#the sock puppets shudder before her

[weevmo]

She is experiencing a Happy Attack!

Give a Lulu a sticker and she will be happy for a day

Give a Lulu a Giant Ax and she will be happy for life -

#the first Lulu questions I have ever recieved! #I love her sm #what a menace #the sock puppets shudder before her #weevmo #lulu stew #also thank you sm Im glad you enjoy the project!!

[rebouks]

Brynn couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so physically exhausted-.. or sore, but Ellis had arrived safely and that was all that mattered. It’d been more than a few hours since the midwife had dropped by and subsequently taken her leave, but Wyatt had yet to move.

Clearly overwhelmed, any attempt at speech would leave him clearing his throat with a forced casualness, a fruitless act to conceal the fact that his voice - breaking with betrayal every time he opened his mouth - exposed his current emotional state.

Wyatt could tell Brynn was observing him, but his brain was no longer cooperating with him and he didn’t know what to say, or what to do-.. again. It felt as though someone had drugged him and stuffed a dry sock so far down his windpipe that he could barely swallow.

“We haven’t had any sleep for so long and it’s such a special day-.. is okay to feel emotional.” Brynn uttered gently.

Wyatt wanted to acknowledge Brynn’s words, perhaps even agree with them, but he didn’t dare tear his gaze from the rug. His eyes stung as she spoke, a knowing, soft smile practically emanating from her words.

“Come to bed soon, yes?”

Instead of heading upstairs, Wyatt tumbled outside - sans shoes - unable to contain the excruciating lump in his throat any longer. The tears fell way before he did, his old bench creaking in protest as he doubled over and thrust his face into his hand with shame.

Chained for over twenty years, an unrecognisable noise tumultuously forced itself from Wyatt’s chest in a motion almost as violent as retching; a choked sob that quickly gave way to inconsolable weeping.

With every fibre of his being, Wyatt willed himself to stop-.. to push his emotions back where they belonged like he used to, like he knew he could do; but they’d bubbled to the surface now, and it was far too late. The dam had finally burst, leaving him powerless against the seemingly unending flow. He was drowning in icy tears, snot, and shuddering breaths that felt like they’d never return to normal.

The moment Ellis had made his way into the world, something deep inside Wyatt’s soul had shattered, breaking into a million tiny pieces that pricked his heart with every shred of hurt, regret, and stifled guilt he’d ever buried within its previously impenetrable depths. Try as he might, the tears refused to cease.

A long while later, Wyatt took a deep breath and sniffled wearily, realising he could no longer feel his limbs. All the numbness had seeped from his core and travelled outwards instead, almost as though it had nowhere else to go; like it wasn’t welcome inside any longer. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat and cried for, but at least he didn’t feel like he was choking anymore.

Eventually staggering inside, he carelessly wiped his nose upon his sleeve, far too tired to fret about his usual, habitual cleanliness.

Silently sliding to his knees, Wyatt wondered if his own father had felt this way when he was born-.. was he even there? Probably not, though he’d never bothered asking. Ellis wiggled contentedly as Wyatt loomed over his crib, completely unperturbed by his presence; he was so small and innocent, so pure and untainted by a life yet lead. Since the moment he’d become aware of his existence, Wyatt knew that he’d do anything in his power to protect his son, though the feeling had multiplied tenfold now that he’d been born-.. as was natural for a parent, or ought to be.

Yet his so-called father had thrust him into the cruel jaws of the world without flinching, berated him when he shied from hardship, ignored his needs, wants and opinions, figuratively and literally beaten any undesired emotion out of him until he was a mere husk of who he might’ve been; turning him into someone who was easier to control instead, easier to mould. A malleable puppet to be used for his own, selfish gains.

How different things could’ve been-.. it’d probably be wise to maintain his refusal to regret the past though. His previously abhorrent life had still somehow led him to this point, hadn’t it? He wouldn’t change it, not now.

Wyatt finally admitted to himself that he wasn’t the same man he once was, he felt different-.. felt more. All the barriers and all the lies he’d surrounded himself with were gone, and bereft of his precious shield, he found himself exposed to a rawness he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with yet.

He knew wouldn’t judge Ellis for embracing his emotions, so perhaps he ought to do the same; guidance required an example to follow, right? Though he wasn’t sure he’d ever be a good example, he’d still try his best. He had no idea what he was doing, which wasn’t ideal, but at least he had a long list of what not to do.

Although it felt painful and foreign, Wyatt was relieved to discover that he still possessed some semblance of humanity; that his father and all those that’d failed him - including himself - hadn’t totally doused his spirit. The sobbing had long since stopped, but the tears had not; they didn’t sting as much as they had though, and each drop caressed his cheek gently as it fell, reassuring him that he wasn’t completely devoid of emotion, happiness, or love.

He hoped Ichi was right about him being a decent father, because for the first time since he could remember, Wyatt felt as though he had a purpose.

Maybe he had something to give to this world after all, something impeccant and virtuous, something he could actually be proud of…

Previous // Next

#ts4 #sims 4 #simblr #ts4 story #sims story #forever in between #fib #wyatt shaw #brynn franz #ellis yoshida #oughhhhh.. my heart 🤕 #it took wyatt more than eight years to get to this point #but he finally broke #like.. truly fully shattered into teeny tiny pieces #and not only that.. but he actually admitted to himself that he's just not the same anymore #he can't undo the past.. but he can nurture the future and break the chain 😭 #i can't #i'm going to the sobbing corner and i'm never coming out #🤧 #twabuse

[mandaloriandragontrainer]

Can’t Breathe

AO3 link

Bill still haunts the twins’ dreams.

TW: panic attack

It was completely dark. No. Not completely. Thin slits of light filtered in, as though through someone’s fingers.

“Mabel,” Dipper groaned. “Stop doing that.” He reached up to pull her arms down, but found them stiff and unyielding.

“Wowee, you really do have noodle arms, Pine Tree.”

Dipper’s stomach fell to the floor. Not again. Not another dream. Why did they always seem so real?

“G-g-get away from me, B-Bill,” he demanded through chattering teeth. “You’re not real. You’re just-just another dream.”

“You think I don’t know that!? Stupid kid. And here I thought you were smart. I’m a dream demon, Pine Tree. Dreams are where I’m the most real.”

“Go away! You can’t do anything to me! You’re not here! You’re dead!”

Dipper’s feet were pulled out from underneath him. He was staring down at a black abyss, suspending by blue chains. “Look at you up there! Like a little piñata!”

“Leave me alone!” Dipper demanded, flinging his head back and forth searching for the demon. “Where are you!?”

“What kind of question is that, kiddo? You know exactly where I am.”

Hesitantly, Dipper let his gaze wander up... or down... to the abyss. He realized how it reflected like darkened glass. Two yellow eyes stared back, red-rimmed and psychotic.

His own eyes.

***

“You can’t have him!”

Mabel dug her feet into the ground, pushing back her brother’s body. Their whole life, they’d been equally matched. Why was he so much stronger now?

“This was his choice, Shooting Star! You think he’s so smart, dontcha? He should’ve known better than to trust me!”

Bipper flung Mabel back against the ground. “Face it, Shooting Star, your brother is mine. Just like you’re about to be.” He grinned maliciously. “Stanley will never be able to hurt his sweet little pumpkin pie.”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

“It’s like this, sweet’ums,” Bipper bent over and flicked Mabel’s chin. “You and your brother are my slaves now. Either you do exactly what I say when I say it or you’re dead. Worse than dead. Oh-ho, so much worse. Now shake my hand if you ever want to see your brother alive again, honeybun.”

“N-no!” Mabel put her hands to her ears. “This isn’t real, it’s all pretend! It’s just a dream!”

“Funny, your bro-bro said the same thing.” Her hands did nothing to drown out Bill’s maniacal voice. “Why do you fleshbags think a dream makes anything less real? You can’t escape me, babycakes. Even if you.... WAKE UP.”

Mabel screamed and flew up right. A dream. It was just a dream. She was here, in the Shack, in her bed with her purple nightgown and Sev’ral Timez pillowcase and stuffed pony and Waddles sleeping on the rug beside her. No evil laughter. Nothing to hear but her pig’s soft snoring and the buzz of the air conditioner and Dipper’s frantic panting.

Wait.

“Dipper? Are-are you okay?” She whispered.

Nothing but pained wheezes in response.

“Dipper?” She hopped from the bed, socked feet padding across the floor to her brother’s side. “Dipper, what’s wrong?”

Her twin was sitting up, one hand clutching his heart and the other steadying himself on the nightstand. “I-I-I can’t-I can’t-I can’t breathe...” he gasped. “I can’t breathe. Mabel. I can’t-I can’t!”

“Just-just try to slow it down,” she pleaded. “You’re hypervent-hypervent... that word! You’re breathing too fast!”

“Mabel, I’m gonna die,” Dipper choked. “Oh, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die...”

“Don’t say that!” Mabel wailed, tears springing to her eyes. “You’re not! Why are you saying that?”

Dipper fumbled for her hand. He was shaking so much. It terrified her.

“Grunkle Stan!!!” she bawled. “Grunkle Ford!!! Help, please help!!!”

Only a few moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs in response. The door was kicked open and her grunkles burst into the room in their sleepwear, Stan wielding his brass knuckles and Ford pointing his gun at an invisible threat.

“What is it, Mabel, where’d he go?!” Stan exclaimed, furiously surveying the room.

“It’s Dipper!” She wailed, running to her grunkle and throwing her arms around him. “He can’t breathe and he’s dying!”

Ford quickly holstered his gun and knelt at Dipper’s side. “Mason, look at me. Look me in the eyes.”

“I-I can’t breathe, Gr-Grunkle Ford,” Dipper grabbed his hand in terror. “I’m d-dying.”

“Listen to me, Mason. You’re not dying. You’re having a panic attack. Look at me. I know it’s frightening, but you’re safe. I’m right here with you. You’re not going to die.”

“I-I can’t.... I can’t...”

“What’s 2 times 3?”

“Wha-what?”

“2 times 3, my boy.”

“S-s-six.”

“Very good. What about 28 divided by 7?”

“F-four.”

Mabel glanced back at her brother from Stan’s hug. “Why is he making him do math?”

“I think he’s trying to calm him down, sweetie. Must be a nerd thing.”

“Very good job,” Ford gently rubbed Dipper’s back. “See? Your breathing is already slowing down. Can you breathe in through your nose?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Excellent. Breathe in deeply and hold it if you can. Out through the mouth.”

Dipper obeyed, although his breath wobbled. Stan flipped on the light, and Mabel could see her brother’s sleep shirt was completely soaked through with sweat.

“I couldn’t breathe,” he mumbled, clutching his uncle’s fingers like a lifeline.

“Shhh, boy. Just focus on breathing. We need to bring your heart rate down.”

“See, pumpkin?” Stan kneeled to eye level with his niece and gave her a hug. “Your brother’s just fine. He’s not goin anywhere.”

“It was Bill,” Dipper whimpered. “He was in my dream. He stole my body again, but-but it was like I was still in it too.” He looked at Ford, brown eyes wide and afraid. “Was it just a dream, Grunkle Ford? What if he’s really there?”

“Bill’s astral form was destroyed, my boy,” Ford assured. “But even if he were able to piece himself back together enough to enter your dreams, you have to remember he can’t hurt you there.”

“It-it felt like he could...” Tears started to roll down Dipper’s cheeks. He buried his face in his knees, unable to keep his shoulders from shuddering. “I could feel everything and-and I couldn’t make it stop. Not like when we were in Stan’s head.”

“He said we were his slaves.”

“What?” Ford turned to Mabel, surprised by her statement.

“He-he was in my dream, too,” Mabel ducked her head under Stan’s arm, feeling as though Bipper could pounce her again if she didn’t stay hidden. “He was in Dipper’s body like he was at the puppet show. And-and he said me and Dipper were his and-and if we didn’t do what he said he’d hurt us really bad. And before I woke up he said that dreams were just as real as being awake.”

Ford was silent for a moment. “Come over here, Mabel.” She shuffled to him and let him lift her onto Dipper’s bed. “I promise you two are completely safe here. Stan and I will never let any harm come to you, understand?”

The twins nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“I wish I could tell you for sure that it wasn’t actually Bill you encountered. I wish I could tell you it was nothing more than a dream. But the truth is, I don’t know. It was foolish of me to be so certain he was gone for good. I promise you, I’ll find out for sure if he’s back, and if he is, together we will find a way to destroy him once and for all. But in the meantime, I’ll teach you how to combat him in your dreams.”

“What about tonight?” Mabel asked quietly, leaning against her brother’s shoulder. “I always sleep with Mom and Dad when I have a nightmare.”

“You-you can sleep with me,” Dipper offered.

“Why don’t both of you sleep in our room tonight?” Stan interjected. “Sixer and I will get started in the lab.”

“Your room?” Dipper wrinkled his nose. “Can we change the sheets first?”

“You wanna sleep outside, kid?”

“Maybe we could make a fort,” Mabel suggested. “I taped some extra unicorn hair in my scrapbook. We could use it to protect the fort.”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea,” Ford smiled. “You feel up to it, Dipper?”

“Yeah.” He slid down from the bed. “I’ll definitely sleep better.”

Stan watched the kids disappear down the stairs. “You really think you’ll be able to do something, Poindexter?”

Ford sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I’m still hoping these really are only just dreams. But you can never tell for sure when it comes to Bill.”

“Ah, if he shows up, I’ll just whallop him again. Didn’t hold up well against it last time.”

Ford shook his head. “Let’s make sure the kids are getting along all right.”

In their room, the grunkles found a lean-to of couch cushions covered with a sheet, unicorn hair pasted at the base. A crayon-colored sign stating “UNDER CONSTRUCTION” was taped at the top. Inside, the twins were collapsed in a heap, exhausted from the ordeal.

“They’re safe, Stanley.”

His brother smiled at him. “And we’ll keep it that way.”

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls fanfic #pines family #dipper pines #mabel pines #ford pines #stan pines #stanford pines #stanley pines #bill cipher #bipper #tw: panic attack #mason pines #hurt/comfort #mando writes

[creativeskullcreations]

Outside chapter 23: Final Showdown (part 1)

Just as a warning everyone this chapter, and the next one, both have quite a bit of violence. Bones will break. people(and Puppets) will bleed, and somebody may or may not be dead by the end of this. So don't say I didn't warn y'all.

Also chapter 24 should be up next week, cause I wrote out both parts of this as one whole thing before splitting it. It just needs to be edited now, but that can be done tomorrow after work. Also we’re pretty much at the end now. But more on that later, for now enjoy the Final Showdown.

Stacy stayed limp, even as she was tied up by her wrists. Her eyes remained closed, as Mortimer grabbed her face and turned it this way and that to check for consciousness. As she suspected, he refused to even try anything until he knew she was awake to experience it. Even after she'd been feigning sleep for hours.

'You freaks are all the same...' She thought as she swung gently against the wall, listening as Mortimer stalked around the room, muttering under his breath. 'Oh wow, I think he's practicing his villain speech. Loser.'

Her inner monologue of mocking Mortimer did little to keep her fear down. It was only old habits from her childhood that helped her facade stay up in the face of Mortimer suddenly slamming something. The sounds of pages being flipped, and more muttering, this time about Riley. Or maybe about Owen, it was difficult to tell.

Listening to him walk back and forth, muttering and turning pages in a book, Stacy found herself in a tense boredom. It wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last, but it made it difficult to keep up her facade. Briefly, quietly, she wished something would happen to get this show on the road.

Unknown to her, however, the door to the Sound Stage had slowly been pushed open, two humans peering around the edge. "Looks pretty safe." Will muttered as he eased the door open wider. "Remember, just grab and go."

"Right." Scout whispered back as she crept into the room. It seemed empty enough, though there were runes and magic symbols scribbled all over the walls. And, hanging in front of one that seemed to be drawn in blood, was her Puppet body. Biting the back the cry of her Host's name, she made her way over to her.

Trembling hands reached up to try and fight the knots around the fabric wrists, but stopped at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw the slow, lumbering approach of a Sock Puppet, one that was quickly speeding up.

"Shit!" She hissed out as she dodged around it, noticing Will coming inside and drawing his gun. He didn't get a chance to use it when the sound of wood hitting wood came, and the Sock Puppet relaxed, stepping to one side to reveal Mortimer.

"I can't say this is much of a surprise to see." He started as he walked his Host forward. "I knew that you would make your way to me. Why don't you join me now for some tea?" He stepped aside and gestured to a small, round table set up for tea. He turned to go take his spot at the "head" of the table, and Will raised his gun to aim at his head. Scout grabbed his arm and forced it down, looking pointedly at the Sock Puppet. He stuck it in his pocket and they went over to the table, followed by the Sock.

They stood next to each other, across the table from Mortimer and very aware of the Sock behind them. Neither of them touched their cups, though Mortimer himself did take a long drink from his.

"So you've made it this far in, and all for little Scout." He started after finishing. "Tell me now, how were you planning on getting back out?"

Will held up his gun in response, and it was almost immediately taken by the Sock Puppet. He glared after it as it stared down the barrel, but didn't try and get it back.

"Ah well, a model attempt at the very least, but guns are not allowed. Far too messy, annoying, and loud." A poor rhyme, in Scout's opinion, but Mortimer did seem pretty distracted. She didn't miss the way his eyes kept darting to Stacy.

"Has she woken up yet?" She asked, blatantly turning her head to look. In the corner of her eye she saw him follow her gaze.

"Sadly, not quite yet. I feel there are conditions still not met. Perhaps you know why she remains still unconscious. I feel like I've missed something quite... obvious." His eyes roamed over her, and she avoided meeting them, suddenly scared he could see right through her.

"Well, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about." Will replied nonchalantly. "But if you give back that Puppet, I promise my friends and I will leave, quickly and quietly and with no more harm done."

"Somehow, I don't believe you." Mortimer took another sip of his tea, staring unblinking at the man. "How do I know that what you say is true? No, better to take care of this problem now, and put all of you down."

"Put us down?" Scout repeated quietly.

"Of course! Can't have defective hosts running around. You'll ruin all of our carefully laid plans, before we can take a final bow." He explained, drawing himself up and gesturing grandly. "No, it's better to deal with you now."

Grabbed from behind, Will almost gagged on the necrotic smell coming from the Sock Puppet Hosts. Scout seemed unaffected, probably used to it even now. He kicked back, catching the groin and yanking out of the one handed hold. Leaping over the table, he grabbed the pot of hot tea and flung it, catching both Mortimer and his Host in the face.

The howls of pain distracted the Socks, allowing Scout to escape and run over to Stacy, who by now was watching with wide eyes. Puling on the knots with trembling, clumsy fingers, she couldn't get them loose before being pulled away and thrown.

"Scout!" It was weird hearing her own voice from the outside, as she scrambled to get up. She pushed that thought from her mind, more worried about how Stacy had just blown their cover.

Luckily, Mortimer seemed too preoccupied with Will, who was throwing the tea set at him one piece at a time. He hadn't gotten him with anymore tea, but it certainly distracted him. Noting the Sock lumbering towards her, she dodged around it, grabbing the dropped axe as she went.

'No time to try those knots again! Aim properly, and don't fucking hit her or I'll never hear the end of it!' She ran straight for Stacy, chopping the rope with it as she went by. It was a little high, but she heard the soft thump of the Puppet hitting the floor as she led the Sock around.

Turning a tight corner, she intended to grab her swapped Host on a second pass, but almost stopped when she couldn't find her.

'Oh no!' Mortimer and Will were still fighting each other, and the Sock certainly hadn't grabbed her, so where was she? 'Fuck I am so dead!'

-----

Sammy sat next to the bag, surrounded by small, evil Puppets. Canon was in his lap while Bit was on his head, and the other two were sat next to him watching as their Hosts paced in the narrow hallway. They had some makeshift clubs, and Mason had rigged up a quick trap, but other than that they were pretty defenseless.

"We're gonna die." Bonzai muttered. "They're gonna come for us and all we have is three Hosts to defend us. Not even any vents to escape into."

