on hiatus

He/It | 20 Y/O

[nsfcomets]

Obligatory Intro Post

I am Azzy (He/It).

This blog was made for my persona/self-insert nonsense. This blog is super self indulgent, feel free to be cringe and free with me. This blog will ocassionally host NSFW content.

At the moment, I'm really into Dandy's World and will be focused on that. I used to post about valveplug if you recognize my username!

See My 18+ DW Art Here

Art and Writing Requests Rules

Major Masterlists:

Dandy's World Fics

Aftergarden AU

Azzy's Yumeship Corner

[eepy-toons]

[nsfcomets]

aftergarden chapter five is now in the works!

im finally finished with the spring semester, and ive got like four weeks until my summer semester begins. ill be trying to put equal focus on Aftergarden, NIWIHT (Original Project), and my TWT: nsfcomets

as for the contents of the next chapter, it's going to be a slow one where we can finally process everything. Ive been given the critique that the pacing is a bit rushed, which I do agree with so things are going to slow a bit as this is the end of ACT 1 of our 4/5 ACT Structure. If there is anything you are curious about and want answered, now would be a good time to ask lol.

as always, thank you for being patient with me. i will see you soon :)

[nsfcomets]

aftergarden | dandys world x reader

ACT ONE| CHAPTER FOUR

--

The elevator hums quietly as it descends. It’s cold and silent, but thankfully not claustrophobic. The elevator is huge, easily wide enough to fit a classroom’s worth of people.

No one talks at first.

Tension hangs thick in the air. The dim overhead light flickers every couple of seconds, casting soft shadows across the metal walls.

You lean against the side paneling carefully, trying not to aggravate your ribs any more than they already are. The bandages around your head still feel damp.

Across from you, Cosmo keeps wringing his hands together. Staring at him leaves you with a sense of guilt. They’re all so little compared to you, even though they’re adults as well. They weigh almost nothing, and they keep looking up at you with big eyes filled with something you’re not quite used to.

Hope.

It weighs heavy in your throat.

Shrimpo taps his foot impatiently. Rodger stands perfectly still, notebook tucked beneath one arm like this is some normal meeting instead of whatever the hell this is. And Boxten looks like he might throw up.

“So,” you mumble, “how exactly are we supposed to do this?”

Three sets of eyes land on you immediately, and you instantly regret speaking.

“We are not ‘saving’ Ginger,” Rodger states plainly,“We are testing a hypothesis.”

Cosmo visibly flinches at the wording, shutting his eyes and pursing his lips into a thin line.

Rodger continues anyway. “The objective is to determine whether ichor drainage reverses Twisting symptoms.”

“…That doesn’t feel like the best way to put it,” Boxten mutters under his breath, his gloved hand reaching up to pull his leather cap down. You can’t help but notice the silver shine of his arm.

“It is what’s accurate,” Rodger replies.

Shrimpo scoffs loudly, “We already know it works.”

“No,” Rodger corrects immediately,“We know it worked once.”

“That’s enough for me.”

“And that,” Rodger says sharply, “is exactly how people get injured.”

Shrimpo bristles instantly. “Oh, fuck off.”

“No structure. No planning. No containment procedure,” Rodger continues, speaking over him,“We’re lucky Glisten survived the encounter.”

Your stomach drops.

Lucky.

Yeah.

That’s one word for it.

Cosmo speaks before the argument can get worse.

“…We need to focus,” he says softly.

The elevator quiets a little, and Cosmo takes a breath.

“…Sprout tells me Ginger stays near the diner most of the time,” he explains, “In the back, near the private dining rooms.”

“Oh! That’s good,” Rodger says immediately, “It’s an enclosed environment.”

Boxten perks up slightly.

“We could lock the doors,” he bleats pathetically, “R-Right? So the other Twisteds can’t get in?”

Rodger nods once. “That would limit variables considerably.”

“Plus,” Cosmo adds, “if Ginger panics, she can’t run out and get herself hurt again.”

“So, the plan is what?” Shrimpo asks. “Trap her in a room and beat the shit out of her until she gets better?”

Cosmo makes a choking sound.

You scratch the back of your neck. “…I mean… I suppose that is what I did with Glisten.”

“That’s awful!” Boxten blurts.

Everyone looks at him, and he shrinks like a wilting flower.

“…Sorry.”

“No, it’s kinda… not great,” you say, casting your gaze to the tiled elevator floor, “But it’s essentially what needs to be done. We don’t really have a nicer way of bloodletting her.”

“I brought syringes. W-We could use those?” Cosmo suggests.

“Well, we could try that, yes. The issue is that it might take a while, and I don’t know if we’ll have that time if these… Twisteds are going to be constantly after us.”

Rodger clears his throat.

“Yes, the issue is not merely injuring the target,” he says. “The issue is surviving the process.”

Rodger flips open his notebook as he speaks. “There are currently three active Twisteds on Floor -3,” he explains. “Ginger, Brightney, and Finn.”

You recognize none of the new names.

“Finn behaves unpredictably,” Rodger continues. “Fast upper body movement. High aggression, but limited vertical mobility due to missing lower limbs.”

Boxten shudders slightly, “I’m more concerned about Brightney, if I’m being honest.”

Cosmo nods faintly, “She rooted herself into the picnic grounds a while ago.”

You blink.

“She what?”

Shrimpo gestures vaguely with both hands, “Like a plant.”

That does not help.

Rodger takes over again.

“Her limbs have overgrown and are now embedded into the flooring structure. Root systems extend throughout the entire underground picnic area.”

“…Roots.”

“Yes.”

You stare at him, “What does that even mean?”

“It means don’t touch the glowing bulbs,” Shrimpo says flatly.

Boxten nods quickly.

“They explode.”

You pause.

“…They explode.”

“When you get close to them,” Rodger clarifies, “I’ve been told it makes distracting a nightmare.”

Your headache somehow gets worse.

“So, it’s not just Ginger,” you mutter.

The elevator gives a soft creak as it continues downward.

Cosmo speaks carefully. “…There’s also the ichor.”

You glance at him.

“The rest of us can’t really…” He hesitates. “…handle it safely.”

“What? But you touched Glisten earlier,” you point out.

“Briefly!” Cosmo says quickly, “And even that wasn’t really good.”

Boxten switches from fiddling with his cap to tugging at his suspenders, “Our bodies soak it up like a sponge. We each have our own limit for how much extra ichor we can safely absorb.”

Rodger nods again, “…And of course, none of us really know how much that is. There’s not a safe way for us to test it. Excess ichor increases behavioral instability in non-infected Toons.”

Your stomach sinks with the realization.

“…So I’m the only one who can actually touch it. I-I have to be the one to do it. Me?”

Silence.

No one rebuts you. That answer was apparently obvious to all of them, and you suddenly feel very aware of your own body.

Bigger.

Heavier.

Stronger.

It makes your skin crawl a little. The last time, you nearly killed Glisten. Even when he had Twisted and grown taller, his body gave in too quickly. He, or rather, all of them, were much more fragile than a human.

It would be too easy to mess up.

Too easy to go too far and actually end their life.

You can’t stomach the thought.

“I’m still helpin’.”

Rodger immediately looks at Shrimpo.

“That is inadvisable.”

“Don’tttt care.”

“You are at the highest risk for direct exposure, Shrimpo. You’re smaller than all of us.”

Shrimpo rolls his eyes,“And? The human’s still at risk of gettin’ ripped apart too. We’re all takin’ risks.”

“You cannot physically restrain Ginger safely,” Rodger argues.

“Yeah?” Shrimpo snaps, “Watch me.”

Cosmo looks exhausted already.

“Please don’t start fighting before we even get there.”

Rodger adjusts his grip on the notebook.

“We still have not addressed the actual procedure,” he says. “How exactly do we intend to drain the ichor without killing Ginger?”

Shrimpo huffs.

“Well, the arm thing worked pretty good for Glisten.”

“What arm thing?”

“When he twists, all of his limbs and spine rip to grow taller. And when you fought him, you made it worse.”

Cosmo looks faintly ill.

Rodger, meanwhile, just writes something down.

“Significant fluid loss through structural injury,” he mutters.

“Rodger. Please,” Cosmo says weakly.

“What?”

You rub a hand over your face.

“So what do you want me to do?” you ask. “I’m just supposed to cut her open?”

Silence.

Rodger finally speaks.

“…Injury appears necessary.”

Cosmo wrings his hands together.

“There has to be another way,” he says quietly.

“There might be,” Rodger agrees, “But we do not currently possess the luxury of discovering it safely.”

Your chest tightens.

Because he’s right.

The elevator suddenly feels too warm. You look down at your hands again.

Bruised knuckles. Dried ichor flaking from your skin.

You are being asked to hurt someone to help them.

“How much will be enough?” you ask softly, “How will I know when to stop?”

Rodger pauses.

“That is… unknown.”

“Comforting.”

“I’ll monitor her behavioral changes,” Rodger offers, “If recognition resumes before critical destabilization, I’ll tell you to stop.”

“Critical destabilization?” you echo nervously.

Rodger closes his notebook.

“Death.”

Silence slams into the elevator.

Cosmo’s eyes squeeze shut, and you know what’s on his mind. This could kill Ginger before it helps her, and it would be on him for asking. They’re about to walk into a room and experiment on someone they love because they’ve run out of better options.

The elevator creaks softly. Rodger exhales slowly, through what, though? You aren’t sure.

“The current plan,” he says, “is as follows. We locate Ginger near the diner sector. We lure her into one of the birthday dining rooms. Boxten and I secure the exits.”

Boxten straightens immediately despite looking absolutely terrified. Cosmo swallows hard.

“Shrimpo and the human restrain Ginger,” Rodger continues, “Once restrained, controlled injury will be administered to encourage ichor drainage while behavioral responses are monitored.”

The fluorescent light overhead flickers once.

Twice.

Then steadies again.

Cosmo looks up at you, his wide black eyes boring into yours as his soft hands grab yours.

“…Please don’t let her suffer.”

Until now, this all still felt theoretical. A mission. A task.

But Ginger is real to them. To him.

And it’s like a switch is flicked in your head.

Even though they’re so different, even though they aren’t made of flesh, they’re people. Living, breathing sentient beings that have been left here to rot.

And somehow, against all odds, you stand between them and whatever this place has turned them into.

The elevator jolts softly as it begins to slow. A flickering number glows above the door.

-3.

Then the doors begin to open. The first thing that hits you is the smell.

Wet carpet, old grease, and something sharper underneath it all. Chemical and bitter, like burnt plastic left too long in the sun.

You cover your nose with the palm of your hand on instinct, but it does nothing to help. The air here is thick enough to taste. Heavy and humid. Contaminated in a way your body understands before your brain does.

Rodger lifts a hand, stopping everyone before Shrimpo can rush forward.

“Quietly,” he says.

Shrimpo’s jaw tightens, but for once, he listens.

The elevator opens into a large underground park, similar to the floor above it. Except all life that was here has long since withered away. Due to rationing, the plants have rotted, leaving nothing but bare dirt, dead trees, and scattered picnic tables.

You step out first, black boot crunching the dry dirt under its heel.

You grimace.

Behind you, Cosmo inhales shakily.

Boxten follows next, almost tripping over the elevator lip before catching himself with a tiny squeak. Rodger steps out after him, already looking left and right. Shrimpo comes last, shoulders hunched, eyes scanning the room like he expects something to leap at him.

“Formation,” Rodger whispers.

You turn your head slowly.

“Formation?”

“Yes,” he says, like that should be obvious. Like everyone is just on board with whatever plan he has in his head. “You will remain center-front. Shrimpo stays close enough to assist if Ginger engages. Cosmo remains behind us unless medical attention is needed. Boxten and I will monitor exits and environmental hazards.”

Shrimpo scoffs under his breath.

“So the human’s the shield.”

Rodger does not look at him.

“The human is the only one who can withstand direct ichor contact without immediate contamination.”

Cosmo’s expression twists with guilt.

“Only if you’re okay with that,” he says quickly.

You are absolutely not okay with any of this.

But what else is there to do?

The elevator doors are already closed behind you. The floor ahead is soaked in black, and Ginger is somewhere out there waiting as a person-shaped question no one knows how to answer.

