#In this house we stan denial

[i-licked-it-now-its-mine]

[diablescharmants]

❤️ BJTJDJFKFJKDMS i def am interested in possibly Kiwa & Cana and literally any other muse of urs…

@kissespink // meme // always accepting

{ LOOK I already love Kiwa & Cana so much, you know this is a definite yes and as for other muses?? anything is possible 💓 }

[zafirosreverie]

Bro the ending to Hocus pocus 2 was so sad, I literally don't even blame you for crying. But the movie was good.

I don't know what you're talking about. It ended pretty well with THE THREE Sanderson sisters became the most powerful witches of all.

[gay-dorito-dust]

hey feel free to ignore this if its too dark but could u do ford x reader where he comes back from the portal and finds out reader died while he was gone

The moment Ford uttered you name he should’ve known something was wrong, especially the way Stan eyes didn’t meet his, his face was set in a look that told him that whatever happened to you he still wasn’t in complete acceptance of it.

‘Stanley,’ Ford said as he stepped closer to his twin brother, who has evening uncharacteristically silent the entire time, ‘where’s y/n?’

Stan fiddled with his fez hat as he debated whether or not he should tell Ford a lie, or tell him the truth that to this day he himself was still very much in denial over, but he decided that his brother should know regardless even if it did hurt him to admit it. ‘Y/n’s dead Stanford.’ Stan finally said and could hear Ford gasp in the silence that followed afterwards.

‘What? When?’ Ford asked, looking over at his desk and at a framed picture of you and him in your youth with a hairline fracture on the glass cutting across your face. He wished this was some joke but Ford knew his brother well enough to know that he’d never joke about you or death in the same breathe, you were their friend since childhood, and his childhood sweetheart; So to find out thirty years later that you were no longer living hurt Ford in ways he couldn’t fathom, it was like his heart had been violently ripped out of his chest and smashed into a million pieces, the air left his lungs as quickly as the news came and he had to find something to sit down on.

‘They died last this day last month…they held out hope that you’d come back one day, said they had something they’ve always wanted to tell you but before I could ask what…they passed away…I’m so sorry.’ Stan told him as he went to sit next to his brother who had tears silently streaming down his cheeks. You and Stanford meant a lot to Stanley- and a hell of a a lot at that- you were the only person in New Jersey who didn’t give a shit about Ford’s six fingers, or being labelled as weird because of your association with them, you just didn’t care enough about those things and instead encouraged them to keep being who they were without shame.

Stanley also knew that Ford had a thing for you and still has from how he kept things you left at their parent’s house when you were younger, it was fun to tease him about it until he started actively encouraging Ford to say something to you, anything! Lucky you did go out for a bit but it wasn’t until everything blew up between and only then did your relationship fracture and fall off. With Ford dedicated all of his time and effort to his work rather than your crumbling relationship, it had gotten to the point where you just left without a trace, assuming that he’d be off in the woods on his latest monster chase.

Stan tried to keep telling you to hold on, just until Ford came home, but your health had rapidly declined so severely that there was nothing anyone could’ve done to prevent it. It hurt Stan to loose his best friend and his unofficial but in his heart of hearts official in law, he couldn’t help but think of how Ford would react upon hearing that the person he still longed for had died with a heart heavy with regret. You wanted to marry Ford, it was your biggest hopes for the future but unfortunately that future didn’t come nearly as soon as either you or Stan would’ve liked.

‘And we ended on less than satisfactory terms too.’ Ford said sombrely, feeling deep within his chest that something was missing, he felt hollow and empty knowing that he had missed out on setting things right with you. He had missed the chance to marry you happily like he saw his alternate self did in a dimension that he visited briefly, and looking back at it now only caused Ford more heartbreak. ‘There’s so much I have yet to tell them,’ he trails off as he looked to Stanley who had now started to tear up at this point, ‘I still love them Stanley.’ He admits and Stanley clenched the fabric of his pants within his firsts. ‘I know and they loved- no-still love you too, right until their very last breath all they could think about was you.’ Was all he said.

‘I wanted to marry them Stanley.’ Ford said weakly as all the future prospects he had for you and him slowly slipping from his grasp, one by one.

‘I know.’ Stan replied.

‘I wanted to spend the rest of my life with them.’

‘I know, they did too.’

‘I wanted them.’ Ford cried

‘And they wanted you just as much.’ Stan said as he brought his brother into his side as he wept while clutching at his chest as though his heart was burning him from the inside out. it hurt Stanley to see his brother in pain, such pain that it brought him to his knees, begging and pleading for a god that doesn’t exist to bring you back to him. Stan hated knowing that you and Ford could’ve had a happy ending, only to end up with a tragic one instead; So he remained by Ford’s side in solidarity as he cried and shouted until his throat was raw and he feel asleep due to exhaustion.

‘You deserved better,’ Stan said to no one in particular, ‘you both did.’

[shortie-stack]

I've seen a lot of posts comparing Bill and Ford (and for good reason, they are very much parallels and foils to each other) but I haven't seen as much exploring how Bill and Stan mirror each other. Where Bill saw Ford as a tool and maybe even sympathized with him because of their shared experiences (outcast by their peers for traits beyond their control, hungry for knowledge and prestige, isolated from friends and family), Bill sees Stan as the embodiment of everything Bill hates about himself. on the website, entering "Stanley" and clicking enter a bunch of times opens up pages from Bill's perspective about how stan defeated him. Bill maintains that Stan didn't actually beat him, that it was Ford's plan, that Stan just got lucky, but we know from the show that that simply isn't true-- it was Stan's plan and it was Stan that defeated him. It's interesting to note that bill is okay with giving Ford the credit for his demise, but Stan? unacceptable. we'll come back to that though.

To Bill, Stan is simultaneously everything he hates about himself and everything he wants to be. When listing all of Stan's faults, Bill calls him a "side character, a resume-inflating, cheap trick loving, past denying overgrown child protected by failure only by a forcefield of denial and shamelessness". who else do we know who ticks all of those boxes? Bill himself is a side character for much of gravity falls in the real world, but in the context of the show this statement shows his fear of not actually being anything special. sure he was powerful in his home dimension, but we see time and time again that there are other beings in other dimensions that are just as, if not more powerful (the axolotl, for instance). Bill takes credit for liberating his dimension when he really didn't, he "honors" his deals through loopholes and turns if phrase, and he shouldn't be throwing stones in a glass house, seeing as he's the one having a temper tantrum. Bill is also deeply disconnected from his past, if him telling us the story of the demise of his home dimension is anything to go by, and only digs himself in a deeper hole through putting on this cheerful, confident, powerful persona. Stan does the same thing, especially as Mr. Mystery. but the thing about Stan is that he grows and changes as the show goes on, while Bill's mindset is perpetual. They both were cut off from their family because of something they did (Stan messing with Ford's project, Bill by destroying his entire dimension), but Stan allows a new family to get close to him and chooses to make sacrifices to make his niece and nephew (and even his employees to some extent) happy. Bill on the other hand, surrounds himself with henchmaniacs, yes-men who just want to party and will follow him as long as he shows them a good time. Every depiction of Bill is a window for him to look through, and with so many in the mystery shack, it's certain that he sees Stanley, the embodiment of everything Bill hates about himself, getting what Bill thinks he could never have. and Bill hates it because it means that if Stan can grow and change and make peace with his past mistakes, it also means that Bill can too. But that would require Bill to actually be vulnerable and endure the pain that confronting your past (many, many) mistakes brings. He would have to acknowledge and accept that his home is gone because of him, that countless lives have been ruined because of him, and that the reason he has never been able to maintain close relationships is solely his fault. But he won't. And as a result, he will always end up alone, a king of ashes.

I think Bill thought of Ford as a way to fill his emptiness because of their similarities, and possibly also because he saw Ford as a form of redemption. Ford was brilliant and good and just like Bill and Bill saw that and may have thought, if he likes me there's no way I'm a monster. in a way, Bill saw Ford as the only one worthy of killing him because if it was Ford it was just a forgone conclusion: Ford hasn't made Bill's mistakes so he is automatically "better" than Bill and Stan, so obviously he could kill Bill. but to have it be Stan means that someone who has messed up in a manner similar to Bill has the capacity to be better. and that shakes Bill to the core.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 4 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, OMC Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), alcohol as a coping mechanism, season 1 Lydia behavior (her comments on addiction are wrong and insensitive and she's knows it) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: Your life somehow becomes further entangled with Stiles and Scott's strange secret world, and Lydia is concerned in her own aggressive way. 

A/N: this is in fact a scott mccall stan account. i love that boy like he's my own. you can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

The drive home was ultimately uneventful. No need for tasers, silver bullets, or wolfsbane goop. You would need to get gas before you left for school in the morning, but you supposed that was a relatively minor inconvenience when the other end of the scale was being torn apart by a fanged monster. 

Your jaw cracked with an aggressive yawn as you slowly stumbled through the garage door, fumbling for the light switch on the wall. You flicked on the light and paused, shivering a little as the cold air from the vent above your head skimmed over your bare arms. After a moment of hesitation, when that little persistent wriggling in your ear wouldn’t go away, you ducked back down the concrete steps to poke around the garbage can. Underneath a few Styrofoam take-out boxes, there were four empty beer bottles. The glass bottles clinked against each other as you nudged them out of the way, unearthing the real object of your paranoia. A drained bottle of 100-proof rye whiskey was cradled between two sacks of trash from the night before. You just stared at the bottles, heart and lungs wound tight, and then you dropped the lid back on top of the can.  

When you reentered the house, you were careful to keep the noise to a minimum. It wasn’t that late, only a little past nine, but you didn’t want to disrupt your dad’s slumber. Usually, he was a night owl—which, of course, was really just a pretty way of saying chronic insomniac, another thing you’d inherited from him—but it’d been a hard liquor night. Your dad always went to bed early on hard liquor nights. You didn’t know if he actually slept or if he stared at the ceiling, watching memories play on spackle until dawn streamed through the cracks in the blinds. Probably the first. You hadn’t ever heard him cry through the thin walls, not even once. You, however, couldn’t ever stop crying, not on the nights you trembled for something potent enough to mask the scent of the coconut oil your mom used to remove her makeup. The echoes of your mother had seeped into the walls, saturated the insulation with the faint sounds of the 70s pop rock vinyls she put on when she was in a good mood. They faded sometimes, but they always came back. You desperately hoped, and you hopelessly feared, that they always would. 

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hands aggressively and slipped under the covers, still in your plaid skirt and black t-shirt. Mascara smeared against your silk pillowcase, blurred your vision as it melted into your waterline. You stared at the wall until the silver swirls in the teal wallpaper started to sway. The teal was so dark it almost looked velvet with the lights off, and you had a heavy-eyed impulse to stroke it, but your hand was too leadened to lift. 

Your lids slipped shut, and in the haze between consciousness and slumber you felt the vague sensation of something solid against the back of your head. You murmured something incomprehensible and pulled your arms closer to your chest, taking in a breath of sharp whisky and a familiar woody cologne. You kept your eyes closed, and the warm weight cupped your skull for a moment. There was a brief kiss pressed against the top of your head and then the warmth was gone. Something large caught in your throat, and you squeezed your eyelids until your forehead wrinkled, forcing yourself to fall into a restless sleep filled with dreams of pancakes swimming in bourbon and howling beasts. 