"Quiet you!" Bit snapped. "They're so much bigger than Riley and Nick, and they took out Daisy!"

"They're not bigger than Rosco, however. To him, they would surely fail to come out better." Stitch said quietly. It was hard to tell what that one was thinking, in Sammy's opinion, but he thought she seemed rather sad about that.

"Ooh, Stitchy, bad rhyme. Do better next time." The red haired one told her sister mockingly. She got a glare in reply, but the yellow and orange Puppet said nothing more.

"Or just stop. They're gonna kill us all anyways, so why even bother." Bonzai piped up.

"Nobody's gonna kill you. Don't be so negative." Sammy told him, only to receive his own glare. "Look, once they get back we're all gonna leave and burn this place down, and we'll bring you guys with us. It'll be fine."

"Also we kinda don't have a choice in the matter anymore." Lisa added, pausing in her step and leaning against the pipe she'd found. "Pretty sure if you guys die, then so do we."

"Which is so, so creepy!" Mason muttered with a full body shudder. "Ugh..."

"Oh quit your whining. Scout's gonna love that we rescued her siblings!" Lisa said, and both Sammy and Mason just gave her blank looks.

"I don't think so. She's never even mentioned them." Mason pointed out. The blonde just shrugged, unending optimism still in her voice.

"Maybe she just didn't want Stacy to worry? You ever think about that?"

Sammy just rubbed his temples as the two devolved into arguing. "I really need a joint." He muttered. The Puppets stared at him in confusion, and Bonzai started counting his actual joints to make sure he had them all.

Anymore arguing or questions were stopped, however, by the sound of heavy, slow footsteps approaching. In the distance was a soft glow, slowly growing larger and brighter. And closer.

Lisa and Mason brought their weapons up, and Sammy stood and forced the Puppets behind him. He had a broken broom, while Mason had another pipe, but none of the weapons felt like they'd be enough as they saw the giant, mutilated dog Puppet.

"Oh." Lisa swallowed thickly, voice small and quiet. "That must be Rosco."

-----

Will had never fought anything like this before. Even the most violent and aggressive of haunted dolls had been just that, dolls. But Mortimer had a full grown, if severely malnourished, adult man attached to him which made it very difficult to get the upper hand on him. And he was all out of things to throw.

'Gotta get that gun back.' He kicked the Host and knocked him away, before turning towards where Scout was trying to deal with the Sock Puppet. She was definitely making use of the prosthetic, however clumsily. But, he could still see the gun held in it's free hand, even as it tried to grab her with it.

"Hey! I need that gun!" He called out, dodging another attempt at being grabbed. Whether Scout even heard him he couldn't tell, but a few seconds later the gun went whizzing by his face, hitting the far wall before he could even register it. Thankfully, it didn't go off, but he and Mortimer did take a second to stare before they went back to fighting.

"Thanks for the fucking warning!" He called out sarcastically, trying to find an opening. At least now he had a chance to get it, if Mortimer would let him.

"Fuck off!" Was Scout's reply as she repeatedly smashed her fist into the side of the Sock's Host. It seemed to be working, as it was starting to go down, or at least act disoriented, and it was giving Will ideas.

There weren't any chairs, and he was out of tea sets, but there had to be something else he could use for a weapon. Some half-rotted cardboard set pieces, the table, but nothing really useful. So he punched Mortimer in the face, hearing a snap as he broke the Puppet's nose.

A howl of pain, as a thick, red sap leaked out. "You horrible, defective Host!" He snarled out, nose snapped and bent.

"Ha! Oh shit..." He turned and ran as Mortimer chased him down. "Shit! I fucked up!"

Scout watched this with the dying Sock Puppet. "Hell yeah you did." She punched it again as it tried to stand back up, and it sank to the floor. She then grabbed the axe and yanked it out of the wall. She went to go help Will, but stopped when she saw more Sock Puppets coming out of the doors.

"Oh fuck me..." She whispered, as half the group went straight for her.

-----

Lisa was screaming. She was aware she was screaming, but could not stop screaming even as she repeatedly whacked Rosco on the head with her pipe. She had no clue what she was screaming, but Mason would tell her later that it was a mash of swears in both English and French.

Mason, on the other hand, was struggling against two out of three Puppets by himself. Yes, three, as Riley had managed to grab the bag and reattach Daisy's head, and also put her eyeballs back. Luckily she was still without a real Host, so it was fairly easy to kick her away when she got too close, but it was annoying and a distraction. And Riley only had one arm, oddly enough, though it didn't seem to stop her from putting her all into her attacks, with him barely able to hold her back at times.

Nick hung back and gave mockingly encouraging words to the other two, but didn't do a lot to help otherwise. He only joined the fight when Sammy managed to sneak up behind him and stab his Host with the broken end of his broom.

"You ass!" Was the artist's response, already feeling his Host begin to bleed out. He stumbled after the stoner, who managed to keep just out of reach while smacking his head, the sound of wood against wood echoing in the small space.

"Diediedie why won't you die?!" He sang out as he drummed against the Puppet's head, disorienting him enough he couldn't fight back, even after Daisy switched her attention to Sammy. Clawing her way up his body, he had to quickly start smacking her until she finally let go and dropped off. He then stomped on her until Nick managed to come to and grab him, pulling him by the back of his shirt and choking him.

Mason saw this and brought his pipe down hard on the arm holding Nick, feeling more than hearing the bones snap under the metal. He howled in pain, letting go of Sammy as he flopped down, other hand flailing trying to catch himself.

Mason grabbed Sammy and started pulling him back towards the door, taking Riley out with a well-timed head-shot as they passed. Which, conveniently, distracted Rosco and gave Lisa an opening to escape.

As she joined them in their attempt at fleeing, pausing only to grab up their Hand Puppets, Sammy and Mason kept their weapons up. The Handeemen were starting to recover, and they had inadvertently trapped themselves.

Backs to the Sound Stage, where Will and Stacy were possibly fighting Mortimer, and in front of them were three royally pissed off Puppets and a dog-monster. Lisa wasn't sure if they should push forward, or try and fall back, but looking at what was ahead of them made her blood rush from fear.

Survival was not looking good.

#hello puppets #fanfiction #outside #mortimer handee #scout #riley ruckus #rosco #nick nack #daisy danger #bonzai #bit #stitch #canon #sammy davis #stacy stein #will carson #lisa montgomery #mason kamiya #violence #bleeding but not human blood

[anistarrose]

Summary: Stan finds a recording from a fateful puppet show, a few disjointed memories fall into place, and the Pines family has some tense conversations.

Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Characters: Stan Pines, Ford Pines, Dipper Pines, Mabel Pines, Bill Cipher (posthumously)

Set in early September, probably a little less than a week after Dipper and Mabel went home.

(It felt good to write some Stangst again! Title is from Monster Town by Go! Child because when I can't think of titles on my own, I go to my GF playlist for inspo, and that song jumped out at me today)

***

“We should probably bring a backup camera on the boat,” Ford mused, in a tone that made it impossible to tell whether he was talking to Stan or just to himself. “Maybe even multiple backup cameras. There’s no telling what the Arctic climate could do to their circuitry, and people hardly take cryptid reports seriously even with photographic evidence, never mind with just an eyewitness account and an excuse about a broken camera —”

“Easy, Sixer.” Stan set down his fully-packed suitcase at Ford’s feet, satisfied with its contents. “I’ve got a camcorder up in my room, or maybe in — actually, I can’t remember where I decided to keep it, but it’s probably still in the house somewhere. If I can find it, you can add it to your camera horde.”

Ford zipped open Stan’s suitcase, revealing hand-knitted sweaters and Hawaiian shirts in approximately equal numbers, and sighed. “Some brave wardrobe choices you’re making here. Or have you forgotten that the first beach we’re stopping at is in Alaska?”

“Well, someone’s gotta lead the fashion revolution in the Arctic Circle, and it sure ain’t gonna be you,” Stan called as he headed upstairs, provoking a resigned “hrmph” from Ford.

Stan decided to look for the camcorder in his bedroom first — because while his memory still had some scattered gaps, his gut instincts rarely lead him astray, and checking his room had been his first impulse. Sure enough, he found it sitting on a shelf and covered in slightly less dust than the adjacent stack of magazines, just as he ever-so-vaguely remembered it.

“Better make sure this thing works, before Ford declares it too unreliable for yeti hunts or whatever,” he muttered to himself, leaning back onto his bed and fumbling for the power button. The camcorder blinked to life, presenting an interface that was probably hopelessly outdated — but Stan didn’t care, while Ford would have no way of knowing what modern Earth technology looked like.

What’d I even record on this thing anyway? He selected a random video from June, was greeted with his own voice singing the first line of the Stan Wrong Song, and immediately deleted the recording. With a sigh and silent vow to never let Ford learn of the song’s existence, he moved on to a video from July.

Once again, it was Mabel’s handiwork — heh, no wonder I couldn’t remember what I used this thing for, since the kids were always borrowing it from me — but this time, Stan himself wasn’t in frame, though the craft supplies strewn about the living room were enough to stir dormant memories.

“Dipper! Puppet Dipper! Smile for the camera!”

Dipper yawned, then somewhat half-heartedly mimicked the motion using the sock puppet on his hand. “Puppet Dipper’s not really feeling up to it this morning.”

“Did Puppet Dipper stay up too late trying to solve a mystery? Bwap!” The footage blurred as Mabel nudged Dipper with a sock puppet of her own. “Do I need to make him a little puppet-sized pillow?”

“How about… some puppet-sized sunglasses, for a puppet detective?” Dipper suggested.

“Good idea!” Mabel agreed. “Then no one will notice when Puppet Dipper falls asleep standing up!”

Stan shook his head and smiled.

Man, I wish I’d found this back when my memories were still a mess — Mabel kinda skimmed over the whole puppet saga in her scrapbook. Wonder what else got recorded from that week…

He selected the next video chronologically, noticing that it was also the final recording on the device, and the smile vanished from his face.

“You can’t stop me!” It was Dipper’s voice, yet not Dipper’s voice — all fury and arrogance, and the camcorder’s cheap speaker crackled with static, like the voice was too much, too wrong, too alien to properly record and then replicate. “I’m a being of pure energy with NO weaknesses!”

Without a doubt, Dipper’s body was onscreen, but he was staggering towards Mabel with arms twisted at impossible angles. He lunged for the journal in her hands, eyes glinting the same gold color as the emblem of the six-fingered hand —

Stan hit the power button, rolled over on the bed, and buried his face in his pillow as the wave of memories crashed into him.

Brushing off Dipper’s sorry state as sleep deprivation, until the kid collapsed on the way out of the theater. Seeing the cuts and bruises all over Dipper’s hands as Stan helped him to his feet, and grilling the kids on what happened the whole drive to the hospital. Not getting an answer beyond “sleep deprivation.”

Not being able to give the doctor an answer beyond “sleep deprivation.”

Telling the twins’ parents it was just “sleep deprivation.”

A tense phone call, assuring Mr. and Mrs. Pines that Dipper’s recovery would be swift and tha Gravity Falls was still safe for their children. Stan’s hands shaking as he holds the phone, having no idea if that’s the truth, if he’s doing the right thing.

Mabel crying over a crumpled-up scrap of paper — a note? — she’d found in the car, and refusing to show it to Stan. Half-overheard secrets, whispered between the younger twins when they think Stan isn’t paying attention — apologies, worries, and murmurs too soft to be in any way decipherable.

Dipper, still with bags under his eyes, spending the next few days doing almost nothing but looking over his shoulder and burying his head in the journal. Stan pretending not to notice, but secretly finding it far too familiar for comfort.

Later memories, too — memories of demons, and handshakes, and feeling his body go numb. Memories of a voice, a furiously shrieking voice — both terrified and terrifying, but more than anything, alien.

Now, far too late, Stan recognized it.

***

“We’re calling the kids,” Stan barked, barging back downstairs, and Ford jumped.

“What’s wrong? Are your memories —”

“Better than they’ve ever been, actually.” Stan stormed directly to the living room table, flipping open the laptop on loan from Soos and clicking the video chat app. “Good enough to figure out something that apparently no one thought it might be important to tell me!”

“Are you sure?” Ford put a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “We can still call them, but let’s talk this through first, make sure you’re not missing any gaps —”

Stan paused, cursor an inch away from the call button beneath Dipper and Mabel’s profile picture. “Did Dipper tell you about the time Bill possessed him?”

Ford started to say something, stopped, and tried again. “I… I assumed you knew. I’m sorry.”

“Did you know I ended up taking him to the goddamn hospital afterwards?”

“No,” Ford whispered, and Stan felt Ford’s fingers dig into his shoulder. “Call the kids, Stan.”

Mabel must’ve been online, because she picked up almost immediately. The video opened with her sitting in her kitchen in Piedmont, Waddles in her lap. “Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford! Guess what I —”

The joy drained out of her smile when she noticed her grunkles’ grave expressions. “What’s going on?”

“Mabel, pumpkin,” Stan murmured, trying to tune out the sound of his heart thumping in his chest, “could you go get your brother?”

“I’m here, I’m here!” Dipper slid into view, almost falling off his chair, and Mabel scooted out of the way so they could both comfortably face the laptop. “Is something wrong?”

“Not anymore,” Ford explained, “but Stan and I wanted to talk about… communication, among other things — Stan? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Stan wiped the sweat from his forehead and shuddered, forcing himself to take a deep breath as he stared at the computer.

Dipper’s back home. Dipper’s safe. They’re both safe, and they’ll never have to worry about Bill again.

“Stanley?” Ford echoed, increasingly distressed. “Please, if —”

“I’ll be alright,” Stan managed, because even he wasn’t a good enough liar to convince anyone he was alright at this exact moment. “Promise. But kids, why didn’t you tell me when Bill hijacked your puppet show?”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged a guilty look.

“Was it because you thought I’d take away the journal?” Stan regretted his ‘only self-defense’ stipulation for the third journal more than almost anything else he’d said that summer, because he’d always known deep down that it wouldn’t stop the kids — and in hindsight, he would’ve much rather known what trouble the kids were getting into, not have them hide it from him with their late nights out in the woods and nonspecific excuses.

“At first,” Dipper replied. “But we ended up worrying a whole lot more about you sending us home early —”

“Your parents almost made that decision for me,” Stan admitted. “They were ready to drive up here and come get you when they heard what happened. I dunno how I convinced them to let you stay —”

He sighed. “And maybe knowing the truth wouldn’t have actually helped me that time — but it would’ve been nice to know how big a lie I was telling when I told them this town was safe for you kids, y’know?”

He regretted voicing that thought immediately, but regretted it even moreso when Dipper looked away from the camera, mumbling: “I’m sorry, Grunkle Stan.”

“Stan’s not trying to guilt you,” Ford spoke up, “but we want you to know you can talk about these things honestly with us — and that goes for both of you, Dipper and Mabel. We’d never want to punish you for something that was obviously… someone else’s fault.”

Thank god one of us has finally learned to think through what we say before we say it, Stan figured.

“I’m sorry too, kids,” he added out loud. “For getting angry at you a minute ago — ‘cause I’m not angry at you, I’m angry at Bill for what he got away with right behind my back, and I… I just…”

He brushed a finger across their digital faces, a gesture that no doubt failed to translate to the video feed Dipper and Mabel were viewing, and smiled. “Thanks for picking up so fast, ‘cause I really needed a reminder that the two of you are safe and sound and all.”

The kids smiled back, visible for just a second before Mabel leaned forward to hug her laptop and the screen went dark.

“Anytime, Grunkle Stan.”

***

“Coffee?” asked Ford, ever the early riser, as Stan trudged into the kitchen the next morning. “You look like you need it.”

“Gee, thanks, Sixer,” Stan groaned, slumping into the seat across from Ford at the kitchen table. “I’ve heard of backhand compliments, but now I’ve gotta live with your backhanded coffee offers too?”

“Sorry. I’m sympathizing, not mocking — I promise, when I woke up today, my eyes were just as bloodshot as yours are now,” Ford replied, sliding Stan a mug of steaming coffee. “How are your memories?”

It was a routine question as of late, but Stan still managed to botch it completely.

“Too good,” he muttered under his breath, and earned a quizzical look from Ford.

“Pardon?”

“…Good enough that I can remember all kinda things to feel shitty about,” Stan reluctantly admitted. “Like not even noticing when Dipper was possessed, for one thing. I spent the whole summer worrying about him, except for when he was actually in danger —”

“Oh, Stanley,” Ford sighed, “that’s not your fault. You know Bill was an expert liar; he scammed too many people to count —”

“Yeah, but I shoulda seen through it!” Stan brought his fist down on the table, and the contents of his mug sloshed precariously close to the top. “Of all people, I should’ve known better —”

“Right.” Ford grimaced. “Right. Because no one else who should’ve known better was ever tricked by a dream demon for a whole lot longer than a few hours —”

“Shit. Ford, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like —”

With a controlled glowering expression and deliberate motions, Ford stood, marching across the kitchen with all the fury and hesitation of a slow-moving thunderstorm.

“I didn’t mean it was your fault! I’d never — ”

“…I know.” Ford came to a halt at the door, bracing one hand against the frame. “But if you can say as much about me, then… then why can’t you just say that about yourself?”

“What?!”

“You would’ve caught on soon enough, if Mabel hadn’t defeated Bill when she did — I wasn’t there, but I’m sure of that because I know you, and I know how well you know Dipper.” Ford shook his head. “I didn’t catch on to Bill’s lies for years. I gave him free reign to hurt people for so much longer than one evening —”

He crossed his arms, and his imposing silhouette in the doorway seemed to shrink.

“So if you’re not blaming me for anything to happen this summer, then you’d better not blame yourself, you — you knucklehead.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stan leapt out of his seat. “It’s no wonder you didn’t see through Bill’s lies, when your whole life, you had me watching your back — and then I wasn’t there for you, when you needed me more than ever —”

“Because I pushed you away!” Ford shouted, whirling back around to face him. “Do you know what I realized while I was trying to fall asleep last night? That if I’d just stood up to Dad when he kicked you out, if I’d just done the right thing for once in my formative years, then the end of the world as we knew it would’ve been averted altogether! No falling for Bill’s flattery, no arguing over the zodiac, no Weirdmageddon! We could’ve had it all, but we just couldn’t live in that better world, all because I convinced myself you were suffocating me —”

“But it sounds like maybe I still am, huh?” Stan growled. “If all I do is just make you furious like this —”

“No,” Ford gasped, all the hostility in his voice and his glare immediately melting away. “No, no, absolutely not! I’m not furious at you, Stan, I’m…”

“Furious at yourself,” Stan accused, “for being even worse than me?!”

“No! Don’t even say that!”

Before Stan could process what was happening, much less protest it, Ford was hugging him, burying his face in Stan’s shoulder.

“Maybe — maybe I am angry at you, after all,” Ford admitted, “but you’re my hero, Stanley. My inspiration. If am angry with you, it’s — it’s just because you’re too damn stubborn to forgive yourself…”

Stan gingerly placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “…Yeah, and you’re one to talk.”

“I won’t deny that,” Ford mumbled. He went quiet for a few seconds, and when he spoke up again, his voice was quieter, yet slightly more composed. “Maybe we need to just… call a truce. Find something positive to agree on. We’re both too stubborn for this argument to end with either of us admitting we were wrong —”

“At least for give-or-take the next forty years,” Stan interrupted, punctuating his words with a bitter laugh.

Ford barked out a laugh of his own, loud and cathartic, and withdrew from the hug, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. “If Dipper and Mabel were here, they would have told us to stop being stubborn old men a while ago. I wish they were here.”

“They’d probably also tell us it’s more Bill’s fault than either of ours,” Stan added. “And… I guess they’d have a point.”

“I can see the logic in that.” Ford smiled faintly. “I’m sorry for making this about me, by the way. You opened up to talk about your own issues, and I —”

“Hey, I made it about you just as much as you did, Brainiac,” Stan reminded him. “…But damn. You think we’ll ever be able to talk about our feelings without shouting our lungs out at each other?”

“We’re still no good at thinking through anything before we say it,” Ford replied, “though I guess we must be getting a little better, since we didn’t even stop speaking to each other this time.”

