#was bored and wrote this

[remixedroses]

When Roy woke up it was with his head on the cold tile of his bathroom. Funny as he wasn’t even on the floor of this bathroom when he finally passed out.

“What the fuck happened?” A rasp voice asked from the open door. Roy squinted up and saw his sister glaring down at him with a glass of water in her hand.

He groaned and slowly sat up. “Just a bit of fun, you know how it is, Ruth.” He rolled his shoulders wincing at the loud crack at the motion. He reached up for his sister to help him to his feet, but his efforts were slapped away.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Roy, this was different,” She looked pissed, Roy realised. Not like the usual disappointment with a hint of fondness. “You know your limits and this was well past them.”

“It was a close win, some of the lads wanted to celebrate.” He shrugged and lifted himself to his feet. “Might’ve gone past my limits a bit,”

“A bit?!” She hissed, her eyes wide. “Roy, if I were not a trained medical professional, you would be dead!” She pulled a hand over her face.

“Why are you here?”

She stared silently at him. “You don’t remember?” Roy looked at her blankly. “You called me,” Her breath hitched. “Roy you were out of it, kept talking about how you’re nothing without football and-”

Roy cut her off with a snort.

“No. You do not get to do this. You didn’t hear yourself.”

“And what am I without football then, huh? It's all I’ve ever known-”

“My brother! You’re my brother no matter what.” Her eyes glistened. “Especially now,” She let out a deep sigh. “I’d hoped you would understand.”

“Especially now? What do you mean?” Roy looked her up and down taking notice of her fratled state. “If that fucker did something to you, I swear-”

“He didn’t do anything, relax.” She rolled her eyes at his antics. “Or well…”

“What?”

“This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out and it’s early, it can change,”

“What’s going on Ruth? Are you dying?”

She rolled her eyes and stood up shaking her head. “I’m pregnant you utter moron.” She swiped her hair away from her face. “‘Are you dying?’” She mocked. “Jeez.”

Roy stared at her with his jaw dropped. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

Roy jumped up and pulled her into a tight hug. “If this is a joke I’ll kill you,” He tightened his arms around her. “And if it’s not, congratulations.”

She giggled into his chest. “Thanks. And definitely not a joke by how many times I’ve thrown up this morning.” She let go of him and took a step back. “You’re gonna be an uncle Roy,” she said, her voice serious. “So you have to stop this,” She waved her hand at him and the floor, where he woke up minutes ago. “Cause I can’t do this without you and,” She shut her eyes tightly. “I’m divorcing him.”

“Good for you,” Roy . “Overdue, but good for you. That wanker can rot in fucking hell for all I care.”She rolled her eyes. “Good to see you’re back.” She pointed a finger at him. “And don’t think this conversation is over 'cause it’s not. You need help Roy, help I can’t give you.” She turned and walked down the stairs leaving Roy in his cold bathroom.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny, working as a cashier: Can I help you?

Tim half-deranged: Please I just want a cup of coffee

Danny squinted, then pulled out a binder: I'm sorry, sir, but you are on the Don't Serve Coffee list. I can offer you some tea instead-

Tim: NO. THIS IS THE FIFTH PLACE. BRUCE CAN'T OWN YOU ALL!

Danny leaning in to whisper: Look, man, I can't give you coffee under the cameras. Meet me in the back alley in twenty minutes and I'll get you a coffee. Bring Cash.

Tim: how much? Five hundred, six hundred or hell even a thousand? I'll bring whatever you want.

Danny: Chill dude, it's a cup of coffee. Three dollars is fine.

Tim: It's not just any coffee! It's my favorite brand and Bruce bought them out just to make sure they wouldn't sell to me anymore!

Danny: okay okay, this coffee means a lot to you. I get it. Twenty minutes alright?

Jason three weeks later in Bat cave: Tim's on drugs! I've caught him trading cash for small containers in a shady alley six times. We need an intervention.