So you nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper,“Just tell me where to go.”

Rodger points toward the far back of the room, straight ahead, ignoring the kitchen side of the diner on the right.

“We need to cross the picnic area to reach the private party rooms.”

You follow his finger.

Immediately, a sign greets you. It features a smiling strawberry and says SPROUT’S PICNIC AND DINER in bold Comic Sans. The diner itself seems to wrap around the picnic section in a U shape.

At first, it almost looks pretty.

Grass grows between the tiles. Real grass, or something close enough to fool your foggy brain. Little fake hills roll beneath painted clouds on the walls. Plastic picnic tables sit beneath striped umbrellas. Strings of dead party lights sag overhead.

The walls are painted in faded reds and pinks, but most of it is hidden beneath grime and dark streaks of ichor. Strawberry decals peel from the walls. Others have long since fluttered to the ground, landing on the brown wooden plank floors.

Farther ahead, you can spot a separated seating area sitting in pieces.

Booths are overturned. Tables are cracked down the middle. Plastic trays are scattered across the floor, some still holding rotting meat and other scraps of food. A menu board hangs crooked above the counter, its cheerful lettering promising birthday specials and lunch combos no one has served in years.

Then you look closer.

The grass is too dark.

Too wet.

The hills pulse faintly under the surface.

And across the floor, twisting through the picnic area like tree roots, are cables.

Thin, stretched, blackened arms dug deep into the floorboards and tile. They spread from somewhere deeper in the room, branching outward in long, tangled lines.

At the ends of some of them, glowing red bulbs sway gently.

They flicker in weak patches, buzzing softly over puddles of black ichor that stain the tile in branching, vein-like patterns.

Boxten makes a small, terrified sound.

Rodger lowers his voice further.

“Do not approach the bulbs.”

You nod slowly, staring at the nearest one.

It pulses once. Soft red light blooms beneath the glass.

Rodger closes his notebook.

“Move,” he whispers. “Carefully.”

Rodger steps first, placing his foot between the roots with a precision that makes it clear he’s done this before. You follow as best you can, though each step makes the dirt shift wetly beneath your boots. The nearest bulb sways at the end of a blackened cord, pulsing red in slow, faint beats.

Not flickering like a normal light.

Breathing.

Boxten makes the mistake of watching it too closely instead of watching his feet, and his shoe nearly brushes against one of the thinner roots before Rodger catches the back of his suspenders and yanks him still.

“Watch where you step,” he scolds sharply.

Boxten goes rigid, eyes huge. “S-Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

The root twitches. The bulb brightens.

Everyone freezes as red light blooms across the dead picnic tables and paints Cosmo’s face in a sick, candy-colored glow.

Then, with a violent pop, the bulb bursts.

Glass sprays outward in a glittering cloud. You throw your arm up on instinct, shards pinging off your sleeve and scattering across the dirt. Boxten yelps as Rodger drags him behind a table, and Shrimpo curses under his breath, ducking low with his hands over his head.

The sound punches straight through your skull, leaving a sharp ringing behind your eyes. When you lower your arm, the bulb is gone. Nothing left but a torn black stem leaking ichor into the ground.

“Brightney,” Rodger says quietly, as if naming her explains the horror of it, “Her limbs have rooted through most of the picnic area. The bulbs react to proximity and vibration. Treat the entire floor as part of her body.”

You stare across the room with new understanding.

The cables aren’t cables.

The roots aren’t roots.

They’re arms. Fingers. Nerves. Pieces of a Toon spread through the floor until the whole room belongs to her.

The red bulbs pulse faintly all around you, dozens of them hidden between tables, under benches, beside the dead grass, waiting for someone careless enough to get close.

Cosmo shifts impatiently beside you. He’s already watching the bulbs, eyes narrowed in quiet focus, one hand hovering near his supplies as he scans the team for any major injuries. Thankfully, no one has been hurt.

Rodger points two fingers toward a narrow path between the roots.

“Single file. Slow.”

You swallow hard and step where he tells you to step, Boxten breathing shakily behind you, Shrimpo muttering complaints under his breath, and Cosmo silent as a shadow.

Every pulse of red light feels like a warning.

You move deeper into the picnic area.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly.

Rodger leads the way, stepping around roots with the tense precision of someone who has memorized the consequences of being careless. His outfit does nothing to soften the severity of him. He looks like he walked straight out of an old detective noir film, his purplish-black trench coat falling neatly over matching slacks, dark loafers barely making a sound against the dirt-caked floor. A fedora sits low over his magnifying-glass face, and beneath it, a white collared shirt and faded purple jabot make him look far too proper for a place like this.

“Left,” Rodger whispers.

You step left.

“Not that far.”

Shrimpo huffs behind you. “Good lord, are we walkin’ or dancin’?”

“We are avoiding detonation,” Rodger replies flatly.

“Yeah, yeah. Fancy word for exploding.”

Boxten lets out a nervous little laugh, then immediately seems embarrassed by it. He trails close behind Rodger, dark brown leather shoes sinking slightly into the damp dirt with every step. Matching suspenders pull over his white collared shirt, disappearing into dark brown pants that look like they’ve been patched more than once. A faded blue bandana sits around his neck, crooked from how often he keeps tugging at it, and huge black square glasses slide down his face each time he looks down.

What catches your eye most, though, is his arm.

It’s silver.

Jointed from shoulder to fingertip with careful little plates that shift when he moves. It reminds you vaguely of something from an anime you used to watch, too polished to be scrap, but too worn to be new. Every pulse of red light from Brightney’s bulbs glints across the metal like warning flashes.

Boxten notices you looking and quickly tucks the arm closer to his side.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

You blink, “For what?”

“I don’t know.”

Shrimpo snorts.

Rodger doesn’t turn around, “Boxten.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You also do not need to apologize for apologizing.”

“…Sorry.”

Cosmo makes a tiny sound that might almost be a laugh, though it vanishes quickly. He walks near the back of the group, quieter than the others, one hand curled around the strap of his medical bag. He wears a soft white hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, paired with blue denim shorts over striped leggings. The colors on them, blue, green, and pink, match the bandana tied around his neck. Behind him, a small rolled-up pomeranian tail curls close to his body, decorated with little swirls of white frosting that make him look painfully sweet for somewhere this rotten.

He keeps his eyes down, not on the roots, but on everyone’s legs.

“Are your ribs still hurting?” Cosmo whispers to you.

“Yeah.”

He frowns.

You offer, “Uh, less than my head, at least?”

“That’s not much better.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Shrimpo mutters, “If they can complain, they’re fine.”

Cosmo shoots him a look. You keep moving.

The red bulbs pulse around you, soft and slow, each one swaying at the end of its blackened stem like it’s listening to the rhythm of your footsteps. The roots grow thicker the farther you go. Some are thin as wires. Others are thick enough that you have to lift your boot over them, careful not to drag your heel.

Rodger raises a hand again, and everyone freezes.

A bulb ahead brightens faintly.

Boxten goes stiff.

Then the bulb dims.

Rodger lowers his hand.

“Continue.”

Shrimpo leans toward you slightly as the group starts moving again,“For the record, this is exactly why I hate coming down here.”

“You come down here often?”

“No.”

“Then how is it ‘exactly why’?”

He glares up at you. You look away before you accidentally laugh in his face and piss him off more.

Behind you, Boxten whispers, “I used to like this floor.”

No one answers right away. His voice gets smaller.

“Before, I mean. Sprout kept everything nice. The picnic tables were always clean, and the lights worked, and there used to be fake butterflies on little wires that would move when kids walked by.”

Cosmo’s gaze softens, but he doesn’t look back.

“It was nice baking here,” he adds quietly,“With you. And, well, Sprout too, of course.”

Boxten somberly hums in response.

Rodger’s voice cuts in before the silence can settle too deeply.

“Focus.”

“Yeah,” Shrimpo mutters. “Because feelings are illegal now.”

“On a mission, feelings are distracting.”

“Your whole face is distracting.”

Rodger finally turns his head to stare back at him.

“How is it distracting? I only have one eye.”

“Yeah. And it’s huge.”

Boxten makes another tiny nervous laugh.

This time, no one tells him to stop.

You keep walking, following Rodger’s careful path through the dead picnic grounds, the bulbs glowing around you like a field of buried warning signs. The Toons whisper in fragments, half argument, half comfort, their voices small beneath the hum of broken lights and the wet shifting of roots under the floor.

For a second, despite everything, it almost feels normal.

Then the roots thicken.

They spread wider beneath the ground until it stops feeling like you’re crossing a picnic space and starts feeling like you’re walking through somebody’s open body.

Then you see where they’re coming from.

Brightney stands in the center of a sunken patch of dirt near the far edge of the park.

Or rather, she has been forced into standing.

She cannot move from where she is. Her body is stagnant, rooted in place like a dead tree, swaying slightly from side to side even though there’s no wind down here. Her magenta lampshade face is torn nearly in two, the split running crookedly up the side and exposing the inner lamp anatomy beneath. Rusted supports and a big red light bulb shine so brightly it hurts to look at.

Her outfit hangs from her in filthy, shredded layers. A pinkish-white collared shirt with frills. A string bow where a tie should be. A matching magenta cardigan with yellow lining, hanging loose over an office vest and pencil skirt. In the past, you’re certain it would have looked neat. Academic. Charming, maybe.

If not for the body wearing it.

Her metallic frame has burst apart at the extremities. Her hands and feet aren’t really hands and feet anymore. They’ve shattered open into exposed cables, snapped wires, and black mechanical tendons that pour messily into the soil like an oil spill. Those same roots twist through the entire floor, surfacing every few feet to bloom into red glass bulbs.

Seeing her makes the whole room click into place in a way you almost wish it hadn’t.

The bulbs aren’t traps laid around the room.

They are her. Extensions of her.

Pieces of a body spread so thin she occupies every inch of the picnic grounds.

It makes your skin crawl so violently you nearly miss the sound she makes when you pass.

It’s quiet. Barely there.

A soft, rattling exhale, like breath dragged through a throat that hasn’t worked right in years.

Cosmo lowers his eyes. Even Shrimpo, usually so quick with a mean comment, says nothing at all.

You edge around her in silence after that, stepping only where Rodger directs, the red bulbs glowing faintly around your ankles. Brightney keeps swaying behind you, torn shade tilted ever so slightly in your direction as if she can still sense you passing through her territory.

You can feel her in the floor with every step.

In the soft, pulsing give of the dirt.

In the low glow beneath the roots.

You slip past the last cluster of roots and toward the dining hall entrance, but her rattling follows you all the way there.

Clinging to the back of your neck like breath.

Finally, you’re at the dining section of the floor. This part was made for families who didn’t want to eat outside on those painted little picnic tables. The room opens into something closer to a proper diner, red vinyl booths and all, though the years haven’t been kind to any of it. Some are still upright, seats cracked and split open, pale stuffing bulging from the seams. Others have been ripped clean from the floor and thrown onto their sides. A few tables remain standing between them, chrome edges dulled with grime, their surfaces sticky with some ancient film that catches the weak overhead light.

The counters run long along the far wall, with spinning stools bolted to the floor in front of them. Most are bent at odd angles or kicked over, but the illusion of normalcy clings stubbornly to the room all the same. Faded menu boards still hang above the kitchen window, advertising kids’ meals and birthday packages in bright, cheerful lettering. Strawberries smile down from peeling wall decals. A banner droops over one of the booths, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY! still visible through the dust and mold.

The source of that horrible smell from earlier is here.

The air is thick with old grease and something sour that clings to the back of your tongue. Chairs are scattered across the floor like people left in a rush. A few laminated menus are still scattered across the tables, the smiling Toons posted on the wall warped from moisture and age.

You step over a crushed party hat.

The paper crinkles under your boot, and everyone freezes.

Nothing happens.

You let out a slow breath through your nose.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Rodger raises a hand again, eye scanning the room.

“This is the dining hall,” he murmurs.“The private birthday rooms are down that hallway.”

