#since he functions differently than a normal living being

[mooooonnnzz]

holy shit world/insure made me sob. would you consider doing a part two ? i’m imagining stan and ford telling dipper and mable childhood stories with the reader. they’re vague about it, saying stuff like “they aren’t here anymore” so the twins just think read died. then reading coming back through the portal and they connect the dots. omfg i’m obsessed with this concept.

Word/Insured Part 2

Stanford Pines x Sibling!Reader/Stanley Pines x Sibling!Reader

☆ GUESS WHO FINISSHHHEDDDD!!!

☆ this'll have 2 parts so it's easier to digest, since it's lawnngg so if it abruptly ends, that's just me splitting it

☆ 4,5k words

☆ gender-neutral reader

☆ possible tw: drinking to cope, mentions of suicide, gagging and descriptive chewing? and just angst

☆ srry this lowk kinda took long to write both keyboard and mouse just died on me when i was writing this so i had to find an old keyboard oops

☆ if this does well, i'm considering on making hcs of reader adjusting back to their home dimensions and diving deep into the twins n their trauma !!

☆ that's all. i hope you all enjoy! :3

✶ Stan and Ford hadn’t talked to each other since your disappearance. The anger and hatred that Stan held onto was enough to deter him from even granting a glance at Ford who tirelessly tried to get Stan to talk to him. He’d begin the conversation with ideas he’s thought through the night prior, ideas that most likely secured a chance on bringing you back. But Stan wanted nothing to do with him. His head was shrouded with your screams, the way you yelled out for Stan instilled such a soul-crushing guilt on Stan; he wasn’t sure he’d properly function as a normal human being after this. Not to mention, you and Stan were two peas in a pod, spending 10 years together after the collapse of their family truly brought the pair together, closer than they’d ever thought they would be. And now Stan is going through the same grief he felt when he was kicked out of the house, Ford doing nothing but sparing a sorrowful glance to him as he shouted for his brother, anticipating Ford to do something; to clean his name and everything would go back to normal. But instead, he turned his back on him. The situations were massively different but the pain was eerily still the same. 

✶ Stan would spend majority of his nights clutching your belongings close to his chest. He didn’t care if it looked weird, those were the only things that he had left of you at the moment. Nights were spent crying himself to sleep, envisioning different scenarios where he had caught onto your wrist and pulled you back to the ground, where it was safe, where he was there to protect you. He couldn’t let his mind linger on the idea of you being stranded in another dimension, helpless and lost, not knowing what to do or where to go. The mere thought of it sends his heart crumbling down to his palms, all shredded and shattered beyond repair. He was your big brother, he was supposed to protect you. To keep you safe from harm's way, he betrayed that very promise by leading you to the place where you were taken away from him too soon. And that alone gutted him. Ford would hear Stan sobbing into the night and all he did was lay there in his bed, submitting himself to the torture to hear his brother’s wretched cries. Because, this was his fault. Stan wasn’t shy to tell him that almost every waking moment of the day when he has the chance. The guilt haunts him.

✶ Verbal arguments were pretty common between the pair. Stan mainly started them when he was pulled out of the haze he was in and roughly back to reality. A reality where you weren’t around anymore and that irked him, because who else was at fault other than his idiotic brother? “Do you ever wonder how more lively this house would have been if ya hadn’t pushed [Name] inside the portal?” His tone was harsh. They carried thick venom to them, his words permanently burning their way into Ford’s brain. “Not this again,” Ford’s heart quivered. He had just recollected himself from yesterday's fight and now Stan wants to barrel through another one? Ford avoided Stan’s glaring eye contact. “Stanley, I told you many times before. I’m sorry! I’m sorry for screwing up, I’m sorry for being the reason why [Name] isn’t here anymore.” Ford’s head tilted back, his eyes staring longingly at the ceiling. “You don’t know how much this eats at me, Stanley.” He blinks away the tears threatening to escape, his head lowering back down to meet Stan’s fiery stare. “But I beg of you, please. Don’t hate me for it. I can’t lose you again, not after losing [Name].” The look in Ford’s eyes was something Stan would never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He looked so broken, so shattered, the shell of someone who once was a prodigy at everything he touched was now crushed to bits; pieces of him scattered, lost to time. Stanley’s anger faded into a mellow irritation. Shifting his hands awkwardly on his chest, his face softened ever so slightly. “Fine,” He grumbled, rushing past Ford, their shoulders roughly rocking against each other. Ford sniffed, wiping the tears off his face. This was a new development. A spark of hope flickered in Ford. 

✶ Alcohol and cigars were Stan’s life vest. He’d rob a few packs of beer and down them within two days. It wasn’t healthy, but at least it distracted him from everything that was happening, right? Stan was pretty much drunk every day, and if he wasn’t, he was out on the porch smoking cigars, hoping that one day Ford would find him dead on the floor with beer cans surrounding him, his last moments spent thinking about how much he missed you. Stan wasn’t an angry drunk much to Ford’s surprise, considering how he spent his times where he was sober yelling at Ford, rather he’d rot away on the couch or floor, silently crying to himself in a puddle of his own tears. Many times Ford would have to pick up Stan, rest him on the couch and try to sober him up. And it wasn’t an easy task to do, picking up Stan with his weak arms was a workout for Ford. “Why couldn’t I save them?” Stank drunkenly babbled out, his head swaying side to side. “Don’t move too much, Stanley. You’ll give yourself a headache.” Ford warned, propping his head up with a pillow. “If I wasn’t so slow, [Name] would still be here.” Stan hiccups, his eyes glistening with tears. No matter how many times Ford hears Stan painfully talking about you, it still hurts the same and even more. “It’s not your fault, Stan.” Ford said, pulling a blanket up to his chest. “It’s not yours either.” Stan’s hand patted Ford on his face, thinking that it was his head. When Stan pulled his hands away, tears were streaking down Ford’s cheek. Hearing Stan tell him that it wasn’t his fault healed a piece of him and that quickly triggered the waterworks. “There, there, brother.” Stan patted Ford’s back as he sobbed into his hands. “It’s not my fault,” He repeated in loud sobs. “It’s not your fault.” Stan echoes. 

✶ Ford handled his grief and stress by huddling himself in the lab, isolating himself from Stan’s drunken state and researching his work. Trying to find loopholes that he can tie them close with a workaround, with a quick fix that would bring you back. Cans of beer were discarded around his lab, just the same as upstairs. But he wasn’t downing beers like Stan, he chugged one or two to dull out the ache in his heart, to keep it from distracting him. He knew when to stop and limit himself. He wasn’t dependent on alcohol. Sleep was something Ford considered useless. That would only distract him from his work, from his progress. Stan walked into the lab, puffing a gray smoke of air out onto the air. Your absence has bestowed so much despair onto the pair and he hadn’t realized until this very moment. Walking over to Ford, he placed a hand on his back. He was messily sleeping on top of his work, glasses hanging off his face, mouth open, drool dribbling down to his arms and paper. His dark circles were so dark and he was unshaven, chin stubbly with hair. Has he been getting any sleep? He wouldn’t know because he’s always drinking the day away. Stan internally groaned at himself. Not only has been neglecting himself, he’s been neglecting his brother. Burning out the cigar, he grabbed a blanket from upstairs and draped it over Ford. “Sleep tight, Stanford.” He said, gingerly squeezing his arm. Stan sat right next to him, wanting to keep him company and dozed off. When morning came, Ford awoke to Stan’s head colliding with his chair. For that one morning, Stan’s snores were music to his ears. 

✶ “S-Stanley!” Ford’s body lunges up from the couch when he sees Stan briskly pass by him and into the kitchen. “I-I’ve done some research and I-I think I found a way to get [Name] back!” He stumbles over his words, the lack of sleep weighing heavily on his foggy brain. The only thing that is keeping him up as of now is coffee he had been taking in shots for the past few days. The way he moves is fidgety and erratically and Stan takes notice of that. Pouring a cup of coffee for himself in a mug, he leans his back against the counter. “You need sleep, Stanford.” He brings the rim of the mug to his lips, his eyes never leaving Ford’s trembling figure as he takes a big gulp from his coffee. Ford couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Stan spoke to him! It was measly four words, but that’s more than he has ever said in the past five months, that wasn’t angry nonsensical words that were being thrown at him or depressing drunken babbling. “No, there’s so much to be done.” Ford runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “You need to hear me out. We need to find the other two–” Stan shushes him. “I won’t talk to you until ya sleep, Stanford. Don’t you bother trying to back out from this.” He looks at Ford with a stern expression, almost the same one Mom wore whenever he warned Ford to not do anything stupid in the backyard with Stan. “B-But!” Stan doesn’t hear his weak objections, he’s already out of the kitchen before Ford can conjure a good enough excuse. With a groan, Ford trips over his own feet while he makes his way back to the couch. Pushing all his research and books off the couch and onto the floor, he topples over the couch. When his head crashes on the soft plush of his sofa, his body automatically shuts off, revealing how dangerously tired he was. His eyes fluttered close and it didn’t take long for him to crash out on the couch. Stan came in to check on Ford and was pleasantly pleased to see his twin at last getting the rest he deserved. 

✶ Clinking his fork idly on the ceramic plate, Stan watched Ford make breakfast. Originally Stan was going to prepare breakfast, but Ford saw he was cooking and pushed him out of the kitchen, telling him that it was “his treat,” Stan couldn’t even utter a single word to him. He just wanted simple scrambled eggs and toast and now he’s left to fear for his life as Ford concocts a science experiment for his breakfast. “And for you breakfast, Stanley.” Ford swoops in, leaning forward as he shuffles the plate of food onto the table. “Scrambled eggs and buttered toast,” Ford smiles knowingly, placing his breakfast down. He had the same breakfast but the crust of his toast was cut off. “I don’t even know why I doubted you.” Stan scoops up the scrambled eggs with his fork and shoves it in his mouth with giddy excitement, a display of emotions Ford hadn’t seen in over 10 years. Who knew a simple breakfast would get him so happy? “Still being a baby about the crust?” He points to Ford’s crustless buttered toast with his fork, mouth muffled with food still being chewed in his mouth. Ford cringes at the sight of mashed up food in Stan’s mouth, suppressing a gag as he nods his head. “Chew your food before talking, Stanley! We’re not kids anymore.” He rasps out, his palm covering his mouth, his body shuddering with full body heaves. “Alright, alright!” With a loud gulp, he swallows his scrambled eggs. “Happy now?” Said Stan with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe not,” Using his other hand, Ford pushes the plate of eggs away. “Don’t want to eat anymore,” Stan shrugs, pouring the scrambled eggs on the plate. “More for me!” As Stan is chowing down on his eggs, Ford regains his composure. Though, he couldn’t watch Stan eat his eggs without the image of the yellow goopy food in his mouth so he averted his gaze to his hands. 

✶ “[Name] sure had grown up the last time I saw them.” This was Ford’s feeble attempt at sprouting a conversation with Stan, but he soon regretted what he said when he realized the fragility of the topic. Stan blinks, stunned. A beat passes and Ford’s ready to divert the conversation to another topic when Stan replies with a weird look on his face Ford can’t quite catch. “Well, yeah,” Stan looks off to the side. Ford lets out a breath of relief, Stan wasn’t upset at the mention of you. “They left with me when you and Dad kicked me out and we haven’t seen each other since then.” There’s a distant look in his eyes when he speaks, his words carrying a light anger to them ever so slightly. “How were th–” Stan shoots up, the chair skidding behind him. “Just because we’re all chummy now doesn’t mean you get to ask all about [Name].” The sudden shift in his emotions slapped Ford right in his face. “I’m sorry.” Ford whispers. Stan clicks his tongue, uttering to himself before shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry.” Stan rubs the sides of his head with his fingers. “Let’s not talk about them right now, okay? I don’t think I’m ready yet.” Stan pulls the chair to him and sits down. He rests his head on his fist, eyebrows pinched together with a long frown on his face. “I didn’t mean to blow up on ya like that.” Stan looks Ford in the eyes, and he could see the sincere sadness swimming in his eyes. “It’s okay, Stanley. Why don’t we talk about what you do for a living?” With that, they eased themselves into a comfortable conversation, with a few hiccups here and there, but in the end, the twins both had a soft smile adoring their faces.

✶ The repairing of the portal was a stepping stone that repaired Ford’s and Stan’s relationship. They weren’t going to lie and say that their relationship now was perfect, they still had their moments of anger and differences, but with a lot and a lot of patience, their bond was soon regaining its spark. “Whaddya think, poindexter?” Stan slapped a sloppily written plan on how to fix the portal in front of Ford. “What is this?” Ford looked at the piece of paper like it was garbage. “A plan to fix the portal, isn’t it obvious?” Stan snatched his paper back up, eyes speedily reading his work, doubting his work. “Stanley, that is unnecessary. I have the blueprints to fix the portal.” Discarding his plan, he slapped his hands enthusiastically, rubbing them together. “Alright! So where are they?” Ford sucks in a breath. “In the other journals.” Stan nodded his head slowly, as if that information was already obvious. “And where are the other journals?” Ford coughs into his fist, speedily saying; “I hid them.” Stan looks at him weirdly. “Can’t we just unhide them?” Ford rubs a hand up against his prickly cheek. “That’s the thing. I may or may not remember where I hid them.” Closing his eyes, he braced for the gust of angry yelling. “you WHAT?!” Stan’s hands flew to the side of his head. “How do you forget where you put them?!” Stan made a mental note to mark down how many times Ford screwed up, so far he has two. He has a long way to go before he could be anywhere near Stan’s record. “I was in a flurry of panic! I wasn’t thinking straight.” Stan groaned, smacking his face with his hand. “Was it at least in Gravity Falls?” Stan had his fingers crossed. “Yes, obviously.” A triumph “Yes!” leaves Stan. “Okay, let’s get digging then!” 