Stiles was waiting for you by your locker when you arrived at school the next day. His friend—Scott, you reminded herself—was leaning against the locker next to him. Scott’s eyelids were heavy, and there was a coolness underneath them that stained his tan skin with a swathe of puce. Puce: From the French term ‘couleur puce,’ meaning ‘flea color.’  You dug your incisor into your tongue once you recognized that the intrusive internal narration was in Stiles’s voice. You didn’t even know if he spoke French, but it seemed like the kind of weird detail he’d know. You ran your tongue over your teeth and shoved your fists into your jacket pockets, thumb poking through the hole in the lining from previous twiddling—when the hell did you start thinking about the kinds of things Stiles would and wouldn’t know?  

You pivoted sharply, and your traitorous leather boots ruined your attempted exit when they squeaked against the freshly waxed floor. Stiles’s head popped up from his hushed conversation with Scott, and he waved vigorously when he made eye contact with you, “Hey! C’mere!”

You tipped your gaze towards the tiled ceiling and sighed. It was inevitable, really; you had to get your English binder before homeroom—homeroom, yet another reason to hate Wednesdays. It was one of your few classes with Lydia, and there wasn’t ever any actual teaching to distract you from the disgusting goo-goo eyes she gave her boyfriend. Studying was your only respite.

“Patience,” you nudged Stiles out of the way and spun your combination into the padlock, “work on it. It’s an essential skill.”

Stiles scoffed and leaned his shoulder against the locker next to yours, arms folded over his chest, “Essential. There’s nothing essential about wasting time. It’s actually unvirtuous if you think about it.” 

You swung her locker door open, blocking out Stiles’s frown, and rested your backpack on your knee so that you could unzip it. “Was there a point in there somewhere, or are you stalking me again?”

Stiles ducked around the locker door and placed his hands on Scott’s shoulders, shoving him a little closer to you, “Scott had a question for you.”

Scott’s eyes didn’t look so tired when he reared his head back to stare at Stiles. They had an intense conversation for a moment. There weren’t any words exchanged, but you got the gist: Scott was pissed, and Stiles was relentless. In the end, Scott lost the battle and swallowed thickly, “So, uh, you know a lot about supernatural stuff. That’s cool.” Stiles rolled his eyes and smacked the back of Scott’s head. Scott glared at him before mumbling, “Do you have any more of that wolfsbane…potion?” towards his muddy Converse. 

You directed your annoyance over Scott’s shoulder, more than confident that the real culprit of this request was the idiot avoiding your eye-line. “What? You already burned through your goo sample? Are the streets finally free from the demon beast of Beacon Hills?”

Stiles held up his hands and shook his head, “This is all Scott. See, me, I’m a fan of not being a greedy little bastard, but Scott—” This time Scott smacked Stiles with a resounding thwack. Stiles rubbed his shoulder, mouth agawk with indignation. 

“He…dropped it.” Scott glowered at the side of Stiles’s face, “‘Doing something stupid.” 

You smirked, “Sounds about right.” You shoved your binder into your backpack and brushed your hairs out of your eyes, “I’d give it all away for free, but it’s not up to me. Sorry.” Zipping your backpack shut, you slung one of the straps over your shoulder and shrugged, “You could always buy some more, but I’d strongly advise against such a dumb financial investment.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck and gave you a smile. It was small but riddled with warmth—like he just couldn’t help it, like sunshine leaked through every one of his pores, and you were filled with the sudden urge to buy the stupid wolfsbane gunk for him. “That’s what I figured,” Scott looked at Stiles pointedly. His voice dropped a few octaves and a growl slipped into the end of his sentence, “But someone thought we should ask anyway.” 

The bell rang, and Scott flinched, smashing one of his ears into his shoulder. He turned around, a little dazed, and Stiles trailed after him after giving her a distracted wave. As you watched them leave, a parasitic impulse wrangled through your throat, prying the hinge of your jaw open as you shouted, “Hey!” The hallway was abuzz with various conversations and clomping feet, but your voice was still a bit too loud for the short distance between you and definitely too urgent for 7:45 in the morning. 

Stiles turned around first, almost tripping over his sneakers, and then he yanked on the scarlet hood of Scott’s jacket until he stopped too. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and licked your bottom lip, suddenly realizing how dry it was. “I, uh,” you sighed and took a few steps forward so that you didn’t have to raise your voice, “I could talk to Maggie. I bet she’d cut you a deal if I asked.” You let out a little laugh and raked your fingers through your hair, accidentally dislodging the satin bow tying your hair out of your face. “I know, actually. I know she’d give you some for free. She’s a terrible business woman.” 

Scott’s smile put the moon to shame, and Stiles looked like he’d been waiting for you to change your mind since the moment you told them no—when the hell did he start thinking about what you would and wouldn’t do? 

“That would be awesome,” Scott ducked down to grab your black ribbon and held it out to you with an open palm, “thank you. I’d owe you big time.”

Stiles looped his arm around Scott’s shoulders and smirked, “We’d. We’d owe you. I’ll stop by the store and bless you with my scintillating conversation sometime.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled softly at Scott, taking your ribbon from his hand. You attempted to tie your hair back in a neat bow, but it was difficult without a mirror. You assumed it was halfway decent because Stiles didn’t take the opportunity to tease you—you, on the other hand, had no such qualms about mocking him. You smiled at Stiles, far too sweetly to be considered congenial, and sneered, “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” 

Stiles’s eyes narrowed, face curved around a smirk that screamed trouble, and Scott slapped his hand over Stiles’s mouth before he could say something to make you reconsider, “Thanks again. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to pay you back. Name it, and we’re there.” Stiles winked at you with a glint in his eye that was as vexing as it was bright, and Scott rolled his eyes as he hauled him away by the nylon material of his backpack, “C’mon, dude. My mom’s gonna kill me if I’m late again.”

You watched Stiles’s buzzed head bob amidst the congested crowd of students, all shoving each other in their rush to get to class on time, until you couldn’t hear his surly complaints anymore. You rubbed your hand over your chapped lips, swallowing hollowly, like you could erase every impulsive word that’d spilt from your stupid mouth.

You were still thinking about what you’d gotten yourself into when you walked into Mrs. Farias’s classroom—and that must be why you forgot your copy of Metamorphosis in your locker. You groaned internally and dropped your forehead against your desk, bumping it against the cool laminate finish a few times, before ducking out the door with a hall pass. 

The halls were empty—silent too. You could hear your own footsteps and the tick of the large clock above the main office as you walked around the corner, and then, just as you approached the hallway your locker was in, you heard something else. Voices. Angry voices. One familiar—your face scrunched as the recognition wriggled through your ears to your brain—and one not. You cautiously glanced around the corner and frowned. Jackson, Lydia’s arrogant prick of a boyfriend, was talking to a hulking, leather-clad stranger—or rather infuriating him based on the murderous look in the man’s dark eyes. 

The stranger looked a good five years too old to be in a high school hallway, but the grown-out stubble and over-defined muscles weren’t of immediate concern. You were more focused on the color of his face. His skin was pale, clammy, and quite honestly a little corpse-like thanks to the purply-blue tinge carving out the hollows of his face. You assumed that he was too strung-out to care if anyone noticed their altercation because you could hear him from halfway across the hall. 

“Where’s Scott McCall?” His voice was deep and gravelly, as expected, but there was a desperate undertone you hadn’t anticipated.

You could only see the back of Jackson’s head, but you knew exactly what his face was doing when he puffed out his chest and folded his arms—no one else could make a smirk look quite so punchable. It was a gift, truly. “And why should I tell you?” “Because I asked you politely,” the man leaned forward, bared his canines, and you couldn’t believe that Jackson didn’t even flinch, “and I only do that once.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Jackson sneered, meeting the man’s challenge with another step forward and a shrug that reeked of false-superiority, “how ‘bout I help you find him if you tell me what you’re selling him. What is it? Dianabol? HGH?”

“Steroids,” the man’s voice was dry, and if he didn’t look like he was about to double over and puke all over the floor, you’d say the menacing glimmer in his eyes was a little amused. 

“No, Girl Scout cookies. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” Jackson tutted, maddeningly haughty, and shook his head, “By the way, whatever it is you’re selling, I’d stop sampling the merchandise.” He let out a low patronizing whistle, and you kind of hoped that the stranger would suckerpunch him in the throat for it. “You look wrecked.”

The man didn’t punch him. Instead, he pushed himself off of the locker he was slumped against and started staggering stiffly down the hall, “I’ll find him myself.”

Jackson grabbed onto his broad shoulder and yanked. The veins in his bicep bulged with the strength of grasp, “We’re not done here.”

Your limbs suddenly remembered how to function. You ducked back behind the brick wall and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable sounds of bone colliding into flesh. Your right eye cracked open a sliver when the noise never came. Instead, there was a loud thud and the echo of clanging metal. You peeked around the corner again and froze, eyes wide and throat dry. Jackson was pinned against a locker by his neck. You’d already noticed that the stranger was tall, but you didn’t truly realize just how large he was until now. Jackson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t small. He was captain of the lacrosse team—everyone within a ten-mile radius knew that thanks to his constant reminders—and if anyone on campus was taking steroids, he would’ve been your first guess. But next to this sickly beast of a man, Jackson looked meek and mousey, and you didn’t even get to savor it. After a brief moment, no more than a second, Jackson’s assailant sniffed the air and slowly turned his head in your direction. It wasn’t an accident; he wasn’t surveying his surroundings. His eyes landed on yours, and he didn’t look the least bit surprised. 

The man’s irises were dark, nearly black, and they didn’t stray from your face. You forgot how to breathe, feeling distinctly like a rabbit trapped in a fox den as your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. He spared you after a few seconds of paralyzing eye-contact and turned his petrifying gaze back to Jackson’s neck. You recoiled, slipping back to your spot around the wall, and pressed your back against the bricks until the sound of your heartbeat wasn’t so loud in your ears. 

When you found the courage to look down the hall again, the man was gone, and Jackson was bleeding from the back of his neck. There were four distinct punctures along his cervical spine, trickling crimson droplets onto the stark white collar of his polo. The gouges were small, almost like…nail marks. Baffling. This town was fuckin’ baffling.

You poured over the incident all day, barely conscious enough to take down notes and roll your eyes at Stiles’s badgering and bad jokes. You’d never been more ready for the final bell to ring, not even during sex education with the extraordinarily sweaty Mr. Peterson. 

You twisted your pendant around its onyx chain as you walked out of your last period, winding and unwinding the charm over and over again as you mulled over your thoughts. Scott didn’t seem like he was on drugs. You didn’t exactly know him, but he was the least aggressive person you’d ever met, and he had to be eternally patient if Stiles was his best friend. You spun the medallion again and shouldered your way through the cramped halls to the parking lot, scolding yourself. What Scott McCall did or did not inject into his bloodstream wasn’t any of your business…even if his alleged dealer looked like he was on death’s door and had a habit of throwing teenage boys around when he got mad. 

You’d just convinced yourself that you didn’t care what happened to Stiles’s best friend when a discord of honking stopped you in your tracks. You flitted your gaze around the parking lot, searching for the cause of obnoxiously loud cacophony; your shoulders wilted along with your resolve when you spotted the guilty party. The man from the hallway was sprawled on the asphalt, and Scott and Stiles were scrambling to help him off of the ground. 

Your feet reluctantly trudged towards the peculiar trio, arms tightly folded over your cropped sweater. You would’ve laughed at how wide Stiles’s eye stretched when he finally noticed your presence, but you were a little preoccupied with the fact that he was currently trying to stuff a ghoulish grown man into his front seat. You watched him struggle to hold up approximately 200 pounds of solid muscle with his spindly arms, absentmindedly lamenting that you couldn’t truly appreciate the humor of the situation. “Hey,” you slanted your head and searched Stiles’s face for any sign of an SOS signal, “you good?”

“Ayup,” Stiles nodded emphatically, and Scott shot you a weak thumbs-up from his squat next to his tipped-over bike. 