Dick: What?! I thought that was his boyfriend!

Bruce: I also thought that was Tim boyfriend but if it's a drug dealer we have to help him.

Tim hiding in the shadows: shit.

Tim texting Danny: If anyone asks your my secret boyfriend who been making me teas in allies

Danny: who the hell would believe that? But I've had a boring week, so yeah, I'm down to be a pretend boyfriend.

[yeyinde]

Ghost has a thing for fucking you when you're asleep—

(—and maybe one day he'll get around to telling you about it, too.)

noncon/dubcon somnophilia. spit kink. brief anal.

He likes you like this. When you're soft, pliant. A malleable little doll under his hands that he can shape to his will. Bend.

You're so small compared to him. Tiny. The difference unmoors the chains keeping his vile, nasty urges at bay, until they spool—horrific and depraved—around him. Unleashes the need in the back of his head that screams, howls, and tells him to own, possess. Claim.

Ruin you—

And you belong to him. Everything. Every part of you is his, down to your goddamn marrow. Your bones are marked with his name, false starts carved into milky bones.

he doesn't really see the problem with taking what is his.

—and so, he does.

His sweet, sweet girl who can barely take his cock when you're awake—too much, too fat—and so he makes do with slaking his hideous, bestial need on your body when you're asleep. When he can fold your knees up to your ears, and fuck you as deep, as hard, as he wants without worrying about you seeing the want rotting in his eyes, and run—

The stretch, you whine. He's too much for you. The biggest you've ever had. It isn't meant to stroke his ego, he knows this, but still. He preens when you add, liquid and pained, by a considerable margin, Simon—

Like this, asleep, you're relaxed. Liquid. 

And with the sleeping pills crushed into your bedtime tea you always (always) take an hour before bed, he can do whatever he wants to do. However he wants. 

Splits you open with his tongue, fucking into you until you're sloppy and wet. Spitting on your cunt and pushing the foamy glob into your tight hole at his own leisure without having a rain of indignant fists come down across his shoulders, disgusted by the degrading action. Don't spit on me, Simon, that's gross—

(but you swallow it like a good girl when he grabs you by the neck, thumb digging into the dent of your larynx until you open nice and wide for him, tongue sliding out like you're begging for it—)

His little hellion awake. But asleep? 

He gets your pussy messy with his spit, fucking it into you with two fingers—another benefit to fucking you asleep is that he doesn't have to bother with building up, can stretch you out on two fingers without those breathy little mewls spilling out, telling him it's too much. Then three with his mouth glued to your clit, feeling your cunt clench down on him as he bullies it with his tongue. The pressure is too much, too intense. You'd be howling if you were awake, but—

You're not. 

The only sound is the lews squelch of him fucking you open with three fingers, sucking noisily at your pebbled clit. 

Music to his ears. 

And if he's in a hurry. Well. Skipping foreplay all together is fine. Just has to spit on his palm, coat it over his shaft, and make you open up for him. Splitting you open on just his cock. All tight—agonizingly so—around him. 

You can take it. 

He knows you can. You take everything he throws at you—knees pushed to your ears, cock bulging out from your belly. Head buried in a pillow as he flattens his body over yours, and ruts into your cunt while he smothers you under his bulk. Indescribably tight like this with your thighs squeezed together between his own. On your side with your leg thrown over his hip, or held high in the air. 

He likes it best when you're on your back, though. Soft and sweet. Little hiccups leaving your slack lips as he forces you to take every inch he has to offer. Bullying his fat cock into your pussy. Over and over again—

Quenching his unbearable lust on you until it's slated on your flesh, cunt stuffed full of his cum.

Or your ass. 

You're wary about him burying his fat length into your ass. It'll hurt, is the biggest excuse you like to give, hands tucked against the swell of your bottom as if that would be enough to keep him away. You've never done that before and taking him in your pussy was already a lot, you couldn't imagine taking him there, too—

It's a problem. Too bad for you, he has always been task oriented. Someone who likes the squash issues under his thumb. 

