#I SAY AS IT'S PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO NOT.

[finelinevogue]

late night shenanigans

summary - you and harry are weirdos late at night

a/n : this started off as something cute and then my mind ran away with me and became … odd… so enjoy

word count : +1k

pairing : fiance!harry x reader

✨💐✨💐✨💐✨💐✨💐✨💐✨💐✨💐

“What?”

You pursed your lips together to refrain from smiling but failed miserably; your dimples popping out on either cheek.

You looked back down at your phone, staring at the new photo that had been leaked of you and Harry on the tube together.

“Whaat?” Harry chuckled. “What’s got you smiling like that?”

“No one.”

Harry scoffed, “So it’s someone?”

“Not telling.” You blushed, sinking further into bed and under the covers.

“Y/NNNN….” Harry whined, slinking his arm over your body and holding on tight.

His stubbly cheek brushed against your shoulder, making you shiver at the touch. He left his cheek sat on you shoulder, his head tilted up to look at you.

“What?” You looked down at him, forming a more-than-double chin.

“Tell me.”

And because he asked so politely.

“You.” You said softly, kissing his forehead that was slightly burnt from being out in the sun too long.

“Me?”

You positioned your phone so he could see the screen as well as you, holding it up to the recently fan-papped photo of you both.

You were sat next to Harry, your arm linked around his as you quietly conversed with each other in London’s busiest form of transport. If fans looked close enough, they’d be able to spot the engagement rings on both your fingers that you’d been keeping secret for weeks now.

“Here.”

“This was today? Of us?”

“No shit Sherlock.” You rolled your eyes.

Harry playfully bit down on your soft skin, making you thwack him with your free hand and mumbling some profanities at him underneath your breath.

He chuckled at you, “And why is this making me smile like a freak?”

“A freak?” You gasped, feigning hurt, “You can fuck off, pal.”

You pushed him away with all your force, making him roll over completely onto his side of the bed. His fault for being on your side in the first place - but he would blame that on finding it physically impossible to be apart from you.

You turned yourself onto your side, facing away from him in a huff, and leaving your phone on your bedside table.

It only took him seconds before he began his apology.

Harry started by moving behind you and curling your hair away from the side of your neck. That movement alone made you nearly give up your fake annoyance.

He moved his head to hover over your neck, giving you a moment to shove him off - which you didn’t - before leaning down and leaving his first kiss on your neck.

The kiss was only short, but as he moved his way along your neck and up to your jaw his kisses became longer. You closed your eyes and let a breath escape your mouth unintentionally.

“Never said freak was a bad thing.” He kissed your jaw again.

“Grovel alll you like. You’re still an ass.” You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I will grovel all I like, thank you.” He kissed your cheek. “After, you tell me why you’re so smiley.”

You turned around then and Harry took the opportunity to slide his arm back around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest. You were nose to nose, eye to eye.

“Because….”

You blushed. You tried to look away from Harry’s gaze but his eyes followed yours, making it impossible.

“Mm.”

“Because you’re mine.” You said quietly, but he heard.

Harry couldn’t help but smile then, leaning in to sloppily kiss his lips against yours. You pushed yourself into the kiss, wanting so desperately to feel all of him.

You cupped the back of his neck and kissed him with all your love, feeling him do the exact same thing.

He pulled back first, with red lips and cheeks.

“I love you.” He started off by saying.

“‘Course you do.”

He kissed you again for your quick comment, making you dizzy with emotions.

“And I smile like a fool in love every day knowing you’re damn well mine.”

You stuck your face into his neck then, giggling against his skin because you couldn’t hold back your excitement of falling in love all over again.

“I love you.” You mumbled into his neck.

“‘Course you do.”

You came out from the safe hiding spot of Harry’s neck then.

“Can’t wait to use that line at the end of the aisle.” You switched to mocking a deep man’s voice then. “Do you Harry Styles take Y/N L/N to be your wife? I do. And then i’ll say ‘course you do.”

Harry stared at you with a raised brow, “You’re so weird.”

“Yeah? Well you’re marrying me. Makes you weird too.” You kissed him again.

“My weird freak.” Harry kissed you.

“When did you stop calling me lovie or sweetheart? When did I become weird freak?”

“You’re always my lovie and sweetheart, but only sometimes my weird freak.”

“You’re weird too.” You pointed out that having this conversation was in fact weird. “But you’re mine.”

“Yeah? That’s why I called you my weird freak.” Harry smirked, thinking he’d won you over with his charm.

“You need to stop.”

Turning around you laid on your other side and Harry stayed tucked against you, spooning you tightly from behind like he did every night.

“Night, weirdo.” You said into the dark quiet of the night, to your fiancé. Harry kissed the back of your head.

“Night, sweetheart.”

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfic #ask finelinevogue #harry blurb #finelinevogue #harry styles concept #harry oneshot #harry styles blurbs #harry styles fiance #harry styles boyfriend #harry styles fic rec

[literaryavenger]

Obsessed

Summary: Your crush on Bucky may be getting out of control.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings: Dramatic Reader. Language. Angst. Fluff. My poor attempts at being Funny.

Word Count: 1.4K I'm physically incapable of making anything short.

A/N: I wrote this in like 2 hours and I don't even know what this is, just... Yeah.

Masterlist

This is terrible.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone. It's just the most horrible, dreadful, awful thing that could’ve ever happen to yo-

“Would you stop staring at him for fuck's sakes!” Natasha's hissed words make your eyes snap to her and finally away from the metal armed Supersoldier lifting weights. Shirtless.

You don't know when Bucky stopped feeling self-conscious enough to allow him to workout in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, but it has become literal torture for you.

Needless to say, Bucky's current level of undress is making it impossible for you to concentrate on the stretching you're supposed to be doing before your sparring match with Natasha.

But your very thoughtful and not at all exasperated friend makes sure to keep your attention on her during the entirety of our match by thoroughly kicking your ass.

What a lovely best friend you have.

Anyways.

Your entire mood shifts with one not intentionally overheard conversation. Steve enters the gym and goes straight to Bucky, who was putting his weight set down.

“She’s here!” Is all the blonde says to his friend and your heart stops at the way Bucky’s face lights up with a smile, not needing any more information before following Steve out of the gym.

She’s here? Who the fuck is she? Does Bucky have a girlfriend? And most importantly, she’s here? In the Compound?

Natasha can almost see the gears turning in your brain as you make no attempts to move from the mat after she knocked you on your ass for the hundredth time today. You didn’t even seem to notice her hand offering you help to get up, your eyes still looking where Bucky was just a moment ago, staring at nothing in particular while your brain drowns in your overthinking.

Natasha sighs and decides to end the match here, kneeling down in front of you and placing her hands on your shoulders, shaking you gently to snap you out of it.

“Don’t overthink this.” She tells you when she’s sure she has your attention. “It’s probably just a friend visiting.” She tries to comfort you, but you both know that’s highly unlikely. 

Bucky has no other friends outside the team. He doesn’t know how to talk to civilians anymore after everything he’s been through, and gave up trying to after the hundredth time he saw fear in a person’s eyes just by recognizing him. So his friend circle now includes the team and the agents of SHIELD that are not intimidated by him. Point is, every friend he has already lives in the Compound.

So who the fuck is here just to see him? 

Natasha can see that this is a lost battle, your eyes barely concentrating on her as you start drowning in your mind again. All she can do when you’re like this is try to distract you and keep you out of your head. So she takes your hand and helps you up, leading the way to the common room to watch one of your beloved romcoms together, because that’s how much she loves you.

Big mistake.

“Y/N! Y/N!” The excited high-pitched voice came just seconds after you set foot in the common room. And that’s about the only warning you got before the excited 5-year-old jumped on you, your reflexes thankfully quick enough to catch her.

“Hi, Maguna!” You say while chuckling as the little girl hugs you. “You seem excited today. Did you get into the sugar cabinet again?”

Morgan giggles at your joke and shakes her hand before taking your face in her little hands and dramatically saying, “No! A princess came to visit uncle Bucky! A real princess.”

You frown, confused at what she’s talking about, before you look around the room and finally notice everyone else in it. Pepper and Tony are on the couch, looking at you lovingly as you interact with their daughter.

You love Morgan, she’s like a little sister. You never miss an opportunity to babysit her and you spend as much time with her as you can. She also loves you, out of all the Avengers you’re her favorite, much to everyone’s dismay. She calls them all ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, but you’re just Y/N. You’re her big sister, you don’t need a title. Which is why you're the only one other than Tony allowed to call her 'Maguna'.

Then you notice the other people in the room: Steve, Bucky and… Shuri. The fucking Princess of Wakanda, standing in the common room of the Avengers Compound and just smiling at you as you carry Morgan.

You’ve never met Shuri, but you know she played an important part in deprogramming the Winter Soldier out of Bucky, and you’re grateful to her for it. She’s important to Bucky, and you can’t believe you forgot Bucky has Wakandan friends.

You put Morgan down on the ground again and the little girl takes your hand and aggressively steers you towards where Steve, Bucky and Shuri are standing, clearly thrilled to be in the presence of a real life princess.