“Thank god. I’m tired of not talking to you.”

The two of them settled back into their seats at the table, and Stan reached for the morning paper, but Ford spoke up once more.

“I know forgiveness, especially self-forgiveness, can be… complicated,” he told Stan in a low voice, “so maybe I’m biased, speaking as someone who’d rather not grapple with my own personal guilt — but even more important than whether you forgive or blame yourself, I think, is acknowledging that you made mistakes, yet still deserve good things from the universe. And that goes for you and me both.”

Stan took a sip from his mug, pleased to find its contents were still warm. “Good things like coffee, and adventures sailing around the world?”

Ford chuckled. “My priorities exactly.”

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #dipper pines #mabel pines #gravity falls fanfiction #rosalia writes fic

[hopeisour4letteredword]

innocent bones ch1

Summary: Apollo gets a wake-up call in a few ways. It’s okay, though--he’s got best-friend backup.

Link to AO3 in the notes.

Apollo’s first thought when his phone rings at some ungodly time in the middle of the night is fuck off. His second thought is oh my God oh no Clay, because he’s had a shit year and maybe it’s made him a bit paranoid and he’s Clay’s emergency medical contact. His third thought, as he toes the line of lucidity, is wait, that’s the ringtone I set for Klavier.

Fuck. If Klavier is calling him at this hour, it’s probably important.

He slaps haphazardly at his nightstand until he finds his phone and yanks it off the charger. He gives himself one last moment to squeeze his eyes shut against the ache of fatigue, then rallies enough to answer the call.

“Justice speaking.“

“...Hurts.”

Suddenly much more awake, Apollo sits bolt upright in bed. “What?”

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier says, in the most childish and petulant voice Apollo has ever heard out of him. To be fair, Apollo hasn’t heard him overtly childish all that many times, so that’s a low hurdle. It’s not much comfort. “Feel—feel sorry for me. I’m in pain.”

“You—what? Are you alright?”

“No.”

Apollo stares unseeingly into the darkness for a second until adrenaline overrides panic and he launches himself out of bed. He almost trips trying to keep his phone to his ear and disentangle the sheets around his legs at the same time. Light, where’s the light switch on his lamp? “Where are you? How bad is it?”

“It sucks,” Klavier whines. “An’ I’m all alone.”

“I’m coming to help. You’re gonna be fine. Are you—you sound really out of it. Did you hit your head? Are you drunk?”

Blood loss? he doesn’t ask. Don’t think about the worst-case scenario. Keep moving. He finds his keys and his wallet, tosses them over by his shoes near the door. No telling if he’ll need his bike or his bus card until he has more information.

“Drugs,” Klavier says, glumly. Apollo grits his teeth. Klavier is one of the most law-abiding people Apollo has ever met; there’s no way he took hardcore drugs of his own volition. Please don’t let it be roofies. Please don’t let him be stranded, injured and alone, in a place where somebody roofied him.

Clothes, clothes, Apollo needs to not get arrested for indecency the second he steps out the door. He yanks on the first pair of shorts he encounters. Shirt? He shoves a hand into his dresser blindly. It comes out clutching one of Clay’s old Sailor Moon shirts, faded and worn. Apollo wears it as a pajama shirt sometimes, but in public—fuck it. Klavier’s safety is worth the weird looks for being a grown man wearing a magical girl anime shirt in public. He’s not gonna dig around for an acceptable shirt at a time like this.

“Keep talking to me. What hurts?”

“My mouth.”

“Your mouth? What happened, do you remember?”

“They stole my teeth,” Klavier says, woefully, and that finally makes Apollo pause, balanced on one foot to pull a sock on the other.

“Your—your teeth?”

“Took ‘em—took ‘em right out. With knives. Now my mouth’s full of holes. It hurts, Herr Forehead.”

An image is cementing itself, slowly but surely, out of the fog of panic and lethargy in Apollo’s mind. He lowers his foot. “Who took your teeth?”

“Teeth doctor.”

“Did...did you get teeth taken out? By a dentist or—?”

“Yeah! Wis’om teeth. They stole them.”

Apollo slumps back against his door like a puppet with his strings cut, and sinks to the ground. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Oh my God, Klavier. Start with that next time.”

“Next time?” Klavier sounds genuinely befuddled. “But they’re already gone.”

“I thought you had been roofied or mugged or something,” Apollo says. He settles on laughter, and it comes out hysterical. “God. Don’t do that to me. I’m too young to have a heart attack.”

“Don’t do what? What’d I do?”

“You scared the shit out of me.” Apollo draws his knees up to his chest and leans on them, trying to take deep breaths. Klavier is okay. He’s not bleeding in an alleyway behind some bar. He’s not about to be assaulted. He’s only stoned on painkillers. “You owe me for this one. I was halfway out the door.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” There’s a rustling noise on the other end of the line. Klavier’s voice is soft and contrite. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s fine,” Apollo says. “We’re fine. I’m not mad. Well, maybe a little bit. Just—goddamn. Okay. Talking. I can talk. Wait. You’re home, aren’t you? You’re not wandering the city like this?”

He’s hyperaware of his own heartbeat, still too loud and too fast. That was a hell of a wake-up call. Apollo has more than enough trouble getting to sleep on a normal night. There’s no way he’s knocking out any time soon after this—might as well keep Klavier entertained if he’s going to be awake the rest of the night anyway.

“Yeah!” Klavier says, perking up again. “I’m home. Oh, but—Vongole is gone.”

“Gone?” Apollo frowns. “Where’d she go?”

“Sebastian took her.”

“What for?”

“He said I prob’ly shouldn’t walk her tonight,” Klavier says, despondently. “I miss her. She’s a good dog.”

“She is a good dog,” Apollo agrees. He scratches a hand through his bedhead and tries not to yawn. “But you’ll get to see her again soon. I’m sure Prosecutor Debeste will give her back tomorrow.”

“But I want her now.”

Apollo doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. God only knows how many times he sprawled next to Vongole on the floor while Mr. Gavin was out of the office, complaining about the trials of law school. She’s a good listener. Always knows when someone needs a hug. She’d make a good therapy dog if she didn’t have so much energy. It’s no wonder Klavier wants her back when he’s this miserable.

“Sorry, man.”

Klavier sighs melodramatically. “Can’t believe he left me and took my dog. I think he likes her better than me.”

“Can you blame him?” Apollo says, wryly. He realizes his mistake right as Klavier makes a quiet, wounded noise.

“...No.”

“Joke,” Apollo blurts out. Fuck. Of course Klavier is too out of it for their normal banter. “I’m joking. That was a joke. I didn’t mean—“

“It’s okay, Herr F—“

“Of course he doesn’t like your dog better than you. Don’t be stupid. That was a really shitty joke for me to make, and I didn’t mean it at all.”

Klavier laughs, weakly. “Right, sure.”

“You’re—ridiculously likeable.” It spills out of Apollo’s mouth before he can stop himself. But why should he stop himself? It’s the middle of the night and Klavier’s fucked up on painkillers and Apollo was an asshole. He can part with some kind words to make up for it. It’s the right thing to do, probably. God, he’s tired. “And a good person. Everybody likes you just fine.”

After a few beats of silence save for the shudder of Klavier’s breath across the line, Klavier asks, half-joking, “Even you?”

Apollo rolls his eyes. “No, I’m talking to you at three AM while you’re high as a kite on anesthetics because I hate you.” Another beat. “That was another joke. Just to be extremely clear.”

“You like me?” Klavier asks, so damn hopefully that Apollo doesn’t have it in him to pretend otherwise.

“Yeah.”

“I like you, too,” Klavier says, happily. Apollo’s heart thumps traitorously hard against his ribcage. He’s too exhausted to deal with his own pining right now. It’s not fair that Klavier can do this to him out of nowhere. He’s not even trying to flirt right now. He’s just a naturally affectionate person and it’s destroying Apollo. “I wish you were here. I wish Vongole or Sebastian was here. I’m bored and lonely and my mouth hurts.”

“I know, bud.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Sleep?” Apollo suggests. Klavier makes a dismissive sound. “Uh. Watch something on Netflix? Or whatever rock stars watch their movies and shit on these days.”

“I start falling asleep when I try to watch anything and then I have nightmares ‘cause my mouth hurts.”

That sounds like it will be a problem no matter what Klavier does to occupy himself. “Do you have more painkillers?”

“I... forgot where I put them. And how many to take.”

“Find them and read the bottle, then.”

“Print’s too small.”

“...Are you so drugged up you can’t focus on text?”

“No, but they made me take my contacts out before they stole my teeth, and—“

Klavier wears contacts? Apollo opens his mouth to ask about it, but there’s an abrupt series of loud noises on the other end of the call. Loud, brief knocking, the thud of a door closing, the jingle of metal on metal.

“Sebastian!” Klavier cheers. Apollo hears a distant curse and thumping. “You came back!”

A voice, muffled and indistinct. The intonation lilts into a question.

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier answers, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, good grief. Give that here.”

“No, don’t—!“

“Hello?” Prosecutor Debeste says, his voice clear and focused now. It has the polite edge of professionality. “Mr. Justice, I presume?”

“That’s right,” Apollo says. He feels kind of weird about talking to somebody from the Prosecutor’s Office who isn’t Klavier while he’s on the floor, hair a bird’s nest, wearing a Sailor Moon shirt and one sock. Yeah, Prosecutor Debeste can’t see that or anything, but it’s the principle of the matter. “Hi. Um.”

“Sorry about the trouble. I hope he hasn’t kept you up too long.”

“Uh, no.”

“Sebastian,” Klavier wails, in the background. “Give it baaack!”

“Are you staying with him right now?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just. To be honest, he made it sound like you stole his dog and ditched him.”

“Of course he did,” Prosecutor Debeste says, exasperatedly. Klavier whines, barely audible to the receiver. Vongole barks happily in response. “I’ve been here all night. I only took Vongole out for a bit to do her business and run around—she hasn’t been able to sleep either, not with Klavier this wound up. Don’t worry, he has someone keeping an eye on him.”

“That’s, um. Good to hear.”

“I can take care of things from here, so I’ll let you get some rest. Klavier can get in touch with you again in the morning if you need anything from him.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Justice. Thanks for keeping him company for a while. Klavier, say good night—“

“But we were talking—!“

The line goes dead.

Apollo takes his phone away from his ear and just looks at it. He thinks maybe he should process the last thirty minutes. His mind chases itself in loops instead. After a minute, he presses the heel of his free hand against his eyes, trying to massage out the exhaustion headache that’s starting to set in. Fuck. He still doesn’t know if he can sleep. What’s Clay always trying to tell him, about resting and keeping your eyes closed for a while being better than not sleeping at all? Can’t be any worse, at least. He might as well give it a shot. He settles back into the sheets, long cold by now, and tries to relax.

A street—not dark, but dim, maybe, with the hazy glow of a setting sun in the evening. The shadows are long and the light is golden. It catches on the leaves of trees in the park, turns them ethereal with shining halos.

I’ve been here before, Apollo thinks, then, that’s absurd, it’s the park, of course I’ve been here before.

Another golden halo, beside him on the park bench. Klavier’s hair catching the sunlight it so often seems to be spun from. Klavier’s blinding smile as he laughs at something Apollo just said, something already forgotten. Déjà vu strikes Apollo again. He does remember being here, remembers the way Klavier turns to him with a conversational parry, smirking, words balancing perfectly on the bizarre line they walk between sharp and friendly.

That’s what he remembers. That’s not what happens this time. What happens this time is:

Klavier’s smile goes soft and warm, an affectionate curl of his lips, and he says, “I like you, too.”

#klapollo #klavier gavin #apollo justice #ace attorney #long post

[scribblesofanaricat]

Kaleidoscope Icarus

(big thank you to Toni for helping me with parts of this)

Alone in bed. Covers twitch. Clock hands rattle around their beaten path and I count it backwards. A meander towards oblivion.

I see my reflection blink. It must like watching me thrash in blue sleep.

Narrow staircase, no socks, tea bag fossils pinned to the wall, I count them up, all six, any colour I like as long as that colour is yellowish grey.

I inhale indifferent coffee broth with a side order of whichever death cult the screen hunched in the corner is serving up today. Bidding its junkies a good afternoon and then meting out a lethal dose of contradictions. It beats down on me as a sun would: simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained.

I’m not Icarus.

Even so, quick fears still tread on my heels after I kill the show and instead pay a call to the frosted-glass moon low in that blank page of a sky. Shoes dangling over a railway bridge, one a lovely Twitter-blue, lemon laces trailing like a severed leash, the other was once violet. Jaundiced glances from pedestrians and passengers cursing the back of my neck.

They plant themselves beside me because where else would they go? We don’t say much, never do, “our glass roots were love when lilac liquids flowed invisible” and “my powdered soul occurs from sun sight with figure flames and smoke” and “if we lose time by staring freely and counting sound, you’re told about it accidentally”, that sort of thing. And we do submerge our long short hours in staring freely and we do count sound since we’re not the type to move mountains, although young by our own reckoning. We know it - or we think we know.

Amongst foggy vows to meet again tomorrow, they clear off and I’m left with the grains of my own soul, the static in my skull, wearing it like a flannel shirt. House prices. Affairs. Break-ins, breakouts. Blares of ‘protect our free speech, protect our children!’ born from whatever illusory agenda they’re being warned against by the king agenda-pushers this time...another monologue from another plastic jack-in-office here to fuck us around...

Sometimes I could carve it all into my skin with a dirty needle and not flinch.

We end up huddled like penguins in the fug heaving around my room. We’d have thought the dawn of the end times would look different, something that’d be splattered over our calendars and marked in history. Instead we’re met with a whitewashed wall from the screens and newshounds even as we watch it happen in 3D. Nothing to do now but wait.

‘I don’t give a damn.’ They’re flung down on their stomach, right arm stowed under an Everest of pillows and left arm glancing off the carpet. ‘I don’t care, I couldn’t...we’re gonna flatline someday soon and we’ll nosedive into Hell and I’d still take that over this shit…I’ve got to see that ocean again, though...just one last time…’

‘Mhm.’ I’m stiff. Stiff yet floaty. The screen crouches there, rattling off a story from America about some toupeed sore loser being forcibly dragged out of the White House with the boot of millions tattooed on his arse. Let them have their pipe dream, let them have their ocean, their fickle friend with its brackish spray, rolling pulse, delusive serenity, useless but to go to your watery grave in… if I scorn it hard enough, I can almost smell it.

I outstretch my rusty arms, gathering the ceiling in a remote embrace, and begin to narrate. ‘After the downfall from the empty pages of a multitude, myths started to creep back through the gaps in the world we saw. They’d been driven feet-first out of society by the threat of extinction long ago and so they’d had to hide themselves away over the rooms of sighs they found.’ The haze seethes and swirls, fashioning hieroglyphs from my breath.

They shift beside me, breathe it in. Counting sound. I survey it all as they draw it down into their lungs and bloodstream - giants and Lilliputians, fae and demons, sister ships sleeping in spoken hiding places, uman babies feeding off a wolf who bares her teeth at us. And Icarus. Taking to the air, lured by the glare that swallowed all else and eagerly drinking it down, until he fell so far and so fast that nobody could save him.

Not like us. We won’t be led astray. We are not the imperfect sight, crimped, bought with ballads.

‘But their memories were long and their bloodlust ran deep as trembling nails. And whatever scraps of human society were left had their turn to hide, or to pose as something different - pretend to be one thing when they were really another, in case they were in line for the wrath of their former fantasies.’

I recline on my mountaintop carpet in the soupy silence after my short tale gives out, waiting. Waiting perhaps for a flashbulb of understanding or for guesses at regions of dry ideas. The clock shudders into its next aspect. Bonded pattern, distorted mosaic.

‘C’n we go to th’ocean?’ is what they exhale at length. I lie there. Head sagging into my chest. Dead rain of a crowd. And then I patter on about spume and pulse and deceit, and about rock shadows standing full at Phoenician attestations, and by God, it’s like reading a bedtime story (or maybe an aloof comedy) to a toddler and almost as easy.

So we sprout in the bleary armchair of the ocean. Coast and universe falling away like a house of cards beneath our shoeless steps. They ask pinch-eyed if I brought a laptop along with me (of course I didn’t; the world watches us out of the corner of its panoramic eye enough as it is) and seem satisfied with my answer. I droop backwards so the rocks can catch me, mendacious as the water - that slumbering giant - but in the opposite direction, downside up. I have to wonder if the sky could be the same way, or if it’s merely everything and nothing. The aridity of all.

A boat worms along the horizon, eats it up inch by inch. That old static begins to pulsate against the core of my head, guessing at who or what could be in there. The newest pet of the media, pockets padded with the benefits from yesterday’s public-spirited stunt, familiarising themself with the bits of fruit floating in the middle of an etched glass and awaiting the casting call for yet another lone hero who’s the only force insulating their precious homeland from the evils of truth and the nefarious threat of equality.

Maybe a consortium of sallow flesh and bloated eyes, red as tongues of flame yet seeing only in black and white, skin honeycombed with pinprick holes. They give and take manufactured fairy tales that accelerate their enslavement, fire their last magic bullet together in a binding act of mercy.

Or a smoke-bearded fisherman and his helpmate with salt water in their veins, in their stirring times; they haul up their meshwork and inspect its captives. Look at these beauties, they marvel every time, a record dashing against its broken needle like a baby bird against a window. Or something - I don’t fucking know what fishermen talk about. Are there fishermen anymore? I guess there must be.

As I study the vessel, purling with the wind, it metamorphoses fitfully into a whale. Its heaving back is encrusted with arthropods. Plunging its way into nowhere. Watch through unchartered eyes as its tail heaves up into the air, blotting out the sun, before it too plunges beneath the depths, beneath the waves, into the dark, dark blue-grey murmurs and untapped power of the abyss. I wonder what sort of watery graves still dwell there, trapped, locked in and locked out. The corpse of a ship. The corpse of a whale.

The sun dissolves into the horizon, spilling its aureate blood over the sea-shaped cemetery. I drink it in; it comes out in puffs of icy white. The smouldering glare lances across my eyes, burning, gnawing. I close them. I breathe cold.

My wax wings splinter. But will not melt.

Their pixelated face reappears above my own, sun’s gore cleaving to their hair with a shimmer, and jab me with a bone. And we trudge back over clumps of sand, the world brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening. The light parts liquefy like butter in a pan, overflowing, flowing, flowing until there’s no more left to flow. Until it evaporates and its burnished blush is briskly replaced by glitter and dazzle and tiny flickers of rainbow bouncing off little jewels.

I breathe warmth. The radio goes on at me, goes on, goes on, a webspinner sniping its threads.

Time hangs suspended for the lion’s share of the night. Screens paralysed in an eternal moment. The masked puppets on one side, me on the other. They dance, bow, spin on wire strings. They get tangled. They do not move any longer. Asides from the occasional twitch and twist, as weak as that of a dying deer caught in the scheming beauty of the headlights. They do not get free. Eventually they too are still.

I move onwards.

We separate then, me and them. Their fingers dance in the air as the light of the sky slips through the cracks of the earth. ‘We’re completely and irreversibly fucked.’ It’s somewhere between question and statement. I watch them droop away, hands tucked in pockets of woven clouds and leather, until the night embraces them and their shadow melts much like the light had. Tipped-over oil, trickling away.

I watch. I wait. I breathe.

I move onwards.

The wet earth slumps when I step upon it, its cold breathing into the soles of my worn shoes. I look towards the sky, up and up and up, so far that I cannot see. The sun has sunk, withered away. Gone. Gone and perhaps never to return. You never know. Never know.

The moon is rising now, the stars winking like oh so much spilled glitter. I see the sun's reflection here, its beaming glow bouncing off the pale white surface of the small planet as though it were an alien mirror. This is how you know it's there, even when it’s faded away. Gone but never quite so.

But its blazing heat is no longer here to thwart me, even if its glimmer is still present. I spread my wax wings. I breathe, I live, I rise, I die. That wet earth hums its lullaby of little critters, chirping crickets and twittering bats and the frozen old breath of ghosts long dead. Disdainful wind freezes my nose and lips and ears. I soar…

I am not Icarus.

