so i dick around in discord a lot and try to make Funney Jokes, but i was talking with kit abt her atypical-verse and basically just shitposting around and basically its canon that Twist walks into stupid situations and does dumb stuff because he has one brain cell and all of its energy is spent on finding people to give his affection to.
anyways, im not the best at art but i have been getting better and the chat wanted me to post this so Here We Are i guess. only expect shitposts from me from now on, thanks.
(twist and the atypical series belong to @itsladykit)
every time i think about twist i get So Pissed because hes so fucking funny but like. terrifying. everything about him is fucking terrifyingly hilarious and kit doesnt really shitpost which is fine but she should because i dont want to read about him being sad i want to read about him trying to find and seduce mythical creatures or fixing a car he found in a junkyard only to break it again because he can just run everywhere that he needs to go and if he cant then does he really need to go there?
i am here to provide the funny/shitpost content for twist since kit is entirely incapable of letting him be happy or letting him be funny. this is supposed to be funny, but after reading it i realized its not as clever as i thought it was, and so i believe that i have taken the L my friends
It’s still dark when Twist wakes up.
Sometime in the night he must have knocked his phone off the stand by his bed because he has to hunt around on the floor for it, digging through the blankets that he kicked off in his fitful sleep. It’s barely past 2am, so he’s gotten more rest than he usually does, really. It only takes a second for him to decide that going back to tossing and turning in the dark under a thin sheet isn’t really appealing and so he just decides to get up, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress.
When he stands up he stretches, spine popping with a sharp pain and then relief, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that Papyrus had gotten for him, a skeletal wizard with a full beard and hair, looking out of the darkened window with a sigh.
No work today. He wasn’t scheduled at the shop and if he showed up otherwise again then he might just get yelled at because there was nothing his manager hated more than having to pay someone overtime.
His hands are itching to do something, though, he wants to put time and energy into some task but there’s not much he can do about it aside from knitting yet another sweater or finding something to tinker with. Even then, he was trapped on that front because the last time he took apart Cash’s car and put it back together the other had been absolutely livid, even if it had worked twice as well once he was done.
He looks out the window, scratching his skull and peering at the faint outline of the countless plants in the backyard, dimly lit by the moon.
He’s struck with the urge to dig a hole.
As soon as the thought comes into his head it sticks and suddenly he’s moving, tying a jacket around his waist as he hurries out of his room, mind a constant “why the fuck didn’t I think of this sooner?!” as he scrawls a letter to his brother before leaving, grabbing a shovel from the shed in the back before he’s trotting down the sidewalk to the patch of woods that he knows is a few miles away.
It strikes him suddenly, the situation he’s put himself in, running down a mostly-human area with a shovel in one hand and what’s probably a crazed look in his eyes and so he slows to a casual walk, even whistling a tune he heard on the radio to further cement how Not Threatening he was at the moment, shovel propped over his shoulder.
He finally reaches the woods after about an hour, the sun still down, and he follows the trail that he knows is there for another few minutes before turning off the path, sprinting in a straight line until he’s sure that he won’t be seen by any hikers. When he takes the shovel in his hands he laughs before slamming it into the ground, throwing shovelfuls of dirt behind himself with reckless abandon.
The sun comes up and he keeps digging, hopping into the hole once it’s deep enough. Sweat runs down his spine and face, and his arms are aching, slightly, but when he’s finally tired of digging he feels nothing but satisfaction, leaning on his shovel in a hole that’s just as deep as he is tall, mounds of dirt rising up around him. It’s about noon, now, and his stomach is twisting in hunger as he pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the hole, kicking his feet as he checks his phone.
He’s got a few missed messages from the other, asking where he is, so he answers “just diggin a hole in the woods” before tucking his phone back in his pocket, standing back up and starting to shovel the dirt back into it. He feels his phone vibrating with texts, his ringer going off once, but waits until he’s done filling up the hole to actually check it.
At the top of his notifications is a text from Slim, asking him if he’s “hiding a body or some shit” and he snorts out a laugh, putting it in his pocket and grabbing his shovel before going the back way home, covered in dirt and ready to eat half of the fridge.