And that's exactly what he does. 

Starts with his thumb shoved inside your hole when he's fucking your pussy. Then a finger. Two. Likes to lick at your cunt before shoving your knees to your chest, lifting your ass in the air, and devouring it with the same rapacious appetite. Tongue fucking into you, getting you all sloppy and wet, stretching you open so he can seat you down on his cock. All the way to the base. Stretching your rim wide around his girth. Pounding your tight little ass until he cums inside of you. Filling you over and over again until it leaks out, soaking into the sheets below. 

His pretty little doll. All fucked out and messy. 

With you asleep, Simon can take from you—as much as he needs to fill this greedy, gaping maw inside of himself—without burdening you. Scaring you away. 

And he'd rather not have to chase you down like a dog—

It's the perfect arrangement that lets him exorcise himself of the horrible, awful, things he wants to do to you. Quench the bloodlust, the violence, that drums up in the back of his head, ugly and noxious, that leaks poison into his blood. Makes him see you torn to pieces by his enemies, wrenched away by the people who think they know what's best for you. Taken. The urge to claim you is animalistic. Primal. 

This—

This is bloodletting. It's spilling the rot from inside himself so it doesn't fester. Turn septic. Gangrenous. Eating at his tissue until his hands no longer belong to himself, but to the mercy of his monstrous need. 

It lets him ruin you, tear into you like a beast, without worrying about you running from him. Fleeing from this rapacious green he holds deep in the fibrils of his chest. Hewed into his essence, subsumed into his marrow. 

Simply put: he needs this. Just like you need him. Simon. Need him like the air you breathe—

(And sometimes, sometimes, you get this peculiar look on your face before bed. A frisson. Unease, pensive. It splits over your brows, an evanescent tremor. He thinks you might be more aware than you let on. That you know about this hideousness inside him, this putrid greed that sloshes around the edges of his eyes sometimes, trying to bleed in, trickling down over his periphery before he can stop it. 

But it dissolves into complacency before he can chisel into it, leaving nothing behind but a faint stink of stale smoke. Acrid—like doused embers. Burning his nose, his lungs—)

And when he's had his fill—stuffed that chasm inside his belly with your flesh—he cleans you up, and pulls you tight to his chest. Satiated for the time being. Falling asleep with the taste of you on his tongue, locked tight in his embrace. Tenders to your aches the next morning, as soft and supple as he can ever allow himself to be. 

There’s a place for him, he’s sure, when he lies to you, and says that you must have slept the wrong way. That maybe he was a little too hard on you the night before. And maybe if he were a better person, a better man, he might have felt some sense of guilt for it. Shame.

But instead, he coos at you and says:

It’s his fault, pet, but don’t worry he’ll take such good care of you. Licking your sore cunt all day until you grab him by the scruff of his neck, and tell him no more, please, Simon, stop, stop—it doesn’t hurt anymore, please—

He relents an hour before bed and takes you to the kitchen where you sit and drink the tea he made without a word.

Like a good girl—

And then you slip into bed in nothing but his old shirt, curling up against his chest, and whispering—soft and sweet—into his ear, "good night, Simon."

(his sweet, sweet girl.

like you're fucking begging him for it—)

[our-sin]

Stiles is a wildlife biologist and one day stumbles upon a wolf pack during a hike through the national forest he works for. They weren’t gray wolves so at first he figures another species has finally made its was back to california but after an hour or so of studying them from a far he realizes they aren’t typical wolves and appear to follow many of the theorized versions of dire wolves.

Thinking he might have discovered a new species and a possible descendant of dire wolves he stays for the rest of the day and studies them further. He only leaves when the sun starts to set and keeps coming back to study them. He grows rather attached to the pack, especially when a particularly curious wolf comes up and introduces itself and eventually drags him by his sleeve over to meet the rest of the pack. He talks to them, tells them about how important they are and how lucky he is to be the one to have found them.

