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bitchimasnake-sss · 6 months

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"my girlfriend's a nerd" ft. the monster trio!

self explanatory self-indulgent drabbles to soothe my book!loving ass

ft. luffy, zoro and sanji x fem! reader

set-up: you like books, he likes you that's it

warnings: none lmao this is very sfw. one might call it wholesome even.

luffy:

thats my baby ^^

— im not even sure if this mf can read 😭😭

— honestly 9/10 chance he can't but when has that ever stopped him from being our most supportive himbo king

— go king give us everything!!

— he doesn't get why you read books when instead you can be like sleeping or eating or looking at the sea but well, he doesn't question it

— he just thinks it's a weird hobby you have (i don't think he's aware of how freakishly illiterate he is)

— but just cause he thinks it's weird that doesn't mean he wouldn't hug you half-asleep when he hears you sobbing into the dead of the night or he wouldn't listen with keen interest when you explain the plot of your favourite book as he wraps his arms around you and hums into your hair

— will 100% offer to fight the author/ tear up the book everytime he sees you having a breakdown over a particular scene/character

"who should I kill?!" the deadpan seriousness in his voice is what terrifies you

"nobody! I'm okay–"

— after you explain to him that hurting somebody is not necessary and you're fine, he will try to coddle you with extended hugs and food (lots and lots and lots of food).

"yn you should eat something! should I get you something to eat??" you can hear the panic in this poor boys voice 😭😭

"no luffy, its okay. im fine!" you say through sniffs and snorts, eyes bloodshot from crying over ink on paper

"brb" and he gets you dinner enough for 5 people because that's how he knows to comfort you (willingly took sanjis kicks and namis punches to accomplish this mission)

— since he's a clingy little child, he will hold onto you some way or the other when you're reading

— you're reading in your room while he's fast asleep? his arm is draped across your waist lazily. you're on the other side of the deck, sunbathing and reading? his hand is stretched out from where he's sitting and on your thigh (ussop tripped thrice over his hand, rip god ussop 🙏) . you're reading during breakfast cause the book just got so good? his toe is rubbing your calf up and down periodically (he won't stop no matter how many weird looks you give him)

— conclusion: he doesn't at all get it what it is, but if it makes you happy he will spend all the berries in the world to buy you those books (plz know if you actually ask him to jokingly off an author for killing your favourite character, he will do it. please don't ask him that.)

— he's just so supportive and nice 😭😭

"my girlfriends a nerd, I love her" (ussop explained to him what a nerd was and now he's introducing you like this to everybody)

zoro:

the shades tho 😎

— I'm convinced this mf can't read either

— even he can there's like literally no evidence to prove it and the entire crew has come to the conclusion that he gets lost even with clear directions because he just can't read please 😌👌

— at the start, he actually thinks it's dead stupid to invest so much time reading books when you can do other stuff like getting stronger, sleeping, literally doing anything else (luffy backs up his opinion with full enthusiasm)

— i mean like he's seen you sob at 7 in the morning over breakfast cause your fav character died and now he's confused as to why are you spending money and buying books if they make you cry so hard (he doesn't understand the concept of angst im afraid)

— but over time he just accepts it as something you enjoy and well, if it makes you happy then who is he to question it?

— acts like he doesn't care/isn't listening when you're rambling about the plot and how thE MAIN CHARACTER IS IN LOVE WITH HIS ENEMY AND VICE VERSA SKEJFHSJKSN but is actually fully listening

— he's actually invested at one point

"but they are enemies? why does he wanna be with him?"

"you don't get it! thats the appeal!!"

"the appeal is forcing a knife on somebody's throat?" he's laughing, "as if you'd enjoy it if i threatened you with my swords"

"... i would actually enjoy that"

he is now asking nami for loan to send you to a therapist (nami has seen you nosebleed over fictional characters and is considering giving money away to zoro for free. you really do need help.)

— as I said, he's invested now (although he does question your taste every now and then) but he'd force you to either summarize the plot to him as he trains or read out loud so he can hear the story as it goes.

— so naturally you're now sitting on his back, reading out loud as he does push-ups

— this beloved himbo has now formed strong opinions about characters and will battle you with headcanons because "there's no fucking way the hero would ever go back to the villain after that! that's ridiculous! if he does I'll sell my swords off."

— will remember the stuff you told him, no matter how trivial, so if you get off an island and he spots a keychain from your fav book series he's spending whatever money he has left to buy you it

"oh excellent choice! who are you buying it for?" the shopkeeper lady questions aloud

"oh, my girlfriend." he's smiling, "my girlfriends a nerd."

— actually looks forward to you telling him all the plot details and jokes at this point (one might call him a part of the fandom now)

— when you're a crying, sobbing mess because a character died, he's genuinely comforting you (no matter how bad he is at it)

"yn it's okay, you want some sake?" he is hugging you, patting your head like you're a child

"no 😭😭" you sob harder into his chest

"well... that's the best i can offer"

he tried. it's not his fault you don't wanna drink your feelings away.

— conclusion: he started off thinking its stupid and now he's an honorary nerd. would never admit it though. stubborn asshole.

sanji:

he's actually so pretty tho ^^

— he actually liked reading books before you even joined the crew although his tbr consists of cookbooks and auto-biographies about the people he has some interest in

— he started reading so that he could impress zeff with his knowledge on cooking and other miscellaneous stuff (imagine kid!sanji reading a book till late night under a lamp cause he wants to impress his old man that's so cute 😭😭)

— respects your hobbies when he finds out you like reading

— and then he sees your book collection. whY ARE THERE LIKE 5000 BOOKS HERE?! NOW HES SCARED FOR YOUR SANITY CAUSE GIRL WTF

— he hears you recommend a book to robin/nami once and now he's running to the nearest bookstore on the next island you guys land on to buy it

— he obviously did it to impress you and win you over but goddamn that book was actually pretty nice. so, the next time he asks you for recommendations he's actually a bit sincere

— now you're both in a book club of your own (which makes luffy mad cause why are you leaving him out of conversations :/)

— like zoro, he often asks for updates on the book you're currently reading while he cooks everyone food. he loves hearing you talk about the things you like.

— when he sees you crying over books, he is making you sweet stuff to soothe you, holding you and rubbing your back supportingly, peppering kisses to make you feel better

— he's so fine 😫😫

— anyways, also def the kind of person to ask you to roleplay things in real life

"yn-saaaan" his voice is bubbly, "can i ask you something?"

"mhm?"

"the last book you read–" his face is going a little bit red, "you think we can maybe... do that irl?"

now it's your turn to go red

— but no fr, he's so so supportive of your little hobby like yes baby! read those books and have fun imagining people in your head

— 100% matches your vibe when you crush on fictional characters cause "you're right. he is actually very attractive" (a bi king we love)

— once zoro made fun of you for reading and this was his response: "you can't even read, mosshead. the next time you speak shit I'll kick your ass."

"who said I CANT READ? AND AS IF ILL LET YOU KICK MY ASS!"

"I TOTALLY WILL KICK YOUR ASS"

now they are fighting while ussop, luffy and chopper laugh in the background

— but yes he loves staying up late, reading with you before you both cuddle and fall asleep

— you once read about a specific sort of dish in a book and mentioned that it sounds delicious so now obviously he has to go make that dish. it doesn't matter if it's 1 am at night.

— when nami asks him what he's cooking, he just smiles and shrugs, "i dunno either, im just trying to make yn happy. she's such a nerd"

— conclusion: an enabler, an enthusiast. this man is ready to buy you books and then read them if it makes you happy. only the finest for his favourite lady <3

a/n: enjoy my wayward thoughts about these fine men!

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ckret2 · 3 months

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Chapter 39 of human Bill Cipher is SURE he's about to escape being the Mystery Shack's prisoner:

Ford's confronted with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he's a little bit too obsessed with Bill.

And meanwhile, Bill has found a way to reach his loyal cultists... if he can find somebody willing to help him make contact.

He thinks Ford is the perfect target.

Maybe, just maybe, the obsession goes both ways.

(warning for an incident of self-harm via burning, and depersonalization and/or dysphoria (depending on how you interpret it) re: Bill feeling even worse about his body than usual.)

####

Soos, Stan, and Ford had stayed up half the night trying to generate enough NowUSeeitNowUDontium to prevent it from vanishing the moment one of them lost (or gained) focus. They'd eventually given up and stayed the night in Northwest Manor. Soos had texted Melody around midnight, and she'd immediately replied (which alarmed Ford, but Soos assured him she was used to those hours) and agreed, with some trepidation, to spend the night by herself in the shack so that the kids wouldn't be alone all night with Bill. She'd texted a half hour later to report that the bathroom was a disaster, but the kids had reassured her it was just some werewolf thing, so, not a big deal.

Ford had thought getting to spend a night without Bill under the same roof would be a relief. Instead, he found his sleep was even worse. He kept worrying about what Bill might get up to so far away and out of sight, where Ford couldn't do anything to stop him. Surely, by nighttime, Bill had to have noticed that the only humans he'd seen all day were the kids? Would he consider Melody any kind of threat, no veteran to combating Gravity Falls' weirdness?

It figured that the dream demon would find a way to disrupt Ford's sleep when he wasn't even there.

####

Ford had given up on sleep around two in the morning and gone wandering until he stumbled across a den with walls covered in bookcases, massive windows overlooking the forest below, and a pair of richly upholstered armchairs turned to gaze out the windows. He drifted between the chairs to one of the windows. It was the kind of personal library he'd dreamed of accepting esteemed guests in, back when he'd fantasized about one day being rich and famous. He suspected the Northwests had never read a book in this room.

Ford had been staring out at the still night and the dark pines for several minutes when he heard the creak of a door and soft footsteps behind him. He whirled around, raising a weapon. "Back, you spectral fiend!"

"Whoa! Easy, Sixer!" Stan held up a hand defensively. "It's just me!" He lowered his hand. "Why are you holding up a dinner plate?"

"Er—sorry." Ford sheepishly tucked the silver dish under his arm again. "I'm sure I saw a ghost earlier. I thought it prudent to arm myself."

Stan muttered, "This place sure is creepy enough for it."