The dark sky cradles me like black ocean water. The shimmers of light are fish, sparkling beneath the waves, the moon their only beacon. My only beacon. I breathe warmth in the cold night air. Prickles of goosebumps along the skin of my arms and legs. I am the warmth, but the cold consumes me slowly.

I float lazily, there and not there, alive and dead, warm and cold. An angel on wax wings, a ghost long dead and gone, a corpse at the bottom of the ocean. Fuck. I breathe a disclaimer of disaster, a rage against the remorseless. I breathe warmth, then cold, then nothing. Just to double check.

The golden-white glimmers of school fish trail past, streaks of astigmatic light. The moon smiles down at me, a comforting glow. A lantern hung by gods of old on invisible chains. The mirror of the sun. The dancing partner of the earth. The lighthouse of the sea.

My beacon in the sky.

It does not melt my wings. I am not Icarus.

I soar. On and on, the sparkling sky, the gentle sea. The land leaves me far behind, the twinkle of city lights fading into nothing but open waters, open skies. Nothing but starlights. Nothing but moonlight.

There is nothing waiting for me. Fuck. They have melted into the shadows, slipped like dry sand between fingers, like dry sand in an hourglass, like water in a hole-littered bucket. It is only me and the star speckled sky. Me and the moon.

I'm not sure how long I stay, floating between schools of sparkling starfish. Slowly, the moon rises…falls…and the sun creeps up behind me like a monster in a cave, turning the sky from black to blue…green…then spilling yellow, melted butter, sunstreaked blood across the horizon, its burning light warming my frozen cheeks…soothing my goosebumps…the black sea once more becomes its sparkling blue-ish green. Fuck. The stars fade like fleeing fish and vanishing ghosts. I breathe cold into the warmth.

My wax wings drip in the light. The sunlight burns my eyes, searing my retina, boiling my cornea. I squeeze them shut. I wobble and sway, a dance in the sunrise. I dance, bow, spin on wire strings and liquid wings. I become tangled. I tumble down a narrow staircase, no socks, teabag fossils pinned to the wall.

Wind sighs in my ears. I see my reflection blink in the waves far below. It must like watching me thrash in yellow dreams. The world beats down on me as the sun is now; simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained. The world crumbles around me, earth cracking, water roaring, sky tearing and tearing like shreds of paper in the hands of scissor-happy children. I am a puppet on broken strings and I am falling with nothing but the frigid embrace of the ocean to catch me, where the whale-ship corpse sleeps. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I breathe and it is cold. The sun blazes like a beacon. It is life. It is the death cult and that fear tingles down my spine.

A shoe of lovely Twitter-blue falls free, lemon laces flapping wildly. I outstretch my rusty arms, as though to catch it like a ball during playtime in the schoolyard, swamped in the too-big uniform of bright purple, a blazer that fell well past my knees. But I cannot catch myself.

I’m falling.

Falling, falling, falling like Icarus.

#my scribbles #mine #tw language #tw drug mention #tw self harm mention #tw existential crisis #tw death mention #long scribble #original writing #writeblr #wow that's a lot of tags

[mythicamagic]

Ulquihime Week: Day 4

@ulquihimeweek

Pairing: Ulquiorra/Orihime (UlquiHime) fanfic. Chapter Two - here

Rated T

Summery: Orihime has an imaginary friend, who happens to be a terrifying creature living in the woods behind her summer home.

For Ulquihime Week 2019 Day 4: Haunting/Touch Starved.

AN: This one is a little...weird. Think of it like a fairy tale/ horror /friendship /eventual romance?

Eldritch

At six years old little girls still believe in many things: Magic, ghosts, monsters, Santa, unicorns, the tooth fairy. Yet their beliefs are usually rooted in what they've already been told is possible. Santa lives at the North Pole and visits on Christmas. Unicorns can be found in forests. Tooth fairies only visit if you lose a tooth. The evil spirits in bathrooms usually resided in the last cubical.

Orihime Inoue had the profound ability to believe in almost anything. To give imperfect things palpable form inside her mind as something new. If Sora held up a sock puppet because her parents couldn't afford to buy a doll, she'd willingly suspend her disbelief and see it as a fierce cupcake dragon. If she ate red-bean paste on bread because they were low on groceries, she'd taste honey on pancakes or strawberries and cream. Dust came from magic spiders who liked to throw salt shakers of grey specs everywhere. The gloomy, faded lights of their dingy neighbourhood weren't half dead lightbulbs, but winking fairies or playful spirits. Graffiti was a technicolour, ancient language she didn't understand. The rivers and skies was a playground for the Gods. Sora could be her Mama and Papa in place of their actual parents.

So it surprised absolutely no one when Orihime claimed one day that Batman was her best friend.

---

He had been born from nothingness.

The only indicators that he was even alive were from the sharp, broken twigs on the forest floor tickling his hard, pale skin, and the solid earth supporting his back. That and consciousness.

He had no visible features, lacking a mouth with which to eat, or eyes with which to see. No hearing with which to listen, fingernails to claw and pry, fur or hair with which to shelter, and no heart.

Essentially, he had been born to experience nothing. A worthless, meaningless birth. He felt the absences of what he lacked with a keen, visceral emptiness.

The creature lay in a pale heap, content to die.

But something disturbed the clear nothingness surrounding him. Raising a hand, long fingers flexed wide, searching for the thin sensation in the breeze. The slightest, barely-there touch had him snatching something out of the air. Pressing it instinctively to his face, his form shuddered and convulsed.

Twin slits cracked on the creature's face. Muscle started to move and fix itself together. Skin crumpled as paper-mache lids pried themselves open. Long black lashes grew forth and the creature blinked the dust from his newly formed grey eyes. Muddy colours and blurry forms assaulted him, until he looked directly into an orb of something harsh and bright. Shielding his eyes, he looked down. Focusing on the dirt felt safer as he took a moment to practice blinking, seeing an afterimage of that burning light.

His sight cleared, shapes coming into focus.

Lifting his head and glancing around at the forest, slit pupils shifted. Sunlight filtered through the leaves. Blue skies could be glimpsed further still above. Hundreds of countless trees surrounded him.

Green. So much green.

His grey eyes let the colour leak into the canvas of his irises, making them give way to lush emerald. Touching his black lashes gingerly, the creature instinctively pried out one that didn't fit quite right with the rest. A small, single sun-kissed orange eyelash lay in his palm.

He found the colour acceptable.

Muffled, quiet vibrations thudded on the ground not too away then, like footsteps. Somehow, he could feel it. Lifting his gaze upon seeing movement in his peripheral vision, the creature stilled.

A little girl stopped in unison with him, tilting her head. The hair spilling out from under her sunhat blazed the same bright, fiery colour.

Deaf to her words, he could only watch as her mouth moved. She then hesitantly shifted forward, silver eyes bright and filled with nebulous flecks of brown. Gesturing to the orange lash in his palm, her lips curved, and the girl beamed.

For some reason, he then heard her words clearly, blessed with sound. "Are you my new friend? You can keep that eyelash in exchange!"

He stared uncomprehendingly, seeing a reflection of his image in her eyes. Proof of his existence. Distant tweeting could be heard in the trees. The scampering of strange, tiny creatures raced up tree trunks.

Something ran down his face from his eyes. Her expression crumpled and became alarmed, taking out a tissue from her pocket. "Oh no, don't cry! I promise I'll be a good friend!"

Racing over, she knelt and pressed the soft white thing against his dry cheeks. No matter how much she fussed and rubbed, the teal lines that made him look like he was constantly in mourning remained.

---

The girl had spent a few hours with him every day from then on, jabbering. Now that he'd received both sight and sound, the creature drank in all the newness surrounding him. He did not understand why his form was grown, with longer limbs than the girl, or why she saw fit to blush and remove her coat, telling him to cover his lower half with it. He did not understand much about himself at all, but everything she talked about, his frayed knowledge pieced together. The more books she read to him, the more his mind caught on until he became impatient with her slowness to describe the words.

'Sora' was her older brother, she said. A brother was a sibling. Her parents were poor. Parents raised their young. Being poor meant having no money with which to buy things.

The girl was called 'Orihime Inoue.'

When he gestured to himself, she blinked at him. "Oh, you're Batman!"

'Batman' did not sound right. But he supposed she was his God, his maker, despite not having palpable proof of such a thing. It felt correct to assume she knew best.

When she returned into the woods that bordered her back garden again, this time Orihime chewed an apple. She took out another from her red frilly dress, handing it to him.

"Oh...can you eat without a mouth?" She frowned.

Mouth?

Eat?

She tilted her head, saddened. "You must be really hungry," her tiny hand patted her stomach.

Hungry.

His stomach felt empty then, twisting into knots. Perhaps that was what she meant.

Yes, hunger.

He supposed he was.

'Batman' did not expect much to come from it, but the next day, Orihime trotted out through the bushes, giving him a gap-toothed smile.

She presented her baby tooth to him with all the flourish of a magician. "For you! This way, you can have a mouth! I could have saved it for the tooth fairy, but I'm giving it to you instead. I wrote her a letter explaining that eating food is one of the best things in the world, and my friend needs to know what it's like more than I need yen," she nodded happily. Her exuberance faltered slightly then. "Um, I think this will work. I hope. When you got that eyelash you got eyes, right?"

The creature reached out and took it between bone-thin forefinger and thumb. Instinctively he pressed the tooth to the appropriate place on his face.

A natural slit curved open, spreading wider as he stared at her, mentally mapping the look of her mouth. Behind the lips that formed came other intricacies of the mouth, muscles and such- that allowed him to open his jaw, accepting the tooth inside. Others formed an upper and lower row of the same bone-white teeth, strengthening until they were adult molars, canines and the like.

When finished, he parted his lips, plucking out the baby tooth and handing it back to her, a new tooth instantly regenerating within his mouth.

Orihime blinked, not thrown by witnessing the somewhat gruesome creation. "Your upper lip is all dark," she patted her top lip.

He mimicked the action but obviously could not see. Without fear, she casually pried her thumb into his lips to flash his new teeth at her.

"Wow! So many!"

Batman did not like this so he shied away from her touch.

"I guess you still can't talk though," small shoulders fell. "You probably need a tongue for that."

Tongue?

She stuck out her own, grinning. "You can't have mine! But I will go fetch you some food. I hear that ice-cream and soup are good if you struggle to eat. Please stay here!" The little ball of sunshine turned, bounding away without another word.

Green eyes stared after her, before mismatched lips opened. Touching inside, he indeed felt an absence inside the wet, hot space. His finger traced over the bumps and edges of his new teeth with fascination.

When she eventually returned, Orihime fed him peanut butter ice-cream and soup. He couldn't taste it, so the texture was all he had to go on as he swallowed. It was fine. He opened his mouth for more, and she giggled, calling him a glutton. He frowned at her tone and took the spoon off her, feeding himself.

She told him about her abusive parents, a drunk of a father and prostitute mother whom her brother, Sora, had saved her from. Ulquiorra understood some of the intricacies of what she said without fathoming her sadness or happiness. He did want to learn specifically, what the term 'glutton,' 'drunk' and 'prostitute' meant, but could not ask. Gesturing to her summer holidays homework in her backpack, he was rewarded with her teaching him how to read at her level. He caught on quickly, adapting, thirsty for knowledge.

Orihime gripped his large hand in both of her small ones and his curled long, pale fingers around a pen. She then grinned and taught him how to write in large sprawling characters.

She left him with a strand of her hair, which looked as though it had been kissed by the sun. He'd dutifully touched it to his head, where long, flowing dark tresses grew and fell to his shoulders, sprawling unevenly and wild.

----

From one of her broken fingernails came his long sharp talons.

With them, the creature felt that he now had the right tools to hunt, which she explained was what he'd need to do in her absence.

It was just as well, because a week later, Orihime had to leave. She'd made him a house of twigs and branches, a poor attempt at shelter, while explaining that she'd been staying with Sora at a cheap 'holiday home' they visited every year and rented for two weeks. They were now leaving for their city home. Batman felt no emotion at her departure but frowned slightly when water leaked from her eyes, running down chubby cheeks.

It smelled sharp and strange.

She'd scrubbed at her eyes and waved, promising to see him next year. Ulquiorra had nodded. With all the caprice and carelessness of a child, she'd then left her creation in the woods alone.

Orihime wanted him to have a tongue and it felt imperative to get one immediately. Legs shook as he stood, and he glanced down at the new blanket he'd tied around his waist at her behest.

He set down the advanced dictionary in his hand and tried talking a few steps, mimicking her walk, but soon panted. Sweat dotted his brow from the effort of walking the expanse of his clearing. He'd need to build strength. Eventually he'd get the hang of it.

---

"That's horrible."

Orihime looked up from her doodles to glance at Sora in the driver's seat, who listened to the radio.

"This attack was random and unprecedented in this town. Kenta Yano remains in hospital and has been unable to communicate to authorities who exactly is responsible for viciously severing his tongue from his mou-" the dial was snapped to the side, turning it off. Sora glanced at Orihime in the rearview mirror and gave a smile.

"Who wants pancakes with broccoli when we get home?"

"Ohhh I do, I do!" Orihime raised her hand, the distraction working its magic as they left the woods and summer home behind them.

----

The creature found that without her, the days blurred into one. He kept himself busy by reading the books she'd left him but they were quickly committed to memory. Rain poured heavy and endless sometimes. It had forced him from the usual clearing where they talked, finding a small cave and clawing at the earth to carve a space deeper for himself. He then lay down, suspending any and all thought; sleeping.

A year later, when she came hurrying through the woods again, clad in a summer dress and skirts flitting about her knees, Orihime found him exactly where she'd left him, but he now stood upright on two legs. More books were stacked atop each other, carefully stored in the shelter of a tree. They appeared to have been stolen from the library, but since the collection wasn't out of control, it could only be assured that he'd been putting the books back after reading them. The trunk had been carved out into shelves, keeping them safe. Orihime felt kind of proud. She'd told him not to steal.

His form had changed. Black fur now coated his arms up to his elbows, feathers sprouting from his shoulder-blades, yet more dark fur on his legs and lower-half, ending at his waist. She supposed he must have gotten cold in the woods. It only occurred to her then that she could have given him a pair of Sora's pants, and felt a degree of guilt. Maybe she'd been a bad friend.

He glanced at her, eyes wilder than she remembered, but he spoke eloquently, in steady, clipped tones.

"You are late, Orihime Inoue."

She burst into a wide smile.

---

"Murciélago," he said one day on her 8th birthday.

"Hm?"

"My name."

Orihime scrunched up her nose with concentration. "Mercy-"

"Murciélago."

"Merci...lego."

Flat green eyes told her he was not amused.

She huffed, looking apologetic. "Can I not call you Batman?"

"If you want to be incorrect, yes."

Seeing her state of furrowed brows and continual struggle to say it, he bit back a sigh, glancing up at the branches. "...Ulquiorra, then."

"Ulqui...orra," she murmured, before brightening. "Ulquiorra! That's a nice name."

He did not need her opinion on the matter but nonetheless felt assured and proud.

---

"I think it would be fun if you could fly," she mused one day, wading through a stream at the bright young age of 9. She claimed to be searching for stardust, because gold didn't satisfy ogres, apparently.

Since he was used to her random outbursts, he took it in stride, watching her from the bank. "Do you want me to fly?" He asked, gaze gliding over the bruises on her arms. He did not ask what they were from.

Orihime laughed softly, "maybe. Sure!" She then tapped her bottom lip. "But my brother says it's good to have a tail if you want to fly."

He blinked as she gasped and clapped her hands, dropping the bucket of precious stones she'd found into the water. "Ohh! Imagine if you had a lion's tail!"

----

She heard about the local zoo's break-in and subsequent attack on its male Barbary lion. She didn't think much of it even as she hugged Ulquiorra's newfound tail, which was thin, black and long. She had a wonderful time playing skip-rope with it.

Her laughter always resounded- not in his ears- but in the hollow of his chest which lay hidden beneath a surface of skin and muscle. The sound echoed and bounced off the walls long after she'd left him alone. In those times, he resented her presence in his life. The echos left a pulsing, aching thing. When his chest was silent, there was no sensation. An absence. A nothing. Nothingness did not hurt, so Ulquiorra came to the conclusion that nothingness was happiness.

----

"Your hair is shorter."

That smile he always noticed wobbled and shrank, before finally disappearing altogether. She curled her arms tighter around her knees, "some...girls cut it at the playground."

"Without permission?"

"Mhm," she scrubbed at her cheek, shoulders shaking a little. "I didn't tell Sora. I just said I felt like a change," her voice became thin and fragile. Ulquiorra watched as she struggled with something, holding back tears. She blinked rapidly and raised her head, exhaling. Not one fell.

His slit pupils dilated slightly. Even at ten years old, she was a strong girl. Different from the brats he'd glimpsed sometimes playing in the woods.

"It's just that...they made me feel like I was nothing," Orihime scuffed her shoes on the forest floor, disturbing leaves. "Just trash to be discarded. Girls always do stuff like this at school, but I didn't think it would happen while I was here. I like coming to the summer house... to be happy for a little while."

Happy? He blinked. Was she not usually? She smiled so often, indicating happiness. "There isn't anything wrong with being nothing," his tail thumped and slid over the forest floor. "But you are not trash."

She turned to look at him, brows furrowing. "I'm not?"

Ulquiorra stared at her, face as expressionless as ever, but a firmness crept into his tone. "No."

----

The next day, Orihime wandered to the playground cautiously, only to blink at the sight of the girls there. They sat, hands curled in their short locks that ended above their shoulders.

Frowning slightly, she made to approach. They hadn't looked like that yesterday. Their hair had been long and lush. The girls immediately noticed her and squeaked, hurrying away with frightened wails. One of them, the girl who Orihime remembered holding her down as the others had snipped at her orange locks- tripped and fell.

Orihime wandered closer, "what happened to you all?"

"Stay back!" The girl cried, dragging herself backwards on the mud to try and scramble away. "Keep away from me! You're a witch! A-a witch who summons demons or something! You sliced off my hair! I know it was you!"

Flabbergasted, Orihime could only watch as she turned and clawed at the ground to pick herself up and bolt away.

Naturally she'd visited Ulquiorra soon after. "Did you cut their hair?"

Vivid green eyes slid away. A rare thing. He always stared, like he were burning the image of her into his retinas. "You'll have to be specific."

Small hands drew into fists, "those girls. Did you...hurt them?"

"They hurt you," he pointed out evenly. The creature shifted and blurred, appearing much closer than she'd anticipated and causing her to startle. Long, sharp talons slid into her hair, gliding nails through the locks briefly, before drawing away.

Orihime swallowed, experiencing a brief flash of wariness for the first time. She then shook it away, putting her small fingers over the sharp tips of his claws. "You can't do that again."

"Why not?"

She frowned, trying to explain. For once, she felt out of her depth, "because it's wrong. Sora says it's bad to get revenge...to be w-wrathful."

He considered this, having no use for her human concerns. "Are you ordering me?"

"U-um..." the girl faltered. "Will it stop you from doing it again?"

"Yes."

"Then don't hurt any humans again," Orihime nodded with satisfaction.

Ulquiorra bit back a sigh, inclining his head. The ensuing pensive, thoughtful silence was soon broken by him slowly verbalising what had bothered him all night. "They were frightened of me. Even before I did anything to them."

"I suppose that's normal," she mused. "You're not like them."

His usual melancholic expression didn't change, but a kind of weight settled into his next words. Like a soft demand to know. Ulquiorra had never demanded anything of her before. "Are you afraid of me?"

And as usual, honesty stared him right back in the face. She visibly gentled and smiled. "No, I'm not."

---

The next year, she did not come.

Orihime did not visit the year after that or the year following that either.

Ulquiorra eventually plucked a bat from a tree and ripped its wings clean off its squirming body. He then pressed them to his shoulder blades and forced the leathery appendages to lengthen and grow, attaching them into his body and weaving the muscles and bone together. They soon towered over him in height, enough to support his weight in the air.

