer this so we've been thinking long and hard

griff - fucked up soft bristle (manual) toothbrush, you know those toothbrush heads that have fibers fuckin everywhere all diagonal and fucked. Griff had braces but hasn't told *anyone* Has a couple fillings (Two max) from cavities he gained during his big depressive spout (lasted a few months)

Cricket - MWAH this boy loves bones sm obviously that he's always wanted to make sure his skull was as clean as he could make it! Electric all the way (it's the superior and better choice) ! Cricket flosses and uses mouthwash, one time the dentist told him he was overbrushing and has felt paranoid ever since on how much or how little to brush. Has canines like vampire fangs, they stick out a little (grem sent a photo but like they poke out a bit on either side so like snaggle tooth-y).

Zeph - Mouthwash no !! teeth too sensitive for that (flossing is also a no go sorry) Has a toothbrush with an embedded timer because he gets bored and used to leave before he's been brushing for two minutes (electric). Doesn't like minty toothpaste (blegh) so often opts for strawberry or something fruity! :3