"Mm. It's built on more than its fair share of bones." Ford returned to gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm sorry today was a failure. When I'm staring right at an experiment on which the fate of the entire universe depends, it's hard not to think about it."

"Eh, I wasn't doing too hot either," Stan admitted, joining Ford at the window. "There's only so many times you can hear Soos whisper 'Think about the miniature particle accelerator' in your ears on a loop before you zone out and start thinking about fishing season."

Ford huffed. "Maybe we should have switched places."

"Yeah, probably. I retired from thinking about science after I got your dumb portal running, and once you get your head stuck on something you can't stop thinking about it."

Ford laughed wryly. "Unfortunately accurate."

There was a moment of silence; and then Stan said cautiously, "Speaking of you getting your head stuck on something..."

Ford didn't like that tone. "Hm?"

"I was, uh... doing some light reading..." He held up Ford's journal.

A jolt of anger and fear shot through Ford. "Give me—" He snatched the journal back.

It wasn't until it was in his hands that he registered the absurdity of his own action; for the past year, he'd given Stan free access to Journal 5. He'd used it to document their travels and discoveries as a reference for them both; he'd even asked Stan to contribute a couple of entries. Based on a prior precedent of seven months, Stan had every right to look at Journal 5. Revoking that access now was... Well, it didn't look good.

Stan didn't immediately say anything. Ford supposed his own actions said enough. He tucked the journal under his arm with the silver dish.

Stan cleared his throat. "I think we're a little past the 'superhero nemesis' thing."

"It's not a problem," Ford said tersely.

"Not a prob—? Ford, you're letting him consume your life."

"He's consumed all our lives. The kids haven't been able to invite anyone over, Melody all but runs to her car after work, you ended up in a showdown with fae nobility—"

"It was just the tooth fairy!"

"Do you know how important a fairy has to be to claim dominion over all teeth?"

"Forget about the fairy!" Stan waved off the whole fairy topic with one hand. "Look, I'm not the one who's dedicated half a journal to talking about him!"

"You don't keep a journal, Stanley—"

"That's not the point!"

"—I'm just saying, if you did keep a journal, I think he'd have come up on more than a few pages—"

"But like this?" Stan gestured toward Ford's journal. "This is turning into an obsession. And not one of your normal obsessions."

The back of Ford's neck heated up. He wanted to argue that he had to obsess over Bill if he hoped to find a way to kill him—but Stan already knew that Ford had passed off that project to Fiddleford weeks ago. "How can I be 'obsessed' with somebody I barely even see? I'm avoiding Bill like my life depends on it! I talk to him less than Mrs. Ramirez does!"

"And you're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private!" Stan gestured again, angrily, at Ford's journal. (Ford defensively tucked it further under his arm.) "You're acting like a stalker, Sixer. Not that I care about him, but, I'm starting to worry about your head."

"A st—?! I'm a scientist, he's a scientific curiosity! I'm documenting him! I document plenty of things!"

"Not like this, you don't."

"There's a lot to document!"

"Including spending a whole page trying to figure out—how to draw his—?!" Stan gestured furiously toward his boxers.

Ford pointed at him severely. "You were just as curious as I was to find out how a giant eyeball and a sentient triangle make that work, don't pretend you weren't."

Stan grimaced. "Okay, fine, I'll give you that one. But writing a full entry about his posture?"

"He's not only an alien being in a human body but a two-dimensional creature in a three-dimensional body, how he moves and gestures could tell us about how an utterly unfamiliar species perceived space! Nearly all his gestures adhere to an invisible coronal plane, that betrays worlds of information about his original anatomy. Do you know that elbow thing he does when he walks—"

"Ford. You're using your great-niece to get drawings of his childhood bedroom."

Ford raised a finger. "That's—" Ford lowered his finger. Ford sat in a nearby armchair, put his chin in his hands, and stared into space. "What am I doing."

Stan patted his shoulder.

Ford slid his journal and the dish out from under his arm and settled them in his lap. He stared at the cover, then thumbed through the pages. It was obvious when they'd returned to Gravity Falls; the drawings of Atlanteans, were-rats, shorelines, and boats immediately gave way to page after page of staring slit-pupiled eyes.

"It's just... Bill is an ancient being, many times older than our universe, and the last surviving specimen of his own bizarre species. As both an anomaly and a source of esoteric knowledge, he's an invaluable subject of study. He's going to die soon, and he should die, but... between now and then, I don't want to pass up the last ever opportunity to study him."

Stan sank down into the chair opposite Ford. "You're listening to yourself, right?" He didn't sound angry anymore, just worried. "This is a guy who tried to kill us. He isn't a 'specimen' you can add to your collection of weird stuff, you know that, right?"

"I know, I know." That was exactly why it was so important—why it seemed so important—to capture Bill in words and pictures before it was too late. (It was funny, Ford thought, how Stan's very first conversation with Bill had been a murder, and yet he was the one who talked about Bill like he was just some guy; while Ford had spent so many years obsessively trying to find out who Bill was that he'd almost forgotten he was a person instead of a terrible idea.)

"When execution day comes and you think you haven't dug up enough of his history, what'll you do? Give him a stay of execution until he's dictated his memoirs to you?"

"No," Ford said immediately. "No, of course not. I'm just taking advantage of the opportunity to learn what I can, while I can. It's no different from your 'shopping trip' at the mall—"

"Hey!" Stan pointed a finger at Ford. "Watch it! That was strictly business! It's not like I'm attached to the guy—"

"I didn't mean anything by it! I just meant—as long as we're stuck with Bill, make him useful, and—and to heck with him after that. Right?" Like Stan had said about the scratch cards: why throw away free money just because of the source? "He'd do the same to us."

Stan hesitated. "And you're sure that when the time comes, you'll be ready to pull the trigger?"

"I know I will. It won't be the first time. I'm just glad that this time I'll be able to aim at his own head."

"Hm." Stan didn't look convinced.

Ford sighed. "But, if I think I'll waver—I'll hand you the gun."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I promise."

But he knew he didn't need to.

####

Soos drove the tired gang home just past dawn, early enough for him to open the Mystery Shack on schedule.

"Soon as we get home, I'm going back to sleep," Stan muttered crankily. Ford—eyes shut, leaning against the window—nodded in agreement. Stan yawned, "And there'd better not be any nasty surprises at the shack."

####

Bill sat sleeping in his attic window seat, knees to his chest, leaning against the window, ear pressed to the glass.

Outside, Stan wailed, "My car!"

Bill's eyes snapped open. He smiled.

He ran to the kids' room, knocked on the door—"Hey, the bigger Pines are back!"—and bolted for the stairs.

####

Soos got the door open at the exact same time Bill stumbled off the stairs and collided with the living room doorframe. Bill grabbed the doorframe just long enough to steady himself, and then bounded over to the door, shoved Soos and Ford aside, and leaned out onto the porch. "HIYA, STAN!"

Stan whipped around to face Bill. "YOU!" He gestured furiously at the wizard graffiti on his car. "WHAT did you DO to my CAR!"

"Do you like it?"

Stan let out an inarticulate scream of rage.

"Oh, you love it!"

"You massacred it! I've had this car forty-five years! I've done things in this car I can't say! And it's never, never been so—so—violated!"

Grinning ear to ear, Bill said, "What do you think of the girl wizard?"

"The what?!" Stan circled the car. He screamed again.

"Uh-huh?"

"Why does she have a beard!"

"Go on," Bill said gleefully, "tell me what you think! I want the full review!"

"This," Stan said, "is the most ugly, hideous, terrible—"

Bill glanced back at a sound on the stairs. "Oh, hey Mabel! Get over here!" He gestured proudly as Mabel joined him in the doorway. "And here's the artistic mastermind herself!"

Stan choked on his words. "—b... beautiful, stunning, museum-worthy work of art I've ever seen."

Mabel beamed. "It's not finished yet, we ran out of some colors! I was going to add a dragon on the hood!"

Stan's face went white. "No no, it's... perfect the way it is. Don't—don't change a thing."

"Really? You're sure? I don't mind!"

"Really." Looking slightly nauseous, Stan said, "I love it just like this, pumpkin."

Mabel squealed and ran outside to give him a big hug.

Bill was fighting back silent laughter so hard he almost fell down.

####

"...And I still haven't found any sign of the Nightwigglers," Dipper said, sighing dejectedly and dropping his journal on the counter next to the cash register. "So, I dunno, maybe I should give up on this one and move on."

Wendy was sitting back with her feet kicked up on the counter, but she straightened a bit to look at Dipper's journal. She skimmed the news article he'd paperclipped to one page. "Oh, I heard about this," she said. "The cops talked to me about the first burglary. I was in the thrift shop that day."

"Oh, yeah?" Dipper pointed at the picture next to the article. "Did you see anything like this?"

Wendy's eyes widened. "No—but I think one of my brothers did."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah, he was talking about it a couple nights ago. He said it was like an armless white thing wearing pants that went up to its face. We all thought he got spooked by a deer butt or something and made up the whole story. Then dad said we should drop it and told us we should stay in at night."

"That's when they come out! At night!" Dipper laughed excitedly. "Do you think your dad knows something?"

"Pfff, not if he can help it." Wendy pulled her feet off the counter and checked the clock. "I could show you the start of the trail my brother was on. It's like ten minutes by bike and the next big tour bus isn't getting here for half an hour, wanna sneak out?"

"Are you serious?! Of course!"

"Just promise you won't tell Gus if we find something. We've been making fun of him for days and I don't want to admit he was right." Wendy laughed. "Let me grab somebody to cover."

"I'll get my bike!" Dipper was already headed out the door. "I've been looking for a lead for days! I dug through half the dumpsters in town searching for their nests..." The door swung shut behind him.

Wendy ducked into the living room. "Hey Goldie."

"Yello?" He was sitting cross legged on the couch watching TV.

"I've gotta do something with Dipper, do you mind covering for a little bit? Just twenty, thirty minutes."

His gaze flickered to the TV, then back to Wendy's face. "Sure! Anything for you, cool girl."

Wendy had a brief, eerie sense of déjà vu. She shook it off. "I'm not interrupting anything good, am I?" She nodded at the TV.

