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[digitalcreatiwity]

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If any of the above sounds interesting, Let me know when you would available to talk.

[yan-randomfandom]

Hello! Call me Yan (any prns), and I'm honestly here to satisfy my cravings as a writer 😔

♪ REQUEST STATUS: OPEN—especially TF or RVB!

WHAT DO I WRITE?

x reader, my beloved

Yandere. There are times I won't write yandere, but it's my blog's main trait.

Please read at your own risk. There will be warnings at the start of the chap!

My account is multifandom. Please expect my content to be different every once in a while!

A sideblog of mine so you know what fandoms I'm in: @pokepokee (a lot more active here too)

MASTERLIST... LIST

ONE | TWO [ongoing]

SO, YOU'RE AN ANON

Feel free to use a name even if it's taken! This is because I hop around fandoms, so anons may come and go, plus it's definitely an easier way to find your request (in tags) 😺

You can name yourself as an anon! It's a nickname of sorts

Also I admit I prioritize the named ones 🙂‍↕️

Think of your same-name-anons as like,, wow, u have the same name as me! twinsies frfr??

LIMITS?

I write non-yandere stories too!

No problematic shipping requests.

Unfortunately, I don't do OCs (':

Mostly SFW — I do not write explicit smut nor gore.

Minors, please stay safe. Don't go meddling around with adult spaces!

Sadly, I'm lacking in knowledge of other popular media, so if you happen to request one of those, I might not reply. Instead, I'll be keeping your ask until one day I check that media out.

Doesn't matter if the character is well known or not. Cuz I will attempt to learn about your request.

Except real life people. I can do actors with their characters, but never government names.

Part 2s are my weakness. I'm sorry. Doesn't mean you shouldn't try asking me tho!

WHY IS MY REQUEST TAKING SO LONG?

...college

If it's something I've never posted about yet, then it's either I'm not in the fandom, or I'm just clueless.

But other than that... sometimes I take days— weeks— months? to truly click with an idea.

I want to enjoy whatever I'm writing, so I take a break until an idea comes up.

And there's also the fact that I'm working on multiple things at once 😭😭 I tend to focus on easier ones first!!

Worst case scenario: I truly have zero idea for your request, I'm so sorry 😔

NOTES ABOUT ME!

Yandere is my guilty pleasure, I fear🤕

HOWEVER, I do not, and won't ever, condone the behavior I will portray in my writing. Please don't misunderstand, don't romanticize. They are purely fiction and for entertainment.

I regularly change my theme (profile, colors, banner, etc.) just so you know.

This account is for everyone,, we're all just trying to find content of our favorite character fr— so please don't hesitate to request :)

As I close my eyes to sleep, that's when I start imagining scenarios for my writing!

erm skibid toilet

[nalebifrie]

THE MOMENT

[sheila--e]

trying o figure out a funny username for my disckord without getting fucking bannerd from half of these places or misgenderd is hell...

[popponn]

HEY WAIT IM NO LONGER SHADOW BANNERD

DUDE IM FREEEE

[acemmetry]

A Poor Man's Dilemma / Highway To... Not Hell, But Not Anywhere Fun, Either

(Available here!)

----

"What year would this make you?" Auctionelle asks from beside him. The orange Addison is wearing one of her homemade outfits, a slim fitting getup Spamton would much rather not ogle when she's just asked him a question.

  "Fifteen," he answers, throwing a quick glance at the long-sleeved, plum-colored tank top hugging her chest before meeting her eyes. They're a rich brown, like fresh loam or something, a lovely compliment to the honey orange hue of her silicone. She really is gorgeous, even more so with that smile on her face. It's the kind of smile reminiscent of waking up on a cold morning wrapped up tight in a thick blanket. 

It's warm. She's warm.

  "Sh[**], really?" Their friend Baitty pipes up, distracting Spamton from his sappy thoughts. He's on the ground, lying on his side like a model atop a car, one hand supporting his head while the other lazily twirls a finger through his ponytail. "F[***] man, you're old." He giggles, high.

  Their other friend, Bannerd, directs a sullen glare at Baitty that the pink Addison fails to notice. "Not old," they declare loudly, head tilted to the sky as if announcing it the world. Bannerd is also high. "He's experienced, he's been around longer than any of us, he knows the world." His eyes brighten as though he's come across some mind boggling revelation, and the blue Addison reaches over his crossed legs to pull Spamton close. "Spammy, Spammy, dude, you have to tell me," they say, their face the most serious Spamton's ever seen it. "Were you and Queen together way back when?"