Rodger keeps the group close as you move forward, his posture rigid, one hand half-raised in a silent command to keep pace and stay low. Shrimpo is still near your side, but he’s gone strangely quiet since Brightney. Boxten keeps close enough to bump shoulders with Cosmo every few steps, and Cosmo keeps darting glances toward Shrimpo like he’s waiting for him to crack.

No one says anything for a while.

Only your footsteps.

Only the faint creak of old booths shifting under their own weight.

Only the wet, tacky sound of your boots lifting from tile.

Then your foot lands in something slick, and you nearly slip.

You stop so abruptly that Boxten almost walks into your back.

Looking down, you see a black trail smeared across the floor.

It glistens wetly in the dim light, thick and shiny as oil, dragged in a wavering line between the booths. More of it streaks beneath the tables. Around the base of stools. Across the edge of the counter.

Ichor.

Rodger’s expression sharpens.

“Do not-”

A scraping sound cuts him off.

The sound comes again.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Pause.

Scrape.

The dining hall suddenly feels much bigger than it did a second ago. Too many overturned tables. Too many shadows under booths. Too many places for something to hide.

Shrimpo goes completely rigid beside you, staring forward with an expression you can’t pin.

Glass fingers curl around the edge of an overturned tray, nails scraping through old grime as they drag themselves forward. Another hand follows. Then a head lifts into view.

You don’t remember what he looked like before, but your brain tries to piece him together from the shape of him.

Something nautical. Something bright. Something friendly enough to belong in a children’s show.

Top-heavy. Front-loaded. Built entirely around the strength of his upper body now that his lower half has failed him. His fishbowl head sloshes with black ichor instead of water, the dark liquid thick enough that you can’t quite make out the details inside at first. Then he turns, and the light catches him properly.

Spots dot his body where freckles must have been once, dark and seal-like, scattered over his arms and shoulders and down the fused length of his lower half. His legs are gone as legs, merged into something tail-like and slick that drags uselessly behind him, leaving that thick trail across the floor.

His arms, on the other hand, are strong. Built up from hauling himself everywhere. Glass muscles bunch under the sleeves of his black shirt, which have been rolled up to the elbows. A bright orange life jacket still hugs his chest, absurdly intact against the ruin of the rest of him. His teeth have sharpened into something predatory. His smile, if it can even be called that, is all wrong, all jagged edges and dark spit. One canine is still missing on the left side, a detail so weirdly normal it makes the rest of him feel even worse.

He moves with horrible speed. Just powerful.

His hands slap against the tile and drag the rest of him forward with a quick, violent jerk.

Then again. Then again.

Shrimpo stops breathing.

Because the sound of Finn hauling himself forward is the only thing left in the room.

Cosmo notices at the same time you do.

“Shrimpo…” he whispers.

Shrimpo doesn’t answer.

His eyes are locked on Finn like he’s trying to fit the thing in front of him over some older, kinder version in his head and failing.

He didn’t know.

Finn’s head jerks toward the group.

The ichor in his bowl sloshes thickly. Then his eyes catch on Shrimpo.

Everything else falls away.

For a second, Finn stills.

His body stays coiled and low, one hand splayed on the floor, the other curled against the tile. His head tilts. The black liquid in the bowl shifts with the motion, obscuring and revealing his face in turns. His voice comes out in a deranged gargle, ichor spilling from his mouth like drool.

Shrimpo’s whole face changes. His body goes still as his throat tightens and his lips press together.

Finn’s head twitches as he locks eyes with Shrimpo. For a moment, it’s almost recognition, but you know that can’t be true. His mouth hangs open, black saliva stringing between sharpened teeth. The ichor in his bowl shudders with every tiny movement.

Shrimpo takes another step.

Your hand shoots out before you can think better of it, catching the back of his shirt.

He jerks sharply against your grip.

“Don’t…”

“Let go of me!” He shoves you to the side and takes a step closer to the Twisted. His hand reaches out, and you can see something almost soft cross his features.

Finn lunges.

One second he’s crouched low and trembling, the next he’s flying forward across the tile, propelled entirely by the strength of his arms. The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a snarl and a bark, sharp enough to make Boxten cry out.

You yank Shrimpo backward by pure instinct.

Finn hits the spot he’d just been standing in with enough force to rattle the overturned booth beside him. His claws scrape along the floor. Black ichor spatters in an arc. He twists fast, too fast, and comes again.

“Move!” Rodger snaps.

The whole group breaks.

Boxten stumbles backward into Cosmo and nearly takes them both down. Rodger darts sideways, trying to draw Finn’s attention away from the center. You shove Shrimpo behind you just as Finn barrels in again, his teeth snapping hard enough that you hear them click.

Shrimpo shouts something ugly and launches forward before you can stop him.

He’s smaller, but fast.

Fast enough to duck beneath Finn’s first swipe. Fast enough to drive both hands into Finn’s shoulder and shove him off-course. Finn twists with the momentum, slamming bodily into the leg of a booth. The entire thing screeches sideways.

But Shrimpo hesitates.

Just for a second.

And Finn uses that second.

He whips around and catches Shrimpo across the side hard enough to send him skidding. Shrimpo crashes shoulder-first into a table and knocks it over with a horrible clatter.

“Shrimpo!” Cosmo cries.

Finn goes for him immediately.

The crowbar is already in your hand before your brain catches up, pulled half out of your bag and swung low. You don’t hit Finn’s head. You don’t want to. You aim for the side of that fused tail-body instead, the meat of him, and the impact lands with a sickening, solid thud.

Finn screeches.

It’s shrill. Animal. It bounces off the walls of the diner and makes your pulse spike.

Shrimpo doesn’t waste the opening.

Embarrassment is already back on his face, raw and furious, replacing the grief you saw a second ago. He throws himself forward with a strangled yell and drives both fists into Finn’s side, then again, not trying to win so much as force him back.

“Get the fuck away from them!”

Finn snaps and thrashes, but he’s finally outnumbered enough to feel it. Rodger kicks a fallen stool into his path. Boxten, pale as death, grabs a tray and slams it down against the floor to make noise on the opposite side of the room. The sharp metallic crash makes Finn’s head whip toward him.

“Move! Now!” Rodger barks.

That’s all it takes.

Finn changes direction instantly, dragging himself toward the sound in a spray of black ichor.

Rodger bolts into the hallway, and everyone follows.

You grab Shrimpo by the back of his shirt again before he can do something stupid and haul him backward. He fights you for half a heartbeat, more out of pride than conviction, then stumbles with the pull and finally lets himself be dragged.

Cosmo is on him immediately.

“Are you hurt? Let me see-”

“I’m fine!” Shrimpo snaps.

Cosmo reaches anyway, hands small and careful and shaking just a little. Shrimpo jerks away so hard he nearly knocks him over.

“I said I’m fine!”

The words come out harsher than they need to.

Cosmo goes still.

His hands draw back against his chest. You see the shame hit Shrimpo almost immediately, hidden under anger so fast you nearly miss it. He turns away first.

Boxten is breathing too hard. Rodger’s jaw is tight. Finn’s scraping is already fading in the opposite direction, lured off by the noise and whatever feral instinct still governs him now.

“We need to keep moving,” Shrimpo says, moving past you all and taking the front as he storms ahead.

The hallway to the birthday dining rooms stretches long and narrow, wallpapered in faded stripes and lined with old framed posters advertising party packages and private events. There are four sets of double doors, two on the left and two on the right, each decorated with giant painted balloons and cartoon cakes that have long since yellowed with age.

Shrimpo stalks ahead. Cosmo lingers half a step behind him, clearly worried and trying not to show it. Boxten sticks closer to Rodger than before. The roots and bulbs are gone here. No Brightney. No open diner floor. Just carpet, wallpaper, and the stale scent of sugar trapped in old fabric.

Then there’s a sob.

Everyone stops.

It comes again from the room on the left.

Thin and wet and trembling.

Cosmo is the one who steps forward to gently open the door. He takes a peek inside to see what’s making that noise.

His breath hitches as his eyes widen. You have a feeling you know who’s making that sound. Cosmo’s hand tightens around the door handle.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stands there, looking through the cracked-open door like the world has ended on the other side of it.

“Cosmo?” Boxten whispers.

Cosmo flinches like he forgot the rest of you were there.

“I-” His voice breaks, “She’s in here.”

Shrimpo’s jaw tightens.

Rodger steps forward, quiet and controlled, “Condition?”

Cosmo doesn’t answer immediately.

The sob comes again.

Soft, wet, and pitiful. It crawls under your skin in a way Finn’s screeching didn’t. Finn sounded like an animal. Brightney sounded like something already half-dead.

Rodger carefully reaches for the door, opening it just enough for the rest of you to see inside.

The birthday room is large, almost too large, clearly made for big parties. Long tables sit in rows beneath sagging decorations, plastic tablecloths hanging over the sides in dusty pink and white stripes. Paper streamers dangle from the ceiling, faded almost gray with age. A painted mural covers the far wall, showing smiling Toons gathered around a giant birthday cake.

And in the corner, hunched beneath the mural, is Ginger.

Cosmo makes this small, wounded sound beside you.

She’s light brown, shaped like a gingerbread cookie, though most of that soft, cute shape has been ruined. The right side of her face has been bitten off, removing her eye entirely and leaving a dark, jagged gap filled with thick black ichor. It spills through the missing piece of her face, staining the cookie edges and dripping down her cheek in slow, sticky lines.

Her remaining eye is wide and reddish-pink, ringed with smudged eyeshadow and two sets of lashes that make her look permanently terrified. Pink circular blush sits under the left eye, smeared now, dragged down like old tears. Her white frosting hair hangs long around her body, dotted with reddish-pink sprinkles and spots of black ichor. The bottom is soaked completely, dragging against the floor in clumped, sticky strands.

She wears a reddish-pink sleeveless dress with lighter stripes, a white collar, and mauve and white striped stirrup tights. The outfit would’ve been cute once.

Now it just makes your stomach hurt.

Her right arm is gone below the elbow.

Not cleanly.

Ripped.

The broken cookie stump is blackened around the edges, ichor beading there like blood trying to remember how to flow.

And she’s crying.

Her shoulders shake. Her mouth trembles. Soft, broken sobs slip out of her one after another, each one pulling Cosmo closer by the throat.

“Ginger…” he whispers.

Rodger’s hand shoots out, stopping him before he can step inside.

“It’s bait,” Rodger whispers. The words are gentle, but firm.

Cosmo’s face crumples.

Rodger looks back toward you and Shrimpo. The sobbing stops.

Your blood goes cold.

Ginger’s head slowly lifts, her one eye rolling toward the doorway.

For a second, she just stares.

Then her anxious expression twists wider, more distressed, more desperate. She lets out another sob, louder this time, almost pleading.

Rodger grabs the back of Cosmo’s hoodie and yanks him back.

You watch Ginger’s remaining hand twitch against the floor. Her nails scrape lightly against the tile.

Rodger inhales slowly. “We proceed as planned. Boxten, right door. I’ll secure left. Cosmo stays in the hall until we call for him.”

Cosmo looks like he might argue.

Rodger’s eye sharpens.

“You’re the healer. If you get hurt, no one else can help her.”

That shuts him up.

You adjust your grip on the crowbar. Your palms are sweating.

Shrimpo steps beside you, rolling his shoulders like he can shake off what happened with Finn by force.

“We rush her?”

Rodger hums, “Fast. Before she can reach the hallway.”

Ginger sobs again.

It sounds so real.

You and Shrimpo step into the room together. The air inside is colder.

The door creaks behind you as Rodger and Boxten slip to either side, ready to close it once everyone is in position.

Ginger watches you. She trembles in the corner, remaining hand curling against the floor. You can feel your heartbeat in your head.

“One,” Rodger whispers.

Shrimpo lowers himself slightly, claws flexing.

“Two.”

Ginger’s sobbing cuts off completely. Her mouth opens.

“Three.”

She launches herself forward like a starving animal.

You barely have time to brace before she slams into you, all sharp teeth and broken cookie edges and slick black ichor. Her remaining arm claws at your jacket, catching fabric, dragging hot pain across your side as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

“Lock it!” Rodger shouts.

The doors slam behind you, the sound echoing throughout the birthday room.