✶ Stan severely underestimated how truly difficult it would be finding one of the books in a forest that seemed like it stretched out for miles. Every turn looks the same and whenever he’d think he’s making progress, he’s right back where he started, at least he thinks he is. Frustrated, he bangs his head on a tree. The sound of metal clanging rang in his ears and shook through the tree. He groaned, holding his head with one hand as he curiously examined the possible metal tree. “Stanley!” Ford came running to Stan’s side, panting heavily. He wasn’t used to running for more than 5 seconds, and that was evidently proven with his flushed face and out of breath wheezes. “This tree is metal,” Stan notes, taking a few steps back, winding his leg back and hammering his shoe into the tree. The tree simply shook, the metal sound nowhere to be heard. “What?” Stan can feel his brain heating up, he couldn’t make any sense of this. The tree he kicked felt like a tree, not some metal contraption. It was only when he knocked his head—An idea springs to mind. Leaning his head back, he slammed his head on the tree. Shocked noises sputter out of Ford as he watches Stan rub the sore spot in his head. “There’s something here,” He gestures to the general area where he smashed his head in. “I can see that!” Ford walks up to the tree, knuckles gently knocking on the metal plate that was disguised as a tree. His hands move around the tree, searching for a way to open the plate. His fingers snag on an elevated piece of tree and with his fingertips, he swings it open, revealing a control panel. The memories of constructing this rush to his mind. “I remember now!” He flips a switch, his head turning over to where the large log rested. In front of it, a patch of grass was pulled back to unravel the hidden place where book three was. Ford eagerly snatched the book in his hands, showcasing it to Stan. “Great job, Stanford!” He claps Ford’s back. “So where’s the other one, you remember?” Unfortunately for the both of them, Ford doesn’t remember. He had seemed to bury most of his memories after meeting Bill Cipher, anything beyond that point was an empty mess for him.

✶ With the two books in hand, they managed to tinker and repair the damage to their best efforts. After each exhausting night in the lab, he’d attempt to pull the lever in hopes that whatever they did that day would work and to their utter disappointment, it never dislodge from its spot. “Man,” Stan wipes his forehead with his forearm, sweat glistening on his arm. “For a brainiac like you, I would’ve never imagined you being terrible at building this!” Stan barked with a laugh. Ford scoffed, his attention laser focused on fixing a part of the machine. “How did you manage to build the portal in the first place?” Stan wondered, the flashlight he was using to help Ford see what he was doing began to steer away. “Stanley,” Ford snapped. “The light!” Stan jolted up in surprise, the light quickly going back to Ford. “Sorry,” He sheepishly said. “But seriously, how did you build this?” He looked at Ford curiously. “I had an assistant.” Ford mumbled, a leak of oil dotting his clothes. He hissed, grabbing a tool off the ground to fix whatever started leaking. “Had? What happened?” Ford hummed happily. He had fixed the leak. Placing the tool back down to the floor, he directed his attention to Stan. “He quit.” Ford scratched his head, unintentionally smearing oil on his cheek with his hand. “Why?” Stan tossed him a piece of clean cloth, silently motioning to his cheek. Ford took it, wiping his cheek with the cloth. “He, uh,” If Ford told Stan that he went inside the portal momentarily and came out completely traumatized, Stan would go berserk on him knowing that you went inside the exact portal that mentally ruined Fiddleford. Ford did not want to go back to the arguing and suffocating silence so he lied. “He just thought what I was doing was unethical.” That wasn’t a complete and total lie, but it was far from the truth. Stan bought the lie fortunately for Ford. “Glad at least someone had the brain to call a quits!” 

✶ Before they knew it, they were tremendously low on money. Stan was the unfortunate one to discover this revelation. On a quick supply run, Stan had gone to the grocery store and stock up on some food. When the cashier rang up him, totaling his price to 30 dollars, Stan had pulled out a penny, paper clip and a wrapper. Mentally cursing Ford for spending all his money on unnecessary science stuff, he weakly smiled at the cashier. “Can you hold onto my groceries for a quick second?” The cashier nodded their, a big bright smile on their face. “Of course, stranger!” And right when Stan was going to snag the groceries bags in his hurried rush, a woman spoke from behind him. “Hey, that’s no stranger! That must be the mysterious science guy in the woods!” She points, gathering a crowd around Stan. “Ah, no. That’s my nerdy twin brother.” Stan says, causing the crowd to coo in interest. “There’s two of them?” Someone in the crowd asked. “He probably cloned himself just so he could do two things at once!” Someone else said. “That’s probably what happened. I’ve heard strange stories about that old shack.” Toby Determined spoke up. “Yeah! Mysterious lights and spooky experiments!” Daryl added. “Gosh, I’d pay anything to see what kind of shenanigans you get up in there!” Pa said. Susan perked up at that. “Oh, me too! Do you ever give tours?” 

✶ A sly smirked pulled to Stan’s face. He had the perfect idea. “Yes, I do give tours! Ten…no-no fifteen bucks a person!” The crowd erupts in cheers, waving their green bills around. “Is it possible we get to see the man of mystery himself?” Susan questions. “Hmm, I’m not sure.” Stan eluded them to think that there was no possible way to get to Ford to gauge their reactions. And what they gave him sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. “You know what?” The crowd lightens up with hope. “Fifty bucks if you all want to see the man of mystery himself!” Another boisterous cheer from the crowd. “And what did you say your name was, twin of mister mystery?” Stan smiled proudly. “Stanley, Stanley Pines.”

✶ The crowd bustles into the shack, ooo’s and aaa’a left their mouths in awe of the place. “Step right up folks to a world of,” he pauses for a moment thinking. “A world of enchantment!” He gestures to all the wild findings. Grabbing a dial box with two antennae, he showcases it to the crowd. “Behold! The um, nerdy science box.” Susan looked at it with interest. The device rumbled to life and zapped her in the eye, rendering it closed. “Ah, my eye!” She covers her closed eye, stumbling back. “Uh, I can assure you, that is no way permanent!” He offers an uneasy smile. “I paid sixty five dollars for this!?” With Susan’s comment, the whole crowd erupted in complaints. Quickly thinking, he grabs a skeleton and makes a half-assed joke where the last customers didn’t make it out alive. The crowd laughs at his horrible joke and Stan smiles. “What is with all this ruckus?” Ford walks in, irritation evident on his face. “Is that him?” Someone excitedly shrieks from the crowd. “Oh my god, it is! Take my money!” Wads of dollar bills get thrown at Stan who was making a great effort to make sure he caught all of them. “Stanley, what did you do!”

✶ After answering a few questions he was coaxed into, (they stroked his ego), he kicked them out, accidentally saying that they could return another time before closing the door, smacking himself in the head. “What was that?” Stan turned over to Ford,  buckets of money shoved inside into his shirt. “I got us money! And look how much we got!” He pulls a ten dollar bill from his stack in his shirt. “Stanford, this the best thing that’s ever happened to us so far.” Ford looks at him, unsure. “I’m not a fan of ripping people off,” Stan’s hands fall to his sides. “It’s their choice to throw money at me like a madman. Listen, if we get more money, we can stock up on good materials to fix the portal, like really good parts and we can finally bring [Name] back.” Ford stewed in his thoughts for a little more. He hated to admit, but Stan was right. With a little more money, they could be sailing straight to victory with a higher chance of your return. Ford let out a defeated sigh. “Fine, but I don’t want you to mess with my stuff, got it?” Stan beamed brightly. “I promise!” He broke that later on. 

✶ Gradually, the scary shed in the woods turned into a tourist spot people would frequent. Together, they advertised the shack by plastering various signs and posters all over the woods. They even went as far to tape advertisements onto people’s windows. Ford wanted to use actual beasts he had found in the woods to show to people, but in the end they all ran away, horrified for their lives. Ford was respectfully peeved because when he’d glance over to Stan, he had somehow had the crowd hanging on to every word that spilled out of his mouth. And when he’d show the crudely sewed animal he had made within five minutes before the tour started, they all gasped in delight, their money flying to him. “How do you do it?” Ford asks as Stan closes the door, reveling in the pool of money he had made. “I just say whatever comes to mind.” Stan shrugs. “But none of your stories make any sense logically! How did they believe in a half beaver half bat?” He gestures to the taxidermy animal. The beady eyes were slowly sliding off its face, leaving a trail of glue. “Hey, the people love to spend their money on things that are obviously fake, weirdly enough.” The door rattles with a knock. “Wanna take this next crowd? I gotta sort this money.” Against his will, not really, Ford opens the door and flashes an award winning smile he had learned from Stan. Cash was already being shoved in his face. At least he earns money for looking good. Ford attempted Stan’s whole shtick and to his very surprise it worked! It wasn’t as good as Stan’s performance, but it worked well enough that people were swarming him with cash. His bitterness from before was quickly washed over and he continued on his act. When the crowd dispersed, satisfied with their tour. Stan was there in the middle, clapping widely. “That was some good acting there, Ford!” Ford smiled, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m only doing this cause we need the money.” 

Taglist: @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @lovexsage, @teddycricketdream, @theilluminatidragonqueen, @raventeen @cedarmoonzz if you wanna be added to my taglist, dm me or comment! <3

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[satorusugurugurl]

different anon here but I absolutely loved the voice kink post, could I maybe ask for a little of spin off of that, and if you feel comfortable could I ask Gojo, Geto and Nanami separately with a reader who is into degradation? Especially the one mixed with praise like how much of a good cocksleeve they are for the boys?

Voice Kink?! (Part Two)

Characters: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, FAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,550

Warnings: degradation, cursing, dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, oral sex (M +F Receiving), spicy smut!

A/N: all three parts are a continuation of Part One! Please enjoy! I hope I did okay with the degradation! 😅

Part One

Gojo Satoru:

It had been about two weeks since your boyfriend found you listening to your smutty audiobook. That night, you had rough and passionate sex until either of you could function like normal human beings. Seeing how squirmy and turned on you got just by the sound of his voice gave Satoru a sure confidence boost! You didn't need smutty ASMR clips or audiobooks. All you needed was him.

At least, that's what he'd assumed.

So imagine his surprise when the two of you were at the gym. He was doing the leg press while you worked on the stationary bike. He glanced over at you; he held up two fingers, letting you know he had two sets left to do. But when he looked at your face, it wasn't the face of someone working out hard. No Gojo knew that face better than anyone else.

The way you bit down on your bottom lip with narrowed eyes, how you were in the process of doing your own leg presses, squeezing your thighs together, rubbing them gently, trying to be subtle, but failing miserably. You were horny, and from the earbuds in your ears, Gojo knew you were once again listening to your smutty stories.

That knowledge alone had him disregarding his final two sets, rushing to wipe down the equipment before he towered over you. Gojo smirked coldly the second you turned to acknowledge him. His eyes were dark; his jaw was clenched tight as a vein in his forehead poked out.

“Come on, sweetheart, I think we’ll finish my workout at home.”

He didn't emphasize that his workout would be you. The second you stepped into the apartment, Satoru was on you. His hands tugged your sweaty gym clothes off, yanking the seat belt off your waist. You giggled, not realizing he was upset, until he pushed you toward the living room, bending you over the coffee table.

“Satoru—?” you hesitantly ask, “Uhm, baby?”

His foot kicks your knees apart before his hands tug your tight gym pants down past your thighs, pooling them around your knees. “Yes, slut?” Your pussy throbbed as you turned to look over your shoulder at him.

“W-Well, that wasn't very nice!”

“Oooh and you think rubbing those cute little thighs together at the gym was nice? Stimulating my pussy out in public here, anyone could see? Like a dirty fucking slut?”

Satoru isn't blind; he sees how you rock your hips. “I-I wasn't—” Smack! “Ah!” you cry out, rocking your hips forward as Satoru spanks you again.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, don't lie to me, sweetheart~ you've been such a bad girl, haven't you? Listening to those nasty books in public~ getting all wet because someone is whispering dirty things in that ear?” Satoru smacks your ass again. “What a nasty fucking slut.”

Your panting, pressing your ass back against him, desperate for him to touch you. “Y-Yes, I was listening to my book~ wh-while watching you work out!” The hand on your ass trails down, plunging two fingers inside of your tight heat. “N-nngh!!” you cry out, gripping the edge of the coffee table for support.

“Imaging me fucking you~? Whispering those dirty, smutty things in your ear?” You can't speak as he rubs your g-spot, wet, squelching sounds flooding the room. “Ah~ does it feel so good my little slut can't answer?” Satoru’s tongue runs up the nape of your neck before leaning in next to your ear. “Don’t worry~ you don't have to answer because this needy little cunt is doing all the talking for you.”

The wet squelches got louder as Satoru finger fucks you faster. You're crying out, digging your manicured nails into the wood grain. Seeing you in such a messy and desperate has Satoru yanking his fingers out of your pussy before tugging his sweats down. His fat throbbing cock rubbing over your ass.

“Mhmm, you like this~ you like it when I call you out for being such a dirty whore~ god, what am I going to do with you, huh?” Pre-cum is smeared all over your ass before Satoru grabs it by the base, prodding the leaking tip against your entrance. “Maybe I should fuck you like the whore you are.”

“Fuckin do it!”

You cried out, rocking back, trying to get him inside of you. Your boyfriend smirked, eyebrows raising at you futilely. He cooed, squeezing your ass, watching you blindly, trying to get him to fuck you. You were so desperate and horny; you always got worked up when he talked nasty to you.

“Oh, come on slut~ use me like a dildo~ come on, you can do it.”

“Torruu~ Toru, please!”

“Nu-uh—put your back into it, fuck yourself.”

Sighing in defeat, you reached between your legs, easing his cock inside of you with a whine. You pushed yourself back further, slowly fucking yourself back and forth on him. Satoru smugly smirked as you rocked yourself; His hands groped at your ass, massaging it, “What a good girl~ fucking herself on my cock like the slut she is~! Does that feel good~?” his words had you whining, nodding your head as you began to rock back harder against him.“Mmmh fuck pretty girl~ your ass is rippling with each thrust~ good girl~!” Satoru grits his teeth as you clench down around him, milking him. “N-Nnngh!” Those warm large hands that had been eagerly massaging the fat of your ass move to grip your hips instead.