He keeps trying to publish his findings but no one else seems to be able to find them and whenever he brings a photographer out they’re always hiding. One day he brings his own camera, thinking the wolves are used to him and just scared of everyone else and he finds one of the pack dead. He doesn’t take a picture of course, feels it would be disrespectful to the creatures that so readily welcomed him. Instead he goes back to his jeep grabs a shovel and a knife before coming back to dig the poor thing a proper grave and putting down a marker with a big rock and doing his best to add an engraving. While placing the wolf in its grave he notices bullet wounds and cuts on the body and figures out someone had killed one of HIS wolves.

The next week he spends looking for a tracker that can help him find who hurt his pack -figures if they went after one they might have been going after the others too and are still possibly camped out somewhere. That leads him to Derek who agrees oddly quick considering Stiles can’t offer him much in the way of payment.

Day one Stiles leads Derek to the grave and where he found the wolf. The man does his tracker thing and starts leading them even deeper into the forest. It takes a couple of days before they find the hunter’s now deserted camp that has some bullets and gear left behind, even a gun. Derek seems even angrier than Stiles that they had only missed them by a day or so given the remains of a campfire. They stay there for the night before moving on first thing in the morning. Takes another few days before they find an active campsite with several hunters.

They try to lay low but at some point Derek loses his cool and gets them caught and subsequently captured (he had heard them talking about the pack mate they killed, not that Stiles knows that). The hunters tie them up and do their typical hunter thing which is how Stiles not only finds out about werewolves but that the dire wolf descendants he thought he discovered were really the pack fully shifted.

Anyway turns out the pack had been following their entire journey from a far and the night after Stiles and Derek are captured they attack the hunters camp. Both Stiles and Derek are seriously injured but Stiles being human is the more pressing issue. Stiles wakes up like days later in a super fancy house next to a wall of heat. The wolf that had introduced him to the pack initially which is, of course, Derek. The man had refused to leave his side since they left the camp. And once everyone is sure Stiles is alive and mostly well the pack introduce themselves as humans.

Then happily ever after and all that jazz.

[unpretty]

why am i so bad at drugs. caffeine makes me sleepy. alcohol is bone hurting juice. vicoden does nothing. the giant mouth-numbing syringe doesn't kick in properly until an hour after i left the dentist. i hit a vape pen and then i sit and wait 20-30 minutes. i say "this edible ain't shit" and nothing happens until 17 hours later when I wake up for work and realize i'm high. i am trying to misbehave but my own body keeps timegating me.

[sacchiri]

Blu-ray box set for OVA 1~5 and 6~10 illustrated by Kouta Hirano.

[ballwizard]

can i be real with you guys i fucking hate the "HOW HIGH WERE U WRITING THIS XD CARBON MONOXIDE DETECTOR!!! LOL WHAT!! UR A CRAZY PSYCHO FOR WRITING YHIS" schtick that I've been seeing around recently . it's like. Not funny at best and really rude and annoying at worst

[official-lucifers-child]

i’ve got my calculus III class today and i’m stupidly excited for it. the class is 75% full, run by one of the most chill professors (sent a welcome email that basically just said “hey don’t worry about anything ever. peace”), and also the most advanced calc class that the university offers.

[yinyuedijun]

it's not like u can actually achieve intimacy with a fictional character but I really feel like you can achieve something close through writing a full narrative from their pov. getting into a character's head and understanding all the intricacies of their thought processes and feelings, to the point where you can write it so convincingly that it feels real to your audience and therefore also you..... it's the greatest fuel for full-on delulu behaviour where you can conceive of them as a full person with desires and insecurities. does anyone else feel this???? or am I just crazy

[zorosdimples]

being childhood friends with yuuji…

your parents are close and you’re both the same age, so you grow up attached at the hip. you do everything together: learn how to tie your shoes, ride the school bus, take swimming lessons, attend birthday parties.