Ginger shrieks in your face. Her breath is rancid, like buttermilk gone rotten.

Shrimpo hits her from the side, throwing his whole body into her with a snarl. It knocks her off you just enough for you to scramble backward, coughing, ribs screaming.

She twists toward him instantly.

Shrimpo doesn’t hesitate. Whatever softness Finn dragged out of him is gone now. He throws himself at Ginger like anger is the only thing keeping him upright, grabbing the back of her dress and yanking her sideways before she can get her teeth into his shoulder.

“Get her!” he barks.

“I’m trying!”

You lunge forward, catching her around the middle.

She is lighter than you expect, but strong in the wrong ways, jerking and snapping with no thought or rhythm. Her elbow cracks against your jaw. Your vision flashes white and you nearly lose your grip.

Ginger screams again, clawing at your arms, black ichor smearing across your sleeves.

Shrimpo grabs her remaining wrist.

She snaps at him. Her teeth catch the edge of his shell with a sharp scrape.

He hisses, but doesn’t let go.

Rodger moves in from the left, already tearing one of the tablecloths from a party table and wrapping it over his hands like makeshift gloves.

“Do not touch the ichor directly!”

“Yeah, got it!” Shrimpo spits.

Boxten fumbles with another tablecloth, hands shaking so badly the fabric almost slips free.

“I-I’ve got it! I’ve got it-!”

“Then use it!” Rodger snaps.

Ginger bucks hard beneath you.

For a second, she nearly throws you off.

You slam your weight down without thinking, pinning her torso against the tile. Your knees hit the floor hard. Pain shoots up your legs. Your head throbs so violently you think you might throw up.

Cosmo stands in the doorway, hands clamped over his mouth.

“Cosmo, stay back!” Rodger orders without looking at him.

Ginger’s sobbing has turned into snarling now. Wet, ragged, broken noises tear out of her throat as she writhes under you. Her torn hair spreads across the floor in sticky white clumps, sprinkles and black ichor smearing against the tile.

Shrimpo pins her left arm.

Rodger helps hold her left leg.

Boxten, pale and shaking, throws himself over her other leg and presses down with all the strength he has.

“Now,” Rodger says sharply.

You look at him.

Then at Ginger.

Her ripped right arm stump twitches against the floor.

Just below the elbow, the broken cookie edge is already jagged and dark, ichor leaking sluggishly from the old wound.

Your hand tightens around the crowbar.

No.

Your whole body rejects it.

No.

This isn’t like Glisten.

Glisten was on the offensive. Glisten was killing Shrimpo.

This is different.

Ginger is pinned beneath you, crying and snarling and struggling, and you are being asked to hurt her while she can’t get away.

Your stomach twists so hard you think you might actually be sick.

She looks so human.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

Shrimpo’s head snaps toward you.

“Yes, you can!”

“I can’t-”

“You have to!”

Ginger jerks hard, nearly ripping her arm free.

Rodger grits his teeth. “We can’t hold her forever. You need to act!”

Cosmo’s voice breaks from the doorway.

“Please.”

You look at him, and he looks so small standing there, watching the person he loves thrash on the ground like a rabid animal.

Your throat tightens. You raise the crowbar with shaking hands.

Please, god, don’t kill her. Please. Please.

The thought runs rampant in your mind.

Then you bring it down. The metal strikes the damaged part of Ginger’s arm just at the elbow.

It breaks easy.

That’s the part that makes it horrible.

Not the sound, though the sound is bad. A dry, cracking snap, like breaking stale candy. Not the ichor, though that comes fast, black and thick, spilling across the floor beneath her.

It’s how easy it is.

How fragile she is under all that violence.

Ginger howls in pain.

Cosmo makes a strangled noise, but he can’t come closer. His legs rattle beneath him and he can’t look away. Horrified eyes stare at you as you further amputate his cousin.

Ichor pours from the fresh break, spreading across the tile in a dark puddle. You scramble back just enough to keep it from soaking into the others, but not enough to let Ginger free.

“Hold her!” Rodger shouts.

Shrimpo presses down harder, face twisted.

Rodger watches the wound, then Ginger’s face, then the puddle.

“Drainage confirmed,” he says, voice tight.

“Rodger!” Cosmo snaps, horrified.

“I am monitoring!”

Ginger thrashes violently at first.

Harder than before.

Her back arches. Her remaining hand claws at the floor. She gasps and chokes, that anxious face twisting into something furious and afraid. Black ichor bubbles from the bitten half of her face, running down her cheek and into her hair.

You brace yourself for her to get worse.

But then-

Her movement stutters.

Her shoulders jerk, a sob catching in her throat.

Rodger goes still.

“Again,” Shrimpo breathes.

You strike at her arm, deepening the wound so the ichor flows more freely.

Ginger bucks weakly.

Then weaker.

Her snarling breaks apart into wet, uneven gasps.

The ichor keeps draining.

Too much.

Maybe not enough.

You can’t tell.

No one can.

The room shifts slowly from violence into waiting.

Your arms ache from holding her down. Your head pounds. Your blood is loud in your ears.

Her remaining eye had been cloudy, darting from Toon to Toon before it lands on Cosmo. Cosmo stops breathing.

“Ginger…?” he whispers.

Her mouth trembles.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then her remaining hand loosens against the floor. Her body sags beneath you.

Her eye stays fixed on Cosmo. Wet. Terrified. Aware.

“…Cos…” she rasps.

Cosmo sobs.

The sound rips out of him before he can stop it.

Ginger’s body trembles beneath your hands, still bleeding, still broken, still not okay.

But not gone. Not anymore.

Cosmo takes one step forward.

Rodger’s hand shoots out before he can get any closer.

“Wait.”

Cosmo freezes, his whole body trembling like he’s physically holding himself back.

“She said my name,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“She said my name.”

“I know,” Rodger repeats, softer this time, “But wait just a moment longer. Please.”

Ginger’s chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven pants beneath you. Her remaining eye stays fixed on Cosmo, wide and wet and terrified. She tries to move again, but it’s not the same violent thrashing as before.

It’s weaker.

Confused.

Her hand twitches against the floor, fingers curling inward like she’s trying to grab something that isn’t there.

“Cos…” she rasps again.

Cosmo makes a wounded sound in his throat.

You look down at Ginger. At the broken stump of her arm with the thick black puddle spreading beneath her.

Your own hands still pinning her down.

You did that.

Again.

Your stomach twists violently.

“She’s bleeding too much,” you say.

Rodger blinks, like the obvious suddenly catches up to him.

“Yes! Yes, stop the drainage.”

“How?!”

Cosmo snaps into motion. He bolts into the room and drops to his knees beside you, pulling gauze and cloth from his bag with shaking hands.

“Move your hand. Keep her shoulder down, but move your hand.”

You do what he says.

Shrimpo keeps her remaining arm pinned, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle strain in it. Boxten still has both arms wrapped around Ginger’s leg, his face pressed into the old tablecloth he’s using as protection.

“I-I don’t think she’s fighting as much,” he says weakly.

“Don’t let go,” Rodger warns.

“I’m not!”

Cosmo presses the cloth hard against Ginger’s broken arm.

Ginger shrieks.

Cosmo flinches but doesn’t stop.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ginger’s eye rolls toward him again.

Her mouth trembles.

For one awful second, she looks less like a monster and more like someone waking up in the middle of being tortured.

You can’t breathe right.

Your ribs already hurt, but now there’s something deeper pressing under them.

Something heavy. Something sick.

“She’s afraid of me,” you whisper.

Shrimpo shifts beside you.

His voice comes out rough.

“Don’t start spiralin’ now.”

You look at him.

He doesn’t look back.

His eyes stay on Ginger, but his face has gone pale in a way you didn’t realize Toons could.

“We did what we came here to do,” he says.

Rodger crouches beside Cosmo, studying Ginger’s face.

“Ginger,” he says carefully, “Can you hear me?”

Ginger’s eye flicks toward him.

Her lip curls.

A low growl builds in her throat.

Shrimpo tenses.

Cosmo presses harder against the wound.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay. Ginger, please. It’s me.”

The growl breaks apart.

Her face twists into pure distress.

She tries to pull away, but her body doesn’t have the strength for it anymore.

“Hurts,” she rasps.

Cosmo completely falls apart. His face crumples, tears spilling down his cheeks as he keeps both hands pressed to the cloth.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, I know.”

Boxten starts crying too, silently, his glasses fogging at the edges.

Rodger’s expression tightens.

“Verbal response confirmed,” he says, but his voice is quieter now. Less clinical. “Recognition confirmed. Aggression reduced.”

Shrimpo lets out a breath like he’s been punched,“It worked..”

Ginger’s body gives one more weak jerk.

You flinch, but she doesn’t lunge. She just trembles under all of you, her breathing thin and ragged.

Cosmo looks at Rodger.

“What do we do now?”

For the first time since you met him, Rodger looks like he doesn’t have an answer ready.

“We…” He glances toward the door, “We need to transport her back to camp. Get her somewhere safe so we can monitor her. She cannot walk in this state.”

“No shit.”

“We also cannot carry her without direct contact with ichor.”

Boxten swallows hard.

“Tablecloths,” he says suddenly.

Everyone looks at him.

He stiffens.

“W-We can wrap her. Not tight, not like… not hurting her more, but enough so we can lift without touching the ichor directly.”

Rodger’s eye sharpens.

“That could work.”

Boxten looks briefly startled that anyone agreed with him.

Then he nods too many times.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can- I can get more.”

“Carefully,” Rodger says.

Boxten scrambles up, still shaking, and rushes toward one of the party tables. He grabs a stack of old plastic tablecloths from beneath it, coughing as dust rises into the air.

Ginger whimpers.

Cosmo strokes the side of her hair without thinking, then jerks his hand back when ichor smears against his glove. Ginger watches it, her remaining eye wet and confused.

Something in your chest folds in on itself.

You reach out instead.

Your fingers brush a cleanish part of her frosting hair, avoiding the soaked ends.

She flinches.

So do you.

But she doesn’t bite.

Doesn’t snap.

You keep your hand there, light enough that she can pull away if she wants.

“It’s okay,” you say. “You’re okay now.”

You don’t recognize your wobbling voice.

“We’re all done now. We’re not gonna hurt you anymore.”

Shrimpo glances at you. For once, he doesn’t make a comment.

Ginger’s eye moves over your face.

She doesn’t know you. There’s no recognition here. No trust. Just fear and pain.

And something small trying to claw its way back to the surface.

Cosmo wipes at his face with his shoulder.

“Ginger,” he whispers. “We’re going to take you back. Okay? We’re going to help you.”

Her mouth opens.

Then, barely:

“Cosmo…”

That’s enough.

Cosmo nods like she gave him a whole speech.

“Yeah,” he says, crying again, “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here, Ging.”

Rodger stands.

“We move quickly. Finn may return, and Brightney’s bulbs may have reacted to the noise.”

As if the floor hears him, something pops faintly somewhere in the distance.

Everyone freezes.

Another pop follows.

The sound echoes through the diner like glass cracking under pressure.

Shrimpo curses under his breath, “We gotta go.”

Boxten returns with the tablecloths, arms full and face pale.

Together, you work fast. Cosmo keeps pressure on Ginger’s wound while Rodger and Boxten wrap her in layers of plastic cloth, careful to keep her injured arm accessible without letting ichor smear across anyone’s bare skin. Shrimpo helps pin the cloth down, grumbling the whole time, but his hands are gentler than his voice.

You don’t say anything as you notice.

Ginger whimpers through most of it.

Sometimes she growls. Her teeth snap weakly when the pain gets too sharp, but she doesn’t fully turn back into the monster that attacked you.

That’s all anyone can hold onto.

Finally, Rodger nods.

“Lift on three.”

You crouch beside Ginger’s shoulders.

Shrimpo takes the other side, using the thickest part of the tablecloth as a barrier. Boxten moves toward her lower half. Cosmo stays close to the wound, keeping pressure as best he can.

“One,” Rodger says.

Your body screams at you before you even lift.

“Two.”

Ginger’s eye stares toward the ceiling.

“Three.”

You lift.

Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out.

For half a second, you think you’re going to drop her.

Shrimpo sees it.

