#All he draws are red and blue triangles...

[rollforarcana]

Art Therapy Notes: He only draws red and blue triangles.

[dabigbirb]

“Saw his dimension burn”

“Misses home, but can’t return”

[bugisbonkerz]

fucked up creature experiences remorse

[the-hopeless-fanboy]

Bill fans when triangles

[milkymars]

Everything we know about Bill Cipher's past so far

His home was called Euclydia and it was entirely two dimensional. ("Flat minds in a flat world with flat dreams.")

Bill was unique among his people because he had a mutation that allowed him to see the third dimension. This can mean that either a) Euclideans don't have eyes and Bill is the only one who had one or b) if they did have eyes, he literally had a third eye.

Bill's parents were most likely named Scalene and Euclid. Entering either of their names into the computer gives the prompt LIFE FORM NOT FOUND. Bill is stated to only draw red and blue triangles in art therapy, so those were probably their appearances.

From the code JUSTFITIN, you get this colour-coded poem:

Rock a bye billy Please don’t you cry It’s not your fault You have that strange eye Stay safe with mommy You’ll never fall And we’ll always love you Sharp angles and all

Bill says that everyone in Euclydia loved him. However, it's more likely that he was feared because of his mutation and talk of a third dimension. Bill has said numerous times that love and fear are the same, and if you enter WELLWELLWELLBEING into the computer:

Bill's parents took him to a doctor to help suppress his vision of the third dimension. This has been discovered through the codes on the silly straw page:

Fussy eater, baby Billy / Wouldn't drink unless it's silly The doctor says three sips a day / Will make the visions go away Eye doctor of a different kind / Who wants to make his patient blind Twisted out of shape after the kill / The ghosts of his family are haunting him still

Bill is responsible for the Euclidean massacre. Reversed audio on the website says that "the sky is on fire", and when Bill talks about liberating his dimension, his eye shows a fiery landscape too. Though he claims to have liberated them both in Weirdmageddon and the transmission with Time Baby, he is regretful and misses home. If you type in EVENHISLIESARELIES, you get a transcript of one of his sessions in the theraprism.

And from the axolotl's poem in Curse of the Time Pirate's Treasure:

When he tells Ford about his home dimension, he says that it was destroyed by a monster. And when Ford says that he could seek out the monster and get revenge on it, Bill replies: "Sixer, it would eat you alive." Bill also says that if he tries to talk about the day Euclydia was destroyed, there's a loud buzzing in his ears and he blacks out for 30 seconds. Still, he tells others that he freed everyone and that they are grateful for it. Until he gets drunk and starts calling out for his mom, asking her where she went...

[cskv11]

All the codes people have been finding about Euclydia and such on the thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com website paint a rather positive picture of Bill's parents. It seems like they loved and cherished him deeply. And don't get me wrong—I'm sure they cared a lot about Bill (especially his mother, with whom he looks like he bonded the most). However, let's not forget what Alex mentioned about Bill's relationship with his parents:

(Paraphrasing what I remember) "If you think Stanley's relationship with his family was bad, Bill's was a thousand times worse."

You have to remember, they were PURPOSEFULLY POISONING him, making him GO BLIND so that he would stop rambling about the third dimension and the concept of 'up'.

Bill was literally ostracized from society, and in a desperate attempt to explain the concept of higher dimensions to a 2D life form, he condemned to death everyone he once knew and cared about.

This guy had been harboring such a deep grudge against all the people who tried to silence him that one day he just couldn't take it anymore and decided to 'show them all' what the third dimension looked like. He didn't succeed.

So, while his parents might have been well-meaning individuals who only wanted the best for their little Billy, they are NOT saints and are, in a significant way, responsible for Bill's destructive outcome.

And still, despite all this, to this day, he can't seem to forget them.

"All he draws are red and blue triangles"

He loved them.