He’d never be dumb enough to hide a body there anyways.
you see, i like MapleTwist because they’re both very similar (for me at least) and its like i get to write TWO shitpost trash boys, one of which deserves more love than the other
i’ll let you guys fight on which is which
WARNINGS: mention of injury, mention of something else that isn’t specified as to what but it’s obviously v bad and i’ll let you guys decide just what it is
Twist is sitting by the window in his room, chewing on the end of a cig- BB hates it when he smokes in his room, and though his brother won’t stop him he’ll replace the tobacco inside with actual grass he got from outside, and so he usually decides against it- when the call comes. He’s pleased to see it’s Slim, thinking about chances of japes and the kind of unbridled, no-holds-bound fun that it’s hard to have with anyone else. He answers with his usual greeting, taking the gnawed cigarette from his mouth and flicking it onto the table a few feet away, but he stops at the response.
Not usual, not even the usual kind of unusual. Slim is quiet, his voice is strained, and he sounds almost scared. When he says that he’s “kinda in need of a ride” he’s already on his way out the door, offering his brother a tight grin and a wave as he leaves, ignoring the calculated concern he gives in favor of rushing to the driver’s side, not so much rushing as peeling out of the drive as he hurries to where Slim says he thinks he is.
It’s dark by the time he gets to the place, having talked with Slim almost the whole way there, having heard the story after calling him out on every one of his bullshit excuses to find that he’d been thrown in the trunk of a car after some kind of deal gone wrong, had kicked out the tail light and managed to get the trunk open, had jumped out of the back when he was already fucking injured and had run into the trees on the side and had kept running as voices and footsteps followed him until he felt it was safe enough to call.
All this runs through his mind as he pulls off the edge of the road, only waits for a second before the passenger door opens and Slim slides in. He waits for the door to shut before he starts driving off, only glancing at the other once because the last thing he really needs is to accidentally rip off his steering wheel.
“Sweetheart,” he says. Slim doesn’t look at him but his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something but stops himself at the last second. “Ya can’ keep doin’ shit like this.” He chuckles, tries to keep it light, because he knows Slim well enough to know that he won’t just jump out of the trunk of a moving car if he’s uncomfortable. “It ain’t exactly the healthiest shit.”
“Yeah,” Slim says, “I know.”
That, somehow, is more of a shock than the fact that he got injured, and for the first time since he got in the car Twist actually bothers to take a real look at the other, sees clothing that’s ripped and bruises and blood that’s trickling down the other’s cheekbone. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until the right side of his car goes off the road, wheels tearing through the uneven gravel and grass until he jerks the wheel to right himself.
“Slim,” he whispers more than anything, fighting an approaching sense of horror. “What happened ta ya?”
“Some shit” is the only response. He only realizes that he’s growling when Slim flinches, and he swallows down the anger, focusing on not getting the both of them killed.
He wants to ask more, wants to find out just who the hell did whatever the fuck, but he knows that’s not the best thing for either of them at the moment, and so he just reaches forward and turns on the radio, switching it to what he knows is Slim’s favorite station.
HEY DO YALL FUCKING REMEMBER @sansy-fresh‘S P BECAUSE I SURE DO AND I LOVE HIM
Twist knocked twice on the doorframe to the kitchen, only grinning when P shot him a half-hearted glare. There was no real heat behind it, at most annoyance. They’d long since gotten past the point of anger at his mere presence in the kitchen, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get an angry look in return.
It was mostly harmless, though.
He made his way into the kitchen, stooping to peck a quick kiss to P’s temple as he moved past. He pretended not to notice the flush of green over his cheekbones as he pulled himself up onto the counter by the sink with a grunt, kicking his feet- but taking special care to make sure his heels didn’t hit the cabinets beneath him.
P watched him for a few moments before he turned back to the stove, focusing on stirring something in the pot in front of him. Twist knew he hated being bothered while he was cooking, hated dealing with noise and others in the activity that he genuinely enjoyed, and so he didn’t feel like he had to say anything to fill the quiet.