“Don’t you dare,” he snaps.

You grit your teeth. “I’m not.”

“You better not.”

You keep hold.

The door opens into the hallway.

The birthday decorations sway faintly as you carry her out. Paper balloons. Cartoon cakes. Smiling faces watching from the walls.

Behind you, the birthday room is ruined. Black ichor smeared across the tile. Tablecloths torn from tables. A broken piece of Ginger’s arm left on the floor.

You look away.

You have to.

From somewhere back in the diner, you hear Finn scream.

Not close, but not far enough.

Rodger’s voice drops.

“Move.”

So you move quickly.

Or you try to.

Not with Ginger bundled awkwardly between the four of you. Not with your ribs screaming every time you adjust your grip. Not with Cosmo trying to walk and keep pressure on her arm at the same time. Not with Boxten breathing so hard he sounds like he might pass out before you do.

But you move.

Down the birthday hallway, past the faded posters and yellowed cartoon cakes, past the smiling painted balloons that stare down at all of you like none of this is happening.

Ginger whimpers in your arms. Every little sound makes Cosmo flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Ging. I know. I know.”

“She can hear you,” Rodger says quietly.

Cosmo looks up at him.

Rodger’s eye stays forward, scanning the hallway.

“Keep talking.”

Cosmo swallows hard.

Then he does.

Softly.

Almost too soft to hear over the wet drag of the tablecloth and the distant pop of Brightney’s bulbs.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re taking you back. Sprout’s gonna be so mad we did this without him, and then he’s gonna cry, and then he’s gonna pretend he didn’t.”

Ginger’s eye rolls weakly toward him.

Not fully focused. Not fully gone.

Somewhere in between.

It’s enough to make Cosmo keep going.

“And I’m gonna make you something soft when we get back. I don’t know what yet. Something easy. Something sweet, if you can eat. If not, that’s okay too.”

His voice cracks.

“That’s okay too.”

Shrimpo keeps his eyes forward.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see it tremble. There’s a smear of black ichor on the side of his shell, dangerously close to the scratches Finn left behind. He hasn’t noticed.

Or maybe he has, and he just doesn’t care right now.

Rodger notices.

“Shrimpo,” he says.

“No.”

“You have ichor on you.”

“I said no.”

Rodger’s voice sharpens.

“That was not a request.”

Shrimpo’s grip tightens under the tablecloth.

For one awful second, you think he’s going to argue.

Then Ginger makes this tiny, broken sound in the back of her throat, and he looks down at her. His expression twitches.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Cosmo reaches over as carefully as he can and wipes the ichor off Shrimpo’s shell with the corner of a clean cloth. Shrimpo stiffens at the contact but doesn’t shove him away this time.

Boxten makes a small noise behind you.

“I helped,” he whispers to himself.

You glance over at him.

His face goes bright with embarrassment immediately.

“I mean- I know that sounds stupid. I just… I actually helped. I didn’t freeze the whole time.”

Rodger doesn’t look back.

“You did well.”

Boxten stares at him.

“Oh.”

Then, smaller:

“Thank you.”

Rodger says nothing else, but Boxten stands a little straighter after that.

The hallway opens back into the diner.

The smell hits you again.

Finn is gone.

For now.

That does not make you feel better.

The trail he left behind still shines across the tile, thick and black, smearing under booths and around table legs. You step over it carefully, adjusting your grip under Ginger’s shoulders. The tablecloth shifts in your hands.

Ginger cries out.

You freeze.

Cosmo nearly drops the gauze.

“Sorry!” you gasp. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Ginger’s eye snaps toward you. For one second, fear flashes across her face so clearly it punches the air from your lungs.

She remembers you. Your crowbar and the pain it caused her.

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.

Shrimpo notices.

“Keep moving,” he says.

You look at him. His voice is rough, but not cruel.

“You can feel bad later. We need to get somewhere safe.”

So you keep moving.

Back through the diner. Back past the overturned booths. Back past the menus promising birthday specials and cheerful little meals no one will ever serve again.

Rodger moves ahead first, checking the path into the picnic area.

The moment you reach the threshold, another bulb pops somewhere in the distance.

Then another.

Closer.

Brightney’s roots are awake now.

The red bulbs pulse in waves across the dead picnic grounds, glowing one after another like warning lights on a machine about to fail.

Boxten’s voice comes out thin.

“That’s… bad, right?”

“Yes,” Rodger says.

“Okay. Cool. Great.”

“We will go slowly.”

Shrimpo barks out a laugh. “We don’t have time to go slowly.”

“If we rush, we explode.”

“If we don’t rush, Finn catches us!”

“Then we move precisely.”

“Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You may continue hating me while stepping where I step.”

You would laugh if you had any air left.

You don’t.

Every breath scrapes against your ribs. Every step sends pain up your spine. Your arms are shaking so badly that you can barely trust your own hands.

Ginger is light.

Still, somehow, carrying her feels impossible.

Cosmo keeps pace beside you, whispering to her under his breath. Rodger guides the group through the roots. Boxten follows close, eyes wide behind fogged glasses. Shrimpo stays near your side, his whole body wound tight, ready to lunge if anything moves wrong.

You cross the picnic area one step at a time.

The bulbs pulse around your ankles.

The floor feels alive beneath your boots, soft and wet, like every step presses against something that might wake up angry.

Brightney rattles in the distance.

You don’t look at her this time.

You can’t.

You just focus on Rodger’s feet.

Step where he steps.

Stop when he stops.

Breathe when you can.

Ginger stirs weakly in your arms.

Her hand twitches against the tablecloth.

Cosmo’s voice trembles.

“Ginger?”

Her eye opens halfway.

For a second, she looks past him. Past all of you.

Toward the ceiling.

Then her mouth moves.

Cosmo leans closer. “What? What is it?”

Ginger’s lips tremble.

“…Outside?”

The word is so soft you almost don’t hear it.

But you do.

Outside.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know what outside means to someone who has been trapped underground for years. You don’t know if she remembers the sky, or if she only remembers being told about it, or if the word just fell out of whatever broken place her mind is crawling back from.

Cosmo strokes the edge of the tablecloth near her shoulder.

“Soon,” he whispers.

You look at him.

He doesn’t look at you.

The lie sits between you anyway.

You keep walking.

By the time you reach the elevator, your body is barely holding together.

Rodger calls out for Dyle to operate the elevator again.

The elevator takes far too long to arrive.

Every distant scrape from the diner makes your stomach drop. Every pop from Brightney’s bulbs makes Boxten flinch. Every weak sound from Ginger makes Cosmo whisper something soft and desperate.

Shrimpo stands with his back to the group, watching the way you came.

Finally, the elevator doors groan open.

The sound is almost beautiful.

You all stumble inside with Ginger between you, lowering her carefully onto the floor. Cosmo immediately drops beside her, still keeping pressure on her wound. Rodger checks the doorway until the last possible second. Boxten presses himself into the corner, shaking but smiling in this tiny, disbelieving way.

“We did it,” he whispers.

No one answers at first.

Then Shrimpo exhales.

“Don’t celebrate yet.”

But his voice doesn’t have much bite left.

The doors close.

The elevator starts to rise.

The only sound is the hum of the lift, Ginger’s thin breathing, and Cosmo’s quiet reassurances.

Rodger has his notebook out again, writing with a hand that is not quite steady.

“Recognition returned after significant drainage,” he murmurs, “Aggression reduced. Speech possible. Motor control partial. Emotional distress high.”

“Can you not do that right now?” Shrimpo mutters.

Rodger pauses.

Then closes the notebook.

“Right. Sorry.”

That surprises everyone a little.

Boxten hugs his metal arm against his chest, staring down at Ginger.

“She recognized him,” he says softly, “She actually recognized him.”

Cosmo nods, not looking away from his cousin.

Happy and devastated at the same time.

Ginger’s eye stays half-open, unfocused but no longer empty. Her body trembles beneath the wrapped tablecloths.

You lean against the elevator wall and finally let your head fall back.

The metal is cold against your skull.

Bad idea.

Pain flares bright behind your eyes.

You hiss and jerk forward.

Cosmo looks up immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

Your hands are shaking. Your arms ache. Your jacket is torn and smeared with black. There’s a fresh cut across your side where Ginger caught you, warm and stinging beneath the fabric.

And still, somehow, everyone keeps looking at you like you did something miraculous.

It makes you feel sick.

Boxten’s voice calls to you through your waves of nausea.

“Um… this is probably not the best time to ask, but we are stuck in here, and… what’s it like?”

You look at him.

“What?”

“The outside,” he says.

The elevator hums.

Rodger’s eye shifts toward you.

Even Shrimpo goes quiet.

Boxten swallows.

“Sorry. That’s probably a stupid question. I just… I haven’t seen it in a long time.”

You stare at him. At all of them.

Their faces are tired, bruised, frightened, hopeful. And young in a way that has nothing to do with age.

“What happened after Gardenview closed?” Boxten asks, voice smaller now. “Do people still talk about us?”

Your mouth goes dry.

Cosmo looks up from Ginger.

“Do they remember the show?”

Rodger says nothing, but he’s listening.

You think about the box in your garage.

The old DVDs. The plushies you washed and set on a shelf. The eBay listings.

The rumors.

You think about how easy it was to forget this place until you needed content. Until nostalgia became useful. Until you broke in.

“I…” you start.

The word dies in your throat.

The elevator keeps rising.

Cosmo’s voice is gentle when he asks, “Is anyone coming back?”

You look at Ginger on the floor, half-conscious and wrapped in ruined party cloth.

You look at Boxten, who helped and wants so badly to be proud.

You look at Rodger, who needs facts more than comfort.

You look at Cosmo, who is begging without meaning to.

“Are we…” His voice catches, just barely. “Are we still part of the world up there?”

The question hangs in the elevator.

You open your mouth.

Do you tell the truth… or should you lie?

Do you tell the truth... or should you lie?

Tell the truth and break their hearts.

Lie and give them false hope.

Voting ended onMay 16

---

First | Prev | Next

[nsfcomets]

still have yet to even see the girl, we're trying to save fuckkk

[nsfcomets]

i am always saying this but i do apologize for slow aftergarden posting. each chapter is like 1k words bigger than the last and this ones taking a hot minute. there's lots of encounters, chattings, and work to be done.

you will see three twisteds, all of them uncommon.

[nsfcomets]

So glad that the new sprout tape introduces the "episode memory" problem. I have plans for that in Aftergarden too

[self-indulgent-hcs-2000]

Hi! If you are accepting requests, you can make one of Dandy x Reader (Romantic) would have an aesthetic similar to old cartoons (like those from the 30s/40s).

DANDY X OLDSCHOOL!TOON READER HCS! (ROMANTIC!)

Ofc!! I hope I enjoy :3

-lets say you're a lethal like him.. You were his first friend ever! You were so nice, and smart, and funny, and pebble loved you! How could he not love that??

-he thinks everything about you is gorgeous, your looks, your personality, your voice and your touch, drives him crazy

-would lovingly ramble to someone like dyle or astro about you, astro might get a tad tired of it, he already hears about you enough in dandys dreams, astro does find you lovely and glad that dandy has you but my god you can only hear so much about a person before it gets exhausting

-he wouldn't Want to send you on runs, he knows the risks of it, and doesn't want you getting hurt, so instead he sets up a little shop for you next to his! So you have something to do, you won't get hurt, and everyone would be happy!

-dandy is no stranger to being jealous and pouty, so expect that from time to time, especially if you hang out with someone like vee, you would need to hold his hand and deal with his head on your shoulder while talking to the TV if you want to hang out with her, if you tell him off for it, he'll just pout more in the corner, it usually isn't too serious but it could get old

-sometimes you'll catch him admiring you, looking all lovey dovey and flustered, gives you compliments, he's the Rodger to your Jessica rabbit

-if you're okay with it, he's very affectionate, always wanting to be by your side, hold your hand, cuddle or give you little kisses on your face, if you're not the touchy type he'll be okay with it, but would still ask every once in awhile for a peck on the cheek

-tries so hard to act like a gentlemen in front of you but goofs it up some how, then gets upset at himself for looking like a fool, he doesn't even know you find it cute

-has probably tried in the past to convince deliah and Arthur to give you two more episodes together, maybe even a Valentine's day special

-would want to put on old school songs and dress all dapper to match you, loves the idea of matching outfits, he even lets you paint his petals different shades of black and grey! He could do it himself, but why would he pass the chance to melt in your touch for awhile?

