#euclidean!reader

[jello-library]

hey so you’re the only person I can find who talked about Euclidean!reader and the original poster disappeared. Do you know anything else because the concept was soooo good but I js cannot find it anymore!

And Now There Just Two

Bill Cipher x Euclidean!GN!Reader

Aww! Thank you! This ask been sitting here for awhile and I do feel bad what happen to the original poster.

I hope I didn’t scare them off or anything 😭 But here some headcanons let me know if y’all want a part 2 out of this!

This brought a bit of comfort after everything that is going on. I hope everyone who’s been affected is safe and I wish everyone the best.💛

TW: Fluff, Angst. Toxic Relationships (Platonic and a bit romantic(?) you’ll see, Bill Cipher he’s a warning on his own. Cussing.

If they’re anything else please let me know so I can tag properly! Thank you!

GIVE IT UP FOR SEPARATION ANXIETY!

Yeah, from both sides but Bill is more secretive about it. He does not want you to be aware of him being vulnerable. But sometimes, he does come to search for you to merely sit in silence and exist. 

It's comforting for him…

It doesn't matter how many times you ask why he does this he either avoids it or says that you're just thinking too deeply into it and you should be happy that he's giving you the time of day. 

He's a very busy guy you know! 

He can be turning someone's skin into sandpaper and their organs into rubber! But instead, he is with you. So be happy!

You two are the only ones left and Euclidea probably had their language. Most conversations are spoken in your mother tongue. 

Lots of cultural aspects of Euclidea have been lost to time but there are some things you may still partake in. This is rare because it can get quite depressing for both of you. Bill won't recognize what you're doing at first but, when he does. 

It's not pretty…

And we know how Bill copes with things so it's best if you give him some time alone. He will come back when ready and pretend that never happens.

I think anything that has to do with home is bittersweet to him and if this is under the notion that you are not aware of him being the reason that it is gone. 

That is a whole new layer of issues to get into. 

In this Au, I would like the idea of the reader discovering Ford before Bill and then becoming good friends with him. Promising him knowledge about the multiverses and different realms that exist. They have been alive just as long as Bill so they pick up a thing or two. 

The reader and Ford's friendship is genuine. The reader gifts him many different types of moths to Ford, introducing them to anything earth-related. 

Ford does well fall for the reader but they have no clue about it. They never allow themselves to experience a relationship or either too shy to enter one. 

I mean, have you seen Bill's track record? That man is not a good partner at all! And if I wanted to add more salt to the wound. 

Bill having feelings for the reader can be included in this but it would take him so long to want to pursue it because he associates the reader with Euclidea. He wants to leave that in the past but, we know he keeps his home close to his heart. 

So when he's accepting his long-term feelings for the reader here's the reader and Ford slowly learning how to love themselves and each other—from late-night talks to the reader telling Ford what happened to their homeworld and why they want him to contact Stanly because you may never know when you're going to lose the people that you love. 

And let's just say the reader was making good progress with Ford! Helping him interact with others and trying to get out of his comfort zone bit by bit. 

Their relationship was sweet it was kind and gentle. Then Bill came in and ruined all of it. 

The moment he did that it made the reader's perception of Bill change for the worst. The reader probably doesn't have a lot of friends outside of him and sticks close to him because of grief and familiarity. The reader most likely looks at Bill with rose-tinted glasses and tries to justify his actions in their head. 

So when they meet Ford, they likely want to keep it private and separate from their other life.

So when Bill finds out about Ford and his intelligence, he swoops his right under the reader's nose with an excuse. 

"ANY FRIEND OF YOURS IS A FRIEND OF MINE. PLUS I CAN'T HAVE SOME RANDO TAKE MY BEST FRIEND NOW, CAN'T I?"  

This leads to them reader and Ford hanging out less and less to the point the reader feels like Ford forgot they exist. Ah, the angst and self-realization around this time for them was like watching a train wreck.

And we know how Bill and Ford's relationship turns out. Let's talk about the reader and fords around his paranoid era. 

Ford probably thinks that they are with Bill and this whole taking over the world plan. So when the reader comes to check up on him after the whole O'Sadley incident.

The interaction that happened between them was heartbreaking. They got their answers on what happened between him and Bill and felt like it was their fault this even happening. The reader is desperate to try to fix it so they won't lose Ford but it is too late. 

"I-I promise! I didn't mean for this to happen! Ford, please tell me what I need to do to fix this! To Fix us!" It's funny you were holding onto him as much as your little frame could. You gasp and whimper out promises hoping for some forgiveness. Ford can feel himself falter for a moment.  He did miss you.  He misses the moments you two had shared. He misses your laugh.  You were so strange to him before, only to now become someone so comforting to him.  Can he trust you again? No. No. No. No. No. No. No! Ford, are you stupid!? Trust them the same person who is friends with him! They probably plan this together! Get you to trust them again then the next thing you know the end of the world is here! And they made you look like an idiot in the process!  Ford felt his jaw clench. Looking down at you hugging his chest, he thinks you look utterly ridiculous. You two must need him much if you resort to begging.  Pathetic.   "You know what I want you to do?" "Yes, please, anything!" You floated away looking at him with hope in your eye(s). Maybe the world not ending after all! "Get away from me and never come back.." and then, your world shatters.

When Bill found you after, you made hell look like a nice family vacation. You barely acknowledge him floating past him toward your room and gently shutting the door. 

This type of pain was familiar to you. It felt like you lost your home and your family all over again. 

What did you do wrong this time? 

Did you not pay enough attention to him? Maybe you should've brought flowers or maybe you should held his hand more. He did like it when you two did that…

You felt like hours so many ifs, so many mistakes, so many should haves. Maybe it is best if you stay away from him. Maybe it was always the best if you stayed away from him. He can't get hurt if you weren't there to ruin his life anymore. 

Yeah, that's what you did you ruined his life.

Bill tried cheering you up saying, that Fordsy hurt both of you and how you two should show him what is missing out. Like no one understood him as you two did. Then the camera pans over to the side to see the reader glaring at him like, "Are you serious?"

The urge to wrap their hands around Bill's non-existent neck was strong that day but, they surprised themselves by not doing it as soon as he entered the room. 

When Ford fell through the portal and started his journey through the realms the moment the reader found out they were fast to start helping him behind the scenes. From secretly placed supplies to oddly convent weapons or aid whenever they saw he needed it. 

When he found out, they bumped into each other in a random dimension. From their appearance alone he could tell they were going through some things. Bangs under their eye(s) and a hoodie that seems to fit their shapely body. 

The colors on their body were so dim like life was suck of them. They floated close to the ground to appear smaller than they were. No direct eye contact either. 

Ford can feel his finger twitch wanting to reach towards his laser gun. But with that look in their eye(s) he feels like he might not need it. But hey, it isn't bad to be safe right?  "Look, I'm not here to cause any trouble. Just came to drop off this and I'll be on my way…" You snap your fingers and an oddly placed item fell in his hands.  Wait this is.."How did you know I need this? And most importantly, aren't you supposed to be with Bill!?" He snarls.  "One, it may not look like it but I have friends in weird places too you know, and Two no, we're not friends anymore. We never were friends.." He saw how your body color changed to red and your eye(s) seemed to try and imitate a frown. "He lied to me…He lied to me this whole time and I…I just..!"  Breath In and Out Breath In…. And Breath Out… You relax the feeling in your hands and sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you seeing me this way or at all, to be honest.." You made more space between you and Ford seeing him tense at your sudden outburst. By the stars! You already messed this up aren't you reader… "I know you have no reason to trust me and I get that! But we now have the same common enemy and I feel like we should work together.." Ford blink and you then blink again.  Are you joking with him right now? "No." "Come on just listen to me-" "You think I'm going to listen to you after everything that happened? What do you want me to make a deal with you too so you can use my body as a puppet in your stage play?!"  "No! For Fucks sake look at what he did to me!"  With that said the hoodie disappears and reveals cracks. He can see them up and down your 'chest'.  It reminds him of a cracked windshield one small tap and you just shatter right there.  "You think after this and all the other shit he put me through that it was still sunshine and rainbows between us! I'll give you a award for being my wake-up call, Ford. He never cared about me and now I have the proof to show it." Ford saw how you tried to quickly collect yourself again. Hugging your form and rubbing your arms. Another deep breath in…and another one out. "Now how about I say this again? Since I have your attention now. Do you want to work together to kill Bill?" 

[aran-morinorea]

....also Nan Elmoth

Maeglin does not seem concerned in the least. “Then we shall have to be careful, I suppose,” he says, and urges his mount onward. The elk leaps across the narrow river with such grace it looks effortless. Perhaps they don’t build bridges, and just do that when they need to cross it. It isn’t as if a wheeled cart could traverse the paths inside, so he supposes they needn’t bother.

Linquë makes the jump as well, not effortlessly but elegantly. Maeglin isn’t watching.

They ride on, the stars wheeling above them.

[inkieun]

Twisted — Yeon Sieun x F!Reader

Walking home used to be routine. Easy. Safe. Now? Every step feels like a mistake. I clutch my backpack tighter each night, heart pounding faster with every echo of my own footsteps. There's this feeling that's clinging to me like a second skin that I'm not alone. That someone... is always just out of sight. Watching. Waiting.

cw: dark!sieun, noncon, stalking, yandere. (i can't think of anymore)

"I’ll see you guys tomorrow," I called out, my voice half-lost in the echoing corridor as I raised a hand in a lazy wave. My friends were still gathered by the stairwell, their voices fading behind me as I pushed open the door of the school.

The chill of late evening hit me immediately—a soft, biting wind slipping under my jacket like cold fingers. I shoved my hands into my pockets and started down the empty sidewalk, the sky already smeared with hues of deep blue and bruised purple. The streetlights buzzed to life one by one, flickering like old memories.

Instinctively, I glanced at my phone. 7:03 p.m.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. I hadn't realized how late it had gotten. Goddamn Mrs.Song, That woman could talk numbers into the grave. One second she was explaining quadratic equations, and the next she was diving into some off-curriculum tangent about non-Euclidean geometry like we were prepping for a university exam instead of just trying to make it through high school. None of us had the nerve to stop her.

The school's windows behind me still glowed faintly with sterile fluorescent light, but the building itself looked dead, skeletal. Most of the students had left long ago. My footsteps echoed as I passed the bike racks, the usual hum of teenage chaos replaced with unsettling silence. I was alone.

I tightened my grip on my backpack strap, my fingers curling instinctively, my pace picking up.

Lately, walking home alone in the dark had started to mess with me. More than it used to. There was this creeping feeling that hung to my back like a wet shadow. Like I wasn’t walking alone. Like someone was watching me.

I couldn’t explain it. Just this constant, crawling sense that a pair of eyes were fixed on me from somewhere out of sight. Behind a tree. Across the street. Just beyond the edge of a streetlights glow. And every time I turned around there was no one there.

I turned into the narrow alley a shortcut I’d taken a hundred times before, the path between two aging apartment buildings where the streetlights didn’t quite reach. 

Halfway through, I heard it.

Footsteps.

Behind me. Steady.

I froze mid-step, my breath catching in my throat. The sound stopped too.

I didn’t turn around.

Didn’t dare.

Swallowing hard, I forced myself to keep walking, each step heavier than the last. But the footsteps returned, matching mine perfectly like an echo with intent.

I quickened my pace.

So did they.

Panic clawed its way up my spine, my fingers tightening around my backpack straps as I moved faster, nearly breaking into a jog. The air felt colder now, thicker as if something unseen had crept into the alley with me, pacing just behind.

Then a hand yanked at my backpack.

I stumbled backward with a gasp, heart leaping into my throat, and spun around as a scream ripped from me—

“God! It’s me! Yeji!”

The familiar voice hit me like a slap of light in the dark.

My breath caught as my eyes adjusted.

There she was, wide-eyed and breathless, hands raised, startled by my reaction.

I didn’t know whether to scream again or punch her.

“You bitch, I nearly peed myself! What the hell are you doing?” I yelled, still trying to catch my breath.

Yeji just laughed. “You should’ve seen your face!”

She held something out. “You forgot this.”

It was my math textbook.

“You’ll need it to finish the crazy bitch homework—sorry, I mean Mrs. Song’s homework,” she added with a dramatic yawn.

I rolled my eyes, but took the book. “Thanks… I guess.”

“All right, I’m off. See you tomorrow!” she said, already turning away and heading in the opposite direction.

And just like that, she disappeared around the corner, leaving me alone again.

“I’ve really got to stop freaking myself out,” I muttered with a shaky laugh, trying to brush off the nerves as I started walking again.

I was nearly at the end of the alley when I suddenly heard someone yell—sharp, distant, and completely unintelligible.

I stopped and turned around.

No one was there.

Thinking it was just Yeji messing with me again, I shouted, “Yeji, get your ass home already!”

No response.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to keep walking and walked straight into something.

Or rather… someone.

A solid chest.

I stumbled back, heart lurching up into my throat as I looked up.

“Sieun…?” I said, startled.

He didn’t respond—just stood there, silent, his eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t know you lived around here,” I added, my voice a little too casual, trying to ease the sudden weight in the air.

It was the first time I’d ever spoken to him.

I’d seen him before—always alone, quiet, keeping his head down. The kind of guy who disappeared into the background. There were rumors, of course. About his old school. About someone who’d died. Some said he killed a student. No one ever proved it.

And now he was just… standing here. Close. Still silent.

I realized I was still staring at him and quickly looked away, checking my phone.

7:25 p.m.

“Shit,” I muttered. “I really have to go.”

I stepped to the side, intending to walk around him but before I could, his hand shot out and grabbed my upper arm, stopping me.

“Huh?” I said, startled, looking up at him.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked, confused.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Sieun gently took your hand, his touch soft but firm—too firm. His thumb began to slowly caress your knuckles in a way that might’ve been tender in another context, but here, in the dim, narrow alley with no one else around, it felt wrong. Too intimate.

I tried to pull my hand back. He didn’t let go.

His brown eyes locked onto yours, glassy and intense, shimmering with something deep—and off. It wasn’t just affection. It was…I couldn’t even describe what it was it just made my skin crawl.

“I…” he murmured, his voice low and breathy, his voice curling through the silence like smoke. “From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were someone special.”

I tugged on my arm again, harder this time. His grip only tightened.

“Your beauty,” he whispered, leaning closer, “your spirit, your essence... it calls to me in a way I can’t even describe.”

I tried to speak—tried to tell him to stop, to let go—but he lifted my hand to his lips before I could, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to my fingertips. His breath was warm against my skin, but it chilled me to the core.

“I want to love you,” he continued, voice trembling slightly now, but not with fear—with hunger. “Cherish you. Keep you safe from all the darkness in this world.”