"Naaah, it's one of those terrible specials about pyramid conspiracies." He shook a cider can, "I'm taking a sip every time they mention Fishmasons or 'ancient dinosaur-worshiping civilization.'"

"Dude. You'll be wasted before the first commercial break."

"Really, you're saving me from myself." He set the can on the TV and followed Wendy into the gift shop. (As he did, Bill checked to see if he had anything on under his hoodie. No? The Pines didn't want him to be seen in public in his hoodie; they thought it would make him "too obvious." He rolled up the sleeves to hide some of the brick pattern and surreptitiously tucked the hood and the bow tie drawstrings into the collar.)

As she headed out the door, Wendy repeated, "Just twenty minutes! Thirty tops. I'll get back before the next tour bus, promise."

"No problem!" He waved her off.

"I owe you one!"

Bill made a note of that.

He looked around the gift shop—any readily-obvious mischief he could get up to? He grabbed an 8-ball cane and took it to the counter. And then he took the stool behind the register, propped his chin in his hand, gazed toward the living room, and resumed watching TV through the wall and backwards. He didn't miss hearing the conspiracy talk—he was sure it was actively making him stupider—but credit where credit was due; they made those CGI pyramid models really hot.

A cutaway of one pyramid showed its internal tunnels and chambers. Bill bit his lower lip. Oh yeah. That's what he came here for.

Several minutes went by. The door opened and a lone tourist crept in, a middle-aged woman with a sun-damaged tan. Bill straightened up and switched his eye patch over to hide his bleeding eye. "Heya! Next tour's in..." He checked the clock, how long until the next bus? "About fifteen minutes."

The woman nodded and quietly started circling the gift shop.

Bill glanced toward the living room, decided he'd better not start damaging his other eye too, mentally cursed the tourist, and pulled out one of Wendy's magazines to read. "Let me know if you need anything."

The tourist spent several minutes making a slow circuit of the room, and then crept up to the cash register. Bill looked up with a smile, didn't see any souvenirs in her hands, and asked, "Can I help you?"

Hesitantly, the woman said, "The sun sets a deep blood red."

Bill's eye flew wide open, his heart leaped into his throat, and his breath hitched. His gaze roved over her exposed skin until he spied a tattoo on her right arm: four triangles stacked atop each other, starting with an equilateral and each getting shorter and more obtuse as they descended, until they'd reduced completely and a single horizontal line underlined all four triangles. This wasn't quite the happiest he'd ever been to see the symbol of a devastatingly self-destructive high-control cult, but it was close. "Oh! Oh, this is—" He rubbed his temples, squeezing his eye shut. "I know this. I rhymed 'red' with 'pyramid.' Why do I give everyone a different code. 'But rises gold over the pyramid'—something like that, right?" Bill gave the woman a pleading look. "I'm close enough that you can tell I know what you're talking about!"

A look of relief washed over her face. "You know him." Voice low, she asked, "Is it safe to talk?"

Knew him? He was him. But he couldn't claim that without proving it—what would convince her?—telling her something that only he knew?—great, but what? Her face was vaguely familiar—he thought he might've given her a visionary dream once—but he had so many little worshipers and they were so unimportant, most of them blurred together.

So all he could do was say, "It's not safe. Everyone here is an enemy."

She nodded sharply. "Where can we meet?"

Bill paused. "We can't. I'm... trapped."

Her brows creased with worry. "They're keeping you prisoner?"

"Afraid so."

"I could get the police—"

"Everyone," Bill repeated, "is an enemy."

She paused, processing that. Bill's gaze flickered to the clock. Wendy said twenty minutes, thirty tops. She'd been gone twenty-two minutes. "Someone's coming any minute."

"Right." The cultist grabbed Wendy's magazine, tore a corner off a page, and grabbed a pen.

"How did you find me?" Bill asked. Of all the tourist traps in all the tiny towns in all the world, how had she come in hereand walked right up to him?

"We were told a devotee was here," she said. "Someone sent the address and phone number to the Bahamian art studio."

Bill's mind spun. How? Who the heck would know to do that? The only person who knew he was here who'd come anywhere close to any of Bill's other worshipers was...

Ford? No. Did he?

The cultist shoved the paper in his hand and turned to leave.

Bill grabbed her arm. "Stay out of Gravity Falls," he commanded. "But stay close. Don't go back to Death Valley." Between the sun damage and the tattoo, she had to be one of his Death Valley girls. She looked like their usual prey: disaffected middle class white woman, probably had a dead end job and a mediocre husband and a useless degree from a liberal arts college. Maybe being able to guess where she came from would impress her.

It did. She stopped and turned back and looked at him in amazement—and then looked at him, staring hard at his eye. "You're... hosting him, aren't you?" Her voice fell to a whisper. "No. Are you...?"

"You got me." He smiled wryly—behold him, electric god bound in flesh, how low he's fallen, but at least he still has his good humor, doesn't he? "I always said you had great intuition." (It was a safe bet. He usually told the ladies that they had great intuition. Most of them ate that up, and the ones that didn't were often a little too savvy to sucker.)

It worked. She inhaled sharply. "You are," she breathed. "I knew you'd be a woman. Oh, Mary's a fool." She said this like she'd just won some years-old argument Bill had missed.

Mary, as in Mary-whom-Bill-had-put-in-charge-of-the-Death-Valley-compound Mary? Ha. She was getting on in years; maybe Bill could start a schism, that sounded fun. He opened his mouth to say something about Mary having great leadership but waning clarity of vision—

—when the cultist leaned across the counter, grabbed his collar, and pulled him into a kiss.

Okay. All right. She was one of those cultists. Got it. Got it got it got it. Wow. Definitely a "mediocre husband" convert, those were easy to seduce away with a little warmth and affection—nothing obvious, but get them infatuated with the idea of an unattainable incorporeal ideal lover and they'd chase him to the ends of the earth. Maybe a lesbian in denial that Bill had decided to push further into denial, if her assumption about Bill's gender was anything to go by. He tried to remember what he'd told this one.

He leaned into the kiss.

He'd done this before—in dreams, in puppets—he didn't prefer humans, but he could handle them well enough and earthlings had such pretty eyes. And this body he was stuck in made such insistent demands; a surge of human hormones washed over his brain so powerfully it made him dizzy. She broke the kiss to murmur, "Cipher, my lord—" and he took the opportunity to kiss her eyelid and lie, "I knew if anyone could find me, it would be you." He wished he remembered her name. She tugged his face back down to her lips. She was so eager. Cipher, my lord. Oh, it felt good to be revered again—

The door opened. "Um?"

If Bill had had one ounce of his power, he would have killed Wendy on the spot.

Instead, he seized his cultist's hands, ripped them off his hoodie, and shoved her away. "Whoa, lady! What do you think this is, a kissing booth?!" He laughed angrily. "We don't offer that kind of service here! Either get out, or—or buy a souvenir already!" He pointed at Wendy. "From her. Not from me."

Shocked, the cultist turned toward where Bill was pointing; and then turned back, understanding in her eyes.

Wendy raised her hands defensively, grimacing. "Yeah, no, I'm not serving you either. Just... get outta here."

The cultist met Bill's gaze for just a moment, then walked quickly out the door without a word.

Bill shouted after her, "And do not come back!" and quietly mourned as, for the second time in as many weeks, he had to watch helplessly as he sent away his only hope of getting any action/rescue.

"I am so, so sorry," Wendy said. "I leave for like ten minutes and you get one of the nightmare customers."

How Bill loved nightmares. "Twenty-five minutes, but who's counting."

"Psh, shut up." Wendy reclaimed her post behind the counter. "I think she's been here before, she looks kinda familiar. You okay?"

Bill hoped nobody else in town would recognize her. "I think I'll live after some mouthwash. Terrible breath." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Hey, remember when you said you owe me one? You really owe me."

####

All his cultist had written for him was a phone number. Bill slid his stolen journal from its window hiding spot and copied the number down in two-tone dots and dashes. Plaintext transcriptions were usually tricky, given the vast difference between the language Bill wrote in and the languages humans used—but numbers, at least, were easy. Everyone had numbers.

And then he stared at the scrap of paper, reading the numbers over and over, until he was sure he'd memorized them, just in case he ever lost the journal.

And then he ate the paper.

And then he stacked the two cushions of his makeshift bed on top of each other, planted his face in them, and screamed.

Cipher, my lord. It had felt so, so, so good to be revered again.

His organs twisted with touch-hunger and loneliness.

####

Out in the Bahamas, along the southwest edge of the Bermuda Triangle, were two nut job hermits from Miami. Bill had convinced them that the only way they could purge their sins and purify their souls was by sculpting and selling golden avatars of God into which they could pour their guilt, and they had to keep doing it until they no longer felt guilty (and they would never not feel guilty; they needed so much therapy that Bill had ensured they'd never get). And then he'd convinced them that God's true face was an Eye of Providence in a top hat and bow tie.

Over the years he'd lost a little control over those two—in their desperation to be free of sin, they'd also started sculpting avatars to as many gods as they could find and selling them en masse to afford more art supplies—but hey, as long as his face was still mixed in with the rest, fine. Honestly, he was surprised those nuts weren't dead yet.

Somebody in this house had sent his location to them. And in a moment of what Bill imagined was stunning mental clarity, they had passed on that information to the single least dysfunctional pocket of Bill's top cult in the continental United States. Maybe when Bill was back at full power, he'd drop by the hermits' dreams to tell them they'd finally achieved absolution and could rest. Their decades of out-of-control scrupulosity would probably prevent them from believing him, but hey, he could say he'd tried. He washed his hands of all responsibility over them and their mental illnesses that he'd knowingly deliberately exacerbated for his own benefit. Not his problem.

But the question he came back to, over and over, was who had talked to them.

Bill needed to reach his Death Valley cultist. He needed a phone. Every phone in this house was well-guarded. No one would let him touch one... except, perhaps, whoever had sent the SOS on his behalf.

The only person who made sense was Stanford. Bill didn't think he'd ever told Ford about the nutty sculptors; but in the eighties he had given him the mailing addresses of some niche art dealers who would sell tapestries and statues of an obscure one-eyed god to collectors who could appreciate what they were looking at. Maybe Ford had gotten back in contact with them? Maybe he'd told them where Bill was, and they'd passed the information to the Bahamas?