  It makes no sense, but Spamton chokes on a laugh at the image anyway -- Queen, who is a billion years older than him and who would absolutely crush him under her sexy boot-heels if she knew what he was imagining, dating him. It's absurd, and he shoves Bannerd away and -- over the chorus of his friends' laughter, because the idea of Head Honcho Queen dating Total Nobody Spamton must be funny to them, too -- calls out to Clickard.

  The yellow Addison is grilling scamburgers, and not very well. Originally, the five of them had planned on bringing takeout to their picnic, but Clickard had the bright idea of grilling their food, to make it "especially special". He'd insisted on doing it himself, and was now paying for it with burnt patties, going off of the smell. They all knew he had never handled food a day in his life; everyone had expected disastrous results, and Clickard had delivered.

  Spamton calls out for him again when it seemed he hadn't heard him. The laughter has died down into conversation by now.

  Clickard twists his head to glare at Spamton, a scowl on his face. "What?" He snaps. "I'm trying to save your burgers."

  Auctionelle butts in for Spamton with a good-natured scoff, and he hears her shift about behind him. Suddenly, her arms are loosely wrapped around his neck and she's hanging off of him, her hair just about brushing his lips. He thinks he can smell the product keeping it tidy, and he's half-tempted to draw her closer and press a kiss to her temple. She's not one for PDA, though. "There's no saving them, Click," she's saying, and then she's laughing at a face Clickard must be making. Her laugh is beautiful. "There isn't! Hey, it's fine, just slap some buns on 'em and come sit with us. God, you never stop working."

  "Eugh, fine, but someone needs to take the patties over. I'll have my hands full with everything else."

  "I've got it," Spamton offers, patting at Auctionelle's shoulder to signal for his release. He already misses her touch by the time he's up and moving. Clickard makes a show of gagging as Spamton walks up to take the tray patties from him.

  "What?" Spamton bites, though he knows why his friend did it. Sue him, for being hopelessly in love with the only girl to give him a chance.

  "Nothing." The other Addison shrugs in a way that suggests it's anything but. "Just... I've never seen anyone pine so much over someone they're dating."

  "It's called being a loving and caring partner, Click. I'm gonna dote on her. You did the same with that Payton fella." They've slowed down on their way back to the group, not that the others have noticed. Auctionelle and Bannerd are too busy measuring how high they can pour wine into Baitty's mouth without spilling.

  "That's different," Clickard retorts, grimacing. The two had broken up after Payton had gotten involved in a pyramid scheme. "I- we- you act like she's gonna drop you at the earliest convenience if you so much as mildly irritate her. It's okay to loosen up around your girlfriend, Spamton! How long have you been dating? Five months?" They stop walking.

  Spamton refrains from correcting him. It's been eight months, really, but the first three months had been a trial period. "She's the best thing to happen to me!" He insists. They had agreed to keep their relationship a secret until they were ready to commit. It had been the most stressful three months of his life, toeing the line between casual and serious. "I don't want to f[***] it up."

  "With the way she looks at you? You'd have to f[***] up real bad for that to go away. Hell, a f[***] up that big would probably mean the end of all of your relationships." Clickard is chuckling at the impossible notion, and looks to Spamton to see if the laughter has caught on. It hasn't. Spamton is quiet and sullen, so Clickard's smile drops.

  "Hey, forget it," he tries amending, kicking at his friend's shin. The white Addison scowls at the action. "It's none of my business. Let's get this food to the others and start the celebration, already. For Queen's sake, you're fifteen! You'll fade away before anyone's even made their burger." He smirks, trying to coax out another smile. He catches one on Spamton's face before it's smothered in a scoff.

  "Queen is three times my age, I'm not that old!"

  Clickard, mirth in his eyes, goes to budge against Spamton, but the other sees it coming and steps out of the way. That step turns into a stumble when his ankle buckles, and for a terrifying second, it looks like he's about to upend all the patties onto his person. Clickard would point and laugh at him if he wasn't full up on cargo of his own

  "You're so old," he says through a shit-eating grin, watching Spamton irritably shake out his foot. "Happy upload anniversary, dude."

    Auctionelle had broken up with him three months after that day.