“S-Satoru—please! Please!”

“Please, what?” Your boyfriend's voice is husky as he groans, pressing himself all the way into you, his cock hitting your cervix.

“Please fuck me!”

“Since my slutty girlfriend begged so prettily, I guess I can give her what she wants.”

Without another word, Satoru’s cock slides out the tip threatening to pop out of your tight heat before slamming back in with a force that rocks the table. Your eyes widen, mouth agape in a silent scream as he hits your g-spot and cervix with a single thrust. He pulls back out again before slamming into you harder. Satoru’s fingers grip your hips so hard it stings, but it's a pain you welcome.

“Look at you~ getting yourself fucked stupid.” You clamp down harder while pathetically whimpering against the table. “But you do it so well~! Taking my cock so fucking good! Like you were made for it slut.” You whine louder with a string of ‘yes’ leaving your lips that has his cock twitching and hardening inside of your wet walls. “Such a good little slut~ I should thank you for being such a dirty whore in public fuuuck shouldn't I?”

“T-Toru!”

“Well, thank you~ sweetheart, for being such a good little slut and getting off in public!” One of his hands leaves your hip, grabbing your head and pressing it against the table. “Haaah! Hah fuck~! Fuuuuck d-don’t I deserve a thank you~? Hmm? For fucking you like you wanted?”

His hips are moving like a jackhammer, plowing you hard, hitting all of the right spots while moving the coffee table against the floor with each thrust. You cry out with tears as you drool against the table's surface. He’s losing control, his dicks expanding, fingers twitching as he whines. God, this was so good. Your twitch convulsed around him, screaming out loud.

“T-Thank you! Thank you, Toru!! I-Im c-cu—”

“That's right, cum for me slut,” he groans through clenched teeth, “cum all over my cock!” As Satoru feels you clamping around him, he growls, dropping his head against your shoulder as you squirt hard, soaking the floor. Your boyfriend whines, lips brushing against your skin. “G-Good girl~! Fuck~! Good fuckin’ girl~! Milk my cock! That’s it!” His hips are erratic as he lets out a loud whine before cumming deep inside of you. Spurts of hot cum make your cry softly as Gojo fills you to the absolute brim, his hips weakly rocking into you, pushing his cum further inside until he stops, sighing heavily.

You lay there against the table as Satoru groans above you. His glossy lips gently move over your sweat-sheen skin. His hands gently massage your waist as he trails kisses up your back. You hum contentedly as you turn your head, kissing him softly. His lips move lazily against yours before he sighs.

“Now that was a cool down.” He kisses you again, pulling out of you gently before lifting you. “Let's get showered and crawl in bed.” there wasn't a single complaint from you as Satoru carried you to the bathroom.

Geto Suguru:

The glass is so cold against your breasts as Suguru rocks his hips against you. Since you left the work function, he'd been eagerly rushing to get you home. And now that he had you in the comfort of your home, he wouldn’t hold back.

“A-Ah Suguru!” you cry out as his large hand tangles in your hair, pulling your face away from the window and overlooking the street before you. “D-Do we have to do it right here?”

His intoxicating earthy musk flooded your senses as he purred into your ear, lips brushing against your earlobe. “What was that? Is my little slut shy now?” the degrading words had your eyes rolling back. His hands pushed your skirt up, pooling it around your hips. “You were so needy at the party, and now that we're in the comfort of our home, you're suddenly shy?” Your husband took your earlobe between his teeth and nibbled on it. “Or did squirting on my fingers satisfy you enough?”

“N-No, that’s fuck—that’s not it.”

“Oooh? Then what is it?”

“T-The neighbors might see.”

Dark strands of hair fall over your shoulder as your husband laughs. For a second, the finest of seconds, you believe he might let you go and drag you to the bedroom. But instead, his hands leave your hips, trailing up to your breasts where he yanks your bra down, exposing your tits. Your gas before he shoves you against the window, breast squeezing against the cool surface.

“But you weren't so shy at the party. So why is it my cocksleeve is so shy now?”

Your loving husband never called you such derogatory things before. For him to call you such nasty words, well, unfortunately, it had a fire burning between your legs. You liked the side of him, hearing him call you his cocksleeve, knowing that he saw you as his, and his alone had your chest heavy with arousal. It was so hot you rubbed your thighs together, a movement that did not go unnoticed by your husband.

“My oh my, what a night this has turned out to be,” he growled in your ear, his hands slowly trailing back down your curves, his fingers hooking under the waistband of your underwear. “First, I learned that you get off to the sound of my voice, and now I can see you getting off to me degrading you?”

“C-Cant help it, Sugu—” your husband watched you rock back, “you're so hot, I get wet over everything you do.”

“Oh?” RIIIIP!! You gasped, feeling your laced underwear fall to the floor underneath you. “Looks like my slutty wife finally learned how to tell the truth.”

The next thing you manage to hear over your heavy breathing is the sound of Suguru’s belt being unbuckled and his zipper being pulled down. Your breath fogs up the window as Suguru’s thick fat cock prods at your tight entrance teasing your needy hole. God, you wanted him so bad; if he didn't get inside of you, STAT, you might lose your mind.

“M-Mmmhm fuck~ Suguru~”

“Shhh~ I know what my little fucktoy needs.” he spits into the palm of his hand, coating his cock with saliva. “Does my little cum slut want my load? Hmm? Is that it bitch?” He presses his cock against your e trance, the tips slowly pushing past the tight ring of muscles.

“P-Please, I want it, I need it, Sugu.” the feeling of the tip of his cock pushing inside of you has you slamming your hands against the window. “Oooh fuck!”

Suguru trails hot open, mouthed kisses down your neck with a grunt. “You need it~? You want to be my fuck toy; are you going to be a good girl and allow me to fill you with my cum? Fuck it into you so deep it seeps out of you all night? Is that what you want?” He slides in only an inch. “Use your big girl words and tell me.” Even without an answer, Suguru pushes in further, growling against your sensitive, heated skin.

“P-please want it! I wanna be filled.”

“Ooh, what a good little slut telling me what she fucking wants.” Suguru slammed into you all at once, filling you to the brim. Your eyes went wide, and a wheezed whine escaping Suguru roughly began fucking into you from behind. “Such a desperate cum hungry whore~ getting off to the sound of my voice~ talking to her like a common whore.”

Your husband likes seeing you so flushed and turned on. How you slid your hands down the window, your moans fogging up the window panel as he sucked in a breath through his teeth. Hearing the gasps and moans had him fuckinf into you earnestly, his eyes narrowing as he reached around toying with your clit, as the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest, allowing his throbbing cock to push further inside of you.

“Look at you are taking this dick like a good slut, taking it so deep~ I wonder if you could see me bulge in your tummy~?” he rests his chin on your shoulder, trying to look. “Awe, you tightened around me. Like a good girl~ your pussy is so honest.”

“S-Suguru!” drool seeps out of the corner of your mouth, “Sugu~!”

His thrusts are deep, each drag of his velvety cock hitting your sweet spots, making you cry out louder as your eyes roll back into your head. You felt so good, and seeing you in such a state had your husband bucking his hips faster, pressing you harder against the glass, leaving your breasts on perfect display for any poor soul that decided to walk by, but that was the fun of it. Not only was Sugurh’s dirty talk getting you going, but the possibility of having someone see you like this made you all the wetter.

The feeling of your slick and his ore-cum coating his cock had Suguru nipping at your shoulders. “That's it~ take every inch of my cock~ god, you nasty little bitch, getting me all worked up at the party~ making me fuck you here against the window like some run-of-the-mill slut instead of my loving wife.” he chuckled against your skin. “But you like this, don't you? Like the possibility of getting caught? Having our neighbors who view you as a sweet loving wife see what a hungry cock slut you are for your husband.”

“Y-Yes! Yes, I want that.”

“Mhmm~ good girl~ good fucking girl so honest~!” his hips move fast, slamming you against the wall with each thrust, drawing cries of pleasure out of you. “That’s it~ that’s it~ fuuuuck your cunt is milking me~ nnngh! So good, baby~ so fucking good~!”

Why was he so hot?! He didn’t have to do much to get you all worked up. Suguru had that effect on you, and he knew it from the way your knees buckled as his fingers rubbed your clit in circles.

“ I-I’m gonna cum! Ooooh fuck I’m gonna cum so hard!”

“Yeah? Gonna squirt for me again, princess~?” You nod, arching back. “So good~ do it slut cum for me, cum all over our window~ just show our neighbors just how fucking slutty you are for your husband.”

Not needing to be told twice, you screamed, head thrown back, resting against Suguru’s shoulder as you squirted all over the window. The sight of your cum slowly dripping down its surface was enough to send your husband over the same orgasmic cliff. His his stuttered as he sunk his teeth into your skin, biting you as he fucked his thick cum inside of you, pushing it in as deep as he possibly could.

“Cummin~ oooh fuck I’m cumming, princess~!” He groaned as he pulled back away from the bite mark. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Only once you both are done shaking does Suguru pull out of you. He quickly pulls the curtain shut before he leans against it, cradling you gently against his chest. His voice is deep and smooth as he hums your name over and over again as the last waves of your orgasms pass.

“Princess, mmm, you’re utterly insatiable.” He groans as he pulls out of you. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too, Sugu~ god, I love it when you talk dirty to me like that.”

“Oh really?”

“Mhmm~ makes me wet and needy.”

Suguru has you over his shoulder in one swoop, carrying you towards the bedroom. “Good. I hope you’re ready to soak the bed because I’m not even close to being done with you.” In that instant, you were so glad you had invested in a waterproof mattress cover.

Nanami Kento:

“Look at the mess you made.” you’re on your knees, looking up at your boyfriend who towers above you. His hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking it as he motions towards the wet spot on his suit pants. A mess that was caused by yourself when you squirted all over his cock at the school. Didn't warn you not to make a mess?”

Nanami strokes himself up and down, squeezing at the tip of his cock. His head tilts back as a bead of pre-cum dribbles out of the tip. If you knew, this was where you would end up after blatantly disobeying him, you might’ve reconsidered your choices. All you wanted to do was to take him into your mouth and him like he had done for you. But you had made a mess all over his final pursuit; he had decided to pleasure himself above you.

“Such a disobedient whore of a girlfriend I have.” He grunts, stroking himself faster. “Getting off to me shouting, then she has the indecency of begging for me to fuck her on school grounds.”

“Kento please—just let me—” you read your hand up to grip his shaft, only to have your hand watered away by Nanami’s left hand. “Please I wanna make you feel good!”

Nanami chokes on a moan, his eyes rolling back as he strokes his cock faster. “Then perhaps instead of being a dirty needy slut, you should’ve considered what may have happened once we got home. I was planning fully on fuck you into the mattress. But someone was impatient, needy, and desperate for my cock like the whore she is.” You whine at the derogatory terms he’s throwing at you. It makes your pussy throb, eager to please him for him to use you and call you such things. But for him to stand above, you jerking himself off above your face. This was like torturous foreplay, like edging.

“Kento I’m sorry!” Nanami glances down at your face watching as you stick your bottom lip out in a pout. “Please let me help you! I’ll let you use my mouth, please!”

“Now you’re begging for it like some cum thirsty, bitch in heat?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m begging for it! I want you so bad~ please Kento~ please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me suck you off!”

Your pussy throbbed and clenched around nothing as you continued to stare up at your boyfriend. His gaze softens just a bit, as he hums, taking in your needy desperate appearance. You're squirming, pushing your thighs together, your hands gripping at your pants, as an outlet for all of the desire coursing through your veins. As much as Nanami would have loved to keep this act up, stroking his cock, making you suffer, he couldn't deny that he would much rather use you.

Nanami grunted, stepping closer to you, holding his cock out in front of your mouth. “You begged so nicely, it would be such a shame not to reward you.” He rubbed the tip of his cock over your bottom lip. “Now open up, and say ahh~”

“Ahh~!”

Nanami grunted, shoving his cock deep inside of your throat without any warning. Your eyes went wide as you choked around him, gagging as he gripped the sides of your face. Tears blurred your vision as you focused on exhaling through your nose at the sudden intrusion of his covk kissing the back of your throat.

“Oh fuck~ I thought my dirty need slut wanted me to fuck her mouth?” a blond eyebrow arched as you hummed around his shaft. “You're such a dirty girl~ are you thirsty for my cum?” You hummed again, glancing up at him as the tears spilled over your cheeks. “Then be a good girl for once in your pathetic life and take it all.”

Nanami pulled his cock out of your mouth before slamming it back in the tip, kissing the back of your throat deliciously. You choked and gagged but focused your attention on breathing through your nose and it attempt not to gag. Even though you put in your best effort not to gag around your boyfriends cock, you choked, gurgling around, winning, satisfied, groan from above you. Nanami sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down on it as he set a pace, one that had your clenching, as your arousal soaked your underwear.

“Oooh that's it, just like that dirty little slut. Oooh, haaah fuck~!” You gagged more, moaning as he gripped both sides of your face and we can fucking you. His cock slipped down the back of your throat, causing more tears to stream down your face. “Such a good girl. Take my cock like some fucking whore. But you’re not just any common fucking whore are you? No, you’re my whore.”

You cried out softly nodding as he gripped your face harder, facing your mouth faster. “M-mmm! Ngggh!” you gagged, shutting your eyes tight in pure concentration.

“Oh fuck, fuck you're doing such a good job~ like my own little personal fleshlight~ so good pretty girl~ So. Fucking. Good.” With each thrust you could feel Nanami’s cock getting harder, growing in size as his cock dribbled sweet pre-cum all over your tongue, feeding your lust. “Ah~ shit~ love~!”

Your gagging and moans, drew Nanmi’s attention down. As he fucked your face he watched your eyes shut tight, as your nostrils flared as you struggled to breath through your nose. But the flush that dusted your beautiful skin, told him you were getting off on this as much as he was. His voice, the way he spoke down to you as he fucked your face. All of these factors put together was driving you mad. Thinking about how wet you must be had Nanami yanking his cock out of your mouth.