You looked between the two of them, waiting for the truth to crack through the awkward pretense, and narrowed your eyes, “You sure?” 

“We’re good,” the man barked from inside the jeep, teeth bared. It was a little less intimidating now that he was slumped over and at the mercy of a sixteen-year-old with a dork complex, but you still flinched. You couldn’t help it. It was a small twitch, but Scott still managed to track the minute movement from his low perch. He glared at the man, shockingly firm for such a sweet-faced boy, until the stranger stopped scowling at you. Mr. Sour Face turned his head towards the window and stared intensely at the hazy tree line over the hill. Your fingers relaxed. You hadn’t even realized that you’d dug your nails in your palms until the stinging stopped. 

Scott jumped to his feet and pulled his bike up by the handles, rushing through his weak explanation, “Stiles is just…doing me a favor. Derek needs a ride, and all I’ve got is my bike.”

Letting out a flimsy snort, your brow pinched, “So…he walked here?”

“Uh,” Scott squinted, and Stiles nodded behind him, “yeah?” 

You pursed your lips, ignoring all the students who’d started shouting over the beeping horns, and watched Derek grit his teeth and clench his fists through the dashboard window. You looked back at Stiles and chewed on your lip. Stiles was taller than you, but he was on the scrawnier side of lean and wouldn’t stand a chance against a man of Derek’s size—even if he was barely clinging to the rapidly fraying threads of consciousness. “I could use a ride to work,” you pulled the backseat door open before you could talk yourself out of it. 

Stiles lurched towards you and slammed the door shut, narrowly avoiding your fingers, “Normally, I would seize any opportunity to have you further indebted to me, but—that’s Lydia Martin.” His eyes bulged out of his head, and he leaned against his jeep, slipping down the blue frame as his legs went boneless, “Walking towards me. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

The prospect of riding in the same car with Mr. Resting Bitchface was being more appealing by the second. Lydia didn’t even look in Stiles’s direction. Her cutting green eyes were fixed on you and you alone. “Are you an idiot?” Lydia snatched your wrist, mauve manicure digging into the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist, and yanked you back to the sidewalk.

“What?” you went brainless for a moment, taking in all the glory of an enraged Lydia Martin. 

Lydia’s cheeks were flushed pink from anger and adrenaline, “Or just suicidal?”

The shock had worn off. Now, you were thoroughly pissed, “What?”

Lydia’s eyebrows, perfectly tapered and freshly threaded, knitted together until she was in danger of developing a unibrow, “Do you have any idea who you were about to get in a car with?”

Your eyes flicked to the side, and it took gargantuan strength not to roll them too. “Stiles?”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” Lydia’s riptide of fury gave way to confusion, but her soft features sharpened abruptly when she returned her attention to your scowl, “I meant Derek Hale. Obviously.”

Your hip cocked to the side as you crossed your arms, “And?”

“And he’s a murder suspect,” Lydia’s lips curled into a vehement sneer. It was so strange to finally see it first-hand. Lydia had such a sweet face, cherub cheeks and doe eyes—a clever smile. She hadn’t quite mastered disdain when you were friends; the ice queen routine wasn’t performance ready until you’d drifted apart. It was an awful face, you decided; it completely erased the last few pieces of the Lydia you knew.

“In an animal attack,” you muttered under your breath. 

Evidently, it had been a long time since someone dared to disagree with the Lydia Martin because she was struck speechless. It didn’t last for long, but it was still satisfying. “He’s dangerous,” Lydia hissed. “He went completely off the deep end after his family died. Seriously, his life is like a textbook precursor to violent behavior; he’s a profiler’s wet dream.”

“Because his family died,” you repeated. The numbness eroded some of the snark in your voice. 

Lydia either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the glaze creeping over your eyes. She continued, barbarous and unashamed, “Because he watched them turn into charcoal, and his sister was just ripped in half. At best, he’s unstable—but his little hobby of trolling for minors is a bit of a red flag, don’t you think?”

“Charcoal,” you spoke—more of an echo really with its resonating hollowness. Your eyes were on Lydia’s face, but your mind was somewhere far away. A lifetime ago, with the ashes of everything you once knew. 

Lydia’s eyes went wide, and her mouth gaped into a perfect little ‘o.’ Her dainty fingers twitched by her sides, and then she smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in her flouncy mini-skirt. “Most of his family died in a fire,” her voice was much softer this time, a bit of tenderness accidentally rooting through the cracks in her veneer. Lydia looked away and gripped the thin strap of her handbag, “Accidental house fire. It was all over the news like five years ago.”

You stared at Lydia, and for the first time in the last four years, you didn’t miss her. For the first time in such a mind-numbingly long time, your anger strangled your heartache with a wrought-iron grip that felt a whole lot like hate. It was always going to be like this, you realized. You would just have to walk around with all these what-ifs, if-onlys, and what-really-happeneds needling your heart with every thud—always. You had to learn to live with this: knowing that Lydia was never going to apologize and that there would be no closure. Ever. 

“Right.” You laughed, shark-like, with your canines on display. You hoped it would make all your constants sharper. “So he’s gotta be a lunatic now.”

“Y/N…” It was surreal to hear your name out of Lydia’s mouth after so long. You didn’t know if you liked it, and, currently, you didn’t even know if you cared. Lydia chewed off what was left of her nude lipstick and then squared her shoulders, “So we’re just going to pretend that he wasn’t completely strung-out and totally embracing the heroin-chic aesthetic?”

You slanted your head a bit and then let out another serrated laugh. There wasn’t any point in having it out, you decided, because Lydia didn’t care. She got to move on and erase your entire existence—live her perfect, popular girl life without all this suffocating quicksand binding her to the past. Must be nice, you thought venomously, souring your tongue, stinging your eyes. Showers were probably just showers for Lydia. She didn’t singe her skin until the water went cold, imagining what she’d do, what she’d say—how she’d hurt her back. Must be so fucking nice.

“Lydia, I really don’t think you really want to get into all the things we’re pretending,” your voice was tight, strangled at the ends. You would not cry. You could not cry. Lydia sensed weakness like blood in the water, and you refused to give her the satisfaction. 

“Fine,” Lydia’s curls spilled down her back like strawberry wine as she pivoted in her designer heels, “ride off into the sunset with a 'roid-raging creep. Don’t act surprised when you turn up dead in a crack den.” 

Truthfully, Lydia had a point, but at this moment being contrary seemed far more important than being right. “It’s kind of difficult to act like anything when you’re dead,” you called, eyes zeroed-in on the back of her head as she slid into Jackson’s Porsche with a sensual grace you would never possess. Lydia was too far away to hear your retort, but you felt a little less like punching something after you said it. 

You didn’t notice that Stiles and Scott were gone until the threat of bitter tears stopped burning your sinuses. The last thing you needed was to cry like this upset you, even if the only nearby witness left on the vacant sidewalk was yourself. You scoured the parking lot for even a flash of powder blue, but the jeep was nowhere to be seen. Probably long gone by now—your spat with Lydia must have taken longer than you thought. It was certainly louder than you meant it to be. Little clusters of ambling students were looking at you a little too long to be casual, and the indiscreet whispering once they turned back to their friends forced your legs forward. 

You didn’t know where you were going when you started your car, but far, far away sounded pretty damn good.

[mooncello]

Thanks for the tags @artsyunderstudy (queuing up some star trek snowbaz for tonight) and @you-remind-me-of-the-babe (simply cannot wait for this fic to premiere). And thanks to everyone who has tagged me recently. I've been quiet for a few weeks. Life and work and mental health shit, but also I got so very stuck with both my wips. I invested a lot of creative energy into lost boys and then got ... lost tbh. Burned out. All the joy got sucked out, which broke my heart. It's on a shelf right now. I'll return to it (that Baz is very precious to me) but I need a break. I can't bear to look at it atm.

And then! My COBB decided to set fire to my original outline and go off on an unanticipated hike through the woods without a map. No nav equipment. I'm not even confident it knows which star is north. It's just ... wandering around with zero fucks about due dates or timelines, which has sent me into a panic spiral. My one wip is an angsty teenager who has shut himself in his room and refuses to talk (and like same dude), and the other thinks they're Bear Grylls with the survival instincts of a spoiled house cat. EPIC TIMES.

So I started a new wip. (Obviously.)

I needed something fun. Joyful. Something that reminded me why I like writing in the first place. And my boys Dev and Niall fucking showed up, and I'm halfway done with a lil Watford-era, canon divergent wip from their perspectives. It's the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written, and I'm having a blast. Eternal love to my fellow Dev/Niall stan and comrade (and beta!) @valeffelees, and to @bookish-bogwitch and @thewholelemon for cheering this fic on. And thanks to @iamamythologicalcreature and @best--dress for chatting about craft and process and validating that sometimes projects need rest and restoration, and breaks are a natural part of creativity.

Short snip of untitled deniall fic below the cut:

Niall POV, Watford, year 7

“You’re the worst, Niall.” I grin. “So you always say.” I stretch my arms up and flex my fingers before interlacing them behind my head. “And yet you keep running to me for advice.” Dev’s nostrils flare, and there’s a very real moment I think he’s gonna punch me in the shoulder, but then his face splits into a sharp, crooked smile, and he shucks off his blazer. He tosses it toward his bed, but it only partially makes it and falls to the floor.   “You give the best advice,” Dev says, and I see the flash of his tongue piercing. “You’re so practical.”  He begins undressing. Casual, unhurried movements, until his entire school uniform is a wrinkled bundle on his bed, sans jacket which is still on the floor, and he’s rooting around his dresser in nothing but pants and socks. The light from the late afternoon sun cuts through our window of Mummers, casting him in muted orange and amber. He does this all the time. Mindlessly strips in front of me. We don’t have an ensuite like Baz does (the lucky bastard), and Dev has always been comfortable in his body. He’s open and confident in a way that makes my chest ache. I wish I were more like that, but I’m sinew and bone whereas Dev is polish and muscle. Half the time I feel like something the cat drags in, and Dev, well … Dev’s the cat.

tags and hellos 🩵 @drowninginships, @run-for-chamo-miles, @youarenevertooold, @blackberrysummerblog, @orange-peony

@hushed-chorus, @whatevertheweather, @shrekgogurt, @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @emeryhall, @rimeswithpurple, @shemakesmeforget

@raenestee, @skeedelvee, @rbkzz

[nrilliree]

TB: Here is why we think Rhaenyra should be heir, why Daemon was a suitable partner, why her boys' parentage doesn't matter, etc.

*present evidence from the books and show depending on the canon that's being discussed to support their statements*

Team Broccolis: Nah you're wrong.

*go on to present a list of elaborate headcanons and fanon bullshit after cherry picking and mixing details from book and show while ignoring the context*

TB: Refutes their headcanons with well made arguments comprising of solid and reasonable points

Team Broccolis: Why don't TB admit they are wrong and we are right?

Go on to repeat the same headcanons they have memorized by heart

Every argument with the broccolis always ends in circles. There was a time when it was frustrating; now it's just exhausting. It is a pity because discourses - even those that end in disagreements - can be interesting to engage in. But it gets difficult to do so when the opposing side is so deeply entrenched in fanon and denial about their favourites being antagonists in the narrative who lost. This denial manifests itself in many forms. Be it by exaggerating Rhaenyra and Daemon's flaws while brushing whatever the Greens did under the carpet - a tactic the maesters also employed in the book - to wishing for Daenaera to be erased and replaced by Jaehaera to coming up with crack theories that Catelyn is descended from Alysmond's son thus making the Starks TG's descendants and believing that crack.

