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sideblogtointeract · 11 days ago

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Theseus' Guide to Ruining a Perfectly Good Ship in a Bottle

A list made on the loosest association of words, with an even looser tie to this fanfiction

Stan

Give him an Amati model kit and he is happy as a clam. He's moded several already and resold them as "ghost ships" in bottles and "wreckage of a ghost ship" in a bottle for the ones Soos or Mabel drop.

Mabel

Lego model of ship in a bottle. After its built she'll change out vingettes/scenery. Soos, Wendy, and Stan are deeply invested in the unfolding soap opera Mabel crafts with it.

Dipper

Is really excited to make his first ship in a bottle, and he'll make one! Just as soon as he finishes reading a book on how to do it, and reads the other three he asked for his birthday. Maybe he'll go to the library to checkout the books the books he got used in the citation. He's going to build the ship, believe you me, he really isn't going to move onto something else in t minus 4 months. This ship? Getting built.

Ford

"Oh you meant as in an actual ship? Hah!" Ford has been maintaining an excellent example of Darwin's "Beagle in a Bottle" experiment for years now NOT a replica of the HMS Beagle in a bottle you silly.

Bill

It's the 1940s, your run is just beginning but already you feel like your life is over because prom is in two weeks and you just know Arch is going to ask Beronica not you to go with him. Can you blame him? You're just good ol’ dependable Vetty, girl next door Arch's on again off again no-on again “let's not put labels on this” girlfriend. Beronica is everything you're not she wears short skirts which you also wear but it's different. She's cheer captain and you're… also cheer captain — sometimes your co-captain it depends on the issue. Anyways she's rich, and beautiful, and perfect, and wonderful, and if it wasn't for the fact she was a brunette you'd have nothing on her.

“Oh Pops! What am I going to do?” You whine to the man working the bar at the soda shop.

“Well it's as I always tell you crazy kids, answers aren't found at the bottom of an Egg Cream.”

“But they sure are delicious!” Your longtime friend Bottlehead — wearer of cool hats and, more recently, cooler shades — stops eating table napkins long enough to quip.

“And how!” All three of you laugh before Bottlehead goes back to slurping down plastic straws like they're spaghetti.

“If you want Arch to take you to the dance, just ask him yourself.” Pops suggests, like an out of touch square.

“This is the prom, Pops, not Sadie Hawkins!” You complain, pushing your half finished Egg Cream away.

“Besides, I tried. I think he’s avoiding me.” You add, sinking into your seat.

“Say! Why don't you go ask that cursed fortune telling machine at the abandoned fairgrounds?” Bottlehead suggests, reaching for your abandoned drink.

“Golly that's a great idea! Bottlehead, if your mouth wasn't full of glass I could kiss you!!!” Bottlehead suffers a hug from you instead as he continues to consume your discarded order. cup and all.

You sock hop out of the establishment and cross the street to the abandoned fairgrounds.

Hopping over the rusted turnstile and side stepping some police tape you make your way to the culturally insensitive but period accurate fortune telling machine. Feeding it one of your hard earned and always valuable pennies the automata jolts to life.

The words are garbled over the loud clacking of the doll's mouth, out of sync with the tinny audio. Which is fine, the opening number is an offensive milieu of ethnic stereotyping. The real magic is when you press the button with your wish in mind and the machine prints out the most accurate supernatural reading it can.

You know it's accurate because, unlike biological fortune tellers, machines don't care about sparing your feelings from the celestial forces that rule over you. Just the facts.

“Please tell me how to get Arch to ask me to the dance.” You whisper your wish before slapping your hand onto the golden glowing button and watch as your destiny is printed onto gold backed ticketape.

For a brief second you hear a faint whimsical giggle as you rip off your printed fortune. Looking around you see no one in the abandoned fairgrounds. It’s just you, the chalk outline you're standing on, the automaton with its outstretched hand to shake, and the police tape surrounding you.

“That’s odd,” you muse. “When did you move?” You ask but the better question is how did it move? Because aside from the rudimentary motions reserved for nutcrackers the machine’s body was a plaster mold that had no joints to move.

Yet here it is, hand out in greeting. No. Not greeting, a deal and if you keep over-analysing I am going to take it back.

“What?” You ask as the internal narrative becomes as structurally unsound as the White House during this time period — look it up.