You coughed roughly drool and precum dripping down your chin as Nanami yanked you up pulling you on to your feet dragging you into the bedroom. He laid down on his back patting his chest as he wrapped his hand around his shaft. You watched him for a moment before he growled grabbing you with his freehand pulling you onto the bed.

“Sit on my face while you suck my cock. I want to taste you.”

“Y-Yes sir!”

A pleased hum of approval sounded in Nanami’s chest as you slipped out of your shorts. “Ooh looks like my little slut can follow simple directions.” You straddled his face, your cheeks burning as you bent forward taking his cock inside of your mouth, just as Nanami spread your folds apart, watching your entrance twitch as you gagged on him. By god, your slick coated your pussy, you really loved him talking down to you.

“Mhmm~” he ran his tongue slowly over your slit, licking from your dripping entrance all the way to your clit. “Fuck~ my dirty girl tastes so good.” his tongue repeated the same movements as you began deep-throating him. “Mmhm~ fucn~ fuck so sweet~ you're getting wetter~ you like sucking on your man’s cock that much hub? Yeah you ducking do.”

“Gahh~” you gagged around him as he began bucking his hip up into your mouth. His cock slid down the back of your throat, as he slipped his tongue inside of your cunt, lapping at the warm spongy walls, groaning as your juices coated his tongue. “Mmm~!!”

Nanami groaned from below you, his face buried deep between your legs as you bobbed up and down, groaning and moaning around his throbbing shaft. Hearing the desperation in you moans, feeling your mouth wrapped so tightly around him, had Nanami moving just as eagerly as you, tongue swirling inside you, the tip rubbing perfectly over that sweet spot deep inside of your, as he reached his hand between your bodies rubbing circles around your clit.

“Mhmm~ fuck~ fuck yes what a good girl~ suckjng my cock so good evening with my tongue buried inside her pussy. Mmm.” Lips replaced his fingers as he sucked on your clit. “Fuck yeah~ mhmm my dirty girl~ suck my cock~ keep it up~ I'm almost there~!”

Your boyfriend dick throbbed deep inside of your mouth as his orgasm crept up on him. He groaned, as you cupped his balls massaging them

In your hands. And that, along with a loud moan around his aching dick has cum filling your mouth. The sweet-salty tang coats your tongue as you try to swallow, but that's a little difficult. Nanami is moaning into your pussy as bucks his hip, losing himself in his orgasm, pulling you down with him.

You cum all over his face, pulling off his dick in a miss of spit and cum. The mess you weren't able to swallow spills all over Nanami's abdomen, as you ride his tongue, crying out his name as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. And your boyfriend, oh he swallows every drop, lapping and flicking his tongue swallowing it down like it was the finest wine in the word. He only gives up his relentless efforts as when you pull away, fighting to free yourself from over stimulation.

“Haaah, haaah-fuck Kento.” you gasp out as he sits up your hip as positing you to sit on his lap with your back against his firm chest. “T-That felt s-so good.”

“Ooh~? Good, because we're just getting started.” his hardening erection rubs over your sore cunt, leaving you staring down in stunned silence: “ooh you didn't think that was your punishment for getting my suit dirty did you?”

“U-Uh—”

“Love, no, that was just a warm up.” he lovingly kissed your cheek turning you to face the mirror on your dresser. “You're in for a long night of making up for the mess you made, by making several messes of your own.”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks

[cuubism]

more physical therapy au

--

Dream comes to his next physical therapy appointment marginally--marginally--less apprehensive than before. When he'd first gone, he'd expected to be told he was being melodramatic. That he should just be grateful that the surgery was successful and he has some functioning. That he should just give up on his art, that it didn't matter, that it was hopeless.

He doesn't know why he thought that. It's been hard to have a charitable view of people, lately.

But Hob wasn't like what he feared. Hob was... kind. To him.

So he goes back.

He has, in fact, been doing the exercises that Hob gave him. It is not as though he has much else to do with his time. Other than setting up his new flat, where he now lives after fleeing what had once been his home. Even a few months later, the place is fairly... minimalist. Which is not Dream's style. But he'd left with little more than his art portfolio and the clothes he was wearing, deciding that it wasn't worth going back, and he hasn't had the energy to replace anything since.

Or the two functioning arms required to move things.

His flat is depressing enough that even the physical therapy office feels warm and welcoming by comparison. Hob gives him a big smile as he comes in. It's pathetic that it makes his heart flutter.

He goes over to Hob, setting the folder he brought on the table.

"You look cheerful," Hob notes. Dream highly, highly doubts that. But he is perhaps slightly less morose than last time. Nevertheless, he finds Hob's optimism... somewhat cheering. Normally, he would find such a thing annoying. But there is something very steady and reassuring about Hob. Not much in Dream's life has felt steady in some time.

"I have tried finger painting," Dream tells him. He takes the piece out of the folder and shows it to Hob.

It had been interesting, at least. Distracted him for a moment. Made him think about the way children make art, before becoming mired in theory and technique.

He had considered bringing one of his usual pieces to demonstrate to Hob what he's meant to be able to do, in case that would be helpful, but it's still painful to look at them.

Hob takes the painting and stares at it with wide eyes. "How is this actually good?"

Dream should probably be offended by his incredulity but instead he just finds it amusing. "I had lots of time to spend."

He has, once again, painted a bunch of cats, all different colors, cluttering the page. It's simple, and lets him avoid thinking about his more conceptual pieces he hasn't been able to work on.

"Wow," Hob says, propping the painting carefully against the wall by his computer. "Okay. Good work going above and beyond on the instructions, Dream."

That praise alone shouldn't make something in his chest start glowing. But it does.

"It did not hurt... much," he says tentatively, before Hob can ask. "However, with a brush..."

It is incredibly frustrating. It's like his body continually wishes to betray him. He's lost his home and everything he owns and now he cannot even have his art.

"Give it some time," Hob says, reasonably. He is much more patient, and optimistic, than Dream.

He makes Dream draw and write again. It's... perhaps marginally easier after the exercises Hob had given him. Still, he finds himself getting frustrated by the weakness of his grip. And the more frustrated he gets, the tighter he grips the pencil. He knows he shouldn't. But.

"Lighter," Hob tells him, and Dream glares at him. Hob raises his hands. "Not telling you how to do your art. Just telling you how not to hurt your hand."

Dream bites down on his annoyance, but loosens his grip.

He doesn't see very much progress, but Hob seems satisfied. He makes Dream run through some other strengthening exercises, which... don't hurt as much as Dream was expecting them to. He'd expected that this whole process would be nothing but gritting his teeth through agonizing pain, to minimal results. Perhaps Death is right, and he should be less pessimistic.

In any case, Hob seems proud of him at the end. Even if Dream doesn't think he's done anything to be proud of.

But he does leave, perhaps, slightly more hopeful than he entered. And he wants to come back. At least to see Hob again.

~~

Hob doesn't know if it's patronizing to be proud of Dream, but he is. Over the last few sessions, his grip has improved a lot. Dream doesn't seem to see it, but that's alright. Hob does. He's been keeping all of Dream's drawings. They are getting better.

Hob is pretty good at optimism. But even so, it somehow hadn't occurred to him that quiet and morose wasn't Dream's natural state. That is until he sees the joy that lights up in him the first time he's able to draw a cat without his hand shaking. Dream smiles so wide, like he isn't even aware Hob is still watching him, and Hob realizes that there is lightness to him. It's just been buried down.

The time after that, Dream even brings some of his old art to show. Hob's been dying to see it for ages, but hasn't pressed. And Dream's art is gorgeous. Hob can understand, now, why he'd been dissatisfied with those first cats he'd drawn, no matter how charming Hob had found them. His big pieces are so finely detailed, so precise. It's... possibly going to take a bit more time to get him back to that than Hob had thought. But he's determined.

But Dream seems happy to be sharing his art, doesn't fold in on himself this time just to mention it. He talks with enthusiasm about his process, the most words Hob's heard him say in... well, ever. Hob tells him that he's made enough progress to pick up painting--with brush, not fingers--again if he wants, but not to beat himself up if it doesn't look the same as his old ones. And for once, it seems like Dream actually accepts the instruction not to berate himself.

All of this is, most certainly, the reason Hob does the insane thing he does next.

He's organizing his records, having already walked Dream out, when he hears raised voices from out on the walkway. The front door is still open a crack, he realizes, so the sound carries.

"Come on, you're overreacting," says an unfamiliar, male voice. "I said I won't do it again, didn't I?"

"Do not," Dream replies, voice anxious, but determined, "follow me."

"Well if you'd just pick up your phone--"

Hob steps outside. An unfamiliar man--the ex-boyfriend, Hob assumes, he doesn't know his name, hasn't asked, doesn't care--has Dream cornered in the doorway. His posture doesn't immediately scream rage or aggression, which is more unnerving rather than less, considering this is the same person who'd snapped and broken Dream's hand.

And Dream looks scared. Under the mask of stoicism he likes to wear. Any cheer or hope he'd gained from today's session has evaporated, and he looks like he did before, when he'd first come to Hob's office, curled in on himself. It breaks Hob's heart. And makes him angry.

"Stop being selfish and just--" the ex-boyfriend continues. Hob means to cut in and diffuse the situation. Tell him to leave in a reasonably professional manner.

Instead he punches him in the face.

Ex-boyfriend's nose goes crunch in an extremely satisfying way, and he reels back with a shriek, hands going to his face. Dream startles back, hands clutched around his art portfolio.

"What the FUCK!" yells ex-boyfriend, voice nasally from the blood running down his face. "You can't just-- this is assault! I'll call the cops!"

Oh he wants to go there, does he? "You wanna talk about assault?" Hob says, voice rising in volume. Dream edges behind him, though Hob's not sure he's fully aware he's doing so. "You want to get police involved, that's really what you want?"

Ex-boyfriend looks from Hob to Dream and back, hesitating. That's fucking right, Hob thinks. Not so easy to kick someone around when there's consequences, huh?

It helps that Hob is visibly stronger than Dream, and spends all day physically moving people around. If ex-boyfriend tries anything he's going to get put on the ground.

Finally he retreats, though with a look of rage towards Hob. Once he's gone, Dream finally seems to relax, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"You did not need to," he murmurs.

Hob shakes his head. "No one gets to come and threaten you here. Particularly not that dickhead."

Dream huffs a small laugh. Then he picks up Hob's hand, studying it. Hob winces. It's certainly going to bruise.

"Now you will need physical therapy," Dream says, lips twitching. Hob's glad for the humor in his voice.

Hob laughs. "Worth it."

"No one has..." Dream starts, slowly, "done something like that. For me."

It hurts, to think that no one's stood up for him. Or even let him know that someone should stand up for him.

"If he comes back I'll do it again," Hob says, and gets a tentative smile from Dream.

Then asks, "Does he know where you live?"

Dream frowns. "I do not think so."

"Want me to walk you home?"

He doubts Dream's ex-boyfriend will come back to the office now that he knows Hob's willing to deck him, but that doesn't mean he won't try to corner Dream elsewhere.

Dream deliberates, then says, "Would you?"

"'Course, love. Just let me lock the place up."

He doesn't realize what he's said until he's already turned back to lock the door. Shit. Today has already gone so far beyond what he's supposed to do as Dream's physical therapist, and now...

In the end, Dream doesn't call him out on it. But he does stick close to Hob's side as they walk, and occasionally when Hob looks over at him, he catches a tiny smile on his face.

[kairiscorner]

OKOK BUT

Jealous!Miguel stealing your attention only because you told Ben Reilly he has nice muscles 😭

You know that dude, when he's jealous, makes it clear that you only belong to his *wink wink*

AGHHHHHHH i live for jealous miggy for real

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

yeah, i'm... just a jealous guy, so what? — jealous!miguel o'hara x reader

miguel was at his wit's end, hearing you giggle as the blonde, buff-oon of a spider man was entertaining you with his muscles, that miguel was very certain that he had beat in every aspect possible. he didn't mean to brag–he honestly wouldn't care in a normal setting–but objectively speaking, his muscles and figure was far more superior than that of ben reilly's.

he respected ben, both as a spider man and a person, though he couldn't bear the thought of you–one of his only real friends and someone with a decent, functioning brain in the entire spider society–entertaining the blonde boy by giggling along, praising him, and running your fingers and hands over his biceps and muscles. ben dared not to show his true, flustered self as he kept 'accidentally' flexing at you, making you chuckle even more–annoying miguel even more, because... he should be the one making you all embarrassed, flustered, and giggly with his own much thicker biceps and muscles.

"it's just... so stupid." he muttered to himself as lyla chuckled. "gonna challenge ben to a flex off?" she sarcastically asked miguel, who–for a hot minute–ironically considered the notion, but ultimately decided against it with the shake of his head. "no, no need. i'll get over it." he said as a low grumble, which lyla raised her eyebrow at. "oh, will you, now?" she asked him with a hint of mockery, which made miguel snarl a little and sigh loudly. "you'll see." he declared with some spite in his tone.

he did not move on from it, not one bit actually.

it was driving miguel insane, because every moment he caught you that day to catch up and talk, he always caught you with ben–watching him entertain you yet again with him 'coincidentally' stretching and flexing those muscles he was so proud of but always played them off coolly when you happened to come by and... stare at him showing off.

this was it, this was the final straw–he had to prove to you once and for all just who you fold to, who makes you so flustered with a simple gaze your way with those piercing hazel (sometimes red) eyes of his–who made you want to have more and more of him and wouldn't be ashamed to get on your knees, or on all fours if he commanded you to, and beg for him to love you all evening into the early hours of the dawn. he had to show you who loved you, and who you loved endlessly.

when you entered miguel's office to report back to him on the statuses of some anomalies he needed word back on immediately. though when you entered the room, the atmosphere felt... entirely different now. you searched for miguel here and there since he wasn't there up on his platform, nor was he anywhere where the small pools of light touched the walls and floors of his office–he wasn't there, at least, not in front of you yet.