(Ugh I need to sleep what the hell is even this rant wtf)

[ckret2]

listen, i know the intent of the "art therapy notes: all he draws are red and blue triangles" note is to show us that bill's parents still weigh on him

but considering how sometimes psych hospitals judge committed patients' mental states based on "symptoms" caused by conditions the hospital set up,

it would be funny if,

[turquoisespace35]

All he draws are red and blue triangles

[nottsangel]

i’ve been on a HUGE vampire obsession lately and vampire!reader x mattheo has been delicious to read!

But I can’t take my mind off how would vampire!mattheo and vampire!theo be with human reader.

And I can sooo see them with a kind of a love triangle thing going on (maybe I’m watching too much buffy and the vampire diaries😅)

i’d def let vampire!theo and vampire!mattheo drink from me. idc

tw blood. vampires

“come on baby, let us have a little taste.” mattheo purrs into your left ear, gently brushing the hair from your neck and exposing your tender, pristine skin. he instinctively curls his lip in lust, the sharp fangs ready to sink into your flesh.

“you really gonna let us starve, piccola? how selfish.” theo chimes in from the other side of you, his hand resting on your thigh as he gazes down at you. his blue eyes are filled with ravenous hunger, eager to devour you and still his cravings.

“okay, go on then… but be gentle!” you eventually relent, always wanting to please your boys. you don’t have to tell them twice, as they eagerly draw closer to your neck, fangs sinking into your flesh from both sides, making you hiss at the sharp sting. even though you told them to be gentle, they’re anything but, greedily drinking from you.

both boys are in heaven, the metallic but sweet, intoxicating taste making their minds fuzzy. no other blood compares to yours, they always say, which is why you ended up in this love triangle in the first place. they both want—no, need—you to still their bloodlust. you are addictive. and no matter how many times they try drinking from other humans, they always come crawling back to you.

mattheo’s hand roams over your body before landing on your chest, roughly massaging as he feeds from your neck, while theo squeezes your thigh, his hand creeping higher and higher. they’re so sloppy and careless with it— your blood dripping down your body, their groping hands leaving red marks all over.

you moan softly, unable to suppress the arousal building inside you as their sharp fangs dig deep into your delicate flesh, their hungry mouths attached to your neck, their hands fervently roaming your body— and they can tell you’re dripping between your legs, both boys cockily smirking against your skin.

“cazzo. you taste so sweet, amore.” “mmm, you’re driving us fuckin’ crazy. we’re never letting you go.”

ੈ♡˳

[soybaguettes]

Art therapy notes:

"All he draws are red and blue triangles"

[amultitideofdrops]

Thinking Julian and art...

Thinking about how drawing was his favourite activity as a young child. Going through reams of paper, the feel of letting his hand swirl around the page and making colours and lines, delighting in showing his parents and having them smile and laugh over the scrawls that are meant to represent their family. Because it's all very in line with how a 2 year old should draw.

Julian gets older, and his classmates start to make circles for heads, with dots and a wonky smile and long sticks that are meant to be legs. They start holding pencils with their fingers where he still fists a crayon. But it's okay his hands don't seem to move with the same control they do, because Julian still loves drawing. He particularly loves colour because it shows how everything feels even if it doesn't show how it looks to everyone else. His teacher asks them to draw themselves and he rushes to get every blue and purple he can and melds them together in a jumping spiral. His teacher tells him it's nice, but not in the same way she points to the other children's and says how good their ears are, or that the hair colour looks just the same.

His Mum starts to sit by him when he draws, pushing him to copy the squares and triangles from the sheet brought home from school.

Kukalaka rips, and Julian finds the best warm yellow to fix his hurt, even as Mum purses her lips and says it's supposed to match.

His teacher calls his parents in, talking to them gravely and pointing to a curling painted paper, explaining how Julian didn't listen to the assignment, and instead of pets in the garden at home, he hadn't tried and kept drawing the same blobs. Julian stares out the window, the defense that they weren't the same because the dog waved into a brown spiral, and the cat was a smooth dash of it, sticks in his throat.