The pot bubbled, the spoon scraping against the sides as he stirred. It smelled amazing, some kind of soup or broth. He closed his sockets and took in a deep breath, humming at the scent. Twist cracked a socket open long enough to see the corner of P’s mouth lift up in a proud smirk, his chin raising the slightest bit at the semi-praise.
He waited a few moments, and then he started humming. It was an easy tune, one that he’d heard a lot as a babybones. The melody was simple and looping, curling back on itself after a few notes. Instead of asking him to stop, P joined in. It was soft, barely noticeable, but the harmony was there. After a few notes it stopped, but the simple act made a purr rumble in his chest, peace flooding his soul. Here it was quiet, but safe. Here, it was home.
Okay. I figure that this one really is more your style than mine—TwistedMapleBlossom. Both Twist and Slim think Papyrus is too good for them, but they’re in love with him anyway. Make it sad. Make it happy.
ive said i like this ship b4 and i mean it. (also this ship would be your style but im pretty sure everyone would suffer :/)
It really wasn’t a shock when Slim found out about the other. They were similar enough- scarily so, most of the time- that it made sense that Twist would feel the same way that he did. Slim and Twist were both themselves, and Papyrus was… good. Understatement of the fucking year there, ‘good’, but it was true, and he would be damned if he deserved someone like Papyrus. They both cared about Papyrus too much, something found out during a night of drinks and other bad decisions, and they both thought they weren’t good enough for him.
Not surprisingly, they both thought the other would be much more suited than themself to date him.
Slim wasn’t the kind to really get into arguments, but he would be damned if he took Twist complimenting him lying down.
“No way in hell,” he stated, gesturing aggressively at the other with the half-full can of beer. Maybe a bit too aggressively, some of it sloshing out over his fingers. “You’re better, hands fucking down. I can’t remember the last time I was sober for longer than a few hours.”
“‘N yet,” Twist countered, “Paps still wants ta be around ya. Yer habits ain’t as bad as ya think, pup.”
Slim frowned. “I’ve literally robbed people who I knew were poor as shit just for drug money.” He decided not to mention the fact he hadn’t done so recently, but the unamused look Twist gave him spoke enough. “Besides, you can take care of yourself! I’m a fucking inconvenience who has to set reminders on his phone to even remember to eat!”
The empty can the other threw thunked hollowly against his skull, Twist’s face turned into a scowl as he grabbed another can from the pack of lukewarm Coors on the table. “Ya say tha’, but yer tryin’, at least.” He popped the tab, a click and a hiss. “Fer me? S’only a matter a time ‘fore I end up goin’ past the point a no return.”
Slim snorted, twisting from his spot on the floor to reach a leg up, kicking the other in the side. Twist grabbed his leg, sticking his tongue out. “Oh, don’t even give me that shit, Twist. We’re in the same boat there and we both fucking know it.”
It was quiet for a moment. Twist let go of his leg with a soft chuckle and so Slim pulled it back to his chest, reaching for another beer. “Yeah… I guess we’re both fuck ups, ain’t we?”
Slim sighed, extending the can in his hand to bump it against Twist’s. “I’ll drink to that, bro.”
There was the laugh, Twist snorting as he returned his gesture, taking a swig after. The silence between them was comfortable, fuck ups laid bare between each other, rest in the ruins.
“I hope ya know I’m still gonna do my damndest to set ya two up.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, knowing he would do exactly the same.
Twist deserved to be happy. No matter what he thought.
this started out as a shitpost how did it end up like this
(it was only a shitpost, it was only a shitpost)
but seriously. @itsladykit and i were joking in chat abt how twist and my slim would certainly both wear those inflatable t-rex costumes, and i tried to write it, but i started and it ended up as an actual fucking fic what the fuck. so anyways i now share kit’s curse of not being funny (ha ha BURN). enjoy anyways, bitchados
Slim lay on his bed, arms spread to the side and gaze fixed on the ceiling. He’d run out of drugs a while ago (he wasn’t entirely sure how long ago it was, but it was fine since time was a man-made construct to begin with and everyone in the universe was existing at the exact same time as everyone else no matter what the clock said) but the high was still buzzing in his skull, making his limbs feel heavy. The tips of his phalanges were cold, but the rest of his body felt like it was burning. He almost wished it was.