it isn’t until high school that you start drifting apart. yuuji is gifted at sports and you’re neck deep in college prep; you care for one another still, but you don’t have time to hang out. you’re both too busy and usually forego any get-togethers that your parents have.

the last time you see yuuji for many years is before you go to college. you attend separate schools: he gets a sports scholarship, you get an academic scholarship. you both have fond memories of one another, but things aren’t how they used to be.

it isn’t until after you graduate college and start the soul-sucking corporate grind that you see your childhood best friend again. you’re visiting your parents one weekend and a surprise guest shows up: yuuji.

the boy you once knew is now a man. he grew into his too-large feet, it seems: he’s tall and broad and undeniably strong. his skin looks sunkissed—did he always have those freckles across the bridge of his nose? and his eyes are rich and smooth, an overflowing spoonful of honey.

the smile that graces his lips is devastating when his gaze meets yours. you swear the butterflies in your stomach will lift you off of the floor. you wonder what you look like from his perspective. is he disappointed?

the hug that yuuji gives you is imbued with the love he has felt for as long as he can remember; it’s the love that scared him as a boy, the love he tried to shake in college, the love that he’s now determined to hold onto—if you’ll have him.

[starii-void]

projecting my adhd forgetfulness onto leo valdez in the way he has to set alarms for literally everything.

probably made some sort of silly little machine that starts making phone alarm noises while projecting a reminder on a screen or something just so he doesnt forget to ask for something from another camper, or so that he remembers to change before going out on a hangout with jason n piper, or so that he remembers to do some sort of assignment or remembers to charge something.

jason's hanging out with him and suddenly something starts playing a little jingle or a full on alarm and jason is jumpscared, asking what the fuck it is when leo pulls out this little alarm clock with a screen and goes "ah styx i need to go get something from the store we just passed"

[teabutmakeitazure]

yan chrollo's eyes are mysterious.

you always feel them on you, yet you have not seen them on you even once. the feeling always strikes when you exist in the comfort of your own little bubble, either lounging on the bed or sofa or when you entertain yourself with a chore or book. sometimes it strikes even when chrollo is not there, his physical absence seemingly not sufficient to keep that feeling of watchful eyes at bay.

perhaps he is there. perhaps he has a way to watch you from all sides since you are never able to locate the source of the watchful gaze. it would be daft of you to think for even a second that he is not watching. whether he is home or not is irrelevant.

yet when he sits with you in front of the fireplace of the home you currently live in, you grow bold. the repercussions fail to squander your growing attitude at the lack of privacy, and upon the feeling the audacious intrusion of his hand up your ridiculously short skirt, you think of yourself as foolish.

you think of yourself as foolish but you think of yourself as carrying out a necessary duty, something that has lives at stake and carries the potential to change the world. your world.

thus, you strike.

you heave out a gentle sigh and rest your head on his shoulder, all familiar actions that alert chrollo of your inevitable misbehaviour. your eyes look up at him through your lashes and a finger teasingly runs over the forearm holding a book in hand. it's a dangerous game, to tease the beast currently sitting cuddled up next to you in front of a fire who holds the power to switch the comfort in your life for discomfort.

despite that, he smiles. he smiles and he peeks at you. he sees the look on your face, takes in the impatience and boldness and thinks God knows what of it and continues smiling only to flat out ignore you and simply turn a page (how infuriating).

the fingertip traces his forearm again, yet even upon receiving no response or reaction you remain indefatigable in your petty pursuit. ironically, he snaps when your finger lands on his thigh instead. the book is closed shut without a bookmark to save the page and a deep breath is taken in.

you think yourself to be in trouble, but chrollo simply pulls you even closer.