Maybe Ford's feelings weren't quite so cold toward Bill as he'd been pretending.

Bill liked that idea a lot.

Maybe Bill's birthday gift had swung Ford back around to the side of reason—reminded him just how good he'd had it under a muse and mentor willing to teach him anything his nerdy little heart desired. Or maybe he'd always wanted to come back, and had just needed Bill to say it first.

He probably only pretended he hated Bill because they were surrounded by enemies—everyone in the house thought Ford was looking for a way to destroy Bill, what would happen if they knew the truth?

But the truth was there. Bill could almost seize it in his hands. All those moments where they almost talked like they were friends again, before Ford had to stop himself and leave. That one beautiful little word: jealous. And of course, there was the whole thing with the glass pyramid and the "Mysteries" that Ford had passed on—

—to Mabel.

There was another possibility.

As much as Bill would love if it was Ford, Mabel was the only person in the house who acted like she actually wanted Bill alive. Whatever "Mysteries" Ford was teaching her had something to do with Bill, the pyramid made that obvious. Maybe his lessons included the contact information of everyone else Ford knew who knew Bill? Maybe she'd taken it upon herself to call for help?

It was thin. And it was still dependent upon Ford harboring a secret loyalty to Bill that he was passing on to his great-niece. But that was where things stood: Ford was the only person in the house who definitely knew how to reach Bill's followers, but Mabel was the only person in the house who definitely might want to.

And he had to make completely sure of which one of them it was before he asked for a favor.

####

Ford had missed dinner again.

Fiddleford had sent Ford home with a pile of math. All the calculations he'd done to get the miniature particle accelerator to produce Dontium. By his reckoning, that there jar should've filled with Dontium faster than greased lightning; he just plumb can't understand why it trickled in like cold molasses. (His words.) He'd asked Ford to check his work, see if he'd missed something.

Ford was more than happy to help. It was a much-needed intellectual challenge that didn't involve Bill's underhanded birthday gift. Something that would let him feel like he was making progress. And it was comfortingly familiar. He and Fiddleford had spent weeks checking and re-checking each other's math in the lead up to the portal test, before they knew what a horror they were building.

As soon as Ford had gotten home, he'd put Fiddleford's papers in his underground study before going back to bed. Bill had already admitted he could glimpse the future, although Ford wasn't sure how far; and Ford was growing convinced that Bill's ability to perceive "higher dimensions" let him see through walls like they weren't there. He'd begun keeping Journal 5 and other sensitive materials down in his study at all times, hoping that the distance and layers of dirt and rock would keep Bill from peering in.

And when he'd dragged himself out of bed around noon—an embarrassingly late hour to get up, but he had been awake most of the night—he'd grabbed a quick breakfast/lunch, brewed a pot of coffee to take with him, and gone below to get to work.

He'd only worked seven or eight hours with a couple of reluctant breaks in the middle before his head began pounding too hard for him to ignore. He'd been neglecting his exercise regimen the past few weeks, and his back and neck were letting him know. In his thirties, he'd been able to work fourteen hours days and still want to keep going—and that was even before he'd handed his body over to Bill so he could keep working around the clock. He wasn't as young as he used to be.

He dragged himself upstairs after sunset, when the last ambient light from the sky still faintly glowed through the windows. He could make something quick and simple for dinner, go to bed early, and get up early to continue working. He pushed through the door to the dark living room—

"Hello!"

"Gah!" Ford jumped. "You. What are you doing here?"

Bill was leaning next to the door, a dim silhouette with his elbow on the wall and cheek in his hand. Even in the dark, Ford was sure he could see Bill's wicked grin at his reaction. "I happen to live here."

Ford let out an irritated huff. "Whatever you're up to, I don't have time to deal with it. Find someone else to bother." He pushed past Bill and headed toward the kitchen.

It would have been too much to expect Bill not to follow him, wouldn't it? "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that! Would it kill you to act like you're happy to see me?"

"Probably."

Bill's laugh made Ford's shoulders raise up around his ears. Maybe that was the source of his neck pain.

Bill shadowed him into the kitchen and leaned on the table, watching while Ford rummaged through the fridge. "But seriously, Sixer—who are you trying to impress by giving me the cold shoulder? I'm the only one here. You could afford to treat me like a person for two minutes." When Ford slammed the fridge door, Bill smacked it with the tip of an 8-ball cane. "Hey, have my food privileges been revoked? Give me a turn."

How long had Bill had a weapon? Ford snatched the cane from him, but opened the fridge and left it. "I don't consider you a person. I consider you an incalculably destructive force of pure, brutal chaos." He cracked three eggs in a skillet and opened a cabinet for one of the stove knobs they kept stored where Bill couldn't reach them.

"Flattering!" Bill started pulling out his usual nauseating array of condiments: today was sauerkraut, maraschino cherries, mustard, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce. (Why did he eat like that? Did his species usually subsist on a mostly liquid diet? Was it the flavors—?) "Hey, make me mac 'n' cheese, wouldja?"

"No."

"Fine. Leave the burner on when you're done, I'll make it myself."

"You're not allowed to use the stove."

"Then how about I sit here drinking mustard while you enjoy a hot meal." Bill waved three eggs at Ford. "At least make me eggs too. Zero extra effort on your part. I'll even crack them for you if you want."

Ford gave Bill a dark look; but he supposed, as one of the people who had agreed that Bill wasn't allowed to cook, he was in no position to complain about Bill begging him to cook on his behalf. He snatched the eggs out of Bill's hand. "How do you want them."

"I haven't eaten enough chicken eggs to have a preference. Whatever you'll complain least about doing."

Poorly scrambled eggs it was. Ford shut the fridge and returned to the stove.

Bill sat on the table and crossed his legs in lotus position while he waited. "But really, what do you get out of pretending you can't stand me! We both know it's an act."

Ford gave him a tired, sour look. "Even for you, you sound delusional."

"I know you don't really hate me."

"I could write an entire dissertation and earn another Ph.D. on the topic of how much I hate you."

Ford hated how excited Bill looked by that. "Would you?"

"No! Why would I waste that much time thinking about you?"

"It seems to me like you're already doing that."

The hair on the back of Ford's neck prickled. Surely Bill just meant Ford's research into how to kill him; but his mind flashed to the miniature grimoire he'd spent all his time poring over—the blueprints of Bill's childhood home—the face he'd absent-mindedly drawn in his journal in the middle of the night and quickly scribbled out. Could Bill still see through that face? Had Ford remembered to blind Bill's eye on the blueprints? What about the eyes drawn in his human faces? Did Bill know about Ford's other studies? What did it matter—nothing Ford was doing was wrong. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bill's smile slowly widened. "Sure you don't. You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. You might as well lean into it."

You're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private. "I am not..." Wasn't he? You're acting like a stalker, Sixer.

"Oh, Fordsy, come on." Bill uncrossed his legs, slid off the table, and was across the room faster than Ford had expected. Ford instinctively took a step back and bumped into the oven; Bill reached past him to lean a hand against the edge of the stove, inches from touching him. "You're not hiding it half as well as you think you are. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He smirked up at Ford, exposed eye wide and eager, utterly fascinated with him. "And bringing Mabel in on it? I'll have to admit, that surprised me. Can't say I disapprove, though."

Ford couldn't tell if the heat on the back of his neck was from Bill's accusations or the stove. "I beg your pardon?" What was he talking about—their conversation in Portland? The blueprints of Bill's home? (Using his great-niece to spy on Bill, lord, what was Ford doing?)

"Quit messing around! The Mysteries, Stanford. You think I don't know I'm the star of that show?" He poked the center of Ford's chest, "There's no way you joined a cult, you're not enough of a team player! What'd you do? Invent your own cult of one? Mixed a little of what I taught you, a little of whatever you learned out in the multiverse? I know you were asking around about me." Bill chuckled. "You want to keep your little rituals private, fine—I think it's cute, really—just tell me one thing I've been dying to know: how much have you told the kid?"

Ford stared at Bill.

Then he laughed in his face. "You really bought that?"

Bill's smile immediately vanished. "What?"

Ford shoved Bill's hands away. "There are no 'Mysteries.' It was a joke."

Bill stepped back, staring at Ford, brows furrowed. "A...? No," he said. "She's got that glass pyramid—"

"She wanted it because it was pretty," Ford said. "I gave her one since I was throwing them all out."

"That's the stupidest story I've ever heard. Then why would she have brought up the Mysteries!"

"Because," Ford said, "I told her, if you asked about the pyramid, she should make up something to confuse you."

Bill's mouth was open, but no words came out. His face had rapidly turned red. Several emotions flashed across his face in quick succession, from shock to confusion to humiliation to a rage so deep it almost looked like disgust. For a moment, from how Bill's fingers were curling like claws, Ford was sure Bill was about to attack him.

But then he clenched his jaw, backed off, leaned on the table, jammed his fists down against the tabletop, and glared at the floor.

Ford turned back to the stove, grinning to himself. Some of the eggs had burned slightly. Those were Bill's now. "What's the matter? Did you forget that humans can lie?"

Bill didn't reply.

"I'm surprised you didn't expect it. I seem to remember we got you with an impressive whopper last year—"

"Shut up."

"Now you don't want to talk?"

"Now you do?"

Good point; he didn't. If he'd finally rendered Bill speechless, he should enjoy it while he could.

He'd have to thank Mabel later for inventing the Mysteries. Sometimes that girl could be genius.

Ford turned off the burner, put the stove knob away, and dumped the eggs onto two plates. He didn't even bother to keep track of which plate had the burned eggs.

He shot a quick, exasperated look at Bill—he'd sat on top of the table again—and dropped a plate next to him. "Here." He grabbed a bag of bread and looked around for the toaster.

Behind him, voice trembling but low and dangerous, Bill said, "Don't look at me like that."

Ford glanced back warily. "Like what?"

Bill violently shoved off the table. There was an awful squeal of sliding furniture. Before Ford could react, Bill was in his face, grabbing him by his turtleneck, dragging him in, forcing him to look up at Bill.

Ford's peripheral vision was filled with gold. They were so close their noses nearly touched.