You turn to go to the Daleriver Library — now certified communist book free — to do just that, then are reminded by the text that you still need to read your fortune for our readers!

“If you want to be with your one true… loves?” You pause to puzzle at this but not for any longer than it takes to read this sentence. “... forever. Then shake my hand.” You Continue.

“Your friend, Bill?” You don’t know who that is but you bet he is really keen and neato to have a name like that. You feel really embarrassed that you don’t remember having a friend like that. It would be really rude to leave a pal hanging, especially when they went through all this trouble for you.

So you shake the cold hand of the automaton before you. You don’t register that the glass pane wasn’t there, that the hard resin arm moves like flesh— no, all your focus is on the bright gold cat eyes looking back at you and the return of a giggle that grows into an outright cackle.

Wind whips around you, police tape flying like ribbons caught in a tornado, and you stand still in the eye of it.

“Hiya Vetty,” The automaton greets, jaw held open like a snake— or like a smile, let’s not be rude. “long time fan first time crossover. You and I have got a lot in common.” The machine continues but the tin from its voice box layers with the voice in the wind that has stopped laughing and now talks in sync with it.

You don’t try to speak, you want to, but I don’t need to write around your wants anymore.

“Both of our fandoms question our interest in men and we share the same banana yellow pantone. Me for my body, you for your hair and… eyes?” The voice coming from all around, you guess correctly that this is Bill — smarty that you are, that earns you a free can of brown meat! — finishes. You don’t know what he looks like exactly but from the description he sounds like a real dream boat.

“My eyes aren't —” You hold that thought and pop a squat in front of the fortune telling machine. You jimmy open the front and reach inside it.

“Bet you weren’t expecting so much organ meat?” You ask yourself but you're not the one talking.

You pull your red stained arm out of the warm pulsing mass before you to free a pristine glass bottle. In its reflection you see your mouth split into a painfully wide grin scrunching your now golden eyes, a mirror image to the automaton leering over you; below that you see a tiny version of Arch banging his fist against his transparent prison.

“Ever Dream of Jeannie kid?” Asks your new best friend, still borrowing your body and voice.

“Of course you don't! That's not for another 20 years!” Your hands uncork the top of the bottle.

The soft “tink” of glass tapping concrete reverberates in the abandoned fairground. A moment passes in silence.

Then you see shoes.

“Two down,” Bottlehead says, bending down to grab you. If he hears you and Arch’s pleas he doesn’t care as he gently returns your bottle prison back into its warm nest of organs. Gold eyes look over slick sunglasses and give you a wink. “... one to go.”

#gf theseus' guide #gravity falls #bill cipher #stanford pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanley pines #fanfiction #cw: gore #vetty beronica bottlehead and arch are legally distinct oc and in no way shape or form resemble the characters from archie comics #why would u imply that?#i have the copyright right here #it says they are “mine to profit off of”

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yukimiyum · 3 months ago

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-> MY PROTECTOR | 2,977 words (~22 minutes reading time). gn!reader, hybrid!kakucho, graphic depictions of violence, gore and murder, breaking and entering.

author’s notes: this came to me from a post from silas and i just got stuck in a chokehold since then 😟

taglist: @qichun @fuyuswifey @unriding -> join the taglist!

there's probably something wrong with you.

maybe. it's up for debate, really. i mean...being a woman living alone in the city, naturally you install more than one lock on your doors. it's almost comical watching you unlock them before opening your door to invite friends or acquaintances in. no one has commented on it yet but one of your close friends, who suggests the idea of a hybrid to protect the house.

"i have one," she says, gesturing to the man standing behind her. silver hair frames his face, eerie purple eyes staring directly into your soul whenever his gaze lands on you. his ears are like little circles above his hair, flicking every now and then at the sound of the café around them. a pretty tail curls and flicks behind him as he keeps his hands behind his back. his earrings clink together as he looks around them, bored. his collar does the same-a deep purple with a pretty golden bell. no leash.

izana, she said his name was. a snow leopard hybrid.

"he's no guard dog," she comments, opening one of the sugar packets on the table to dump into her coffee, "but he's good at scaring off creepy men. i'll bring someone home and if they don't pass his sniff test, they don't get in bed with me.”

you laugh a little. "what, does he do, 20 questions or something?"