"you're being oddly touchy," he comments. his eyes are fixed onto the fire, yet you still feel his gaze when you look away.

unlike your own expectations, you voice your question without making small talk. it felt gruesome to push those words out of your mouth, but it happened, and you successfully asked him. chrollo, however, does not give you an answer.

the arm on your thigh travels up to your hip, the palm cupping the dip in your body while the thumb gently draws circles. the book that he placed onto his lap is picked up and gently placed onto the side table, yet you are not graced with an answer yet.

this is a test of some sort. you know it.

"do you really want to know?"

you nod immediately. he is not looking at you.

"the answer might not be something you would appreciate." suddenly, he shifts, and you are met with the grey eyes that have captivated you and held your attention for months. even though your heart skips a beat at the action, you cannot help but try your best to push away the hint of fear that creeps up your spine.

chrollo inquires about your decision again, and you resist the urge to look at his chest instead. gazing on his toned chest teasingly peeking out through an unbuttoned shirt is preferable to his eyes, yet you don't.

your nod is enough to allow chrollo to continue and give you the answer you've been pursuing for months, and when his lips part, your eyes widen at the same speed only to narrow in disappointment when he gives his answer.

"if i tell you, you'll get bored of me." with that, the book is picked up again, your head once again pushed to rest on his shoulder, and the page he left it on opened up once again.

your arguing ends in a loss as per usual. no matter. at least you have something to do until you get your answers.

[plutoshaunted]

It's odd to me what the show does and doesn't punish Danny for. There's times he deserves it and gets away without consequences but there are also so many instances in the show where he is punished for things that aren't his fault or the punishment is extreme. (Cheating on a test = all your friends and family dying and you becoming a monster). There's also times where the show condemns Danny for using his powers to stand up for himself or for his own gain when it's really inconsequential stuff.

I wanna talk about Pirate Radio. It's a classic trope, teenager threw a wild party because their parents weren't home. This usually starts one of two ways: kid thinks they can get away with it or the kid is only gonna have a small party and then more and more people keep showing up.

In this episode, Danny has no idea there is a party at his house until he gets home. Sam and Tucker are up in the Op Center and have no idea people have shown up either. Danny rallies everyone there to help save all their parents and then... gets grounded for a month.

Very rarely does he catch a break. He gets in trouble at home and at school, for things that out of his control all the time. (And often Tucker and Sam are dragged into this as well, especially at school)

As Phantom, he's blamed for ruining Valerie's life, robberies, kidnapping the mayor, etc.

[homielander]

objectively very funny that homelander spent three seasons antagonizing or killing anyone who dared defy him and squashing anything that even remotely resembled dissent... only to be like how come no one stands up to me😔 why can't you speak your minds😠 ugh i am singlehandedly carrying this company!!

[outivv]

That stupid doctor and his stupid favoritism. His idiocy causes for you to have twice the work that normal just to keep up with his schedule on top of your own! You’re already Dottore’s assistant, but now you also have to go along to all his meetings, supervise new clones with him, sometimes go on trips with him, and do your own research. He truly thinks you can do it all, and have no problem either- but you’re not like him. You can’t casually make a fake god out of some trans boy and a chess piece, you don’t even know why he hired you for this job, you were kicked out of the akademiya for… poor grades, and then Dottore just scooped you up and gave you a job here. It’s baffling, really- but… to be fair the job pays well, and Dottore gives you special treatment. “Don’t touch that. It’ll melt your face off.” Dottore warns sternly, because if you were anyone else- he wouldn’t warn you.

“But what if I wanna be an odd, oblong goo face?” You say, almost smug as you look at Dottore- who promptly looks… disgusted.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s foolish, and a waste of your time.”

“But anything that makes me happy isn’t a waste of time in my opinion.”

“Would that really make you happy?”

“I dunno, would it?”