I shook my head, stepping back, but he followed, holding your hand like a lifeline. His other hand hovered as if ready to grab my shoulder next.

“You are my everything, my love,” he said, his voice almost breaking with the weight of emotion. “I would do anything—absolutely anything—to make you happy. To keep you by my side.”

A pause.

“Forever.”

His eyes bored into mine—full of longing, desperation, and something darker. Possessiveness. Obsession. There was no softness in it anymore. Only need.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not alone in this. This… desire. To have you and to never let you go.”

I yanked my arm again. His grip didn’t loosen.

“Tell me,” he said voice lower now, more of a demand than a plea “or I’ll show you how far I’m willing to go to prove it.”

“Sieun…” I said quietly, gently pulling my hand from his. The way his brow furrowed made my chest tighten, but I had to say it. “I’m sorry but I don’t feel the same way.” I hesitated, then added softly, “I need to go.” ” 

Sieun's expression darkened, his grip on my hand tightening to the point of pain as a flicker of anger sparked in his brown eyes. "What do you mean, you don't feel the same way?" he demanded, his voice rising in volume and intensity. 

He slammed his free hand against the wall beside my head, the force of it making me jump. "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice. Don't try to deny it, You want me just as much as I want you."

Sieun leaned in closer, his face mere inches from mine. His eyes were wild, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You can't reject me. You can't walk away from this, from me. I won't let you." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, "I'll do whatever it takes to make you understand. Whatever it takes to keep you with me, where you belong."

“Sieun!” I shouted, panic spiking as I twisted in his grip. “Let me go!”

He didn’t. His fingers dug into my arm, holding me tight no matter how hard I fought. I kicked, shoved, clawed at his chest, but it only made him grip harder.

Then his hand snapped up, grabbing my jaw.

“No—” I tried to turn away, but it was too late.

His mouth crashed onto mine—forceful, uninvited, wrong. I froze, my heart slamming in my chest as his lips moved against mine, stealing my first kiss.

His other hand clawed at my waist, then my hair, dragging me closer, trapping me in a moment I never asked for.

“Please,” I gasped, tears burning in my throat. “Please stop…”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I have to show you how much I love you…”

But the way he said it—it wasn’t to me. It was like he was trying to convince himself.

My body went still as I felt his hand at the hem of my skirt. “Sieun—” My voice broke as panic surged up my spine.

He didn’t stop.

I gripped his wrist, eyes wide, silently begging him. Please. Don’t.

But he didn’t look at me. Didn’t hear me.

Tears blurred my vision as I felt his fingers brush over my underwear, dragging slowly across the thin fabric, pressing where he had no right to be.

“No—please—” I choked, but the words came out soft, drowned beneath his breath and the sound of my own fear.

His mouth was still chasing mine, desperate, sloppy, ignoring the way I kept turning my face away.

And all I could do was try to leave my body behind.

Think of anything else. Somewhere else.

Anywhere that wasn’t here.

I snapped back to reality when something felt… off. A strange feeling crawled through me.

“Please…” I whispered, breathless. “Don’t…”

His lips ghosted over my jaw. “Don’t what?” he asked. “Don’t stop?”

And when his fingers slipped beneath the fabric and pressed harder—rougher—I shattered.

My body trembled as the climax hit, sharp and unexpected, pleasure crashing through me like betrayal. He felt it. Knew it. And still didn’t stop.

“Oh god…” I whimpered, dazed, body slick with heat and shame.

Sieun only smiled against my neck. “Now,” he said, voice low and reverent, “I’m going to show you how much I love you.”

He didn’t wait.

He spun me around and pressed me against the wall, the cold surface biting at my flushed skin. My palms slapped against it, trying to steady myself as his hands were already dragging my skirt up over my hips rough.

“Stay there,” he ordered, voice darker now. “Keep those legs open.”

Then he grabbed my soaked panties and yanked them down, letting them fall around my thighs. The air hit me, hot and cool all at once.

“Please stop,” I whispered, voice trembling. “What if someone sees us?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sieun murmured, his breath hot against my skin. “Just focus on me.”

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t focus on him.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t pretend this felt right.

All I wanted was to be anywhere else—anywhere but here. 

I felt him behind me, his cock hard, hot, rubbing between my folds without mercy.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he growled. “You act like you don’t want this—then your pussy tells me everything I need to know.”

“Shut up,” I breathed, face pressed to the wall—but my body rolled back against him anyway, needy and desperate.

He grunted, gripping my hips hard, fingers digging into the soft curve. “You want to be used, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

He drove into me with one brutal thrust.

I cried out, my body jolting as he filled me—thick, deep, relentless.

“Fucking tight,” he growled through gritted teeth. “This is mine now.”

His hips snapped forward again, and again, slamming into me with no rhythm—just need. I gasped, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room, my legs already shaking, fingers clawing at the wall for something to hold onto.

Every thrust forced a moan from my mouth, ragged and helpless.

“Say it,” he growled, one hand sliding around to grab my throat, pulling me back against him. “Say you love being fucked like this.”

I whimpered, his cock slamming into me again. My body clenched around him, wet and pulsing.

“Say it.”

“I—I love it,” I gasped, my voice cracking. “Sieun….please…”

He slammed into me harder, punishing now. “You take me so well,” he murmured into my ear, hips snapping forward again. “Like you were made for this.” 

His fingers found my clit again, rubbing fast and tight. I sobbed, hips jerking back into him as my body shattered.

My climax tore through me—raw and intense—my walls gripping him hard, my legs shaking, my cries muffled by the wall.

“Cum all over my cock,” he hissed, “God, that’s it… fuck—”

With a low, guttural moan, he slammed into me one last time, hips grinding deep as he spilled inside me, heat flooding me in thick pulses.

My body wrecked, his chest pressed to my back, breath hot against my shoulder.

Then slowly—his hand slid around my waist, pulling me gently into him.

“See?” he whispered, voice suddenly soft, almost tender. “I love you so much… You did so fucking good.”

But I didn’t feel good.

I felt hollow.

Tears slipped down my cheeks, silent and hot, even as he pulled out gently. He adjusted my underwear with care that felt too late, then turned me to face him.

His eyes searched mine for something I couldn’t give.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to my lips—gentle, like that would erase everything.

Then he smiled faintly and said, “Okay. Let’s take you home.”

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[ozzgin]

gender neutral reader, NSFW, parody

Monster gangbang, but it’s just one four-dimensional being traveling back and forth in time, so you get dicked multiple times at once, from multiple angles, depending on its dimensional rotation.

You never know where it’s going to hit next. Sometimes the appendage just materializes itself from within you.

Non-Euclidean monster dick that doesn’t thrust itself into you; instead it represents a continuous, infinite shape, resulting in a constant feeling of being stuffed.

Mathematical intercourse 😎

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

lovers of hardbacks, unite (or, more likely, divide)!

dear reader! hello! do you enjoy hardback books? do you love having opinions and pressing buttons on tumblr dot com?? then oh, boy, do i have just the poll for you!!

say you're reading a hardback book that comes with a dust jacket--a book you own, perhaps, or have borrowed from a loved one or lifelong rival or sworn enemy, or anywhere else besides the library (for the purposes of this poll, we must both Have and Be Able To Remove The Dust Jacket, i'm sorry, it's very important for Science™).

please answer for your IDEAL/MOST COMMON COURSE OF ACTION--weird exceptions need not apply (unless you want them to, or you want to holler about said exceptions in the tags/replies/reblogs. i don't know your lifestyle, but i DO want to know your polarizing opinions on the care and keeping of dust jackets) (you can also holler about why you chose what you did in general, even without weird exceptions. in fact, i look forward to reading this Discourse).

***this is SPECIFICALLY ABOUT HARDBACKS, please don't skew my science with paperback propaganda :( i myself tend toward a paperback way of being, but right now Inquiring Minds Need To Know About Dust Jackets and Dust Jackets Alone***

[smuttysabina]

A Month With Aespa (Ch 4): What Goes Ning In the Night

(Ningning x Male Reader, 3.7k Words) Tags: Diva sex, Spectacular sex, Surprise Sex, Anal Sex, Squirting, Like a lot of squirting, This one sure took a while to come out didn't it, More Aespa sex, Drama-ma-ma-ma-ma, The girls may not be in the back, but they are taking it in the rear, creampies.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Nothing can quite equal the sublime joys of waking up on a cold morning. The stuffy heat of your blankets, the faint glow radiating down from the skylight, the cool air against your face, the stiffness of your manhood, and perhaps most of all, the transcendent joy of someone's warm lips wrapped around it. You sigh, relishing in the sensation of your maid's mouth sloppily bobbing up and down your length, her body nestled between your legs. You feel another pocket of heat brushing up against your left leg, no doubt another one of your servants had wriggled her way under the covers to join the fun; and a passionate ménage-a-trois beneath the sheets was hardly a poor start to one's morning. You must admit though, that the lady hard at work between your thighs was unusually enthusiastic; gasping and slobbering noisily as she sucks you off. Somewhat bemused by her ardor, you pull up the duvet, cracking open an eye and glance down to see what all the fuss was about (not that you would complain of course, but matters were usually much more relaxed at the start of the day). You blink at the sight, and blandly open the other eye to provide reinforcements to your beleaguered first, hoping that would clarify the situation. Giselle beams innocently up at you, her hand pistoning the head of one of your maids against your crotch; who gags and squirms as she struggles to breath. You stifle a groan as pleasure shoots along your length, causing the idol's smile to turn predatory,

"Good morning, I thought I might help out a little, to make up for yesterday..."

Giselle smirks with serene indifference as she presses the maid's head down further onto your manhood, holding her down so that her nose is buried in your (nicely trimmed, thank you!) bush, "After all, dear Karina seemed ever so upset after dinner, and why, Ningning looked as if she were about to murder you!" The idol giggles demurely, "Not that Winter minded though, I'm sure she was feeling quite smug that she avoided getting her asshole despoiled- Oh, oopsie, I forgot about you." Giselle finally deigns to notice the maid who was now clawing at the sheets as she tried to pull up, her eyes rolling back as she labors to breath around your meat in her throat. Giselle blandly hauls the poor asphyxiating girl off of you, tossing her aside like so much trash as she gracefully slides herself atop of you. You groan as she smoothly mounts you, her sex devouring every inch of you until she has sheathed fully inside of her. You manage a pithy remark as your mind whirls, commenting on her unusual enthusiasm considering her conduct the day before. Giselle bashfully covers herself as well as a smile, her bared breasts squishing together most pleasantly, before answering your question by starting to ride you. Further interrogation is put on hold however, as she expertly maneuvers her way up and down your shaft, banishing any notions of matter more complex than the act of breeding.

The sex was quite different compared to your earlier dalliance with Giselle, instead of the sordid passion that had accompanied your forced anal coupling, she was now entirely professional and composed. If anything she seemed bored as her hips described non-Euclidean paths through the air that would have had your old physics professors frothing at the mouth (and no doubt masturbating furiously), her body performing gravity defying feats as she skillfully rode you. You reach up to grope her swaying breasts as they wobble enticingly around her chest, an act which seems to add a hint of enjoyment to her coolly mocking demeanor; not that it changed the inevitable outcome one iota. Unlike your meeting with Karina, which had transformed from a clinical milking into something more enjoyable, Giselle was this time utterly merciless in her technique to drain you. She completely disregarded her own pleasure, as she steadily dragged your unwilling balls upwards, fucking you as if you were nothing more than a practice dildo. But as you enter into the final stretch, she slows enough to plateau your building climax, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially, "So you are going after Winter next, hmm..." This non sequitur was sudden enough to cause your brain to click back into its usual habits, and you breathlessly request some advice on the matter then. Giselle stops cold, her waist bent at what must be a painfully angle as she stares at your incredulously, "Advice? I simply want to watch you fuck that cold bitch until she squeals," She resumes as suddenly as she halted, now with a bit more vigor than before, "I don't particularly care really, so long as you keep busy rutting with the others, which allows me to keep to myself." Giselle pats your chest without much affection, cocking her head as she feels your manhood begin to pulse rhythmically. At that she abruptly unmounts you, leaving your cock twitch against your chest in the cold morning air; her body twirling as she swiftly hops off the bed, striding gracefully towards the door. Giselle pauses at the doorway, glancing back at you with a mischievous smirk on lips, "What? I helped, a little," She leaves you with her delighted laughter ringing in your ears, as your member mournfully starts to shrink back on itself. It seems of late that your mornings have been quite unsatisfactory.

You leave your room with a mind heavy with thought, though not before tending to the poor dear who still lay gasping upon the sheets. It would have been ungentlemanly to take advantage of her after she had so valiantly braved asphyxiation; and more notably refrained from gnawing upon the delicate flesh filling her mouth. You ponder upon what Giselle had told you, and trusted her "suggestion" not in the slightest; no doubt she hoped to stir up more trouble as seemed to be her wont. You muse upon the issue as you take your breakfast in the library, peering out of the frosted windows as sunlight fills the sprawling gardens behind your residence. No doubt pursuing Winter would only needle both Karina and Ningning more than you already had; and while revisiting Giselle held a certain appeal, it would not mend your relationship with the other pair. Speaking of which... Karina had seemed oddly affected by the revelation that you had been with GIselle, and if anything Ningning appeared as outraged. She had been quite receptive that morning though, at least until you had started questioning her about the maid Giselle had ravished. Perhaps you should pay Ningning a more, attentive, visit then...

Though the sun had been shining for several hours now, the idol who cracked open her door bore little evidence that she had even bothered to leave her bed. The stale reek of alcohol invades your nostrils as Ningning squints unhappily up at you, peering suspiciously around her door. Her response to your cautious advances is nearly as crass as her appearances, "Shouldn't you be fucking that whore's asshole right now, or was even that hole too loose for you?", with that she once again slams the door in your face, leaving you somewhat piqued. Evidently there is little love lost between the two, or perhaps something else is at work here... So you return to the library, slowly wandering the bookshelves as you plan your next move, taking inspiration from the romantic titles gracing the novels there. You nod to yourself, before motioning a waiting maid over, and after jotting down a quick note, you direct her to take it to the recalcitrant idol. The maid scurries off, and you return to your perusing, running your finger along the spines of the books as you chuckle nostalgically upon remembering their sordid contents. You raise an eyebrow when the maid returns, the poor dear drenched with whiskey but most importantly, returned without your note. You thank the darling girl as best you can, hoisting up her skirt and plying her cunt until she gushes all over the floor; delicious. To tip the scales, you send another maid (the slut no doubt giddy at the thought of being rewarded for her troubles), under strict instructions to visit Ningning. With the trap baited, you merely need to wait.