"no. i just know."

izana's voice is higher pitched than you thought it would be, but his tone is ice-cold. as chilled as his gaze. a predator, constantly eyeing the prey around him. fiercely loyal. you don't know if he has claws, but you imagine he does to fend off his attackers. at the very least, the sharp teeth tucked just behind his lips would do the trick.

"makes sense." of course a natural predator hybrid would know if something was up.

your friend lifts her coffee to her lips as she slides you the business card to the shop she got izana from. "it's technically an orphanage," she remarks, "so..just be prepared. if i could adopt all of them, i would. but...don't comment on anything. just pick the one you want and get out. you can't save them all."

your heart breaks a little bit in your chest as you take the card. "okay."

you're heading home a few days later with a doberman hybrid curled up in the back of your car.

he has a muzzle on his face, but you know he's not aggressive. he acted that way at the orphanage, watching them stuff him in the back of your car, and who are you to say something? you're no justice warrior. you just want some goddamn peace of mind. protection. safety. but... the way he'd looked at you. he wasn't aggressive.

you knew immediately he was the one as soon as you walked in. you'd locked eyes with him, his multicolored gaze staring you down, a cry for help so emblazoned on his face that you couldn't look away from him. and a doberman? one of the best guard dog breeds out there? yeah, you'll take him.

you also decide to keep his name. kakucho.

you try not to think of the handlers as you pull into your apartment complex's garage, parking and turning your car off. he's safe now, and he'll be happy here. happier than there, anyway.

kakucho stirs in the back of the car, having curled up in himself once the sleeping pills had kicked in. lazily blinking open his eyes, he locks onto you immediately as you open the back door. "wanna come out?" you whisper. you'll have to be quiet with him; he doesn't like loud noises, apparently. it's a trigger for him.

he nods. you're not sure if he can speak, or if he knows how to. either way, he groggily slides out of the car, latching onto your hand. it's big and warm, slightly trembling as he takes in all of his surroundings while you walk to the door. nobody bats an eye at you; it's not unheard of to have hybrids around. pets do still exist, since hybrids can be expensive, but you seemed to luck out with kakucho.

or they just wanted to be rid of him. perhaps both.

by the time you get to the apartment, kakucho seems awake enough to help hold the door for you as you open it. "thank you," you say, entering your home, and beckoning him in, "come on in, honey."

he stiffens at the nickname, blinking at you, but following you anyway.

your apartment isn't much. it's a nice studio, your bedroom cordoned off from the kitchen with a nice japanese foldable divider. a tv sits in the corner, your bong on your bedside table. you turn back to the door as kakucho meanders in, locking all the locks on the door. as you turn back, you realized he watched you lock them.

analyzing. assessing.

a true guard dog mentality.

you drop your keys on the kitchen table, moving to the cupboard to grab some water. "i got you a bed," you gesture into the rest of the studio, a large crate next to your bed with pillows and blankets inside, "but you can always go to the futon instead-"

kakucho is inside of the crate before you can get the rest of the invitation out, sniffling the blankets and pillows and humming.

"you smell good."

you chuckle, a blush appearing across your cheeks. his voice is raspy, like he doesn't use it a lot-gentle toned, cautious, deep-pitched. it's... it's beautiful. he's beautiful. one of the prettiest men you've seen. his big (unfortunately docked) ears standing pointed and proud above his head, turning every which way, taking in all of the new noises of footsteps above you and clattering noises in the hallway of other tenants coming and leaving.

"thank you, kakucho."

you pour your water, grabbing a second cup for him as he makes himself at home in the crate, curling up and gnawing on one of the toys inside of the crate that you'd gotten. “do you drink out of cups?"

"yeah. i know how to use silverware too. i'll eat anything. no allergies."

he sounds like he's listing off the ingredients on a prescription bottle as he says so. you hesitate to crack a joke at him—you don't have the camaraderie yet, and you don't want to make him uncomfortable right now.

not when he's dozing off with his face stuffed into one of the soft blankets, covering a big squishmallow that you knew he'd like.

you place the water next to his crate. an invitation to drink it when he wakes up, as you move to the futon, grabbing your bong as you do, turning the TV on. kakucho's head perks up as you do, looking from the bong to the TV, as if asking permission to join you on the couch.

you pat the seat next to you. "c'mere."

he does, grabbing the squishmallow as he stalks over, curling up on the couch with you, his head leaning on your shoulder as a rerun of lord of the rings appears on the screen. the metal of his muzzle digs into your skin, and you fidget a little, before turning to him.