With a groan, he pushed himself up, swinging his legs the six inches to the floor from the amazing height of his bare mattress, standing and making his way out of his room. Laying there would only result in even more edgy thoughts, all poetic and emo, and that was the last thing he really needed. The first thing he needed were some more drugs.
He shuffled over to the painting that was hanging on the wall, lifting it to check his secret stash. Instead of drugs he found a crumpled post-it note from his past self: a reminder to buy more drugs. He flipped off the slip of paper, as if the action would make more magically appear, before he walked away with a groan, flopping down onto his couch. The furniture was just as shitty as the rest of his apartment. Of course it was; he’d found it for free on the sidewalk when he was stumbling home drunk off his ass. He still had no idea how the hell he got it in the house.
But it functioned and only occasionally stabbed him with a spring, so he kept it. It wasn’t the first thing that had shanked him and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. He sighed as he lifted his hands, balling them into fists in front of his face before releasing them, looking between his gloved right and ungloved left. Wow, he thought, I really need to get another fucking glove. But he wouldn’t. He never followed through on jack shit.
He pulled back the edge of his glove, looking at the charred bone (more of a brand than an injury, he’d seen the same mark on so many others, because even now he was stuck in all the same bullshit, blistered bone all blackened and charred and broken) before he dug his thumb into the edge of the scar, pressing harder and harder as it started to hurt and-
“SLIM!”
He swore, launching himself off the couch before tripping over his own fucking feet and landing on his face. He laid there for a moment, hoping that he would magically burst into flames, but hope had never been his strong suit and so he pushed himself up, squinting around the room. He waited a minute before the voice came again, familiar and muffled behind the door. “I know yer home! Yer jeep is still in tha bushes, so yer here!”
Slim yawned, turning his face into the carpet. “Yeah, yeah, m’here.”
“Then lemme in!” The door handle jiggled, drawing attention to itself. Slim glared at it, trying to remember how to open a door in his inebriated state, before realizing that he would have to get up to unlock it. He sighed, shoving his face back into the rough fibers of the floor.
“Just kick down the fucking door. I don’t think I can move.”
There was a pause before a crash came, Twist doing just that, entering and looking proud of himself. He stopped after a few steps, his smile falling as he looked around. “Damn, bitch. Ya really live like this?”
“So, first of all,” Slim groaned as he pushed himself up, gathering his feet under himself and trying to balance, “if you wanna be accurate with that meme then you need a snapback and I need a rose.”
Twist snickered, but the expression quickly fell as he looked Slim over. His gaze lingered on his gloved hand, and Slim looked down to see that his glove was still pulled halfway off, showing the scarred bone and the fresh mark he had carved into himself. He discreetly pulled the edge of the glove up, glad that he was so sneaky and good at hiding secrets.
“Ya alright, bud? Ya’ve been missin’ fer a few days.”
“Missing what?” He asked as he hobbled into the kitchen- god, he had absolutely no fucking memory of twisting his ankle, what the hell- skillfully avoiding the question.
Unsurprisingly, Twist followed him, watching as he sorted through the barren cabinets in hopes of finding something to eat. “Well, fer one, the other day Stretch ate so much ice cream tha’ he got sick ‘n puked in th’ shop.”
“Did you get it on video?”
“‘Fraid not.”
Slim swore, pouting as he went back to scrounging up some kind of meal. He pulled out a packet of saltine crackers, shrugging as he tore them open to feast like a king.
“Yer injured” Twist said, voice soft and quiet.
Slim internally cursed himself as he glanced down at the bandages that were wrapped around the left side of his ribcage, clearly in view from his tank top. “Got into a scuffle. Apparently telling a group of humans you’re buying drugs from you’re not a cop makes some people ansty.”
He could tell that Twist didn’t buy it, head cocked to the side and gaze still focused on the bandages. Twist sighed, slinging his hands in his hoodie. “I ain’t gonna tell ya what ta do, sweetheart, but you ‘n I…” he trailed off with another sigh. Always breathing, that guy. “Neither one of us can really afford ta risk a deadly scuffle.”