“Hi, I’m Shuri.” She offers you her hand when you get close enough and you shake it with your free hand while introducing yourself.

There’s a bit of an awkward pause and you’re about to say the first thing that pops into your head when Morgan thankfully saves you by pulling on your hand, making you look at her. She tells you to come close and, chuckling, you kneel beside her so she can whisper conspiratorially in your ear.

“She’s a princess and she’s really pretty, but I still like you better.” She whispers and you can’t help but laugh.

God, you love this little girl.

You smile brightly at her and launch a tickle attack, her adorable giggles filling the room as everyone looks at you two with warm smiles.

Your attention is solely on Morgan, until you unintentionally hear the whispered conversation between Shuri and Bucky.

“So, this is the girl, huh? She’s pretty.” Shuri says and your heart skips a beat. 

You glance at them as discreetly as you can while still tickling Morgan, only to find Bucky looking at someone behind you. You turn around less carefully and see Sharon just entered the room, and she's also looking at Bucky with a smirk. You quickly return your attention to Morgan, but your mind is going a thousand miles a minute.

Of course he’d like someone more like Sharon. She’s pretty, she’s talented, she’s a total badass and she’s not afraid to go after what she wants.

She’s not a mass of anxiety in the shape of a woman that overthinks everything and becomes a flustered mess every time she’s even near Bucky.

It’s time to admit it to yourself: Bucky just doesn’t see you like that and you need to move on. 

Natasha is right, your obsession with Bucky needs to end.

What you don’t see is Bucky almost glaring at Sharon because he knows damn well why she’s smirking. She came in just before Shuri whispered to Bucky, when he was very intent on looking at you with heart eyes as you played with Morgan.

Just before you looked at him, Bucky noticed Sharon and he had to hold in a groan at her because he knows that she’s never gonna let him live this down.

Both Sharon and Steve have tried really hard to convince Bucky that you like him back and he should make a move on you. But Bucky, being as stubborn as they come, never believes them.

He obviously makes you uncomfortable, you’re always stuttering when he’s around and you avoid eye contact whenever possible. He’s just glad that you can stand his presence enough for the two of you to work together when necessary and to hang out with the rest of the team without problems.

So he just enjoys looking at you from a distance. He loves watching you play with Morgan and his thoughts always run wild with images of you playing like that with kids that are yours and his.

But he knows that’s never going to happen. Why would you like a damaged, PTSD ridden soldier that can’t even make it through the night without waking up from a nightmare? No, that’s definitely not your type.

Bucky accepts the truth: He doesn’t deserve you and you don’t see him like that anyways. 

It doesn’t matter that Sam thinks he’s obsessed, that won’t stop him from looking at you whenever he’s lucky enough to get a glimpse of his little ray of sunshine.

#bucky barnes #avengers x reader #bucky barnes x you #sam wilson #steve rogers #shuri #tony stark #morgan stark #natasha romanoff #avengers x platonic!reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #marvel fanfiction #pepper potts

[allthegothihopgirls]

Hc that Jason really resonated with Frankenstein’s monster after he came back from the dead and his terrorization of Bruce is, in part, inspired by the monsters terrorization of Victor

ok i'm gonna preface this by saying what the fuck anon (/pos). i've been talking about this concept since it popped into my inbox i'm actually OBSESSED.

clawing at the insides of my enclosure foaming at the mouth etc etc

anyways, 1000% YES. the whole thing of jason being put back together not only at the hands of another, but also in a way which is so so unfamiliar to the him he knew before death, soooo extremely frankenstein's monster-coded.

both brought to life by impossible circumstances, and neither feel as though they own their autonomy. searching for some kind of redemption, needing to feel complete or avenged.

both having a sense of justice, shunned by society, one which doesn't earn them praise but instead punishment and disgust. both resenting the decisions of their creators/mentors. torn between worlds, neither of which they feel accepted in. oh my GOD.

i'm a huge fan of the whole idea of jason coming back and feeling displaced and in an entirely foreign body, and that's just oh so frankenstein's monster..

like IMAGINE that being his frame of reference for his feelings. put together what feels like piece by piece, messily, with only second-hand scraps. all with no regard for the person he was before, only with the intentions of being 'repurposed'.. AHHHHH

(as well as the fact that it's ALL mental for jason, he comes back 'perfect', unscathed and replenished. he has no physical justification for feeling the way he does, second-hand and hand-sewn. his feeling of 'monstrosity' stems from elsewhere; the feeling he gets walking around in this body which is simply not his, or the look in bruce's eyes when he sees him again for the first time, seeing a monster not a son.)

also the conscious knowing that his make-up is no longer his own, he's composed of parts which are unrecognisable to his old body, the one he owned and hand-carved through age. having to walk through days, feeling his actions as his own, but having a body which warps the intent behind them to all onlookers.

god imagine, blaming your creator for your fate, and needing the answers of your inadequacy to come from him himself.. and no other source can explain your imperfection in a way you can accept, it has to be him. jason NEEDS bruce's validation, to confirm or deny that he is irredeemable and a lost cause.

as much as i don't think jason would take pride in relating so much to frankenstein's monster, it's definitely a lingering thought in the back of his mind, something that determines his own story and outcomes.

he thinks of him when he loses control, and knows that he can't use it to justify the way he acted. he cannot tell the monster that his actions were okay, and that the people just did not understand, although as much as he wants to.. because he knows that isn't the case. he knows the monster was always a monster, and grows to feel the same way about himself.

he resents the way he acts, because all he sees is the monster. the one who acts according to his moral compass, but is always wrong. always clouded by his monstrosity. he decides he really should never trust himself or his intuition, because it's always disgusting and ugly, and even he'll be able to look back in retrospect and be repulsed by the way he carried himself, and not hate the way everyone punished him for it.

he wants so desperately to get himself back, morph back into the boy who knew his rights and wrongs and was never looked at funnily for acting how any normal person would. but the only part of his past self that still exists is in his mind, he wants to rip it out and show people that it's still him inside of there, but he simply can't do that.

his body changed without his permission, he never asked to be an abomination, a scientifical anomaly. he wants to scream about how it's not his fault, how he's not what the world paints him to be. how he can just be normal. but he's never really going to feel that way, as long as his mind and body remain two separate entities at war.

i feel like he clings onto the humanity of frankenstein's monster, and uses him as an anchor, something that shows him it's possible to remain acceptable and human.

i also think he analyses the character oh so deeply, to try and latch onto all the relatability he can find, the things he doesn't get from real people.

maybe he has a copy of the book, annotated in such a personal way. perhaps someone else stumbles upon it, and is just so distraught by the conclusions drawn from the scribbles and highlights, the way jason seems to view himself.

the way that although jason's always seen himself like the monster, unloveable and unacceptable, everyone else was always ready to accept him.

that maybe the real downfall of jason and frankenstein's monster is that the way they viewed themselves was too focused on the displacement they felt, assuming automatically that everyone else must feel the same way about them, if not worse. not taking the moment to let people learn to love them all over again.

anyways, unreliable narrators post resurrection!jason todd and frankenstein's monster, who were always seen with at least an ounce of humanity, but were both overridden by self-hatred and the disgust of their form, which led them to total exile and isolation.

#anon you have a brilliant mind #im gonna be honest not sure how much sense im talking in this one #i didn't really touch on the inspo for terrorization of bruce thing explicitly. but i think that's implied??? #like he acts with frankenstein in mind. he succumbs somewhat to the actions of his and feels them set in stone #just because he feels doomed the same way the monster was #asks #anon #!!!!!!!!!! #jason todd #red hood #under the red hood #robin #character analysis #? #batboys #dc batman #dc comics #headcanon #dcu #dc #frankenstein #gothihop speaks

[ckret2]

Chapter 48 of human Bill Cipher slowly dying inside for 24 hours straight with no signs of stopping anytime soon:

The Eclipse: Part 6

Over a month since his death and after nearly 50 chapters, at long last, the moment you've all been waiting for:

Bill has a complete physical and mental breakdown.

Unfortunately there's only one person available to deal with it.

They landed near where they'd camped last night. While the Pines climbed out, Bill stared at the sharp gray rocks beneath the cliff. The blood was gone. It took him a moment to process that Ford was speaking: "We can pack our tents, return Tate's boat, and borrow a phone to call Stanley for a ride."

Bill numbly climbed onto land.

Their tents were in disarray, but more or less where they'd left them the night before. While Ford and Dipper dealt with the largest tent and cleaned up the campsite, Bill methodically attempted to fold up the tent he'd slept in.

He couldn't make sense of it. There were too many plastic rods with too many little joints and too many fabric flaps, he couldn't parse the geometry of it. This should be easy, he'd watched Dipper assemble the tent last night, how hard could it be to do the same in reverse?

But it wasn't working. His hands were shaking. The joints were bending wrong, the joints were bending in directions that shouldn't exist, in impossible dimensions, shrinking and expanding perversely as they twisted in alien foreshortening—

Bill let out a gasp so loud and sharp that Ford and Dipper immediately whipped around to face him. Ford asked, "What is it?"