Visenya is one of my favourite characters; The circumstances that led her to usurp the throne with Maegor are more understandable because the two of them saved their house from utter destruction by dealing with a severe crisis that was caused due to Aenys' stupidity and incompetence. Yet the act of usurpation itself cannot be justified and the wrong that was done to Aenys' rightful heirs was eventually corrected while Maegor died issueless. I rather like Daemon Blackfyre who, by all accounts, was a more capable and better individual than Alicent's sons. It can also be argued that his rebellion was the outcome of his mother Daena being passed over for her uncle. Still, his attempt of usurping his brother - the rightful king - cannot be validated.

But it is only the Greencels who cannot wrap their heads around the role their favourites played in the story when better characters than them weren't immune to the consequences.

My favorite conversation with TG was something like this:

TG: Why do you think TB won the war? Aegon killed Rhaenyra! Me: TB troops won against TG troops, so they won the war. TG: TB troops lost the war, lol. Me: *I write out the last battles in which TB troops won, and also that there were no TG troops left to defend the capital, and that even the council told Aegon II that he should surrender* TG: But TB lost, lol. Aegon killed Rhaenyra.

And so on… I just had these… but how? Just because a leader dies doesn't end the war. Even the death of Aegon II did not end it yet, only the trials of the TG's supporters carried out by Cregan.

And oh yeah, I definitely love these weird fanons and theories that claim TG as their "right". This happens so often that I have developed a habit in which I assume that arguing with TG stans is pointless because it will end the same as always. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. I just know that I'm about to hear about pedophiles, THE victim, the misunderstood Aegon and all the rest of this complete nonsense that they seem to be repeating like parrots. They just want to believe that in HotD history they are "Starks" and TB are "Lannisters" and they will write the biggest nonsense to prove their point.

[catofoldstones]

j0ns@ isnt 100% to me but stans disbelieving in the ashford tourney interpretations now because it didnt fit what they wanted makes me lol now its invalid by having robert arryn when its not supposed to be a 100% recreation, harrold harryn is too much coincidence that it signals sans@'s suitors ,saying the final targaryen suitor died is coping because like Valarr Targaryen, jon also just died the difference is he'll get resurrected

my favourite excuse is "well nobody married lady ashford" well duh its a tourney,it might not even happen in a romantic light more for desperate political reasons the denial is hysterical

Hi anon,

I understand their need to constantly be “debunking” the theory because how dare Sansa have a parallel in another book and thereby be an important character in the series as a whole😤

I don’t think Robert Arryn is the chink in the armour they think he is. With all of Sansa’s previous suitors & Harry, there have been concrete plots to get her married to them. She was officially betrothed to Joffrey (the Baratheon suitor) before the Tyrells brought in Willas (the Tyrell suitor) and were actively planning to spirit her away to Highgarden right under the Lannisters’ noses, only for them to catch wind of the plan (if it can even be put that way) and forcefully get Sansa married to Tyrion (the Lannister suitor). As for Harry, Baelish’s northern plan comes into play which rests on the heels of Sansa getting married to Harry. Not to mention Hardyng is a pretty unknown House to just throw in, dontcha think?

Lysa brings up Sweetrobin in passing, with no plan or even an actual intention to marry them. This is literally never brought up again when Lysa is alive, or even after. The only one repeating any similar sentiment is Sweetrobin himself, who has a crush on Sansa but clearly doesn’t know what it means. So should we take Sweetrobin as a valid suitor? I mean, do crushes count? Because then why not include a whole legion of other Westerosi men who are interested in Sansa and make it a watertight argument. Baelish absolutely wants to marry Sansa, he even asked Cersei for Sansa’s hand in marriage, why isn’t he included? “Because…” yeah you’re there. My point is, the arguments against Baelish & SR are both strong but take a step back to what they have in common, Sansa’s story is leading somewhere else and thematically neither of them fit. One is less serious than the other & thats SR. Be fr with your SR arguments jesus.

Moreover, the Ashford theory and Sansa’s suitors don’t have to be perfect analogues of each other. Hell, we know nothing about Lady Ashford except that she’s 13 and involved in a tourney that was disrupted, and that Sansa is 13 and involved in a tourney that will be disrupted. Man, does this girl have to be named Pansa Ptark now for it to be a valid parallel? Why does George even bother naming his books, he should start calling them the war of the roses and be done with it. Why are we even reading political fiction, let’s just open today’s newspaper. Tf.

And I don’t think I can add anything to the Jon - Targaryen suitor theories that hasn’t been proposed + your points too. We consider R + L = J to be true, first and foremost. The “white guardian”, “dark hair” “the Targaryen suitor being dead” etc etc. In the same vein as the argument above, does he need to be named Jonnel/Jonos now to be taken seriously? Well, he is in another parallel but even that is “reaching” so what can I say? 🤷‍♀️ They’re not going to see what they don’t want to see, but, like you said, watching them jump through hoops and perform mental gymnastics and open a whole circus in the process is truly hilarious lol.

You do bring up an excellent argument, anon, that all of Sansa’s previous suitors have been for her claim to the North, so her marriage with Jon might also be for political reasons. However, the slight exception of Joffrey who was a King in his own right (lmao) exists; which again sort of foils Jon and his actual claim to the iron throne. So I feel that while a political marriage is totally on the cards (solves one too many problems for my liking 😤), Sansa might marry him out of love considering her theme of independence and not-marrying-for-claim. But who am I to say 🤷‍♂️

Lastly, nobody crowned Lady Ashford the queen of love and beauty so Sansa isn’t marrying anyone is sort of funny. Well, Loras gave Sansa a red rose amongst all the young maidens present there, are they a foreshadowed endgame pairing now? Also, how does one come up with Sansa is gonna end up as Lady of the Vale by marrying HH and Sansa is going to end up alone in the same breath?

[dotthings]

So over this. Arrogant and officious, narrow minded and phobic entitled stans thinking they have rights to boss anyone else around (while they deny being phobic of course! Couldn’t be them! They’re never the problem! It’s only those evil hellers!)

The idea that to be a good fan you must ignore queer coding and deny the canon intimations when it comes to bi Dean, queer Cas, and Destiel, to be a good fan you can only see it as platonic and straight, needs to DIAF.

So…if we don’t lie about what we see in canon we’re bad fans.

If we don’t comply with fandom fascists telling us we didn’t see what we watched, if we don’t discard our own media literacy, we’re evil and ruining the fandom.

If we don’t go to our knees trying to placate antis then we’re “bullying” and “divisive” and “disrespectful.”

What absolute absurdist dreck fandom theater nonsense.

What an inane media illiterate hateful tire fire.

Every time some twit makes a post screeching that Dean is straight and if you don’t agree you’re violating a fictional character, or that the love of Dean and Cas can only be platonic because spnstan1000 or jaredluvr2brosonly or Jensen4everDeanstan said so they’re stoking the flames on purpose. While they virtue signal about being sane and good fans.

And blaming spn itself misses the point, especially when we know how much work the creatives did to get around the corporate owned entertainment system.

Blame for lack of openness falls on the corporate system. Because the board and the shareholders of entertainment corporations are mostly a bunch of old, white, straight, conservatives who fear change and cling to status quo due to their own biases, where even the CEOs who want change have to tread carefully.

We need to stop trampling over the spn writers on this and also acknowledge antis aren’t reasonable and they will not stop. Sometimes antis happen to benefit from a crummy system.

But even for a show that was queer coded we have every right to our reading and we should own our reading.

Waiting around for open acknowledgment of the kind that has magazine spreads and declarative official PR statements before we’ll do it is just leaving the patio doors open for the fandom wolves who don’t deserve to be given the time of day.

SPN IS MY HOUSE. And I will not be told what to do by destielh8terbrolove3000, or straight Dean evangelists, destielsucks80 or the downright media illiterate gatekeeping, othering culture, and denialism games of arrogant stans.

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep2 Musings - At the Chateau

More random musings; this time specifically about The Hunt at the Chateau.

I hate these two wenches specifically, but NGL, they look cool here.

Ohhhh, AMC knew what they were doing, going RIGHT for my ovaries! 😍 DADDY TUAN PHAM! 😍😍

Sincere is one thing. HONEST is another, though. Y'all knew those Americans were sus, Armand. They're not buying that "Bruce" BS, Louis, don't sleep on them!

I am SO BUMMED that we didn't get to SEE this scene; I was so excited!

Now I'll never get to see Louis so bored out of his skull by Santiago's thespian charms that he starts snoring in the middle of the play. U_U

Mr. I Could Not Prevent It, what were YOU doing to protect your man? You slaughter random innocent fledglings just for blinking, but you let your whole coven plot Louis & Claudia's demise right under your nose?

Bull frikkin crap!

Daciana been knew. U_U

Who is the coven LEADER, and the coven MASTER?

"COMPLICIT" finna be my favorite word this season, istg.

SO well said, Louis; as this beastly monstrous coven has TWO heads, these SNAKES, this immortal Hydra that only dies when Hercules cuts its head off and cauterizes the wound.

I am SO ready.

I loooove this transition frame; the Moulin Rouge as the most famous French theatre in pop culture, as Louis snaps his sad photos and Claudia whoops and the Theatre Louis sets on fire takes them hunting to a chateau they'll set on fire.

Reminds me of what Lestat said: "there is a veil between us; but it is a THIN veil." Louis will never be "one" with y'all. He's already bound by "a cord you cannot see, but it is real;" all your Mind Gift's mindscrewing can't un-screw Lestat out of Louis' blood! 😜 Louis drags that camera EVERYWHERE, ducking behind the lens, seeing the world thru a Glass Darkly; a warped perception of time & space. Cuz he's STRUGGLING; looking for God; looking for ("the wrong kind" of) love in all the wrong places.

Look at the things he takes pictures of! He's documenting DEATH; a MASS MURDER--"you are chronicling a suicide"--as the coven rides their bikes to the house they're gonna KILL everyone in. This isn't a mere road trip; this is a HUNT.

Equestrian statues & triumphal arches--monuments of blood-soaked imperialism & colonialism.

Hedonistic bacchic revelries. "I want food, I want sex, I want to go home."

Meanwhile, Claudia's high as a kite, on cloud 9.

EVERYBODY, Claudia? As they pan to Louis? "I hate you both!"

I wanna throw up when I remember Claudia's ashes got mixed with the coven's when the Theatre burned down. U_U No justice, and no peace. Claudia, I would've become the most notorious Parisian poltergeist in history--the Pope himself would've had to come up to perform the exorcism, on god I'd make my death everyone's problem.

But the LOOK on Louis' face, omg.

Whole 5 stages of grief in reverse:

Acceptance: he TRIES to "be one with us," taking on the "collective hunger;" smiling (fake AF) as he tries to soak in Claudia's ecstasy; riding in Armand's sidecar, flirting with the "Maitre," cozying up with his potential new beau

Depression: knowing full well he hates the rampant bloodlust & violence, the carnage in the chateau on fire behind him

Bargaining: Mr. I Only Eat Once Every Other Day, refusing to take part the the slaughter but still standing by--you are all COMPLICIT--while they were being killed; and agreeing to have Armand teach him how to be a better killer by honing the Mind Gift, etc.

Anger: The Fire Gift WHENNNNNNN? Foreshadowing AF! Claudia, you WILL be avenged!

Denial: Lestat WHO? Being told straight to his face that Armand knows he's lying, knows he's been collecting alimony & child support checks from Roget, knows Claudia wants to join the coven that set up a frikkin shrine to the dude, knows Santiago's a cheap imitation of Lestat, knows DreamStat's gonna keep haunting the narrative, I can't

An EFFED UP Gothic Romance.

The book stans who keep complaining about this show are just willfully ignoring what AMC's doing here. There is PLENTY we can complain about absolutely! But overall this adaptation is a slam dunk.