Twist gave him a pointed look, letting him know that it wasn’t themselves they needed to be worried about. Slim shrugged anyways, taking a bite of the stale cracker. It was dry and flavorless in his mouth. “I don’t got much to lose here, Twisted.” He swept the arm not occupied with food around the kitchen, the tiles cracked and the ceiling water-stained. He could fix it up, of course. Could afford better, could take better care of it. He popped the rest of the cracker in his mouth.
Twist frowned. “Don’ say that.”
Slim grinned, shooting Twist a wink and a finger gun, reaching for another cracker. Twist reached out, slowly enough that he could stop him, and grabbed his arm, tugging him away from the counter. He resisted, digging his heels into the floor, only for Twist to step forward and sweep him up, throwing him over his shoulder. Slim blinked, his drug-addled mind struggling to come to terms with the fact that, hey, he was no longer on the ground.
His leg swung out, trying to kick the other, but the action jarred his injury, making him hiss and give up in resignation. “Twist. My crackers.”
Twist didn’t seem concerned, humming happily as he grabbed his coat from where it was piled and swiped up his shoes, not bothering to shut the door behind him. It was broken anyways. Slim thought about telling him to go back and shut it, but the only thing of value he really had in the house was a gift card to Walmart that had $20 on it, and even then he had no idea where it was.
“Twist. My crackers.”
“M’sure my bro‘ll make something fer ya!”
Slim groaned, going limp on his shoulder as Twist grabbed the scooter he’d set against the fence, somehow managing to maintain the skill needed to hold him and balance on the toy. He would’ve been impressed if both his feet were on the ground. “The last time I ate something BB made me, it was poisoned. I was paralyzed for days.”
“‘N ya didn’ leave tha house,” Twist said. “‘N ya didn’ get yerself hurt.”
“You seem pretty happy for a kidnapper.”
Twist snickered, slowing a bit to turn the corner before pushing them faster and coasting down the hill. “Nah. S’only kidnappin’ if yer a minor, Sweetheart.”
“...Sounds about right.” It really didn’t, but Twist laughed anyways, adjusting him gently enough that it didn’t agitate his injuries too greatly, making a wide turn around the corner, heading back to his own house. Slim closed his eyes with a sigh. It really wasn’t worth the fight.
u should do twist/slim with pray by sam smith btch <3
who you calling a bitch, bitch? also. i love this ship. (i’m just narcissistic as hell)
https://youtu.be/d5drhWrKAKs
Slim sat on his heels, watching Twist work under the car, humming loudly with his feet tapping the air in rhythm. He scratched his chin as he watched the other stick a hand out, palm up.
“Can ya hand me th’ thingie, sweetheart?”
Slim grabbed the thingie, placing it in his hand and grinning at the thanks. “You know what would be cool?” He asked.Twist stopped humming, pushing himself out from under the car, sitting up from the skateboard he was laying on.
“What?”
“Flame decals.” He swept his hand in a broad arc over the piece of junk they had found in the woods, eyelights glimmering with excitement.
Twist snorted, grabbing a rag and using it to wipe the oil from his hands. It didn’t quite wipe off the bone, leaving gray streaks over the delicate bones of his hands. “Should probl’y get this thing up n’ runnin’ first.”
He shrugged. “Shoot for the moon, right?”
Twist laughed again, eyelights twinkling in mischief. “Fair ‘nough.” He stood, kicking the skateboard off to the side. It hit the wall with a clatter. “You wanna grab a bite ta eat?”
Slim hopped up with a grin. Twist was taller than him, shoulders broad and scarred. Even so, he wasn’t ashamed to say how attractive he was, especially not when he was high. Or only when he was high, really, exaggerating it to the point of being ridiculous (“An Adonis of our kind. Really! I ain’t kidding!”) until he was almost certain that Twist thought he was only joking. It was best not to put himself in a place that vulnerable though, feelings coming through at risk. Feelings were bullshit.