  It's the first thing he remembers upon waking up. He had been making plans for their one-year anniversary one second, and the next, they had gone back to being friends. It had been a quiet, underwhelming affair, that had left Spamton wondering if there had been anything there to call a relationship in the first place. Their friendship had felt the same as it had before. Hell, it had felt like a friendship during -- no wonder they broke up.

  And now here he was, a lifetime later, staring at her business card on his bedside table.

  Do you remember Auctionelle. Not in the way most others remembered people. He remembered the feel of her, sure; that honey-warm happiness, both sweet and suffocating, that permeated every memory he had of her. But her face? Her voice? The touch of her lips against his? Not a chance. He can't even remember if she had done anything special with her hair that day, or if she had done anything special with her hair ever.

  Why did I keep it? he thinks with a scowl. He slides out of bed to get ready for the day. It's not like I'm ever going to use it. There's a bowtie clipped to his shirt before he remembers the Stickler Twins' policy on uniforms, and it's reluctantly swapped out for a tie. I want nothing to do with her. He will never not be embarrassed with needing to wear velcro shoes like some uncoordinated Lighter child. He was... how old was he?

  He stops short at buttoning up his ugly red jacket. If memory served right, he turned fifteen in...

  Memory does not serve right; he's drawing a blank. Best put that thought to the side for now.

  Loathe as he is to go, the clock above his door reads "Time for Work!" with a winking Queen for punctuation, and he'd much rather not have Swatch send up one of their lackeys to retrieve him. Worse yet, Swatch themself, or the Tasque Manager. He's half expecting one of them to be outside the door when he steps out, and has never been so relieved to see an empty hallway when he does.

  How old am I? 

  The thought sits heavy in his stomach.

  ***

The staff -- save for him, though he's regrettably a part of their number -- disperse to their work stations following the Morning Bootup Routine; a tedious procedure, really. What did staff morale matter, or Mansion statistics, on that hand? Even with Tasque Manager overseeing the whole thing, it was just corporate hogwash with Queen in charge, anyway. At the end of the meeting, employees were assigned their jobs for the day, and honestly, their mornings would run much smoother if that was all it was.

  Spamton had not been assigned a job.

  Not one he was legally obligated to, anyway. "Queen's Escort", whatever that meant, was outside the parameters of his job description. As stated in his contract (which he had read extensively upon discovering it was actually a court order), his work and his living accommodations were to be kept strictly to the Mansion grounds. He couldn't go two feet outside before his stupid boundary program activated, something his "employers" had doublechecked to make sure was safe to install before installing. He had tried to breach the boundary once -- just once, just to see what would happen. Suffice to say, he wouldn't be going outside again, but from the sounds of it, this "Queen's Escort" business was something outside. For people who's Terms of Service stated they remain inside, that was a problem.

  "--and no giving her grief, is that clear?" The Tasque Manager finishes with whatever spiel she had been on, as if Spamton hadn't tuned her out the whole time. It was probably about his job, seeing as he was the only one left in the room she could give directions to, but her lectures were just so boring. He'd fallen asleep waiting for customers in his dump shop less than he had listening to her talk.

  "A-as a crystal," he grins out, tone just hostile enough that she couldn't get after him for being snappish. He's lost on what to do, but he's not about to ask a question that would expose his inattention to her little speech, lest she launch into another one about the importance of 'listening ears', or something. Not like he'd been the head of a major company back in the day, or anything. Not like employee etiquette was coded into his database.

  She scrutinizes him for a minute. He pretend-scrutinizes her right back. Satisfied, she beckons him to follow.

  "The car is waiting on the side of the road. Assuming you still know how to drive, merging into traffic shouldn't be too much of a problem."

  Spamton is intimately familiar with this part of the Mansion -- it was en route to the hidden switch that unlocked the path to the basement. It was nowhere close to leading outside, unless...

  "You d-didn't conffirm with me, bbecause...?" The sound of stampeding feet grows steadily louder the closer they get to their destination. Spamton tries to ignore the excitement bubbling up inside him. Just ahead, if he strains to look, he can just make out the blurred, red shapes of what he knows to be cungadero speeding by. If she means what he thinks she means...