"Like you don't remember who I am!" Bill stared down with wide-eyed seething rage. "Your muse!" His voice cracked, "Your god!"

Ford stared up at Bill, speechless.

Then he looked down.

Bill was standing on a chair to make himself taller than Ford.

Ford ripped Bill's hands off his sweater. "You were never, ever my god."

Bill stumbled off the chair, catching himself hard on the edge of the table to keep from falling completely. "That's not true!" He heaved himself back onto his feet with a wince. "You worshiped me—"

"I admired you!" Ford jabbed a finger at Bill's chest. "I respected you! I—I even idolized you, but I never worshiped you!"

Bill jabbed a finger back, "You're splitting hairs! You practically turned your study into a temple to me—tapestries, rugs, statues—"

"Because you said it would help me reach you!"

"And it did! That's what shrines are for, genius!"

"It wasn't a shrine! Not to me."

"You're kidding me! All the money you dropped on that gold-plated statue and you expect me to believe that wasn't an act of worship—"

"Do not. Remind me. How much. That stupid statue cost."

"If you didn't build a shrine for worship then what in the world did you build it for!"

"Friendship!" Ford took a shaky breath in. "I thought... I honestly thought you—you—were my best friend." The air in the room trembled with heat. They were standing too close to each other. Ford refused to be the one to back up.

"I was," Bill said. "I still could be if you'd stop being a moron."

Ford laughed in disbelief. "Which is it, were you my god or my friend?!"

"They're not mutually exclusive—!"

"You can't keep your story straight for THIRTY SECONDS!"

"Don't you call me a LIAR, after EVERYTHING I taught you—!"

"In all the years I've known you I don't think you've told me the truth ONCE—!"

Stan flipped on the lights.

They froze and stared at him. They had their hands around each other's throats. Bill had a foot planted on Ford's stomach like he was trying to get a foothold to climb him. They were both covered in egg.

Stan said, "Could you do this in the morning?"

Ford said, "Sure."

Bill said, "He started it."

"I st—?! You started all of this thirty years ago—"

"Guys," Stan said tiredly.

With some effort, Ford unpeeled his hands from Bill's neck.

To his surprise, Bill voluntarily let go as well. Ford snatched up what was left of his plate of eggs, took the loaf of bread—he had lighters, he could toast it downstairs—and left the kitchen, turning the light off as he went.

Stan was waiting out in the entryway. "Heading to bed?"

"No." Ford shoveled a forkful of eggs in his mouth. "Going to be up late." He was too angry to sleep. He could eat, take a painkiller for his headache, and keep working.

"More research?"

"No. Calculations."

Stan's shoulders slumped; but all he said was, "Suit yourself. Don't stay up too late."

Ford glanced back once into the kitchen. Bill wasn't moving. He sat slumped in a chair, elbows on his knees. He'd pulled on his hood. Its eye stared at Ford.

Ford wasn't about to pity Bill over a performative display of angst. He'd fallen for that already.

He returned to his study and mathematics.

####

Bill stared at his plate of eggs. He mechanically pushed them around on the plate until they formed a perfect equilateral triangle. He scooped out an empty white eye in the middle.

He stood, snatched up the plate, and smashed it on the floor.

They thought he was stupid. They thought he couldn't use a stove if it didn't have knobs, as if he was a child! The humans made it easy for themselves to think of him as a child when they treated him like one, "baby-proof the doors" and "no sharp objects" and "don't talk to strangers." He could show them.

He grabbed the stem where one of the knobs had been removed, and twisted. He heard the hiss of gas under the burner. Everyone was asleep. He could fill the house with gas. It would only take a little push to make a spark and set the entire shack ablaze. In the dark room, he could see the first glimpse of future flames flickering yellow-orange in the periphery of his foresight. No one would survive. Who's your god now, smart guy? He'd rise like a phoenix from his own corpse and he'd tear this town apart.

Where was Mabel?

Was she home tonight?

Bill turned off the gas.

He pushed up his sleeve and pressed the fleshy part of his forearm onto the still-hot burner. The pain burned away his jumbled anger so he could think clearly.

Who cared how the nutty sculptors had gotten Bill's address? He was making good progress on lucid dreaming; maybe he'd astral projected across the country to call for help and forgotten it when he woke up. He'd probably saved himself without even remembering it. It didn't matter. The important thing was that they'd received the message; and now, Bill had friends on the outside. Friends who were on his side.

If he could ever contact them again.

Bill would find a way. He didn't need Ford's help. "Never worshiped you." Ha.

He needed fresh air. Even if it wasn't safe to escape yet, he needed to breathe. He carried himself backward through doorway into the gift shop, pulled aside the curtain hiding the ladder to the roof—

The trap door was shut. He stared up in despair.

He shot a glare toward the vending machine, and angrily crossed back into the living room.

The air was so stuffy inside the shack. "Never worshiped you." Liar. If it wasn't worship then what was it?

Bill took himself upstairs. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He lay on his makeshift bed curled up around himself, arms wrapped tight across his stomach, his burn pressed hard against a layer of knit yarn, thighs pulled up against his arms. It was a wholly alien position. It felt unnatural and bizarre. This body had curled like this of its own volition. It seemed like the only thing that briefly smothered the ache of emptiness and the hormonal inferno screaming loneliness through every vein. The loneliness wasn't his. He wasn't lonely. This body was.

Cipher, my lord.

He hated this body.

He ached to be revered again.

####

It was two in the morning. Ford sat at his desk, pages and pages of math scattered before him, glasses off, hand rubbing his eyes.

He didn't want to be checking a mountain of math like a human calculator. He wanted to be studying strange magic and researching new anomalies. He wanted to be digging through Bill's grimoire.

He wanted to be awed again.

####

(I've been waiting to write/draw Bill screaming his grief over not being worshiped since literally April. I hope y'all enjoyed! This is one of my favorite chapters so far, I'd love to hear what y'all think!!)

#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 #(*immediately edits post because i forgot the brick pattern on Bill's hoodie*)

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risathefairyofshampoo · 3 months

Text

Which members would I date in Riize? *ੈ✩‧₊˚

(My opinion + 'recommendation')

Disclaimer: This is just my personal preference. I got my opinion from the readings I made (X as a boyfriend). Tarot is no fact and should be taken with a grain of salt!

1. Anton ୨୧

Anton is giving soo much teen energy.

He is very caring, lovely, loyal and just kind. Literally the greenest greenflag.

I think Anton and I would understand each other pretty well. We also seem to have similar views. So that's why I put him on the number 1.

I like his energy a lot, and his energy is something I catch myself falling for a lot of times. (Idk why, but I always seem to have a thing for fire sun men with a water moon/rising and an earth placement in venus (sometimes mars))

-> I would recommend him to people that like caring partners who can be clingy, who are young but mature at the same time, who like kinda soft/shy partners that get comfortable with time (he will adore you a lot), and who are kinda career oriented

———————————

2. Sohee ୨୧

Sohee would be such a loving partner like... I'm so whipped.

He is very close to Anton. I'd say Anton is more my type, but Sohee is just Sohee. He is also very much a green flag.

His vibe is very nice. He is someone very positive and who is open to meeting new people. Sohee seems to be very fun.

I like him. He is very cute and especially whenever he sings.

-> I would recommend him to you if you like a partner who is VERY career oriented (could mean that there isn'tmuch time for your relationship), who has a very positive view on many things, someone who is very loving and appreciating you just for exciting.

—————————————————

3. Seunghan ୨୧

Okay, Seunghan seems to be super shy, but he is so lovely. He is very kind as well as romantic. Its just the thing that I don't know what to do when someone is very emotional and just crying all of a sudden.

-> If you know how to handle his emotions well, then go for it. Also, if you are kinda like a caring mother , GO FOR IT! If you are into people that are shy, lovely, kind and romantic, then go and make a move. He would like someone who listens, so if you do, then you might be a good pick for him.

———————

4. Shotaro ୨୧

Very flirty, and he seems to be funny, but I don't think we would work out that well. I'd say we would lose interest very fast. But he seems to be very nice as well. He's just not doing anything for me.

->If you want a partner that is funny and who laughs with you about everything then Shotaro seems to be a good pick. He is very passionate and very funny. Being in a relationship with Shotaro is never boring (sometimes it could be lol...If he falls out of love).—————————————

5. Wonbin ୨୧

Romantic and passionate but not that much of my type. Yes, he is pretty, but that's not something very important for me to be attracted to someone. Also he isn't very communicative (but he would show his feelings differently)

-> For people that have daddy issues, who are subs lol, who are into power play. People who like a partner who is very romantic and can get obsessed easily, so if you want somebody who is kinda kinky and who likes to plan ahead (if you have something serious going on with him than trust me, he definitely means it)

————————————————

6. Eunseok ୨୧

Literally don't understand him. As of my reading, he is kinda weird and unpredictable. He is giving me dad vibes.

I guess he would be the type of dad to look through the window at 6 am with a coffee. Just staring out of the window.

I can't understand him that well cause he isn't that communicative. I would be there just being like, huh? What do you want from me? I would be suuuper confused.

-> I wouldn't recommend him. He seems to be not that interested when it comes to relationships and tbh you wouldn't miss much.

————————————————————————

7. Sungchan ୨୧

Just no.

I don't like his energy. A lot of emotional problems that he is denying and not working on. He seems to be like a matcho. A very big ego. He is kinda toxic. Very toxic masculinity lol. Just no

-> This one's easy: Wouldn't recommend him!

If you have any questions about the boys/my opinion, let me know!

#riize headcanons #riize tarot #riize anton #riize sungchan #riize shotaro #riize seunghan #riize sohee #riize wonbin #riize eunseok #kpop tarot #kpop #kpopidol #music #tarot cards #risathefairyofshampoo

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lollytea · 1 year

Note

hunter baby fever haver so true. guy who is mentally furnishing a nursery before even having his own place. baby name book addict. hes comparing & crossreferencing BI & earth names as soon as children start to be a possibility

Fr I don't think he even particularly cared about kids at all until a certain point. Like his lukewarm reaction to little Philip in Hollow Mind, before he actually realized who he was? He was all like "Hm. Yes. That certainly is. A Child."