"can i take this off?"

he stiffens. "are you sure?"

you cock your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "are you gonna bite me?"

"no."

he answers so quickly, and he notices as well as a matching blush covers his cheeks. "i, uh, i mean, no, why would i?" he stammers sheepishly, scratching the back of his buzzcut-head. it makes his ears stand out way more against his human skin.

your hands find themselves on the buckles and clips, gently undoing them and sliding the metal off of his face.

he's so pretty.

big white and red eyes stare at you as you take him in, without the metal grate blocking half of his face. his skin looks so soft, save for a mottling scar across one side of his face. his white eye... he's blind from it, the scar curving across it. you reach out to touch it.

he flinches, but not enough to scare you. instead, you pause, your fingers inches from the raw skin.

"can i?"

he nods once.

the shiver that wracks his body when you press the pad of your fingers against it gives you a sick sense of satisfaction. not in the sense that you want to corrupt him or anything, but rather that you want to protect him. funny that, how you got a guard dog to protect you, and all you want to do is the opposite. would he be good enough?

unfortunately, you’re going to find out very quickly.

leave me alone.

the text is simple as you walk into the door of your house. you send it off without a second though, pocketing your phone. it’s been a few weeks since you’ve gotten kakucho, and he’s gotten very used to you and your routines. he doesn’t even need the muzzle; he never needed it, not around you. he wasn’t dangerous. he was just afraid; afraid, and angry at the world for discarding him in such a horrible way.

he comes to meet you immediately as you walk in, like velcro, as you set your bag down with a huff. “what’s bothering you?” you hear him murmur as his face curves into your neck, nuzzling into your warmth as his arms wrap around you. he’s so gentle with you; holds you as if you’re made of glass as you sigh again.

“just my weed dealer. he’s being fucking weird again.”

you can tell kakucho’s slipped into his guard dog mentality immediately; if he were an actual dog, his hackles would be raised. he bares his teeth in disdain as he moves to look at you. “should i be worried?” he asks softly, and you shake your head, smiling at him. “he’s harmless. he’s been like this before and nothing came of it. it’s just a fight. i’m his best customer, i doubt he’d do anything to compromise.”

kakucho doesn’t answer. his gaze is unnerving.

“are you sure?”

you nod. you’re not, but you nod anyway, because you don’t want to worry him more than he already is. “why would i be worried when i have you?” you whisper instead, scratching in between his ears, his scalp fuzzy with hair growing back from his buzzcut the shelter had given him. he preens underneath your touch, fangs returning back behind his lips as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

the kiss feels like a burn. he’s never done that before.

“if you’re sure.”

he moves away, then, going to the couch and curling up as if waiting for you. you join him, putting on whatever show that comes up on your TV to watch, and nestle in, his head landing on your lap. time passes, dinner comes and goes, and finally you’re fighting to stay awake as the hit you just took softens all of your senses. this…hits harder than you thought it would. it was a new strain from your dealer that he gave you today, something that “would make you feel real good”. he’s normally dependable with that, and you pay it no mind; you’re just tired. sleepy. it was a long day. even kakucho seems at ease, snoozing in your lap as you begin to nod off.

completely forgetting about the window to your right, that you’ve left open. for a draft.

somehow you end up in bed, yawning and telling kakucho a lazy good night before falling into your bed. your covers feel like silk against your face, and you hum, pushing your face into the pillow in front of you. sleep is already gripping at you, and you don’t bother to remove your clothes properly. it’s too late for that, anyway.

completely missing the figure standing right outside your window, watching you sleep. analyzing. a glint of steel in his hand.

you awaken with a start to screaming.

it’s not your screaming; it’s coming from the living room. and it doesn’t sound like kakucho either; kakucho doesn’t scream, or hasn’t done so. if anything he’d bark or yowl. no, this sounded far too human to be a hybrid. you’re still quite deep in your sleepy high still, yur brain fuzzy and delirious as you pull the covers over you, smushing into a ball and staring fearfully at the door as you hear horrible noises on the other side of it—screaming, which turns into gurgling, which turns into nothing at all.