"you called, querida?" he asked you as he placed his larger palms on your smaller shoulders, feeling up your flesh gently and letting out low breaths as he got closet to you. your back felt his chiseled abdomen pressing against you, his pectoral muscles being pushed against your shoulders. you shuddered and felt your face get a little heated. you tried turning around to tell miguel you had the reports he was asking for, but it was a little hard to do with him pressing against you like this.

you finally turned around and pulled away from his grasp, but when you did... you were taken aback by the sight. he was completely shirtless, showing off his sculpted upper body, the curves and bulging of his arm muscles and built abdomen, and the only thing he was wearing was a flimsy pair of boxers that... looked a little thin from where you were standing. you gulped at the lump in your throat and tried to ignore the heat in the walls of your throat as you faced him with an embarrassed expression. you hurriedly handed him the report and tried to get away from him, but he blocked you in your tracks and looked down at you with darkening eyes.

"what's the rush, cariño? run me through these... one-by-one." he asked of you, which sounded more like a demand for you to stay, really, as he moved closer to you while you backed away–backing yourself up against a desk and being pinned against the wall by miguel as he loomed over you and stared you down.

"again, cariño... what's wrong? you gotta run me through these all... now tell me, what's the status on these anomalies?" he asked you as he gently ran his hand over your arm and raised an eyebrow again and involuntarily flexed his arm muscles by pinning his arm against the wall you were nearly backed into if not for the desk in between you two.

"y'better start talking, bella, or else... i might just make you talk myself." he said with a lower, sultry voice as he brought his face even closer to yours, your noses brushing together, and him hearing you whimper a little as he took your smaller hand in his own, bringing it to his abs. "what, cat got your tongue? that's not the little sweetheart i know... c'mon, say something." he encouraged you as you whimpered again and finally mustered the words to utter to him. "...you're... kinda big..." "kinda?" "v-very big..." you blurted out, all flustered as miguel leaned in closer, smiling, about to plant a kiss on your luscious lips. "how sweet..." he muttered as he kissed your lips gently, buttering you up before he shows you how much he's craved your attention before making you desperate for his attention soon enough.

you're in for the long haul this time... before the night ends, all your love and attention will all be on him, and only him–nobody else, just him and his body–and how his face contorts into a wide grin when he sees you stammer, eyes wide, and fluster over how much of a grip he has on you with those muscles he's got. maybe you'll spend the rest of the day with miguel tomorrow, hmm? ben and everyone else can wait... but miguel certainly can't.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

[sporesgalaxy]

The way Dungeon Meshi does gender makes me insane. It’s stated over and over that Falin and Laios really are more similar than anyone is looking for- Laios directly states as much at one point, Marcille mentions it when Falin wakes up the first time and starts bemoaning not eating any monsters, the magic mirror story even has fem!Toshiro crushing on Laios- but Laios is so protective of his little sister. Laios leaves home to start making a life he can one day share with her. And she leaves magic school because he has failed, and failed so hard that she’s worried that she might never see him again if she lets him leave without her. He wants to protect her from the way the world treats him, but he does not or does not want to understand the terrible truth- the world will never treat her as harshly as it does him, because she is a pretty ‘quirky’ girl and he is a big autistic man. Falin is happy, doing well in her own sphere, making a single friend (because she is still autistic, and has struggles of her own, even if they’re a different kind), but Laios still feels a need to protect her because his experience of this world has been nothing but cold shoulders and distrust all the way down. This story makes me want to sprint into the river. Laios and Falin are the best characters of all time.

Ouhhhhh I dont have time to reread dungeon meshi to give you good sources but based on my doodoo memory and vibes therein: I have to disagree that Falin was necessarily doing "well," and I especially disagree that the tragedy here is that Laios was doing something unnecessary by trying to make a place in the world for him and Falin.

Falin gets along seemingly ok in the world but it's because she's agreeable to a fault .

What's so interesting to me about the Touden siblings is the different ways they've learned to deal with being The Odd Man Out. Laios set out to try and forcefully carve out a PLACE for him and Falin in the world, where they could both openly and unabashedly be themselves.....Falin stayed behind, and learned how to hide the things that made her stick out too much, and how to appease people on the verge of rejecting her and Laios.

That can be functional, but it isn't good. It isn't happiness. It hurts in a million tiny ways every single day, to hide yourself out of fear of rejection like that.

At school, Falin must have spent a lot of time alone before she befriended Marcille, since Falin was familiar enough with the surrounding wilderness that she knew where that small Dungeon opening was. She sought out what happiness she could by following her unusual passions in more private ways, where no one would judge her for it. Falin didn't expect anyone NOT to judge her for her "weirdness" before she met Marcille, so Falin didn't even try to connect with anyone before Marcille at a level more personal than "classmate." That's not doing well. That's not living.

This kind of self-isolation is a coping mechanism for neurodivergence that functions for a while, but it eats away at you. Falin considered marrying Toshiro despite not loving him, essentially because it seemed like the normal thing to do and she didn't think she'd get another chance to be married at all. What if she had gone through with that, or something similar by the same reasoning? Laios lived in a state of being rejected over and over, which obviously hurts like hell. In contrast, Falin was willing to live a life she never wanted just to avoid total rejection. That can be incredibly painful too, in its own way.

Falin and Laios were BOTH tragically fighting doomed battles to find a place for themselves in the world during the time they were separated. Working together, supporting each other, they're able to do a lot more. Cries.

[ghouldtime]

Tomorrow. (An "Alone. Truly Alone." Drabble)

Wrote this because I was getting stumped on Chapter three. Have a little tiny Ghoap moment ;3

I love him so much look at him!! What a guy!! (Also being able to actually see him in motion has helped me so much trying to figure out how to write him)

Mwah I wanna kiss his face

CW: Mentions of blood, death and dying. Nothing too graphic but it's still very much there! It's angsty too

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Tomorrow.

Oh, how he loathed that one, single, simple wretched word uttered carelessly without as so much as a second thought by so many. How he hated tomorrow. 

Tomorrow stood as an uncertain promise held aloft every evening as the sands of time trickled through their limitless hourglass, slowly emptying into the chalice that soon would turn as the earth once again shone a different face to the sun. Tomorrow wasn’t something anyone could truly count on when the tides could shift in an instance, changing everything you knew. Simon Riley knew that better than anyone.

Serving years slaving away in arid deserts and frozen tundras alike with nothing but the weighty gear on his back and a gun in his hand meant he knew better than any other that tomorrow was a measure of time, nothing more. No matter how many times tomorrow had been said, promised, spoken so truly imbued with intent already plotted on its horizon, it didn’t change fate. It didn’t change whether you were going to make it to then or not. The world didn’t care if you made it through or to tomorrow. It only made tomorrow happen.

How many tomorrows had passed since he had been trapped in this washed-out, colorless hell surrounded by walls damning him to eternal solitary confinement with no promise of escape was something he couldn’t answer.  The sun had long since ceased warming him with its golden rays in the morning and the moon had made itself scarce, never showing when it hung in the twinkling night sky. A being damned to purgatory didn’t deserve such warmth or beauty. Every wall encasing him determined such a thing would be true as long as he lived in his unliving state. Cold and unfeeling, nothing he did could change the immovable fate that shackled him down and buried him alive in the cement cage.

That didn't stop him from etching the passage of everything he loosely guessed was a day into the walls. Keeping track of something, as minute as it may be, at least kept him saner than he would be with nothing else. Carving into the walls with the few tiny metallic medical tools that had been abandoned and left to rot, the same as him, stood as the only form of retribution against his prison that he could manage.

Each nick, dig, and mark struck against it stood in a silent testament to say that he lived despite death itself having clasped its frigid, clammy hands around his neck as it choked him out until his lifeforce faded. Every insignificantly significant tiny white line marring the concrete stood in testament that even if he was trapped, the bitter taste of defeat still remained foreign on his decaying tongues. His normal body may have long been forgotten and replaced with too many twisted limbs and cerberic heads, but he was still Simon; the very same Simon that would fight with all of his too many teeth and blackened nails until his true final breath.

Though his life had been forced from his mortal shell with the reaper's digging claws until it was pulled from his body, he still somehow lived. How fitting of an "end" for someone like Simon, someone who couldn't even catch a breath when the dark angel came calling his name, only to turn him back to the world as it took a part of him with it. True peace was never fitting for him, he supposed. When all of his life was spent dedicating to fighting, it's only expected he would go toe to toe with his own mortality too.

Yet this pathetic existence hardly classified as what he could call living. He breathed, yes, air filled his lungs but it served no function. Nor did the existence of his heart or any of his organs that were little more than placeholders these days. It was a blessing to be some form of alive and to still have his brain perfectly functioning, but being trapped in this shell stood as an eternal, tormenting curse. Punishment for escaping death one too many times, endlessly taunting it as he dodged all too many bullets, is often how it seemed.

Death would've been the preferable option than staying trapped in the decaying government facility alone and the body that held him prisoner to match.

How he wished he could be permanently buried in the dirt, his eyes closed in a true state of rest. The waking world was a poor imitation of what he hoped death's true embrace would feel like as it came calling his name once more and beckoned a single, crooked skeletal finger. Thin, yellowing sheets that covered the dusty hospital beds where he lay each night offered little comfort for the constant numbness surrounding him in a static void.

Every physical sensation that brushed against his poor-excuse for flesh drowned in the barrier of his unalive state before it could reach him. Heat, cold, pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst - none of those things mattered to a being who could no longer feel in such a corporeal sense.

The same couldn't be said for his feelings. Now that the pesky things such as normal human bodily needs abandoned his form, his heart and mind made up for their absence tenfold as they held him down and forced him to feel everything and anything in between in the murkiest depths of his soul. Like a twisting, red-hot blade they relentlessly engraved their grievances on chunks of his very essence, permanently scorching his soul as they scarred far deeper than any of the hundreds of weapons that had been turned against him ever could hope to.

Despite the stillness of his heart and the absence of what used to be a steady, rhythmic beat, his heart still burned as if it were thrown into the deepest depths of hell whenever he turned his gaze and locked eyes at the tiny picture on his nightstand of him and Soap together, blacked out in tactical gear. He should've thrown an arm around him and made their last picture together more memorable - but it was too late for that. Should've was already too late. He was too late.

The extra heads forced together by sinewy webbing never were much help when it came to focusing with his already clouded vision. Straining to look as he brought the picture closer to his faces, to truly see through all of his eyes, was minor inconvenience he could bare. For it meant that his eyes were graced with three sets, three times, the visage seared into his memory of the one who took on the world for him. The same one who fought for the world, his world, and so readily gave it up for him without a second of a hesitation. He deserved that at the very least - to be seen, recognized, admired. Johnny deserved that and the world itself.

Pouring pure alcohol into his veins and setting it alight would hurt less than the pang of primal agony that rippled through him, shredding his heart and spitting its venom into his soul, whenever he set the picture down and glanced at his left size where an arm - Johnny’s arm, lay fused to his own. Taught skin webbed between it and where his own original arm stood long before he became an abomination and a product of science going too far. The strong fingers that had cradled his hand so gently throughout some nights when the other thought he was asleep, the hand that strangled, shot, and killed for him - now usually clung to the tattoos that inked up his flesh as if afraid to let it go once more even in this harrowing state.

The single limb agonizingly sacrificed to him remained the only one didn’t have perfect control over. It never fully listened, much like the man it came from. No matter the orders he barked at the sergeant, he wasn't one to heed with his head alone. Sometimes that noble, brave heart of his that let him charge up the ranks so fast took the reigns before he could do anything about it.

Stand down, Johnny.

Get out of there, MacTavish.

Don't you dare, Johnny. It's not worth it. Not for me.

....

The longer he lived with the errant limb and dealt with the non-compliance, and the usual near constant grip on his forearm, in a twisted way, he didn’t want things to change. He didn't want it to listen. That wouldn't be Johnny's arm - that wouldn't be Johnny if it did. It wouldn't be the last solid reminder he had if it complied, even if it was connected to his consciousness now.

For now, it was something he could cling onto like a starving dog lapping up scraps of meat outside the back of a butcher shop. Deep down, he knew that he was feeding the delusions as he blindly clawed for anything he could cling onto as a reminder, but bringing himself to care enough to stop wasn't an option (as unhealthy as it might be). Living with the miniscule fantasy served as a balm to his gouged soul that bled out more and more as the seasons marched on and days tumbled forward into one another. It was enough for a man like him who would scavenge for anything his many hands could get ahold of, clinging to any threads as if they could carry him out of the abyss until they inevitably crumbled to dust under the crushing weight of him.

Some nights as he lay on the creaky hospital bed staring up at the same blank ceiling that matched the same gray that covered his senses in a blinding fog, he could almost pretend that Johnny was still here, still talking to him in the thick brogue that was so distinctly him, still smelling of the scotch he loved so much tinged with gunpowder from all the explosives he had set up.

If he closed all six of his milky eyes, the phantom sensation of Johnny's warm form beside him as he imagined him close once more nearly caused him to feel something along his sensationless form. Those deft fingers that worked along intricate wires of dangerous weapons never followed the same pattern twice as he traced his tattoos in the same routine he had many nights before as they lay near one another underneath a flimsy tarp deep in enemy territory, the uncertainty of their own mortal lives continuing for another sunrise strung along the stressful line of their work.

And sometimes if he truly shut off his brain, his mind could truly run wild as it conjured up the words he’d heard so many times before. The same point of contention uttered once more that Johnny always circled back to as he marveled the black lines marbling Simon's skin, “You really should let me color ‘em, LT.” He’d breathe, voice so quiet it could be lost on a breeze as he stared at them with the softest look he had seen on the sergeant’s face, a quiet contemplation written in the furrow of his brows.

If confronted, he knew it would be played off as a joke and nothing more. But the way the roughened pads of his fingers traced the whorls permanently etched into his skin spoke otherwise, echoing words and feelings that ran deep that neither dared to voice. Every moment he lay there alone in his new "life", regret sank its fangs into the vulnerable underbelly of his heart, the heavy feeling settling like molten lead in his stomach as he berated himself for not touching him back, even if it was a tentative hand smoothing a thumb over the back of his.