  "Frankly, I want to keep interactions with you to a minimum," is the Tasque Manager's response, which... points for honesty, he supposes. "But besides that, I remember a few of your basement attempts involving cars. Mostly crashing, yes, but you had to have gotten them here somehow. I have faith that your driving is better than Queen's, at least." That is, surprisingly, the nicest thing he's heard said to him in a long time. He doesn't like how it makes him feel. "You clean up nice, by the way." She doesn't look at him when she says it, and there's no trace of emotion on her face, but he has the strangest feeling that she's talking about his tie. On God, if she's talking about his tie, he will strangle her with it.

  The roar of racing cungadero drowns out all other sound as they reach the indoor-leading-outdoor highway. Just as the Tasque Manager said, there's a car -- some boxy, polished black model -- waiting for them on an empty lane that merges into the highway. He can faintly make out a shape lounging in the passenger's seat, and it dawns on him just what exactly today's job entails. 

  Driving. A car. He gets to drive a car! How long has it been since he last enjoyed the rumble of the road beneath him, wind in his hair, a leather wheel in his hands? He hasn't been in the driver's seat of a good car in ages -- those scrap buckets he had run into the Mansion walls in the past had performed admirably, but their function on the road had long since rusted away. He had given them their last hurrah, but this... this was a babe. They were going to let him drive this? There would be nothing stopping him from taking off like a tasque on fire. He would drive off with this beauty and start a new life somewhere. This was... he'd just have to kick out whoever was in the passenger's seat, because this ride was his.

  "Your PerimeterLock program will be deactivated for the duration of your time outside," he hears the Tasque Manager say, which, yeah, he supposes that would stop him. Damn it. "If there is any problem, Queen will notify us and it will be reactivated. Do you remember what happens to you outside Mansion grounds when it's on?" As if Spamton needs a reminder. He stretches a fake, full-toothed smile onto his face in confirmation. Goddammit. "Wonderful."

  They reach the car, and his escort has only just opened the door for him before he's being ushered into the driver's seat. Queen, he finds, is reclined in the passenger's seat, a sleep mask pulled over her eyes- screen- visual input? Whatever. He's so distracted by this that he doesn't notice he's been handcuffed to the steering wheel until he goes to buckle himself in. His hand hovers uselessly in the air from where it's pulled the chain taut, and wordlessly, he looks to the Tasque Manager in exasperation. Her hands also hover uselessly, just above the wheel, as she meets his look with thinned lips. Keeping the silence, she leans over to buckle him in.

  "I h-have ww-one arm. How do- how do you expectt mme to drive like this?" She bites her lip at the question, but only ducks out of the car in response.

  "You'll be fine," she states, though she doesn't entirely sound like she believes it. "You- it's a safety precaution. With your," she breathes, "violent tendencies, we thought it best to ensure you kept your hands- hand... to yourself." As he opens his mouth to ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, she continues. "The key is in the ignition, and Queen will give you any directions you might need. Drive safely, and efficiently." She spares one last look to an oblivious Queen, expression unreadable, before leaving. She misses out on watching Spamton struggle to maneuver the wheel to reach the key. She likely doesn't miss the sound of the car starting up when he succeeds, though.

  He's not quite done yet, however; there's just one more, small problem he needs to get out of the way. The car is parked. The gear stick is to his right, between the seats. His left hand is cuffed to the steering wheel.

  He can't reach the gear stick.

  The chain is too short for the turn-the-wheel-and-stretch trick. He entertains the idea of using his stump to shift gears, but the action proves so wildly uncomfortable that he immediately stops. Queen is still sleeping in the front seat like the fucking bum she is, absolutely useless. He sits in dismayed silence, resenting the choices he's made that have led to this point, and then... he remembers his feet.

  It takes a lot of maneuvering, and the weird looks of a Swatchling replacing a painting from across the room, before he's able to wrap his ankles around the gear stick.

  He kicks Queen after he gets the car into drive, because fuck her. You snooze, you lose. She jerks awake with a bit-crushed snort, and as she moves to take her mask off, Spamton hustles back into sitting properly. He had to do that anyway, since he needed his foot on the brake if he didn't want the car rolling.  Catching his breath, he watches the Swatchling across the way return to its work.

  "Heavens," Queen is saying, which spurs him into tapping the gas and pushing the car to the end of the lane. "I Fell Asleep Waiting For You. What Was The Delay? So Slow, You Took: Thirty Seven Minutes (And Counting)," her visor reads FOREVER, "LOL Whatever. We Are On The Road Now. Splendid." She's always had an irritating way of speaking, how in God's name can anyone stand this woman? He wants to kick her again.