[bloogers-boogers]

College Au where Cartman and Kyle dated during middle school and half of high school, however they broke up (Eric) bc his mother kicked him out and had nowhere else to go, Kyle did try to help him but he couldn't let him stay more than a couple of days in his house bc his parents felt pity over Eric's situation but like they say, you become a intruder/ burden after three days.

The problem wasn't Kyle not being able to help Cartman's situation, everything was mellow in their relationship; still taking care of him while he wondered off from park, houses, basements to sleeping inside cars of his fellow classmates (believe it or not but Craig and Clydes cars were always available for him if needed) Kenny let him crash just for a week because his alcoholic dad kicked him out while Kenny was on his shift however Karen apologized for the way he acted with a huge hug which warmed Cartman's heart and spared Stewart's life. Sometimes even Wendy let him stay in her room secretly from her parents as a favor for Stan (tho internally she actually felt bad for Cartman). Anyways, returning to the actual issue was when he finally crashed at Stan's; further away from town in the farm.

Sharon took pity of Cartman welcoming him with open arms and Randy didn't care much in exchange of a "free" employee which annoyed Stan. Stan welcomed him to "hell" as he called it and lead him to the guest room.

This is where things become complicated, while being in the farm Cartman spent most of his time with Stan which provoked a lot of complications in his relationship with Kyle because of this new found feelings against those two immediate closeness: jealousy. Kyle began feeling insecurities arrise in his conscience and his annoyance became more noticeable for both Cartman and Stan, however at first it was only Stan who noticed it while Cartman was oblivious to the whole thing.

It wasn't difficult to notice Kyle's immense glaring and indirect insults at Stan's person. He was suspicious over every little thing they did, commented negatively with every "inside joke" they shared. Stan immediately pointed out his bullshit which caused conflict between both best friends.

They split up, however, Stan still did not let this situation affect Cartman and his stay at the farm.

Ofcourse, after the split up Kyle was even more cranky... that's where he began to lash his anger and repressed jealousy on to Cartman. And that's where Cartman grew tired of it after months of the same shit he broke up with Kyle.

"¡IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME WITH YOU! IT'S LIKE YOU DON'T EVEN CARE OF WHAT I FEEL!

YOU'RE ALWAYS LIKE, STAN THIS STAN THAT WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING GO FUCK STAN THEN!??"

"We literally live under the same roof it's not like I can ignore him, Kahl???"

"¡You're pretty good at ignoring me!"

"I'm not ignoring you! It's was just one text which I answer a little late than usual; but it was because Randy wanted me to pick up Towelie from the gas station cause he had overdose!"

"You could be lying for me to not get suspicious of you two, when you we're probably fooling around with Stan!"

"¡¡THAT FUCKING DOES IT!! ¡IM DONE! I CAN'T TAKE YOU ANYMORE! IM BREAKING UP WITH YOU!"

"... excuse me?"

"Like you fucking heard it, Kyle. We're over."

After that, there was three periods of their breakup; from Kyle acting dismissive/denial (still in shock) for what had happened to second stage, (realizing it was serious/ it mattered) begging for Cartman to take him back and lastly acceptance (grief/sorrow/guilt).

During this period Kyle and Stan reconnected and made peace. They weren't "super best friends" but they we're friends nonetheless.

Eventually at the end of last year of high school both Kyle and Cartman had no choice but to make amends after getting trapped in a escape room for over five hours while they had been in a typical adventure of theirs. Kyle took this as an a opportunity to apologize and somewhat hopeful they could give each other a second chance. But Cartman just accepted his apology and moved on from a emotional confrontation to attempting again to unlock the door of the room. Kyle ofcourse didn't initiate any moves on Cartman but he did expect for Cartman to atleast do it himself, he was left disappointed that night.

And as time flew by quick, they had said their goodbyes and left opposite ways. By this point the Marshes had become Cartman's second and only family. Which helped him be able to go into a good college. (For Stan’s dismay Cartman had become Randy's favorite "Marsh" so he had made sure first to assure Cartman a good college plan instead of his actual son; luckily for Stan his mother had him secured it's not like they had their doubts on using Randy's sketchy money anyways and it's not like Cartman cared enough to question where it came from either.)

However, after two years in Stanford university. He bumped into Kyle.

They were left stoked; but for different reasons. Kyle was by Eric's (still) immense beauty and resurfaced feelings while Cartman was just wondering what the fuck was Kyle doing there when he was supposed to be studying in Harvard.

They awkwardly greeted each other not knowing what to say, but the dreaded silence was broken immediately when some blonde guy approached Eric and slid his arm around Eric's shoulder. That was enough to give Kyle the hint that Cartman had already moved on and was taken. However, this did not affect him in the slightest, he kept his posture and cleared his throat.

"I see you're still studying in Stanford, Fatass."

The blonde arched a brow to this; unaware of the dynamic only he and Eric's close friends had. Cartman just gesture the blonde a small wave, clearing things up before the blonde could take it as a actual threat.

"Don't take it seriously, Bruce. This is how this peculiar jew is," Cartman wink at Kyle, a playful gesture that was supposed to be taken as a initiative of breaking the awkward tension between them.

However, Kyle's feelings were in a twist and wanted badly to scoop Cartman in his arms and claim him as his.

"What brings you to Stanford, jewboy?"

By this point, Bruce had left not before planting a kiss goodbye to Cartman a way to mark his ground, side eying Kyle as he walked away which left Kyle with a taste of bitterness and his competitive spirit grew stronger.

He gulped, not really giving the actual and real reason to why, "Oh, you know... it wasn't my thing, but I heard Stanford wasn’t a bad place. So I decided to give it a shot."

"You left Harvard for Stanford?" Cartman asked almost incredulous.

"Yes." Kyle answered flatly, "you know, Harvard isn't all that." He shrugged, wanting desperately to skip the reasoning of his move to Stanford.

Cartman chuckled amused, seemingly not believing it still, but dropped it.

After this, Kyle and Cartman remained in a decent distance. Boundaries weren't broken however they did cross paths and did hang out together from time to time, ate lunch sometimes and if the opportunity was given study alongside each other. But it was all very casual and never beyond anything more than friends. Cartman was still dating that Bruce guy so Kyle remained tame about his advances with Cartman.

But the moment he heard from a close friend of his who also had a friend group close to Cartman's; that he had broken up with Bruce that same evening he dashed towards the dormitory area where Cartman was and "stumbled" across a messy Cartman. Which took Kyle off guard, cause he's never seen Cartman be this broken it somewhat made him feel a little jealous, envious maybe? cause Cartman never seem this heartbroken over their own breakup, 'How the fuck does this dumb frat boy get Cartman to react like this but with me he didn't bat an eye?' Ofcourse he didn't take it to heart, and instead of making any moves on him he stayed by his side comforting him over his fresh breakup.

"It's okay, man. There's plenty of other people out there (me)"

*sniif* "I thought he was the one, Kahl," Kyle resist the urge to 'tsk', he hated seeing Cartman cry but more so to hear him declare someone else to be "the one" that wasn't him.

"He was a total chad, I'm surprised you didn't see that coming."

"Kahl you're not helping.."

"I just don't want you to act like a total pussy for someone who doesn't deserve your whimpers. You're better than this, you don't need to be crying for some cheating douche."

"... thanks Kyle.." *sniff*

But that sympathy didn't last long, and after a day he called Cartman and invited him out with all intention to begin pursuing Cartman. He justified his selfish behavior with the fact that Cartman would be way happier better off with him instead, and no longer care about Bruce once he shows him how much better it'll be if they got together.

He knew Cartman was healing, fuck, normally he should be recommending for Cartman to take a break from relationships all together. But fuck no. He had wasted long enough waiting, he wasn't planning to waste more time. To wait for some miracle to mysteriously happen in his favor, he had to make his own miracle happen and that was to make Cartman his again.

It's delusional cause he dropped outta Harvard cause he just couldn't bare the thought of being so far away from Cartman, he couldn't concentrate at all, his mind betrayed him plenty of times and wondered to Cartman.

So in his logic, getting into Stanford will make it easy a bit and finally able to pursue his carrier with no distractions. Yes, Cartman was a distraction but having him close, around.. just eased all his worries as he wondered back in to his studies.

So technically, it worked.

So his choices weren't all in vain, however part of his plan on getting back with Cartman went outta rail after realizing he had moved on but that didn't stop him from deciding to pursue the second he got out of that relationship.

Technically it wasn't his fault the frat boy couldn't remain faithful? So ofcourse, he didn't feel a ounce of sympathy or pity after sliding his tongue inside Cartman's mouth after a long confrontation by Cartman over "someone" casually framing Bruce for assault of a fellow student from the campus, dumped him in middle of a ceremony only in his underware and green slime while also being publicly humiliated by people posting on social medias of the whole humiliating display.

Kyle wonders who'd dare did that, but he didn't think much of it as his mind focused on making out with Cartman; grabbing every inch of his soft body, biting, nibbling his skin. Kissing his face then biting his collarbone, showing in all freedom his desire, the repressed feelings he had for him into passionate kisses, his devoted and loyal soul, his burning carnal hunger, the sorrow of losing him.

Gripping Cartman's wrists as he bends him over and somewhat eyeing the photo Cartman still had in his night stand; of him and Bruce. He put it down with his free hand as he then digged his teeth in Cartman's neck making him moan and gasp suddenly.

However, Kyle then woke up, after his alarm resonated the walls of his dorm. Greeting him with the reality that he was in fact dreaming and still had yet to start making a plan to get rid of Bruce who somehow managed to get Cartman back after being an unfaithful piece of shit.

And yeah, a lot of jealously/possessive Kyle continues 😅

[theschizotypalsolilquy]

Well

Apparently I need to reintroduce myself and hopefully clean house.

Hello

I'm Piper. I'm in my mid 40s and have been on mental disability for the last ten years. My blog name should help you with that. I've got a plethora of other mental illnesses too.

I don't know what you Dementors think this blog is, but lemme just lay some truths down for you.

I'm not nice.

I'm not here to feed into your delusions.

I'm not here to validate or invalidate your opinions on the nature of the relationship between Jungkook and Jimin.

As I'm also, it seems, one of those idiots who gives antis a platform, lemme lay another truth down on yall.

I'll tag however I see fit.

Maybe I tag those fucktards because I need other people to see some of the vile shit that's being said.

Ya know. Spread awareness.

To be on the lookout for homophobic yns or solo stans who like to spread vicious lies not only about Jimin and Jungkook, but other members as well.

Like how there was a bitch on Twitter saying that Yoongi killed four people in a DUI accident last night. Luckily it got taken down, but people were still falling for that shit.

This fandom is fucking toxic, and a lot of people ignore that. Why, I have no earthly idea. Supposed ot7 accounts who don't call out any group who slanders Jimin and Jungkook, but get all up in arms protecting other members.

And before you call bullshit, realize you're in denial about this fandom.

Yall wanna just blame shippers. But every corner of this fandom reeks of toxicity, from solo stans to ot7.

It's not like there's not receipts to back that statement up either.

Some of yall act like the moral police. And it's quite hypocritical.

Sure. It would be nice to just be all rainbows and puppies 24/7 and oh we all get along and love all the relationships between members group hug!!!

But it's not. And I'll show that ugly side and call it out.

It's about time eyes were opened to just how some of this fandom is treated by the fandom as a whole.

Like a blog I love and follow, an anon was sent in to tell them to stop posting ugly pictures of the other members because they were just there for Jimin and Jungkook.

Da fuq??

Be better.