-he isn't the best at comfort but he tries his darn best, he would do anything to make you feel better, he would sit with you forever if it meant bringing you some comfort, he cares about you more than anything..

Overall, this tiny flower man is absolutely whipped for you and would do anything for you, so I hope you enjoy his clingy company!

🕸🌼🕸

[coffeethepuppy]

Main Cutouts; Dandy 🌈🌼

A silly idea popped up in my head about the cutouts and wondered if they had audio cues like the ones in poppy playtime. I did Dandy so far but Dyle and the other mains are getting one as well <3 I might make a master list for some of these ideas.

Dandy:

*Gardenview is opened*

Hi!! I’m Dandy! Dandicus Dancifer. I’m the mascot of Gardenview! And a shopkeeper, you’ve heard of me before haven’t you?

Always remember: you are appreciated! you are amazing! you are a friend! l̶͑̈́o̷̽̕v̴̓̑e̸̛̽r̵̾. Huh? did I say something weird? Ohhh never mind, you get the deal don’t you?

It makes me happy whenever everyone is lively and having fun. One of most important rules of Gardenview is to have fun!

“Can you dance?” Of course silly! There’s a poster starring me in “Dandy in showtime panic!”, It’s also in my name.

Pebble is the best pet rock dog companion I could ever ask for. I once saw him carrying a box filled with drawings that Toodles made of me and him. I’m more surprised at the fact he can carry something for his size or rather on his back I suppose!

Hey hey hey! No one else is around, I got something very nice to tell you! Don’t tell anyone else about it!

*Gardenview closed down*

I…don’t really talk with most of the other main toons anymore…especially with him….but do you think they might be ignoring me? Of course not! Who could ignore good ol Dandy like me! Haha…..

Make sure to always buy from me! Why? Uhm-it’s-…just make sure to buy from me alright? We’re all f̷r̷i̷e̷n̷d̷s̷ aren’t we? And friends stick together!

More tapes from them…I can use these small ones to fix the big tapes that keep all of our memories of this place. It’s the last thing I have left…

It’s all my fault….my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault m̴y̴ f̴a̴u̴l̴t̴

I have to keep them safe…I just have too….no more going down those floors for them.

[nsfcomets]

AZ'S APOTHECARY

During the Ichor Operation, Az works together with Dandy to provide more for Allan. As time goes on and missions become more dangerous. Az steps up and creates his own shop to fill the demand.

Az, with his previous experiences working with Delilah, has a bit of knowledge about ichor and uses it to create three new types of "medicine" to help on Ichor Runs.

Appears only on 15+ Floors.

Offers Three Types of "Medicine" at higher prices 150+ tapes.

Hermes' Blessing

Grants a 20% Speed and Stamina Buff for 90 seconds.

A tightly wrapped sachet filled with little golden pills. Each one is chalky and unpleasant on the tongue, breaking apart almost instantly once swallowed. The effect, however, is immediate. Your pulse spikes, your limbs feel lighter, and exhaustion seems to vanish entirely. Movements become quicker, sharper, almost effortless, as if your body is struggling to keep up with the sudden surge of energy.

Soteria's Protection

Grants a Shield around a player that makes them invulnerable for 90 seconds.

A small, compact glass jar filled with a thick, ink-colored lotion.. When applied to the skin, it spreads cold at first, then rapidly warms as it seeps in. Within seconds, the surface of the skin hardens into a near-imperceptible barrier, dulling impact and completely negating harm.

Athena’s Insight

Grants 20% Extraction Speed and Skill Check Bonus for 90 seconds.

A narrow vial containing a deep violet liquid that clings to the glass. It smells faintly metallic and tastes sharply bitter, taken in a single shot due to its intensity. Almost immediately, the world seems to sharpen. Sounds become clearer, movements easier to predict, and even complex mechanisms feel intuitive to handle. Thoughts align with precision, allowing for near-perfect execution. The clarity is intense, but fades just as quickly, leaving behind a dull mental fatigue.

Az also offers a special "Trinket Exchange" service where he'll have a random selection of Trinkets that the players can swap out.

One of the gimmicks I think Az would have in game. Being Dandy's In-Show rival, I think he should mimic him in some ways.

Though, the rivalry is only show wise. Az holds no negative feelings for Dandy. He's sweet on him.

I have an almost 3k doc on the two's relationship but I'm not sure how to share it.

[nsfcomets]

Azereth's Yumeship Corner <3

This is a masterlist for all my yumeship nonsense. right now I'm fixated on Dandy from Dandy's World

FlowerInvader (Dandy Yumeship)

Az's Apothecary

[nsfcomets]

aftergarden | dandys world x reader

ACT ONE| CHAPTER THREE

The walk to the next floor is slow.

Painfully slow.

Every step down sends another dull pulse through your brain. Your balance wavers more than once, and each time Shrimpo snaps something sharp under his breath while Glisten hovers too close at your side.

You don’t know which of them is more nervous.

Now, in front of you is what has to be the back of some sort of wardrobe or shelf. It's propped up against the entrance of the stairs, truly to keep Shrimpo and Glisten from coming back.

And that's... well, you aren't quite sure how to feel about that yet.

The air is warmer here. Voices echo faintly ahead. You ignore the pain and push the wooden shelf with all of your might, causing it to tip over and fall with a thunderous thud that echoes throughout the empty building.

"That- was a little too loud.." you grumble as you rub your ears.

Guiding the two toons behind you over the shelf, your boots hit the wooden planks below. To your right is an abandoned restroom, and to your left is.. grass?

Strangely alive grass.

The air is wet, and there are actually lights here. As you walk forward, through your foggy brain, you realize that this must be one of the greenhouse floors you've read about online.

The floor is an underground park. Specifically, across from the staircase is a large fenced in area with a giant sign that reads "PEBBLE'S PUPPY PLAYGROUND".

There's a giant playground structure, complete with slides, climbing rocks, and a whole swing set. Though, it's seemingly been converted into a living space. There are blankets covering some parts of it, with what seems to be a small child-sized sleeping beds in the under bed of the structure.

They must've been the ones who ransacked the daycare upstairs, leaving Shrimpo and Glisten to improvise with the stage.

Ignoring that, you turn left toward the rest of the park.

Curtains have been strung between support beams to create partitions. Crates are stacked into makeshift shelves. Ration logs are pinned to a corkboard ripped from a break room.

The first one who sees you freezes.

You don’t know their name yet, tall, magnifying glass for a face, posture straight like they’ve trained it that way- but the reaction is immediate.

Their eyes flick to Shrimpo in annoyance.

Then to Glisten.

And then, to you.

And everything stops.

Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Something metallic clatters somewhere within the room.

Several Toons take a step back when they register Glisten. One of them, small, boxy, nervous-looking, nearly trips over a crate in the process.

And then someone says it.

“…That’s a human.”

It isn’t shouted. It doesn’t need to be.

The word moves through the room like electricity.

A human.

The hostility shifts instantly.

Postures straighten. Smiles appear too fast. A few of them smooth down their clothes reflexively. Another clears their throat.

One of them, a pastry with white frosting drooping off their very large head, steps forward first.

“Oh-! Oh goodness,” they say gently. “You’re hurt!”

Three others start talking at once.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Do you need water?”

“Should we get a chair-?”

You blink at them, overwhelmed. You can still taste iron at the back of your throat.

Behind you, Shrimpo grumbles, “Oh, don’t y'all help at once.”

But they’re not listening to him. They’re looking at you.

A figure steps forward from the center of the room and you recognize him instantly.

Dandy.

Even bruised, even dimmed, even worn down by whatever this place has become, he still carries himself like he’s supposed to be seen. And he looks very different from his show appearance. Still shorter than you, but grown. Taller, heavier set, with his once-bright colors dirtied and desaturated. He’s got a large tear in his purple petals, as well as some in the dark umber apron he wears over dark pants and a tan collared shirt. More noticeably, his face has visibly aged. His large eyes have lost their spark, now dull with eyebags hanging beneath them. They’re still large, larger than a human’s for sure, he’s still a Toon, but his broader face makes him look much more adult than you remember.

And when he speaks, the room quiets.

“Step back,” he commands, voice firm and strong.

He looks at your little party. His eyes land on Glisten last. And the tension returns.

“…What's going on?”

Shrimpo bristles immediately.

You feel Glisten go still beside you, his thin, bony hands gripping the end of your jacket sleeve. Still wet from the black blood that bled from the injuries you gave him.

"W-We need help. Glisten needs help. I can explain everything, but please, help him first," you guide him forward gently, letting him lean on you.

Dandy’s gaze flicks between the three of you, taking in the scene quickly. The blood on your bandages. The black residue staining Glisten’s hands. The way Shrimpo stands too close, defensive and bristling like a cornered animal.

“What happened up there?” Dandy asks.

Shrimpo immediately steps forward.

“He, uh, he…”

“We need a clear timeline,” the magnifying glass Toon interrupts sharply, stepping closer now that the initial shock has settled. His posture is rigid, precise, every movement deliberate. “How did you locate a human? When did Glisten become stable?”

Shrimpo snaps his head toward him.

“I was talkin’, Rodger!”

Rodger barely acknowledges him. His focus remains on you.

“You appear concussed. Are you able to recall events clearly?”

Shrimpo throws his hands up in frustration.

“Oh my god, can you let me finish one sentence?!”

“Shrimpo.”

Dandy doesn’t raise his voice, but it stops him instantly.

The shrimp Toon grits his teeth and shuts up, arms folding tightly across his chest.

You notice something then.

No one has moved closer to Glisten.

The Toons stand in a loose half-circle around the room, but there’s a gap around him. You’re sure Glisten notices it too when his thin fingers tighten slightly on your sleeve and he instinctively steps half a pace behind you.

Dandy’s gaze lingers on him.

“…Rodger,” he says finally. “Examine him.”

A ripple moves through the group. Rodger doesn’t approach. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying Glisten from a distance.

“Did Glisten have another sudden Twisting? When did the episode begin?” he asks.

Shrimpo exhales sharply through his nose. “After the argument,” he mutters.

Rodger ignores the tone,“What symptoms were observed?”

“Uh… foaming,” Shrimpo says reluctantly. “Black ichor everywhere. He got… bigger. You know what it looks like. You’ve seen it before.”

Rodger scribbles something into a small notebook he’s pulled from somewhere. “Was he conscious during it?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You and Shrimpo answer at the same time, but everyone looks at you. Your throat tightens under the sudden attention.

“He wasn’t aware,” you say carefully. “He didn’t know what he was doing. I think. He attacked Shrimpo, and he looked completely feral.”

Rodger’s pen pauses against the page.

“But,” you continue, forcing yourself through the memory, “once he started bleeding out… he... changed.”

The room stays quiet.

“He shrank back down. Stopped foaming at the mouth n' started breathing normally again.”

Your fingers curl slightly at your side. “And then, he recognized Shrimpo.”

Rodger’s eye sharpens immediately.

“Recognition occurred after fluid loss?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

Rodger writes something down quickly.

“Fascinating.”

Dandy watches the exchange silently. Then he says, “Keep your distance.” The words are directed at Glisten. “Until we understand what’s going on.”

Glisten lowers his head.

“…Of course,” he murmurs.

That’s when you speak up.

“No.”

The word comes out hoarse. Your voice still sounds wrecked from all the screaming earlier. But it cuts through the room anyway. Everyone turns toward you.

“If you’re going to check on someone,” you say, swallowing against the copper taste in your mouth, “check on him first.”

Several Toons blink at you in confusion.

One of them immediately steps forward instead.

“Oh, but you’re still bleeding,” the pastry Toon says gently. “You should sit down…”

Another appears beside them. A teacup.

“Your bandages need changing.”

“You’re pale…”

You take a step back.

“No.”

The word is sharper this time.

“I’m fine.”

You aren’t.