No matter how many nights and countless times Johnny fell into the routine of tracing his tattoos, Simon's dark gaze would fall right back over the other to trace the tired lines on the other's face and the stubble of his jaw with his eyes. His fingers always twitched restlessly as they lay folded on his chest, aching to feel something aside from the fabric underneath. Yet the ugly, grating voice of doubt pestered him until he hesitated, never letting him the courage to reach up and caress him, even for a second.

His turmoil was obvious to anyone who knew him like Johnny did. The tension in his body, the near constant movement of his fingers, the unblinking look in his eyes as he couldn't help but to stare. But Johnny was smart, significantly smarter than many gave him credit for. He knew better than to point it out with his voice alone but the small upward twitch of his lips spoke a thousand words as he shifted closer, closer.

“Add a little more color to your life. Things can’t always be black and white.” Johnny always insisted as he leaned further in, the weight of his body sinking in, nurturing the warmth blooming in his chest.

Breathing had never been harder as those blue eyes peered up at him through dark lashes. All air left his lungs in a flash, his heart halting as he stared into those eyes, helplessly held captive by those beautiful blues that would put the finest aquamarine gems to shame.

How he wished he listened.

What he wouldn't give to go back to that moment, if only for a fraction of a second, to get lost in those expressive pools of his newfound favorite color.

No amount of time nor disease would pry that memory from him as he lingered in the stagnant, abandoned base. The warmth he felt that night bloomed within his chest even now, even when hindered and reduced to nothing more than a faint fuzzy feeling tickling his chest.

Not even the fusion of the two heads on the side of his could even hope to gnaw it away with their own plaguing whispers and intrusive thoughts that bit through his skull as they tried to worm their way into his brain like the parasites that they were. But he wouldn’t let them. Nothing could.

No, nothing could make him forget Johnny. Not even the end of his world as he knew it. Death may have taken him temporarily into his clutches, dangling him between the precipice of life, but that wasn't enough. Because his world didn't end when he died, no. That was insignificant. His world ended not when he rasped his last breath, endless rivers of crimson spilling onto the operating table. It ended when he used the last of his energy to tilt his head to take one last look at Johnny, knowing that he would never see him again.

...

Endless amounts of tomorrows could add up in the gouges of more tally marks and scores into the wall, covering every nano angstrom of the base and he still would loathe them with all the contempt his heart could well up until it sat in a venomous soaked vat of his festering rage.

He hated tomorrows because each mark was another reminder of the tomorrow that wasn't to come, the tomorrow swiped from underneath his feet by fate's cruel hand, the tomorrow he promised, the tomorrow that would never be - the tomorrow with Johnny.

[hikari-kaitou]

Translation from Gyakuten Saiban Fan Book

What sort of person is Miles Edgeworth?!

Phoenix's best friend and rival, Edgeworth, has gained a reputation among fans throughout the trilogy of being a man who carefully hides the chinks in his armor. Mr. Inaba and Mr. Iwamoto seem to have rather different opinions on the finer points of his character.

Mr. Inaba's comments

Interviewer: What blood type do you think Edgeworth is? (T/N: in Japan, it's believed that blood type reflects a person's personality)

Inaba: I happen to think he's type B.

Iv: What gives you that impression?

Ia: It's not so much that I dislike B types as I find them intimidating. They seem strong and I feel like I can't stand up to them.  I think good-natured people can generally be found in the O type category (lol).

Iv: By the way, what type are you, Mr. Inaba?

Ia: I'm a meticulous, cleanliness-loving A type Virgo. Also, I think Franziska is an A type like me. On the outside, we look like punks, but we have a fragile side that comes out looking a bit crybaby-ish sometimes. Kinda cute, don't you think?

Iv: Actually, most players seem to feel that Edgeworth is an A type Virgo (lol). So how about his birthday?

Ia: In the winter. I feel like winter suits him.

Iv: What sort of place do you think he lives in?

Ia: Definitely not in an official residence. He seems like he's probably swimming in old heirlooms (lol).

Iv: What sort of hobbies or luxury foods do you think he enjoys?

Ia: I feel like he probably plays some expensive sports and lounges at home in his robe with a glass of wine. My image of him is that he's like a host club host. His lifestyle is like a host's (lol).

Iv: Do you think he listens to music? 

Ia: I feel like if I say he listens to classical, that would make him seem too proper, so… I think he listens to new and old American and European music equally.

Iv: Do you think he has a cellphone?

Ia: He's definitely got one. One with a simple but sleek design.

Iv: And finally, what do you think his type is?

Ia: Hmmm… someone warm, I guess? This is kinda basic, but I feel like he cares more about how someone is on the inside, rather than their appearance, and he probably prioritizes personality. He might be surprisingly disinterested in women. Maybe he'd accidentally treat his partner coldly or something. Oh, I kinda touched on this earlier, but for Franziska, I think she seems like the type who'd be difficult to win over but would fall in love surprisingly easily, so I hope Edgeworth will do his best (lol).

Mr. Iwamoto's comments

Iv: Mr. Inaba said he thinks Edgeworth was born in the winter, and players overwhelmingly agreed with that. What do you think, Iwamoto-san?

Iwamoto: Edgeworth was born in June, just like me who voiced him in the games! And I think he was born in Chiba Prefecture because I was too (lol).

Iv: So from your position as the voice of Edgeworth (lol), what type of place do you think he lives in?

Iw: Either a designer penthouse, or somewhere surprisingly simple, like a place with plain concrete walls. I feel like he lives in an unexpectedly functional apartment. At least more than you might think, based on his frilly outfit.

Iv: So considering the type of room you imagine him living in, what sort of clothes do you think he wears at home?

Iw: Clothes that are out of touch with reality. Like the kinds of things most normal people wouldn't wear, or like… Like he wears silk just because, or instead of a regular shirt, a prince-like blouse. I feel like Manfred Von Karma probably influenced him there, but he dresses more plainly now than he did when he was younger (lol).

Iv: Maybe he started to notice that he didn't quite fit in with others (lol). It might be because of his frilly clothes, but he seems to be in better shape than Wright. Is his build based on your own, Iwamoto-san?

Iw: No way (lol). But I did sneakily make him the same height as myself.

Iv: Since he's in such good shape, do you think he does sports?

Iw: Maybe long distance running. He seems like the type who might go out jogging by himself in silence to "outrun his sins…" (lol)

Iv: What do you think his blood type is?

Iw: B type. I don't really have any real basis for that, he just strikes me as a B type.

Iv: And what do you think Edgeworth's type is? 

Iw: Let's see, maybe someone enthusiastic and passionate? (Lol) Like maybe he likes the kind of person who charges recklessly into things? And that's not just for women but in general the type of person he likes.

Phoenix version

[thana-topsy]

So wait, are you implying that Falmer babies are born like normal, but since they're raised by other Falmer, that's why they become animalistic?? But they can be raised by people, and develop normally?? I'm assuming they're born blind tho?? Genuinely, I am curious, not trying to sound accusatory :')

Ahhh my friend, it is safe to say at this point that I have dedicated nearly two years of my life to exploring this question lol. Apologies in advance. You've activated my trap card special interest.

Sarel comes from my fanfic "Halfway to the Sky", in which a mage kidnaps a Falmer child and raises him as an experiment to see if he can be taught to live as a "civilized" person. The short answer to that initial question is: yes, Sarel is just a normal elf child, though still blind.

As to the other part of your question, (if Sarel had been raised among the Falmer, would he become "animalistic"?), I'm going to answer charitably by pointing out that we are dealing with Fictional Races of People, in which our interpretations of these races are going to vary, and that's okay. First off, my interpretation is not "the correct" one. So any answer I give is just my personal take. Second, the way we are told to play the game (by the mechanics of the game) also informs our perception of these races. And lastly, there is no one-to-one allegory at play here in terms of "The Falmer represent [x] race in our world." I just wanna get that out of the way.

So, all that being said, the question always comes back to "what does it mean to be civilized"?

In the game, we are told that the Falmer are hostile and violent, so we must kill them, and that they are 'devolved', even though evolution cannot move backwards. So, to correct that second misunderstanding, the Falmer are actually evolved to better suit their current living environment, and as to the first, we (the player) are intruding on their settlements. I can only imagine anyone with a sense of self-preservation would react with some amount of hostility to the loud, shouty person carrying weapons.

To continue to use game-logic, we are shown that the Falmer construct buildings, create weapons and armor, craft potions, lay traps, enchant objects, and use magic. Already, these are things that animals, by definition, cannot do. To be a magic user, a character must have a relatively high Intelligence stat, (we see this in the older games more than in Skyrim). In order to construct settlements, people must also have the ability to work in groups and communicate. We never hear the Falmer speak to each other in-game, but the implication that they have language and a social structure is right there in what we're shown.

So, in this long-winded, roundabout answer to your original question: I do not think that the Falmer are animalistic at all. I think they are culturally different, but made of the same stuff as Joe Thalmor over there. They have a different way of living in the world, and they adapted to their environment as best they could. This does not mean that they are perfect or better. But I think that referring to them as animalistic plays into what the game tells you to think, all while giving you a lot of evidence to the contrary. They're very much a complex, functioning society of people. We just never see their side of the story.

[w2beastars]

Waezi2′s thoughts on “Beast Complex” chapter 24.

Paru is back at it again!

Meet South the Iguana.

South is a twenty-nine year old lizard. Saying he is an alcoholic might be an exaggeration... but he very much have an alcohol problem. Having sensitive skin and living in a very warm area, South needs to stay hydrated, but he choose to mainly drink beer instead of water. Partly because of how it affects his skin but also o make it easier for him to not think about his problems.

But then his excessive drinking is cock-blocked by a penguin inside the beer fridge... Still not the weirdest thing I ever wrote.

Yeah, a baby penguin somehow ended up in the store where South gets his favorite brand of beer. To stay cool in the very warm area South lives in, the little guy is now inside the beer fridge and refuse to leave. Begrudgingly, South takes the little penguin to his small apartment so the shop can stock up on beer again.

Having a guest in his home for the first time in ages, South realize that his place is not just dirty, it is rather empty. He sleeps on a mattress, has a fridge for his beer and food and a microwave oven for his meals. His home is about as pathetic as he is.

As South thinks about how his life is kind of a fart, we learn something... shocking about this iguana.

Something that you have never seen before in Beastars OR in Beast Complex. Something so odd that you might find it revolting. It will make you wonder if Paru was even more unhinged than she normally is while making this comic!

You see, South...

... was in a relationship with a female WHO IS THE SAME SPECIES AS HIM!

Trust me, dear reader. I'm as shocked as you are! A Beast Complex character who was NOT dating an animal completely different from them?!

What madness is this?!

Okay, seriously speaking.

We get some good ol' Paru symbolism as we see that South's life has for a while revolved around his fridge. Or rather, what is inside it. It got out of hand to the point that his (same-species?!?!?) girlfriend dumped him and his boss feeling so sorry for him that he makes him take a break instead of downright firing him.

So South drinks when he gets anxious. But his increasing drinking makes him more anxious, which results in him drinking even more, making him more anxious and so on. As he thinks about his boss and ex, he once again gets "thirsty" and practically tears his fridge oepn.

South would probably end up as a drunken waist... if not for his new "roommate."

See, the thing about depression is that you often ends up alone, either because the people around you lose their patience or you choose to be alone. And when you are alone with a minimum of interaction with the real world, you stop caring about the small things like cleaning your home, a proper diet and your economy.

Best thing to do is actually to be useful somehow. Like doing voluntary work or getting a pet. Or in this case, a penguin in your fridge. If you are of use for someone else, you feel a little better about yourself.

And that's what South is to the baby penguin he has named Sam(a reference to the Japanese word for "cold"). The two of them can't really talk since Sam is a sea animal and has a entirely different language.

Whenever South has his panic attacks and go for a beer, he is instead met by the fluffy little bird in the fridge. So South has to clean the fridge for penguin poop and also spend extra hours in his part-time job since he spends more money on electricity because of Sam being inside the fridge. As the days pass, South finds himself acting like, well... a functional adult.

One day, South gets a reason to panic again as he realize that Sam is losing his white coat and looks skinny instead of fluffy.

If you know a thing or two about penguins, then you will know that there is nothing to worry about. But South knows jack shit about these birds, so he rush him to a hospital on his bicycle.

On their way, they pass the ocean... and we get this majestic moment.

There was nothing to worry about, Sam is just growing up and losing his fluff, finally ready to leave his nest and get in the ocean.

A pair of dolphins are luckily near and South has managed to learn to speak a little sea language so he can ask the dolphins to escort the young penguin to Antarctica.

Despite Sam having left his apartment, South still have a little of Sam in his fridge as the penguin sends him letters on pieces of ice.

So South's life still revolves around his fridge so to say, just in a much healthier way.

This was such a nice tale about a guy rebuilding his life by having to be dependent for someone else.

... Even if South is a freak, dating a fellow iguana. BE A FURRY LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, SOUTH!

I'm Waezi2, and thanks for wasting time with me.

[getvalentined]

Differentiating the "Black Robes"

For folks who didn't catch it on their own playthrough or (or watch-through) of FF7 Rebirth, here's a quick breakdown of the apparent nature of the people in black robes seen throughout both this game, and previously in Remake.

This differs from OG canon, where everyone in a black robe was a Sephiroth Copy, but in the FF7R timeline they appear to be broken into three "types."

SPOILERS BELOW — READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

NO NUMBER TATTOO means this is a G-type SOLDIER suffering from degradation. These people are terminally ill. Degradation sets in within five years of enhancement [see Note 1 below], and accelerates very quickly without aggressive treatment.

Known G-type SOLDIERs: Roche, Azul, Rosso, and Shelke Rui. Population: over 100.