Theoretically.

It took a few attempts, but soon it took jumping and freefalling from a tree to actually work the wings enough to glide. A few more days and he was leaping into the night sky, flying.

He did not find her right away. Actually it took two more years to track the girl down, as he moved only at night and kept to himself. Ulquiorra observed as he went, becoming used to crawling down alley walls to peer into windows and observe humans. He'd scared away a homeless man who'd been squatting in an attic of a warehouse, watching television. Ulquiorra had promptly seated himself before the square of moving images and bright lights, learning.

They were all so similar and yet different, humans. They all wanted things, be it money, relationships, security or fame. They spouted ridiculous things about emotions and 'the heart.' He found that his assessment of them kept changing. Their books had taught him so much- and yet not enough. Orihime had been something unnamed and yet he wanted to name it. Was she special to him only because she'd given him what every creature usually possessed? That of the five senses? That sounded logical.

And yet it felt incorrect. It was not just that.

Ulquiorra eventually tracked the girl down by closing his eyes and feeling for something invisible. That same pull in the air that had happened when they'd first met. Energy he couldn't name or find a word for it with the language she'd taught him.

He soon pushed a window to an apartment open, tail sliding into the dark room and feeling for the floor before the creature followed.

The light in the bedroom switched on, causing him to freeze, eyes widening.

"Ulquiorra?"

Bedcovers rustled and sounded like they were being pushed back. Ulquiorra shifted, turning slowly to look at the woman.

She blinked, sitting on her bed, eyes looking wet but cheeks remaining dry. "I-it's you..."

He stared, transfixed. Orihime had changed.

His mental image of her shifted; bones growing, hips curving, body filling out, hair lengthening. She was a woman now. The child that had taught him what 2+2 meant was dead and gone.

He didn't react to the change, merely updating his information on her appearance and assumed maturity.

She stood, walking toward him with vague confusion. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, sliding down in waves to end at her mid-back. Ulquiorra blinked, his foot drawing back slightly, instinctively. Something pooled in his stomach. Similar to hunger, but illogical, since he'd already eaten.

"I thought...I don't-" her voice wobbled, uncertain. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't return."

She bit her lip, tugging it between her teeth. The sensation in his stomach tightened into liquid heat. Ulquiorra shook it away.

Finally, her grey eyes slid away, like she were ashamed. "Sora died."

He processed this, picturing the brother he'd glimpsed beyond the treeline sometimes, waiting for her. A tall, dark-haired man. "I see. Do you expect me to comfort you?"

She flinched, holding her arms. Slowly, slim fingers glided over the tanned skin, nails biting in. "No," she murmured. "After he died, my aunt began giving me money so that I could keep myself afloat here. On my own," grey eyes slid to the window, guilty. "I wanted to see you but I didn't have enough to come-"

"You're poor. It's to be expected."

The words didn't upset her. Ulquiorra was always painfully blunt. She decided to be equally straightforward, looking at him.

"But...I'd like to give another order. If that's okay?"

Ulquiorra mulled it over, wondering if her teenage years and impending adulthood had rendered her as selfish and shallow as the other humans he'd glimpsed. Perhaps the qualities he'd admired in her had vanished.

Taking his silence as reluctance, Orihime stepped closer and lay gentle, warm hands on his arm. Ulquiorra tensed, breath hitching.

"Is there anything you'd like in exchange?" Her breath fanned over the exposed skin of his chest. The hollowness beneath the surface opened wider.

"I'm not sure as of right now," he quietly admitted. "I'll do as you ask, and then we can discuss what I want afterwards."

She nodded, firey hair bouncing with the motion. The heat from her body felt alluring, in a way no hearth had ever beckoned to him previously. "Alright, I want..." Orihime took a breath. "I wish you would bring Sora back."

Ulquiorra thought of the bat he'd killed. How its eyes had turned glassy and vacant. "I'm not certain that power is within my reach," he admitted, slit pupils dilating slightly at her tense, rigid expression. Like she straddled the line between a collected facade and despair. Strong as ever. "...But I will try," he added.

Her eyes lit up like they used to, lashes falling shut. Orihime's fingers brushed over the black fur of his arm.

"Thank you," she breathed, giggling slightly. Her arms wrapped around his middle then. The warmth and softness of her body pressed against his bare chest and torso, trapping him in a tight grip that he oddly didn't find restricting yet caused his eyes to widen anyway. The thudding coming from her chest resounded in his own. He set his hands on the curve of her hips, counting the thuds of her heartbeat. Without realising, he smelled her hair and brought her closer.

"You're the best imaginary friend I've ever had."

Tilting his head a touch caused black strands to dip and brush over her cheek. Did she mean that she'd initially assessed him as a friend but now felt that their bond had been imaginary? Or...

Orihime released him and turned towards the kitchen, asking whether he wanted something to eat or drink. He barely heard her.

She was incorrect. He'd left proof of his existence via that man, that bat, that lion, those girls in the park. Their tongues, wings, tails and hair had been cut by his talons. The things he'd assumed were his lungs constricted, sensations assaulting- spouting cold fire from the depths of his stomach and into his throat, burning.

His hand rose, digits pressing against the surface of his chest. The feeling of it being nothing but an empty container doubled. He was only vaguely alarmed when his fingers dipped inwards. The brittle surface of skin over his chest crumbled away where his heart should have been. A hollow hole was revealed in its place.

Ulquiorra realised then, he didn't care if he had actually interacted with the world. If he had actually scared that homeless man, harmed those creatures or cut those girls hair. What he desired, coveted, craved, needed lay in Orihime's tired eyes that seemed just a touch out of reality as she glanced at him and he found no sign of his reflection staring back at him.

He wanted to exist in her eyes again.

----

AN: TBC in chapter two

#ulquihime #uhweek2019 #Bleach #ulquiorra x orihime #orihime inoue #Ulquiorra

[kinsbin]

A Ship at Sea

Title: A Ship at Sea Ship: Asra/Jenna [Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 3055

Summary: Asra is lost at sea for weeks after he was set to come home. Fearing the worst, Jenna decides to mourn. Though it hurts her, it is the only thing she had left. Then something happens to change her mind.

A/N: A commission for @asrasdarling of their selfship with Asra! An angsty piece with fluff at the end ;w; I always have fun writing this ship <3

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Jenna didn’t know why she was so worried today, of all days.

Asra had left many times before. Each time he left, he always did so with that easygoing smile of his, so beautiful and warm on his lips as he reached out and pet her cheek. As he moved a strand of her hair out of the way of her face and leaned forward to place a gentle and loving kiss on her lips. It was as if, by doing that, he imbued their bodies with the magic of one another in return. Like he recharged the heart that settled deep in her chest, lighting up the line that connected their destinies together and bound them like silk in a spider’s web. Though, Jenna supposed, he was more like a scorpion. Beautiful and deadly with a poison behind him that was lethal if given in the wrong way to people. How poetic. How thoughtful.

It would have been better if he was there.

With that kiss, he had left her in the shop. Her shop, the one that she had owned for so many years before him. He was going overseas for something, something she didn’t remember the name of what with the trip so far in the past now, and promised it would be only a week. Two weeks at the most, but he swore he would be back soon. Soon enough for them to feel one another’s embrace again and to kiss under the same moon that always rotated around Vesuvia. It was the moon that kept them connected, along with the tarot cards and the heart that bound their souls into one beautiful thing. Whenever Asra swore something, she knew it was real. She gained a feeling of its truth deep in her fingertips and out in her lungs, where it breathed out in strands of fire and flowers as she fell even more in love with him. As she waved him goodbye and away from their home with a request that he travel safe and be careful as he moved. To send her pictures and gifts if he could spare the time, to which he laughed and agreed that he would.

No pictures came. No gifts wrapped in holographic paper were presented at her front door. Not even a letter of his whereabouts delivered by magic or familiar was available to her in the slowly droning weeks that seemed to pass as he lingered across the ocean for longer than usual. It was unusual for him not to at least write, Jenna thought with increasing worry, but she tried to soothe herself. To say it would be fine. Asra was just busy, he was a great magician after all, and surely he had something to do that required all of his attention. She could only stand by the calendar hanging over her shop’s ware table and cross the days off as they passed. The day that Asra was supposed to come home grew closer and closer… It ebbed and wiggled its way from a week to days in a matter of what felt like minutes, time distorting itself without Asra by her side. The world dissipating as she marked each day passed in that same bright red marker she always had by her side.

Until, at last, the day came and it went.

Soon a week passed beyond its date, the decorated square that read ‘Asra Comes Home’ with a doodle of his face alongside it was scribbled out in a deafening shade of red, so much so that she had almost lost all of the ink in the single art supply. The refill spell had done wonders for its empty cartridge but not so much for the emptiness in her heart.

She had started to ask around by then, questions to the baker nearby as she tried to bring it up in casual conversation. As she tried to bring it up without sounding terrified. Jenna wondered just how successful she was, though. Just how easy it was to ask where Asra was without her voice breaking as she admitted that she hadn’t seen him in far, far too long. Longer than he promised, which is odd, because he always kept his promises. This would be the first one he had broken in… She didn’t want to think about it. She had asked Julian, who said that he would ask around about the status of the seas in the direction Asra was going. She inquired to Nadia, who promised to have a word with the mail service and the port martial about the situation at hand. Everyone threw themselves into the hunt for him, even Muriel who Jenna asked first thing and even he didn’t know. It only seemed to worry him, though, and she felt bad for even bringing it up.

It was Nadia who summoned her first and, when she arrived at the castle, Julian was at her side with a map and a chart before them, eyes furiously scanning each turn of the ocean on the grafted paper when she cleared her throat. Nadia’s gaze was soft and afraid as she hit Jenna’s own. Jenna felt her body tense up with terror at that look. God, she worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, what were they going to tell her? There was the impending fear of… Of him never coming back. The impending notion that he might be dead and the thought alone brought tears to her eyes and-.

“A storm struck the side of the waters that Asra was traveling towards,” Nadia whispered to her friend, “The boat never made it to its port… But, Jenna, we are doing everything in my power to find him I swear to you that. We have search parties going out already and are working with other nations to-.”

She collapsed before the woman before her could finish her blind reassurances, tears streaming down her eyes as she covered her face with both of her hands and sobbed. Inside of her chest she felt her heart tighten and then shatter somewhere deep in the bowls of her stomach.

Nadia had knelt to hug her before she could even think, Julian hovering quietly on the sidelines as he watched the two hold each other. Jenna’s tears stained Nadia’s clothes but it didn’t seem like she minded as she only embraced the other closer to her with a long sigh from her nose, hands running through her friend’s hair as she  glared up at the sky through the window, cursing god against Jenna’s weak willed sobs. Her hand found Jenna’s and squeezed, gentle and caring, as she made the other look up at her. Determination was set in Nadia’s warm eyes as she glared forward.

“I promise I will find him,” Nadia spoke in a whisper to her, “And bring him back to you safe.”

The words were comforting, but, only in the first week of their promise. Slowly, ever so slowly, time had begun to pass. Word of clues that might lead them to Asra’s whereabouts seemed to grow less and less. Jenna had only a few things to remember him by, none of them his face, and the thought of forgetting his face was one of the most horrifying she had had in quite a while. Still, try as she might, she could feel it slipping. Slowly fading away from the point in her mind where she was able to recall it at the drop of a hat. HIs smile grew into a fog against the business of her brain as her life continued on despite the urge for it to stop. The craving for it to end all at once.

To fade as her lover had faded away from her.

Jenna hadn’t admitted to herself that he might be dead. It was the word itself that brought her pain, the echo of it in her mind burning her stomach and making her feel like she might vomit. Each time she thought of it, she shuddered and found something else to preoccupy herself: organizing the shop, searching for herbs, visiting friends… It all wasn’t enough, though. None of it seemed to manage the anxiety that constantly plagued her. About life and about her world as it shattered, inch by inch, around her feet like a looking glass that displayed to her the wrong fate. For a fate without Asra was… was….

Jenna stared down at her hands as she had been for the past hour. Or longer. She couldn’t remember. She had set about cleaning up the shop to distract herself this time, but found in her search Asra’s old things he left behind. Though her teacher was a light packer, he had left some items in her home for safe keeping. Trinkets of little value to anyone but the famed magician. The sight of each one brought a swell of tears to her eyes and disassociation to her heart.

A sock puppet made to look like Faust hung like an anvil in her palms as her thumbs ghosted over its button eyes. A sob broke somewhere in her throat as she bit her lip and held it up to her face, pressing the fabric close to her nose and exhaling onto it the weep she had been holding back. She missed him. She wanted him. She longed for him to walk through the door again and smile at her, apologizing for taking so long and embracing her as he always did on trips. Instead, though, the room felt uncomfortably cold even as she hugged the now treasured item close to her body and ate up the last of its scent. The last of its purely Asra energy.

And slowly she put it in a box.

She moved with that box, out of the shop and into the busied ports of Vesuvia, the sound of waves hitting her ears and the echo of water lapping at the side of concrete and wood as she shifted. Jenna didn’t stop to admire the world around her like she usually did. Because when she usually did it, Asra was by her side admiring with her… Not this time, though.

The port she came to was empty, the endless expanse of sea before her as she stared forward. As she let the wind blow through her hair and the scent of the salt and sea push against her face, spraying her with its gentle breeze. She bit back another flow of tears, having shed too many already, and went to take one last look at the box with a wince to her gaze. It would be better, she thought, to put these back with him… In the ocean now, where they would find him one way or another… In the waters where they could be one and, perhaps, she may be able to move on without the memories of him at her side.

It was a lie. To herself and everyone. She knew it. She could never move on from him.

Her hands trembled. Her grip was so weak that she feared she might let the box slip before she was mentally prepared. She had to do it, she thought with pain as her breath came shorter, tears falling down her eyes. She had to-

A hand touched her shoulder from behind, the grip firm a desperate. The warmth of the palm radiating against its shaking nature. She tensed at the touch, but, moreso at the voice that accompanied it. A voice that sent shivers through her spine and a gasp to her lips as she gripped harder now at the box in her hands. As her hair brushed on her shoulders.

“Jenna,” Asra’s voice was somewhat weak with emotion as he gripped her shoulder harder, “I finally found you.”

She turned faster than she thought she could manage, her head whipping around to catch sight of Asra’s worried violet eyes. Of the softness of his hair as it bounced in the breeze. His gaze was pitted between relief and desperation as he watched her closely, mouth parted in such a perfect shape that she wanted to kiss it then and there. Relief and fear flooded her stomach all at once as she jerked away in surprise.

“I’m hallucinating,” She gasped weakly, “Y-You aren’t real… You aren’t… here I… A-Asra?”

Asra’s hands found their way to her face, his warm palms cupping her cheeks as he brought her close. She could see the worry and pain in his gorgeous orbs as they seemed to brim with wetness. To fill with tears as his lip trembled and he kept himself closer to her. As though, in any moment, she might disappear from his grip. Unfair, Jenna thought through her shock, because surely that was supposed to be her line on account of his sudden appearance. On account of the miracle that he was even here. A hand was raised and her palm touched Asra’s knuckles, feeling along his rough hands and seeing only blurs as her own vision as tears filled it.

And then his lips found hers.

God, she missed those lips. Those soft, perfectly shaped lips that slotted against hers as though that was what they were made for. Those gorgeous and careful movements he planted on her mouth were a symphony of welcome against the storm of regret that flooded inside of her. With that kiss, Jenna forgot everything that was or might be as she shut her teary eyes tight and embraced fully the body of her lover, arms flying around his neck to pull him in close as they shared the moment together on the docs. Her hair whipped around them, a flurry on the wind as they clutched one another. As they tried to mold themselves to each other’s body. As though they might imitate The Kiss in its beauty and golden sparks of romance flung itself from the ethereal plane of their emptinesses, making them whole again. He tasted of the sea underneath his normal sweetness of lavender and candy floss.

He tasted of home, still. He was always home.

Jenna and Asra separated, their mouths only an inch away from one another's as they stared into each other’s eyes. Their breath ghosted over each other’s faces as they searched their expressions for… something. Perhaps disbelief still. Perhaps worry or regret that the other might have returned. Nothing of the sort was found, however, and Asra’s smile proved that he was convinced as he brought Jenna in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around her waist now in a hug as he laughed into her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” He whimpered, voice racked with worry, “I’m so sorry I… The boat was caught in a storm. We made it safe to a port we weren’t supposed to dock in, but I had no way to contact you. No idea where I was so… I wandered and sailed until I found it again. Until I found my way to you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jenna laughed through her sobs as she hit him lightly on the arm, “Worrying us all like that… Worrying me. Making me think that you… That you were…”

There was a silence between them as she let the statement linger. Realization changed to momentary hurt and then understanding on his face as he considered her position. Asra’s smile was warm as he leaned forward, his forehead finding hers as they pressed together. She sighed, relishing in the touch of her lover that she so desperately missed. So longingly craved. Jenna refused to ever forget this feeling now. To forget what Asra’s hands felt like. What his body temperature was. Just how he felt at her side like this.

“Oh, my love,” Asra’s voice was a whisper of delight in the wind of the ocean around them. Waves lapped longingly at the docks, spraying the couple with small splashes of salt water. She could feel the foam tickle her cheeks and moisten the back of her shoes as she stood against its spray. It was cold outside. The chill was only just noticeable against her skin as goosebumps rose on her arms. As it hit her neck, but, she smiled still. She didn’t moved or waver from her spot as she brought Asra in close. He continued with his words warm on her face.

“I would never leave you. Not like that. You mean everything to me and I would move the world to be by your side… I’m sorry I was gone for so long but… I’m back now and, I promise, I am not leaving.”

He spoke with reassurance. With a power that sent a flutter in the center of her stomach before it crept up into her heart. Jenna felt her body clench, her chest twisting at the words that were spoke so earnestly into her ears. As she absorbed them with the realization that Asra was here. Asra was alive. Asra was safe and in her arms and close to her body so that she could feel him. She sobbed, the phrase she longed to say stuck in her throat so she communicated it another way.

Her hands found his cheeks this time, running her thumbs along his face for a moment and admiring the way he turned red in her touch, and then she leaned forward.

They kissed again. Jenna felt as though the world was expanding in her mind. Fireworks lit up the dark corners as she remembered this feeling. As she received it again after losing it for so long. She sighed into his mouth and his lips curled into a smile as he leaned into the kiss. Her hands remained on his skin, keeping him close and refusing to let him go. No, Jenna thought stubbornly, she would not let him go again. She would keep him by her side and they would stay like this for eternity. It was all they needed. Well, she realized as her lungs clenched, until she needed air.

“I love you,” She sobbed as she pulled away at last, her hands running over his smiling face, “I love you and I’ll never let you go again.”

And he kissed her forehead, hugging her close.

“And I’ll always be right by your side.”

#self ship #self shipping #self ship writing #writing commission #kinley writes #asra #the arcana

[chronicallylatetotheparty]

Deuteragonist Dialogues

LoganLight, AO3

Adrien, Mabel and Marco have worked together for quite a while. They have so much in common after all.

What do the most powerful (and second most important) people of three universes do on their day off?

Nothing much.

“Ma-bel!” Marco groaned in embarrassment as he pulled his hoody up, burying his face in his hands.

Adrien’s face flushed but he stared down the chortling girl in front of him. “No, go ahead, laugh. It’s not like we’re baring our hearts out or anything.”

Mabel tried to speak past her giggles. “S-sorry! It’s just- You didn’t go on any dates before you were fourteen?”

“Sixteen,” Marco mumbled past one hand as he raised the other one barely above his head.

Mabel guffawed.

Adrien turned and glared. “Marco! Stop encouraging her!”

“Sorry!” Mabel breathed deeply through her nose. “Okay, okay. I’m good.”

“Well? How old were you when you had your first date?” Marco asked a bit testily.

Mabel smiled smugly. “Oh, you know… twelve.”

They stared at her.

“… Well, no wonder you’re better at it than us!” Marco practically shouted as Adrien nodded.

“My poor late bloomers!” Mabel cried, pulling both of them into a one-armed hug. “So horrible! Having meaningful, stable relationships instead of a veritable army of exes!”