Dottore looks unimpressed. He just looks at you, and you can feel his annoyed glare from under his mask- especially as you play with the vile of face melting liquid. He can’t help the sigh that comes out of his mouth, getting a headache from you… damn you, and being his favorite. “Must you always be so difficult?” Dottore grumbles, his sharp teeth showing off for just a moment as he returns to what he’s doing. “I think you quite like my difficult-ness.” Your smug attitude is not helping the situation. “I mean, I heard from Pantalone that you asked for quite a large sum of money for a ‘gift’ of some sorts. Course, he wouldn’t tell me the details.” Fuck you caught onto him. Dottore curses, and mumbles under his breath something about that ‘stupid banker and his stupid fat mouth that won’t shut up for two goddamn seconds’. Yes, well- Pantalone is known as quite the gossiper and chitchatter, and you have tea with him on the weekends. Unbeknownst to Dottore.

The sigh that escapes him again is one of defeat, and would put any other person into a coffin just at how frustrated he sounds too. “Yes? What if it?” Oh, now look at Dottore trying to be all nonchalant about it, well- luckily for you… you’re nosey. “I heard it’s a new creation, hm?” You say, examining your nails a bit, before your eyes flicker up to the doctor, and he just taps his fingers against the table in… such fucking annoyance. “Mhm. I usually go to Pantalone for funding. This time was no different.” Dottore says, acting like he’s not about to explode- but he could never do that to his favorite assistant. “Did you not hear me when I said that Pantalone specified that it was a gift?” Your snark is gonna get you nowhere yet… everywhere with Dottore, as he pushes away from the table he was standing at, and starts walking away. “Come now.” He beckons, not even looking back, but soon hearing the tap of your shoes following him. You simply go over to Dottore’s main workbench, and he sits down- pulls almost a billion little things out of drawers, and then… he assembles a box.

“What’s this?” You say, just curious, really. “Well you open it, and you look inside.” Oh, now he’s gonna be snarky back with you, huh? You roll your eyes, before gently lifting the lid of the box, and you’re disappointed to find a music box. How cliché of him. As if expending that, Dottore gently slides the box over to himself, simply twists the knob and then… a whole projection appears. The room, turns to an elegant ballroom, with figures dancing elegantly across the floor, and with you and Dottore in the middle. You’re stunned, shocked… other words for surprised- and you reach out to try and touch one of the projected people. Your fingers go right through them, until Dottore reaches out through the person, and grabs your hand.

“At the last… fatui event, I noticed you were rather… shaken up. I assumed it was because of the people, considering you seem most comfortable around the lab even when it’s just the two of us. No segments, no people, no distractions. And now, it’s the same in the ballroom…” Dottore says, taking his mask off, and nearly holding his breath as he looks down at you. Dottore has never been a man that you’ve known to be nervous, let alone reveal his thoughts to you in any way… he’s always been some kind of enigma, but that’s probably because he pretends to be this complicated man of extreme power and science. Now, he seems like something simpler, with his red eyes staring at you, as if begging for you to approve- and express some kind of gratitude. He’s arrogant, but even he needs validation.

“Dottore… this is fucking insane.” Is all you can say, you your hand ends up holding his, so… he’ll assume that it’s good? “That’s what people usually say to me.” He says, almost… playful?! Who the hell is this man and what has he done with Dottore who you one time saw eating straight up mayonnaise out of the container. “I mean, when you have elaborate ideas like this, I suppose I wouldn’t blame them.” You mumble, curiously looking at Dottore. What’s his aim here? What does he want from you? What is he trying to get. Before your mind can ask too many internal questions, Dottore clears his throat, and closes the music box, making the projection stop in the blink of an eye. “Well, there? Satisfied with knowing your gift before you were supposed to even get it? Brat.” Dottore says, almost angry, while he glares at you- and puts his mask back on. “Yeah, I appreciate it. Thank you, this is my favorite gift I’ve ever gotten…” you genuinely say, holding the box as Dottore practically shoves it into your arms and he starts dismissively walking off. He pretends to not hear you, but you can see the burning red of his ears. Damn him and his favoritism towards you.

[ziziroger555]

Idea for Medic’s new halloween costume?