  There's silence as they wait for traffic to let up. Queen leans forward in her seat at some point to look at him with those weird "at sign" eyes she has occasionally. Spamton does not like the "at sign" eyes. Spamton ignores her.

  "Merge Now," she pipes up out of nowhere. She's shifted about so that she's lying against the dashboard, her legs hanging over the back of her seat. With her head tilted back, she's watching the road upside down.

  Spamton balks, casting her a stink-eye. "Wha- where? Th-there is nno space to mmerge!" If traffic were slower, there could be, but as it stands, they are sure to crash if he tries merging now. He wouldn't be able to accelerate fast enough to match the speed of the other cars in time.

  "Sure There Is!" His passenger rolls her head towards him, and there's laughter spelled across her visor. She's rolling her wrist, for some reason. "I Have Done This Before. Calculating..." A throbber spins in her eyes. He waits, befuddled, for her to elaborate. "Two Times. I Have Done This Two Times Before. It's Really Quite Simple, Just Do It."

  Before he can point out that there's a reason she's not the one driving, the car jerks forward. His foot slips off the break, he nearly skewers his nose on the horn, and the car starts speeding up. In fact, it is rapidly speeding up. It has cut through all lanes of traffic already, and from the looks of it, it's looking to acquaint itself with the side door of a fast-approaching cungadero.

  Spamton swerves. He straightens into a lane, narrowly avoiding a collision, and about slams on the breaks to avoid rear-ending the cungadero in front of him. The car picks up speed again when the crisis has been avoided.

  There is the sound of drums in his ears, which hammer out Queen's whooping and hollering. His fingers, from their death grip on the wheel, refuse to unclench. Dazed, he glances down at his feet -- only glances, he still has to watch the road -- and finds a cursor arrow shoved up against the accelerator. Seeing it, an emotion bubbles up that he's too spiked up on adrenaline to identify. He's seething, that much he knows for sure, and he would have definitely thrown a pipis at Queen's face if his hand wasn't glued to the wheel right now, but there's a bit too much terror for it to be proper anger.

  The arrow bursts into pixels when he jams a foot into it. He ignores the jerk of the car when he does so.

  Gritting his teeth, he asks where he's driving.

  "Oh, They're Some Old Friends Of Yours: My Cameras Caught Them Escorting You To The Basement. The Night You Joined My Staff." Dread pools in his gut. Those -- those kids? What for? If he's gotten them in trouble, they'll join the long list of names of people who hate him. They were only escorts, anyway! "Those Funny Little Music Men? Them." Queen's smile is dopey and loose, as if she isn't presenting him on a silver platter to his enemies.

  "They ddidn't know anything," he blurts out. If he can point the blame away from them, they wouldn't have reason to come after him. He was so tired of being made to make up for his mistakes.

  Queen is looking at him with question marks in her eyes.

  He continues. "Thhey only w-walked me throu-gh. I di-didn't tell them what-what ffor." There's a faint, pulsing blur at the edge of his vision, and he has to breathe deeply to slow the beating of his heart. His exit is coming up. He'll miss it if he doesn't make it over soon, but there isn't any room to switch lanes.

  "Oh Not To Worry!" Queen chirps, far too chipper. "They Said As Much When We Tracked Them Down For Questioning. They Were Pretty Cooperative For Rebels Meant To Oppose Me."

  His hand shakes from its grip on the wheel. His exit is coming up.

  "Our Exit Is Coming Up In: 2900 Feet. With The Speed You're Going, You Should Probably: Get Over," she's saying, distracted, as if he doesn't know. He knows, but he can't- there's no space. 

  He flicks on the indicator. There's no space. Is the heater on? It's hard to breathe.

  "2000 Feet." Thank you, Queen. She's back to lounging face-forwards in her chair. "Hit The Cars If You Must. They Don't Mind."

  He-

  ...

  Hit them?

  ...

  Really?

  "800 Feet. Allow Me..." Out of nowhere, Queen grabs hold of the wheel and sharply veers towards their exit. Spamton would scream if his voice didn't just catch in the back of his throat. As it stands, he can only work to fight back a heart attack as they plow through traffic as though it were water. The cungadero squeak as they bounce off the hood and go flying. Queen laughs maniacally, and surrenders the wheel to him.