“Well, when you put it that way… It’s not that funny.” Adrien pouted.

“Since when do you use words like ‘veritable’?” Marco muttered.

“I can use big words!” Mabel exclaimed at Marco then turned back to Adrien. “It’s funny ‘cause It’s you guys! The ladies men!”

Adrien flushed and rubbed the back of his head. “I’m not a ladies man…”

“Tell that to your fan clubs,” Mabel grinned as Adrien’s blush darkened.

“I have a fan club?” Marco looked at her in surprise.

“Hmm? Oh yes, you too. You’re both so sweet! You could’ve had anyone you wanted but you only had eyes for one girl. If I’d been rejected that many times I definite-”

“Mabel!” Marco admonished, glancing at Adrien.

“All I’m saying is that I would’ve found the closest cute guy and asked him if he wanted to have meaningless makeout sessions. But not you guys!” Mabel adjusted her grip so she was holding their heads together. “You’re such hopeless romantics!”

“Ow!” The three of them sprung apart and rubbed at the spots where Mabel accidentally smacked their heads together.

“Yeah. Romantic. That’s me. Nothing says romance like pining after the girl that said 'No’. Repeatedly.” Adrien resisted the urge to put on his mask. These were his friends, he could be honest with them.

Marco placed a hand on Adrien’s shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with not being able to move on right away. You needed to give yourself time. It’s not easy getting over your first love.”

Adrien smiled at him. “Thanks Marco.”

“Just, you know, try to be less 'Chloé’ about it,” Marco pointed out.

Adrien hung his head. “I know…”

Mabel nodded. “Plus, you guys had fate working to undermine any other relationship. What, with the Ladybug and Black Cat being 'two halves of a whole’ and the Blood Moon curse binding your souls together. I mean, It’s amazing you had any other love interests at all!” She gestured at the two of them like they’d achieved a great victory.

“What about you Mabel? Any love curses we should know about?” Marco raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Nah, not really. Unless you count a love god with temporary love potions?” Mabel looked thoughtful.

Adrien shuddered at the idea of something forcing your will. Marco patted his shoulder reassuringly.

“ 'Love’ potions. Hate them.”

“How many…?” Marco made a you-know gesture.

“Four if you exclude the 'potion’ part of the equation.”

“That’s not so ba-” Mabel cut herself off as Adrien glared at her and Marco shook his head no.

“I don’t wanna hear it Mlle. Clone Harem,” Adrien jabbed.

Mabel poked him in the chest. “You’re just jealous.”

“I don’t get jealous-”

Mabel and Marco burst out laughing.

“-That easily! I don’t get jealous that easily!” Adrien finished in a rush, blushing furiously.

“Right, 'cause you didn’t lie about your relationship to a complete stranger she never met before who was a decade too old for her!” Marco held his sides as he wheezed.

“It was one time!” Adrien’s insistence only making his friends laugh harder. Mabel in particular seemed to find it hilarious. “At least I was never obsessed with sock puppets!”

Mabel blushed.

“Sock puppets?” Marco asked, confused.

Adrien made to respond when Mabel cut him off. “I told you that in confidence!”

“Marco’s gonna find out eventually.”

“Not if you don’t tell him!”

Marco whipped his head back and forth as they argued.

Adrien suddenly turned away and crossed his arms, pouting.

“Aw, come on Adrien.” Mabel hugged his back, one arm over his right shoulder and the other under his left, with her head resting on him. She had to tiptoe, he was so tall. “You know you’re our favorite Chat.”

“I’m your only cat,” Adrien muttered.

“Exactly! You’ve got zero competition!”

Marco, still wondering what that was about, took this opportunity to shift. He wrapped his now muscular arms around both of them, his longer reach giving him an easier time of it than Mabel.

“Oof! Marco change back your squishing me.” Adrien wriggled, trying to get some space in between him and Marco’s adult form.

Mabel reached up and lightly petted Adrien’s head. “Shush! And savor the moment.” She snuggled into them, moving into a more comfortable position.

“How dare you use my weakness to physical affection against me!” Adrien tried to sound indignant but, well, hugs. He let himself relax into their embrace.

The purring took Marco by surprise, though it probably shouldn’t have, considering. “Alright guys, I’m moving this snuggle party to the couch!” He lifted both of them off their feet with Mabel shifting to her twelve year old form.

“Wait,” Mabel looked around. “Do we even have a couch? I thought the last one was sucked into that black-hole-thingy?”

Marco stopped. “… Oh.”

“Relax, I got this.” Adrien kept one arm around Mabel as he pulled out his yo-yo, seemingly from nowhere, and threw it upwards. “Lucky Charm!”

A red polka dotted couch fell not three feet away from them.

Marco took a step then fell onto it, leaving the three of them in a dogpile. “That’s useful.”

Mabel was too busy running her hands along Marco’s face and bicep. “How do you keep your arms so smooth when your face is all scratchy?”

Marco gave her a deadpan look. “Don’t make snuggle-time weird, Mabel.” He shifted back into his teen form, causing Mabel to whine at the loss of his pillow-y muscles.

“Nooooo… At least I have your baby face.” Mabel proceeded to play with said baby face.

“Leggo!” Marco tried to escape her pinching hands. With mixed results.

Adrien laughed at their antics while pulling Marco’s cape around all three of them. “How is this thing always the right size?”

“It’s a Mewman meat blanket,” Marco replied as though that explained everything. “Watch the ears!” Which, given Adrien’s understanding of Mewni, it did.

“I wanna bedazzle your hoody.”

“Leave Red out of this!”

Adrien took mercy on Marco and put himself in between his friends, distracting Mabel. “Shouldn’t you bedazzle your sweater first?”

“Ooh! Yes! But right now I need a TV. It’s the fifty-second season premiere of Duck-tective!”

Marco and Adrien looked at each other. “… That show really shouldn’t be as compelling as it is.”

“I like the puns,” Adrien admitted.

Marco rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously.”

“They’re pun-tastic,” Adrien grinned.

“Do you have to go for such low-hanging fruit?”

“You’re just jealous of my purr-fect wordplay.” Adrien posed. Marco was pretty sure it was subconscious.

“Guys! TV!” Mabel’s impatience was reaching the level where her eyes kept shifting to glowing yellow. And no one wanted that.

“Better give the lady what she wants, Marco.” Adrien distracted her by shifting his own eyes to glowing green.

Marco grumbled but pulled out his Wand. “Entertainment Center Mega Mix!“ The television was huge, with surround sound speakers and taller than Adult Marco.

Mabel squealed as she gripped her amulet, using it to levitate the remote into her hand. She searched for the correct channel while reaching past Adrien and absently tracing Marco’s fading cheek marks.

Adrien moved Mabel’s arm back as it was blocking his view of the TV. "How do those work again?” He asked, referring to the crescent moons.

“Duck-tective now, explanation latter,” Mabel commanded.

Adrien smirked, looked straight at you and winked. “I think this is where we leave off.”

“Who are you talking to?” Marco raised an eyebrow at him.

“Shhhhhh,” Mabel shushed. “It’s too early for fourth wall breaks.”

#ml #miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #gravity falls #Star vs the forces of evil #svtfoe #adrien agreste #mabel pines #marco diaz #power swap #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 fic #fluff #platonic friendship #frindship #multifandom #crossover #fourth wall #breaking the fourth wall #hugging

[deathrattlebeat]

By Shade of Night: Chapter Two

Written by: DeathRattleBeat Written for: Zeragii, because she likes angsty stories with Sans and Undyne interacting (as do i) and, like, none exist dammit! Warnings for this chapter: Swearing, Severe Injuries, Blood, Angst, Necessary Nudity, Hurt/Comfort, Undyne POV

Undyne didn’t waste any time, moving forward and dropping down to her knees beside Toriel. She tried to pretend the landing wasn’t so hard because her legs had given out, feeling tough as jelly. Her one eye widened, taking in the full extent of Sans’s injuries.

He had obviously been beaten, and quite brutally at that. Cracks, bruises, cuts, and painful looking micro-fractures littered his too-still frame, making him seem more like a broken little puppet than a living monster. And he was living. He’d be dust if he wasn’t.

His eyes were closed, terrible dark blotches -bruises- dotting the surface of smooth bone. His clothes were torn, his signature jacket, the one Papyrus couldn’t get him to throw away, was viciously torn at one shoulder. His t-shirt was in shambles, glimpses of red, smeared blood peering back at Undyne as she swallowed.

“What happened?” she asked weakly.

Toriel was silently crying, hands still pressed to the skeleton’s chest as she pumped him full of healing. “Frisk and I were planning t-to stop in on Sans before going to bed. His brother was out late with his friends from t-the restaurant, and we knew that Sans might be feeling lonely.” Tears trailed down her cheeks. “When we got here, the door was already open. And when we came in, calling him, Sans did not answer. We...We found him. In the corner just behind the sofa.”

“Like this?”

“No. No, not like this.” Toriel blanched just at the memory. “He...H-He was not breathing before now.”

Undyne felt a combination of rage and unwellness sweep over her, flushing her hot and cold at the same time. “Shit.”

“You think it might have been...?”

Undyne nodded, teeth gritted and knowing it could be no one else. “It had to be. The same hate group that tried getting in a week ago. Fucking dammit! I should have hunted them down! Then none of this would have ever happened if I had-”

“d-don’t...b-bla-ame yersel-f...”

Both women jolted, looking down at the small monster beneath them. His eyes had opened, though one was swollen nearly shut. His expression was a tight grimace, but Sans still managed to reach out with trembling, blood-slippery fingers, just barely grazing them against Undyne’s arm.

“n’t ya-ye-your f-faul...lt...”

Toriel gasped. “Sans!”

Undyne immediately took over. She scooted forward, gently nudging Toriel a bit to the side to gain better access. Sans was still trembling, the movement causing his bones to rattle slightly. He tried to speak again, but ended up falling into a string of painful, wet coughs.

“Hey, hey, hey! None of that,” Undyne hissed. She framed one hand against the skeleton’s face, trying to steady him as she ran a CHECK over him. Sans flinched at the intrusion, but relaxed, limp, a moment later; too exhausted to fight.

Alphys and Frisk rushed in then, Alphys cradling the med kit against her chest. She released a tight cry at the sight of Sans lying there in a small circle of his own blood and powder, panting weakly for breath. The scientist rushed forward, kneeling down beside Undyne and fumbling with the medical supplies. She managed to extract disinfectant, gauze, and bandages from the casing, but then looked down at her soon-to-be- patient sadly.

“U-undyne, we c-can’t-I c-can’t...There’s t-too much b-blood. He n-needs to be clean b-before we wrap these, a-and the w-wounds need to be c-cleaned too.”

Undyne bit her lip. “Like a bath?”

Alphys nodded.

Hesitating for only a moment, Undyne then carefully scooped the injured skeleton into her arms and lifted him as she stood to her feet. Sans remained limp, though he twitched slightly and released a groan of pain at the movement.

“It’s okay, Sans. I got you.” 

Toriel followed them up, a hand still resting on Sans’s back as she continued to pump magic into his body. Undyne wasn’t sure how helpful it was at this point, but there was a possibility that it might be taking the edge off of the pain. Still, they couldn’t all fit in the skeleton brothers’ bathroom, and Toriel was a rather impressive size.

“I want to help,” Toriel informed Undyne, eyes stubborn.

“You can help best by helping your kid.” Undyne nodded toward Frisk, who was still clutching their chest and shivering, obviously in some kind of shock. “Take them outside and find somewhere quiet. Don’t go outside outside, obviously, maybe go back to your apartment? Call Papyrus. Tell him what’s happened and to get his bony ass home.”

Toriel faltered, looking down at her injured friend. Sans was no longer conscious, having slipped out mentally the moment he was being held. “But, he might-”

“He’ll be fine,” Undyne assured. “Alphys and I are gonna take good care of him. We promise. I’m not going to let anything else happen to him.”

That seemed to ease Toriel’s worry some, and after only a few more moments of uncertainty, she removed the hand from Sans’s back and rushed to take Frisk’s hand in hers and lead them out.

Undyne looked back down at Sans, heart heavy and mind full of curses. She was going to find the bastards that had done this, and she was going to repay each mark they had made on Sans tenfold. Their screams would be music to her fins.

“U-Undyne?”

She looked up, Alphys standing just inside the bathroom doorway. The sound of rushing water was loud in the small space. “I’ve already started running the bath. W-We...We n-need to get him undressed.” 

She blushed furiously, and Undyne would be lying if she didn’t admit she was too.

“...Right.”

Undyne asked Alphys for a sheet, blanket, or towel, and moved with a towel to the couch. She laid the towel down, and placed Sans upon it, wincing in sympathy when he shuddered in pain.

“It’s alright, Sans. Just...let us handle everything, okay? Your brother will be here soon.” She felt awful about what she was about to do. Sans was a very private monster. Were he more conscious, Undyne knew he’d be protesting. “Sorry, punk.”

Undyne began undressing the skeleton as slowly and as carefully as possible. It was hard, there was blood drying his clothes to his bones, sweat and dust coating everything, making him stink. Undyne vaguely wondered how long Sans had been lying there, wounded, before Toriel and Frisk had found him.

Finally, the shirt and coat had been removed, showing off Sans’s bruised and battered ribs and spine in all their glory. Undyne wasn’t sure just what he had been abused with, but it must have been blunt and hard, swung with vicious force, to bruise his bones so badly. Sans grunted, coming out of his stupor enough to dislike what Undyne was doing to him. He tried to squirm away, the pain almost making him pass out again, before Undyne whispered comforting words of encouragement and apologies.

After his shirt and jacket came Sans’s slippers, socks, and then his shorts. Undyne could tell from his expression that he didn’t appreciate her view of him at all, his small bones completely bare and vulnerable to the open air. Undyne didn’t stare of course, she wasn’t pervert, but she did look his pelvis over with a firm expression. There were bruises there too, along with what looked like a cut all along the top rim of his pelvic girdle. Like someone had dragged a knife tip there, just to make him squirm.

“B-Bath’s ready,” Alphys called.

“Sorry, buddy.” Undyne moved to carefully scoop Sans up again, only this time she pressed him right up against her, for maximum comfort. Almost every inch of him was messed up, it didn’t matter much how she held him. She ignored his nakedness, carrying him swiftly into the bathroom.

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#undertale #fanfiction #fanfic #sans #toriel #undyne #alphys #frisk #angst #for zeragii

[banditthewriter]

I Got You - Billy Russo

A request from @madamzeyl! I tried to stay as close to your request as possible, so I hope you like it!

Tags are at the bottom. Let me know if you would like to be added to one of my tag lists!

*gif not mine*

Enjoy!

***** The bed dipped behind you and you looked over your shoulder, offering a sleepy smile to Billy as he wrapped an arm around your waist. "Burning the candle at both ends today Mr Grumpy Face?" "Weirdo," he retorted as he snuggled into you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Work never stops when you're the head of the company." "But it's such a handsome head," you said with a smile as you raised his hand to kiss the back of it, snuggling it closer to you. "I'll make breakfast in the morning if you don't have to rush off." "Sounds perfect," he said as he pressed another kiss to your shoulder. Slowly and happily, you both drifted off to sleep. When you woke up, Billy was still sleeping so you slipped from the bed carefully. After using the bathroom and doing what needed to be done there, you went into the kitchen to start breakfast as you had promised. Of course you could think of another way to wake him. If he wasn't awake by time breakfast was finished, you'd have to crawl under the covers and wake him up that way instead. As you were pulling the last waffle off of the iron, a pair of hands rested on your hips and a stubbled chin rubbed against your cheek. "Such a nice way to wake up," he said as he kissed your cheek. "Pity, I was gonna wake you up with a blow job." He squeezed your hips and you laughed. "Well Mr Crabby Grabby, you ready for breakfast?" He rolled his eyes and both of you went about getting your plates piled high with food. Billy was yawning into his arm, hair loose around his face. One thing you knew for sure was that he must feel comfortable with you if he let you see him like this. "You're nicknames are getting weirder. How's work treating you?" You laughed as you started to cut into your waffle. "I am in charge of almost two dozen preschoolers who think fart jokes are the height of comedy. Be glad the nicknames are relatively general compared to what they could be." Billy let out a laugh as he shook his head, pointing his fork at you with a piece of sausage speared onto it. "The first time you call me Mr Fart Face, I'll make you sleep on the couch for a week." You leaned forward and wrapped your lips around the fork, pulling the sausage away as you did and giving him a wink. "I'd give it an hour before you begged me to come back to bed," you taunted as you grabbed your drink. His hand covered yours, his fingers lightly brushing your wrist and forearm as he leaned in closer to you. Your breath was coming in faster as you watched his eyes roam over your face. "I'd give it twenty minutes," he said as he ducked in to kiss your lips. "My self control is only so good." You licked your lips and glanced at the table where your breakfast sat. With a groan you stood up, pulling Billy to you by his collar. "Reheated waffles sound good to you?" He laughed, hoisting you up by your thighs so that you could wrap your legs around his waist. Keeping you up, he carried to towards the bedroom where you both fell onto the bed with a laugh. ------ "Thanks for packing my lunch," Billy said, his voice a little distorted since he was on speaker. "You're welcome baby bunch," you said, distracted as you dug through your purse for your keys. "Did you get the note?" "The one where you called me Mr Fart Face, yes, I got that. I also enjoyed the fact that your cut my crusts off." He was laughing and you smiled as he continued. "No really, everyone at the office thought it was cute. I have a new nickname and one of my employees left a sippy cup on my desk." "Oh they're just having a bit of fun," you said as you finally wrestled your keys out of the bottom of your purse, dropping the sock puppet that one of your kids had given you. Once the door was unlocked, you bent down to pick up the sock puppet. As you sat back up, trying to explain to Billy that you hadn't meant to cut the crust off his sandwich but didn't want to throw away a still perfectly good sandwich, you pushed the door open and gasped, dropping your bag and your phone. "Y/N?" Billy's voice came through the phone on the floor, alarmed and urgent. You could barely breathe as you continued to stare at the gun that was pointing at you. The man that was holding it glared at you, eyes darting to the phone on the floor half obscured by the sock puppet that you had dropped. "Not who I was expecting," he said as he took a few steps forward, "but it'll do." Billy's increasingly worried voice went silent. Then, voice low and serious in a way that made you shudder, he ground out a name: "Rawlins." The man in front of you, Rawlins, gave you a smile that made his glass eye look more terrifying. "Y/N is a little busy right now Billy. We'll have to call you back." Before you could say anything, before you could think of all the things Billy had tried to drill into your head if you were ever found in this type of situation, you heard the discharge of the gun and felt an immense pain rip through you. As you sank to your knees, hands pressed to the source of the pain in your stomach, you looked up in time to catch a glimpse of the side of the gun coming to slam into the side of your face. And then darkness. ------ "Y/N, baby, stay with me," came a voice but it sounded so far away. Pain rippled through you and you felt something press against your forehead. "Don't speak, I'm here. I'm here Y/N, but you gotta stay with me okay?" More pain and then something else, more voices. Hands everywhere and you were sure you cried out as they tried to move you. More pain and more pain, a pinch on your arm and then finally, thankfully, numbness and silence once more. ------ "Mr Russo," the doctor said calmly as he shook Billy's arm, startling him out of his half asleep state. The first thing Billy did once he realized he was awake was check Y/N's form. Still unconscious, still hooked to a dozen different IVs and monitors. He looked up at the doctor who smiled and pat his shoulder gently. "You need rest son," the doctor said as he looked over the rumpled man in front of him. "Besides the few hours right after her surgery, you haven't left her side in three days. A shower and some sleep would help." "I'm fine," Billy bit out as he looked back at Y/N. He clutched her hand and squeezed it, shaking his head a bit as he glanced back at the doctor. "I'm not leaving until she's awake." The doctor sighed but he saw this type of thing often. He looked at his watch and then glanced back down at Billy. "I'll send a nurse up with something for you to eat. You're no good to her if you waste away while you wait." Once the doctor was gone, Billy turned back to look at Y/N. Like the doctor said, he hadn't left her side except for right after the surgery. The three hours he was not at the hospital, he was finding and ending Rawlins and anyone else who might want to hurt him by going through Y/N. Billy carefully moved her so that he could crawl onto the bed with her, careful of the gunshot wound. Mindful of all of the IVs and leads attached to her, he simply stayed close to her and gently pressed his lips to her cheek. "You gotta wake up Y/N," he said quietly into her ear, eyes shut tight. "Who is going to cut the crust off my sandwiches and make me the laughing stock at my own company if you stay asleep?" With no response, Billy tucked his face in to her neck a little bit and took a deep breath. He was not going to lose control, not here. Not when she needed him. "I need you," he whispered, emotion clawing at this throat. "I can't do this without you." There was silence and Billy kept his eyes closed, breathing with the rise and fall of her chest. He almost missed the intake of breath before her voice was there once more. "Mm, righ' 'ere, Mr Cuddle Mons'er." ------ "Ow," you complained as you nestled down onto the couch, hand pressed against the bandage on your side. "Getting shot hurts. Remind me not to do it again?" "Don't get shot again," Billy said quickly as he moved around to the other side of the couch and placed a pillow down on the arm. "Here, lay down. Do you need a pain killer?" "You're being a helicopter. I'm fine Billy, really," you said as you snagged hold of his wrist and pulled him closer to you. "Sit with me? You moving around so much is making me dizzy." He sat down next to you, pulling you gingerly into his lap. You felt him press a kiss to your forehead and you sighed as you nuzzled into his chest a bit. "I'm the reason you got shot," he said, voice so quiet you almost missed it. When you looked up at him, he was frowning and shaking his head as if he still couldn't believe. "Hey," you said as you tilted his face towards you. "I'd rather get shot because of you than be lost without you. I mean it Billy. You told me that the guy was taken care of, right? Then we're safe." He sighed and nodded, giving you a soft smile before you leaned in for a kiss. He cupped the back of your head but the moment you tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled back and gave you a look. "Your doctor said no sexual activity for a few weeks while your wounds heal," he said with a pointed look. "But my dentist had no such orders," you said with a smirk, leaning in for another kiss. He laughed against your lips and then pulled you back, raising an eyebrow until you relented and simply leaned back against his chest once more. "Fun sucker," you said with a pout, giving in and smiling as you felt him rubbing circles on your back. "We'll get to the fun sucking once you're healed, I promise," he said with a kiss to your temple. "Until then, it's my turn to take care of you." That sounded good, you thought as you closed your eyes and let the beat of his heart lull you to sleep.