Your head is spinning and the floor feels like it’s drifting sideways beneath your boots, but you keep talking anyway.

“He almost died,” you say, nodding toward Glisten. “Look at him. I… after he went feral, I roughed him up pretty badly.”

A beat passes as they stare up at you.

“…Please.”

For a moment, no one answers. Because the truth is obvious now that you’ve said it. The cracks along Glisten’s frame. The black stains dried along his jaw. The way he’s trying so hard to stand still so no one notices the trembling in his hands.

The Toon with a teacup for a head finally exhales slowly.

“…Cosmo,” she says.

The pastry Toon nods reluctantly, and the two of them approach Glisten together. Cosmo reaches up to gently examine the cracks running along Glisten’s surface while the teacup lady carefully inspects the ichor staining his hands.

“Do you feel sick?” Cosmo asks gently.

Glisten shakes his head faintly.

“No,” he says. “I am… present, Teagan.”

Teagan studies his reflection closely.

“Any hallucinations? Aggression? Disorientation?”

“…Shame,” Glisten answers quietly.

That makes Cosmo’s expression soften. Teagan straightens slowly.

“He’s lucid,” she announces to the room.

Rodger looks genuinely shocked. Dandy stays silent while Cosmo carefully takes Glisten’s arm.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he says softly. “And see how deep these fractures are.”

Glisten hesitates.

His eyes flick briefly toward you, uncertain, but once you nod, he lets them guide him away.

As they disappear behind one of the hanging curtain partitions, the tension in the room doesn’t disappear.

It just shifts.

Because now every single Toon in the room is looking at you instead.

And somewhere behind you, Shrimpo mutters quietly under his breath, “…Told you they’d listen. To you at least.”

You don’t answer him. The urgency is gone, replaced with something quieter. Heavier. Suspicion.

Dandy crosses his arms.

“We’re going to start again,” he says calmly. “Slowly.”

His eyes settle on Shrimpo before continuing. “What happened upstairs?”

Shrimpo opens his mouth immediately.

“He twisted again and the human, uh…”

“Details,” Rodger says, lifting a finger without even looking at him.

Shrimpo bares his teeth, huffing out a, “Fine.”

He gestures vaguely toward the stairwell you came from.

“We were arguing and Glisten freaked the hell out. Started changing. Same way they always do.”

A few Toons flinch at the word.

“There was ichor everywhere. He lost his mind and he… tried to kill me.”

Shrimpo thumps a claw against his own chest.

Rodger nods slightly and keeps writing.

“And then?” he asks.

Shrimpo hesitates. The room leans in.

“…Then the human beat the shit out of him.”

You grimace. A few startled murmurs make Rodger pause again.

“…Continue.”

Shrimpo scratches the back of his neck.

“And then he started bleeding. A lot.”

It’s like you can still hear it in your head. The sound of the thick ichor hitting the floor.

“After enough of that black stuff drained out, he…” you speak up, “shrank. He stopped foaming at the mouth and he went back to normal… or, well, what I assume is normal.”

Rodger’s pen scratches faster against his notepad.

The words hang there. The entire room goes still.

A skeleton Toon is the first one to break the silence.

Her voice is quiet. “…How much?”

Shrimpo blinks. “What?”

“How much ichor drained,” she clarifies.

Rodger perks up immediately. “Yes. Estimate volume.”

Shrimpo throws his hands up helplessly.

“I don’t fuckin’ know! A lot! I just know he got better afterwards!”

Rodger writes that down anyway.

Dandy’s expression doesn’t change.

“…Or,” he says carefully, “Glisten simply stabilized.”

Shrimpo glares at him.

“You saw him though. He looked almost normal!”

Someone from the back speaks up.

“Glisten was always weird though.”

Several heads turn. The boxy Toon from earlier raises his hands defensively.

“I-I mean as a Twisted! He was able to talk, remember? None of the others do that. Maybe he was just… already different.”

A few Toons nod uneasily. Others look angry.

“Or maybe,” Shrimpo snaps, “we just figured out how to fix them!”

That explodes the room.

“You don’t know that.”

“We tried helping before, and we lost people to it!”

The voices overlap instantly, but a Toon you immediately recognize as Astro cuts through them.

“We tried saving Twisteds once.”

Everyone looks at him. His crescent-shaped head tilts slightly.

“…Three people were injured,” he continues. “One permanently.”

The room quiets again. No one asks who. They don’t need to, with the way several of them cast their gaze aside.

Shrimpo slams his claw on a crate.

“So what? We’re just gonna leave them like that?! We finally have a clue to what could save everyone, but we’re not even gonna try?”

“We do not gamble lives on a guess, Shrimpo!” Dandy’s voice rises, petals ruffled.

Shrimpo throws his arms up.

“Well then what, Dandy?! We’re just gonna give up?! We’re just gonna sit around and twiddle our thumbs till we die? Because you know it’s gonna happen eventually! We’re running out of food, and it’s not like we can do these runs forever! We’re just gonna keep losing people over and over until we all turn into monsters!”

“Shrimpo! That’s enough!”

Dandy’s voice fills the room as pollen emanates from him. The sound makes you flinch, hands flying to your ears as it reverberates around your skull. His eyes flick to you as a pained groan leaves your lips, and his expression softens immediately.

“Half our team is currently on a run,” Rodger says, closing his notebook.

“The extraction team left four hours ago.”

“We’ll make a decision when they return,” Dandy finishes. “They deserve to know.”

Shrimpo scoffs but doesn’t say anything.

Dandy doesn’t rise to it. “Rushing costs lives.”

Shrimpo’s voice drops.

“So does waiting.”

But before the argument can escalate again, a soft voice speaks beside you.

“Come with me.”

The pastry. You hadn’t noticed him come back.

He gently touches the sleeve of your bloodied bomber jacket.

“You’re swaying.”

You hadn’t realized that either. The floor tilts again as if proving his point.

“You need to be treated,” he says quietly.

You glance toward the group. They’re already arguing again. Rodger questioning Shrimpo. Astro watching everyone from afar. Dandy standing in the center trying to keep the room from fracturing.

No one notices you leaving.

He gently guides you toward one of the curtain partitions.

“Let’s get ya fixed up,” he says softly. Then, after a small pause, “…And while we work, I have something I need to ask you.”

Your brows furrow at that.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Before you fall over.”

You don’t argue. You’re not sure you could if you tried.

The heavy curtain closes behind you, and the noise of the room dulls into something distant and indistinct. Voices still rise and fall, but they blur together now, like you’re hearing them through water.

He ushers you to sit on a small child’s cot.

“Sit upright,” he says gently. “Back against the wall if you need to.”

Your head is still pounding.

Cosmo unwraps your bandages carefully, but you still hiss when the fabric pulls away from your scalp, dried blood sticking it to you like gross glue.

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Cold water hits your scalp. You flinch hard enough to make your vision spark.

“Breathe,” he says.

So you try.

Outside, voices rise again.

“…we don’t even know if it works!”

“…we saw it work!”

“…isn’t proof!”

He pauses, just for a second. His cakey head tilts toward the curtain, like a puppy lifting its ear. Then he keeps cleaning.

“…Do you really believe that?” Cosmo asks quietly.

You blink. “Believe what?”

“That Glisten changed because of the ichor?”

You stare at your hands.

“…I don’t know what I believe,” you admit.

That’s the truth. The way Glisten moved like a rabid animal. The way he sounded like one too. The look of horror when he looked at Shrimpo afterward.

“…He stopped,” you say slowly. “After he bled enough, he just… stopped.”

His pudgy hands still. The silence stretches.

You can feel it coming now.

“…I have a cousin,” Cosmo says.

You look up.

“They’re still down there,” he continues. “Somewhere on the next floor.”

You don’t need him to finish the sentence.

“They’ve Twisted.”

Your stomach sinks. His throat tightens as he resumes.

“They weren’t always like that, though. None of them were.”

You don’t respond, because what can you really say to that? That you’re sorry? Sorry they’ve all been abandoned here, left behind to rot? To turn into sick versions of their former selves while their family and friends watch in horror? The hollow feeling in your stomach deepens, leaving you nauseous as you try not to dwell on it too hard.

“…Her name was Ginger.”

The name sticks, not because you know her, but because of how he says it. His voice cracks around it. His soft face strains, eyes screwing shut before he opens them again to meet yours.

“…Would you try?”

There it is. Your ribs protest as you inhale slowly.

“I don’t know what I did,” you admit. “There wasn’t some plan. I was trying to stop him…”

“I know.”

“You… you saw what I did,” you stammer. “I almost killed him.”

Your voice drops.

“And I didn’t even realize. I didn't even realize I was doing it until…”

The sound flashes in your mind. That sickening snap of the mirror as your crowbar buried itself into the side of Glisten’s face.

“We can’t do it,” the Toon says quietly. “Not like you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t restrain them,” he explains. “We can’t touch them without getting sick. We’re not strong enough to move debris. We can’t hold them down long enough to… to do anything.”

His large chocolate eyes flick to your hands.

“But… you can.”

You follow his gaze.

Your hands. Blackened and bruised, but still strong enough.

You don’t like the feeling that settles in your chest.

“I just got here,” you blurt. “I don’t even know your name. I can’t remember most of your names- I just came here for…”

You freeze.

Because saying it out loud makes it worse.

You came here for money. Content. Something to sell.

His face displays his feelings too honestly. The guilt burrows deeper when you catch the quiet despair tracing his features.

“I… understand. You don’t owe us anything.”

You can’t speak.

“But,” he adds, “you were willing to protect them anyway.”

That’s… not how you would’ve described it.

“I panicked,” you counter.

“You acted,” he corrects. “To save Shrimpo. And again, you wanted Glisten seen first.”

Outside, the argument spikes again.

“…we already tried saving them!”

“…that doesn’t mean we shouldn't-!”

“If this works… if Shrimpo is right…” he trails off, “then that means they’re not gone.”

You don’t respond.

“…Could you try?” he asks, voice so small you can barely hear it. “Please. I-I don’t… I don’t know if it’s true, but it has to be. There has to be a way to save them. A way to save her.”

You close your eyes for a second. Your head throbs. Your ribs ache with a pain you’ve never felt before. There’s not a chance this patch-up job is enough. You need out. A hospital.

And you just…

You just don’t want to get involved.

This is so much bigger than you. You can’t save them.

But then you think about Glisten. A shattered mirror that still came back. The terror in Shrimpo’s eyes as he curled his tiny body over the Toon that had been a monster a minute earlier.

Without the humans, all they have is each other. And that number is dwindling by the day.

If you left right now, could you honestly forgive yourself?

“…If I do this,” you say at last, “there’s no guarantee it’ll work.”

He nods solemnly.

“I know, but… can you still try?”

You take a deep breath and close your eyes.

“…Okay.”

“You’ll try?” he asks, breathless.

You nod once.

“Yeah.”

Outside, the argument shifts, and the two of you rejoin it before you even realize he’s finished patching you up.

When you step back into the room, things are worse.

Their voices haven’t gotten louder, but they’ve sharpened. Anger rests heavy in the air.

“Do you even realize what you’re implying?” Dandy jeers, “You’re saying beating the life out of them is what’s gonna bring them back!”

“W-Well, we don’t have to fuck ’em up!” Shrimpo fires back, “All we need to do is drain enough ichor outta them till they go back to normal.”

Rodger stands directly between them, arms splayed out to the side in an attempt to keep the two from physically going at each other.

“If this is to be attempted,” Rodger says, “it must be controlled! We can’t just go in haphazardly. We must make a plan.”

The scrawny purple box boy hovers near the back, wringing his hands like a wet towel.

“…I could help,” he offers weakly.

They don’t even glance at him.

“No one is leaving this floor,” Dandy asserts. “And that’s final.”

That’s when you speak.

“I’ll do it.”

The room goes quiet.

Every head turns toward you. Even Dandy turns in shock. Whether that’s because you came back or because someone dared to object to him, you’re not too sure.

You swallow. Your voice sounds too loud in the silence.

“It… won’t be a rescue,” you repeat. “It’ll just be a test. If draining the, uh…”

“Ichor?” Rodger supplies.