His parents won't look at his drawings anymore, only telling him he needs to try. And Julian feels the shape of it change and press down on him.

The next meeting with his teacher follows, this time sweet and concerned as she points to the new self portrait, with Julian this time all Sharp edges in black and red.

Adigeon prime happens. Amsha excitedly brings some supplies to the hospital room--a real sketchbook and nicer artists pens then he was ever allowed - and asks him to draw something.

Kukalaka, observing from a shelf too high for him to reach, becomes his subject. And Julian can see every important detail to his shape and his hands follows it on pattern. On the paper becomes a perfect replication of exactly how Kukalaka sits in this moment. His parents are delighted, saying how talented he is. How wonderful his art is now. Julian stares at it well into the night, each pencil stroke, trying to understand where the flaw is because the Kukalaka in the drawing is wrong.

He tries again, usually by an adults prompting, to draw. But now it's a chore, a party trick like he's a machine taking a photograph. The thrill of pulling out something that only existed in his head and putting it to paper is gone, and there's a loss he can't verbalise until he runs his fingers over the yellow thread in Kukalaka.

Years later on Ds9 he Garak and Ziyal discuss art. Or rather, they listen to Ziyal excitedly talk about expressing herself in every medium she can get her hands on. Garak admits a modest ability, demonstrating a cartoon like style on the PADD between them. When they ask Julian he finds himself pausing, pen almost going to automatically trace Ds9 on the PADD, before letting it idly doodle across the screen in a soothing way.

"Ah, I've never had the talent for art you see."

[lvmimis]

cw: love triangle. hurt/comfort.

Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest still as you fumble your keys into the ignition of your car, your pulse probably fast enough to fuel the engine on its own. Tears that only pricked at your eyes earlier as you stormed out of the Fortuna branch Devil May Cry van now run freely down your cheeks, and you hate that you look a mess for something so stupid, but you feel stupid overall.

You’re nothing more than a passing distraction after all. Harm to a sweet girl, temptation to an otherwise good man. You knew better, you’ve known since you were very young, and here you are, crying and trying to get as far as you can because you let your guard slip just once.

The engine finally thrums to life despite the delay, as if providence itself wants you to slow down and think about what you’re going to do next, but as you step on the ignition, you find yourself lurching forward, the rev of the engine loud and clear, but the car going nowhere. In fact, it appears to jerk briefly backwards, destabilizing you - you should really put on your seatbelt - before its wheels settle back in place.

Stunned for just a second, you step on the gas again, until the same thing happens, and then it occurs to you. Your head snaps back to the rear view mirror, and there he is, glaring right back at you, sky blue eyes red rimmed themselves to match yours as one hand grips tightly on the rear bumper of your car, willing it to stay in place, while the other hangs loosely by his side.

You grip the steering wheel, then stick your head out the window.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

Nero doesn’t respond, and as you stomp on the gas one more time, the engine roars again, but the car continues to make absolutely no distance forward. Overwhelmed with frustration, you find yourself groaning loudly, then shout again.

“You can’t stop me from leaving!”

You stomp on the gas again, but he’s rock steady, and you lay onto the horn, a cry of aggravation not for help - you don’t need help, but you need him to know that you can’t stand him right now.

“Grow up, Nero!”

At this, Nero does flinch a little, enough that the flame of your anger flickers just a little, and he averts his eyes so that he’s looking off in the distance in the night. This clearing is relatively empty save for your two vehicles - Nico is off to sleep in a real bed at a nearby inn several hundred feet away, and the two of you had aimed to talk for a few moments longer under the stars, but of course, that devolved into the current scene.

How could he not have told her?

The softness still retained in his voice as he reassures Kyrie over the phone that he and Nico are okay, the very passing mention of you being around as well. It all makes you feel disgusting and impure and pathetic, especially when the taste of his lips is still so very present on your tongue.

You’re not built to not care.