X

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[battleaxe-proficiency]

Once More, From the Top

Sebastian disappeared, and the world stuttered.

Jor shot up out of bed with a sharp gasp, sweat beading his forehead. For a second, he was disoriented and confused. Where- The manor! The group! He had been standing with them, and Sebastian had said that it was the only way, and Ben- Ben-

But as his breathing began to steady out, the features of the room he was in began to finally register with him. The bed he was in, double-sized and awkwardly big for just one person; the bed-stand on which an old lamp and a single paperback book rested; the flimsy door that led to a closet of equally ordinary clothes. The light grey walls, a weak and vain attempt to make the room seem less sterile than if it was white.

He was in his flat- no, his apartment in New York. He was home.

But how was that possible? How had he ended up home? This- the apartment, the bed, the glaring light filtering through the blinds, the chirping of the birds outside- this all seemed real.

His hands were shaking. He fumbled for the bed-stand clumsily, yanking open its drawer and pulling out a pack of fags and a lighter. It took him a few tries, but he finally managed to light one and took a drag from it, still trying to control his breathing and process what had exactly happened.

Had it all been a dream, then…? Certainly, the entire experience had been fantastical. It wouldn’t be such a stretch to believe that it had all been nothing more than a nightmare. Sam Fellow, Vin Itzel, Adam Nesling, Ector Elm…all fake. All just a figment of his imagination. There was no Spy, no Host, no Helpless…

And no Ben.

He turned his head and looked towards the blinds, as if to glance away from his thoughts, and took another drag of his cigarette.

His hands were still shaking.

Life returned to normal.

Jor fell back into his daily routine- early morning run, breakfast bagel with coffee (no milk, no sugar). Work as a translator for a internationally-focused company. Grab lunch sometime during his break. Go home, have dinner (whatever he could find or make), take out his sketchbook and draw aimlessly for a while to relax. Go to bed, sleep, reset and repeat.

Normalcy.

And yet, his mind drifted again and again to the strange dream he’d had. It plagued every waking second of his day, to the point where his routine and behaviour changed in subtle ways. He paused at old antiques shops and stared at the marionettes. He watched moms try to herd their children, and accidentally called one “Kate” when her child came up to him and she went up to apologise. He checked out books about the occult, and looked up the name Aleah without really knowing why. He avoided Starbucks with a fiery passion.

And, over and over, he found himself drawing Ben. Curly dark locks, light mocha skin. Most of the drawings either had inconsistent or blank faces, but he kept drawing them nonetheless. Ben sitting on a hill, looking out into the distance. Ben reading a book on a train. Ben lying in bed during early morning, sprawled about lazily, his curls mussed about his face. Over and over and over.

He didn’t notice, but he never smoked during those moments.

It happened six months later, when the thoughts of the manor had faded to nothing more than a nagging thought in the back of his head. Even before anything had happened, Jor knew something was off- he’d woken up too late for a run, gotten scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, and had inexplicably still ended up running late for work. He’d stepped off the train hurriedly, shirt backwards and socks mismatched in both colour and thickness, when a figure stepped out in front of him. The two of them collided rather harshly, and both fell down.

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry-” a gentle British voice said, as Jor tried to figure out exactly what happened. The man sounded frantic and worried. “Are you okay? I was in a rush, and I-”

The man cut himself short. Jor took the opportunity to push himself up, eyes closed and still wincing a bit.

“...Jor?” the man asked, voice full of disbelief.

Jor froze. He opened his eyes.

The young man stared back at him, hazelnut eyes widened and lips slightly parted. His face was flushed, either from running or embarrassment; it was hard to tell. People rushed around them, glaring and grumbling in their general direction, but the air seemed still and silent, full of a crushing nothingness.

The man’s name came to Jor’s lips, as effortlessly as an exhale. “Ben.”

And with that one word, time seemed to start back up again. Ben launched himself at Jor, and Jor caught him effortlessly, instinctively. The other man was warm, solid, and so very, very real. He tightened his grip on him, burying his face into the crook of the other man’s neck as Ben cried, full-body sobs that shook through both of them and soaked Jor’s shirt.

“Jor,” he kept saying. “Jor, Jor. You’re real, you’re here, I didn’t make you up- oh god, you’re actually here.”

He smelled like old books and mint, and Jor breathed it in, trying to commit the smell to memory.

“I’m here,” he said, feeling his voice crack and waver as unshed tears threatened to choke him up. “I’m here, it’s okay. I’m here.” He repeated the words again and again, in English and Icelandic and Russian and German, knowing that the repetition wouldn’t help but doing it just the same.

Ben pulled back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were shining, filled with relief and joy and tears, and he was beautiful.  

Jor leaned in and kissed him before he could try to think about it. Ben made a sort of surprised sound, almost like a teary squeak, and for a second Jor panicked. He was about to pull away and apologise when Ben moved forward and kissed him back, passionate and desperate and oh-so-needy, a man desperately trying to attain a breath of fresh air.

It was.

Fuck.

When they finally separated, more out of lack of oxygen than anything else, Jor moved his right hand up to cup Ben’s cheek. He couldn’t seem to look away.

Neither, it seemed, could Ben, panting and looking at him with pupils dilated. The other man licked his lips and spoke, voice low. “Maybe we should continue this at your place.”

Jor had to text a coworker and ask her to cover for him, but that was fine. He had more important things to attend to.

“I thought I’d made you up,” Jor said later, the two of them sprawled in bed on their sides, facing one another. He ran his hand through Ben’s locks and over his jawbone, causing the other man to close his eyes for a brief moment and shudder, almost imperceptibly. “Everything disappeared, and the whole thing was so fantastical and surreal…”

“I know,” Ben murmured, his accent making his already gentle voice seem even softer. “I thought the same thing when I appeared back home, completely intact.” He leaned in and kissed Jor quickly, pulling back with a smile. “I’m so, so glad I was wrong.”

Jor pulled him in for another kiss, savouring the feel of the other man’s lips. “The others. We should find them.” Ben hummed. “For re-establishing friendships, or to have a reunion?”

“Both. Maybe not a reunion in a fucked-up mansion, though.”

He got a small laugh in return. “That would be preferable, yes. Should we start with the more normal ones? Kate and Layla and Asyah and PJ?”

“Mhm. Make our way up the weirdness ladder to the exorcist and Jim and Aleah.”

“Do you think Puppet would still possess the exorcist if nothing in the manor happened? I hope so…”

“Well, we’ll find out.”

Ben smiled at him, and in that moment Jor knew he was absolutely, positively fucked-over in love with him. “Together, yeah?”

Jor moved towards Ben and rolled him over onto his back, positioning himself over the other man as Ben laughed. “Saman,” he said before pulling Ben back in for a long kiss, one of many he suspected they’d share for a very long time. “Together, absolutely.”

@abbaquiche, @theinvisiblespoon, @ironwoman359, @readeatfightlove13

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[creativeskullcreations]

Outside chapter 21: Run in Swinging

Scout is not a good actress, but we already knew that. And Will's starting to crack just a little bit himself, wonder if he can make it through this without breaking apart entirely.

Also, take a guess at who was chasing Lisa and Mason. ;)

Scout turned out to be pretty good at swinging the axe, as more Sock Puppets quickly found out. It was a little scary how she didn't seem to care about the people stitched to those Puppets, treating them more as objects than trapped people. It made some sense, though, as not everyone trapped here would have been prepared like they were.

Even if, in reality, they weren't all that prepared at all.

Still, Bit cheered at every take down the two of them did, which made a warm feeling curl in his gut. It should've been scary, how much her excitement made him happy, but he refused to think about those implications yet. That was for when he was at home and higher than a kite, when he had time to think.

Luckily, they hadn't come across anymore for a few minutes, giving them all a chance to breathe while Scout tried to remember where they needed to go. It was... difficult, since her memories weren't lining up with reality. It was like the layout of the building had changed while she was gone.

Or maybe she had forgotten more than she thought.

Either way, nothing looked familiar, and it was starting to scare her. She finally stopped, making Sammy stop too. "Wait here while I look ahead. I want to make sure we're going the right way." She told him, though he looked skeptical.

"What do you mean "make sure"? I thought you knew where we were going."

"I do!" She protested. "I just... wanna check for more sock puppets real quick! It's easier to sneak away if it's just me."

Sammy didn't say anything, just watched as she walked away and around the corner. "Yeah, she doesn't know where we're at."

"I'm not surprised. They changed things around when she escaped." Bit told him. "She's gonna get us all killed if she doesn't admit it though!" She barked out a laugh, and the Host cringed.

"Maybe... don't tell her that?" He suggested. "She's doing her best..."

"Yeah, well, her best isn't good enough." She bit out. "I say we ditch the dweeb and get out of here. Can't be too hard if Scout of all Puppets managed it."

"Yeah, no. I am not ditching anybody, least of all the thing with my cousin's body!" Sammy told her sternly.

"Sheesh, it was just a suggestion." She squirmed back from where she'd been hanging over his shoulder, settling back in his hoodie. He could hear her muttering back there, but not what she was saying. He supposed it didn't matter too much, not when there were more important things to worry about.

Like how he had heard footsteps behind him. Turning he saw Scout, and she looked pissed. He flinched as she snapped her hand out toward him, but she just reached behind him to grab Bit.

"I am a lot bigger than you right now." She said in a low voice. "I can yeet you down the hall if I wanted."

Bit stared blankly back at her. "What the hell is a yeet? Some kinda dweeb word?"

With a loud shriek of "YEET!" Scout threw Bit down the hall, far enough that she vanished into the shadows.

"What in the actual fuck?!" Sammy shouted as he raced to go get her. He missed Scout's nonchalant shrug before she crossed her arms.

"I warned ya." She muttered smugly, staring after the pair.

-----

Will didn't like the quiet stillness in the halls, however easy it was making his journey. From the stories he expected at least a giant puppet dog, maybe some hulking monsters with socks crudely stitched to their hands. But no, there was nothing. But no, there wasn't anything except his Puppet, who had remained silent the whole time.

He wondered if he should try and talk to her, if only to make sure she was still alive. She been very still since he'd picked her up, not moving even a little as he wandered through the dark maze of the warehouse. Though, now that he thought about it, there was occasionally a light shuddering across her body. He wondered if she was having trouble breathing.

'Something to check when we get home.' He made a mental note of it as he turned the corner. It was a dead end, with single door at the end sitting ajar. He approached it cautiously and peered in.

It looked like an art studio of some kind, if an art studio had a pile of dead bodies in one corner. Easels and canvases stained in dried blood were scattered about, and the completed paintings showed some rather macabre imagery. There was an open door on the other side, showing another dark hall.

'Must be where that one artist hangs out.' He figured as he slowly pushed open the door. Stepping carefully around the spilled paint and dropped art supplies, Will made his way across the room. The wet look on some of the puddles told him Nick could still be close, and he didn't want to run into him.

"Well, looks like we've got another escapee out and about. And here I thought that all ended with Scout." The voice was a fake sounding posh and smug. Looking back, Will had to admit the Puppet it was coming out of fit it quite well.

"Oh look. Another asshole." He observed, taking another step towards the door. If he could make it out of the room he could probably outrun this thing.

"Now now, that's rather rude really." His eyes flicked down to the Puppet in Will's arms and his head tilted. "Weren't you with that scientist? What happened to Riley?"

"I disarmed her." Another few steps, and Nick took a rather large one towards him. 'Crap.'

"Hmm." A hand slowly approached his face. "You have such pretty eyes..."

Will shoved him, turning and making a break for the door. "Nope! Bye!" The Puppet made a grab for him, but he dodged it, slamming the door in it's face as he sprinted out.

Left, right, right, and then left again and the dammed thing was still on his heels. Shouting that he would take Will's eyes, and paint the walls with his shining red blood. That he had so many ideas for him.

It was worse than the scientist actually, and that was saying something. Will searched for a way to fight back against the artist and his hulking Host, but couldn't spot anything in the dark halls he was sprinting through. He turned another corner, and ran smack head first into another human body.

There was a feminine scream of pain as both of them fell to the floor. The hooded figure clutched her forehead while Will scrambled to get up. Sammy stood above them both, looking vaguely panicked as he tried to help Stacy.

"Get up! Get up now we are in seriously deep shit here!" Will hefted his girlfriend off the floor one handed and started shoving her down the hall. "Move! Movemovemove!"

"Where did you go little Host?" Came a voice floating from behind him.

"shitshitshitshit" He grabbed her arm and went to run, but was stopped by Sammy.

"We can't go back that way!" He whispered. "There's one of those sock puppets chasing us!" On cue the loud thumps of heavy footsteps came into their hearing from behind the nurse. Behind Will, they could hear the calls of Nick, steadily getting closer as he toyed with his prey.

They were all trapped. At least until Stacy tugged her hand out of Will's and pointed up to the ceiling.

"Come out, come out little lost Host. I need those eyes of yours~" Nick turned the corner and found himself face to face with a confused looking Sock Puppet. Not that those things weren't normally confused. Honestly, he wasn't even sure why Mortimer let Riley make those things. "What are you doing here, out and about? Don't you have a patrol route?"

A low groan was his only answer, and he sighed in response. He reached out and grabbed onto it's Host with his. "I suppose you'll do for now, until I find that other one. Come along now, let's go do something... fun."

Will watched as the Sock Puppet was led away, and then turned to follow where Stacy was leading them through the vents. They only went a little ways through them before she punched open a vent covered and dropped down into the room below. Sammy went next, followed by Will. The room they were in seemed to be an old writers room, notes still written on the whiteboard and script pages scattered around. Sammy crept over to the door and locked it, just to be safe.

"Ugh, I can't take this anymore!" Stacy collapsed into a chair, hood falling from her head. "Never should've come back in here..." She muttered as she rubbed her eyes.

"Well it's too late now. Everyone's probably broken out of the hypnotism, and we're in too deep to back out." Will told her firmly. "Besides, we still need to find Scout. We can't leave without her."

The one-armed woman bit her lip, turning away slightly. Sammy sighed and stepped between them. "Hey, Will, chill for a sec okay? Just sit down, and take a deep breath."

Will sat, letting his Puppet drop into his lap. She simply lay there limply, unnoticed by the others, though Bit did peer down at her in something like concern. Will inhaled loudly, then fixed Sammy with a look. "There. I'm sitting."

"There, see? We just gotta take a rest and then keep moving on to where, uh, Stacy can lead us to Scout." Sammy sat too, though he sat backwards in his chair. "We're find the others on the way, and then leave and never ever come back."

"Yeah, okay, sounds good." Will agreed quickly, glancing over at Stacy. The glance turned into a long hard stare. "Are your eyes yellow?"

"No, it's just the-"

--nuclear radiation!" Scout blurted out in a panic. Sammy face palmed, while Will just pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh.

"Oh I do not have time for this." He muttered. And then, louder "Where the fuck is my girlfriend?"

A pause. "Do you really want me to answer? Cause I think if I do, you will fucking kill me. Besides, I'm taking us there anyways. It'll be fine." Another, shorter pause before she pointed at the blue haired Puppet. "That's Canon by the way. She's the oldest."

Said Puppet lifted her head at the mention of her name, but didn't really react beyond that. Bit waved when she saw her sister was awake, but was ignored. She huffed and sunk back down into the hood. 'Fine then, be that way.'

She tuned back into what the Hosts and Scout were saying, but they'd all gone quiet. Scout was pulling at the short sleeves of her hooded shirt, while Sammy was furiously searching through his pockets. The last one, Will apparently, was staring at the floor, completely still save for a slight movement from his lips. She wondered if he was their leader, like Canon was for her and the others.

Well, like Canon had been. She hadn't really been much of a leader lately, not since Scout had ran away. She'd tried, but then she had vanished too for a long time, only to reappear right before the Hosts had. Mortimer had brought her with him, now that she thought about it.

'I wonder what he's been doing?' She looked between her older sister and her younger one. 'Can't be anything good. Not with how Canon looks. That "Stacy" Host of Scout's is totally gonna die.' She didn't say anything about that, however. The "Yeet" she'd experienced was still far too fresh in her mind, and she did not want to get thrown at another wall.

Besides, the quiet was kind of... nice, in a way. Nobody talking, but not really out of fear of being caught. It was a nice feeling.

It didn't last, however, as someone ran screaming past the door. Half a second later someone else went by, followed by a horrible skittering noise that the three Puppets knew far too well. Everyone turned to stare at the door as the noises faded out.

"... Y'know that sounded like your friends, Will." Sammy observed in a high pitched voice.

"I think you're right." He stood up, handing Canon off to the nurse in exchange for the pistol. "Come on, we'd better go help them out."

#hello puppets #outside #fanfiction #scout #will carson #nick nack #Sammy Davis #canon #bit

[little-klng]

Baldi’s Basics Theory

I’m sure everyone by now has heard of this new indie game called Baldi’s Basics due to the fact that almost every popular Youtuber has played it, including Markiplier. Markiplier, as far as I know, is the only major Youtuber to have gotten all endings and has played quite so much of the game as many like to reference in theory videos. I’ll cut to the chase, this is a theory post about something i developed in about 15 minutes. I spent a long while debating on whether or not to even post it due to the nature of the game. I wondered if people would make fun of me for making a whole theory on some silly game about a horror-filled schoolhouse that looks so thrown together, but my dear reader, strap on your seat belt and pull out your notebooks because this here is gonna be a bumpy ride

Now that you’re here, you’ve shown interest in what I have to say. Thank you for that.