But then he starts his apprenticeship under Dell and suddenly he's exposed to kids every day. And he's put into situations where he needs to talk to them and understand them because it helps with the palisman carving process. And he was pretty awkward at first cuz he has barely had any interaction with children before this (King was the only child he knew, who happens to be very mature for his age) and kids are weird and bizarre and unpredictable and Hunter is a little out of his depth. But he gradually get accustomed to it and even warms up to being around them, even finding them endearing. So at that point he's like "Hmmm....maybe....maybe I'd like kids one day. Maybe....."

But then, but then, but THEN!!! But then he's at work one day and somebody lets him hold their baby and its all fucking over for him. It awakens the beast. He's not normal anymore. How can he possibly be normal??? How??? How can he continue to exist and live an indifferent life when babies are so fucking SMALL?????? WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!! And then it just gets worse and worse and worse over time. He gets more and more comfortable with kids. He holds more babies. Now he's just insane about it.

And the thing is. Hunter knows he and Willow are too young for a baby. He knows neither are emotionally mature enough. He knows they still have so much growing up to do. He KNOWS okay he knows. So he's not begging for a baby. He has no intention of trying to have a baby right now. But that doesn't stop him from being in AGONY over the fact that it's gonna be several years before he can have a baby. His primal instincts are like. WANNA HOLD BABY!!! WANNA SQUISH BABY!!!! WANNA SMOOCH BABY!!!!!

Man is sighing wistfully over little baby clothes at the market and Willow's kicking herself for leaving him unattended cuz now he's gonna be in one of those moods tonight where he's whispering potential baby names in her ear when they're cuddling and she's had ENOUGH of it. She already wakes up every morning to twelve video links from Hunter of toddlers eating lemons and making funny faces or some shit because its usually in the middle of the night when his fever is the most potent.

Willow wants kids one day too. But she's also in very deep in her Flyer Derby thing. So while Hunter's idea of having children is the aftermath, Willow's mind immediately goes to the pregnancy part. And like. She has no intention of taking a pause from her athlete life yet. She's thriving.

Tho in fairness she does think it's kinda funny just how much of a menace Hunter is over this. He's just. Listen. If Hunter was never supposed to be a father, fate wouldn't land him with so many hobbies that could be utilized for future fatherhood.

An avid bookworm with an insanitable curiosity? He's 19 years old and reading parenting books for fun.

A tailor? He can sew, knit and embroider. He can MAKE little baby hats and mittens and booties and blankets. He'd probably be so excited to do so actually.

Woodcarver? He can build little wooden baby toys. He can make a mobile with little dangling palismen. He can build the goddamn crib itself and carve patterns into it of all of his and Willow's favourite flowers.

Like. He's spent a decade preparing. He's gonna be so ready when the time comes. But also you know that when the time DOES finally come and Willow tells him the exciting news, Hunter's euphoric celebration lasts for a total of four and a half minutes before he's like "Oh Titan....oh Titan, Willow, what if I'm a horrible father?"

He's a mess of a man.

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yellowocaballero · 1 year

Text

I said a little bit about this in a comment a few hours ago (hey kenny) and I actually really felt like saying more.

For all that gay people/Tumblr people/AO3 peope/waves hand are really, really into found family they are actually pretty allergic to conceptualizing familial relationships outside of nuclear family roles.

I see a billion posts on Tumblr about how friendships can be just as important as romantic relationships, if not more, but nobody ever actually writes the friendship as important as a romantic relationship. Or friendships are interpreted as romantic, or friendships are sidelined for the romantic relationship. It's always a weird disparity between what people say are important and people actually find important for me.

So when we do step out of romantic relationship and into gen relationships, we typically enter the trope world of #foundfamily. But the same kind of flattening of characters for the sake of shoving them into yaoi ghost archetypes honestly also really happens with family relationships.

There is always a dad. There's always a mom. There's always siblings (frequently the canon female love interest). Maybe an uncle? Ex-wife if we are feeling sexy that day.

I really rarely see people interested in #foundfamily relationships outside of those boxes. It is overwhelmingly, entirely American-centric. There's no recognition of the unbelievable diversity and breadth of human relationships, or the very many ways there are to love somebody. In fanfic, if there's a much older male character emotional close to younger characters, he's dad mode. And the relationship then follows the character and story beats of the father-child relationship intended to draw out those fuzzy family feelings. Damn, I read found family stuff to get away from the intense claustrophobia of the fandom's favorite ship, I'm not here to get family yaoi ghosted here too.

I think you can create a very unique and engaging relationship if you're wiling to engage with the unknown and uncomfortable. Make a path without the paint by numbers story beats and character arcs. Please stop letting tropes rule your writing instead of construct it.

Write stories about love. Write relationships about loving each other. Just start from there, and don't worry about anything else. Create a relationship that is its own. Let it breathe. It can stand on its own two feet. It'll be a richer relationship and a richer story.

#nothing in particular is sparking this it's just on my mind.#my writing #i can give a shitton of examples but I don't want to specify this too hard #didn't know i could get aro spectrum on main about gen fic but im capable of many beautiful things #the way that absolutely everybody does this makes a lot of star wars and batman fic extremely boring #oh and like im not even going into how turning relationships romantic can often really flatten a character and a relationship #that's obvious and we know.#also sw fandom got VERY WEIRD and very western centric to the point of being iffy #about how acknowledging a master&padawan as father&son is 'good end' and desirable #and that a master who will not/can not do that is abusive and obi-wan should be removed to a more traditional family enviornment w/mandos #weird. i read a lot of babywan. ppl are still freaks about quigon. anyway

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whumpetywhumpwhump · 2 months

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Okay, what you think of seizure/convulsions whump? And when did you realize you were a hospital/sickfic fan?

*love your blog, let's be friends!!

Coupla great questions!!!

1. I do love seizure whump a LOT. I try to make sure things are accurate because ofc these things (like a lot of sickfic and whumpy stuff) do affect real people, but yes I absolutely love reading and writing about it. Since I don't usually read whumper content, a lot of the seizure stuff comes in the form of epilepsy HCs and also pretty serious illnesses like meningitis.

There's something about seizures in whump which just takes things to the next level- if a character is epileptic, the looming threat of a seizure is just always there, and when it happens there's the panic of how long it's going to last/whether it's going to be a big one etc etc. If a character is sick and starts seizing, it's a sign that things really aren't right, and perhaps tips the scales for caretakers from 'illness like the flu' to 'this character is dangerously ill and needs to go to a hospital NOW'.

I have so many things I could talk about here lol, and maybe if people want to see it I could make a whole post about seizure whump on its own, but yeah, I like it a whole bunch!

2. I can't quite pinpoint the exact time I realised I was really into hospital whump, and that's probably because I've been into it for a LONGGG time. Like, even as a kid if there was a character I was really into, I'd start picturing them in these precarious situations. It's only when I got older, obviously, that I discovered there was a community of people who were just like me, and I have to say it was super relieving (I genuinely thought I was a complete weirdo with original, weird thoughts).

I mean, to put things into perspective I wanted to be a doctor when I was five, and a lot of that was because I already loved whump.

An interesting little thing as well is how I think this side of me co-exists with my emetophobia: I've always been super afraid of vomit IRL, and as somebody who's also super into psychology, I find it so interesting how the things we fear and the things we're attracted to can be so linked. After all, 'arousal' is the word used to describe the body's reaction to a stimulus, fearful or exciting or.... otherwise. A lot of people love scary movies because the domesticated fear is like a safe way of experiencing terror that otherwise only happens in real life dangerous situations. In a similar way, I suppose I love sickfics because I'm so afraid of them IRL, and it's a safe way to explore the intense feelings I have about it.

Anyway, this post derailed into me talking about WHY I'm into sickfic (I think) but I find it fascinating!!!

Thanks so much for the ask, and we can definitely be friends! Always love meeting fellow whump lovers ❤️

#asks #send asks #whump prompts #seizure whump #whump #sicknario #sickfic #sickfic whump

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chaifootsteps · 5 months

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Obligatory "I know it's petty, but"... seeing your tweet replies in response to the Viv stans simply not caring about the people she's hurt COMPLETELY ratio their tweets in terms of likes makes me really happy. It's like there's finally more sanity showing its face in this whole Vivziepop topic, after YEARS of people being to afraid to even touch the topic, people are finally getting fed up and supporting these posts with the information of her abuse. "I don't know how to explain to you that you should care about other people." and ""I didn't read the screenshots because I don't care as long as I get my shitty demon show" is what I'm hearing." are great, VERY true, and much deserving of having 10x the amount of likes that the stan replies have, lol.

I don't want to make you feel weird or put you on a pedestal or anything, because it definitely took a LOT of brave people speaking up about their experiences to finally get to this point, but thank you for being so persistent and reliable in archiving this information and making sure it gets seen. You're probably the most consistent source (with the help of the others that find and send you screenshots of course) of reliable information regarding Viv's history of abuse, and as somebody who's gotten horrible vibes from her since 2016, it's so nice to finally have this many sources to reassure that I was right in feeling that way. Friends of mine that've dismissed any claims of abuse as "lying and drama-starting for clout" in the past are FINALLY realizing with all this information that's coming out, as well as the horribly childish behavior from Viv on Twitter recently, that she actually IS a bad person, and has been for a while. It's so refreshing to finally see the tides really starting to turn, and more people not letting this shitty behavior be brushed under the rug anymore.

It comes at the cost of invoking the feral rage of the crazy mob side of the fandom, but it's really, truly making a good difference in spite of their bitching, and I love that. So, thank you! Please keep staying safe, and DEFINITELY never turn off your VPN, those fandom extremists sound disturbing as fuck.

It's extremely reassuring to see how much sanity has been going around...like it's been locked up in a chest all these years and suddenly burst free! I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and it will have all been a dream.

And thanks, Anon. <3 It's deeply appreciated, although it's true, the credit goes to Vivzie's victims who put those screenshots out there first and took the full force of the Viv mob for it. And they had industry careers to worry about -- all I did was collect them from said victims, collect them from people who are better sleuthers than I'll ever be, make snarky remarks, and have my dragon fetish made fun of.

I couldn't be more proud of this motley group than I am. But yeah, the VPN is definitely staying on!