Nero inhales deeply and lets out a visible exhale, still not letting go in case you attempt to speed off once again.

“Just let me explain it to you. Please. Once I’m done, if you still want to leave, I promise not to stop you.”

Biting your lip enough that you almost draw blood, you contemplate this for a moment. The steering wheel you grip tightly feels safe and grounding. You squeeze, then press your forehead onto it, letting the coolness seep through your skin. A few moments pass, and you can feel Nero watching you from behind, growing concerned, but you turn the ignition off, then raise your head. Before you can open the door he’s beside you, almost a bit too fast, but he senses your intent and opens the door for you, stepping aside as it swings open.

His eyes are still teary red. 

“Listen, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Your posture is closed and impenetrable, arms crossed over your chest. You raise an eyebrow, and you don’t have to say the words before he understands them, pronounced clear as day in his head.

You’re doing a terrible job of it.

“It’s just-” he runs his hand through his hair, distressed, pleading. There’s a hunch in his back that’s unnatural for such a proud man but you say nothing, open to hear whatever excuse he has to offer before you can ridicule him. 

“I can’t end things on a phone call.”

“Then don’t touch me,” you snap. He opens his mouth in protest, but closes it immediately in resignation. 

“Right.”

He bites his lip, before letting his loosely held fist rest against the hood of your car as he stares at the ground.

“Don’t play games with me,” you murmur.

He looks at you again - really looks - and you almost feel bad for calling him a coward just moments ago as you gathered your things. You can imagine the insult is replaying in his head even now as he stands before you. 

He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a coward. In this, he’s more careful than anything, unwilling to hurt his loved ones.

“It doesn’t have to be me,” you know. Your arms tighten around your own body again, keeping you safe and warm and together. “I’ll get over this… whatever this is. As long as you give me time.”

He quickly interjects.

“It has to be you,” he insists. “I… I know it feels different when I’m with you, something more than just…” he trails off.

He’s being careful with his speech, out of respect, out of love. The words a soft landing place come to mind. Home, peace, sanctuary… those are the things Kyrie is for him, and you should never intrude upon that. You can’t offer him that. You’re tumultuous and moody and you’ve only softened down your rough edges over time, you’re not a natural, unblemished smooth surface.

“She’s what you need,” you admit, even if your voice breaks at the end.

“Please,” he starts, reaching for your hand before thinking better of it. “Just… just let me be the one to tell you what I need.”

Someone has to pay for the upset roiling in your chest, you feel, but it’s not solely his fault, nor even your own, really and definitely not hers.

“Please don’t run away from me,” he asks of you, in a voice, softer and more desperate. “I won’t-” he pauses, then regains his voice, “touch you again, not until I’m face to face with her and tell her the truth.”

Your lips press into a thin line, and he tells you what you’ve always wanted to hear from him.

“I need you. I want you.”

You think of Kyrie again, guilt eating away at you.

“I don’t really want to make you choose, Nero,” you admit, your voice croaking. The tears you hold back start to make their way back to the surface. “I kind of wish we’d never met.”

“Don’t say that.”

An edge in his voice returns ever so slightly until he recomposes himself with a deep breath.

“Please, don’t say that,” he reiterates, the hurt vibrating in the thrum of his voice. “You’re not making me choose. I already did choose, and I promise to do a better job of following through.”

You can sense the longing in his hands that move towards you but never quite reach, based on the invisible barrier of your consent (or lack thereof). You’ll allow him just this once, reaching for his right hand first, and placing it where he wants it to be, on the curve of your right cheek. His lips fall open gently, and his thumb wipes away an escaping tear.

“I’m a bad person,” you whisper.

He’s not supposed to touch you so the most he allows himself to do is open his arms as you step in closer, tucking you under his chin.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You want to argue, but instead you hold him closer, letting your selfishness win at least for just a few more moments.

Maybe you won’t run away, not just yet.