On to the theory. Now, what is it that i have to go on here for any theory? Well, everything! This isn’t gonna be another ‘it was all a dream!’ theory because thats tired and worn out and completely erases all the work gone into the game (and any story for that matter), but understand it’s going to delve into a concept of that vein. Let’s lay out what we know;

-The game takes place in a bad CGI/2D schoolhouse setting from those old learning games in the 90′s. -The main antagonist is Baldi -All other characters look like horrible caricatures of what could have/should have been better modeled/rendered people/students -All characters in the game exist solely to harm or distract the player in some way -At the end of the game when you win, you’re met with a distorted voice asking you to do worse next time because they need to- That’s that. The end of the dialogue devolves into static there. But that gives us a hint of what to do next

If you just play the game as normal. you’d never really come across some pretty major points and plot. The game just dumps you in this setting of a weirdly laid out school and lets you run wild. But if you didn’t know any better, you would miss out on the fact that the only reason the player is in the school is to get your friends notebooks that he left in the school. Weird that no character, not even you, makes any mention of that. The whole premise of the game is that you collect notebooks, but you have to solve math questions for them that you always have to fail due to some questions being glitched out and unsolvable.

With the addition of update 1.3.1, the game now has a Secret Ending that you can only get by beating the game after getting 100% of all questions wrong (meaning Baldi chases you faster than ever. Go watch Markiplier do it, it took him 9 hours). But once you beat it, you’re met with the screen telling you to go to the principals office for tips on how to do better. Once there, you’re met with a long distorted Baldi in one end of the room and a mysterious character on the other. His name is Filename2 and he looks like this

Look at this dude T Posing out here. An absolute icon.

Filename2 is just what hes labelled as in the files, and his name is never actually spoken. Some theorize him to be the players friend from earlier, and honestly so do I! When you enter the room he says the following;

"Oh jeepers, you found me. Good job, I'm glad you found me, because I have something kind of important to say. *beep* It's about th-the game... Don't, *beep* Uh, Eh. Don't *beep* Don't, just, *laughter* this is.. This is probably looking pretty ridiculous *beep* Don't tell anyone about this game. You wanna.. Don't, don't bring attention to yourself. Destroy it, destroy the game. Destroy the game. Before, it's too late. *beep* What I'm saying is... is get out of this, while you still can. *beep* Just, don't.. don't know that you probably know I'm not saying that I'm trapped inside the game, no, that would be ridiculous. No I'm.. *beep* I can't... this is... I'm not... the game was... kind of...*beep* I got really corrupted. Yeah, I... *beep* I don't know what to say. Just... Just trust me. We gotta... *beep* * This isn't... This seems... I me-I mean it seems... ohh. *beep* They'd know I.. They intentionally... that's...I guess... I can't- They can't tell you, and some... stuff is classified. I can't say it. *beep* I wish I could say more. I can't talk normally. I-it's corrupted. There's...*beep*...Yeah...*beep* Just... close the program. Destroy it. Never come back. *long beep*"

...Yeah

There are a few things to take from this

-Filename2 is not ‘trapped in the game’ like most horror cliches. that would be ridiculous -He needed you to fail every single math question and still beat the game just to say all this. Weird. -He REALLY wants you to just delete the game and pretend you didn’t see it -He REALLY wants you to escape the game while you can -The game is ‘corrupted’ somehow, but he can’t really get into it because its ‘classified’ and ‘they’ would know he told you

There is something/someone preventing Filename2 from telling you anything more important than ‘get out of here while you can, don’t worry about me’. Throughout the audio, theres a constant stutter and some laughing, but more prominently the sound of shuddering and heavy breathing. It sounds a bit like crying to me. (warning to anyone about to go listen to the audio themselves, the beeps are REALLY loud and the speech is REALLY quiet)

Lets put him to the side again while we analyze the rest of the school

This doesn’t really look like any school I’ve ever been to, how about you? The weird hallways made to look like the stretch on and on and the actual classrooms being so far away from each other makes it feel less like a school and more like a hellscape prison.

About the schools inhabitants, they also feel like a hellscape prison.

We already know about Baldi, so lets see the other antagonists;

Aside from Baldi, Filename2, and yourself, there are 6 other characters that roam the halls. Each one has a simple description of themselves in the Principals Office.

Gotta Sweep;

What do you do when the school opens in 7 hours and you haven't hired a janitor? Hire a broom! It sweeps everything!

As you might imagine, Gotta Sweep is a badly condensed jpg image of a green and grey broom that spends its time, once released from the broom closet, roaming the halls loudly proclaiming its need to sweep. It moves quickly, sweeping everything in its path in the same direction it is. It stops for no one and nothing.

It’s A Bully;

Here at Here School, we believe every good school needs a good bully! That's why we have this kid!

It's a Bully appears as a poorly-modeled humanoid figure with an orange ellipsoid for a torso, blue cylinders for limbs, and small, peach-colored balls for hands and feet. He has an incredibly distorted and malformed face with dots for eyes, a gaping mouth with orange lips that clips into where his neck would be, a wide asymmetrical nose and brown hair. He doesn't wear shoes, and he has a brown text floating next to his head that says "THIS IS A BULLY" in all-caps. His pose appears to be in the middle of a run cycle. He spends his time blocking hallways and demanding that, in order to pass through, he must take one of your items. He can, however, be sent to detention should the principal wander by.

Playtime;

Despite her poor eyesight, she's always looking for a playmate! "Let's play!"

This character is a poorly drawn animated little girl whos eyes and hair are animated scribbles. Her poor eyesight has nothing to do with her characters mechanics, as she spots you easily and traps you in a game of jumprope. You can cut her jumprope with safety scissors to escape the game entirely, but doing so is considered bullying and you can be sent to detention for it.

1st Prize; 

Won 1st Prize at the Science Fair! Loves hugging people, rushing towards anyone it sees. Sadly, it turns super slowly.

If you liked Gotta Sweep you’ll definitely like this character. Hes a robotic hugging machine that barrels down the hall towards you, and pushes you until the hallway ends. He, unlike Gotta Sweep, turns very slowly. He can occasionally accidentally push Baldi into you if you’re not careful, but you can use the safety scissors to cut his wires and make him spin in place for 15 seconds to buy time. Dunno why you’d do that though.

Principal of the Thing; 

If I see anyone breaking the school rules, I'll make sure justice is served! It tastes good and fills my tummy!

Now, the interesting thing here is that when you start the game, Baldi refers to Here School (the school you’re in) as ‘his’ school, even though there definitely is a principal. There are posters in the school listing off the rules, and all are pretty standard like “no running” and “no students in the faculty rooms” and being caught breaking these rules by the principal sends you to detention for increasing seconds. An interesting thing to note about this character is that his name is a play on words for the phrase ‘It’s the principle of the thing’, though I have no idea how to fit that into a theory. This guy is a mostly average looking guy, except that his face is slightly contorted and his legs are partially erased

Arts and Crafters;

Shy, and tries to be avoided. Doesn't like being looked at, and gets jealous at people with more notebooks than him.

This guy is the final character, and he’s only important once you have all 7 notebooks. This guy is a sock puppet that, when looked at, will dart back behind whatever wall is closest and out of sight. However, once you have more notebooks than him (7, as he has 6), he turns hostile. He runs at you with his cardboard mouth agape and teleports both you and Baldi back to the starting position, ruining your run almost instantly. 

And that’s everyone!

The most intriguing thing about all of them is that they all share one quality; some part of them is horrifically malformed. Something about them is just... broken or stretched or erased. The only one in one piece and animated is, albeit poorly, Baldi. Everyone, however, has a function and could definitely be described as real cliques and people. All of these characters read as how you imagine a person you’ve only ever been told about, but never really met. Especially if the person telling you about them was only telling you about the newest drama going around or the latest experience the person talking has had with that person if they’ve only had bad experiences with them.

And here’s where the theory begins.

These characters are all fragmented and poorly animated because thats sort of how it works in your head when you’ve never actually seen someone in person. How many times have you heard about someone over and over only to meet them in person and realizing they look nothing like how you imagined, or that they dont act the same as you’ve been told. But that’s because often times you’re only ever told about the bad someone else has done, and very rarely the special good things someone does. 

These characters are not real people, but they are based on the real people your friend knows.

Your friend told you about the little girl in the school with bad eyesight but loves to play jumprope. Your friend told you about the bully that steals his stuff. Your friend told you about the principal and how he gets people in trouble so much. Your friend told you about his science fair project that won first place. These people are not people you know, but you’ve heard about them. You probably don’t know their names because your friend didn’t refer to them with names. Just with minor descriptions.

Why do they look like that? well I don’t imagine that, if one were to look at how your brain pieces images together based on description alone and makes them a real thing, they would look so good either. 

Every single character makes sense in this context. All but one- Baldi

Baldi, unlike every other character, is a whole animated character with lines that hint not-so-subtly that hes in charge of Here School, despite the principle. He’s an entity that is almost entirely immune to most things and hes the first thing you see as you enter the game. He’s also the last. But despite this, his weakness is the rules he follows. He tries to answer the phone, he abides by the walls of the school, he moves at a pace synonymous with the whacks of his ruler- if you’ve ever been to an old catholic school, you know that sound well and truly means power over others.

Baldi is a malicious entity that has trapped you in his Hellscape Prison constructed entirely from your subconscious memory. Personally, I think the map looks that way because the Player has been homeschooled and hasn’t actually seen much of the inside of a real school, but that’s up for interpretation. Baldi has manifested this area to fit the descriptions that your friend has fed you of this area you were already thinking about on your way to gather your friends notebooks. You were meant to be dumped in this world having forgotten your initial quest and forced to work on bare instinct. That’s why you don’t think to question the fact that, despite the fact that school is over at this time (”your friend forgot his notebooks and he needs them back before ‘eating practice’...” supposedly an after school activity Actually revolving around cooking and food prep. Maybe your friend works at a restaurant after school and Baldi doesn’t quite understand what that means due to his demonic or fae nature?) you’re still expected to finish all these math assignments just to leave. 

Now, why doesnt our brave and ultimately doomed protagonist just leave? Well, my dear reader, I’m sure you’ve heard of those old tales of Fae that trick wanderers into eat fruit or taking things that aren’t theirs to trap them for eternity? That’s right, the notebooks are what trap you in the game.

From the first moment you finish the first notebook scot-free, you are trapped, having taken a fae-world item to fulfill your own quest. Now Baldi can give you those impossible-to-solve questions and the notebooks regardless of anything else. You’re trapped and theres nothing you can do about it.

No matter how many times you get a Game Over, you’ll keep trying. And you’ll keep going. You won’t ever really escape

“But the, where does Filename2 come into play, Mona?” I hear you dejectedly cry into the night, “You didn’t forget about him, did you?” Oh you naive little thing... he’s what ties this whole thing together!

You see, Filename2 is you! Well, maybe not you but, he’s what remains of you. While you spend eternity trapped in a world built from your subconscious, your conscious self remains, though glitched out and corrupted. You aren’t fully there, and if you knew that you might be able to escape, but if Filename2 told you that, Baldi would know. Filename2 is your door to safety and salvation...  but unfortunately...

Baldi hears every door that you open.

#baldisbasics #baldi #playtime #this is a bully #principal of the thing #1st place #arts and crafters #gotta sweep #theory #baldis basics #but thats just a theory! a game theory!!! #hah hah jk but could you imagine #matpat if you steal my theory without credit like you do to other people i will sue you for everything you've got

[transformationstuck]

Time and Thread

(Story submission written by Sinn)

“Ow.” Dave said, frowning, then raising an eyebrow as Rose pulled out strands of his hair. It wasn’t much, and it didn’t particularly hurt as much as he thought it would be, but it still caught him by surprise. The byproduct of the loss of his hair, though, was what caught him off guard.

“Really, Rose?” The Knight of Time asked as he pointed towards a crude rag doll. It was a simple one: one that Dave could easily guess used to be a scalemate. The button eyes and the lack of patterns, the mono-colored red, and the makeshift fabric shape of horns made it quite obvious that it had previously been a dragon. However, it seemed that it was very old, ancient, in fact, and it had long since lost its snout, and sewed there in a horizontal line was a crude mouth, tugging the facial fabric over to give it a humanoid appearance rather than a draconic one. It seemed that Rose had gotten to add some additional attachments to it, mainly socks filled with cotton to give it appendages.

It was quite obvious what Rose had made as she glued the hair to the puppet’s head. “Oh, relax, Dave. It’s just a test I’m performing to check what feats are capable.” The smile seemed a little more sinister to him than he hoped to see from her, as if there was an underlying pretense that she was planning something mischievous, if not sinister. But then again, he honestly found it unlikely that she was going to pull anything threatening. With that, the three strands of hair poking out of the puppet, Rose pinched the doll’s cheeks, and Dave almost felt an imaginary tingling on his cheek, half-expecting the doll to work as it was intended. Nothing. Dave could not have found the better opportunity to sigh with relief as Rose gave her own sigh of disappointment. “I’d say getting a scalemate in that condition is a marvelous feat. Did Terezi give that to you?” He inquired, hoping to cheer Rose up a little while also attempting to avoid the topic of the voodoo doll in case the attempt had been faulty. If there was one thing Dave Strider knew about puppets, it was to never trust them completely. “In fact, yes. She did provide me with this as a donation. I said that if it worked, she could have it for a day.” A shudder ran down the Strider’s spine as he thought of the idea. He didn’t even want to think about it. “And you would have given it to her?” Dave raised his eyebrow again, questioning Rose’s moral sense of duty towards protecting her ectosibling. “She had her ways with her tongue, you know.” Another smile from those black lips indicated more than he wanted to know. “In more ways than one.” With that, the conversation ended abruptly as it started, and Dave soon came to forget about the doll as Rose carried it away, to be forgotten. Little did Rose realize, as she carried it away, did the button eyes twinkle as the hair took root.

The puppet did not become relevant to anyone, and had not caught anyone’s attention for a week. It was one of the forgotten projects, left behind and carried off as Rose began to work on something else, reading tomes and studying about magic circles. It was far more complex than a simple voodoo doll, for the artistic work was necessary to be accurate, and she was looking for a shortcut through the alchemiter itself. Kanaya watched her work, but it eventually got to the point where the jadeblood had to excuse herself: It was fascinating to see the Lalonde work her magic, but when she had been attempting to draw a perfect circle for the past three hours, it had begun to bore her. It was at this moment that something caught her eyes: A humanoid puppet. At first, she had mistaken it for a human, but she quickly came to realize it was most likely Terezi’s… And a ruined one at that. In absolutely poor condition, the stitched mouth most certainly to cover up the gash that had taken away it snout. If the Maryam had any talent in magic, then perhaps she would have realized there were some properties behind this puppet. If she had knowledge of voodoo, then perhaps she would have realized what the intentions behind this puppet were. But to be a Maryam, a jadeblood who had much love in tapestry, this thing was in poor shape and it was a perfect way to kill time. A quick question shot towards Rose answered her question on whether or not she could have this doll. A quick nod was the answer as Rose was absolutely engrossed with the drawing, and it led to the point where Kanaya realized she was already thinking of how to modify this doll to her liking. Her slender fingers rubbed against the strands of hair above… Blonde… So this doll will have blonde hair… It just seemed right. And she got to work. The first thing she did was to get rid of the patchwork appearance the doll had. It was so old it was practically falling apart, and the stuffed socks were most certainly not giving it the appearance she wanted it to. The mismatched color of red and stripes was something hideous to her that she was already cutting off an appropriately sized arm from silk. The voodoo doll knew her intentions. It was not sentient, but it was designed to do what it was to do. If its user wanted to control the victim, the doll would allow them to control them physically. If the user wanted to harm the victim, the doll would harm the victim as it was mutilated. However, the doll sensed Kanaya’s intention: alter, and while it was normally not possible, the magic had festered and grown stronger over time as it remained untouched, and it was channeled on the direction to where Kanaya was attempting to make this doll. With the arms properly attached, changes begun to take place, as Dave was making graffiti with Karkat. He barely noticed a thing, as his lanky arms became smooth, slender, bits of fur that were on him, barely noticeable, disappearing as his fingers became thinner, more feminine in shape. His nails were properly manicured now instead of slightly chewed on, well-groomed with care. All of it went unnoticed as his hands were covered in chalk powder. The next step Kanaya went was to reshape the mouth. The crude line and the crisscrossing string made the puppet look like a clown, and she wasn’t particularly fond of any juggalos. Cutting it open, the stitches now gone, she slowly tugged on the fabric, pushed the pins in to fasten the fabric together, and started her own stitches. Hers were not messy: they were methodical and precise, forming a specific shape as a pair of lips were shaped from those threads. With a similarly-colored spool of thread, the gash across the face was barely noticeable, and Kanaya was satisfied with the smiling puppet looking far more benevolent. Dave had parted ways with Karkat afterwards, having gone to grab himself a drink. As he placed his lips on the rim of the bottle, he realized it felt… off. Of course, he couldn’t exactly tell what was off, for he couldn’t sense it. He could not tell that his slightly chapped, thin lips were becoming full and plump, smooth and silky. It did not feel swollen, hence the reason why he missed the thought of his lips having changed, and he simply passed it off as a strange sensation that will come to pass. Restuffing the doll was next, and the body happened to be the one she went for. As she stuffed the puppet, however, she decided this puppet should be a female, and to emphasize it further, she brought the waistline closer, tugging the fabric there by folding it, giving it a slightly narrower waistline, giving the shape of an hourglass to some extent. “Perhaps too much…” She said to herself as she stuffed the puppet with cotton balls, which ended up moving towards more on the chest and the hip area. With this, Dave realized immediately what was happening. It was hard to miss, as he had gone to his room to shower, and had taken off his top as his chest practically exploded, flooding out of it a pair of round, luxurious orbs that bounced as they came into existence. Testing if it was real, he groped them, and, like all males would if they had suddenly gained a luxurious pair of female breasts, he squeezed them. “Oh, fuck. They are real.” Dave said, biting his lips, realizing for the first time that his lips had changed too. His waist began to thin, curving inwards as his hips began to expand outwards, and he had to look in the mirror, facing backwards, and admire the figure. “Well, I’m getting nice looks for a change…” But he did question: Why was this happening? “I better get to Rooooo-“ He paused, before noticing that his voice had changed drastically, suddenly causing a raspy sound. “What the hell?” Biologically, majority of his body had changed into a female one, and the voodoo doll was working his magic, channeling the knight with its powers to change to what Kanaya’s intentions were to do with the doll. As such, hormones were causing changes to his body. For one, his voice had cracked, as if he had hit puberty, but no longer would he have a deeper voice. Estrogen flooded his voice-box, and it had increased the pitch in his voice, a change so sudden that his body had to adjust it. His Adam’s apple decreased in size, and he could feel his cock shrinking, slowly pulling inwards. “Oh, fuck no.” He said, grasping it, before wincing slightly, a sharp intake of breath coming from him as he realized how sensitive it was. It was erect, and yet it grew more sensitive every second as his balls were sucked into his body, still going in further and he could feel it spreading inwards further and further as it began to hollow out some space, folds of tissues forming walls where there previously weren’t. And he could feel the pleasure as his knees toppled weakly, and he proceeded to grasp what was left of his dick, his shrinking cock, and he began to jerk it, moaning loudly as he found himself rocking his round ass in the motion of that jerking, and soon enough, he couldn’t grasp the cock with his hand. He couldn’t: it was too small, and he had to keep going, and he began to rub it, his palm on the erect nub that was the size of a marble and growing still smaller, and soon he had to use fingers, and then a finger, and he was rubbing between his legs now, and then he felt a shudder as his finger slipped into a wet space that was previously not there before. “Fuuuuck….” With a loud groan, his eyes rolling back, he came just as a bountiful amount of hair flowed down to his waist. In her respiteblock, Kanaya held up the doll, blonde wig now glued onto the puppet’s head over Dave’s hair. To simply remove the hair was all that was necessary to remove the changes done to Dave, but the wig had been placed on meticulously, thoroughly, and there was no way to remove it without harming the puppet. As a loud moan echoed through Dave’s bathroom, Kanaya was satisfied in her block.

#Rose Lalonde #Dave Strider #Kanaya Maryam #voodoo transformation #gender transformation #mtf