So, in conclusion:

My blog. My rules. You don't like the things I post, or the beliefs I hold? Well, there's this handy thing called an unfollow or block option.

Imagine that

IMAGINE THAT

My feelings will not be hurt if someone unfollows me. I implore you to do so.

And if you keep following me, don't bitch about the things I post.

Peace. Love. Dope.

[underfaller]

in his house of mind, dead cipher waits dreaming

Chapter 3: Frilliam II

Rating: T

Synopsis:

You really think you won that day/You packed your bags and sailed away/You think you left your past behind/But trust me/I'm still on your mind

A year has passed since Weirdmaggedon and the Pines family, victorious in the end, are happier than ever. Stan and Ford are adventuring at sea, making up for lost time. Dipper and Mabel are now freshmen and are ready to take on high school-- geometry, bullies, (student eating?) clubs, and all! However, things take a turn for the worst when Dipper and Mabel receive of horrific message from Ford:

Bill is back.

���C'mon Fordsy, let me outta here! I promise I won't undo my stitches again!” 

Bill struggles against the leather straps that bind him to a cold, metal table. It rattles as he purposely shakes it back and forth. Stanford shoots him a glare. 

“Will you just shut up for once?” He snaps. 

“Make me!” Bill yells back. 

Stanford presses his lips tightly, but doesn’t continue the conversation. He knows that there isn’t any point in engaging with Bill. The demon only sweet talks you when he wants something and vexes you when he doesn’t. Ford instead continues writing in his new journal, documenting his failures to bring Stanley back. After their fight, Ford immediately turned the Stan-o-War II back to the only place he could possibly go-- The Mystery Shack. The lab is exactly the same as it was 30 years ago save for its equipment’s slightly worn appearance and a framed photo of the kids on the desk. Stanford’s heart twists. 

What would they say if they knew their Grunkle was like this? 

“I have to admit though, I'm impressed!” Bill continues. “You really went for the kill back there. Talk about cold-blooded!”

Memories flash in Ford’s mind. Stanley on the bridge floor, eerily still, in a pool of his own blood. Perhaps one of the scariest moments in Stanford’s life was that of momentarily realization that he’d accidentally killed his own brother-- Even more frightening than when he was sucked into the interdimensional portal. Thankfully, Stanford is a skilled medic and was able to successfully resuscitate Stanley. Still as Stanford’s eyes stray toward Stanley’s chest, still wrapped in white bandages, he feels gnawing guilt eating away at him. 

It all happened so fast. Bill came at me. I didn't mean to actually shoot him. 

Please forgive me, Stanley. If you are still there. 

No, he can’t think like that. Doubt leads to stagnation. Stanford cannot afford to doubt. He will not stagnate in the pursuit of his brother. Bill may have taken over his body temporarily, but Stanley is still there. Somewhere. He has to be. 

He has to be. 

“I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. It's not like you actually respect the guy anyway,” Bill chimes. “Sure, you love your brother and all. Blah, blah, blah! But you don't actually respect him. Deep down, you still see him as a fumbling idiot. As you should, you're the superior twin after all!”

Stanford narrows his eyes. 

“Your manipulation isn’t going to work this time.”

“Tch, it’s not manipulation. It’s the truth,” Bill sneers. “Like how you loved me too. Before, you know, all the drama . Only difference was you actually respected me too.” 

Stanford raises an eyebrow. 

“Seriously? I always knew you were the jealous type but getting jealous of my brother? That’s a bit low, even for you Cipher.” 

Bill growls. 

“Whatever. I don't have to convince you of the truth. You'll do that on your own eventually. I just planted the seed in your little noggin,” Bill huffs. “All that knowledge bestowed upon you and this is the thanks I get. Seriously, is this how you treat all your partners?” 

“We were never partners.” 

“Denial is a river in Egypt-,” Bill momentarily pauses his pettiness, craning his neck and watching as Ford surrounds the table with candles. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m going into Stan’s mind and forcibly removing you myself.” 

Bill laughs.

“Seriously, you’re actually gonna meet me in the mindscape?” Bill’s lips curl into a dark grin. “Wow, a date with Stanford Pines. This is gonna be interesting.”

Stanford rolls his eyes before pulling out a lighter from his pocket. As he lights the candles, his heart pounds in his ears. The last time Ford spoke to Bill face to face ended with Bill frying him alive for an equation to end the world. Stanford sits crossed legged on the floor, ignoring the demon’s giggles and closes his eyes. He tries to calm his mind but Stanford realizes that he’s slightly trembling. 

He’s wary of his former muse but he’ll do anything for Stanley Pines. After all, he did the same for Stanford by bringing him out of the portal. Stanford can’t help but notice the obvious irony in all this. It’d be amusing if this were a novel he was reading instead of his own life. 

However, it wasn’t and that made it terrifying. 

Stanford takes a deep breath.

“Videntus omnium. Magister mentium. Magnesium ad hominem,” Stanford calls. “Magnum opus. Habeas corpus! Inceptus Nolanus overratus! Magister mentium! Magister mentium! MAGISTER MENTIUM!” Bill smirks. 

“See you real soon.”

There’s a blinding flash of blue light. It envelops the entire lab and as it does, Stanford can feel himself floating up and up until he’s out of his  body. Stanford stands up, a ghost outside the physical world, and examines himself, still sitting on the lab floor, illuminated by candlelight. It's uncanny. He shivers slightly. Despite having done it dozens of times, Stanford will never get used to this out of body experience. He swims across the air before floating right into his brother’s skull. There is another flash of light and when Ford opens his eyes, he finds himself in a completely blank space with no signs of Stanley or Bill in sight. 

Stanford conjures his weapon of choice- an interdimensional gun- into existence, pointing it as he delves further and further into Stanley’s mindscape. 

“Show yourself, Cipher!” He calls. 

The air crackles with electricity as a shrill laughter fills the space. 

“Well, well, well! It’s actually Sixer in the flesh! Welcome to my humble abode!” Ford whips around to see his ex muse. His messy, blonde hair rests over his leery face, covering his right eye. Bill bows, tipping his top hat. “Look who missed me,” Bill simpers, adjusting his bowtie. He leans on his slender, black cane, a leery smile etched on his pretty face. “Ya’know I just had to change my form for the special occasion. Remember it? You used to absolutely adore seeing me like this.”

Ford points his gun at Bill, ignoring the redness in his ears. He knows that Bill Cipher is just messing with him-- similar to how cats play with their food before they disembowel it-- but even Stanford is slightly caught off guard by Bill’s sudden change of physique. “I’m not here to play games, Bill. Get out of here before I-”

Swoosh.  

In a flash, Bill is in front of Ford, grabbing the gun and pressing its barrel against his chest with wide eyes and an even wider. Ford flinches, trying to pull away, but Bill pulls him closer so that Ford can feel Cipher’s hot breath against his face. 

“C’mon, Ford! You’ve already tried that; it’s not gonna work. What’s the saying again, doing the same thing expecting different results makes you insane?” Bill croons. His hand snakes towards Ford's fingers. They're cold, like talons scraping against his skin. “Unless you’re actually going insane, then I’ll happily accept you by my side with open arms!”

“We're in the mindscape now. Stanley's mindscape. It'll be different blasting you out of here,” Ford hisses. 

Bill tilts his head.

“Do you really think you can bring him back? Face it, you're a scientist, not a necromancer.”

“He’s not dead. You may have taken over his mind but he’s still here somewhere.” 

He has to be. 

“Hmm.. that’s an interesting hypothesis,” Bill says. “It’s out of your control though. Take a look around! What’s done is done!”

If this truly was Stanley's mindscape, where is everything? His memories, his thoughts, the very mental image of himself? It should all be here and yet, it is not. Even Stanford, the master of rationalizing all things wrong when it suits him, cannot delude himself of that stark fact. Bill notices Ford's hesitation and chuckles. 

“But….If you make a deal with me, perhaps we can actually bring him back!” Bill adds. “We'll keep him around like a house pet. How's that sound?” 

Ford eyes blaze, clenching his fingers over the gun. 

“How dare--You isosceles prick!” 

Ford pulls the trigger. The shot rings in the empty space as the ray blasts through Bill’s suit, creating a giant hole in his chest. Ford watches as the flesh and tendons twist and wiggles, returning to their original state. The only piece of Bill that doesn’t reform is his white dress suit, leaving his chest bare as Bill clicks his tongue in annoyance.  

“Now look at what you did,” Bill says. He grabs Ford, pushing him to the ground as he straddles him with his long legs. Ford struggles wildly but Bill quickly overpowers him. He leans into the man’s ear. 

“Let me break it down for you, IQ. Your brother and I are one now. My mind is his. I’m in control here and you, Stanford, are in enemy territory. Do you know what happens to little six-fingered freaks that get into places where they shouldn’t be?” 

Bill raises his hand. 

“They go SPLAT!” 

Bill strikes Ford and the world goes black. Stanford gasps, ears ringing as he opens his eyes. He falls back onto the lab floor. The candles are blown out. Ford stumbles to his feet, making his way towards the table. Stanley is unconscious but Bill is certainly still there, his ugly smile still etched on his brother's sleeping face. Ford slams his fist against the metal surface. 

“GODDAMMIT!” He yells. Stanford paces back and forth, muttering and cursing. He's seeing red, adrenaline and anger racing in his veins. 

What now, smart guy?

Stanford is supposed to be a genius! If he couldn’t even bring his brother back, what the hell was he good for? Stanford grits his teeth, grabbing his pen and documenting the trial in his journal before he loses his temper once more and throws the book against the wall. He slumps to the ground, head in hands. That stupid triangle. He was toying with him. Why, why, why was it that after everything, that demon still had power over him. Ford shakes his head. This is going nowhere.

Stanley. I’m sorry. I’m trying. 

After a few minutes, Ford calms himself. He takes a deep breath, counting to ten over and over like he did when he was a child angry at his father for scolding Stanley. Then, Ford picks himself and his journal up and locks the lab door behind him. 

Stanford needs help.

Ford makes his way up the dark stairs before pressing the vending machine from behind and stepping out into the quiet Mystery Shack. All the tourists have gone to their motels or RVs for the night. As moonlight wafts through dirty windows, Soos sweeps the floors of the empty gift shop, whistling. When he sees Stanford, he pauses, waving slightly. 

“Hey dude. Any luck on getting Mr. Pines back?”

Stanford shakes his head. 

“Not yet, Soos.”

Disappointment flashes in the young man's eyes as he frowns. Soos sighs, propping his broom against the counter, taking off his fez and playing with the worn tassel. 

“He's not actually dead, is he?”

There's sadness in Soos’s voice, as if he's expecting the worst answer despite desperately hoping for the opposite. Stanford once again feels crawling shame for his recent failures. He doesn’t know Soos very well but Stanley often spoke of his former employee as his son. Soos no doubt sees Stanley as a de facto father figure in return. It's probably why Soos was more than willing to let the Pines stay at the Mystery Shack for the time being. Stanford clears his throat. 

“Of course not. You know Stanley. It's gonna take more than that yellow bastard to kill him.”

His words make Soos brighten up just a little. He laughs. 

“Yeah man. If Bill tries to kill him, Mr. Pines would probably punch him to smithereens-- again!”

There’s so much enthusiasm and hope in Soos’s voice-- it makes Ford grin just slightly. 

Their conversation is interrupted by a light in the hallway being switched on. Melody leans in the doorway, still in her pajamas, a worried expression of her face as her hand rests over her very pregnant belly. 

“Soos, there's gnomes in the trash again! Do you know where the broom is?”

Soos jumps up, grabbing the broom. 

“I'll handle it!” Soos says. “You can go back to bed.”

Melody tilts her head, placing her hands on her hips.  