[umboloae]

Art therapy notes: all he draws are red and blue triangles

Obs: pls read the warnings! Also heads up for flashlights (it's mostly glitching effects but better be safe)

So, I've posted this animatic before but seeing it again I didn't like the result, so I redrew some frames and re-edited it (I suck at video making stuff. It's a curse), mostly bc i wanted to post it on TikTok, but hey, copyright did not let me JEYCJDJFDKJ so u guys here will be the only ones seeing it. Hope u like it!!

[snailpass]

Art Therapy Notes: All he draws are red and blue triangles

[razberrypuck]

tghis is so fucked up

all he draws are red and blue triangles you say. he has phobias of tv static and 3d glasses you say. I wwonder. why that could be .

[voxslays]

WUTIWANT — HWANG IN-HO & GI-HUN

PART ONE — ARRIVAL SUMMARY: After playing a game of Ddakji with a tall, mysterious man in a subway, you find yourself scared and alone—trapped in a series of deadly games with people who don’t speak your language. WARNINGS: Reader is American, Gi-hun & In-ho both speak English. A/N: Based on a request by @wheezdostuff, which I apologize it took so long! Your request was so detailed I decided to turn it into a series! In your request, you said that any characters were fine, so I hope these two are okay!

The cold wind nipped at your soft skin. It was a chilly October evening in Seoul. You had only arrived in the city a month earlier, deciding to explore the world while you still had a chance. You had always wanted to visit Korea, even since you were a child. Whether it was the flashy k-pop idols, or the bright city lights, it always had a peculiar way of drawing you in.

Waiting for your train, you sit down on one of the benches, smiling to yourself as you pull out your phone. You quickly click on your messages, hoping to get a message from Ae-cha, the loan shark who was responsible for your ease in traveling to Seoul—but there was none. That’s odd, you think to yourself.

You hear footsteps walking towards you, as someone sits on the same small, wooden bench you are. Yet, you don’t look up from your phone until you hear the figure mutter an “Excuse me.” In English. He must’ve been able to tell you were American. “Yes?” You say respond Korean, trying your hardest to remember all the lessons and phrases that Duolingo had taught you.

The man chuckles as you slowly take a better glance at him. He was tall, with an attractive face, reminiscent of a model you once saw in an American magazine many years ago. He wears a simple navy suit, and sets his black briefcase in the middle of the bench. A salesman, huh? “May I talk to you?” He asks politely.

“Sorry, but I’m not interested in buying anything.” You say, trying to return his politeness. The man sighs. “It’s not that.” He puts his hands on his knees and leans closer to you. “Would you like to play a game with me?” He asks. “What kind of game?” The salesman chuckles. “Ddakji.” You give him a confused frown. “What’s that?” If it weren’t obvious you were a foreigner before, it was blatantly clear now.

The man smirks, before a large smile appears on his face. “Ddakji is a traditional children’s game.” He opens his briefcase, revealing stacks of money, followed by folded red and blue paper squares. “Now, would you like to play?” As if sensing your hesitance, he quickly adds, “I’ll pay you 100,000 won every time you flip my tile.”

Before you knew it, you were smacking your tile down against his with some difficulty, yet, you managed to flip his blue tile a total of three times. Not bad for a beginner. The salesman handed you your 300,000 won and a small yellow business card with three shapes on it; The circle, the triangle, and the square.

“Call that number if you want to play again.” He smiles, before walking off. If you could make this much money so easily, maybe you should call the number. You turn over the card, the numbers read ‘624-874’. You quickly pull out your phone and call the number, giving them your registry information—your name and date of birth. What’s the worst that could happen?

You wouldn’t find out until you woke up in a sterile room, with hundreds of bunk beds. There was a catchy children’s turn playing in the background, completely in Korean. As you look around you, people begin to stir, just as confused in their surroundings as you are. Where the hell were you? And why had you called that number.

As the masked pink men walked into the cramped ‘dormitory,’ and started speaking, you knew you were screwed. Why? They were speaking in Korean.