Bill couldn't speak. He just stared down at his awful human legs.

"Bill?"

Voice very far away—but impressively calm and flat—Bill said, "I have to sit down."

"Why? What happened?"

"My legs aren't working. I can't feel them."

His knees buckled. He tried to grip them to keep them straight, but found only one arm responded. "And—my left arm." He dropped to his knees in the mud.

And suddenly he was the center of attention, two humans moving around him in a dizzying flurry, all grotesque limbs and fabric: "Hey, are you okay?" "What happened? Are you injured?" "Think we should get help?" "Maybe he needs food—"

Too much. He closed his eyes, but there were still fingers on his arm and shoulders and back. He swatted at them with his functioning hand. "Don't touch me don't touch me DON'T TOUCH ME!" His shriek startled the birds from a nearby tree. He attempted to bite somebody, he wasn't sure who—this was what he'd been reduced to, no legs, no strength, no power, he couldn't even protect himself from being touched, all he had left was his teeth—but he misjudged the distance and bit only air. But it was enough to make the humans back off, shrinking into the distance.

"Don't touch me. Stop trying to move me. Don't ask me why I can't move. I don't know. This—this—" he gestured frantically at his body. He was moving too fast, talking too fast. "This—corpse—human body—is stupid. It's just being stupid! I need to sit. Leave me alone, I need to sit. I need to sit, and—look at nothing, and breathe." He was talking far too fast, breathing too fast. "I need it so much. Go away."

No matter how hard Bill tried to imagine the humans spontaneously ceasing to exist, they did not go away. Ford knelt in front of him, studying his face. "Try to smile."

Bill forced a smile. "Good. Good, good. Positive thinking."

"No. I'm trying to see if you're having a stroke." He sat back. "Your face muscles are still working symmetrical."

Bill decided to keep smiling anyway. He thought it might help. Happy happy happy.

"You say your can't feel your legs."

"Yes."

"Or your left arm."

"Yes."

"Did you feel any pain beforehand? Tingling in the limbs, or...?"

"No—no, no. They were working fine and then they were gone. They just—disappeared." Bill laughed. The laugh went on too long and sounded too high and too nervous. 

Ford nodded. "Okay. Drink this."

A water bottle materialized in Bill's field of vision. It took a couple of tries for Bill to manipulate his hand through three-dimensional space to grasp it. He shakily drank as much as he could. It tasted like drowning.

"Dipper, run to the bait shop and call for an... The nearest hospital is at least twenty miles outside Gravity Falls' weirdness barrier, Bill can't get there. Call for a doctor and I'll stay here to—"

"No," Bill snapped, "no no no, don't call a doctor. I don't want—" He didn't want to be seen like this. He didn't want somebody picking him up and helping him into an ambulance like he was too weak to move himself. He didn't want Mabel to know. Bad enough Ford and the brat did. "I don't need it. I'm fine."

"Fine?!" Ford gestured at him in disbelief. "Three fourths of your limbs aren't functioning—!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Something's wrong with the body. It's got nothing to do with me. I'm fine, I'm just in it." He shut his eyes and tried to breathe. "Just—just let me sit."

"Let you sit and then do what?"

"Give me time. It'll come back. Don't tell anyone and—stop looking at me."

There was silence. Bill didn't want to open his eyes. He heard Ford stand and walk away.

####

"Do you think he's faking?" Dipper murmured.

Ford hated that that always had to be the first question. "I can't imagine what he'd stand to benefit from pretending he can't walk." Bill had been desperate to get back inside the last two days. If he'd now decided to—what? maybe take advantage of his freedom to try to escape?—then why hadn't he done that when they got separated in the lake, or in the caves where Bill could see in the dark and Ford hadn't known how to call the geodites? If he was trying to separate Ford and Dipper from each other so he could kill them one by one—why hadn't he just let them die?

It was hard not to think about how he really had saved them for no clear reason.

"He's spent two very stressful days hardly eating, sleeping poorly, and hiking through half the mountain. I'd say he needs food and rest. And probably more water." He'd gulped down two thirds of Ford's water bottle.

"Seriously? He can't feel his legs, is—is that normal for like a day without food and sleep?" Dipper asked. "People can go longer than that, right? You've gone longer."

"It's not a 'normal' symptom of exhaustion, hunger, or dehydration. But I think he'll fight us if we try to get medical help. Let's deal with the immediate problems first and—see where we are then. Even if it doesn't help, at least then he won't be paralyzed and starving."

Dipper nodded uncertainly. "What do we do if he's dying?"

The boy catastrophized at the drop of a hat. In a way, Ford supposed it was a good thing—having been through his fair share of catastrophes, he knew it helped to be prepared—but Dipper was so young. "Get him to a doctor as soon as we can; and, if that isn't enough... hope we're lucky." In other words: hope Bill stayed dead.

Dipper nodded again. "What's our strategy if Weirdmageddon restarts? Maybe... I wonder if that's what the Axolotl was trying to warn me—"

"Lunch first," Ford said. "Then we can plan for the apocalypse."

####

Bill knew they were going to make him move. They hated him. They would parade him through the streets to make a mockery of him, look at the alien loser in a malfunctioning corpse, washed-up puppeteer who can't even control a meat marionette, he's already dead and you can make his corpse in the forest a tourist destination—

"Okay," Ford said. "We'll give it an hour. Dipper's heading to town to get some proper food and call the shack."

The shack. Like a prison cell with an open door and a black hole inside trying to suck him back in. "Don't tell them—"

Dipper said, "I won't, I'm just letting them know we're not dead. And that we'll call again in a couple of hours."

No doubt so that Bill couldn't kill them without the shack knowing something was wrong. "Right."

"Do you... want any specific food?"

"Not hungry."

There was a pause. "Right. I'll just... grab something."

Bill didn't care what he did. As Dipper left the sound of each footstep was like a knife in Bill's ears. He just needed to breathe, needed to breathe and be normal and feel normal and happy—

Something soft landed on his head.

Bill opened his eyes.

There was an unzipped, slightly moist sleeping bag draped over his head and around his shoulders; and Ford standing several feet away, hands awkwardly clasped behind his back, looking somewhat embarrassed with himself.

Bill said, "What."

Ford cleared his throat. "It. Helped when you were, ah... had a hair cut. I thought—it can't hurt."

It took Bill a moment to figure out what he meant. "Oh." The towel. Ford had seen him hide under a towel. Right. 

Ford winced and muttered, "Maybe it can hurt."

Bill croaked, "What."

It wasn't until he tried to speak that Bill realized he was crying so hard he couldn't breathe. His vision swam, his shoulders shook, his breath came in sharp hitches—no no no no, that wasn't okay, not in front of— Stop, stop, stop.

He covered his eyes with his hand. The water bottle slid off his thighs and spilled on the ground. Between gasping breaths, Bill forced out, "This's—this is—good. Good."

"How is it...?"

"It's a—hint. This—it's—prob... probably... ps-psycho—som—ss—" 

"Psychosomatic?"

"Mm. Mhmm." He tried to get in a deeper breath and failed. "'Sgreat. Means—no inj—injuries. Flesh is—fine."

"So you're..." Ford's footsteps came closer, "saying it's psychological—?"

"No!" Bill let out a hysterical laugh. "I'm FINE! 'M happy. It's the body. It's—some hormone—hunger—exhaustion—just... s-synapses—and neurotrans—transmm—tr—"

"Easy. You can barely talk." He heard Ford sit next to him, felt the sleeping bag shift as he brushed against it. "Try to focus on breathing—"

"WHAT do you THINK I'm TRYING to—" Bill ineffectively pummeled Ford through the sleeping bag. "Move! Move, move, move! Don't t—touch—" He let out a frustrated scream that morphed into a humiliating sob, and had to clap his functioning hand over his mouth to smother the sound. He was not this body; he was a separate thing locked inside the body. This body was a prison, this body was a punishment. The legs didn't work, because the body was doing something to him. These weren't his tears, his grief, his fear. They were the body's. Which hormone was at fault? What could he blame other than himself?

He felt Ford's weight shift away from his side. "Okay, okay," Ford said. "Just... take it easy."

Bill socked him again. "Don't t-talk to me like a horse." He covered his eyes.

He didn't mean to risk his life for Ford.

Former friend, false worshiper, useless pawn, now enemy. Bill had just seen him floating out there and he'd done it—and he'd forgotten he could die.

In the Nightmare Realm he had saved his friends from peril billions of times before, because it was so easy for him, powers like a god, to see someone he was fond of and casually pluck them out of harm's way. It had been billions upon billions of years since Bill had been vulnerable to physical harm. He'd seen Ford in danger and he'd done what he always did and he'd forgotten he could have died.

He could have died. Eternally, permanently, last chance—he could have died.

And it would have been for nothing.

Bill was selfish. He had effortlessly saved friends billions of times but he'd also casually let them die just as many—assuming he didn't kill them himself. He saved friends because he liked them; but he didn't put himself out for ex-friends. Ford hadn't had one nice thing to say to Bill in years. Bill would never lure Ford back under his sway. Ford's survival endangered Bill's. But Bill had saved him anyway. He hadn't even stopped to think.