“Yes. If the ichor actually does anything, then that’s a good thing. If it doesn’t… well…”

You trail off. There isn’t really a good outcome if this doesn’t work.

Rodger studies you carefully.

“…And you are willing to help us?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Then:

“…Yeah.”

Shrimpo lets out a held breath,“Told you.”

Cosmo steps beside you.

“I’m… gonna go too.”

The box Toon nods quickly, shambling past Dandy to stand by your side.

“I-I’ll go too.”

Rodger closes his notebook.“…Then I will oversee procedure.”

Dandy steps forward.

“No.”

The word lands heavy.

“You’re injured,” he says to you. “You’re not equipped for this. And you… are not expendable.”

You don’t respond.

Because you don’t think that’s your call anymore.

Shrimpo scoffs, “We’re not askin’ ya for yer permission.”

Dandy’s expression hardens.

“You are not leaving this floor under my watch.”

Silence.

Then Shrimpo leans in slightly, “…Then. Don’t. Look.”

Dandy’s face tightens, a fierce flash of wrath crossing it before he huffs. Throwing his head to side in defeat.

The five of you naturally drift together. You, Shrimpo, Rodger, and the other two whose names you only barely remember.

No one else approves of it, but the decision is made. No one else wants to speak up against the human, and the Toons beside you are bristling with a confidence you hadn’t seen before.

“We’ll go before the others come back,” Shrimpo mutters.

Rodger hums. “Agreed.”

The five of you prepare. The Toons gather a handful of medical supplies… and candy, for some reason, while you double check what’s already in your backpack and make room for whatever Shrimpo starts shoveling inside.

Rodger guides the group past the playground and to the set of three elevators just beyond it. It seems the collapsed debris from upstairs didn’t break the ceiling here.

“Wait. Are the elevators even functional? Why are we here?” you ask aloud.

“The elevators do work here, yes,” Rodger confirms. “Scraps managed to find and hook up some generators to keep certain systems going before she… well.”

He clears his throat awkwardly, then knocks on the center elevator doors.

“Dyle? Are you there? We’d like to go down a floor, please.”

A moment passes before the doors slide open and the five of you shuffle inside.

“Who’s Dyle? I don’t remember a Dyle in the show,” you whisper to Shrimpo.

“That’s because he wasn’t in the show, dumbas-Uh. I mean, he’s just the operator. He was made here for Gardenview, and Gardenview only. He controls the trains and elevators, but, uh, he can’t talk to us. Speaker system’s one way. He’s also the bastard who kept me and Glis up there, since he wouldn’t let the elevators go any higher.”

You hum.

“And, uh… who's the other guy again?” you ask, cringing as you lower your voice.

“M-My name is Boxten!” he blurts, a little too loud in the enclosed space. “A-And, um… sorry. I was eavesdropping.”

You wheeze, “Kinda hard not to, honestly. Sorry.”

He laughs nervously, rubbing his sleeve.

“The one who patched you up was Cosmo,” he adds quickly. “He’s, uh… he’s one of our cooks. And healer. And… kinda everything, really.”

Shrimpo snorts, and Boxten frowns at that, but doesn’t argue.

“And your name is Rodger, right?” you ask, glancing toward the magnifying glass.

“Correct,” he says simply,“I serve as the camp’s logistics lead and record-keeper.”

“He’s a pain in the ass, that’s what he is,” Shrimpo mutters.

Rodger ignores him.

Your gaze flicks between them.

Strangers. All of them Toons, and yet you’re standing here beside them in this rundown elevator, about to risk your life to hunt something that used to be one of them.

Your stomach twists.

A low hum cuts through the silence. The doors begin to slide shut.

Slow. Heavy.

The strip of light from the greenhouse narrows inch by inch.

For a second, you think about stopping it. About stepping out. About saying this was a bad idea. That you’re injured. That you’re not ready. That this isn’t your problem.

But no one moves. They’re all watching the doors close with a sort of grim acceptance you cannot fathom.

The doors shut with a soft, final thunk.

The elevator lurches, then begins to descend.

Your ears pop slightly with the shift. The hum deepens as you grip your backpack strap tighter. You can feel the weight of the ichor-stained crowbar at your back. You can see your reflection in the metal doors of the lift.

Pale. Trembling.

Beside you, Shrimpo stares straight ahead. Cosmo keeps his eyes down, hands folded tight like he’s praying.

The elevator creaks as it lowers you deeper into the building.

Deeper into Gardenview. Deeper into whatever this place has become.

Regardless of how you feel about it.

--

First | Prev | Next

[nsfcomets]

ARTHUR WALTON

Arthur Walton is the creator of the Toons and the mind behind Dandy’s World, driven by a desire to make something meaningful and beloved. As the show’s director, he crafted the Toons to be safe, appealing, and emotionally comforting, believing that a good design could shape how people feel.

DELILAH KEEN

Delilah Keen is the architect behind the ichor experiments and the true driving force behind Gardenview’s creation. Where Arthur focuses on design and presentation, Delilah is responsible for the science that brought the Toons to life, viewing them not as individuals, but as systems to refine.

[sunkent]

「 “𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶,” 」

「 “𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.” 」

[.ᐣ] 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘗𝘋𝘈 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦? 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵?

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬: 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗍 , 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖾𝗒 , 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗍 , 𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈 (𝗌𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾) 𝗑 𝗀𝗇!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: 𝖲𝖥𝖶 , 𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 , 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 , 𝗁𝖼𝗌

𝐚/𝐧: 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖣𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗒𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 (´∀｀；)

𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭 𓍢ִ໋🍓

𝖨'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇.

𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖧𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅--𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖯𝖣𝖠 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗒𝖾 𝖺𝗍, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆, 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖾𝗍 <𝟥

𝖨𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽-𝖻𝗒𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝖾.

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐞𝐲 𓍢ִ໋🎈

𝖧𝗈𝗈𝗈𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗈𝗒. 𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒.

𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖢𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗌.

𝖧𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 "𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌," 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖯𝖣𝖠.

𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾!

𝖠𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝗎𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. (𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎)

𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗒𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐭 𓍢ִ໋🪶

𝖫𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖯𝖣𝖠 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖯𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖣𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖳𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇--𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝖣𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌.

𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝗄.

𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𓍢ִ໋🌒

𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖨 𝖽𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒.

𝖧𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎?

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗈!! 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋!! 𝖧𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.

𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗎𝗉. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. (𝖲𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗍: 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌)

[the-s1lly-corner]

Calling them pretty boy 3/3

PART 3 WOO YEAH

I. thINK this is all the male toons! If I've forgotten anyone let me know TToTT there's so many characters

Running in to add RUDIE I ALMOST FORGOT RUDIE IM SORRY DEER BOY

The girls are getting their own parts soon-- maybe not directly after this but I'll definitely try

Characters: shrimpo, razzle & dazzle, sprout, dandy, rudie

Notes: gn reader, toon reader, can be read as pre or post game, short post, admin may get razzle n dazzle mixed up bare with him, written on mobile. I think in the future I'll just give the mains their own post so the third part isn't long compared to the other 2

CWs: none

SHRIMPO

He kind of just stares at you for a second, audibly grumbling to himself as he stares right into your soul

...hes... always a hard one to read- you can't really tell if he likes it or not- you can see hid tail kind of. Tense up too

"IM HATE BEING PRETTY!" And he just. Storms off into a huff. Ignore the faint crack in his voice

(He's so tsundere coded/hj)

RAZZLE N DAZZLE

Razzle takes it in stride and brightens up over it... dazzle on the other hand may think you're teasing him until you insist you aren't- afterall you've never called them pretty boy before..!

Dazzle doesn't smile that often but you get one from him from the sudden comment, it's faint but it's still there. He kind of.. stares at the floor and thinks over your words

Razzle is going to adopt that name and will (lightheartedly) give you flack for not calling tjem that again

SPROUT

Oh you're so sweet...! Pretty boy isn't exactly his first choice but he's not going to shut you down, it's simply... different!

You're not too bad looking yourself, and he's going to let you know that! He's got a talent for turning things right back onto you casually

If you say it while he's piping he WILL mess up the frosting :(

DANDY

Takes it in stride, hardly shoes any surprise on his face when you call him pretty boy

Sly grin with a smile, oh you cheeky little..! Did you really think he was going to let you get away with this Scott free?

Oh nononono! You've opened the floodgates! You've given him an invitation to try to fluster you right back and trust me he's not going to pull any punches with his affectionate name calling

RUDIE

Nose? Glowing. Ears? Perked. Tail? Wagging. Ooooooh he loves it! Actually he loves every little name you give him, so it's not much of a surprise that he loves this one too!

Will call you pretty in return with no hesitation, in fact he makes it a point to call you pretty more often!

Definitely thinks about it all week, he's the type to kick his feet in the air in bed

[the-s1lly-corner]

Calling them pretty boy 2/?

Need to keep a list on hand because there's so many characters it's hard to keep up so if I miss someone PLEASE let me know!! The girls are getting their parts once the boys are done 😔💔

Characters: cosmo, finn, glisten, boxten

Notes: reader is gn, toon reader, can be seen as pre or post game, though tbf the post mainly focuses on the canon character and their reaction, short post, written on mobile

CWs: none

COSMO

Absolute sweetie, needs a moment to respond- pretty boy is a far departure from the names you usually call him! It's so.. upfront and bold in it's own way- and... you're not teasing him right?

Oh! You're serious! ...neat...! He wants to say something just as sweet to you but the words feel awkward coming out of his mouth... like they don't quite match your own statement

Nervous hand movements- rubbing them together, putting them in his pockets before pulling them out repeatedly, ect ect.. he's not usually this worked up

FINN

If I were more clever I'd give an example, but he'd 100% compliment you in return with his usual aquatic word play. With finger guns of course!

If you say it as you're walking by each other on separate tasks he's going to walk backwards just to face you. Trips over something and falls over

Has a goofy laugh but it's an honest one- not a mocking one of course!

GLISTEN

Weeeeeeeeell of COURSE he's pretty boy! It'd be foolish to think he wasn't! I mean have you SEEN him? You're simply reminding him!

He... your words actually do mean a lot to him, a lot more than you could ever know- not that he'd let that fact slip out for more than a split second

He takes the compliment right there- the faint widening of his eyes nearly going unnoticed

BOXTEN

Oh you can HEAR the key in the back of his head twitching as he tries to think of something to say in response that won't make him look foolish

Honestly he's similar to cosmo in the way that he tries to return your affections only to feel like he doesn't really match your vibe despite the efforts

It kind of comes out like word vomit 💔

[the-s1lly-corner]

Calling various toons pretty boy 1/?

New fandom so I gotta hit them with this reoccurring prompt of mine YAHOO maybe ill do another part or two if there's a demand

Characters: looey, rodger, astro, goob

Notes: gn reader, toon reader, can be seen as pre or post game, short post, written on mobile

CWs: none

LOOEY

Visibly buffers for a few seconds. Comically points a finger at himself and just. "Who? Me?" Half bashfully joking half disbelieving... please reaffirm you mean him

Soft laughter afterwards but he does like the new nickname- this... is a new nickname right..? It's not a one off?

Once the moment of nervous doubt dies he's going to return the energy right back to you- he can give you cute names in return!

RODGER

Pretty boy? He would typically refer to himself as distinguished and dapper... not that he's going to shut you down on your wording! He very much appreciates it!

Will be thinking about it for hours, his glass lightly fogged in his own form of blush. Each moment when he's not actively doing something he's replaying your words

Straightens his jabot out when you initially call him pretty boy- a habit of his when you compliment him or give him affection

ASTRO

It takes him a moment to respond. It's not so much that it takes him a minute to process... just needs to figure out how to feel...

Pretty? Him... gee, thanks... and that isn't sarcasm! He just sometimes has trouble expressing his emotions/putting them into his voice!

Hc that his face Cresent glows when he's flustered or happy. That's the giveaway that tells you he's over the moon (ha)

GOOB

Hc that he has a little tail and it goes nuts when you call him pretty boy!! He's absolutely BEAMING! He's more so used to you calling him a cutie, or cutie patootie, but pretty boy is also sweet!

100% he hand stims (shaking followed by dragging them over his face/holding his cheeks) before pulling you into a hug

He's basically vibrating. LOVES compliments