#Anonymous #nice things people say #vivziepop critical #actual blog post

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sandinthepipes · 3 months

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Hello fellow dyslexic/adhd/others who would like to enjoy fanfics through their ears, I just spent the entire day testing android apps to find one that doesn’t suck as much.

TL;DR - these two T2S, Audify

I feel like I need to share this because 90% the apps don’t even allow a web page as a source, let alone get past the log in page, and I cant be the only one who doesn’t want to download every single fic.

“Oh, but doesn’t android have a built-in text-to-speech function in the accessibility settings?” I hear you ask. Yes, but it sucks ass very badly. Firstly it only reads in the system language, so it doesn’t really work. Second, you need to highlight all that you want it to read, and seeing that I read a minimum of 15k words in a sitting, I’m not gonna do that.

Also I’m broke, I imagine you are too, but even if I wasn’t I’m not paying for this, if I did I wouldn’t even be supporting a human being, so no.

I’ll immediately break your trust with the first point, but it’s what I’ve been doing until now, and now that I know what the android mobile experience is like, I feel the need to include this. The best solution I’ve had so far (which works wonders, let me tell you) is letting Siri read them on the iPad. It’s only doable when I’m at home and it’s still an apple product, so that’s why I began the research. However the positive points are INCREDIBLE so I’m going to ads it to the list because I said so.

First of all it’s built-in and SO EASY to access, you literally just swipe with two fingers and it stars to read. It reads the punctuation, you might think that’s a given and so did I, but no. A question sounds like a question, an exclamation point does why its supposed to do, short sentences sound what they’re supposed to sound like. In apparently all the apps ever created, you won’t find any of it, just flat, monotone voices with flat little pauses. Overall excellent experience 10/10.

Cons: it’s on apple, I consider apple the same as Disney, I would love to not give them more money so that they can make the market increasingly worse. Every now and then a system update will fuck with the tts function and it will be unusable for a while. Sometimes it doesn’t like the text format on some fics. It’s not portable.

Now that we got that out of the way let us get to the meet.

Speechify - it sucks bad. At least the free version, but seen as it costs almost 10€ a month I’m not even going to consider the premium version. Fuck that. You can’t increase the speed, and as somebody who hasn’t watched a single YouTube video on normal speed since they added the function I can’t do that, too slow, I forgot what we were talking about once we get to the end of the sentence. Also you can only use those weird very robotic voices, and they’re not even that many. Don’t recommend. I felt like I had to include it since it was one of the few who allowed browser navigation and well, it’s speechify. Also you can’t t have saved more than 3 “files” per time. Doesn’t have sleep mode.

T2S - cute. It works. Again, no emotions, but it reads what it has to, nice voice selections, easy to use. The premium version adds literally nothing, they’re a good app, what they have, they give. Also you can customise the interface colour if you want. Has the sleep mode.

Audify - works exactly the same as T2S, but it saves the history and has a bit more customisation for how it reads and what it reads (which you don’t really need for ao3, but if you wanted to read, say, Wikipedia with all the notes and stuff, now you know). Has the sleep mode.

That’s all folks. Now go and be free of your reading impediment, or be free in your multitasking, or whatever you want to do. I’m done, I’ve given my datas to all kinds of shady apps, I need to go do damage control

#fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #dyslexia #dyslexic #adhd #texttospeech #text to speech #tts

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horsetailcurlers2 · 2 months

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YET ANOTHER long and obnoxious stream of my thoughts while watching grey’s anatomy for the first time (season 14 because i’m still hanging on by a thread)

-why did megan hunt have a fresh coat of mascara and some lip gloss on when she got flown in with her gaping abdominal wound LMAO

-teddy!!!!!

-i absolutely think they should tell megan about meredith and riggs and let her make an informed decision on whether she wants meredith to be her surgeon. this is greys anatomy, of course there’s gonna be a conflict of interest. they’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.

-somebody tell me when the show stops being worth watching. so far i’m hanging on bc i’m mildly interested in how jo and alex turn out, i want teddy and amelia to interact, and i’ve warmed up to arizona since she broke up with callie. obvi i love meredith i just don’t know how much more they can do with her before i just want her to take a warm bath and retire to somewhere far far away with her children.

-did amelia relapse offscreen???? wtf is going on???

-okay she has a tumor i guess. sure, okay, whatever. !!!!

-she put a gun in her !!!!!!!!! for a man???

-i don’t love the way they’ve introduced the new intern class. they set it up as if we already know them, whereas i feel like with every other class of interns we’ve gotten eased into it a bit more before we’re just tossed into this unfamiliar dynamic

-okay but wait i do like that in this ep w the roller coaster (and the people who are supposed to be baby cristina, george and izzie) they referenced the old intro. i think the writers knew they needed a little nostalgia to hook people back in at this point. jury is still out whether or not it’s working on me.

-maybe i’m stupid but why in the fuck would they have so many important things dependent on one networked computer system. why on earth would cardiac monitors be hackable?????

-idk about maggie/jackson…. seems too incest adjacent

-the casual gaslighting and manipulation with paul stadler is so well written

-“jackson avery, you are such a disappointment, i thought you were woke!!!”

-genuine question: do they just not do chemistry reads on this show when they cast romantic interests???

-*choked up*”right before she died, she told me i should be more slutty. and i just wish i could call her and tell her how slutty i’m being” i really do love maggie

-maybe i missed it but why does carina have an italian accent but andrew doesn’t?

-i like the development of jo and meredith’s relationship

-i think meredith and this firefighter woman should kiss on the mouth

-i like april better now that she’s kind of a mess

-OOH wait does helm have a little crush on meredith bc i’m kind of obsessed with that

-if there’s one thing greys usually kills it with its casting younger versions of characters for flashbacks

-i miss joe the bartender :(

-oh my god he gives them fake cancer so he can charge them for fake chemo?????? what the fuck

-too much of an emphasis on these lesbian cookies…. suspicious

-okay yeah that makes sense. i love this

-nurse olivia!!

-olivia of course has a right to still be upset but it’s a little weird to assume alex didn’t change at all in the past ten years. not to mention it’s weird to act morally superior about it now when she cheated on george with alex

-“if you wanna rebuild you have to tear it down first” bingo

-did i miss amelia getting her own place or is she taking this girl to meredith’s house??

-okay i guess she’s just moved in with owen again. i need to pay better attention lol but so much keeps happening and it’s a lot of mush to sift through

-“meredith grey is straight” “ever hear her talk about cristina yang?” LMAO

-PREGNANT?

#if you are ever curious why i have enough time on my hands to move through the seasons so fast #don’t worry about it. next question #greys anatomy #these are all tagged under #greys reactions #meredith grey #teddy altman #jo wilson #amelia shepherd #maggie pierce

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baronetcoins · 4 months

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I feel like I win when I lose—Director's Commentary

In what is rapidly becoming a tradition of mine, I went on a research Bender for my Yuletide fic and there are so many details I want to point out and discuss—so I will. This year I wrote I feel like I win when I lose for @avengingmariner and I did loose my mind over it, but in a fun way. Join me in my descent into madness below the cut.

My brief was "you must put my man laurence in A Situation" and I somehow landed on the core nugget of "Napoleon finds Laurence in his darkest hour, instead of Tharkay"—mostly because NGL I haven't read further in this series than Victory of Eagles. I'm working on it, just not there yet.

From that point I just sort of... started writing and felt out where the story wanted to go, and then I kept falling into research holes. Here are some of the fun pieces of information I learned in rough order of where they popped up in the fic.

There was chicken set aside from the dinner he was supposed to have had hours ago, before an urgent missive had pulled him away—a simple roast bird, born out from what local provisions had been found

The WEEK I was working on this, Max Miller of Tasting History put out a video on Napoleon. I wasn't able to work in a lot of detail about the food here just because I couldn't make it flow into what I was writing, but there's so much I wish I could have talked about. The weird thing with chicken! Apocryphal stories about how dishes got their names! His drinking habits! The inherent whatever of breaking bread with somebody who's supposed to be your enemy! Now that I'm writing this paragraph I feel like I need to write another fic about food.

And then I Made chicken marengo the week after because I was curious. It was fine?

le mistral noir

Now this bit owes its thanks to Kangoo, my resident French correspondent. I was talking to him about what could be a nickname the French soldiers used for Temeraire, and he suggested "le mistral" which he described as "(very cold and often violent wind that blows into france from great britain, known for cleaning the sky of clouds and also wrecking your shit) (also the name of a fighter plane)" and I went "oh, that's Perfect". And I wanted to be able to explain that reference. Because it's So Good.

He blinked around at the courtyard of brick building before being hurried just as swiftly into a fine bedchamber where he was given a cold supper and the opportunity to wash himself. With little else to do, he fell into another restless sleep.

This was a fun bit of gamesmanship to think out—where would Napoleon want to set the treaty signing in order to send a message? And in order to think about that, I had to learn more about how the government of Britain worked in this timeframe (polisci major hat incoming).

In the US, authority to make treaties is vested in the executive branch, but the legislative branch has to ratify them. I did not know how that worked for the British, because their system mystefies me to this day. Luckily, I found this paper which explains how it worked in 1938, and there isn't much reason to expect it to have changed in that period, so the answer is "at least in theory, the authority rests with the Crown".

Based on that, I figured he'd want to make a point by holding it in a royal building as opposed to Westminster, so I went with St. James' palace which has been used for state stuff forever. Unfortunately, the details for the interior of St. James' are scarce. I was looking at 1860s watercolors to try and squint out a layout.

It was a dress uniform of aviator green, with gold braid and buttons as well as twin epaulettes. He dropped it as if it were a hot coal.

This was perhaps my longest diversion. I'm not intimately familiar with the internal culture of the military <understatement, but I knew having Laurence be present in any form would be read as a huge statement. So what kind of statement would you want to make? Ultimately I went with "the biggest 'fuck you' possible", so Laurence in a British aviator's uniform.

Then there was the question of fringe or no fringe. Which didn't even make it into the fic, but was an interesting diversion. You see, "captain" is a term that connotes a different level of authority in the Army vs the Navy. NATO has a standard rank scale I was able to squint at here, as it tries to standardize across branches and countries. Captain in the British Army is an OF-2 rank, but Captain in the British Navy is an OF-5 rank. What does it represent in those terms in the Arial Corps? I have no idea! This impacts nothing here other than if one or both epaulettes would have fringe on them.