He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to think about saving the human hellbent on killing him, he didn't want to think about almost dying, he didn't want to think about how peaceful it had been floating under the water, how easy it would have been to open his mouth and breathe in—he didn't want to think. He wanted to stop thinking. He wanted to empty his mind. He couldn't meditate through his hitching breaths and the way his stomach ached from struggling to keep his sobs silent, and his legs and left arm were gone.

He was fine. He was happy. He'd always been happy. Happy happy happy.

His entire body shook with sobs. He was dizzy—gasping between sobs for air he couldn't get. He was so lightheaded and crying so hard he couldn't stay upright. The edges of his vision went dark.

Ford wrapped an arm around Bill's shoulders and tugged him against his side. He held him up until Bill was too exhausted to cry anymore.

####

There was zipper noise, then a sound like shifting vinyl. Bill cracked his fingers apart to peer through them. Ford had unrolled the portable chessboard and was setting it up. "What?"

"It looks like we'll be here a while," Ford said, addressing his statement to the chessboard rather than to Bill. "It's... something else to focus on."

Bill wasn't sure what the emotion clawing its way through the grief-stricken haze in his mind was, but it felt very similar to relief. He nodded. "S—smart. I'm already—getting bored." His cheeks itched, his eyes burned, and his head was throbbing. As Ford set up the board, Bill closed his eyes and tried again to force himself to breathe more evenly. He was still dizzy from hyperventilating. Embarrassing—even a comatose human can breathe, and Bill couldn't even get that right. "Black?"

"I know."

Of course he knew. Bill always chose black. "First?"

"Fine." And Ford also knew, despite white traditionally getting the first move, Bill always moved first.

Bill waited in numb silence for Ford to finish setting up the board and sit on the other side. Moving almost automatically, Bill picked up a queen, hopped it over his line of pawns—

"Play it properly," Ford said irritably. "I put up with your cheating and lying for years, I'm not putting up with any more."

Bill gave Ford a look that he intended to be deeply offended, but immediately realized was probably just wet and pathetic. "Really? Now?"

Ford at least had the good sense to look a tad embarrassed, but he said, "I didn't set up the board to watch you move random pieces around like an untrained kindergartener."

"Three of my limbs don't work, Stanford."

"Are you suggesting your right arm doesn't remember the proper rules of chess?"

He wondered what Ford would say if he said yes. "I have a headache."

"You're probably dehydrated." Ford rummaged around in his backpack and offered over another bottle of water.

Bill reluctantly accepted it. He probably was dehydrated. "You owe me your life."

Ford fixed him with an unimpressed look. "You're trying to cash in a life debt... so you can cheat at chess?"

Bill opened his mouth; paused as he slowly thought that over; and dissolved into broken, hysterical giggles. "I don't know w-what I'm trying to do." He covered his mouth, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to steady his breathing again.

Ford sighed. He waited until Bill had regained some control over himself; and then he said, "You can make up one new rule."

Bill considered the offer. "Total, or per game?"

"Per game."

Deep breath. "Fine. But I'm not telling you what it is. You have to guess it."

Ford considered it. "Three conditions."

"Mm?"

"One: you have to share what the rule was at the end of the game. If any of your illegal moves didn't conform to that rule, you automatically lose."

"Mm."

"Two: any rule you come up with has to apply to both sides of the board equally. Nothing that only advantages you or disadvantages me," Ford said. "Three: if I can figure out what your new rule is before the game's over, I can use it too. Obviously, you lose if I ask you about the rule and you lie."

Bill mulled over Ford's terms. His head was so foggy, he'd already forgotten the first one. "Deal."

"Deal."

####

Bill lost every game.

Badly.

He was clobbered. He was creamed. He was a faint red smear upon the pavement.

Back in Ford's dreams, Bill had won a good four-fifths of their games. Ford had heard during his travels that Bill was a mediocre player, but he didn't think he was so bad that all of those games had been won due to cheating. Even when he wasn't cheating, Bill had sometimes taken Ford by surprise.

But now, Bill was squinting at the board like he was struggling to see where the pieces were. Occasionally his fingers pinched down on thin air like he was trying to grab a non-existent piece. So Ford assumed the catastrophic losses were more a reflection of Bill's mental state than his skill level.

The option to make up rules didn't save Bill, but it at least made the games more interesting—and unlike the rest of Bill's abysmal playing, the new rules gave Ford a glimpse of the devious mind still buried somewhere in the traumatized human body.

The first round, Bill decided that the queen could leapfrog over pieces like a knight, and when Ford pointed out that would mean whoever had the first move could put the opposing king in checkmate in one move, Bill grudgingly amended the rule: the queen could leapfrog to an empty square, but could only take pieces in a straight line in the conventional manner. Ford had to maintain a phalanx of pieces jealously clinging to his king to guard against Bill teleporting his queen to the king's side. Bill managed to check him twice before Ford won.

One round, Bill decreed that rooks could only land on pieces the same color as they were sitting on, then smugly nestled his king on a white square next to Ford's rook on a black square; and then promptly lost the game when Ford pointed out both of Bill's rooks were currently on white squares, meaning he'd broken his own rule before he'd revealed it.

One round he decided that kings could move like queens, which Ford only discovered when he thought he'd checkmated him and then Bill zoomed his king across the board to take Ford's bishop; and then Bill lost a few moves later when Ford used his own king's newly revealed power to properly corner Bill.

One round Bill decided that once any back row piece was captured, it reincarnated in the body of the corresponding front row pawn. Ford genuinely liked the new rule—it meant you had to capture and checkmate both the king and the king's pawn before the game was over, and you had to be more cautious about what pieces you took since it could inadvertently set up a previously harmless enemy pawn to devastate your side of the board. But by the time Bill revealed that rule by jumping a pawn like a knight, Ford had already taken Bill's king's pawn and seen a way to checkmate him in two moves. It was a sore disappointment to end the game before getting to experiment with the new rule.

A few games were so short that Ford won without ever seeing Bill pull a nonstandard move. Round seven was one such game. Ford cornered Bill with a knight and a bishop. That had been the quickest match yet. Game over. "Checkmate."

"Checkmate," Bill said. 

Ford paused, looking over the board, thinking moving his bishop must have given one of Bill's pieces line of sight to his king; but no, his king was perfectly safe. "What?"

"Checkmate."

"You can't mate me, I just mated you."

"I know. Checkmate."

Frowning, Ford said, "Explain."

"The extra rule this game is that both kings are wearing suicide vests." He tapped his king, "He's wired up with enough explosives to wipe out the whole board." There was a look of steely exhaustion on his face. He looked like the kind of desperate, hopeless man who would put on a suicide vest. "If I'm going down, you're coming with me."

Ford laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

It was petty revenge for losing seven games in a row. A frustrated child flipping the chessboard, but making a self-deprecating joke out of it: as long as we both know I'm going to lose anyway...

When Ford had recovered himself enough to look at Bill again, Bill was giving him a faint, grim smile that didn't quite make it to his one open eye. Still—he looked a little less miserable than he had for the past hour. Or the past couple days.

Ford said, "We'll call that one a stalemate."

"I'll take it."

####

After trying all morning and half the afternoon, Dipper had remembered part of what the Axolotl had told him. Just one phrase: sixty degrees that come in threes. He could hear the rhythm and rhyme of whatever the Axolotl said next, something something something -eez—it rhymed, he was sure of that—but the rest...?

It took Dipper over an hour and a half to get back to the campsite; he'd gotten lost in his thoughts, and consequently, gotten lost in the forest. He returned with a plastic bag of the kind of junk food they regularly saw Bill consuming in the shack, a few slices of gas station pizza, and a clear takeout container of nachos. Bill immediately went for the nachos.

While Bill was inspecting the circle-shaped tortilla chips with obvious disappointment, Dipper rummaged around in the plastic bag until he found a small jar of rainbow sprinkles and offered them to Bill. Bill took it without acknowledging Dipper, awkwardly untwisted the lid with one hand and ripped off the seal with his teeth, and liberally drowned his nachos.

"The gas station looks like an earthquake hit it," Dipper reported. "And most of the cars had popped tires. I guess they must've floated up and then crashed back down." He took a cheese pizza slice and offered the box to Ford. "Nobody I asked saw the Axolotl."

Ford glanced at Bill, expecting him to have some kind of comment on that; but Bill just grunted "Mm," focused on the chess game like he thought he'd be killed if he glanced away.

Dipper pointed out when Bill pulled an illegal move, Ford explained the new rules they were playing by, and Dipper settled down to watch. He tried to razz Bill the next time he lost; but Bill made such a pathetic figure that he couldn't even enjoy making fun of him and quickly gave up.

During the next game, Bill unexpectedly slid a pawn backward diagonally to take out Ford's queen. While Ford was silently fuming over the loss of his most powerful piece, Dipper hazarded, "Can pawns capture both forward and backward?" That would have been Ford's guess too.

But Bill simply said, "No."

Dipper mumbled, "Huh," lost focus on the game, and stared off into the distance, murmuring something under his breath. He kept getting lost in his thoughts today. Ford supposed nobody in this hiking party was in the best mental state.