An hour later Ningning swept into the library, her earlier slovenliness banished as the dawn dispels the darkness, now as radiant as the day she had stepped into your abode. Her sapphire outfit clings to her curves, its cascade of beads shining brightly in the noon sun, her makeup had been applied to perfection, her hair pulled back to roil down her shapely back. Ningning glares at you as you genuflect towards her as if she were of the divine, her foul mode seemingly undiminished as she demands your reasoning for requesting she join you. You attempt to sooth the furious idol, protesting grandly that it should be obvious, why should you not wish to be graced by such a beautiful lady's presence? Her eye twitches slightly, as rank jealousy passes over her face, "Have you not enough sluts to vent your lusts upon? Or have you tired of their slack holes already?" You murmur some soft platitudes on behalf of the other members of Aespa, and are rewarded with a look of smug superiority; it truly was that simple then... So with a submissive smile you beg of her to let you accompany her for the day, to allow you to bask in her radiance and wait upon her every need. Ningning preens at your grandiose declaration, no doubt unduly pleased that she has your full attention, and acquiesces to your request with ill-concealed delight. She puts her leg up on a chair, tastelessly dirtying its fabric with her footwear (though to be frank, that old thing was bleached white for a reason), inadvertently showing you a flash of skin, and grandly orders you to give her a tour of the gardens. However could you refuse?

With the haughty idol on one arm, you graciously escort Ningning through your expansive greenery, showing her all of the little nooks and hidden glades she missed when she rampaged through with her fellows days ago. There were dozens of intimate areas scattered throughout the gardens, where lovers could slip away into so as to enjoy one another in relative privacy; relative being the operative word here. Before grassy hollows, marble benches, and outdoor mattresses, you would pause and subtly inquire if the lady required your services, which Ningning haughtily refused of course, though your fervent attentions visibly pleased her greatly. Eventually she grew tired of erotic statuary and gently burbling fountains (which helped immensely in disguising the sound of vigorous lovemaking), and demanded a repast to sate her hunger. It was little trouble to organize a luncheon for her, the pair of you comfortable resting under an awning as your maids fill the small table between you with a bountiful spread, the harlots bustling to and from the kitchens to accomplish this feat. Meanwhile you and Ningning chatter amiably about a variety of topics, until she eventually begins to gossip incessantly about the girls of Aespa, which you listen to with rapt attention. Which invariably led to prying into your own encounters with the other idols, while the one in front of you leans back with interest, revealing a surprising amount of bare skin leading up around her crotch...

Ningning unerringly interrogates you about the other girls' performances, nodding amiably as you slowly tell her of your sex with Karina in the showers, and your much more brutal session with Giselle in the theatre, and then the unexpected pleasure you had with her this morning... The idol unconsciously strokes her thigh as she listens to how you had made love to her dear friends, smirking as you describe in detail how roughly you had take Giselle; evidently there was little love lost between the two. She smiles dreamily as she imagines how it played out, "You know, that whore gets turned on by shit like that, no matter how much she wails about it, if you just force yourself on her she fucking gushes," Ningning nods as she notes the realization in your eyes, "Oh yes, if you had just held her down and fucked her this morning, she would have loved it, you should try it more often," then she frowns, jealousy flashing behind her eyes, "I have no idea what Karina's problem is though, you should just avoid her if she's being difficult. After all," her expression growing smug once more, "why bother with her, when you could have me." At which Ningning leans back fully in her chair, opening her legs for you and revealing the glisteningly wet flesh between her lithe legs. She glances down before giggling seductively, "I knew I forgot something."

Your eyebrows are practically at your hairline, and you must admit that your pants are currently enduring a rather great amount of strain as you struggle to contain your growing arousal. You had thought that Ningning would require far more wooing before she would acquiesce to your intentions, that it would take a herculean effort to sooth her ruffled ego into submission. Instead she was practically gleeful as she flashed you, as if the thought of showing her fellow idols up aroused her to an unbearable degree. So you are more than pleased to simply watch with rapt attention as Ningning seductively slides her hand down her supple thighs, and you idly wave to dismiss the crowd of maids fluttering about. But the idol opposes their departure vehemently, as she arrogantly proclaims, "I require an audience," before starting to touch herself more sensually. And my, what a show she was putting on. Ningning's sex was as showy as her personality, with a prominent mons supporting a magnificently puffy pair of lips, squished together like a clam, opening eagerly to reveal the pearl within its gooey depths. She licks her lips as drinks in the sensation of being watched by a dozen people, reveling in being the center of attention as she seductively begins to pleasure herself. You are enraptured as the idol shamelessly masturbates in front of you, her performance as eye-catching as it would be on a stage in front of thousands, staring directly at you as her breath quickens and the sloshing noise coming from between her nubile thighs grows ever louder. With a pleasant moan Ningning climaxes, squirting spectacularly all over your brunch as her shuddering legs make the table tremble unsteadily.

A younger you would have filled your pants at such an arousing scene, embarrassingly wasting your precious semen into the fabric as you joined Ningning in orgasm. Luckily for you both however, your mast stood unbowed and undiminished (admittedly, you had leaked a fair amount, but that is not important), and as you wrenched off your pants to reveal it the idol looked entirely too pleased with herself. Of course, the dear maids around you both had fared less well than you, with several of them having produced their own messes on the stone tiles; four of them were still energetically going at it! No matter, as you rise to join Ningning though, the lady in question stops you, and instead saunters over and straddles you, the dark lips of her slit softly kissing your tip. Shaking slightly, you feel your hips treacherously thrust upwards, your member boorishly eager to feel the warmth of this diva wrapped around it. Smirking smugly, Ningning gently rocks her hips, smearing the head of your penis with her fluids, laying her own claim to your manhood; until with an indulgent sigh, she slowly sits on it. You groan as her fleshy folds swallow every inch of your cock, slathering it with her divine nectar and leaking more out onto your crotch. Your balls twitch faithlessly, only too eager to empty themselves into such a fertile woman, uncaring of the gentlemanly need to pleasure your partner. You needn't have worried much however, as Ningning starts to ride you it soon becomes evident that she is relishing this as much as you are. Moaning lewdly, she bounces vigorously atop you, her showy pussy slobbering fluids all over your stomach as she drowns your dick in her cum; her cunt was astoundingly wet. Soon her dress was soaked where it had pooled around the site of your joining, but neither of you were interested in removing it; the both of you aroused by dirtying such an expensive garment. Groaning, you grasp her waist to guide her movements, and to guarantee that this idol would not be jumping ship before you finished properly. But Ningning was as intent on receiving your seed as you were to giving it, and she keeps up her pace even as the first ropes of semen erupt inside of her. Both of your eyes roll back as your load paints her insides, even as she squirts so much it drips down out of the pool forming in your chair, her pussy spasming pleasurably around your cock.

Breathing heavily, Ningning wears a triumphant grin as she looks down at you, "I told you I was better than Karina, now let me put that whore Giselle in the shade as well..." Shivering slightly, the idol promptly unmounts you, staggering a little as a gush of your conjoined fluids comes out of her hole, before turning about and clambering back into your lap. Grasping your still-sensitive manhood firmly, Ningning promptly inserts the quivering length into her anus, letting out a modest yelp as it slides inside of her. With the slop of your previous joining still coating your cock, there was little need to worry about lubrication, which she swiftly assures you, "Fuck me harder than that bitch, I can take it better than she can!" You are hardly one to disappoint, so you comply with her wishes. Ningning's squeals of pleasure echo through the gardens as you relentlessly pound away at her guts, her cries loud enough to be heard over the burble of fountains; and much like a fountain, the idol was producing an impressive quantity of liquid. Stirring her clit constantly, she hoses down the pavement continuously, her fluids spraying wildly over the stones until a vast area in front of her was damp. The thicker juices coursed down her asshole and onto your balls, further lubricating your already messy sex. Grunting, you tirelessly plow Ningning's ass, working out any lingering frustrations you had with Giselle's teasing on her groupmate's rear; who to her credit, had only continued to urge you on. The stimulation of railing her tight coils was fast growing unbearable though, and the excitement from using the prima donna of Aespa's anus like you would a cheap whore's was too delicious to resist. But you knew that more than anything, she would want to put on a show, so you make sure to loudly announce your intention to orgasm some time before you reached that point. Upon hearing this, Ningning cranks things up to eleven, no longer content to simply take your plowing with idle passivity, now she through herself back against your thrusts as if she was attempting to impale herself. Her sweet moans grow ever louder, supported by a choir of wailing coming from your maids, and her urgings to creampie her grow increasingly salacious as the supreme moment approaches. Ningning screams in exultation as your semen spews into her guts, squirting far enough to splatter over the maids as they watched in awe, her body writhing atop yours as your second load fills her stomach with sticky warmth. Purring in the afterglow of her orgasm, the idol is content to lay back against your chest as your balls slowly empty themselves inside of her.

Once she was satisfied that you were finished, Ningning gingerly unmounts you once more, your cock exiting her with a sordid pop that presages a somewhat fouler slick of fluids than last time. Her posture betrays her immense satisfaction with her performance, as she glances around as if expecting rapturous applause from the maids. The perverse ladies had shown their appreciation in a far more honest manner than banal clapping though, as the resultant messes coating themselves as well as the floor gave evidence to their passionate enjoyment. Ningning gives you a look of utmost cockiness as she vainly attempt to smooth down her now ruinously stained dress, grossly confident that she had superseded her compatriots in raw sexual ability. Perhaps she had, you muse, as she languidly makes her way through the gardens back to the mansion, no doubt intent on washing the mingled sweat of your coupling off of herself. Your train of thought is interrupted as one of your maids begins to dutifully clean you off with her mouth, and you recline with a sigh on the soggy seat of your chair as her head bobs energetically upon your cock. You relax as the other maids gradually finish masturbating and start to clear the table, until with a grunt you fill the one kneeling between your legs' mouth with your now thin seed. What a pleasant morning it had been...

Back inside of the mansion, you make your stately way towards the public showers, you yourself were as messy as Ningning had been, and were eager to clean yourself off (not that you minded being coated in sexual fluids of course, it was the height of fashion in some circles). Dumping your soiled outfit into the laundry bin, you enter the main chamber and to your surprise find yourself confronted by the idol in question once more. Nor was she alone, as she had someone's head pinned against the wall, and seemed to be forcing them to clean out her used anus. Ningning glances over at you when you enter, biting her lip and groping her modest breasts as her perhaps unwilling partner gorges upon your leavings. You greet her with a polite nod, before heading to a shower on the opposite side of the room, content to allow the idol to enjoy herself. As you wash yourself off, and your mind wanders, you realize that the body of Ningning's lover had looked somewhat familiar, but when you glance over to confirm your idle thoughts, they had already vanished. How odd.

You could but hope that tonight's dinner table would be somewhat more subdued than the last, but from what you knew about Ningning, you had little confidence that it would be so...

A/N: Haha well this one took a little longer than expected... it took a while for me to figure out how exactly I wanted to write dear Ning2, and even longer to find the time for it, I have been a touch busy writing other girls cough cough. But hopefully the next chapter will cum sooner rather than later, heh

[yan-randomfandom]

hi!!! omg i just discovered your blog and i’m in LOVE! could i request yandere stanford pines (platonic or romantic or some other type is up to you) with a reader who is a reincarnated euclidean/flatworlder/dream demon? (i don’t know if you’re familiar with same coin theory, but that’s my inspiration!) preferably with no/limited memories of their past life? i imagine ford would be pretty suspicious at first because of his experiences with bill, maybe even try to kill them… but who knows if those feelings will change… that, or maybe he would get obsessed with them as a replacement muse… lots of possibilities! feel free to change/add anything to the concept, or if it doesn’t interest you, i’d appreciate any yandere ford in general! thank you!!!

Yandere!Stanford Pines x Godling!Reader

this took me a while, but i finally got around to writing it! thank you for your kind words, anon! this one contains continuous stories— because this is so long, feel free to point out any mistakes

🌑

You have been summoned.

Even from your deep slumber, the presence of other ghastly beings roaming around the dimension was painfully obvious to you. How curious; they don't seem to belong here.

"You. You grant wishes right? No deals?"

The one who summoned you flinched when you made eye contact. With their chin lifted, they tried to seem intimidating, yet the tremble of their lips and the quaking of their legs gave them away.

"Indeed, but," you replied, smiling to the best of your ability. You hovered around them, critically observing their physical body, and, by extension, their soul.

They are nothing short of terrified. But intriguingly, their fear does not mainly stem from your presence.

"Pray tell," you mused, twirling their hair with your fingers, "what happened here, dear human? I've been asleep for some time, so I request a small favor: answer my question."

Because if you had to be honest, you have no fucking idea what's happening right now. The longer you stay awake, the more you realize that you have no memory of your past.

"Bill Cipher happened. This is the Weirdmaggedon," they answered, their body shaking more intensely. You paused. "I don't know what he wants. Please, all I ask is for you to transfer me and my family somewhere safe. The ones I care about have turned to stone. We just want to be happy. Please."

A giggle escaped you. "A noble wish. Very well, I shall send you and your family to the nearest safe place."

You placed your hand on the top of their head, and they vanished out of thin air.

Humming a tune, you made your way out of the cave where you had been trapped and finally saw the world outside.

...

Swirling colors and chaotic phenomena surrounded you. What a monstrosity. Someone else has taken over this area—Bill Cipher, was it?

Turning your head, you saw an enormous bubble wrapped in chains. A grin-like expression stretched across your face.

So that’s where you sent your summoner.

🌒

Weirdmaggedon is officially over.

Stanford knew that. Bill is gone. His brother is slowly but surely regaining his memories back. Everything is going to be... normal again.

As normal as it can be anyway. A sigh left Ford when he rolled over to his side, staring at practically nothing. The room is pitch black.

He closed his eyes.

...

It's bright. With a gasp, his eyes snapped open.

A familiar field. The gentle breeze doesn't calm him down in the slightest. He's back here. Again. Why? Did Bill somehow escape? Is he out for revenge? That stupid dream demon—!!

"Gree—"

Ford shouted, immediately swinging his fist at you. You dodged swiftly in time.

"—tings! Woah!" you huffed, taking extra care to ensure he didn’t land a finger on you. "Is this how you usually greet a higher being, Stanford Pines?"

The human’s heart raced uncontrollably. This can’t be happening. "Bill, what twisted form have you taken now? Didn’t we destroy you already?!"

You blinked, then laughed. "I'm not Bill, silly! He's long gone, I'm pretty sure. How should I know?"

Not Bill? What kind of nonsense are you spewing out? Stanford's expression darkened. This might be a dream, but he really didn’t want to deal with you—especially not after everything that had just happened.