“Just because I'm pregnant, doesn't mean I can't do anything you know,” She replies, teasingly. 

Soos chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I know. You're awesome, Mel but you're doing enough already taking care of Sooslet,” Soos pecks Melody on the check before adjusting his cap. “A few gnomes is nothing compared to what you're doing!” 

Before Melody can protest, Soos is already racing to the kitchen. She shakes her head, but is clearly amused by her husband. She turns toward Ford. 

“Still helping Mr. Pines?”

Stanford nods. 

“Yes. I apologize for having barged in on you two on such short notice.”

Melody shakes her head. 

“No problem. Technically, it’s still your house, is it not? If there's anything we can do to help Mr. Pines, let us know. Soos is very worried about him.”

Stanford nods once more. 

“I know. We'll get him back soon. I promise.”

He says it with conviction but Ford isn't sure if his reassurance is for Melody or for himself.  ~

Lake Gravity Falls is serene at this hour of the night. The air is crisp and cool as opposed to the hot, stiff Oregon summer daylight. Cicadas sing loudly as fireflies float across still waters. Stanford sits on the dock next to Fiddleford. 

“Asking to go fishing in the middle of the night? I have a feeling this isn’t some ol’ rendezvous just to catch up.”

Stanford sighs, fiddling with his fishing pole. He never really liked fishing. Stanford wasn’t a very patient man and fishing was a very patient sport. Fiddleford, on the other hand, absolutely adored it, always begging Ford to join him in their younger years. Stanford scoffs. 

The first time I actually go and it’s for my own gain. 

As Stanford fills his old partner in on the recent turn of events, the old engineer grows silent and serious. Fiddleford scratches his beard. 

“I could always construct another memory erasing gun. You can try that again.”

Ford shakes his head. 

“No more guns, F. I think I've shot my brother enough times.”

Fiddleford nods. He gazes across the lake with a faraway, thoughtful look in his eyes. 

“I want to help but we're dealing with forces outside this realm of reality, on a plane of existence even God doesn't dare step up on.” 

“Not so different from last time.”

Fiddleford scoffs. 

“No, not very different.”

Ford turns towards him. 

“I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t have anyone else to turn to,” Stanford says, quietly. “You’re the brightest mind I know., F-”

Fiddleford interrupts him. 

“Ya know-- you're the only one that calls me that.”

“F?”

“F, Fiddleford. Everyone I know calls me Old Man Mcgucket ‘cept little Tate of course. I don't even think half this town knows my real name.”

Stanford grimaces, remembering all he put his old roommate through. He reels up his line, abruptly standing up. Fiddleford looks at him, confused. 

“Where are you going?”

“I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I can't drag you back into this. Not after last time-” 

“Oh, sit yer butt down!” 

Stanford is shocked by Fiddleford’s sudden sharpness and quickly sits back down. Fiddleford shakes his head. 

“I’m not telling you this to guilt you.” “Then why?” “You’re so damn impatient! I’m getting to it!” “Ok! Ok! Sorry, F.” 

Fiddleford clears his throat. 

“When we parted ways all those years ago, I was a broken man with a broken mind coming home to a broken family-” 

“You must have despised me.” 

“I did. For a little bit,” Fiddleford admits. “Then I forgot. Then your grandkids helped me remember again and when I remembered you again, I was happy. I never wanted to forget you. I cherished you in my mind, even in my anger.”

Stanford sighs. 

“I'm sorry, Fiddleford. I never meant to hurt you.” He says. “I squandered your life. Your potential. You could've been a billionaire with your computers. You could have still been married to Emma May. You could have had a relationship with your son.” 

“I do have a relationship with Tate, though and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with now.” Fiddleford laughs. “As for Emma May… Well, let's just say things probably would have ended the same with her whether I left for Gravity Falls or not.”

Fiddleford bows his head, smiling softly. 

“I guess what I’m tryna get at is that you keep blaming yourself when you've already been forgiven. The past is past, Ford. You’ve got to put it behind you,”  Fiddleford states. “Apprehension is unnatural for the Great Genius Stanford Pines.” 

Ford shakes his head. 

“It's hard when the past keeps haunting the present.” 

Fiddleford hums. 

“Perhaps, but when it does, you've got people around you to help blow it back to where it belongs.” Fiddleford says. 

“I'm gonna stay by your side. Not like before.”

Fiddleford holds out his hand. Stanford stares at it, utterly bewildered yet grateful that Fiddleford so willingly forgives him despite everything. Still, Ford smiles, shaking his hand. 

“Right back at you, partner.”

Suddenly, Fiddleford lets go and jumps, pointing at the water.

“Look at that!” 

In the darkness, the small shadow in the water seems like a formless blob but as Stanford shines his lantern closer to it, he realizes that it’s an Axolotl, pink with a dreamy smile on its face as it paddles through the water. Fiddleford slaps his knee, laughing. 

“Well I’ll be! It looks like Frilliam. Remember that little guy?”

“How could I forget?”

“Perhaps it's one of his great- great- grandsons. He’s got the same frills, after all, just like your sideburns!” 

Fiddleford bends down and dips his hand into the water. The Axolotl swims tentatively towards Fiddleford’s fingers, looking up at the two men. Its deep eyes glisten as it stares at Ford. For some very odd reason, Ford feels as if its expression is one of familiarity, as if it recognizes the old man. Then, it flicks its tail, leaving as quickly as it came, sending ripples across the starlit lake as the two men sit together in peace. 

Bill Cipher is dreaming. 

He’s out at sea, watching the waves crash against a small boat as the vessel lurches back and forth. He despises it. He’s getting seasick just standing there. 

“Hey Pointdexer! Check this out!” Somewhere in the distance, Stanford is laughing. 

Bill feels a wave of nausea rise in him. That voice-- he hated that voice-- The voice of Stanley Pines. He claws at his own skin, trying to escape this hellscape. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here- 

“Woah buddy! Chill out!” Bill’s eye snaps open. He is in a white space, somehow more empty than his cell. He sees himself waving back at him. 

“Hey Handsome, long time no see,” The other Bill tips his hat. 

Bill checks his own hat. It’s still on his head. Bill narrows his eye. 

“What the- Who are you?” The triangle laughs. 

“I’m you, dummy. Duh!” 

“No, I’m me.” 

“I know you are, but so am I!”

“What?”

The triangle breaks into another fit of giggles before wiping a tear from his eye. Bill crosses his arms, obviously not amused by this other Bill mocking him. He’d dice him into tiny squares if he still had his powers. 

“Lemme explain,” The other Bill states. “You’re the little broken pieces the Axolotl picked out of Stanley’s mind, put into ‘therapy’.”

He pretends to gag before motioning to the empty area around the two demons. 

“...and I am the one that stayed.”

Bill crosses his arms.

“That’s impossible.”

“Aww, where’s your faith, William?” Bill puts his arm around Bill, waving his hand as he explains. “Even the axolotl makes the mistakes, sometimes.” 

Bill leans closer. 

“Mistakes that can work in our favor.”

He steps back, looking smug and shrugging. 

“While you’ve been doing arts and crafts, wallowing in self pity, I’ve been making moves! Moves towards total dimensional annihilation and sweet, sweet revenge!” Bill yells. “So hurry up and get out of timeout and join me; it’s getting boring without the full use of my powers.”

Snap. 

Bill suddenly sits up, awake and still in his dark cell. He looks down at his orange jumpsuit. Was there truly a way to get out of here? Half of him was already out there, having fun and causing chaos-- all he had to do was join him. Slowly, a smile grows on his face. 

Yes, perhaps things were finally changing.

Previous Chapter

[rebrandedstoryline]

Naughty Sunbite

@feralmoonlight, @zenkaiankoku, @juupitrr, @saburo-kyoto

Come get y’all soop. Fresh and hot. Is spicy. Inspired by everyone being thirsty on this dumbass post.

Sun x (F)Reader: Sun catches you masturbating and has to punish you for breaking a very specific rule

Beyond suggestive. Contains biting. Contains orgasm denial. Contains a bit of bondage. Among other spicy things. We stan a sexually confident and possessive Sun in this house.

          “Oh. Sunbite. How naughty~” Sun coos, slowly making his way further into the room. His voice carries the faintest hint of jealousy. His eyes, half lidded, gaze upon you. Full of lust. Lust and the tiniest glimpse of betrayal.           “Playing without me~...” He mutters, coming to sit beside you. You, meanwhile, lay in the bed almost entirely frozen. Legs half spread. Hand still between your legs. A silicone replica of Sun’s phallus half buried inside of you. Admittedly, you hadn’t expected him to stumble across you. You hadn’t expected him to catch you in this act of self-indulgence. Yet he had - and now you were left to face the consequences of your actions. Slowly. Teasingly. Sun reaches to place his hand upon your knee.

Your lower half trembles faintly in response to his touch. That trembling only grows more obvious as he begins to glide his hand downwards. His fingers practically dance across your inner thigh. His grip his light. His eyes linger upon your face. His smile never falters. His eyes captivate your own. Hungry. Greedy. Almost angry. Your breath hitches in your throat as his hand continues down, his fingers now rubbing against that point where thigh meets pelvis. He’s so dangerously close to touching your most intimate place.

Instead, he abruptly lifts his hand to take hold of your wrist. Startled, you release your grip upon the pastel yellow dildo that lays half buried between your legs. Having succeeded in making you drop the forbidden toy, he brings your hand to his face. Gently, he peppers kisses across your knuckles. Every joint is blessed by the brief, affectionate contact of his lips. Slowly. Gently. Sensually. Once done, he seeks out your other hand. Again, he begins to pepper your knuckles with kisses.

Starting with your first hand. Then moving on to the second. For a split second, he seems to flash you an apologetic look - before abruptly shifting to hold both of your wrists with one hand. You already know what’s coming. You’ve been naughty. Naughty girls need to be punished. He easily lifts his arm to pin your wrists to the bed, atop your head. Your heart rate picks up in anticipation of what was to come. His free hand returns to your thigh. He trails it down one more, his grip now tighter.

He brings his hand down to the space between your legs. His fingers brush against your clit for a brief second. Intentionally. Firmly. Then he moves his hand lower, dragging the tip of one finger along the pho phallus itself. He half pushes it out of you with that touch. Upon finding the flared out bit at the bottom, he wraps his hand around the soft material. He pushes it completely inside of you in one swift movement. Not roughly. Just abruptly. The action rightly coaxes a startled mewl out of you.

He completely removes the replica in just as smooth of a motion. He holds it up. Examining it. Seemingly expecting you to take note of it. Slick with lubricant and your own love nectar. A single, sticky strand of slick keeps it connected to you. Your pelvis jolts ever so slightly as he brings the toy down to teasingly rub it between your slick folds, but he denies you the satisfaction of penetration.

          “Rulebreaker~” Sun hums, pulling the pho phallus out from between your legs entirely. He brings it closer to himself, holding it near his face. He seems to ponder his next course of action for a moment. Then, he deliberately and without hesitation, cleans the dildo. His tongue snakes out of his mouth to partly wrap around it, before sucking it into his maw with ease. For a few short but incredibly erotic seconds, he sucks your essence clean off of the silicone. A sort of ominous chuckle escapes him when he withdraws the toy from his mouth.           “Rulebreakers must be punished~” He effectively purrs out, tossing the unwanted toy to the side. He then moves his hand to your face. He lightly squeezes your jaw, practically forcing you to open your mouth. His tongue snakes past your lips, delivering a taste of your nethers to your tongue. He makes sure to help you savor the flavor of your misdeeds, teasing every accessible area of your mouth with his tongue. All the while he eagerly soaks in the sweet sounds of your moans. Half protests. Half pleas.

          “S-Sun!..” You half moan, half pant out his name as he withdraws his tongue from your mouth. Before you can hope to say more, he covers your lips with his. You mewl into his mouth as he practically devours your voice. This kiss is short but passionate. The animatronic is practically panting when he pries his lips off of yours. You see it in his eyes. Passionate. Unhinged. Possessive. He slyly removes the ribbon attached to his occupied hand. Swiftly and easily he binds you with it, assuring that you won’t be able to misbehave further.

You’re left with your hands secured to the headboard. Still, he’s made sure the ribbon isn’t too tight. If you really tried to, you could escape your bondage. But you don’t. Seeing him so worked up has only added fuel to the fire of your carnal desire. With you secured and seemingly unable to escape, Sun moves further onto the bed. He shifts to trap your body beneath his own. You impulsively wrap your legs around his hips, attempting to pull him closer. You want him. You need him.

You feel so empty without him and you can tell he’s equally as eager to fill you. But he denies you the satisfaction, for now. With his drastically superior strength, he removes your legs from his hips. One hand his kept wrapped about the underside of your knee, lifting your leg upwards and slightly to the side. The other sneaks its way up your shirt to toy with your chest, though only briefly. He’s practically vibrating as he purrs against your neck. Teasingly he scrapes his teeth against the arch of your shoulder. You hardly have the chance to ponder what he might be contemplating.

His teeth latch down on your tender skin, but they aren’t sharp enough to pierce or puncture. The faintest twinge of pain greets you for a split second, only to be drowned out by the unanticipated pleasure of his fingers. He’s snuck his hand elsewhere while you were distracted. He continues to bite, littering your skin with red marks to claim you as his. All the while he teases you with his fingers. Before his teeth clamp down, he slowly caresses the sensitive skin surrounding your clitoris. When his teeth pinch your flesh, he firmly rolls that sensitive lump of nerves beneath his fingertips.

His every action is deliberate. Every ounce of pain or pleasure inflicted upon you controlled. You’re being punished. But he loves you. He’s teaching you a lesson. But he’s trying to seduce you with his touch. You’ve betrayed him. But he forgives you. Certainly, its partly his fault. Your needs were overlooked for just a day too long. Your desires were left unsatisfied. He failed to take care of you. Still, you used a forbidden toy. His actions now were meant to erase all evidence of its presence.

          “Rulebreaker~” Sun pants, finally withdrawing his teeth from your shoulder. He’s seemingly satisfied himself with the array of marks he’s left upon your skin. Evidence of your punishment. Proof of his hold over your heart. He lifts his head enough to lock eyes with yours, his fingers moving slightly lower.           “Rulebreaker~” He mewls, thrusting his fingers into your needy orifice. They slide in nice and easy. There’s no holding back the moan that escapes you when he touches you. You’re hot and slick and ready for him to mark you with his essence. He works his fingers in and out of you. Quickly. Skillfully. He already knows which spots to rub against in order to make you squirm in delight. He already knows exactly what it takes to make you cum. But that sweet moment of euphoria finally draws near, he withdraws.

You’re intentionally denied an orgasm. Brought straight to the brink, only to be left teetering on the edge. Just one more faint touch would bring you the satisfaction that you desired. A pathetic whine escapes your lips as study his expression. Sly. Mischievous. Knowing. He’s denied you that sweet relief, and he’s done so entirely on purpose. A sort of teasing smile spreads across his features as he peers down at you. You feel his fingers lightly trace patterns on your lower abdomen.

He teases you still. His fingers trail down every so often, teasing you with a false promise of contact. He draws dangerously close to rubbing your clitoris. Dangerously close to giving you that satisfaction that you so desperately crave after having been so deliberately worked up. But he refuses to give you that satisfaction. You effectively whimper out his name.

          “Not yet, Sunbite~” Sun hums, leaning down ever so slightly to kiss your cheek. He knows how badly you want him. Admittedly, he’s equally as hungry for you. It was quite a struggle for him to restrain himself. Quite a struggle to keep from ripping his own pants off to claim you as his right then and there. His tongue snakes out to lick away the frustrated tear which rolls down your cheek.           “Shh, I know, it’s frustrating. But you broke the rules. No toys when you play alone. Only yourself~” He hums, now dipping his head down. You already know what he’s planning on next. If he can’t penetrate you with his cock, he’s going to use something else. Something more satisfying to himself than just his fingers. His tongue lightly teases the skin of your abdomen as he makes his way down. You tremble. Both from the anticipation of what was to come, and from the sheer frustration of knowing his intentions.           “You’re a naughty little rulebreaker. And naughty little rulebreakers don’t get to cum. Not until they’ve been punished and forgiven.” He purred, his mouth now having drawn low enough that his tongue threatened to brush against your clitoris. By now, enough time had passed for you to almost fully come down from the high of that near orgasm. Which was going to make this next part all the more delightfully frustrating for you. Left wanting and waiting, your body only responded by making itself more sensitive to touch. Slowly. Intently. He proceeds to massage your clitoris with his tongue.

The long appendage snakes its way out of his mouth, intentionally dragging against your clit as the the true destination was sought out. Like a sly tentacle, his tongue trails down between your labia in search of your recently teased orifice. He thrusts his tongue inside of you, eagerly tasting your arousal while continuing to stimulate you with the movements of his tongue. All the while he maintains eye contact with you. Intense and deliberate. Until he’s satisfied with the punishment, you’ll be denied the orgasm you so desperately crave.

He can find alternative ways to keep himself subdued in the meantime. Your taste. Your voice. Your sweet, desperate thrusts against his mouth. All of it only adds as satisfaction. You’ll be here for a long while - loving and hating every heated moment of it all.

[keef-a-corn]

Dat’s right, People, it’s time for ‘Keef watches TFP and you just get the notes!’

This is for season 1, episode 17: Crisscross.

I write down the timestamps, but I watch Transformers Prime on Stan (an Australian streaming service) so they may be slightly off.

ALSO! I try my best to note points for every character, but tend to get a little caught up by Bee (although I think I do a pretty good job with the notes regardless) so do be warned.

~~~~Transition~~~~

00:16 - Oh dear.. already quite bored

00:41 - One thing to note is that Silas is a mix of Megatron and Optimus. He’s on the field alongside his workers regardless of why they’re there, but he also does not care who he hurts.

01:07 - Airachnid’s always gotta have a cool reveal. Theoretically. In practice it is not achieved.

~intro~

01:57 - Average day in Australia.

02:37 - OH GAWD. This again??

02:58 - had to take a solid minute to collect myself. They don’t refer to themselves as ‘transformers’ so Airachnid saying that made so much sense, but the actual word sounded so foreign.

03:03 - honestly just hate Airachnid and Arcee’s rivalry so much. There’s no respect in it and it’s not clear (to me at least) how it happened. We get back story for the situation, but it clears up even less. Why is Airachnid specifically going after Arcee?? Why does Arcee take it so personally?.

03:13 - E X C U S E M E

03:28 - let us be clear… rn Jack’s mum is hawt.

03:46 - in Speed Metal this was proven true.

03:58 - Does Jack seriously not have any other friends? The humans are so dependent on the bots it’s frustrating.

04:26 - honestly, June’s a good mum. She’s very clear and firm, but she doesn’t yell.

04:49 - uh.. that’s honestly a weird line and feels really inappropriate.

05:06 - wait, so Arcee stays the night at Jack’s place?? But she works at night too!

05:42 - that car has the same numberplate as Jack’s mum RPI • 437 if it was a background car it wouldn’t matter, but we can see the plate clear as day.

05:55 - WOO! Beeeee

06:00 - the extended part of this scene is a luxury- oh wait… oh.. oh no… it’s a filler. This is a filler episode. That’s why Bee’s there and no one else is. If Ratchet, Optimus and/or Bulkhead don’t talk during this episode, it will confirm it.

06:08 - Hehe, the contrast. Also June listens to elevator music on her drive home.

06:34 - honestly, a little surprised they hadn’t gone with the ‘Doesn’t check the room’ trope.

06:46 - ooooh The light is a ground bridge! Thought they decided to randomly add the idea that when Arcee transforms it’s a Winx like transformation.

06:54 - gaslighting 101.

07:00 - June in denial that her son’s a frickin looser and has no friends.

07:16 - Rest in pieces Jack.

07:56 - JACK NO THAT’S A BAD IDEA.

08:03 - I mean- KiNdA

08:08 - Didn’t June get off work early to cook Jack dinner?

08:40 - kinda vibing with Silas and Arcee’s dynamic rn

08:47 - WTF- seriously tho, wtf?.

09:37 - Mech is a really weird name for a group that doesn’t like transformers.

09:45 - ‘In my bed. I slept with your mother, Jack. Call me… Papa Silas.’ Would’ve made the episode 100x better.

10:10 - Wait… so the communicator scrambles the signal, so Arcee can’t reach the autobots, but as far as they are aware she’s supposed to be at Jack’s house. If her signal randomly went out, wouldn’t they notice and go looking for her?

10:25 - they had this ability the whole time but only NOW choose to use it?? If they had it set up throughout the town, they would be able to find any bot lickity split, especially if it causes them that much pain.

10:40 - Does anyone else despise the ‘they just want me 🥺’ trope?

10:51 - Arcee’s number plate is 396571.

11:26 - Oh my gaaaaawd! When will Arcee learn that she has to maintain level headed when fighting Airachnid otherwise she’s wasting her strength.

11:34 - the way Arcee’s optics tilted backwards and got big in fear, panic and desperation is a sweet choice. But how has she not realised that with Silas standing there, putting both Jack and June’s lives at risk, that he doesn’t care about them??

11:43 - bicthless behaviour.

13:09 - Calling her ‘Spider-bot’ rather than her name is both disrespectful in not using her name, but respectful in recognising who she is.

13:13 - HE SAID THE TITLE.

13:21 - The worker calls Arcee ‘it’ - entirely disrespectful and objectifies Arcee.

13:28 - considering how long it took them to simply open Breakdown’s chest plate and remove his eye, it’s safe to assume Arcee’s got plenty of time.

15:33 - what’d I say?

15:38 - he rhymed.

16:01 - what does that mean?.

16:30 - continuity.

16:35 - Awesome shot, which also captures their power imbalance.

16:40 - significantly higher. Arcee’s strong, yes. But not nearly as strong as Breakdown + Breakdown had assistance from another bot.

17:48 - why wouldn’t they have done the concrete as soon as Airachnid fell? She would’ve been less likely to have woken up.

18:31 - Agent Fowler! Proving to be useful Y E T A G A I N !

18:54 - how did he go so long without noticing that missing??

19:04 - THANK YOU! Responsible man right here!

19:07 - No. that would’ve been a good call because Airachnid’s very dangerous and Arcee cannot handle her on her own.

19:24 - that was very funny. The line was delivered so mildly, but made so much sense as well.

19:46 - They did obtain some information, so I guess Silas got what he wanted.

20:53 - MMM YES. SEXIEST MUSIC.

21:07 - Look at hiiiim

21:11 - Ratchet turns around like an old man.

21:17 - so jealous of June rn.

21:25 - Another cover poster + Optimus looked slightly offended in the moments before the shot I got a photo of.

21:28 - Not a word from Bulkhead, Ratchet and Optimus. I wonder w h y .

———————

So that was Crisscross!

Incase it wasn’t apparent, I’m not a fan of the obvious filler episodes. I’m not a fan of Arcee and Airachnid’s dynamic either, so it made the episode worse.

One thing I will give it credit for is that it addressed the fact that June would’ve started to get suspicious.

Crisscross is better than Predatory, but I don’t like either episode.