Maybe pawns could move like bishops? But when Ford tried to slide one diagonally across the board, Bill said, "That's illegal," and Ford returned it to its original spot. There was some hidden condition he was missing. Maybe which color square the pawn was on? Or maybe it was like en passant, you could only capture an enemy piece backwards if that was the first time the enemy piece moved?

When the game was over—Ford won, but Bill had held out longer than usual—Ford asked, "All right, what was the new rule?"

"Pawns can capture forward and backward." While Ford and Dipper stared at him in mute outrage, Bill ignored them to casual shift his posture from kneeling—his knees had gotten sore—to lotus position, and said, "Next game?" as though he couldn't even be bothered to notice the humans' fury.

"But that's exactly what we said!" Ford snapped. "You lied to me!"

"No," Bill said, "I lied to the kid. I'm not playing against the kid. Why are you paying attention to what I tell him?"

Dipper demanded, "How is that fair? Anyone listening would think—"

But he fell silent when Ford laughed. "Of course," Ford said. "I should have expected that. Any loophole you can find. That's part of the game to you, isn't it."

Bill gave Ford an unsettlingly knowing look; and Ford supposed it was part of the game to him, too.

(Somewhere in the back of Bill's foggy mind, he kept count: three times. Before today, Bill wasn't sure he'd heard Ford laugh once this summer. What changed? What was Bill doing differently? Maybe Ford only liked him when he was completely broken.)

It took until halfway through the next game for Ford to realize Bill had moved his legs.

####

Over Ford's protests that they should wait until his strength was back, Bill insisted they get moving immediately. He'd rather be locked in the shack again than spend one more minute sitting by the lake.

"I hate being surrounded by trees. Why do humans like nature so much. This is miserable." Caked in mud, still wearing a towel like a skirt, teetering with exhaustion, Bill certainly looked like the most miserable camper to ever exist. "I cannot begin to tell you how sick I am of looking at pines."

Ford wondered whether the pun was intentional.

Bill's limbs were weak and uncoordinated. He could twitch his left fingers when asked, but his grip strength was nonexistent and the arm hung limply at his side when he wasn't actively trying to use it. His legs moved, but when he tried to get to his feet he collapsed back into the mud. But he thought he could probably stand with support. He ignored the hand Ford offered and crawled to the nearest tree to lean on as he got to his feet. Ford could see Bill's knees tremble.

"I don't need your help," Bill grumbled. "I can stand fine on my own."

Ford wouldn't argue with Bill's definition of fine. "But can you walk?"

"I could." He couldn't even make the lie convincing.

"Then be my guest."

"I'm saving my strength."

It would almost be funny if he wasn't being such an inconvenience. "Well, you're here and the boat is over there." Ford gestured. The shore was much further away than it had been yesterday. "If you can't walk, then you're either crawling or you're getting help. Which you'd prefer is between you and your dignity."

Bill's face reddened. "Don't talk to me about my dignity, like you've ever cared about my dignity..." He twisted around to inspect the tree behind him, tired gaze looking over the branches—maybe he was planning to break off a walking stick? He attempted to grab a thin branch that wouldn't serve as a walking stick for a toddler. He wasn't strong enough to break it off. He kept trying.

They were never getting to the boat. "Please let me help."

"Go jump in a lake. Again."

How did Ford handle this without prodding at Bill's bruised ego? "Consider it my thanks for—ah..." Ford cleared his throat. "For actually telling the truth about the eclipse. In spite of... what was no doubt immense temptation to lie like a cheap rug. Since we didn't believe you anyway." He had averted his gaze in embarrassment; he forced himself to face Bill like a man. Bill was actually looking at him again. "And for not chucking my gnephew's body off the cliff when you had the opportunity." The bar was so low it was on the ground, and yet it was still impressive that Bill hadn't found a way to dig under it. "And... for saving my life."

Bill set his jaw tight, as if he didn't like being reminded of his moment of decency; but he said, "Fine, get over here." He held out his good arm. "Help your hero and savior limp triumphantly off the field of battle."

When Ford offered his hand, Bill ignored it, and practically snarled when Ford tried to wrap it around his waist for support. Rather than putting his arm over Ford's shoulders, Bill seized a wad of fabric near the collar of Ford's t-shirt as a handhold to hang his weight from. Ford felt less like he was supporting Bill, and more like he'd just gotten in trouble and his father was marching him into the living room by his collar to give him a stern talking-to.

"First time you've ever thanked me for anything I've done for you," Bill muttered. Ford told himself he could drop Bill once they were on the boat.

Dipper was completely zoned out, waiting on the boat staring off in the direction the Axolotl had flown. He didn't react as Bill sat next to him, and Bill didn't acknowledge he existed. Ford started the motor, and they crossed the lake toward Tate & Backle's Bait & Tackle.

####

(You can't imagine how long I've been waiting to post this chapter. Hope you enjoyed, I'd love to hear what you think, and I hope those of y'all who have been waiting for Bill to cry like a baby are satisfied.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

[icarusbetide]

What do you think of Hamilton was bipolar theory?

hello hello! this is a really interesting question that to be honest, i'm not at all qualified to answer as i'm not a mental health professional. if there is anyone more qualified who disagrees with the conjectures below, or if i got something blatantly wrong, please do let me know!

i think there are legitimate arguments to be made about hamilton that suggest he was bipolar, or something along those lines - there's a book arguing that he was a hypomanic, which according to google, is often part of/comes along with bipolar disorder.

we know that he could have intense work sessions where his energy and creativity were seemingly limitless - the first thing that comes to mind is him submitting that internal report to congress 2 weeks before the already impossible deadline. we also know that his body often "crashed" afterwards, where he would be forced to stay in bed after some intense period. this happened after he negotiated with gates for troops, and after he came home from yorktown. now, this is probably majorly due to physical strain, but i can very much see it being impacted by his mental state at the time.

from letters to john laurens and few others, it does seem as though he went through depressive episodes. however, i do want to note the really good point i saw that it's difficult to detach these emotions from the heightened stress that would come with fighting in a war with no supplies. for instance, there was debate over whether laurens & hamilton were codependent, or whether them constantly worrying and wanting to be together, was a reasonable action in their circumstances.

still, this behavior extended beyond the war into peacetime (still stressful politics, sure) so i think that it's reasonable to say that hamilton did have depressive episodes, highs and lows. he showed characteristic risk-taking and impulsive behavior especially when he had heightened emotions - some illogical decisions he made at those times boggled even his closest friends.

my thoughts on the matter: it's very much a possibility that hamilton was bipolar or something along those lines. his behavioral patterns, impulsive decisions, and reports of rapid work/long rest match a lot of symptoms of bipolar disorder. however, i'm not a professional and i don't want to make the mistake of ascribing certain traits that may or may not have to do with bipolar disorder as definite proof. for instance, during depressive episodes, someone might have trouble remembering or concentrating. hamilton was constantly forgetting things, but i wouldn't say that's concrete evidence, you know? obviously we can't know for sure, but i think there's merit to the theory!

#ask #alexander hamilton #bipolar disorder #anyone disagree or can add more nuance #pls do so!

[dufferpuffer]

In continuation of the 'pillow prince/ss/' topic.. Snape sex hcs? I remember you said it's basically impossible to drag him into bed but I'D TRY.

You're just spoiling me, aren'tcha? First Remus now Sev... Severus Snape is devoted to duty. Its the only thing holding him together. How often does he even go to bed…? A full-time teacher, a spy, a death eater, Dumbledore's dark little knight - He probably considers the time he spends marking 'rest enough'.

His self-esteem is dead. So dead he has come to terms with its corpse and uses it as protection. He's been teased his entire life for his looks. By his parents, by his schoolmates, by his teachers, by his cult, by his students... He's proud of how it has hardened him. It's become part of his ego: He's heard it all before - and now the words run off his oily feathers like raindrops.

Having someone say they think him anything less than hideous? Baffling. But while Remus would become a flustered mess... I think Severus would stages-of-grief it. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression… Because his romantic, affectionate side is also a corpse. It died alongside his best friend and he's spent the last decade-and-a-half making sure it stays buried.

To bring it back? That will take a stubborn dedication that rivals his. It takes grit and damn near necromancy. He will fight back, too - because to raise it from the dead is to raise Lily along with it. That is the greatest hurdle: Best friend or love of his life - either way she was the only person he has been affectionate with. He will need to digest that. He hasn't worked through his grief yet, because it is a difficult thing to work through alone. …but he CAN reach Acceptance.