He wandered the hallways, passing French soldiers who saluted him and English dignitaries who ignored him or glared at him in turn. In desperation he returned to seek refuge in the room he’d been left last.

The medal Laurence gets is that of the Légion d'honneur, and nominally military personnel in uniform are supposed to salute other uniformed personnel wearing it, regardless of ranks involved. That was too good of a detail not to gesture at.

The Wikipedia article

I picked Jacques-Louis David entirely because he's my favorite artist of this time period and location, though the fact he did official work for Napoleon was a bonus. I'm very interested in the uses of these really formalized displays of image-crafting as used for propaganda, and also it's just fun to think about. Spent ages looking at Wikipedia too to get the formatting and the style of writing right, which I think I did.

The Title

Really, it just made me laugh, so it had to stay. I mean the song is also fitting and I think it's the sentiment I wanted to gesture at emotionally, but it is also funny,

#my writing #talking about words #temeraire #rambling #whoo BOY that one got away from me

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dostoyevsky-official · 8 months

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How Merve Emre became the hottest — and most divisive — name in literary criticism

Wherever Emre goes, for better or worse, she tends to turn heads. "Merve is the kind of literary 'it girl' of the moment," the senior editor, who's worked with Emre, said. "Everyone's jealous of her because she's extremely prolific, extremely productive, extremely beautiful. And she also is very polarizing. And I think that she is polarizing in great part because she is so prolific and so beautiful."

[...] "She's somebody who shows you why you might really love something rather than show why you shouldn't love it at all," Michael Roth, the president of Wesleyan University, said. Reading Emre on an author she loves is like listening to someone describe the honeymoon phase of a new relationship — her criticism has an erotic charge to it.

[...] Over the past few years, Emre's reach has grown such that she has the power to represent her field in the public imagination much the way Alison Roman has become shorthand for "cookbook author" or Frank Gehry for "architect." It leaves her in both a prestigious and precarious position, with seemingly as many people in the cutthroat literary world cheering her on as rooting for her to fail. "Academics can't bear it when someone does popular work," her friend the philosopher Jason Stanley said. The stench of misogyny, too, is hard to ignore. As trite as it is to dismiss someone's haters by saying "they're just jealous," her friend Anna Shechtman, the writer and crossword designer, noted, "it may actually be true when it comes to Merve."

Courting an audience and wearing one's ambition as openly as Emre does is "a complicated variable for a lot of academics," one Ivy League professor noted. "It's a moment where your weird little closed world suddenly gets cool on the outside, and is it gonna get cool in a way that ruins what you love about it?"

[...] Emre sees her role as part of a larger mission to democratize criticism beyond the walls of the academy. She wants to be "the Avon Lady of criticism," she joked.

[...] Emre is the eldest of three girls born in Adana, Turkey, to two doctor parents who emigrated to the US when she was 3. [...] In 2007, she graduated from Harvard and went to work as a management consultant at Bain & Company in New York. She made a lot of money and was "very, very, very bad at it," she said.

Her ex-colleagues remember it differently. "Of all the people I've recruited to Bain in the 30 years, and this is in the thousands, she is one of the brightest," said Chris Bierly, her mentor at Bain, who called her "other-level intelligent." Still, he said, "she was impatient with learning the job from the bottom up." When she was toying with leaving the industry a few years later, he asked her why. "She said, 'I want to do your job. I just don't wanna do all the jobs in between,'" he recalled.

After a year and a half, Emre fled the consulting world and applied for a Ph.D. in English at Yale. "Going to graduate school in literary studies was a form of rebellion," she said. "I suspect I got as much pleasure from it as I would have been if I'd been getting wasted in high school." [...] It was there she developed the sociological approach to criticism that informs much of her work; her thesis, "Paraliterary," was about the idea of "good" and "bad" readers and how literary critics need to draw the circle wider in order to keep their field relevant.

[...] She reads as many as two books a day. For every book she writes, she gets a tattoo of its call number in the Library of Congress on her side.

[...] She moved to Montreal to teach at McGill in 2016, with Nakarado and 1-year-old Aydin in tow. "The students loved her. She had a line outside her office door," her former colleague Ara Osterweil said, recalling the excitement that surrounded her glamorous, brilliant colleague who wore stilettos to her lectures.

She also rubbed some people the wrong way. "She thought she was Beyoncé coming into the department," one former colleague said. "She didn't want colleagues or students. She wanted an audience."

Even more so than in consulting, there is a fixation in academia on bureaucratic rank that Emre has little patience for. "I was never someone who was going to be comfortable with highly hierarchical and patriarchal institutions," she said, explaining that one of the reasons she never learned to drive was because she couldn't tolerate being taught by her father. "So now my husband drives me," she noted with irony.

[...] "She should not be in academia because there is a measure of burying your own opinion in order to mentor, and she does not have that capacity," the colleague who thought she acted like Beyoncé said. "She liked to talk about the money she was getting for the book on personality traits, and that was just so hilarious to everyone, because she was so un-self-aware of her own personality."

[...] But not everyone liked Emre's way of doing things. Last year, someone sent an anonymous note about Emre to half a dozen professors around the US with no return address. It's titled "ME, a short biography" and reads: "Daughter of rich doctors with vacation homes in different countries claiming poor immigrant status tears through Ivies like the Ivy pricks she denounces finds tall, useless pretty boy husband to have some children to lie about." Typed out in flowery word-processor cursive, it continues: "Lives eats breathes shits on social media for a decade, wanted by no university in the United States, writes click bait books to become filthy rich to buy followers and bribe half her profession to pretend the emperor has clothes on, badmouths every place she's worked" and "still cannot shake the absolute thirst."

[...] "People in this business can be really weird," [Michael Berube, a professor of English at Penn State] said, though he noted that they generally don't resort to real violence. "They just tend to be sort of textually obsessed."

Emre was shaken by the incident. "It was hard for me to imagine how thwarted" someone must feel to send something like that, she said. Still, she tried to have a sense of humor about it. "The author probably meant to use the word 'slake,' not 'shake,' since thirst is not something you shake." She has no idea who's responsible. "My sense is that only an academic could imagine that essays on James Joyce or Simone de Beauvoir were driving The New Yorker's advertising revenue," she remarked, noting that the postmark on the envelope suggests it was mailed from near Fordham University. At least, as one of her friends noted upon receiving the letter, "even your haters can't deny that your man is hot."

[...] As Emre became increasingly frustrated with academia, she began pouring herself into her writing career. "When I imagine the way that Merve thinks, it's like the spreading branches of a tree — everything can take you somewhere," her friend the writer Sarah Chihaya said. "She's not always interested in getting from point A to point B but rather in helping to open up all these expanding questions." She did the edits for her first New Yorker web piece in the hospital the day after giving birth to Altan back in 2017. Other academics resented seeing Emre's byline everywhere. There was a bit of a feeling, like, "Why does she get to write for The New Yorker?" her friend Anna Shechtman said.

The media world first really started paying attention to Emre after she panned writer Durga Chew-Bose's 2017 essay collection, "Too Much and Not the Mood." That piece "put her on everybody's radar," said the critic Christian Lorentzen, which is "rare for something in the Boston Review." In it, she laid out her concern that today's personal essayists are concerned not with judgments about "the formal or stylistic features of prose" but with "pretty phrases that mean nothing and teach nothing," whose only purpose is to confirm the "author's status as a beacon of complex selfhood."

Emre was blasted for being anti-feminist; Lena Dunham, a friend of Chew-Bose, tweeted that the review was "rude, patronizing bullshit." Nowadays, Emre is trying to move away from writing about books she doesn't like. "The easiest way to get attention is to have a kind of contrarian take about another female writer," she said. "It is not challenging to get people not to read something. People are not reading things all the time."

[...] The discussion segued to her Twitter presence. Did she feel there was any tension between her philosophy of criticism, which encourages the evacuation of the personal, and her more confessional use of social media? "These are two totally different genres that we're talking about," she said, as we scaled the steps outside the Yale Science Building. The idea that "high-quality criticism" and "canny self-promotion" are trade-offs "seems to rely on an error, which is the belief that just because something is popular, or is marketed well, it can't also be good."

"But the other thing is like, I don't actually think that the work relies on the evacuation of subjectivity," she continued. "It is impossible. So then I think the question becomes, what does it mean to make style charismatic through an act of withholding access to the personal in one genre, and then giving or creating the appearance of giving people access to the personal in another kind of genre?"

"So are you saying this is all a calculated dance?" I asked.

"Everything's a calculated dance," she shot back. "It would be foolish for anyone to think that what happens in a form of writing, whether it's a long-form magazine piece or 140 characters, isn't in some way calculated. I wonder what pure authenticity would even be."

[...] Emre's calling, as she sees it, is no less than the wholesale reform of higher education from the ground up. She is preoccupied with two interconnected crises. The first is an economic crisis of the humanities: Higher education is overpriced yet underfunded, there aren't enough jobs, and college degrees are increasingly devalued. The second is what her friend John Guillory has dubbed a crisis of legitimation within the profession: that literary criticism has become trapped in English departments, talking only to itself, rendered useless and separate from the reading public. Her goal is to make the practice of teaching criticism, which she sees as a public good, accessible to the wider world.

"I understand the purpose of literature as a kind of meeting place between reader and writer. It's the romance of that imagined meeting place, and it's the romance of all of the possibility that still lives there," Emre said. "One very cynical way to think about life is that it's a series of reducing possibilities. And one way to think about what criticism does is that it's a place where possibility is left really open-ended."

[...] These grand ambitions, she suggested, are why she has let herself be profiled, despite her distaste for the endeavor; she's savvy enough to know that building a brand is necessary to her larger mission. Twitter, for instance, "is a way of addressing a very different kind of public" than one gets to address at Yale or Wesleyan or The New Yorker. "We are people who are supposed to be preservers and disseminators of literature or literary culture, and we're not actually engaging people to read," she said. "If you're not trying to get people excited about it, then why are you doing it?"

#emre #this is the profile #the new editor makes it difficult to post these

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