A ONE- OR TWO-DIGIT NUMBER TATTOO indicates S-type SOLDIERs in the throes of Reunion. These people are not terminally ill, based on dev comments confirming that S-type SOLDIERs don't degrade, but they have a cellular leash that is being constantly yanked on by Sephiroth/Jenova. Without Reunion taking place, most of them would presumably live long, fairly healthy lives. [See Note 2 below.]

Known S-type SOLDIERs: Zack Fair, Kunsel, Luxiere, and Broden. Population: presumed fewer than 100.

A TATTOO STARTING WITH "SC" confirms these people are successful Sephiroth Copies. Failures do not receive a tattoo. They may or may not be terminally ill, contingent upon which type of SOLDIER they were prior to the procedure to make them into a Copy, and the leash on their own cellular makeup is much stricter, much more direct, and gives them a clearer concept of where to go and what to do.

Known Sephiroth Copies: Roche (successful), Zack Fair (declared failure), and Cloud Strife (declared failure). Population: 4 subjects in total, plus 2 known failures.

Tattoos don't seem to be applied at the time of enhancement, since none of the SOLDIERs in Crisis Core have them, but it's possible that early inductees like Broden were marked when they survived the treatments; this seems likely, as Broden's tattoo is in a slightly different typeface than the tattoos of others in his "type."

I didn't include Sephiroth, Genesis or Angeal under known members of their given types, as they were never normal humans and were not enhanced using one method or the other as teens or young adults. Those who are Jenova babies from birth don't count. I also didn't include two members of DeepGround due to the fact that they canonically cannot actually be G-type SOLDIERs based on the lore of how the two of them were made and how they function in general; they may be G-type on paper, but they are not G-type for the purposes of this analysis.

Lastly, I'll admit that this breakdown may appear to be slightly inconsistent during gameplay, but this seems to be due only to the reuse of models between black robed individuals, presumably to take stress off the dev team. I'm fine with this, obviously, no crunch is good crunch. As far as I can tell it's pretty consistent in full cutscenes, though, so I'm sticking with it until the third game proves me wrong.

—

NOTE 1: The timeframe for degradation is based on Roche suffering from the condition prior to his becoming a Sephiroth Copy, which is visible in the fact that he has a handful of incongruously pale streaks through his hair prior to the procedure; an attempt to cure this is presumably the reason he volunteered to work with Hojo in the first place.

According to the Remake Ultimania, Roche joined SOLDIER after the Nibelheim Incident, so he's only been in the program for five years at the most; this timeframe also allows us to recognize S-type SOLDIERs, as they've been in the program for significantly longer with no known ill effects (e.g.: Kunsel has been in the program since at least 2000, but is mentioned by name and indicated to be at headquarters in Remake, showing that he's still on active duty in 0007; this wouldn't be the case if he were suffering from degradation, so he can't be a G-type.)

NOTE 2: The capacity of S-type SOLDIERs to live fairly normal lives with minimal major health issues is proven by the existence of Broden, who identifies himself as a SOLDIER but was certainly part of Project 0; he and Mildred left home as teenagers and wound up with Shinra, but Mildred doesn't know the name of the project into which he was conscripted, only that it was "top secret."

Combined with the apparent age of both characters in-game, this indicates that Broden took part in the project before SOLDIER was even SOLDIER, putting him as one of its earliest successful operatives, probably enhanced sometime between 1983 and 1985 based on the timeline provided in the First SOLDIER Battle Royale opening cutscene—hence why his number is the lowest shown on a person in a black robe in the entire game. This puts him in his forties at the youngest during the Crisis, and he functions just fine (albeit with some other issues we can assume were caused by the enhancement procedure being imperfect at the time of his enlistment) until Reunion starts to call him toward the end of 0007.

[agaypanic]

omg requests are open!! i hope you’re having a great day, i’d like to request reader is malcolm’s childhood best friend and starts to realize she likes reese, reese has the same realization + how malcolm would take the news tyyy

My Best Friend's Brother (Reese Wilkerson X Reader)

Masterlist

Request Something!

Summary: You always thought of Reese as your best friend’s mean older brother, and Reese always thought of you as his little brother’s annoying tag-along. But as you get older, you realize that feelings can change. 

A/N: i had no idea how to end this :///

***

Knowing Malcolm for years, you didn’t mind that his family was a bit insane. You had grown to embrace the chaos. You seemed to be more accepting of it than your best friend, who constantly complained about how he wished he had a normal family.

The only family member you joined Malcolm in complaining about was his older brother, Reese. He was a menace, probably psychotic if you were being honest. He was known for being a bully and an asshole, and no matter how hard you tried to look on the bright side of things, you couldn’t help but agree with those judgments.

Reese returned your feelings of annoyance and light loathing. Every time he saw you at his house, he complained about how it was like you lived at the Wilkersons instead of your own place. And whenever he saw you at school, he talked about how he could never escape your presence no matter how hard you tried.

Safe to say, Malcolm did his best to keep the two of you away from each other.

But then, one day, things changed. At least for you.

You were waiting for Malcolm in the living room. The two of you were planning to study at the library and see a movie. You decided to flip through channels on the TV while Malcolm got dressed and got his things together.

“Don’t you have your own house to hang around?” You rolled your eyes at Reese’s voice. 

“And don’t you have some kid to beat up? Or a class to fail?” You tossed the remote on the couch, letting the TV stay on some random channel as you turned your head to look at Malcolm’s brother. But when your eyes fell on him, it felt like your brain stopped functioning.

Reese stood just a few feet away from you, the only thing covering him being a towel wrapped around his waist. His usually spiky hair lay flat and wet on his head. His bare chest was covered in water droplets, falling over his abs and v-line, which disappeared beneath the towel.

“What are you looking at?” He smirked at your speechlessness, a rare state for you to be in. You cleared your throat, turning away from him to turn off the TV before standing up.

“Put on a shirt,” you say, bumping into his lean but muscled arm as you pass by him to go find Malcolm. “Weirdo.”

***

Ever since that day, you’ve been looking at Reese differently. At first, you chalked it up to just being horny or something, because all you could think about was his body. But then you started getting nervous anytime he came around. Whenever you knew you were going over to Malcolm’s house, you put a bit more effort into your appearance just in case you saw Reese. And whenever Malcolm complained about his brother, you didn’t add onto it like you usually did.

“Hey.” You watched Reese make dinner, which you were staying at the Wilkersons for. He glanced up at you, brows furrowing as he returned to the pasta he was cooking.

“What do you want?”

“Can I help?” You blurted out, surprising the both of you. You didn’t really want to cook, but standing next to Reese and helping him make spaghetti was probably better than just ogling him.

Reese took a second to think about it, eyes darting around the kitchen, which was cluttered with ingredients and cookware.

“Okay.” He beckoned you closer and pointed to a jar of sauce and a cluster of seasonings. “You can make the sauce.”

You nodded, pouring the tomato sauce into a pot and turning on the burner. As you stirred, Reese moved away and out of sight, which disappointed you slightly. But you brushed it off and continued cooking.

And then suddenly, he was right behind you.

“Lift your head up.” You tried to disguise the shiver that went down your spine with a deep breath, straightening up like Reese had said. Something passed over your head, and then Reese’s arms reached around your waist. He snugly tied the apron he had put on you, taking a moment before moving back to his previous place beside you. “Don’t forget the seasonings.”

“Yes, chef.” You busied yourself with the sauce so you could ignore your cheeks heating up. Reese gave you a look you didn’t see before clearing his throat and returning to the pasta.

***

“Y/n!?” Malcolm called out as he entered your seemingly empty house. You were supposed to meet him at the park for studying and lunch, and you were an hour late. This was extremely unlike you, so Malcolm decided to swing by your place to see what the hold-up was. “Y/n, are you here?”

At first, Malcolm thought that shouting through the house was useless, because it seemed like you weren’t there. But as he walked through the house, getting close to your bedroom, he realized he wasn’t the only person in it.

He didn’t realize until it was too late that there was one more person in the house than he thought.

“Oh my God!” Malcolm yelled in horror as he looked in your room. Surprised by Malcolm’s sudden presence, you froze, which wasn’t the best thing to do, considering that you were straddling Reese’s lap while he sat up against your headboard. “What the hell are you guys doing?!”

“Malcolm, what are you doing here?” You scrambled off of Reese, who seemed less shocked than you about his brother catching you making out.

“What am I doing here? What’s he doing here?!” Malcolm slammed the door behind him, forcing the three of you to bask in the awkwardness. “How long has this been going on?”

You and Reese looked at each other, silently arguing about who would answer Malcolm’s interrogations. 

“A couple weeks,” Reese finally said, eyes glued on you. “And before you say anything Malcolm, I’m not gonna stop seeing her. I don’t care if she’s your best friend.”

“And I don’t care if he’s your brother.” You added.

Malcolm looked like he was about to explode.

“What?!”

***

Malcolm in the Middle Taglist: @rattilol

Reese Wilkerson Taglist: @hollymaybank @theogirlovermattheogirl

[still-ssstar]

Kaiser, narcissistic wound and NPD

Tw: narcissistic personality disorder is mentioned, there is a lot of discussion on the topic of diagnosis. English is not my native language.

!Please take everything described below as my personal reasoning! If you need background information for yourself, then contact a specialist.

Note: This is a small addition to my post, where I discussed exactly what kind of psychological problems Kaiser might have.

In the original post, I mentioned that I consider a narcissistic wound to be more appropriate for Kaiser's background and current character, but did not explain what the difference is between narcissistic wound and narcissistic personality disorder*. So let's fix it. (*Next, I will use the abbreviation NPD.)

In fact, when it comes to psychiatry, everything becomes very complicated, because the correct diagnosis requires a lot of information, especially about the internal processes taking place in the human psyche. And as such, there is no difference in the internal dynamics between NPD and narcissistic wound, BUT.

1. NPD is a personality disorder, whereas narcissistic wound is a trauma of the psyche. The main difference is that NPD is not treatable, that is, a person with NPD can only learn to live with his disorder, but not get rid of it completely. Whereas narcissistic wound can be treated with therapy. (That's why I try to be very careful about the diagnosis of any mental illness, because it's really complex and without experience working directly with people, it can be very difficult to understand all the subtleties of the inner workings of the disease. Not to mention the fact that some mental illnesses are so similar in symptoms and external manifestations that they can be confused even with long experience. In addition, the diagnosis is often not limited to just one disease and it is very easy to get confused in this tangle. As far as I know, this is one of the reasons why there is no clear division into personality disorders in ICD-11* anymore, since they often mix. But this is a very complicated topic, so let's skip the details. In general: it is good to analyze and take information into account, and it is not good to hang labels using psychiatry as an excuse.)

*ICD-11 - International Classification of Diseases.

2. Narcissistic wound , in fact, is a transitional state between the "norm" and pathology, which is NPD. Despite the fact that narcissistic wound has the same internal mechanics as NPD (tossing between self-praise and self-flagellation; in the relationship between "I love you" and "I hate you"), narcissistic wound at the same time leaves a person with at least a relatively healthy psyche. What I'm talking about: having an NPD, a person is hardly aware of what he is doing. Personality disorders are therefore called personality disorders, personality disorder affects a person to such an extent that he does not realize his problem without outside intervention. His psyche is simply not capable of this, as it does not function normally and cannot function normally. Any personality disorder is very serious.

On the other hand, a narcissistic wound still leaves a person at least a little room for reflection, if his intellect allows it. It is easier for people with such a trauma to control themselves than for people with NPD, because their trauma does not hit their psyche so hard and fatally. In Kaiser's case, this is noticeable, because even without proper therapeutic help, he can relatively control himself, only sometimes breaking down to the state of "I'm a complete nothing." NPD makes self-esteem much more unstable, painfully unstable in the sense that almost anything can affect self-esteem in such a situation, no matter how insignificant it may be. Kaiser's self-esteem, while not being healthy, still has some stability and fluctuates only when he encounters something really more serious (a loss against Isagi). Plus, Kaiser is able to eventually accept other people's abilities (Noa, Isagi, Rin), which indicates that everything is not as bad as it could be and he is not alien to critical analysis and at least partially objective perception of reality and himself. (If a person has NPD, this is possible only after therapy and with a very high level of awareness.)

3. I did not find accurate information about this, but based on my knowledge, I can assume that if Kaiser had an NPD, he would hardly be able to "leave" Ness. Despite the fact that narcissists are not interested in the feelings of other people, they cannot give up love and attention so easily (after all, a black hole needs to be fed). A low-functioning narcissist can even commit a crime if the flow of incoming attention is cut off, but Kaiser does not seem to be so paranoid about this, which indicates the absence of pathology in the psyche.

A little off topic: Any personality disorder is very serious and people with such a disease can inflict injuries on others completely unconsciously, because this is how their psyche functions. But I insist that we should not demonize people with mental illness. They all need professional help and a lack of stigma around mental illness. This also doesn't mean that you need to tolerate bad treatment from these people. Anyone who hurts you has no right to do so, so in such situations it is important to understand that the problem is not with you and it is better to stop communicating if possible if it traumatizes you. Not everyone can be saved and you don't have to do it at the cost of your own health, it's not your area of responsibility. It is possible to be in a relationship with people who have any kind of mental illness, but it requires effort from both sides and an understanding that such relationships have their own specifics. You will save a lot of nerve cells if you don't try to reshape another person or yourself.

P. S. Thank you for the kind words under the post with Kaiser's analysis. I'm glad that this post found those who were interested in this information. Take care of yourself and your health, and do not encroach on someone else's. Best regards, your Shine.

[lululandd]

Ok I can't stop thinking about the froggie statues in the plants. (Find all the froggie figurines!) Reader should keep a teeny tiny one in her pocket so that when (if?) Ghost eventually invites her inside, she can sneak one in his apartment. 🐸

at peace;

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader

wordcount: 1205

warning: fluff, froggies, simon riley is a fucking mess, part 2 of this fic

note: also on ao3

summary: what tendy said.

The last time he felt nervous to the point of nausea was a year ago, when he learnt of Graves and Shepherd’s betrayal. But today he felt even worse than that. He saw a glimpse of her daily, sometimes once every two days. The woman saunters to his balcony, waters his plants, wipes the little frogs clean—apparently he missed a little purple one by the orchid—and goes back upstairs. 

He bought different kinds of teas the other day, not knowing what kind she would like, and now the possibility of her not liking tea at all made bile rise up to the back of his throat. Why is he feeling like this? She’s just his neighbour. He’s just being polite by repaying her for making his fire escape look decent. He’s killed men numerous times before and felt nothing, but why is asking his neighbour to come insi—

Realisation hits as he ran for the sink.

He’s never invited anyone in before. Not even Johnny knows where he lives. This would be the first time since he moved here that he would invite someone inside. He looked around the place. Is this how normal people live? Could it be too… pristine? Too immaculate? Should he have at least one picture on a shelf? He glanced at the gloomy state of his apartment and decided he needed to add a little more…. life to it. 

He was caught off guard on his way back from his third trip to the store. He had a little shoe rack and some books on the backseat of his car. 

“Hey neighbour!” He heard her speak.

Fuck.

“Allright?”

She nodded. The woman had a cup of something he can’t distinguish but recognise the café it came from. “You need help?” She gestured at his car.

“Yes.” He answered without thinking. The word just fired out of his brain like a bullet; straight out of his mouth. He didn’t need her help, didn’t want her help. There’s a very empty picture frame on the desk next to the telly and he’s fairly sure she’d be weirded out by. “In a bit.”

She visibly backed off and he thought he had said the wrong thing when she just nodded, “I’ll swing by in an hour? That allright?”

“Yeah.”

He fixed his empty frame problem, placed the books down, and arranged all the extra knick-knacks he bought to somewhere he thought would look normal and presentable. It was after spraying his living space with some air freshener that he started questioning what he was doing. Why was he doing this? To what extent is he going to pretend he is a functioning human being? Would he have done the same thing if Soap was to come over?

A knock on his balcony door lets him know if he would pass as being normal to a civilian. He was greeted with a decent sized tupperware of brownies half shoved into his face. “So what am I helping with?”

Shit.

In his daze to make his place seem normal as possible he had cleaned and put everything in its place. “Sorry, fixed it actually. Fancy a cuppa instead?”

She handed him the brownies so she can take her shoes off. She left them outside by the plants, and saw they were just like them, colourful. He gestured to the sofa as he walked to the kitchen, “Any requests?”

He was unimpressed when she skipped the sofa entirely and walked with him to the kitchen. The girl probably doesn’t trust him with her tupp—

“Any would be fine, I’m not picky.” She instead sat on the dining chair that previously held his dying plant. The plant that started all of this.

“There’s a couple. White, black, earlgrey, chamomile, matcha, as—.”

“No way. Matcha? Do you have that whisk thingy too?” She moved her wrist around.

He opened a drawer and grabbed the wooden whisk and proudly held it up. “You want matcha?”

To his dismay she shook her head, “I’ll just have whatever you feel like having right now.”

“Guest’s choice.”

“I brought brownies. Host’s pick.”

“Matcha goes great with brownies.” He lied. He just wanted to see her eyes light up like earlier.

She nodded enthusiastically, “Whatever you say, you’re the tea expert.”

Fuck. She was just being polite and leaves everything to him because she thinks he’s knowledgeable. He needs more info about tea if he— If he what, actually. Why does he keep thinking about what she wants and what she thinks of him? Would he have thought the same if it was Price thinking he knows more about tea than he really does?

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that when he turned around to hand her the tea, she wasn’t in her seat anymore. She was looking at the books he had put on the shelf. He had to walk over to hand her the mug.

“You a fan?” She pointed at his freshly purchased Dune books, he sees the sparkle in her eyes again and he has to disappoint her for the second time today.

“Haven’t read ‘em yet. Thought the covers looked interesting.”

“So you just… bought the whole hardcover set because they looked… pretty?” He notices the many crinkles at the edge of her eyes when she smiles. He would like to coun—

“Gotta match my new garden.” He nodded at the balcony. It was utter horseshite from his part but he must admit that the books did make the view prettier. He needs to take that into consideration when buying things now.

The way her face lights up to look up at him mimics the first time he had offered his space to her. “You mean it?”

He took a sip of his tea with one hand and crossed his heart with the other. He hoped this would distract her from his face because he was sure he was blushing. Where’s his mask when he n—

No.

Ghost doesn’t belong here, not now. Ghost will be needed someday when someone bothers her. Ghost will be sorely awakened that day when she tells him she shouldn’t be coming over anymore, but for the time being Ghost doesn’t belong here.

He reminded her about the brownies and glad that whatever bollocks he spewed earlier turned out correct. Matcha did go with brownies. The girl said so herself.

“I’m Simon, by the way.”

—

He got a call from Price that night, and for the first time, he was sad he had to leave. His mind wandered to his books and wondered if he will ever even read past a quarter of the first one. As he walked over to look at them, he noticed something.

There was a skinny little frog covered in glitter—standing upright with an unamused face—hidden behind the books and the empty basket he had up there. He then moved the frog front and centre, where it really belongs.

Or, that’s where he thought it does, until a week later. The glitter caught his eye as he scans the room one last time before leaving, so he snagged it from its perch and slips it into his inner jacket pocket, comfortably held against his heart.

[the-face-in-the-mirror]

Behold, everyone, my most beloved creation… Gowther’s redesign.

Genuinely been tweaking while making with this, ecstatic to show you guys, and he’s finally here!

You mean to tell me that man was a doll the whole time and that never factored into his character design at all? Not in this fuckin’ house, we go full borderline uncanny valley or not at all, because it’s what our boy deserves. Thus, as a doll, Gowther gets to function a bit differently from the others — there had to be a reason he was in that armour for all that time, and I’ve decided that it’s the thing that best protected him from literally breaking because he has porcelain skin and no bones. And, as you can see, there are some Gold Seams from where he’s been broken and put back together before, which I like to imagine the armour has been enchanted to help with.

One of the more glaringly obvious changes, aside from the ball joints, is that Gowther’s hair is now blue. The bright hot pink always felt like a little much to me, especially with his primary colour scheme already being purple, and having a bunch of other bright colours in the cast already. Plus, blue is, surprisingly, the colour that is most associated with Lust.

As for the outfit, I have a friend irl who legit said to “let Gowther be a slut,” being the Sin of Lust and all. So, naturally, I have delivered. I took some partial inspiration from designs I’ve seen for Medieval prostitutes and wenches. With all of these redesigns, I try to have the Sins’ brands showing, and the off the shoulder shirt fit the best both for Gowther’s Sin and the placement of his brand.

As for his brand and the gold seams around it… well, placing a hot brand against anything like porcelain doesn’t mix too well.

My plan for Gowther is to have him be a bit more expressive and lively than he is in canon, in the sense that he’s clearly overcompensating most of the time to appear more normal around others. He’s still got his plot line with figuring out emotions, with some tweaks that I’m still working out, since I always really liked that plot but just not where they went with it, exactly. With strangers, or someone like Elizabeth, he comes off as almost overbearingly friendly; meanwhile, he will roast the rest of Sins into oblivion—largely inspired by his characterization in the Abridged Series, believe it or not.

But that’s enough minor spoilerly stuff for now. Here is Gowther, bask in his glory, let me know what you think, and I will be back relatively soon with another redesign! I think you can guess who the next one will be… ;)

[brucewaynehater101]

I really like the Batfam time travel fanfic, and the future itself is not a straight line; like in the comics where we saw Batman!Tim as evil. So despite all the futures that the Batfamily has seen, they will never expect to have a good future where their family, despite adversity, is still united. The time traveler on this occasion would be Terry McGinnis who was on a mission that was more than it seemed and managed to take refuge with the Batfamily of the present. Let's say that misunderstandings happen, more because Terry can't reveal things from the future so maybe he says things halfway (he could have let them slip) that can be interpreted as the family being fragmented, that Damian became the demon head or that even Tim has gone crazy and has become the Joker (The incident of the return of the Joker happens as in the canon, the truth is Tim could have DID as you mentioned in some question; I have read that it is a treatable mental illness without a cure and they can live a normal life depending on the patient, why throwing him into Arkham without further ado would feel like they simply abandoned him)

So the bad guys on duty are creating their plan (Maybe a way to eradicate the bat clan from the roots? but now I would have to go where Terry is) And suddenly the batfamily of the future appears to the rescue, but they are not alone, members that they have never seen also appear (will new vigilantes appear over time? The children of the batkids/grandchildren/great-grandchildren of bruce/alfred from the future? who knows…) and then they get defeated and taken back to their time… the older generation stays behind for a while to see the new batman; the present batfam expects to see conflict and discord between them, especially from Tim and Damian (Tim for the aforementioned and Damian apparently wears the demon head clothes… actually let's just say Tim and Damian had a very… explosive brotherly bond… and he got to keep things) but in the end all is well they were just worried about their second youngest brother (Matt McGinnis was with them as Robin). You see these elderly Batkids are quite united with their own more than ever and their bonds are strong, their bodies filled with scars that they have never had or would have (Also to note that in the BB comics Dick lost his left eye) they looked like veteran soldiers… no… they looked like they were great warriors who have overcome all adversity. Maybe even some old relationships have become stronger… Timsteph

And they are grateful that one of their own was taken care of and they go back home…

Hi 👋 I was so excited when I saw Terry as the one doing the time traveling. Idk enough about him, but I still adore him. He's hilarious and witty and just the right touch of sardonic from what I've seen of his interactions with Joker!Tim.

Anyways, you are absolutely correct that Tim should feel abandoned if his family just sticks him in Arkham after the JJ incident. Whether or not Tim does have DID or a related disorder (and friendly reminder that these disorders often get incorrect/inadequate/harmful characterizations so I refrain from detailing anyone as such. Also, no diagnosis can make someone "good" or "bad" [particularly indicating APSD, NPD, or other villainized conditions]), his struggles could represent someone with DID or related disorders. I say he may not have it due to the chip or whatever injecting him with Joker's personality. Since it's not natural, I'm not sure it qualifies even if it functionally affects him like such.

Regardless, him being shucked off to Arkham would feel like being abandoned. Although every single situation is different, I imagine Tim would have the energy and mental capacity to work with his affliction to lead a relatively independent life (and this is no shade to anyone who doesn't have this capacity and may require long-term hospitalization).

I got side tracked. Let's continue! I would love AUs where Damian becomes the Demon Head but still maintains a friendly relationship with his family (particularly if he reforms the LoA to focus more on their OG goals over world domination/murder).

For the scenario you're describing, let me make sure I'm understanding correctly:

Terry goes back into the past to strengthen family bonds w/o telling them

During a major battle, more future batfam travel to the past

Due to Terry's interfering, this batfam is closer than Terry's was

There are also a lot more of them due to batkids starting their own families

Damian and Tim in particular are vastly different and concerned about each other

The different Bats chat with each other for comparison's sake

Terry goes home with these Bats

I'm curious if Terry's memories get rewritten or get additional memories to account for how much has changed when he goes back

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

What do you think constitutes as a 'monster'? In the scary monster Halloween event mummies, vampires, werewolves, skeletons and dragons seem to be monsters but there was also the ghost pirate, so do ghosts constitute as monsters? Is 'monster' a term used for creatures that aren't part of the main four species (humans, fairies, merpeople, beastpeople)?

I honestly don't think what counts as "monster" and "non-monster" is a huge distinction to make, nor is it strongly defined in the world of Twisted Wonderland. I also don't think it's something as simple as "these specific 4 races are not monsters and anything outside of these 4 are monsters" because that's just a really arbitrary decision. The labels themselves (if this is the case) are also extremely unfair, as it implies negative things about the non-dominant species when they really haven't done anything to warrant it and can't control the population of their species to come "out" of that monster label. I think it's much more likely that what makes something a "monster" is how it compares to a human in terms of life functions. For many of the "monsters" listed (vampires, mummies, skeletons, ghosts, etc.), they have unnatural means of coming into existence. These creatures are not "born" like a normal living creature would be. Rather, they "turn" or are "made" somehow. In the case of the werewolf, they're also "unnatural" in a magical sense because people are not able to shift into different forms on their own. Even beastmen cannot just assume beast form; Jack's the exception due to his UM. Merfolk need to take a special potion to maintain their human forms, and can only shift in cases when they want to revert back to their merforms from their human forms. They'd need to take another transformation potion to gain legs again. Because a werewolf defies these constraints, that may be what makes them "monsters".

Finally, we come to dragons, which is a particularly special case. We learn that Malleus himself, being a dragon fae, has ancestors who are real dragons. We also learn that beastmen are descended from real animals, and, from this, can probably also deduce that merfolk are also descended from various sea creatures. For this reason, some fae, beastmen, and merfolk are "monstrous" in some regard. However, the label "monster" is seen as derogatory, and is meant to be clearly distinct from just "animal" (see: Malleus's reaction to Rook saying he is "more monster than animal" in Rook's PE vignette). Therefore, beastmen and merfolk are off the hook for this discussion, since their ancestors are animals and not "monsters".

I also considered intelligence being a factor for the monster/non-monster distinction, but that doesn't seem to hold up when you consider that Phantoms and Grim are also called monsters or beasts. Buuut there are cases of intelligent Phantoms, and Grim himself is capable of human speech which is incredibly remarkable. We also don't know enough details about dragons themselves to know if they are "wild" and incapable of human speech. The one thing I could say about dragons that makes them different from humans (and thus fit into my earlier proposal) is that they probably produce eggs that have to be incubated to hatch (similar to chickens, I guess??), if Malleus's birth is anything to go off of. This creates a distinction between human reproduction and dragon reproduction--and since Malleus and other dragon fae have elements of both, it supports the idea that it can be difficult to reconcile with one's humanity vs being seen as something inhuman from the start. This could explain why Malleus takes such offense when Rook comments in the vignette I indicated: it's questioning his humanity.