One step, one stage at a time - peeling down each layer of his onion, like an ogre... Things move slowly with Severus - and in the opposite order you might expect. I guess I will go through what a relationship would be like with Severus, in a sorta dot-point fanfic format:

First note: He is allergic to showing weakness - and what he considers a weakness can be... strange. Indulgence. Emotions, affection, touch, company - he has no time for that garbage. He is in control of himself, of his body, of his feelings, of his life. Meticulous, complete control. This man 'tops' exclusively**

He is ashamed of masturbation. It means he has lost control of his emotions - and it grinds against his ego like sandpaper. He almost never does it. Thinking about anyone in particular when doing it is an insult to them - and he hates feeling guilty. He keeps it simple and almost self-harmingly dry. He has more important things to be doing with his time than engaging with this weakness…

You make your interest in him clear. He goes through everything - he belittles and denies your feelings, he gets angry with you for bothering him, he asks you to stop saying such nonsense... and he gets frustrated that even when you've finally shut up, he is STILL dwelling on it. He spends so long just tossing things up, sorting through his grief, imagining it... so, SO sick of jerking off… …when the dam bursts - he fucks. If he is going to be spending all this time obsessing over these stupid feelings he may as well get something out of it. Only sex, though. Sex he is in control of. Clothes on, greedy, not pretty, not nice. 'Thats what you wanted from me, yes? Well you've gotten it. Happy?!?' ((He does not expect the answer to be 'yes'.))

He thinks one time was too many, and did it only to take it off his mind - and to stop having you bother him about it. But it is easier for you to get him to do it a second time. And then a third... fourth... The more times it happens - and nothing embarrassing or bad follows... well, if he has done it once, he may as well do it more, right…? You are evidently trustworthy. '…You may come to my chambers IF I call - at no other times. I am too busy to play silly games.' A casual physical relationship - to solve a problem of distraction and concentration. That's all.

He does start to call. Occasionally at first - and every time he almost shows surprise that you actually turn up. But he gets less and less surprised... and starts getting more and more needy. 'You're late. I sent for you half an hour ago. Do you think I am made of time?!' He doesn't even realize how needy he sounds, because this activity is now ingrained in his routine. He is used to it. And because he is used to it: He touches more. More clothes come off. But never his own. He has gone from 'hands-on-waist' fucking to caressing your naked body - slow rolls of his hips, making his own breathe shudder, enjoying every sensation.

One day his summons aren't replied to. At first he angry. How dare you. How DARE you waste his time!? The next time they are alone he snaps at you bitterly. 'Finally tired of me? Got your fill? Met a better man?' When the response is more along the lines of 'I was a bit ill' or 'I was out'... he realizes he has shown far too much of his hand. How embarrassing. He is speechless at his own foolishness. He showed an inch of vulnerability and expects to be raked through the coals for it. ...What he doesn't expect is acceptance, tenderness and respect.

He had forgotten that he wasn't the one to initiate this arrangement - that he was wanted. Desired. In his mind he had taken control: Everything happened when he wanted, where he wanted and in whichever way he wished. To be touched in a friendly way? To he apologized to - for being made to worry? To have make-up sex offered…? '…Yes. Alright.' Its the next layer peeled off. He starts listening to offers, enjoying being asked instead of being answered. It's still a casual affair - and yet seeing them talk to other people no longer makes his hackles raise in concern for his secrets. Running into them in the morning no longer makes his skin crawl with shame and embarrassment for the night before. He feels excited when they pay a visit in the midday, offering an impromptu meeting. It is oddly... comfortable.

Of course it can't always be sex in the midday. It is too much effort, takes too much time, energy and clean-up. It suits him fine when you jump on the chance to put him in your mouth. At first he is a little taken-aback - but it feels nice. He says nothing other than contented hums, but as you get better he groans and arcs his back a little. He doesn't care what happens when he finishes - swallow or not, as long as it is not a mess for him to clean up. …Well, he tries to be that callous about it… but it doesn't last long. There is a tenderness to the act he can't deny. It isn't the mutual-benefit fucking. This is a gift for him to enjoy. That realization settles and festers in him. It creates a soft feeling he doesn't recognize... and a desire not to owe you anything.

So, without much fanfare: he reciprocates. He gets you on his seat, or on his desk, and gets down on his knees... He is a little nervous about it - when was the last time he did this, if ever…? - But he has no need to be. He is a god with his mouth. It's his attention to detail. His devotion to getting things done thoroughly and properly - even this. What starts as an embarrassing action from the weakness of his heart turns into a strong pleasure for him. He LOVES oral. It isn't him losing control: it's him gaining it. Even when his hair is gripped and yanked, even if he is pulled close and suffocated a little on you - HE is making that happen. HE is making you do that. He never expected this to make him so happy, so hot. He never expected to undo the buttons of his high collar so his neck could move more easily, to unbutton and fold up his right sleeve so he could get his hands messy... To have enough fun to start saying some truly dirty things… 'That good, is it~?' 'My-! How delicate you are today!' 'Stop squirming. Too sensitive…? Just grit your teeth and bear it.' ...and he didn't expect to not be laughed at for such things.

He certainly didn't expect to get so into it that he kissed you to shut you up as you came. A shock to both of you… another wall crumbled. Turns out he likes that too. He starts initiating sexual activity with a kiss. He prefers kissing to talking. It is succinct and expressive. Walk into his office: as soon as the door is shut your back is pressed against it, wrists in his hands, his mouth against yours. If he starts losing control of the kiss he gently bites your lip, dragging his teeth along it teasingly. Your tongue invades his mouth before he has a chance to do it first: he just about shoves your hands into his robes, tearing into your clothes... This man lives for kissing now.

But he still doesn't realize this is more than casual, that this is something he needs… Until you chat. Its a quiet moment. You comment on the parchments rolled at the edge of his desk. 'Oh - that is just my own research into the effects of aconite. I had to work with it extensively a few years ago.' You take an interest, and he starts regaling deeper and deeper into his studies: how poorly documented others' research is; how it reacts to other ingredients; how modern brewing processes can draw so much more out of it - 'you know, the plant is often just passed off as toxic when even basic purification charms are enough to-' ...He is blabbering. On and on about a dull topic nobody cares about… yet you are listening. His jaw drops a little. He realizes that, for the first time in two decades, someone cares. Someone truly cares. About HIM. His thoughts, his interests... He never thought he could have this again. He didn't think that for the sex, either - but sex, compared to this, was easy to procure. He wants to kiss you again. But not for lust this time.

Suddenly it doesn't feel so embarrassing to allow his eyes to become wet, to draw a shuddering breathe as he builds the courage - of which he has masses of - to say something important: '…I am afraid I have come to love you.' It is a terrifying thing to say, but he has never once shied away from saying what is important, even if it results in pain. And yet this time, for once… he feels like he can trust that it wont.

** Many times later, he is laying down as his shirt gets unbuttoned, his collarbone kissed... He doesn't feel ashamed, even as he gently strokes his own dick, encouraging it to harden. He pulls his arms from his shirt sleeves, fearless of his dark mark being exposed. For once work is at the back of his mind as he allows himself to be pushed back down to into the pillows, chuckling as he is told: 'Shh… just lay still darling… I'll take care of you tonight…' ...And he does. Control well out of his hands and a smile on his face.

#severus snape #hp #headcannons

[pizzapasta23045]

KAEYA HANGOUT ANALYSIS

Qubad: Fate means to send the machinations of war to every corner of the land, to fan the flames of conflict till they engulf the entire world...  Qubad: Fate would see my sword tainted with the blood of innocents, that the bright banner of my homeland might fly in every nation known to mankind. 

It so perfectly tells you what will happen in Kaeya's story without actually saying it. It's utterly lovely.

Firstly, it points out that Kaeya does not like violence, does not want it and he hates that fate wants him to be active participant in the creation of violence.

The homeland in the story could seem to be reffering to Khaenri'ah if you don't think about it too hard. But, weirdly, it reppresents both at different times of the play. In the beginning, fate wants the homeland to win, which would imply it's not exactly a 1:1 to Khaenri'ah unless the heavens have a weirdly convuluted plan as they themselves are the ones that destroyed it to begin with. It is also a place with a god, as you can tell in multiple points in the story.

Qubad: When I departed my beloved home to fight in a foreign land, I did so to honor his wishes and for my duty to our people.  Qubad: Alas, is this fate's grand design... Is this fate's grand design... Qubad: Must it be so...?

Kaeya was, in a way sent to fight in a foreign land. Not in the sense of physically fighint but in the sense tha he's an agent there for a specific goal we are not privy through.

He's placed in the impossible position of having to choose between Mondstadt, the place he loves and Khaenri'ah, his homeland who he owes a duty to. Fate, not his father decided this. His father has not helped the situation, his father has harmed him, but in the end he is not the one that created the problem in the first place. As Kaeya's himself points out here.

Kaeya: Yep, "inept" is a good word for it. Honestly, it might even be a little too civil to describe a god who turns fathers against their sons and is bent on endless warmongering... don't you think?

While there is clearly an arger towards his father, Kaeya does not see him as a bad person but as someone who was forced to be evil. A victim of manipulation, just as much of a pawn of this game as Kaeya himself is. The god (Celestia) is in the end the main problem. Because he set up the twisted system in teh first place.

 Qubad: I, Qubad, will spend the rest of my days in a foreign land, till I breathe my last in a place far from home. Qubad: But I shall not bow to the will of fate. I am no pawn in heaven's plan. Qubad: Gundafar, my dear mentor... You have always been like a father to me. It brings me only anguish to bid you farewell.  Qubad: But I must walk this path, or freedom dies by my hand. Goodbye, my tribe and kin. Farewell, sweet land of my birth.