  They make their exit, splitting off from the highway onto a road that leads to the Cyber Fields. The instant he can, he pulls over and stomps on the brake, the car screeching to a halt. His seatbelt nearly decapitates him, and Queen's head crashes onto the dashboard, but... but he's got time to breathe. He's got time to breathe, so he breathes, big gulps of stale air as he rests his head on the wheel. It's not enough. He's filling up from his stomach to his chest with air, and it's not enough. His heart is pounding. His eyes are burning. There's a muffled voice in his ears, and he doesn't have enough air.

  They're going to hurt you, someone whispers, a twisted promise infecting his thoughts. You slipped up, and they're going to hurt you.

  A hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezing, and he throws himself against the car door to throw it off. "Hands off the merchandise," he spits. He makes eye contact with Queen's cracked visor. "You- you f[**]king broad, you brainlessssscrap." Her visor sparks, and she looks utterly confused. "Wh-wh-what are you doing, anyway? Are you tr-trying to kill me? Save that for the- the- the hoodlums we're driving to visit, they'll do it ffor you! What, on- on top of indentured sserviture, you want me doing some kkind of apology tour? Is that what this is?" His vision has gone spotty with stress. "F-find the people I've inconvenienced and... and let them beat my nose in? Great! You'd- you'd have been better off throwing me back in-" A rippling glitch violently interrupts him. "Those kids didn't- didn't even do anything! What are they getting sh[**] for? You-"

  He's lost his train of thought. He's also lost the train station, as the whole of his conscious mind has abruptly stopped working. A blink, and his vision starts to dim. He doesn't know to process that he's shutting down before he's already unconscious.

(Originally written 11/9/24)

[plural-sunny]

POINTS. SAW SOMEONE USING MY BANNERD AGAIN /POS

[0i8ma]

YOOO WHAT IF I . double uodate today 😈 im feelingggg so generous man (jk that is a joke i havent even written the next part help me)

[franzivonkarma]

The doctor asked if I was sexually active. I said no. She then insists... That I'm sexually active and I'm lying because my mum's there. But... I'm telling the truth. And she proceeds to ignore everything I say and tells me it must be STD or pregnancy related... Despite me telling her I'm not sexually active... And now the doctors are closed for a few days so I have to call fucking 111 tomorrow. This is such a joke. And she blamed my other problems on my diet even though I explained to her how many alternate diets I've tried to fix it and then she said to my mum that I'm a teenager so I must be lying about the diet thing because teenagers eat all sorts. Dude???? And she told me to call after the holiday period when I'm ready to "open up" (admit I'm sexually active... Which I'm not...) Which she KEPT SAYING. WHY ARE YOU SO OBSESSED WITH MY PROBLEM BEING SEX RELATED WHILE I TELL YOU IT'S NOT. DOCTORS ARE SO SO FUCKING USELESS. My mum then told her I went to A&E multiple times as a kid for the same problem she said a better diet would fix because I was sxreaming and crying in pain and she just said "We'll she's not a little girl anymore she's 16, almost 17 she can react differently now" uh. What. Dude. Of course I react differently it doesn't mean the problem is gone you fucking DENSE CUNT. We begged her to do an examination just to reassure me because I was petrified and she said no because I hadn't told her what was wrong so she had no reason to because I wouldn't "open up" (again. Sexually inactive) Anyway my mum is gonna write a massive email and complain because I ended the phonecall in tears out of frustration from her not listening to me and calling me a liar and leaving me with no help for half a week because of the doctors closing for the holidays while I'm so concerned for my health I feel sick. I'm gonna shower and immediately call 111 in the morning. Ugh.

[golikethatcat]

Loki captive ( inspired by a most unique Thorki fanfic, a thousand pardons if I overstep with enthusiasm and appreciation.) Also, decided to replace with cropped version, first one too confusing. Thank you for previous likes and reblogs, you’re all so very wonderful.

. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361176

[explosiv-glasses]

You here tho

U got bannerd

It took me so long to realize that the frostbek tag has one blog under “top frostbek blog” AND ITS NOT ME!

It’s not even an active blog. This is a hate crime 😒

[jirahmoonfang]

Before Jirah goes to sleep in the Bannerd Mare, he wanted to walk around a little. He took that picture of the Honeybrew Meadery. Jirah likes mead. It’s so sweet and makes this one even funnier. Sadly, they had closed already. 

Now this one wishes a good night and and lovely dreams. See you tomorrow, little Moon Fangs!

[loveisstoredinthewings]

i occassionally see stuff like this but a friendly reminder e/d, pr0an@, prom1a (and related) blogs are not allowed to interact w me

i still struggle (a lottt) w an ed and i dont want to see urls like starve-till-im-thin like im not at a good enough mental capacity to deal w things like these

even if arent an e\d blog, but you reblog anything w that kind of content i beg of you to go to another blog.

only exception are recovery blogs

this isnt directed at any blog specifically. just atm im going thru a time. ill make or find dni banners soon enough

[phantoms-lair]

FFBT - Sister Act

Commission for @bruce-bannerd

“Yeah Mom, sounds good. Next week, 2:00.” Shaggy hung up the phone. He was fine. Everything was fine.

He was already going fuzzy, wasn’t he? This did not bode well.

“Like Scooby, call the gang! It’s an emergency!”

~~

Though he was more comfortable with himself than he had been not too long ago, it was rare to see Shaggy in full wolf mode outside the full Moon. But there he was, curled up against Velma, fretting.

“Okay Shag, we all want to help, but we need to know what’s wrong.” Fred said gently, holding Shaggy’s paw-like hand.

It took the werewolf a few tries to get the words out. “So, like, apparently last week they found black mold at Sugies school after a lot of the kids got sick.” Really badly sick. “Mom, like, didn’t want to worry me until she got Sugie’s medical results back. She’s gonna be fine.”

“Oh thank goodness.” Daphne breathed a sigh of relief. His baby sister getting seriously ill while he couldn’t even be there for her would have wrecked him badly.

“Yeah.” Shaggy squeezed Fred’s hand and curled deeper into Velma. “So they, like closed the school building and they’re going to do the rest of the year online. But that doesn’t affect the campus Mom works at, so she’s can’t be home with Sugie and doesn’t want to leave her home alone all day, and Dad’s still on deployment so-”

“Rugie’s romming rere.” Scooby finished.

“And I don’t know how to hide this,” he gestured to himself.

“I don’t think you can.” Fred pointed out. “You’re too worried about her.”

Shaggy sighed. “But what if she’s scared of me?”

Daphne laughed softly. “Shaggy, not one person who’s seen you like this has been scared of you.” Scared for him maybe, but never of him. “I don’t think Sugie’s going to break the trend.”

~

In retrospect, Velma was glad she hadn’t burned that hoodie. She had been tempted, sure, it was a symbol to her of the self-loathing Shaggy had felt. Now it may have been unseasonably warm, but was good for hiding if Shaggy suddenly sprouted fur or pointed ears. Which normally wasn’t a problem, but he was so worried it might be there was a risk of self fulfilling prophecy.

“Shaggy!” A blue bundle of energy hopped off the train and wrapped her arms around her brother.

He hugged her back and felt something in the wolf leap for joy. He was almost tempted to grow a tail just so he could wag it. A piece of his family was with him again! “Missed you, Sugs.”

“Missed you too, bro.”

Velma picked up the suitcase where Sugie had dropped it, grinning at how happy Shaggy was. “We’re going to pick up lunch on the way home. Any place you’d like to go Sugie?”

“Mellow Mushroom! I wanna get a multi-mushroom pizza and the mushroom soup!”

“Craving mushrooms?” Daphne asked, hiding a giggle.

“I shall eat fungus as an act of revenge.” Sugie said with the solemness only a twelve year old could muster.

Shaggy thought a moment. “Grilled Portobellos for dinner?”

Sugie squeezed him again. “And this is why I love you bro, you get me.”

~

They sat curled up in the living room, food half consumed, when Velma started giving Shaggy a meaningful look he couldn't avoid. He wanted to argue that it could wait until after lunch, but knew that he’d just keep avoiding it if given half the chance. He sighed and put down his pizza slice. “Sugie, there’s something we need to talk about. Some stuff has, like, changed since you and Mom left.”

“If you’re telling me you got a girlfriend, I don’t believe you.” Sugie said, attention still on her pizza.

Shaggy rolled his eyes. Yes, but that wasn’t the point. Okay, like a band aid. “Sugie I’m a werewolf.”

This at least got her to pause in her pizza eating. “Seriously?” she said in a tone that bespoke more ‘So you you really expect me to believe that’ rather than ‘You're really a werewolf’.

“It’s been an interesting past few months.” Fred allowed.

“Uh-huh.” Sugie’s attention was back on the pizza, clearly not believing a word of this.

Velma sighed. “Sugie look at your brother.”

She did and dropped her slice of pizza, which was snatched by Scooby before it hit the ground. “Shaggy, you...you-”

Shaggy ducked in on himself, more self-conscious about going full werewolf than he’d been in months.

“That is SO AWESOME!” Sugie was practically bouncing in her seat. “Oh man, can I touch your ears.” She reached her hand forward only to have it stopped by Daphne.

“You’ve been eating pizza. Wash your hands first.” She chided.

“Wash my hands?” Sugie asked in disbelief. “My brother is a werewolf and you want me to worry about washing my hands?”

“Would you want someone running greasy fingers through your hair?” Daphne shot back. 

Sugie looked at her mulishly, but got up to head to the bathroom.

“Like was that really necessary Daph?” Shaggy asked. “Have you ever tried to wash grease out of hair? Yes.” Daphne said vehemently.

“I’m really sorry that trap backfired.” Fred apologized.

“It was an accident.” Daphne kissed him. 

“Okay, hands clean, it is petting time!” Sugie declared. She didn’t even bother getting back on the couch, just came up behind it and started scratching behind Shaggy’s ears like she’d done with Scooby all her life. He leaned into the touch, clearly treasuring the contact.

“This is so cool.” Sugie whispered.

“You don’t think it’s, like, weird?” Shaggy asked.

“Oh it’s weird, but in the best way.” Sugie was still grinning. “What did Mom and Dad say?”

It was the wrong thing to say as she felt her brother tense under her fingers, the thumping of the tail against the back of the couch stopping. “Bro?”

“You can’t tell them.” he begged, “Promise me Sug.”

“It’s a conversation best had in person.” Velma explained. “Having your family upset at you is painful for werewolves, so we want to do it when we’re here to soften the potential blow.” Yes it was glossing over the more serious aspects of what could happen, but the fact that rejection could equal death for her brother was a heavy thing for a preteen, especially one who’d just gone through something as traumatic as what had happened with the mold.

“Hmph. Well, I guess that means I gotta be the problem child if you’re stuck being the good one. Way to be a teenage werewolf and have it be boring.” Her words were in a mischievous tone, but followed with a hug. “I won’t tell Shaggy. Promise.” And she meant it.

“Told you it would be fine.” Velma said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Sugie straightened up. “Wait...wait...what was that?”

“A kiss,” said Velma with a smirk. “You know, something girlfriends do to their boyfriends and vice versa.”

“Oh no. No no no. The werewolf deal is one thing but a girlfriend? How? And Velma? She’s smart?” Sugie sounded super offended.

Everyone laughed, even Shaggy. The fact that Sugie was far more upset over him having a girlfriend over being a werewolf was unexpected, but welcome nonetheless.

Everything was going to be okay.

[perpetuallyhungryandscared]

MUSE BODY LANGUAGE !

bold what you apply to your muse ! do NOT reblog, repost instead!

DEFENSIVENESS:

arms crossed on chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip // baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE:

hand-to-face gestures // head tilted // stroking chin // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to bridge of nose // pursed lips, knitted brows

SUSPICION:

arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

OPENNESS & COOPERATION:

open hands // upper body in sprinters position // sitting on edge of chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders, droopy posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward

CONFIDENCE:

hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin// rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up// shoulders back // arms folded just above navel

INSECURITY & ANXIETY:

chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent // closed gestures // clearing throat // “whew” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair // swaying // playing with pointer / marker // smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

FRUSTRATION:

short breaths // “tsk” sounds // tightly-clenched hands // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // running hand through hair // rubbing back of neck // snarling //revealing teeth / grimacing // sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in brow //shoulders back, head up — defensive posturing // clenching of jaw / grinding teeth //nostrils flaring // heavy exhales

Tagged by: got it from @chainsxwsmile

Tagging: @thoseofonen, @viviskull, @vilexinxred, @journalsauthored, @bendingtook, @bruce-bannerd, @ittybitty-deadbeat, @sparkveins, @wiccanblood, @unknown-rps, and anyone else who wants to.