His demeanor didn't go unnoticed.

"...Oh. I'm sorry," you muttered, getting close enough to meet his eyes. They widened at your words. "I didn't mean to laugh at your misery. I've just been so confused lately."

"What?" was all Ford could manage to say.

"I heard all about you," you said carefully, making gestures with your hands. "Human with six fingers. The man who freed Bill Cipher. Who has traveled across dimensions."

"Who told you...?"

You smiled. "I asked many—don't worry about that part. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about myself. You seem to know a lot, Pines."

Ford woke up.

...

Was that just a dream? Were you even real?

Bill is long gone, dead. Isn't he? He won't find the answers to his questions until he falls asleep again.

🌓

Ford doesn't do anything about you until he's sure of himself. You were definitely just a figment of his imagination, right? A dream.

That’s exactly why he couldn’t believe it when you showed up again. A stupid, curious expression on your face.

And this time, Ford took it upon himself to try and kill you.

"Urk! Don’t do this! I understand you're traumatized, but I really am just trying to find my home!" you stammered, flying and dodging every attack he threw your way.

This is weird. You’re saying things Bill would never say. Is he really trying the opposite approach just to manipulate Ford again?

A massive blast from a cannon struck you.

To both of your surprise, the attack did absolutely nothing to damage you.

"I'm alive!" you exclaimed with glee, up in the air, comically rotating from the impact. "Done yet, Pines? I simply want to talk, you know!"

... Of course. Both of you are untouchable in the dreamscape. While you can imagine anything within both the mind and the dream, a being like Bill isn't stupid enough to enter with his actual body. Guess it worked the same way for you, too. It was still worth a shot.

Ford woke up.

🌔

"Finally ready?"

You tittered at him up from above. Ford narrowed his eyes at you.

"What do you want?" he deadpanned. "You're not here to make a deal, are you?"

"Deals are not my forte," you said, showing him a negative gesture. "I do wishes. But if I have to admit, I wouldn't wish something from me either."

"So you trick people," he replied, gritting his teeth. "Why do you feel the need to do that? What benefits do you gain?"

You glanced at the side before looking back at him, shrugging. "I don't remember."

"Is that so? How many wishes?"

"One."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Bill—"

"I am not Bill," for the first time since you've met him, your voice finally sounded firm. "As far as we both know, he is gone."

"... What is your name, then?"

"... I don't remember."

🌕

A frustrated huff left Ford as he rubbed between his eyebrows. You giggled, pushing your hand through his hair. It's soft.

"You're not being helpful at all," he said.

"Apologies," you replied, looking sheepish. "It's hard to answer your questions if I know nothing."

"There must be something you know," the man insisted, stepping away from your touch. He doesn't like how gentle it was.

You hummed, crossing your arms as you floated away. "Do you know how Bill looks like? Am I of similar physique, perhaps?"

Ford paused as his eyes glanced up and down at your form. You can't help but feel uneasy under his tenseful gaze.

"You don't know what Bill looks like?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

This man sure is suspicious of you. Not that you blame him. "No. I believe I never met him."

"You believe?" he scoffed. "I hope you know it's hard to trust you."

"Well," you drawled, "would it convince you if I said you can wish for my memory to come back?"

His eyes widened.

You chuckled. Maybe this was too shocking for him. Take it slow, you thought.

"Before anything else, though, how about we enjoy a nice cup of dream tea?"

🌔

You stared at the chess board in between you and Ford, confusion filling your face. "Wait, how does the knight move again?"

"Think of this shape," Ford explained, forming a black marker with his thoughts and drawing the letter 'L' in mid-air. "The knight moves to the end of this point. Just try to visualize it on the board."

"Oh, I think I understand," you muttered, choosing to move your knight in the corner of the board.

Ford grinned. He placed his queen right next to your king. "Checkmate."

"What?!" you gasped, your eyes rambling around the whole chest board. "I mistook my king for the queen! I say rematch!"

A hearty laugh escaped Ford's lips. If this was in the physical world, he's sure that his cheeks would start hurting from smiling so much.

He still wasn’t sure if you were dangerous or not. Really, of all people, Ford should know better than to mess with otherworldly beings.

But maybe this time, you're different. Because, as far as he knows, you're powerless.

🌓

"Pines," you said as Ford roamed his hands across your body. He said this was his way of observing how different you were from Bill. "Aren’t you going to use your wish to help me regain my memory? Or do you want to use it for something else?"

He rubbed his thumb over the side of your body shape. Interesting. You're just as two-dimensional as Bill is. "I only have one chance of using my wish, don't I?"

"Indeed," you murmured, shifting slightly under his touch. "I won't stop you if you use it for yourself, but I'll have to find someone else who might use the wish for me."

Ford halted all his movements.

"What?"

You drifted away from his fingers. He stared at you, wide-eyed.

"I said I'll find another to grant my wish for me," you explained. "Anyway, how was your assessment? Am I anything like Bill?"

Ford continued to stare at you, looking as if he were lost in thought.

...

"Pines?"

"Sorry," he coughed, "but, yes, you're quite similar to Bill."

You beamed, floating over to him and ruffling his hair. "Another step closer to figuring out who I am! Thank you, Pines!"

Ford woke up.

He stared at the dark ceiling. The sun has barely risen.

You had no memories. If he helped you get them back, would you be indebted to him? Or would you turn out like Bill, who wanted to rule the world?

Ford can't let you meet up with another human.

There's only one way out of this.

🌒

"You're ready to use your wish?" you gasped, placing your hands on his shoulders. "That's excellent news—!"

"Question. Do you have limits in your wishes?" Ford asked deliberately, careful with his every word.

You hesitated before replying. "I suppose not."

His large hands held yours over his shoulders. You glanced at his six fingers before meeting his gaze again.

"Then I wish to be your master."

You felt your soul fall to the deepest depths of the dreamscape.

"You'll do anything I ask for. Be under my will. There is no turning back, dream demon."

🌑

[ckret2]

@space-bowl Hi you didn't ask for an essay on this! But I happen to have a detailed headcanon, canon citations, and a piece of art I'm currently eager to procrastinate on so I wrote one anyway!

I base the headcanon that Bill isn't a very good artist on the canonical self-portraits he makes in Journal 3 while possessing Ford:

That looks like the Euclidean equivalent of stick figures to me. I'm not impressed by his artistic prowess.

We know he didn't smuggle out the book he's working on in Theraprism. The Theraprism staff says "you have been contacted through this book against our rules" and includes a photo of Bill working on the journal—if the book was in their hands when they spied him working on it and confiscated it to write a letter in it, then they wouldn't have let it leave the Theraprism. So TBOB is already outside Theraprism when the staff finds Bill making contact with the readers. Plus Ford already knows TBOB exists at the beginning of the book—meaning it was already out in the world before Bill's death.

And so: the book Bill's working on in Theraprism is a different book, through which he (and then the staff) is making psychic contact with TBOB and manipulating TBOB's contents. TBOB never came into Theraprism, and the book Bill was working on in arts & crafts never left Theraprism.

And he SAYS at the start of the book he's manipulating TBOB's contents remotely. When he describes what the book contains, right beside the table of contents, one of the items is:

"Paper" made from pressed, pureed human brain matter. I can invade anything with neurons, so I can project anything I want in here!

In the photo of him working on his end of this TBOB tin-can-telephone, he's beaming his thoughts straight from his mind onto the page (and, presumably, through that page to our page):

On top of that, note what his supplies are: paper, scissors, tape, and glue. We see a clipped-out picture and bits of paper pasted into the journal. He only has one black marker, no other drawing/coloring materials. The journal Bill's making in Theraprism isn't a sketchbook: it's a scrapbook.

And the one time we see Bill deliberately focus on the graphic design aspect of the book, the end result is...

Graphic Design Is My Passion-looking ass.

So here's what I believe: the contents of The Book Of Bill are made up half of a collage of cut-up papers and pictures Bill pasted into his end of the book (magazine pages, textbook pages, newspaper clippings, chapter 2 of The Great Gatsby, etc) and then psychically altered the text of to suit his needs; and half of images that Bill projected straight from his mind onto the pages without needing to actually do any art (such as every time Bill himself pops onto the page to talk directly to the reader).

Still requires a little graphic design work on his end; but if he's largely just slapping down pages of somebody else's completed graphic design work, that takes a lot of the required skill out of it. Definitely doesn't require him to know how to draw.

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.3. - Suffocation Day pt. 2.

viktorxfemale!reader a teeny tiny bit of filth, but still very much sfw. She would suffocate otherwise :') gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 5,3K

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! Translation of the poem at the bottom :v Also see how I'm keeping the chapters reasonable length? Very demure.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It is eerie in the library. The room is covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, tomes leather-bound and heavy but besides the obvious titles on all areas that are of Viktor’s interest there are some unexpected—little notebooks of poems, paperback and thin, worn with time, seemingly reached for more than once.

The collection is not the largest you’ve ever seen, nor the grandest, yet something about it holds you in place as you scan the shelves. Dim autumn light filters through tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows over rows of dark-stained bookcases. The air is scented with old paper, ink, and the ghost of candle smoke. A fire burns low in the hearth, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, lending the space an intimacy that makes you feel as though you’ve intruded upon something secret.

You step further in, your skirts whispering against the polished wood floors. The library shows signs of frequent presence—papers stacked in uneven piles upon the desk, a forgotten quill resting atop an open ledger, ink dried mid-sentence. Books lie splayed across various surfaces, their spines cracked, their pages lined with annotations in a precise, slanted hand. Even before your gaze lands on the titles, you sense that this is no idle collection of literary indulgence; everything here has been selected with purpose.

Your fingers trail lightly over the spines, murmuring their titles under your breath. Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae by Athanasius Kircher, Le Monde Primitif by Antoine Court de Gébelin, volumes on astronomy—Ptolemy’s Almagest, Kepler’s Harmonices Mundi, and even a Latin copy of John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. The works on mathematics are no less impressive—Euler, Descartes, and an entire section dedicated to the studies of non-Euclidean geometry.

You pull a book at random, its leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. The gilded letters on the spine read De Rerum Natura, an old treatise on natural philosophy. Viktor’s interests, it seems, stretch far and wide. It’s a scholar’s collection, but not a passive one; every book you examine bears traces of his thoughts—notations in the margins, underlined passages, pages marked with scraps of paper.

Among the tomes of science and philosophy, you notice something softer: a collection of poetry. Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge, Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, a French edition of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal. You flip through the pages of one, your thumb pausing on a passage that has been marked in ink:

Quand, les yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne, Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux, Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux Qu'éblouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone.

Something in the act of his marking it makes you hesitate, feeling as though you’re glimpsing a side of him he does not often reveal. Something entirely different—curiosity perhaps—stirs your mind into wondering who is on Viktor’s mind when he reads it.

You let the book slide shut, exhaling slowly. There’s something about the house—its silence, its contradictions—that unsettles you. It’s full of missing pieces, of thoughts unfinished. Designed to keep strangers away but those who do step close enough, lure inside and trap.

Straightening, you turn towards the desk where your own work awaits. It’s time to bring your mind to the task at hand. You fix disobedient strands of hair back into your updo as you lay out the materials you gathered earlier. You examine Viktor’s translation carefully, the words from the wall written down with his precise hand.

Iměti tъ, kto vъ tьmě idetъ, ne prozъvati. Sъlovo jemu da ne dašь, i vъ noštь ne ględaj v oči jego. Vězdi on, kъto zovetъ i słyšetъ, ale ne imějęti glasa. Vъ tъmъ iměti, osъvobodi iměti.

The original Proto-Slavic text glares at you, and your eyes immediately settle on the key term: iměti. You know from your studies that iměti means “to imitate”—a verb denoting mimicry, the act of reproducing something rather than possessing it. The word feels significant, but in an unsettling way, as if it’s out of place.

Next, you focus on prozъvati—the word Viktor translated as “to call.” The more you study it, the more you find yourself caught by its peculiar form. It is a term that, in this context, goes beyond a mere vocal summoning. Prozъvati feels as if it is connected to something deeper, a way of reaching out that implies more than just speech—an invocation, perhaps, or a beckoning.

You shift your attention to ględaj. The Latin equivalent, spectare, would generally be "to look" or "to see," but this verb in Proto-Slavic carries more weight. It seems to imply a deeper form of observation, a searching gaze—not simply seeing something, but understanding it with a sense of obligation. It makes you wonder how Viktor’s translation, with its focus on avoiding meeting someone’s eyes, fits into the original context.

As your gaze drifts to sъlovo and zovetъ, you find yourself staring at the delicate balance of meaning these words might hold. Sъlovo is simple, translating directly to “word,” but there’s something about it in this particular structure that implies a weight to what is unsaid. And zovetъ—again translated as “calls” in Viktor’s version—seems to hold a different nuance. The form of the verb makes you think of summoning, but not of a voice or a language—more akin to an intangible force.

The final words, vъ tъmъ iměti, prickle your spine with pins. The phrase resists translation, slipping through your fingers as you try to grasp its meaning. The repetition of iměti is strange, its sense of imitation and mimicry now invoking something even darker. This isn’t just about one person calling another, or avoiding eyes. It’s as though the iměti is a way of bringing something into existence—or denying it.

In a fit of frustration, you lean back, rubbing your eyes. Your research has brought you closer to understanding the intent behind Viktor’s translation, but the true meaning remains elusive. The puzzle pieces don’t quite fit together.

What settles over you like cold stone is the realisation that, with what you have at hand, Viktor’s translation is, in fact, correct—and your expertise here is useless.

The usurper of he who walks in darkness must not be called. Give him no word, and in the night, do not meet his eyes. Everywhere he is, he hears when called, but he has no voice of his own. In the echo, rid the fake.

Nothing about it seems out of place—no lost sense, no hidden clue, nothing to suggest an error. You read both versions again and again, murmuring them under your breath, transposing them into Latin, Greek, and French. And yet, in every language, the meaning remains the same.

A sigh presses from the shallow part of your chest, constricted by the corset’s cruel embrace. You slump backwards in the chair, pressing your fingers to your temple. And the moment you close your eyes, something cold and dreadful unfurls within you.

You are in the library—yet you have no memory of getting here. No recollection of walking, of reaching for the door handle, of pushing open the heavy wooden wings. No moment where you crossed the threshold. You are simply... here.

The word rings between your ears like a church bell: imě. And then—nothing. Blackness, thick and suffocating, folding over you like the sea swallowing a drowning man—until, at last, it disperses into the gentle warmth of the library’s hearth.

Beyond the window, whatever feeble sun had struggled all day to pierce the clouds had long since surrendered. Now, it hovered low over the horizon, its light thin and waning, swallowed by the encroaching dusk. You glance at the clock, swallowing down the lump of disquiet that has settled in your throat. With a lip caught between your teeth, you gather your notes and march to Viktor’s study.

Your heart is a weight on your shoulder, your breath shallow as you raise a hand to knock. The sound barely has time to settle before his voice—muffled by the heavy wood—reaches you.

"Come in."

You step inside, and the warm glow of lamplight casts long shadows over the walls, stretching his silhouette behind the desk. He straightens at the sight of you, his expression soft with familiarity.

"There you are," he says, voice carrying the warmth of a fire just stoked. "It was getting late. Have you found something?"

“I—” You hesitate, pressing your notes to your chest. "Nothing. Your translation is perfect, by my standards."

"Oh," Viktor murmurs, something like a pleased hum threading through his voice. "I am flattered. Are you certain, though? Please, take a seat," he says, extending his hand to the chair facing him.

"Thank you, but I've been sitting all this time. I will gladly stretch my legs," you reply, pacing instead, your fingers tightening around the edges of your papers, your chest still tight with contraption. "I searched through whatever I could find in Greek, Latin, and French," you continue, exhaling sharply. "I have also skimmed through Slavic myths." You shake your head. "And this is so... vague. The possibilities are endless."

Viktor watches you with quiet patience, fingertips idly tapping against the desk. "Would you like to share at least one of them? I do have the time."

"Well, of course," you say, rolling your shoulders back. "Since this is undoubtedly an early form of a Slavic language, the first creature that comes to mind is Licho—or Likho, depending on the region. A one-eyed demon of misfortune, sometimes appearing as an old woman or a beggar to gain entry into homes. It offers false guidance, pretending to bring luck or wisdom, while in truth leading people to ruin. As per the usurper in your translation..."

Viktor hums, his gaze sharp with interest. "Interesting," he murmurs, though in truth, something in his chest stirs—no, it roars—his mind alight with the rare thrill of sharing thought with someone equally consumed by the subject at hand. To watch you pace, to see the way your hands carve meaning into the air, your face shifting with each thread of thought—half offered to him, half spoken into the ether—is, to him, a remarkable sight.

Were it a thought he dared to entertain, he might even say that, in this brief exchange, you had made him feel less alone.

"Also," you draw a breath through clenched teeth, shifting your weight, "Boginki. The False Mothers. Infamous for stealing babies and replacing them with changelings—sometimes pretending to be caretakers, or... well, mothers." You resume pacing, your voice gaining momentum. "There are plenty of such beings across different mythologies, but none fit exactly." You pause, glancing at him. "The do not meet his eyes fragment—why? What would happen if you did?"

Viktor folds his hands atop the parchment, contemplative. "Are you suggesting a creature that turns people to stone?"

"Something like that," you murmur. "Are you familiar with the origin of the Medusa myth?"

His brow lifts, curious. "Is there any other than the widely known?"

"It’s a mistranslation," you say, turning to face him fully. "Or rather—truth lost in layers of retelling. It’s speculated that what we now know as Medusa—who evolved from the Gorgons—was originally a male warrior with wild hair, appearing in Mesopotamian, Near Eastern, and Indo-European myth. The turning-into-stone element simply meant death, brought by the warrior or guardian, whoever he was." You halt at the edge of his desk, eyes steady on his. "It’s a long shot, isn’t it?"

You exhale, finally, and sink into the chair behind you.

Viktor leans forward, pulling the parchment closer, his eyes scanning the inked lines with renewed purpose. "It does not matter. This is exactly what I wanted from you—a fresh mind." He taps the page once. "What else are we missing?"

You lean in, reading the text upside down. Your voice drops to a murmur. "It could also be the Leshy."

Viktor glances up. "No voice of his own?"

"Precisely. Leshy is known to imitate human voices to lure people into the forest," you say, more softly now. "But in most depictions, he doesn’t speak. He only echoes."

"Fascinating," Viktor replies, leaning back. "None of this, however, gives us any clue about the breathing affliction."

"Sadly, it doesn’t," you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. The long hours seated make it feel as though your chest can no longer hold a proper breath. You drift across the room, gaze trailing over the shelves. “There is also a thing called the Mara,” you say absently. “It’s believed she sits on people’s chests at night, stealing the breath from their lungs and filling their dreams with horror.”

You stop, hand brushing the back of a nearby chair, and release a long, weary breath. “But I really don’t know how to tie all of this together,” you murmur—defeated, yet still searching.

Around you, books and trinkets are arranged with the precision of a mind that values order—yet there are signs of frequent use: papers stacked in uneven piles, ink bottles left uncorked, a cup of tea long gone cold. Viktor watches you closely.

“It is barely your first day,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “Nothing gets done in one day.”

You scoff under your breath, unsatisfied by the ease in his tone. One arm wrapped tightly around your midsection, the other gliding along the book spines, you scan the titles with mild distraction. Pressure begins to coil inside your ribs again, a subtle ache swelling with each shallow breath.

Then, amidst the neatly arranged oddities, your gaze catches on a deck of cards—its edges plain, the backs painted with modest, medieval designs.

Your fingers brush the stack as you speak. “Do you dabble in cartomancy as well, Mr. Velesny?”

“Occasionally. When I run out of options,” he replies, rising slowly. His steps are long as he comes toward you, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a murmur, warm against your shoulder. “And I thought we agreed—you should call me Viktor.”

“My apologies... Viktor,” you manage, though your voice is thin, breath trailing at the end. Your insides feel unbearably constricted, your corset biting down with every rise of your lungs. Is it the garment—or him? You can’t tell. “It’s an odd deck. I’ve never seen this type before.”

“It’s Minchiate,” he says, reaching around you to lift the deck, the closeness of him sending a fresh wave of heat to your face. “It includes additional cards. Offers deeper insight.”

He presents it to you on an open palm. “Shuffle it. Draw one.”

You hesitate, gathering the cards from his hand. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Perhaps it will give us a clue—of all things.”

The weight of the deck is unexpected in your hands. The cards are slightly too large for your palms to shuffle gracefully, so you do it slowly. Once you deem it ready, you ask, “Alright then... how do I do this?”

“Cut the deck where it feels right. Pull the top card.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift the cards, the pressure in your chest intensifying. You cut the deck, drawing the top card with effort. “It says only... XI.”

“Hermit,” Viktor replies at once. “Interesting.”

“Is it telling me I’m a loner?” You attempt a smile, though your lips are dry and your vision is beginning to tunnel.

“No,” he says softly. “Traditionally, the Hermit is depicted blind, carrying a lantern. Look—” He turns to the bookshelf and pulls out a small booklet, flipping quickly through the pages. At last, he taps one with his finger. “Marseille, L’Hermite.” He tilts the book toward you, revealing a hunched old man printed in black and white, clutching a lantern, his face disturbingly grotesque. “He carries knowledge where there is none. Hope, even,” Viktor says, voice low, almost reverent.

Your voice breaks on the exhale. “Am I your hope, then?”

“You might as well be,” he says with a quiet smile, though his gaze is searching—watching the colour drain from your face.

Your breath catches—high and shallow. The bookcase in front of you feels like the only thing keeping you upright. A cold sweat breaks across your brow as black seeps into the edges of your sight. Your mouth opens, but no air reaches your lungs. Every gasp is swallowed by fabric and bone.

“It’s too tight,” Viktor murmurs, moving swiftly behind you. His voice drops into urgency. “Miss, you will faint if we don’t fix this now. Do I have your consent?”

It is by absolute necessity, he tells himself, as his fingers hover at the nape of your neck, brushing a few stray strands aside. You nod—unable to spare a breath for ‘yes’—and whatever air remains in your chest hitches when his fingertips ghost the skin just beneath your hairline.

“Dear God, why would you endure this torture?” Viktor mutters, hooking the cane over his forearm. And were he not so concerned just now, perhaps he might have caught the irony in his own words—his breath always shallow, each one measured, careful not to draw too much air into lungs that have never known ease.

His hands settle at the base of your spine, hovering just above the row of buttons that fasten the back of your bodice. You feel him hesitate—the brief pause of a man bracing himself—before his fingers begin their work.

"Who in their right mind designed this number of closures?" he mutters under his breath, his tone caught between irritation and disbelief.

His knuckles brush the fabric with each movement, slow and methodical. He works his way upward, button by button, the task made no easier by how closely they sit to one another. The silence between you is thick, broken by the soft clicks of fastenings getting undone and the occasional flutter of your breath as your lungs strain for air they still cannot fully claim.

At last, the final button slips free, and the bodice loosens at the edges, exposing the laces beneath. Viktor hesitates once more.

“This will be colder,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.

Then his fingers dip beneath the stiff outer fabric, brushing over the linen underdress that lies flush against your skin. There's no bare contact, yet the warmth of your body radiates through the thin barrier, sinking into his touch like heat into snow. His fingertips still, then resume—precise and steady, despite the way his pulse has begun to thunder at his throat.

He says nothing, but you feel him falter just slightly when the curve of his hand grazes the small of your back. Through the light linen, faint freckles are visible—soft constellations scattered across your skin. He memorises them without meaning to.

The laces loosen, one at a time, pulled free in patient sequence. The tension around your ribs begins to melt, and your shoulders drop with a trembling sigh.

When he finally begins to draw the laces back, this time more loosely, the process is slower. The cords resist the rhythm, and his hands must navigate the now-shifting fabric more carefully.

“You seem well-versed in unlacing, but not in lacing back, Viktor,” you murmur, a touch dryly, attempting to cut through the electric tension.

There’s a pause. Then—“Is that your concern now?” he replies, and when you let out a breathy chuckle, he adds, “Would it unsettle you if I said yes?”

Caught entirely off guard, you say nothing. Embarrassed—ashamed, even—you feel heat bleeding into your cheeks and scold yourself for attempting to tease a man who can clearly fight back. Noting your capitulation, Viktor only smiles to himself.

Finally, the knot is tied, the corset now sitting far less cruelly against your ribs—and at last, you can breathe. He pulls the bodice, which had slipped from your waist, back into place and begins the mundane task of fastening all the buttons.

To your utter loss, now that you’re finally able to feed your lungs with air, they refuse to cooperate—your breathing remains shallow, faltering. You startle especially when his hands reach the upper part of your back, where the only thing shielding your skin is the almost non-existent undershirt. It burns, nearly, and you are uncertain whether it’s your ears clogging with pressure or if it is, in fact, Viktor swallowing hard.

Once done, he straightens the fabric gently, then lifts his hand to smooth his palm down the length of your back—a final touch, calm and grounding.

“There. Is that better?”

You do not answer right away. You simply inhale. A true breath—full and deep, stale air spilling into your lungs without pain. It fills you so completely it feels like drowning in reverse.

“Yes,” you whisper, steadying yourself. “Thank you.”

Viktor’s hand lingers a moment longer before falling away. The silence between you shifts—not eased, but altered—recalibrated into something that hovers between tension and trust. Something very much alive. It emboldens you enough to say, “It would not unsettle me. To know that you are versed.”

You notice a smile ghosting across his lips as he lowers his gaze. Only now do you realise that perhaps he is just as flustered as you—only far better at hiding it. His cheeks are tinged with the faintest pink, and though his eyes remain half-lidded, their exact shade hidden beneath lowered lashes, you are certain his pupils are as wide as when he speaks of his revelations.

He clears his throat, a subtle but telling gesture, and places his cane back in hand with a practised movement. “The sky is clouded tonight,” he says, gesturing toward the darkened window with the tip of the handle. “But if you wish to breathe some rich air—to make up for the losses of today—I could show you the garden,” he offers, voice low, almost cautious.

You tilt your head. “Algernon mentioned night is not a good time?”

“Nonsense,” Viktor replies without hesitation. A rare sharpness edges his tone, though it fades as quickly as it came. “It’s gorgeous at night. Come.”

He doesn’t wait for your agreement. With quiet assurance, he turns and begins toward the study door, his gait measured, cane making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You fall into step beside him, still gathering yourself, still remembering how to breathe.

The house is hushed at this hour. Every candle seems dimmed in deference to the dark, casting the corridors in a soft, amber gloom. The air grows cooler as you descend the staircase and take a turn down a hallway you haven’t yet seen—narrow, panelled in darker wood, with windows showing glimpses of the pale grounds beyond.

You pass an arched doorway and then another before he stops at a pair of tall, glass-paned doors, fogged by the moisture on the other side, framed by a narrow marble arch. He produces a key from his coat pocket and unlocks them with a soft click.

The scent reaches you first. Earth. Cold leaves. Damp moss. The faint sweetness of something still blooming despite the season.

He pushes the doors open with his shoulder and steps aside, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he motions for you to enter first.

A winter garden. Quiet and low-lit, enclosed beneath a vaulted glass roof that reflects the barest shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Ferns and climbing ivy stretch toward the light, while rows of hardy white blossoms open like stars against the deep green. The temperature inside is cool but not unpleasant—tempered by the plants, the enclosed warmth of stone and soil.

A narrow path winds through raised beds, and somewhere nearby, a slow trickle of water laps gently over stone.

Viktor follows you inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I find this place... peaceful,” he says, his voice quiet, respectful of the stillness. “There are few things here that ask anything of me.”

You glance over at him, watching the way his hand brushes one of the broad leaves as you pass—a barely-there touch, reverent.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. Your voice feels more real here, less strained. “Have you... done this?”

“Yes. Once, I thought herbs and plants might bring the answer to something I was researching,” he replies, his voice gentler now, touched by memory. “They did not. But the garden remains.” He glances around the space, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everything that blooms here chooses to. Nothing is forced.”

You walk a few more steps in tandem, the air fragrant with damp leaves and faint blossoms. Your lungs slowly begin to trust the freedom they’ve been given—each breath deeper than the last, no longer catching or shallow. You pause beside a low-growing bush with narrow, silver-edged leaves, letting your fingertips brush against them.

“What was the question you were trying to answer?” you ask softly, curiosity laced with awe as you glance at him.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Ah... that does not matter now.” A small shrug of one shoulder. “Even though it was not found, I am grateful for this place.”

There’s something in the way he says it—no bitterness, only acceptance. You watch him a moment longer, studying how different he seems here: his shoulders looser, the lines around his mouth softened, his eyes reflective instead of watchful.

“You really are full of skills,” you murmur, half to yourself, still stunned by the strangeness and serenity of the hidden garden.

“I am full of interests. Of curiosity,” he corrects with a quiet chuckle. “Here, my skills were not much use.”

Before you can ask more, a sudden rustle from a tall fern nearby makes you flinch. Something flutters past—quick and black—and lands on a bare branch overhead with a sharp flutter of wings. It lets out a single, high-pitched squeak.

“Viktor!”

Startled, you turn to him. “A... grackle?” you ask, blinking.

He smiles with unmistakable fondness. “Yes. Meet Rio.” He gestures toward the bird, who has now begun preening one wing. “He comes and goes as he pleases, through that window there.” He motions toward a narrow, open pane set into the far wall. “Be careful what you say around him. He’s gained a reputation for using people’s words against them.”

“Viktor. Sad,” the bird croaks in a mockingly low tone, tilting its head.

“See?” Viktor murmurs, almost amused. “He will paint me pathetic before you even get the chance to know me better.”

There’s a flicker of something like vulnerability in his expression, but it passes quickly. He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small metal ring, thumbing through a few keys until he unhooks one. Carefully, he places it into your open palm.

“You may come here as much as you wish,” he says, his voice low, nearly blending with the rustling leaves. “I find this place good for the mind.”

You glance down at the key resting in your palm. The cool weight of it feels symbolic, as though you’ve been let in on something secret—something close to his heart. A small part of him, entrusted to you.

Lifting your eyes to his, you find his gaze steady, amber dimmed by the faint glimpses of moonlight through the glass. You offer a quiet, sincere, “Thank you.”

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable—it hums with something unspoken. His expression shifts just slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Viktor says, stepping back with a subtle shift in tone, practical again, though a note of softness lingers. “The Černoglav family asked for three days to prepare for our arrival.”

You nod, the name pulling your thoughts briefly back to your larger task.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’ve been called to another case. It might be entertaining—should you wish to accompany me.” His tone is hopeful, inviting.

“Oh?” you ask, curiosity tugging at your voice. “What supernatural aid are you bringing this time?”

He lifts his cane slightly, gesturing as though introducing the absurdity of the situation. “A family nearby is being haunted by the ghost of a vengeful horse.”

You blink, trying very hard to hold back a disbelieving smirk blooming on your face. “A vengeful... horse?”

“A stallion, precisely,” he clarifies, with deadpan seriousness. “Do not mock, Miss. They are terrified,” he adds, moving closer and pointing his fingers at you in a playful scold, cheeks hollowing with a ghost of a smile.

You press a knuckle to your lips, attempting not to laugh. “Have they tried feeding it some phantom sugar cubes?”

“That is our job,” he replies smoothly, though the corner of his eyes lift up, and a smile wrinkles his face. “What do you say?”

You pause for effect, then sigh with mock gravity. “Ah, maybe a bit of distraction will serve us well in all this. Why not.”

“Brilliant,” he says, already half-turned toward the door. “We leave tomorrow after breakfast.”

“I shall await impatiently,” you reply, taking a step to join him, when Rio’s squawk snaps both of your heads toward the source of the sound.

“Imě, imě, imě!” the bird repeats, flapping his wings menacingly on the branch before launching himself through the open window, disappearing into the night.

Viktor blinks, wide-eyed, then looks at you, equally surprised. “Forgive me, Miss, he does that sometimes. Has he startled you?” he asks, quickly recollecting himself and extending a hand for you to grasp.

The memory has already eclipsed in your mind, buried under a cairn of today’s events, when you are suddenly pulled back to both your dream and the eerie door on the first floor. You take his hand but study him carefully, and instead of answering, you ask, “What’s behind the door upstairs?”

“Oh.” Viktor’s brows draw together, taken off guard. “Nothing that should concern you. It’s something from my past, insignificant,” he attempts to dismiss you, but you do not falter.

“Are you certain it’s insignificant?” you press, squeezing his palm insistently.

“Why would you ask?” Viktor pushes back, his expression shifting to one of discomfort. His hand leaves yours, and seeing no answer, only an expectant stare, he takes a step back and straightens himself.

“If there is no justification for this, I do not feel inclined to share.” The cane twists to the floor as he turns his back to you and begins walking toward the door. “Do not raise that matter again, please,” he throws over his shoulder. “And be ready to leave in the morning, should you still wish to accompany me,” he says finally and disappears into the corridor, not giving you a chance to wish him goodnight.

Left alone in the dim garden, the air seems to shift around you, growing colder with each passing second. You hug your arms tightly around yourself, a shiver rolling down your body as the silence presses in. The question lingers in the space between your thoughts, but now there’s something more—something hidden in the shadows of the house. You wonder if the answer you’ve been seeking lies buried somewhere here, wrapped in layers of forgotten memories. The chill in your bones isn’t just from the night air; it’s a creeping unease, the sense that Viktor has closed himself off, and that something crucial remains locked away. Guilt tugs at you for startling him, for prying when perhaps you should have let it go. But the key in your hand—so small, so weighty—feels like a promise, something shared with you. You clutch it to your chest, as if it could offer some comfort, and sigh deeply. At least you can breathe again.

—

Les Fleurs du mal translation:

When, with my eyes closed, on a warm autumn evening, I breathe the scent of your warm breast, I see unfold happy shores That are dazzled by the fires of a monotonous sun.

[yuri-game-tournament]

Yuri VN Tournament Round One

Kindred Spirits on the Roof vs HEATWAVE

Info and propaganda under the cut! Not guaranteed to be spoiler-free

Kindred Spirits on the Roof

Description/Propaganda:

A classic yuri VN from 2012. A quiet, antisocial girl named Yuna gets roped into helping two lesbian ghosts play matchmaker for other sapphic girls in the school, creating their own Yuritopia! This VN is technically an eroge: the ghost girls don't know how to "do it," as they say, and want to watch other girls so they can learn how to consummate their own relationship. But despite the lewd-sounding premise, the game spends hours developing each of the many couples, from first meeting all the way to their intimate moments together, taking you on many heartwarming journeys. After seeing the ups and downs of their relationship, the intimate moments near the end of the game feel like a well-earned payoff for both the reader and the girls.

If you like yuri in a school setting, you'll be in yuritopia here. There are several couples apart from the main ghost girls that each would feel at home in their own slice of life manga. There's an established couple who plan to live together after graduation and are navigating family and societal expectations, a senpai/kouhai relationship where the kouhai is the one pursuing her senior, a group of three girls who navigate their friendship changing once two of the girls become a couple, and much more. Plus, it's really nice to see Yuna open up, confront past social rejection, and find friendship and love herself! If you want a long cozy game with a down to earth and warm feeling, Kindred Spirits on the Roof is for you.

Additional Info/Content Warnings: One of the couples is a teacher/student relationship. The teacher is drawn to look much younger than her student, but there is still an age gap. There's also some realistic homophobia and internalized homophobia that may hit close to home.

HEATWAVE

Description/Propaganda: Catgirl Suffers in Capitalist Hellscape : for those with a the taste for the more mature and erotic themes, aka Real Toxic Yuri™, HEATWAVE shows the story of Angel, a critter so ruined by society she has been stripped of her humanity to the point where she is an it. when a stone cold butch writes up some papers to literally own Angel as a pet, the two go onto traverse through the non euclidean hellhole that is a "HEATWAVE", and during their travel it is hard to tell if its the sweltering permanent sun or all that sexual tension between these two that burns hotter

Additional Info/Content Warnings: ADULTS ONLY, Flashing Lights, Age Gap, Ryona, Self Harm, Piss, Religious Abuse, Dehumanization, Dubcon/Noncon

[jello-library]

I wanted to make my reblog post from an headcanon by @an0n-vibes into a separate post from others to see.

Inspired by their ask right here!

ALSO! Please go check them out they are a lovely writer on our platform who deserves endless love and support. ❤️

Also if you have anymore stuff to add to this ramble I suppose?? If you make a post bout it pls tag me 😭 I would love to read more about this!!

Like, imagine the Reader doesn’t even KNOW Bill was the one who destroyed their home world. They get excited to see someone else of their kind alive from the incident and want to become friends with him because they feel lonely thinking they are the last one alive.

Just imagine them being nice and comforting to him. Even if he is a little inconsiderate and a little deranged. They still like him without the strings attached or any big ulterior motives behind their actions.

Granted they're a bit gullible since they are desperate not to be alone again. They have friends and they do care for them but Bill has this familiar aura to him.

Bill is to them memories that are now blurred colors and murky voices.

Bill is to them a sense of belonging, a sense of home, a feeling of dread, waves of sadness of people they can't remember.

Bill is a bit scary to them.

But…

They can't let this go! Do you know how to feel in this vast universe and still feel like an outcast?

Dimension after dimension!

Realm after realm!

Do you know how it feels to be void of your fear and regrets to somehow survive something like that?

To live to tell the tale that others couldn't. To see places and experience things that were so beyond their little flat world.

To finally see the stars…

But to push these rushing feelings down they grab Bill’s hand and now they feel safe.

He lets them do oddly enough the tiny comforting squeeze to signal him to keep talking about whatever.

They will continue to listen and Bill will continue to speak. Maybe their feeling of belonging is shared, right?

Does Bill feel comforted by their presence too?

Maybe?

Does he feel safe with them?

Maybe?

Well, time will tell and they will stay.

Aw…sweetie only if they knew the full truth…

[zigrethsnotebook]

Hey, there! <3 I'll be honest with you @subt1tl3, I don't know a whole lot about Bill's home dimension (haven't gotten my hand on TBOB yet, unfortunately), but I will google it and try my best to make this interesting regardless, because the idea sounds awesome! ^^'

edit: sorry I read opposite of Bill and blacked out for a while, hope this makes sense haha

The Demon's Angel

Bill x Euclidean!Reader

words: 2,236

tags: sfw, angst, starts out a bit horrific (description of what happened to Euclydia), gets a little better after that

Bill Cipher. You had heard of him back in the day. The disabled triangle. Blind they called him. Little did they know how wrong they were. Little did they know of all the things out there, just outside their vision.

Now, to be fair, way back when you had first heard of him, you hadn't actually met him. Had someone told you back then that he could see the stars as well then you would have made an effort to find him.

Nobody did, though. And you hadn't exactly been willing to give up your life the way you had built it, just on the irrational hope that you could find someone who was like you. Someone who could see the stars.

Unlike Bill, you were lucky enough to be blessed with many eyes. Too many, perhaps, because some of them hadn't settled on your sides the way they were supposed to. Instead, they were strewn all over your body.

Which meant that you could see your home world, two dimensional, the way you were supposed to. But any time you opened the rest of your eyes, you could see beyond that. You could see into the third dimension.

You quickly learnt that this was not a normal gift to have and stopped talking about it early on. Your parents had soon forgotten that you ever talked about it, thinking it was just your childhood imagination. It was for the better.

Then, it was worse. Out of nowhere your whole world shifted, lifted from the ground only you could perceive. You watched your friends and family quite literally fall apart, physically incapable of existing in three dimensions.

Unmoving, you waited for the same to happen to you. It never did.

It took you a very long time to find your bearings. You had to learn how to stand, walk and then taught yourself how to float, finding it easier than walking. You tried to find someone, anyone still alive but you found no one.

After what would have been at least a millenia by this world's calculations, you gave up. You accepted your fate of being the only survivor of this world and sought out a new one.

Somehow, after many centuries of trying to, you managed to jump into a different dimension. There, you found three dimensional creatures of all shapes and sizes. You made it your new home.

It took the creatures of this world many millennia to evolve into humans. Fascinating creatures. They were able to have complex thoughts and eventually, they were able to communicate with you. You helped them build their civilization and they, in turn, worshiped you.

They believed you were a being sent by the gods to guide them. Angel, they called you. You gladly took the new name, anything to rid you of the memories of your old world.

You were able to perform what the humans called 'magic'. You would have been able to explain your abilities to them, but they were not yet ready to understand. It was unclear if they ever would be able to understand.

There were times when you missed your home and the people but you were always able to busy yourself with new things before the memories got too heavy.

Meanwhile, Bill had conquered the nightmare realm and was looking for a new dimension. Stanford Pines had just summoned him for the first time and they quickly became partners. Or that's what Bill wanted him to think.

One day, Bill wanted to prove to Ford that he was clairvoyant and could see the past, present and future of this world. As he did that, he had... not a vision, but something else. It felt like an instinct, long forgotten and buried deep beneath himself. It called out to him, telling him that there was something in this world. A remnant of his own.

Bill made Ford look for it around the entire globe. When Ford came back empty-handed he almost blew his cover. Bill knew there was something here, he could feel it. But there was nothing he could do.

Eventually, Ford realized something. He showed Bill various religious texts and explained how his own resembled the description most associated with a demon. Oblivious fool that Ford was, he didn’t think about the implications of his own findings.

Further, he explained, he found descriptions that were essentially the same, but claimed the being to be an angel. A being with a diamont body that was covered in eyes.

Bill couldn't explain how, but he knew that this was what... who he was looking for. Another Euclidean.

He made plans to look for them himself as soon as Ford had finished the portal and he could enter this world. There was nothing he longed for more than to find someone from home. Anything, to make him feel like he hadn't destroyed his entire reality.

When Ford inevitably snapped and was sucked into the nightmare realm he was devastated. Bill couldn't believe that he had failed so miserably yet again.

Another thirty years went by before he got another shot at entering this world. Your world. His plans to conquer it were now only a facade he kept up to hide his true goal of finding you.

Eventually, he managed to step over, to cause weirdmageddon. He wanted to use it as a cover to look for you, but he was again struck down as he realized that the entire town of Gravity Falls was covered in a large bubble keeping all the weirdness inside.

Bill cursed to himself and wreaked havoc over the town, letting out all his anger and frustration on its citizens.

It took about two days to reach you, the sound of their prayers. These days, not all humans believed in your existence. But those who did would pray to you regularly. Some of those humans resided in Gravity Falls.

At first, you were hesitant to go. There was always trouble somewhere in this world and you were already busy. But then, one of the prayers begged you to safe them from a demon in the shape of a triangle.

Humans and all the other creatures of this world were round and awfully misshapen, none held the form of a geometric shape. You made your way to this town at once.

When you arrived and floated in front of the barrier you were intrigued. You had been to every part of this planet but nothing like this had ever shown itself to you. You floated through the barrier with ease.

Even though you didn’t know it yet, and maybe would never find out, the barrier was focused on weirdness. You, on the other hand, were classified as divine by the humans. Therefore, it had no effect on you.

In the midst of this town, the center of the barrier, you saw a gigantic pyramid floating above the ground. It was a good first place to look for a triangle.

You floated inside, careful not to be seen, keeping eyes out in every conceivable direction. In the center of a big hall, you found a massive throne made of humans who were turned to stone. Apart from them, the room was empty.

You made quick work of the throne, turning all humans back to their true form and guiding them to a place to hide, urging them to be quiet. They trusted you, even the ones who didn’t believe in you anymore. The trust had been passed down in generations and was now a part of the humans' very DNA.

You floated into the middle of the room where the throne once stood and waited. It didn’t take long for Bill to be back.

His body was still very big, to fit in with his friends. They had just collected Ford. Bill held the human coated in gold in his hand. When he entered the room and saw that the throne was missing, he was about to explode into a fit of rage.

But he didn’t when he saw you. Floating there in that same spot. A rhombus littered with eyes. Your body purple, your limbs white with a halo floating above you. You looked like the exact opposite of him and he fell in love instantly.

Bill was so mesmerized by you that he dropped Ford to the floor and shrunk his own body down to your size as he floated toward you. His maniacs knew better than to question his actions.

He was speechless. Bill had spent millenia looking for other survivors and now he had found one. Floating in his own house. More or less. You also recognized him for what he was but right now you felt a stronger connection to the humans than to him.

You narrowed all of your eyes at him. Your voice was loud and booming. "You dare to hurt these creatures?!" Bill scoffed. "Why do you care?" You floated closer to him, conjuring thunder to boom inside the pyramid. "This world is my home. And these creatures are under my protection!" You conjured a lightning bolt to strike between you two.

Bill stumbled back, his eye wide in shock. He couldn't get on your bad side! The last thing he wanted right now was for the other last Euclidean to despise him personally.

"No! No, no, no. That was never my intention. I just needed a way to get your attention. Here, I'll prove it." Bill floated the golden Ford over to himself, making him stand upright between you two. He turned Ford back to his normal form.

Ford, in turn, immediately turned to Bill, angry. "I'll never help you, Bill. There is nothing you could offer me to give up the entire planet for you to destroy!" Bill's eye widened even more as he scrambled to cover Ford's mouth with his hand. "He didn’t mean that."

You were about to go for another round of intimidation when it hit you. Your frown faded and your posture relaxed. "Did he just call you Bill? You're not Bill Cipher, are you? The blind guy?"

Bill's hand on Ford's face lost its grip and he quickly pushed it away as Bill floated a little closer to you again. "The very same! Although, I haven't been called blind in a while." You suddenly felt sheepish. "I didn’t mean to insult you."

Ford and the henchmaniacs looked around each other quizzically, none of them able to grasp what this meeting meant to either of you. They were also a little weirded out by the obvious flirting that was starting between you both.

"You couldn't possibly. But do tell, who are you exactly? Have we met before?" Bill floated around you, looking at you from every angle. It was cute. You followed his movements with your eyes.

"No, we've never met. The people of this world call me Angel." Bill chuckled. "I can get behind that, you certainly look like an angel to me."

Ford cleared his throat, getting the attention and a glare from Bill. "Don't you two want to have some... privacy?" He tried to word the question as ambiguous as possible. You spoke before Bill had a chance to.

"Yes. You all are free to leave. Bill and I have some catching up to do." He wanted to protest but when he turned back to look at you, all the anger faded from his mind. You shifted your focus back to Bill. "Come with me."

You floated out of the pyramid, Bill following close behind. Both of you leaving the humans and the henchmaniacs behind. Surprisingly, nothing bad happened. During the time you and Bill were away, the humans found a way to get back down to the ground and the others found something else to do.

You both left the pyramid and you led Bill to the cliff, sitting on the edge of it together, looking up at the stars. "I will never get tired of the stars. Did you see them as well? Back home?" You turned some of your eyes to Bill as you voiced the question. The rest remained locked on the night sky.

"Yes." Bill took a deep breath before he continued. "They called me blind because I could only look up at the stars. The only time I saw the faces of my parents was when-" His voice broke off. He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

"That's horrible. I'm so sorry." You reached your hand out to comfort him. Bill flinched when your hand made contact with his side but he quickly relaxed into the touch. "Back then I had heard stories of a blind triangle. If I had known that you were like me..."

Your voice trailed off as Bill turned to look at you. "I'm sorry, too. For not finding you before today." You hummed. "I suppose it was meant to be this way. At least now we finally get to look at the stars together."

Bill turned back towards the sky. "Yeah..." Without thinking about it, he leaned towards you until his side was resting on yours. A sudden panic of overstepping filled his systems and just as he was about to pull away again, you wrapped your arm around him, keeping him at your side.

He relaxed into your touch. Finally, he had found someone who felt a little bit like home...

p.s.: little doodle of what I imagine reader to look like in this

[aran-morinorea]

nobody asked me for NENE chapter 2, but i'm excited about it so :P

The door closes, soundlessly and seamlessly. Laurefindelë is left alone in perfect darkness, holding a tray heavy with food and drink. Closing his eyes does not change how much he can see in the slightest.

At least he can close them - the vertiginous power that grabbed him by the inside of the neck and dragged him here is gone. Or perhaps that’s worse, because that power belonged to a person who could at least theoretically be reasoned with, while a dark empty room has no mind to try to change.

[guiltyasdave]

hello and happy (🥴) monday, welcome to a late edition of weekly fic recs, from my still severely fever-addled brain 🫠 (for real though, i’m dying out here, please send some healing vibes or something. i’m unfortunately also bored out of my mind, so i’m putting this together anyway. if i mess up something on here, bear with me pls)

i fully succumbed to the logan brainrot this week (I’M JUST A GIRL!), so this is like 50% pedro boys and 50% logan lol. as always, please show the writers some love <3

-> all my recs ever

dividers by @/enchanthings <3

i'm organizing the fics by character and adding emojis to indicate the contents a little. still, please look at the tags/ warnings and decide for yourself if something might not be for you.

💘= fluff • ❤️‍🔥= smut • 🤍= angst • 🖤= dark

📖= oneshot • 📚= series

dave york

you’re so dark by @wannab-urs ❤️‍🔥📖

dieter bravo

starlet by @whocaresstillthelouvre 💘❤️‍🔥📖

consent by @fuckyeahdindjarin 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

any other week by @covetyou 💘📖

frankie morales, jack daniels & pero tovar

euclidean geometry by @leslie-lyman 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

javier peña

i’ll carry you by @almostfoxglove 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

scathed by @dancingtotuyo 💘🤍🖤📚

joel miller

older!boyfriend joel miller by @cavillscurls 💘❤️‍🔥📚

fill me up by @aurorawritestoescape 💘❤️‍🔥📖

easy like sunday morning by @sugarcoated-lame 💘❤️‍🔥📖

joel miller & logan howlett

play nice by @kiwisbell ❤️‍🔥📖

and bonus: logan howlett/wolverine

handlebars by @wannab-urs 💘❤️‍🔥📖

tooth and nail by @eupheme 💘❤️‍🔥📖

sugar, sugar by @eupheme 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

trouble will find me by @eupheme 💘❤️‍🔥📖

fisting with wolverine by @missredherring 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📖

be my baby by @cavillscurls 💘❤️‍🔥📖

all day long by @ozarkthedog ❤️‍🔥📖

mine by @javier-pena 💘❤️‍🔥📖

my own writing

gold rush — oberyn martell x f!reader x dave york 💘❤️‍🔥📚

[nanamineedstherapy]

Crack Extended Cut: Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

A/N: Hello. This is not a drill. Nor is it essential to the main plot. This is the DLC side quest that unlocks when your marriage turns into a corporate hostage situation and your therapist writes war reports in scented ink. I present to you: the fic where your postpartum calendar has more kill zones than a military campaign. This oneshot contains: A tactical NanamiA feral Gojo who thinks “time” is a suggestion A reader held together by caffeine and spite And a support staff that deserves a collective raise and possibly divine intervention No plot, just vibes. No fantasy, just Gojo accusing your babies of tax fraud. Reblogs > therapy. Comments > hydration. I crave chaos like Gojo craves unregulated sugar intake. Now enter the battlefield responsibly. Tuesdays only.

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Pre-Shoot: Vogue Verification Interview Recording —Not For Public Release

Int. Briefing Room—Late night.

A silent camera blinked in the corner like it had seen things it wasn’t ready to process. This wasn’t the real interview—just a “vibe check,” according to the email. A pre-verification to confirm nobody would say anything libelous, horrifying, or Gojo-related on camera.

The staff had been summoned. Not invited. Summoned. Like spirits.

A whiteboard stood at the front of the room, bleeding unhinged red ink:

Nanami-San’s Postpartum Operations & Domestic Warfare Protocol (V.17.6.4B)

Below it:

Postpartum Infantry: Rules Of Engagement

Weapons Free = Tuesdays Only —underlined three times.

Keji stood beside it like a grim-faced ghost from a failed banking career. He flipped through a leather-bound operations manual with a pen clenched between his teeth and the eyes of a man who had held your hair back while you vomited from prenatal vitamins and regret.

Someone had left a half-eaten mochi on a legal folder. Someone else held up a single baby sock with tongs, like it was evidence from a crime scene.

“If I don’t make it out of this,” Keji muttered, “delete my browser history and feed Takahashi. Norwegian sardines only. Room temp. Sprinkled with shame.”

The door hissed open with the threat of management.

Enter: Nanami Kento.

Tactical trousers. Black turtleneck. Sleeves rolled with Swiss-watch precision. The expression of a man prepared to deliver disappointing performance reviews and execute people over misfiled invoices.

He didn’t say a word. Just dropped a laminated master schedule onto the polished walnut table like a war crime.

The staff exhaled collectively, like they'd been holding their breath since week 12 of your pregnancy.

Behind him: Gojo Satoru.

He strolled in late, sipping an electric blue drink from a child’s sippy cup shaped like a bear. No shoes. Chest visible under open robe, sweatpants. One sock had a hole in the toe. His hair looked expensive, and his smirk said he knew it.

He radiated power, chaos, and the energy of someone who didn’t believe in chairs.

“Who moved my peach gummies?” he asked the room, deadpan. “Someone’s lying. I can smell fear.”

And then, you.

Barefoot. Hoodie stretched over a bump that could clear a subway seat in under four seconds. Pajama pants. Laptop under one arm, half-eaten protein cookie in the other. You weren’t late, just existing on your own non-Euclidean timeline now.

Your posture: collapsing. Your dignity: questionable. Your husbands: problematic.

Nanami cracked a pointer stick against the table like a courtroom gavel. “The schedule is sacred. That includes hydration windows and postnatal exorcism rotations.”

Gojo leaned toward the baby monitor mounted on the wall, whispering like it was a co-conspirator. “I’m going to teach them to cry in Morse code. Every blink means ‘fart.’”

You sank into a chair like you’d been shot. Your laptop slid out of your arm. You didn't flinch as Keji caught it. Your head lolled sideways—Nanami caught it with the side of his neck without looking, like this happened three times a day.

“I don’t know either of these men,” you told the camera, voice flat as you yawned. “I met them on Craigslist. They won’t leave.”

Gojo gave the camera a peace sign with one hand while texting with the other. "She's lying. I was advertised as a limited-edition collectible. Fully poseable with infinite attachments. No refunds."

Nanami didn’t look up. “No perfume in the nursery. No microwave-heated formula. And under no circumstances is anyone allowed to call the pacifier a ‘binky.’ This is a Japanese household. Not a sitcom.”

CUT TO: Staff lineup; each stood like extras in a corporate thriller that got too real too fast. Their vibes screamed “LinkedIn Premium” with undertones of “We were not trained for this.”

Int. Staff Conference Room—Pre-Shoot Day (Camera: Silent, Judgmental)

STAFF ROLL CALL:

Cursed-Artifact Housekeeper (¥20M+)

Ex-Vatican restorationist. Has opinions about demons. Dusts while muttering “Dies irae.” Once threw bleach on a haunted Fenty gloss. Still invoices Nanami in Latin.

Pregnancy-Specific Chef (¥35M+):

Michelin-starred. Male. Korean-Mexican fusion. Wept when Gojo requested “a smoothie that tastes like unresolved childhood abandonment.” Currently sourcing artisanal wasabi for anti-nausea tea. May be possessed.

Cybersecurity Lead (¥40M+):

Ex-CIA. Latina trans woman. Tatted in binary. Regularly hacks into Gojo’s fanmail database to block “OnlyFans” proposals. Helped Madame leave the country overnight (husbands suspect her involvement but are too terrified of looking her in the eye). Quietly reroutes paparazzi drones and blocks fans mailing Gojo erotic origami and “used sanitary products.” (You had given then strict instructions to never Gojo be traumatized like that. And that was the most important rule.) She and Madame share silent eye contact whenever the men get unhinged now, which screams, “Let the men speak, but never trust their judgment.”

Smart-Home Engineer (¥38M+):

Filipino. Nonbinary. Built a Wi-Fi stabilizer that prevented the twins from toggling Doomsday Mode via uterus kicks. Also installed a voice-activated "Nanami Cooldown Mode." It just plays whale sounds. Doesn't work. They now live under the table during briefings, taping baby-proof foam strips to every sharp corner like it’s an active warzone.

Sommelier/Other Butler (¥20M+):

Ex-mistress handler. Moroccan. Mastered in tea ceremonies. Now curates Gojo’s obsession with bubblegum candy-flavored tequila with real sake. Hasn’t spoken to Nanami since the “your scotch lacks character” incident. Passive-aggressive tray clinks intensify weekly.

Family Assistant (¥80M+):

Ex-G7 UN Summit Logistics Head. Japanese Female. Ex-JSDF Special Forces. Trained in executive protection and electronic countermeasures.

Now manages three calendars:

—Wife’s Business affairs

—Nanami’s postnatal defense doctrine

—Gojo’s untraceable activities (e.g., “baby yoga raves” and “hibernation days”)

Never blinks. Might be legally dead inside. Files tax returns in combat boots.

Gojo Whisperer (¥25M+):

Ex-BTS manager from Busan. Korean, 22/Male. Fluent in TikTok, baby psychology, and tactical concealer.

Stops Gojo from buying entire candy factories "for the babies." Sometimes, a budget magician when Gojo needs to be distracted. Manages his spontaneous "daddy-dates" (he keeps trying to drag Madame to onsen trips).

Falsifies ¥10M+/week expense reports to keep Gojo’s sugar empire hidden from Nanami; wife continues to spoil him.

Has a licensed industrial-grade taser for when Gojo gets the zoomies. (Gojo is yet to figure out which one of his spouses gave him that.)

Authorized to use it when Gojo hits Mach 3 after fruit snacks.

They all stared at the camera with thousand-yard stares. One was sweating so hard his collar had fused to his neck. Another mouthed the word “help” while clutching a binky like a rosary.

Keji—the Head of Ops—looked up from the whiteboard of doom and met your eyes with bleak hope.

“Is it too late to transfer to the Shibuya branch?”

“No one survived the Shibuya branch,” Nanami said dryly.

Gojo added, “And they didn’t even have your beloved Madame to save you.”

Keji rolled his eyes and sighed; this was just the prep day.

Camera: Blinking like it wanted to quit.

Sound: Still muted.

Vibes: War.

You were half-asleep in a hoodie and pajama pants, laptop now balanced on your bump, chewing your fourth protein cookie with the same energy as a raccoon mid-heist. Your head rested on Gojo’s shoulder until you leaned the wrong way, and Nanami instinctively caught it against his neck without looking up. They knew it before you, that the third trimester had you either climbing the walls or falling asleep mid-walk.

Keji looked haunted, eyes hollow as he addressed the camera. "Last week, Nanami-san asked me if I could calculate the milk-to-curd ratio in breast milk. I said no. He said he was ‘disappointed but not surprised.’ I haven’t known peace since."

Across the room, Gojo glared at the entire staff with a sort of whimsical malice that made the power flicker. "If any of you so much as breathe weird around my wife," he said slowly, “I will erase your entire bloodline from history like Thanos, but hotter and funnier.”

You, mid-cookie, squinted. "Who laminated the poop log?"

Nanami, without even glancing up from the documents, replied simply, "For consistency."

The family assistant looked directly into the camera. Her voice was calm, but her eyes screamed war trauma. "I used to negotiate nuclear ceasefires. Now I track nipple balm expiration dates."

Nanami clicked his pen like it was a detonator. "Moving on: Emergency protocol in case of Gojo malfunction."

Keji, smiling at the camera, said, "I am the malfunction protocol."

Nanami had already moved on. "All visitors are now subject to background checks. That includes the lactation consultant and the diaper delivery guy. One of them may be a c-user."

The staff, in perfect sync, turned toward the camera and said as one, "We live in hell."

You, sipping matcha like it was a tranquilizer, gave a wistful smile. "I love them. I also want to strangle them both with my display cable."

Gojo, suddenly grave, spoke with the conviction of a cult leader. "Our babies are probably going to burp a 7.5 on the Richter scale. They're strong. Like me."

Keji, tapping the whiteboard with the air of someone losing grip on reality, muttered, "Next slide."

You addressed the camera, monotone. "I founded a trillion-plus-dollar gaming company. I hold three postgraduate degrees. My CHRO made Forbes under 25. And I’m in a mandatory tactical briefing about... pacifiers."

Nanami, flipping to the next chart, continued unfazed. "Section 4A. Microwave usage is strictly forbidden. All formula is to be temperature-verified manually. Twice."

Gojo mock-whispered, "He once used a laser thermometer on me when I had a fever. Told me I was ‘not up to code.’"

Your eyes met the cybersecurity lead’s across the room. No words were exchanged. Just silent recognition. Mutual war veterans.

Keji, meanwhile, tried to quietly staple two copies of the Emergency Latch Failure Flowchart, but the staple jammed. He stared at it like it just insulted his mother.

Gojo, now sideways in a chair chewing a Pocky stick like a cigarette, asked, "Hypothetical. What if the babies explode? Not in a ‘haha’ way—but like biblically."

Nanami didn’t even pause. "I’ve accounted for it."

Gojo tilted his head slowly towards you and slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose with a single finger. Smirked. Then leaned into your space with that familiar looseness in his spine and a dangerous glint behind his lashes and stole a quick kiss. “...Okay.”

Before you could stop it, your lips twitched. A smile slipped through. You tried to bury it in your matcha, but your eyes were already shining.

Gojo noticed. Of course he did.

His grin curled, already leaning in for another kiss—

—but Nanami, still reading, extended one arm with clinical practice and shoved Gojo back into his chair without so much as a glance. Then, in the same fluid motion, he pulled you to his side by the curve of your waist like it was procedure. Like you hadn’t already been sitting close enough to share body heat.

You inhaled. Subtle. His cologne—woodsmoke, vetiver, clean linen. Your eyes were half-lidded before you caught yourself.

Nanami was aware. Didn’t comment. He merely flipped a page.

Just then, the sommelier entered with a lacquered tray of wine samplers resting on pastel bunny-shaped coasters. Gojo perked up. Your eyes narrowed.

You turned to Nanami. Gaze sharp. Daring him. Try it. Challenging him to drink so you can fight him today. Right now infact. Your hormones were jumping up and down to square up.

The sommelier, reading the room perfectly, murmured, "Non-alcoholic. For scent pairing analysis."

You sipped one, internally deflated that you couldn’t fight Nanami, and deadpanned, "Tastes like passive aggression and unpaid emotional labor."

Nanami exhaled slowly and rubbed his temple with the pad of his thumb. “The twins’ feeding chart is now synced to the smart-home alert system. There is no excuse for missed warm-up times.”

Under the conference table, the smart-home engineer gave a thumbs-up, fully tangled in foam strips and headphone cables.

Gojo raised his hand. “Follow-up: Is warm subjective?”

Nanami didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You tried to keep a straight face. You failed. Again.

Then, you turned to the camera, whispering, "They built a failsafe so I wouldn’t scream when the doorbell rings. I haven’t turned it off in six weeks."

Gojo suddenly yelled, "Question! If I accidentally ordered ten pounds of mango mochi, does that violate the 'no sugar after 3PM' clause?"

Nanami replied instantly, "Yes."

Gojo grinned, leaping up from his chair, and ran outside. "Good. It’s here."

Moments later, a scream echoed from the front door. Gojo re-entered the room, triumphant, robe flapping on top of his bare chest, mochi bag in hand.

The Gojo Whisperer stormed in behind him. "Sir, please stop chasing couriers with your robe open."

Nanami, without blinking, stated, "This is why we have tasers."

Keji looked into the lens and grinned. "I’m considering faking my own death. Not out of fear. Just boredom."

The whiteboard cleared as a new slide clicked into place.

Emergency Infant Power Surge Protocol: Level Orange

An ominous illustration of a baby surrounded by flames. Possibly prophetic.

Nanami, completely unbothered, said, "Drills begin Monday."

Gojo, now lying flat on the floor with his legs perched on a chair, muttered, "If I die in this meeting, bury me in the nursery. Tell the babies I tried."

You, now chewing the mochi Gojo gave you, eyes glazed, said, "I told Business Insider I was on sabbatical. This is not a sabbatical. This is a hostage situation with burp cloths."

Keji, with full deadpan gravitas, yanked the lever labeled ‘Practice Fire Only.’ "Meeting adjourned."

[Camera: Still Rolling]

[Tension: Unresolved]

[Vibes: Maximum]

[End Pre-Shoot Briefing]

A/N: Thank you for surviving this HR-compliant fever dream masquerading as domestic fluff. If you’re wondering whether the weapons are metaphorical, I’m legally not allowed to confirm. This fic was brought to you by: * A passive-aggressive butler with unresolved scotch trauma * A cybersecurity goddess who blocked Gojo's unsolicited foot pic subscribers * A sommelier with a vendetta and an exorcist who beefs with haunted lip gloss * And one extremely tired wife who never asked for twins, two husbands, or Tuesday warfare Leave a comment or reblog with: Your favorite cursed staff member What you think Gojo’s sippy cup drink was made of Whether Nanami has ever smiled in this scene (answer: no, but lie to me) Reblog if you'd hire the Gojo Whisperer. Comment if you'd run. Bookmark if you're also third-wheeling your own relationship bcs he won't stop hanging with his homies. Tag yourself. I'm the smart-home engineer living under the table.

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All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

[beauty-and-passion]

TBOB PART 2: OF FLATLAND, EXWHYLIA AND EUCLYDIA (1/4)

Oooooh, this is going to be fun!~

Welcome everyone, to part 2 of my trilogy of posts regarding Bill Cipher, The Book of Bill, all the lore we got, my obsession from 8 years ago rising from the ashes and my other, older obsessions for Flatland, dimensions and backstories in general. Maybe now you get why this part is gonna be long.

Here we will talk about three second-dimensional worlds and what they have in common, starting with Flatland and Exwhylia.

For all disclaimers and bla bla bla, refer to the first post HERE. In addition to them, I would like to add that:

There will be quotes from Flatland because I love this book (there’s a reason if I read it way before knowing Gravity Falls)

Everyone should read Flatland because it’s great (you can find it online HERE)

Everyone should watch the 2017 movie about Flatland on the official YouTube channel HERE. It perfectly portrays how 2D shapes work & how the world works. Also, it’s hilarious, it’s incredibly well made and A Sphere is my spirit animal. I bet he and Bill would’ve been good pals.

<- Previous part - Masterlist

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PART 1: OF FLATLAND

“EDWIN ABBOTT ABBOTT HAS A DECENT IDEA” - Bill Cipher AMA

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A flat world

I call our world Flatland, not because we call it so, but to make its nature clearer to you, my happy readers, who are privileged to live in Space. Imagine a vast sheet of paper on which straight Lines, Triangles, Squares, Pentagons, Hexagons, and other figures, instead of remaining fixed in their places, move freely about, on or in the surface, but without the power of rising above or sinking below it, very much like shadows - only hard and with luminous edges - and you will then have a pretty correct notion of my country and countrymen.

This is how Flatland starts and we immediately learn that this world is like a vast sheet of paper in which the shapes move around.

And there is no concept of above or below:

You are living on a Plane. What you style Flatland is the vast level surface of what I may call a fluid, on, or in, the top of which you and your countrymen move about, without rising above it or falling below it. (...) for you have no power to raise your eye out of the plane of Flatland; but you can at least see that, as I rise in Space, so my sections become smaller. See now, I will rise; and the effect upon your eye will be that my Circle will become smaller and smaller till it dwindles to a point and finally vanishes.

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A world based on regularity

Soon we will also learn through the words of A Square, that:

our whole social system is based upon Regularity, or Equality of Angles.

So we have a flat world, dominated by Euclidean shapes (yes, Euclidean geometry doesn’t include just regular shapes, but lines too), based on regularity. Your angles should be regular and your sides equal.

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Social classes for regular shapes 

Our Women are Straight Lines. Our Soldiers and Lowest Classes of Workmen are Triangles (...) Isosceles. Our Middle Class consists of Equilateral or Equal-Sided Triangles. Our Professional Men and Gentlemen are Squares (to which class I myself belong) and Five-Sided Figures or Pentagons. Next above these come the Nobility, of whom there are several degrees, beginning at Six-Sided Figures, or Hexagons, and from thence rising in the number of their sides till they receive the honorable title of Polygonal, or many-sided. Finally when the number of the sides becomes so numerous, and the sides themselves so small, that the figure cannot be distinguished from a circle, he is included in the Circular or Priestly order; and this is the highest class of all.

Flatland has a very precise, clear, schematic vision of society: you have six sides? You’re a noble. You have four sides? You’re a gentleman. You have five sides? You’re a doctor (a “physician” in the book). You have three sides? You’re a tradesman. You’re a straight line? You’re a woman. Yes, women are females only.

But what if you are an Irregular?

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About Irregulars

Since Flatland is dominated by Regularity and the idea of being regular, then you can imagine how all irregular/weird/divergent things are treated:

``Irregularity of Figure'' means with us the same as, or more than, a combination of moral obliquity and criminality with you, and is treated accordingly. (...) ``The Irregular,'' they say, ``is from his birth scouted by his own parents, derided by his brothers and sisters, neglected by the domestics, scorned and suspected by society, and excluded from all posts of responsibility, trust, and useful activity. His every movement is jealously watched by the police till he comes of age and presents himself for inspection; then he is either destroyed, if he is found to exceed the fixed margin of deviation, or else immured in a Government Office as a clerk of the seventh class; prevented from marriage; forced to drudge at an uninteresting occupation for a miserable stipend; obliged to live and board at the office, and to take even his vacation under close supervision (...)

So, well, the Irregulars are basically considered criminals and if not instantly killed or confined in a hospital, they live at the margins of society. Yay.

So irregulars (and, in general, deformities) are not accepted. But, like, not at all.

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About color

There is a huge portion of the book about color and it’s extremely cool - but also, too long to quote it entirely here. Long story short: color existed in Flatland, but it was suppressed and now they live in a black and white world. Because I suppose that society wasn’t shitty enough as it was, so why not making it even worse.

(Actually there is an explanation and for their kind of society it makes sense. Still, shitty world)

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About Recognition by Sight

The book vastly explains how these creatures can see and it’s a very clever to see, considering they live in a goddamn 2D world and all they see are fucking lines. And not even colored lines, that could’ve at least helped a bit. Nope, just gray lines. Yay.

Still, they developed a way to see and yes, all they can see are lines, with the edges that fade in the distance. The more blurred they are, the more angles they can find out - thus recognizing if they’re approaching a Square, a Pentagon or a Circle.

All of this works except for women, who are basically deadly spears with a pointy end, so they’re almost invisible. And that’s why they should wag their end all the time, otherwise other shapes might not see them and get pierced through.

Yep, this is fucking hardcore and I love it.

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PART 2: OF EXWHYLIA

“I believe Bill came from a similar world that was mysteriously destroyed” - Ford Pines, Journal 3

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A flat world

Ford drew a perfect image of Exwhylia and we can see that yep, it’s a flat surface, with no above or below. It’s just a plane, exactly like Flatland.

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A world based on regularity

All we know from Exwhylia can be inferred through Ford’s pages. However, two pages are enough to make it clear that this world is based on regularity.

How can I be so sure?

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Social classes for regular shapes 

Ford describes two of these beings as “an upper-class circle” and “a lowly triangle”. So yes, Exwhylia shares the exact same social structure of Flatland: according to your shape, you will get your social class.

It says nothing about women, but considering Ford spent something like 20 seconds inside it, it’s understandable. However, we know for sure that the Exwhylians’ bodies are razor-sharp, because Ford specified it. Pretty cool - and also another reference to Flatland.

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About Irregulars

Ford says that the inhabitants of this world “considered me to be an “Irregular” shape, which is vulgar in their society”.

Sooo… yes, I imagine that this world ostracized Irregulars too, just like Flatland does.

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About color

Ford says nothing specific about it, so we have no idea if the world is black, white and gray or if there are any colors. We just know that there is no sky and no sun.

However, when he talks about what the Exwhylians can see, Ford draws several lines, says that his eyes can’t help him distinguish these objects, but the Exwhylians can and will interpret the lines differently. This implies there is no color, because if there was, Ford would’ve been able to interpret the lines too, by referring to how they were colored.

So yes, there may be no color in Exwhylia.

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About Recognition by Sight

Judging from how Ford describes what the Exwhylians can see, we can safely assume these shapes also use Recognition by Sight, just like Flatlanders  do.

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And with that, we close the premise of what I want to tell about Euclydia. Keep this stuff in mind, it will be useful to understand the topic of tomorrow's post: Euclydia.

Next post ->

(How about a coffee? ☕)

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