The important part of the hangout is this. "I shall not bow to the will of fate. I am no pawn." Kaeya makes his decision. He's made up his mind finally. He knows what he should do.

Now. What is that?

Well, we can see in the play in Kaeya's improv that he'll say goodbye to his mentor who was like a father to him. He also says goodbye to his kin and his tribe. He isn't picking either the side of his family of choise and his blood.

What we see here is fundamental. Kaeya shouts it at us. He is not picking either side, because both have significance to him. It's important to realize that the thing with his sides, that is also made up. It's a construct set up by the gods. Neither side is whooly right or whooly wrong. The Heavens WANT kaeya to choose.

Kaeya: If you don't like the script, just walk off the stage and join the audience. You always have a choice.

You always have a choice. There is always a less obvious choice. The Heavens do not control anything.

Qubad: My dear audience, I ask you this: Do you believe in fate? If fate decreed that your life was to end in tragedy, what would you do?

The point it's making about Kaeya's story is fundamental to both his and the travler's story. Kaeya's life is to end in greatness and tragedy as his constellation says. It's written in the part. But Kaeya is no pawn, and Kaeya will not turn back, as freedom itself, as a concept dies. Unlike his father, he will not let himself be tainted by hate and preperpetuate the cycle of violence that the warmogering gods want him to do.

Anyways this is my coming out as a "Kaeya isn't picking either Khaenri'ah or Mondstadt he's picking the secret third option the heavens don't want you to know about."

#textpost #kaeya alberich #kaeya #genshin impact #khaenri'ah #kaeya's father #papaya #celestia

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

Hi! I just got here. I'm curious about so so many of your WIPs (probably I am here to stay, I'm so curious xD) but don't want to send a million messages, so to pick one... Xie Lian Mud AU?

CW: Suicide mention/suicidal ideation

MUD AU MY BELOVED. this concept came from this prompt and ive been slowly plodding away at actually writing it. TLDR Xie Lian goes to Ghost City after escaping the coffin to ask Crimson Rain Sought Flower to finally kill him. Hua Cheng doesn't recognize him and assumes he's a ghost because he's still wounded and covered in grime from the coffin. He loses the bet and instead of being killed ends up in the service of the Gambler's Den Spirited Away style. He then proceeds to have a magical healing journey of ghostly employment while his and Hua Cheng's contentious relationship slowly becomes more...

“This humble one asks to be granted the gift of a quick death.”  Ghosts all around the den break out in loud chatter. Some jeer, and others catcall. A woman in green robes, with flowering branches sprouting from her hair like deer’s antlers, leans in and grins.  “Gongzi, I can help you with that for free. You don’t need to bother Chengzu, I could eat you right up.”  The kneeling ghost shakes its head, but doesn’t otherwise respond.  “And why should you need to come to me for that?” he asks, out of a sense of his own curiosity. It’s a strange request for a ghost, for whom typically the ‘life’ they live to must be actively clung to to be maintained, but not the strangest the Den has seen.  “This one heard that the Lord of Ghost City, Crimson Rain Sought Flower, can grant impossible favors. This one’s luck is not good, but I thought… to try.”  “I can,” Hua Cheng says, “For the right price. What will you offer me for the gift of your dispersal?”  “... I have little to offer my Lord besides myself. Anything I could give, I will. Whatever my Lord asks.”  “And why do you suppose that I would have any use for you?”  “This one has some talents, if my Lord wishes to make use of them. Fighting and strategy, repairing and cleaning things, and ah… performing I suppose.”  “Oh? Are you a musician?”  “A passable one. Most of my performances were more physical in nature. Sword swallowing… that sort of thing.”  Hua Cheng can’t help but snort, as the den’s patrons and workers alike burst into loud and delighted hollering.  “So,” he drawls, “you want to pay me with your body?” 

#tgcf #hc #xl #hualian #xie lian #hua cheng #spirited away au #sort of #heaven officials blessing fanfiction #tian guan ci fu #heaven officials blessing #tgcf fic #my writing #burywrites.pdf #my fics

[totally-not-a-tickle-blog]

Hi can I infodump about Roy and my interpretation w/ him when it comes to coping mechanism regards sexual abuse to you?

Click here to allow me 👇 (long text)

.

To be honest I don't think he'll leave the more ""stereotypical"" type of victim bubble since 1- He's not a big focus in the show and 2- It's quite complicated and I don't know if Sr Pelo and the team would go that deep, but I like to overanalyze things. With that being said:

It feels off for me when he's shown as easily affected whenever his uncle is mentioned. I personally don't see it as HIM.

It's vague and anyone can see it whatever they like, it's 100% fine, but Roy is just... stubborn and ignorant. Those are two of his biggest traits and it's impossible for it not to affect how he deals with that trauma; he already has to deal with arrogant parents (mostly mother), not being himself even if he wants to (what pretty much hurts his natural ego), so being aware that even ANOTHER member of your family took advantage of you in even worst ways is basically a shot straight to the head. He's fighting something already and he'll definitely be in denial with a second one, not to mention that if people actually began to act all "soft" after finding that out IT'D MAKE THINGS WORSE.

It's literally the same as going to someone who wants to be seen as superior and mock him by treating them like a baby. It'll just make him try harder and harder to be taken seriously, including trying to ignore the trauma more and more.

And to be honest, even if he told his parents he'd stay in denial. Carmen and Richard are questionable parents but they're not monsters like some people think they are, they'd offer help and ask him what they want and need to know, but it changes nothing on how they treated him before nor his personality will suddenly change. I also have a lot to talk about his relationship with his parents, but that's for another one if I feel like it.

Now coming back to the beginning, when I mention that he doesn't get triggered when his uncle is the topic, I see it like that because his mind couldn't properly see the uncle as an enemy. He knows that what happened is wrong and that he's an asshole, but I'm talking about something more personal. A poor example for the sensation itself: You eat in a restaurant, and weeks later you find out that the waiter spit in your food. Will you come back? No. Are you also full MAD at him? Also no. You got angry in the first moments, sometimes still do, but you didn't even saw anything wrong with your food back then. You recognized it, but your brain didn't.

Now, when it's the sexual abuse itself, it affects him way more mostly because it makes him feel stupid, paranoid and dare I say disgusted maybe. I admit, that part is mostly me projecting, but it still makes sense in a way. It's more of a internal change instead of an external one (are those the right words?), since the consequences isn't as obvious and explicit if you did recognized the scene as a trauma at the time. You may not be against physical touch, but you may struggle interacting nicely afraid that you'll mess up again. I hope I didn't messed up on that part, or any at all--

ALRIGHT, briefly, Roy don't want sympathy, but he needs empathy, just like his friends are doing. They know what Roy goes through and still won't let him do whatever he wants, don't try babysitting him nor desperately tries to search for help right away like that. He's focused on his parents and can't handle even more trauma right now, and if he does start to try helping himself it'll be when he's older and don't have as much ego as he does now.

Ty for reading and I am SO SO sorry if I said anything shitty, sexual abuse is a topic that I always had some sort of interest on (studying and talking about), so I tend to think about it a lot specially when a hyperfixation is included.

EDIT: Just wanted to add that Roy's anger issues are also a nice response to everything I just said (nice in a "it connects" way, not good), someone as low-tempered as himself wouldn't be able to handle with the pressure of "You need to vent" without "exploding", thinking that his abuse consequently made him weaker and less worth of respect; "That shit just makes everything worse, so it's easier if I just ignore it!"

#I have so many things about him that I wanna talk about but idk if anyone would care #spooky month #spooky month roy #sm roy #S/A #sexualabuse #infodump

[gingersp1ce547]

Q!pac’s goal of becoming his best self, a stronger version of himself being displayed by this new archer skin makes me feel crazy because look

Look that the similarities between these two skins. The crossbody strap that covers up the logo’s of their shirts. Fingerless gloves on their right hands and a more bulky almost gauntlet like glove on q!pac’s that emulates q!fits prosthetic arm. The jeans.

Q!pac’s idea of his best version of himself is one so innately and intimately tied to q!fit as if to say that he cant fully be that version of himself without q!fit.

#q!fit was worried about q!pac forgetting him while he’s goen only for q!pac to physically show thats impossible #could these similarities be a coincidence? 100% but im going to pretend their not #i almost wanna say this marks a shift as well of q!pac’s image of strength going from q!cell to q!fit but i think its reaching #a bit too much for me to say it with ny full chest #qsmp #q!pactw #fitpac #gingersp1ce547 #qsmp analysis #q!pactw analysis

[glitchedmagic]

@theminecraftbee ‘s ficlets about Decked Out eating Tango have been living in my head rent free so here’s a little post-do thing of my own.

-

“The server resets tonight.”

It’s been just over two months since Decked Out finished. Just over two months since anyone has seen or heard from Tango.

Zed knows what happened. Not the details. And he certainly couldn’t explain it to anyone else. But he knows.

And the gnawing feeling of guilt has kept him coming back to the dungeon. Every day.