except for a low growl at the very end. an animalistic noise that…horrifyingly, causes you to feel a warmth pooling between your thighs.

you, by all accounts, should not go into the living room, but you’re not thinking straight at all. it feels unreal, like a dream that you’ve forgotten to wake up from as you groggily open the door, the cold metal of the doorknob not doing you any favors to rouse you more.

the stench of blood hits you first, the iron smell clogging your nose so heavily that you fight back the urge to retch all over the floor. it’s awful. it smells of death, a smell you’ve only encountered at funerals. and even then, it wasn’t always obvious; the smell of formaldehyde and others overtaking it.

your gaze crosses the room.

the window in your living room is smashed. glass litters the floor, bloody stains gleaming on them under the moonlight from outside. the oven clock glares an early hour in sickly green, but you don’t move to enter. not when you notice the perpetrator in the room lying on the floor, motionless.

it’s your dealer.

you let out a squeak of fear, covering your mouth. you’re not afraid of the fact that there’s a gaping hole where his throat used to be, or the claw marks all over his body; no, you’re frightened by the fact that he did not take no for an answer this time. the horrifying realization covers your body as if someone poured cold water all over you—that weed was laced. you knew it didn’t smell right or taste right, and you smoked it anyway.

he could’ve harmed you. he could’ve killed you. but—

but he didn’t know about kakucho.

the hybrid stood tall over his body, also motionless. blood dripped from his hands onto the floor, his face seemingly craned to stare at the dead man in front of him. the man that he killed for you. the man who he’d protected you from. you can’t imagine how he must be feeling right now; and even though you’re still stuck on the fact that there’s a dead person in your living room, there’s a sense of relief flooding your veins that you can’t deny.

kakucho turns to you, slowly, as he hears your noise.

his red eye is darkened, his other maintaining its cloudy look as he zeroes in on you. mouth covered in blood, the maroon almost matching his eye as he holds his hand up. he’s shaking like a leaf.

“don’t come any closer. i’ll come to you. the glass is everywhere.”

you obey him. you’re not dressed in much, and without shoes and in your delirious state, you’re bound to step in something and warrant a visit to the ER. you wait for him to cross, the crunch of broken glass under his boots dulled by the roar in your ears as all of your emotions crash into you.

but you’re still relieved, despite it all, especially as kakucho corrals you into your room, shutting the door behind him.

saving you from staring at the gruesome scene for much longer.

he crowds you into your room and onto the bed. there’s blood all over him, but the stench is not nearly as bad as the living room. you don’t care. why would you? you’re used to blood…not in this context, but it doesn’t frighten you nearly as much as it should. not when he’s looking at you the way he is right now. searching your face.

looking for confirmation that you’re okay.

“i’m okay,” you answer the unspoken question as his hand comes up to cup your face. he’s definitely going to leave a stain.

he sighs. it’s as if that one sentence, that one approval has released him of all of his adrenaline and emotions. what could he have been feeling in that moment? would he have done anything differently?

you almost hope not. you almost feel satisfied that he did his job. worrying about that will have to wait until tomorrow.

right now, you focus on him. on his nuzzles into you, his shudders and shakes as he begins to sob, clutching and grabbing at you as if he can’t find purchase to calm down. you pet at his head, scooching up the bed so he can lay on top of you better, his face buried in your bare stomach, panting against your skin.

it’s a horribly compromising position. you know that.

“i killed someone.”

“have you ever done it before?”

“yes. but not like that.”

that raises even more questions, but you choose not to pry. now isn’t the time for interrogation. you scratch your nails against his head as he holds you like a vice. his shaking subsides as you coo at him, telling him that he’s such a good boy. that he protected you. that he did his job well, even if he had to take a life for it. that he saved you.

“my protector,” you hum, and he sniffles, looking up at you.

“of course,” he croaks out, “i’d never let anyone hurt you. ever.”

and you believe him.

divider credit: @/tattooedeverything

© yukimiyum 2024-2025 | disclaimer: DO NOT copy or repost my works, or use my fics for fodder for AI generation training for any reason. translations are acceptable, but please ask for permission first!

#kakucho x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #cw hybrids #cw blood #cw implied stalking #cw death #cw gore #cw violence #heeehehehehehehehehehehehHEHEHEHEHH #codex.one

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