Decked Out is asleep. Zed can walk through the citadel without a desperate need to throw himself to the ravengers. He can even wander below, into the redstone, without being electrocuted to death. Maybe it’s dead, but Zed doubts it. He knows it’s just sleeping. Eventually, it will wake up. It will be hungry and will lure whoever enters this world into its depths.

Maybe that’s when Tango will wake up too.

Zed won’t be here to see it.

“Who knows when you’ll be able to eat again?”

His voice is quiet but he knows the whole dungeon can hear him. He plays with the clasp on his gas mask. Tango’s storage room, where he lays on the dusty floor, has enough oxygen flowing through it still to allow him to breathe without the mask, though he’s already getting a bit of a headache. He’ll put the mask back on soon. Eventually.

“One last snack?”

He’s offered the dungeon himself hundreds of times these past few months. As a player, when it was live, hoping to spark a bit of his friend’s life back into him. Then after. Hoping for something. For a glimpse of flickering blue flame and wide eyes that had long since given up pretending to see.

There’s quiet.

There’s so much guilt in the quiet.

Don’t worry, Zed. Just a few months. Not too big of a project.

All good here. With level one done, the rest will go a lot quicker.

Yeah, level three got away from me a bit. Level four will be smaller, don’t worry.

Audio needed to be reworked, you know how it is. Soon.

Just tired, lost track of time last night.

Not too much longer now.

Don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal when the game’s done. Promise.

Did Tango know he was lying?

Zed is well aware that what he’s doing isn’t good for him. It’s ironic, how Tango pulled away from everyone, to eventually disappear in this cave. And now Zed’s doing the same thing.

It was always Tango pulling Zed out. Into the sun for a stupid game or a ridiculous project.  So it makes sense that without him, Zed can’t bring himself to leave the hole.

“I could break more redstone.” Zed offers the dungeon. “Really get you mad.”

He’d done that. About two weeks after Decked Out went dormant. He hadn’t gotten a reaction at the time. But the next day, everything was repaired.

That had spurred Zed into doing a stakeout. Break some stuff, sit and wait until the dungeon brought Tango out to fix it.

Zed had died down in the redstone, waiting. It hadn’t been a pleasant death.

That’s when Impulse had stepped in, staging his own intervention. But all it had done is make Zed feel more guilty.

An intervention for the guy who failed to do an intervention when Tango needed it most.

See? Ironic.

His head is starting to pound. He puts his mask back on.

“I want my friend back, you stupid castle,” He says through the mask. The dungeon understands him anyways.

He won’t be getting Tango back. He’s known that for much longer than he can admit.

Time passes. His phone dings a few times. It’s just the others. Making preparations. The server resets in just a few hours.

“Was it worth it?” Zed asks. “Not you, dumb dungeon. I’m asking Tango. Was it worth it? Did you make this choice? Did you know the consequences?”

Silence.

“Did you ever consider saying goodbye?”

The thing is? Tango was saying goodbye. In the only way he could. It was in the heartfelt artifacts crafted for each hermit. It was in his own voice, echoing words throughout the dungeon long after his own voice left him. It was in every ounce of the game.

None of them saw it until it was too late.

Zed stands. He has to be at spawn soon. He has stuff to pack. He has his own hole in the ground to say goodbye to.

He takes the long way out. Up into the main room of the citadel.

There’s a small part of him that hopes to see a glint of Tango. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? A little wisp of blue fire. A soft voice. A gust of wind blowing a loose piece of paper across the floor. Something he can look at and be comforted by.

Nothing happens.

Zed knows that Tango’s gone.

He stands at the door. It’s open just a crack, just like he left it.

The night is clear.

“Goodbye, Tango.”

#second: its a horror story about losing yourself and being forced to accept it #me: a tragedy about not being able to say goodbye got it #also like????? in a world where death is meaningless??? THIS? THAT TYPE OF GRIEF??? HOW WOULD YOU DEAL #my 'tango is eaten by his base' hcs are a bit different from theirs but idc the vibe is very much the same #for a bit of horror that i couldn't squeeze in #i imagine that tango (as in like his physical body) is asleep somewhere in the redstone #its just impossible for anyone to find #yes the dungeon did that on purpose so none of those other stupid hermits can try and 'save him' #also idk how it would work in-world but everyone who will be playing decked out on the world download? #food for the dungeon #glitch talks #hermitcraft #tangotek #hermitfic

[spotsupstuff]

off the string Boreas needs a chiropractor god damn.

that he does! n the best he's gonna get are these two

#spot says stuff #rw #oc tag #Boreas is peculiar a bit when it comes to bein nervous from physical harm imma say that #hes pretty much indestructible! But he does have weak spots. those being the hole in his back/his numb back overall n the lenses #thats why he was so wigged out in that comic where Tarrows saved him from a red lizard. he doesnt like a shotgun aimed at his head- #-just like anyone cuz of the lenses. red lizard chompin on his head couldve lucked out n pierced the lenses with its fangs easily too #that bite force has to be fuckin Impossible #so that whole thing was a horrid situation for him. and now this.. lying on his front numb numb back with giant weak spot open for- #-anyone to take advantage of. And pissy Orion. one of the few Eo iterators capable of fighting. Not Good #anyway interesting thing! chiropractice has apparently roots in esoteric stuff! which is Neat since half of the religious things in my- #-stuff is based off of th€osophy which belongs to esotericism. chiropractice might be a legit big thing for the Ancients #chinese medicine like meridian points/acupuncture r bigger though i respect that shit. the biolumi that the ancients have like Sparru- #-in that pic with her n Euros watchin the herons r based off of the meridian points actually!! #tags full of fun facts today...

[minxxfur]

headcanon: astarion did look his age after being turned. he aged from stress

#i dont care if this is physically impossible in dnd lore im saying it because i think its meaningful to make everyone sad over him #WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHWAAHHHHHHHHHHH #astarion bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion baldurs gate #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur’s gate #bg3

[m-kyunie]

elegance.

#dgm #D.Gray-Man #Alma Karma #cw blood #my head is filled w thoughts of Alma as a bride in a huge kitsch 80s dress #okay maybe not 80s more 60s/70s. thinking of my moms dress actually so #lots of lace long gloves puffy sleeves swooping neckline muah smtg guady #UGH or Princess Diana's oh exactly like that #just think about how past!Alma wldve thought abt potentially getting married and starting a family 'after the war' #Her covering Her face as an Akuma saying 'don't look at me' lives in my head forever. her excorcist uni #is quite tradtional and seems unpractical for battle but its def feminine to the MAX #so just. idk how to explain it but the body dysphoria i guess #Alma wanting tofit that echo of pretty but being all wrong for it. hair too dark to unruly adams apple sharp angular broad all wrong #wanting to be soft and slim and pretty pretty pretty.hiding it under layers of clothes and lace and accessories... #or being basicly the same height as Kanda and lamenting over it like nonono this is all wrong #tearing at their hair and picking the skin and scratching and ripping the dress and breathing awful #'not pretty not a woman will never be Her for //Him// never be enough' mentality #evevn tho Kanda literally does not fucking care about any of that like it doesnt even cross his mind hello hes trans duh they all r #idk i interpret them both as slightly diff like Alma seems much more in-tune w Her on an unconscious level its very emotional = turmulious/ #VS Kanda who is very mentally inflicted its very physical and obsessive/conious thought near impossible to ignore ie the lotus n Her vision #so they act diff bc the influence of their Other is different. idk what im trying to say anymore actually. lmk if that makes sense T-T #ALL THAT JUST TO SAY I WANTED TO DRAW ALMA IN A WEDDING DRESS LMFAO IM SORRY IM CRAZY

[mirrren]

I will never get over the gag of the prime minister introducing herself to everyone it’s so funny

#the way she seems to stop listening to anyone that says I know after she says her name #no thoughts. head empty #it’s just so funny the was she DOES NOT react to them saying that they are aware of who she is #I hc that she’s got a chip inside her that makes it physically impossible for her to comprehend the fact that other people know who she is #she’s my favorite character. her and Donnas grandfather #the sweetest man alive #I’d marry him if it wasn’t for our age gap #doctor who #harriet jones #prime minister/former prime minister #wilfred mott #she may be gone but she’ll live forever in my thoughts

[lustrethings]

I am absolutely fascinated with my obsession with TBOSAS and young Coriolanus because truth be told I would want to absolutely deck that guy on a good day and I don't mean in the "oh he turns evil down the line" way or even "his personality is kinda foul" way NO I mean it in the "to me he's so politically stupid and/or selfish I want to physically knock sense into him" way

#mf would go ''Ah the greatness of the Capitol'' ONCE #and I would have to physically restrain myself from saying ' #''yeah I mean it's got you out there poor as shit and starving- #so if you're that fucking stupid to not see or not want to see that the system is a problem that's on you actually '' #I wish I was joking but it's a visceral reaction I just think it's so funny it's stronger than me #I'm kind of genuinely impressed he climber his way back to the top tbh in a fucked up way #(it's a statement the fact it was impossible for him to do that in any ethical way but I'm not about to open that can of worms) #Coriolanus Snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes