#All Fish Are Not Created Equal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

azullumi · 4 days ago

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IN THE DESCENT OF MADNESS CALLED LOVE !!

premise — he’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair that mirrors falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you; alternatively, phainon is everything warmth and kindness embodies, and when he stumbles upon you, a person who just wants to get out of this very hell but can’t, the both of you get caught up in the mess created by your very own hands. content tags and warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | alnst!au, kind of a toxic relationship, graphic descriptions of death, wounds, and blood, cynical and hater reader meets golden sunshine boy, a lot of physical touching and intimacy, religious themes and metaphors, love is cannibalism, some things about anakt garden is up to assumption, comfort/fluff if you squint, rocky start but they get bad before they get better then worst, angst, not proofread | wc: 5.0k

note from me — i did not write this with a sane mind at all but its fun exploring this kind of dynamic lol also this week i learned that i have scoliosis ?

i.) cast the flames and shatter your heart, you are nothing without the ache of your hands

Anakt Garden is ugly.

It’s suffocating and abhorrently quiet despite the echoes of laughter and feet stomping and stumbling on the grassy grounds. It’s detestful how some humans treat it as paradise when it actually is a warm embrace before death takes you, a preparation for something equally repulsive as the lights on stage or the collar on your necks.

You’ve stopped caring about it, about everyone else.

You’re a few minutes into your granted free time, and you’ve decided to sit by the trees near the lake—not a lot comes here, after all, so you can finally have some peace.

You’re halfway through sketching a single fish when a shadow looms over you. You don’t look up, disregarding the presence as another measly child who is simply too curious.

You finish the sketch, take out the crayons, and begin coloring. Minutes pass; you hear some shuffling and rustling, then finally, a voice, gentle and clear as the crafted melodies you have sung.

“Can I color too?”

You look beside you where the sound came from, where you see a blur of blue and white. It’s a boy—there’s a boy sitting right beside you and peering over your sketchbook and you cannot see his face.

Either he had mistaken you for a close friend of his or it’s normal for him to be this friendly to a total stranger.

“No.” You simply answer, before scooting a little away from him and resuming your work. You add details to the fish on the left, adoring it with sparkles and a reddish pattern.

The boy follows and keeps the same distance.

“Why not?” You don’t answer, so he pursues like a relentless fire. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

This time you finally look at him and you see it—hair, the reflection of snow, and a pair of eyes that holds the skies within. It’s a beautiful blue, adoring and soft; the kind of hue you have heard your provider tell you when she mentions this place called ‘ocean’. You’re sure you can see yourself in them too as he keeps his gaze on yours.

“It’s not about ruining it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know you.”

Not like you know anyone here, though. You’ve always kept your distance from everyone, nothing good is going to ever come out of making bonds in this grand play of life and death. You look back to your artwork.

Silence falls in the small space between you and him, in the gap between that can be easily closed if he were to push a little closer, but he seemingly abates and you’re about to let out a sigh (of relief?) when he speaks once more.

“I’m Phainon.” He beams a grin at you when you look at him again. “Nice to meet you!”

It feels like there are floating flowers and stars surrounding him when he speaks, and you’ve come to realize and accept the fact that this stubborn child is not going to give up. So you simply just relent and give him the boxes of crayons, bringing the sketchbook closer to him.

You don’t see him but you feel it—the sparkle in his eyes and the utter warmth that clings to his smile. You think you never want to see it.

“Ah, you smudged it.”

“Oh, wait. Let me fix it quickly.”

“You ruined it even more!”

“Oops, sorry.” He looks at you while scratching the back of his head, his somewhat insincere face completely rendering his apology useless.

“Don’t look at me like that. We can just do this,” he picks up a different crayon, one that stands out from the background, and begins doing whatever he is planning while you watch. It’s not like you don’t have the energy to stop him—and maybe you actually do—, but curiosity triumphs over you as your eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Ta-dah! I present to you: Fishnon!”

There’s another fish standing beside the one you have drawn now, except this one looks a little messier—mixed in the blur of colors and blue, laid on top of the hues like a coveted stain, but it stands out in the array of pigments, nevertheless.

“Fishnon…?” You don’t know why you question it nor what you are even questioning for, but your eyes are glued to the paper, specifically to the newly-added fish with a sword. Oh, and the two fishes are now holding hands.

“Yeah, Fishnon! It’s Phainon and Fish combined.”

He’s rather enthusiastic. And it’s stupid. Like extremely stupid.

Phainon’s art skills are not much developed compared to yours and his fish persona looks ridiculous standing beside the one you have drawn. But for some reason, the tight knots in your chest eases just enough to make you breathe again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding it.

“It looks just like you.” You say, adding details to Fishnon.

“As it should.”

And somewhere between here and there, in this moment under the carefully drawn skies, he calls for you in a kind tone (you don’t recall ever telling him your name) and you can feel something shift deep within you. Something soft, warm, slowly unraveling itself.

It’s high time in noon, meals are being served, and it feels like a curse has been cast on you.

Ever since then, your eyes betray you—always seeking blue, and whenever you find it, it’s already gazing back.

The thing that has you scratching your head and wishing to slap yourself is that it always follows with that stupid smile—that stupid grin with that dumb face and those annoying eyes that crinkles into crescents.

You stab your fork harshly on the pea that it scratches against the plate’s surface. It bursts under the tines, its guts smearing the porcelain. The poor vegetable colony probably cripples in fear of being the next victim.

“Is this seat free?”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. His voice is unmistakable—honeyed and light, like the choir’s song before they curdle into screams.

“Yes.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

This is why you never try to know anyone. Not only is it a waste of effort but it will do nothing but harm. Bonds here are rotten fruit born from a splendid tree, dangling from a branch just to be plucked and crushed underfoot. The Garden’s love is a slow poison, and Phainon gulps it down like communion wine. You’re not sure who to blame here, but is there really anyone to do so? Was this a sin?

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:

“Go ahead.”

It all feels so foolish. Like pull-your-hair-out stupid, what-the-hell-did-i-get-into foolish. Despite averting your eyes away, your gaze only returns to him soon after like a pair of magnets that can never be separated—and perhaps he simply was just like that, how irritating he may be even if doing nothing. There was a certain fascination in how he can remain rather optimistic and happy despite the circumstances he is in.

Your gaze drags back to him. Always to him.

Phainon eats like someone who still believes food is a gift, not fuel. He peels the crust off his bread, arranges his carrots into a smiley face, hums between bites. Alive. Too alive.

“Are you always eating alone?”

You shrug, “I’m used to it.”

He leans in, elbows on the table, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. "Let’s always eat together," he declares, as if it’s that simple.

He’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing but another pretty corpse onstage, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of stolen skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair like falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you.

"Suit yourself," you mutter, but your hand is already stealing a carrot from his tray.

He laughs, bright and startled, and you hate how it settles in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

ii.) let it consume you, it must consume you, allow your body to return to ashes

You’ve noticed this before but Phainon is really well-cared for.

In every moment he had pestered you —leaning into your space with that infuriating grin, humming off-key hymns—and in every moment that you had indulged him, you have never seen him unkempt clothes or tattered fabrics. He appears to be pampered, meticulously attended to and looked after—it almost feels like every joint of his are strung, his movements controlled and calculated. Everything about him is so well-maintained it practically exudes that he is beloved by the aliens.

But not now.

Not with the bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a stain, not with his shirt torn at the collar, rust-brown blood smeared down his chin, dripping on his pristine-white shirt.

Your eyebrows knit into one, “What did you get yourself into?”

He had never struck you as someone who would get into meaningless squabbles.

Earlier, whispers slithered through the halls: A scuffle near the dorms, a group of boys throwing punches against one another, a chorus of gasps. You ignored it—until you couldn't and you found yourself with your hand on his wrist and running away with him. And so here you are, inside one of the vacant art rooms—your art room, the one reeking of turpentine and stolen solitude—tending to his wounds with a careful efficiency like handling a porcelain vase.

You dig through the kit that you retrieved from your room: half-dried alcohol, cotton balls pilfered from the infirmary, bandages fraying at the edges. Supplies you’d hoarded for yourself, for the days when the weight of the Garden’s hymns threatened to crack your ribs open.

You’ve never thought that you were going to use it in this way. I mean, sure, they are eventually going to be used to clean up wounds, cuts, or whatever, but you’ve only done it to yourself.

Doing it for someone is different. This—closeness and something unnamed that sinks into your bones, that engraves warmth in your lungs, that makes your hands tremble—is different.

He laughs—a nervous and embarrassed sound as he darts his eyes to the side. His collar is red. “Let me explain.”

You work in silence, dabbing at the split skin of his lip and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“They started it.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“They called you a freak.” Your hand doesn’t falter, even as your pulse stutters.“They called me one too, but that’s whatever. Then they dragged you into it, said you were—”

You press particularly hard, shoving the cotton into the gash of his knuckles. squeezing alcohol out of it that seeps directly into his wounded skin. He yelps.

“—OW! Okay, okay! Mercy!”

“Don’t do that ever again.”

Don’t make it so easy.

Don’t let them see you bleed. Don’t let them hear you care. But he does, he always does, and that’s what makes it devastating—like a tragedy waiting to be written with the ink of your blood and papers of your flesh.

Phainon’s smile is lopsided, a fractured thing, too bright for this rotting world. Blood is still trickling from his lip. "Worried about me?"

You want to strangle him. You should have let him bleed out on the floor, should have let the surveillance catch him and apprehend him, you could have.

You tape the bandage over his knuckles too tight, relish the way he grits his teeth. "I’m worried you’ll get us both in trouble."

He leans in, close enough that you taste copper on his breath. "Too late for that."

Outside, the tree’s shadows stretch long across the fields, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself loathe him. Loathe the way his lashes catch the light like gilded wire. Loathe the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips, alive and reckless and his. Loathe that he’s here, now, ruined—for you.

He is a cosmic masterpiece carved by the stars themselves.

A divine joke, what a terrible sense of humor the universe has. A boy built from sunlight and sonatas, now bleeding onto your hands because he thought your name was worth defending.

You press your thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, smearing the violence deeper. This is how love feels, you think: like swallowing a shard of glass and calling it sacred. Like watching a god kneel in the dirt and knowing you are the blasphemy that brought him low.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is soft, mingling with your tangled breaths.

“Nothing.” You say, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of the crushing abyss that awaits for your fall.

You will remember the exact shade of red his blood makes against your skin, long after the stage burns his voice from the light.

“Did it hurt?”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, wrenching it aside to reveal the jagged letters carved into his skin. PHAINON—a filthy scar that glares at you, one that should have never existed.

You were subject to an excruciating procedure of having your names burned into your skin, a brand that will forever remain in your being, a foul stain. You don’t like it, you don’t like the pain, the screams that only the walls and machinery can hear; everything about it was disgusting.

Phainon tilts his head back so you can see the engraving better. “Not really,” he simply says, like he’s discussing the weather. “I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“You’re a bad liar, Phainon.” Your thumb gently glides over the engraving and his breath hitches—just once—when you trace the A, the I, the N, as if you could rewrite him with your hands.

“Okay, yeah. It hurt a lot.” A shadow flickers across his face—there and gone, like a fish darting into deeper water. “But it’s just skin anyway,” he murmurs.

Just skin. As if the both of you don’t know that skin is the first thing they take from you.

You release his collar with a sigh, “Whatever.” But he catches your wrist before you can retreat, his hand wrapped around right above where your name is engraved. He smiles, tilting his head like a curious hound: “Why do you care?”

The question hangs between you, sharp as a guillotine. You could lie. You could say it’s disgust, that it’s nothing else beyond the warmth that spreads on your skin that touches his, that it’s fear and repeated nightmares of his blood on your hands.

“I resent you.”

His thumb strokes your inner wrist, right over the vein. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He’s always known.

You resent the way he grins through bloodied teeth, the way he hums and runs around like everything is just a mere game. You resent that he chose you—a hissed sit with me, a crayon shoved into your hand, a thousand tiny violations of your solitude that you allow anyways.

Hatred, you’ve learned, is the closest thing to love this place allows.

This rotten land doesn’t teach you how to cradle someone’s face gently—it teaches you to bite. It doesn’t teach you whispered confessions—only how to carve your devotion into flesh, letter by letter, until the wound never closes.

"You’re disgusting," you say, and your fingers dig into his engraving like you want to peel it off his bones.

Phainon laughs, breath hot against your cheek. "Yeah." His other hand slides up your spine, nails catching on fabric. "You too."

It almost feels like a vow.

You hate him. You hate the way his breath hitches when you claw at his back. You hate how he licks the blood off your skin, how he steals food from the cafeteria trays to leave in your room, how he burns brighter every time you try to push him away.

Most of all, you hate that he’s right—that this is love, here in this rotting cradle.

Love is teeth breaking skin, it is holding someone’s heart just to feel how hard it struggles, it is watching the aliens mark him for slaughter and thinking, Mine, mine, mine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me that day,” you mutter.

“You were drawing a fish,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

The air between you is thick with the scent of something cruel and soft at the same. His grip tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the ridges of his fingerprints like another brand.

“Does yours still hurt?” he asks suddenly.

You could lie again. Instead, you yank your wrist free and press your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. You lightly push him away, glaring, “Yes.”

He exhales, sharp, like you’ve stabbed him. Then he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Good.”

Phainon does not believe in love the way they tell it, in the way endless adoration and worship is tangled into one golden thread that ties you to another person, but he believes in you, in this anger, hatred, warmth, in the way your nails dig into his engraving like you want to peel his name from his flesh and swallow it whole.

It’s ugly. It’s his.

And that’s close enough for him.

(He will adore you for a very, very long time.)

It’s starving, gnawing.

The guilt is a living thing inside you—a parasite with needle teeth, chewing through your ribs, gorging itself on the soft pulp of your shame. It festers in the hollows of your lungs, swelling with every breath, until you choke on the stench of your own rot.

You want to claw it out. You try—digging your nails into your sternum, as if you could peel back skin and snap your bones apart to reach it. But it’s slick with bile, writhing deeper every time you grab hold, leaving your fingers glistening with the proof of your sickness.

Every thought is a crime.

You should have pushed him away harder.

You should have let him hate you.

You should have been cruel enough to save him.

But you weren’t. And now, the competition looms like a guillotine blade, and all you can taste is the sour tang of regret on your tongue, the way it coats your teeth like rust. You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to tear your own skin off if it means escaping the weight of what you’ve done—what you’re still doing—by letting him stand this close, by letting him believe, even for a second, that you can protect him, that he can protect you, that you are safe in this tight space you have molded for yourselves.

“You’re not going to die!”

This was the first time Phainon has raised his voice at you.

It cracks through the air like a whip, raw and desperate, and you flinch like he’s struck you. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling, his knuckles white with the force of it. There’s something wild in his eyes—something terrifying, something alive—and it makes your stomach twist.

"Say it," he demands, stepping closer. His foot knocks against yours and your vision spins as you fall back into your bed, your body welcomed by the soft mattress. He hovers over you, hands caging the sides of your face: "Say I’m not going to die."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

The silence is worse than a lie.

Phainon’s breath hitches, and for a single, horrifying moment, you think he might cry. But then his jaw sets, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact, and he laughs—a sharp, broken sound that scrapes down your spine. It dies like a record slowly breaking down and he pulls you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest, his face buried in the crevice of your neck.

“I can never understand you at all.” His words vibrate against your neck, warm and damp with something too close to tears.

You chew the inside of your cheek until copper floods your tongue, your hands trembling by your side instead of embracing him too. You don’t offer any words of comfort but you allow him to pull you close, let him hold you—you allow this. This fragile, fractured closeness where your shadows merge into one grotesque shape on the wall, a two-headed creature bound at the ribs but never at the hands.

Yet it is not enough, it feels like you’re still far from him, like you could easily slip away from his grasp, and it makes him scared.

“Do you want to leave?”

“But where do we go?” There’s nothing else for you out there. Perhaps there was a time, a spur-of-the-moment decision when you had run away with him, slipping through the cracks to be greeted by crimson skies, vastly different from the perfect cerulean illusion you are used to seeing. You'd run until your lungs burned, Phainon's hand welded to yours, both of you laughing like the world couldn't catch you, but that was it.

“Anywhere.”

“There’s no ‘anywhere’ for us.”

“Then the rebellion, I’ve heard—”

“And what, Phainon? What happens after that?” Your voice cracks like dry earth. "What happens after that? We trade one collar for another? Die faster?"

The words linger between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a storm.

Phainon's fingers dig into your waist, his breath hot against your skin he begins trailing his mouth up your neck, like he’ll eventually meet god at your lips. A salvation, a small prayer.

"We could fight."

"We are fighting," you snap. "Every single day. And look where we are."

The competition looms in three days and you can hear the ringing in your ears, the humming, and you cannot ignore it. You will lose yourselves one way or another, and that is a tragedy, a certainty, that had loomed over you, that had awaited you.

The only thing you could do was to lie there, tangled in each other but impossibly separate, his heartbeat thundering against your chest where yours should be answering.

Phainon's hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer like he can fuse your skeletons together. "Tell me to stay," he breathes.

"Why?"

"So I have a reason not to go."

Your fingers finally move—not to push him away, but to clutch the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric until your knuckles bleach white. The cotton stretches taut between you, threads straining like the last fraying ties to sanity. His warmth seeps through the thin material, burning your palms, but you hold tighter—as if you could stitch him into your skin with just your desperation alone.

"Stay," you whisper.

It's too much. It's not enough.

There’s a wet, broken sound—and suddenly his arms are crushing you against him, his face buried in your hair. You feel the exact moment his resolve shatters; the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders curl around you like he's trying to shield you from the world, from himself, from the inevitable.

You are so terribly, devastatingly alive together.

Alive in the way open wounds are alive—raw and pulsing and too tender to touch. Alive in the way a noose is alive when it snaps taut. Alive in the only way the world has allowed you to be: achingly, horrifyingly, beautifully alive, even as death crouches in the corner.

iii.) until the world stills, until you weave your hands into mine, until death embraces you

Inherently, every human is afraid of dying.

You’ve watched him on the big screen as he performs, as he tramples over every single person he is faced against, as his numbers rise higher and as it declares his win; his victory flashing as he smiles—that brilliant, broken smile—and bows like the good little performer they've molded him to be.

But you always see what they don't.

The way his fingers twitch at his sides when he thinks no one's looking. The barely-there tremor in his shoulders as he walks offstage. The single bead of sweat trailing down his temple that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the knife's edge he's balancing on.

He does the same for you, he watches every single one of your performances with a glimmer in his eyes, like pride and adoration, but something else also stains the hues—fear, anxiety, and everything that makes his fingers tremble and his mind muddled. It’s raw and rancid.

It's in the way his breath catches when you hold a high note a second too long. In the way his lips move silently, mirroring your lyrics like a prayer. In how he searches and reaches for you after every round of yours, his trembling fingers skimming your wrist, your jaw, the pulse at your throat—as if to remind himself that you’re still here and alive, and the knowledge sits between you like a third body in bed.

The screen glimmers, your profile and his beside each other blinks mockingly. It’s like a death sentence. No, it is a death sentence.

The air hums with static as you walk toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. Anakt Garden's constraints had been suffocating, but this is akin to drowning in open air.

You've always thought Phainon would die under these lights. That his blood would be the one to stain the stage crimson, his final note ringing through the speakers as the audience cheered his demise. You'd imagined it so often the scene played behind your eyelids every night—his blue eyes going dull, his snow-white hair matted with red, his hand slipping from yours as the life left him.

Perhaps you’ve changed by now.

The bars of your scores compete against one another, numbers flashing across the screen in a cruel mockery of choice. You’ve cut your lines short, fallen into a note lower than you’re supposed to sing; you'd practiced this for weeks in empty rehearsal rooms—how to make imperfection look accidental, how to falter just enough.

Then you feel it—something cold punching through your neck, sharp and sudden. A gasp tears from your throat as warmth spills down your skin.

Phainon's eyes widen in dawning horror as your fingers twitch in his grasp; you swear you could hear him calling your name out in panic. He sees it before you do, before you even realize what is happening—the dark bloom staining across your clothes, the way your lips part to speak but only blood spills forth. Your knees buckle, and he moves without thought, catching you as you collapse against him.

Oh, you think, distantly amused. You’re dying.

And, oh, you are dying. The realization comes with startling clarity, with something almost like relief, and it feels euphoric like warm honey flooding your veins. It makes your chest ease as if you could ever breathe again—like the time he had shown you his ridiculous art piece with pride. Because you are the one dying, because you are the one bloodied and the crimson staining the stage is yours. You are dying, desperate and violent, but it’s you.

His arms tighten around you, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your temple. The audience's cheers fade to white noise as he presses his forehead to yours, his tears mixing with the blood on your lips. "We're okay," he chokes out, the words a desperate incantation. "We're okay, we're okay."

You can feel his heartbeat where your chests press together, wild and frantic and alive. So alive. More alive than you'll ever be again. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it settles in your bones like peace.

You kiss him instead of answering. His mouth tastes like the candy he stole from the cafeteria, like the salt of your shared sweat, like last chances. And when you pull away, his sob cracks through you like gunfire. You want to tell him it's alright. You want to tell him to run. Instead, your fingers find him, twining together one final time as the world narrows to the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands, the sound of your name on his lips.

You and him could have done so much more if you were on earth, instead of whatever rotten, disgusting stage this is. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as the pain radiating through your chest.

You could have had lazy mornings in sunlit kitchens, his humming drifting over sizzling pans. Could have traced the constellations on his skin without counting the scars. Could have stood before stained glass windows, vows spilling from bloodied lips not in desperation, but devotion.

Instead, you get this: his tears hot on your cheeks, his voice breaking around your name, the metallic tang of your last breath clinging to his tongue.

You don’t want to die, you never wanted to die—perhaps the feeble attempts of not caring whether you’ll end up bloodied either on stage or on dirt were simply just things to lessen the growing void of fear that gnaws at your heart, to make it painless. But it hurts, it hurts so bad, you can feel it; your body feels cold, everything feels cold, your eyes are becoming blurry, and everything around you is fading into nothing. You don’t even feel Phainon’s arms wrapped around yours, gently cradling your existence within his grasp as if you’re going to slip away—because you are.

It all dawns on you. You feel selfish, you’re being selfish. Stupid, reckless, selfish. You’re going to leave him alone in this hell, with nothing but the memory of your blood on his hands and the echo of your voice in his ears. The realization claws up your throat, bitter as bile. You want to take it back. Want to scream. Want to beg for more time—just one more second, one more breath, one more chance to tell him—

“I know,” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering like he could imprint himself there. “You’re not being selfish, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s always known you like the back of his own scarred hands—known the way your bravado cracks at the edges when the lights dim, how your "I don't care" always meant "I care too much." Known that beneath all your sharp edges and bitten-off words, you were always the one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant he could stand in the light a moment longer.

“Please,” You plead for the first time in your life, and it hurts to speak but you still do, fingers tightening weakly in his shirt. “Forgive yourself.”

The both of you had made this decision knowing it won’t end well.

And you murmur it: the three words that have caused all of this mess, the confession that started your slow descent to madness. They taste sweet as stolen sugar on your dying tongue, bittersweet as the candy he used to slip into your palm. His arms tighten around you like he could rewrite fate through the sheer force of his embrace, and he wishes he could.

PHAINON WIN.

BRO IS NOT MIZISUA

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luvvyouforever · 6 months ago

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thinking about a fem4fem relationship with haley ౨ৎ

❀ she gets so blushy and giddy when you compliment her, especially during the beginnings of your relationship. she'll hide it at first, going back home and thinking about your words all night, but eventually you get to see her sweet smile more and more.

❀ at first, she saw you as competition, or maybe just envy. you're the new farmer, you're pretty, you dress in cute clothes like her, you're drawing attention away from her. she pouts and grumbles everytime someone brings you up.

❀ but then she starts looking for you more. she starts admiring your flower dance dress, she roots for you at the egg hunt, she admires you when you're fishing at the pier while she's tanning. she brings all this up to alex, just rambling, and he looks at her like "seriously?"

❀ alex sweetly informs haley that she has a crush on you. she gets defensive, but when alex starts listing off all these "symptoms" of a crush, she blushes more and more.

❀ even though she knows she has a crush on you, she waits for you to say something first. she'll make hints and seek you out, but in no way will she potentially face the embarrassment of your rejection. when you finally ask her on a date, she's over the moon.

❀ loves loves loves coordinating outfits. you'll have bikinis in the same color, cute silk matching pajamas that she bought out in zuzu, similar winter coat shapes, matching cowboy boots. she always makes excuses like "they were on sale if you bought two!" but you know there's more to it.

❀ she enjoys peaceful nights at the farmhouse where you're doing your nightly routines together in the mirror, haley moisturizing her skin, you applying pimple patches.

❀ likes having you paint her nails. you'll sit on the couch, or maybe the front porch on a swing, her feet lazily perched in your lap while you apply pink polish to her toes. and then you reach for her hands and she keeps them as still as she can for you.

❀ genuinely thrives so much on your praise and love. and she takes it so seriously too! when someone like alex compliments her hair, she smiles, but he doesn't know the work that went into creating the perfect windswept blowout look. but you do.

❀ there's usually never much discourse about who spoons who or who "wears the pants" in the relationship. dating haley is balanced and things just fall the way they do. you know when to be the big spoon for her and she knows when to let you lay your head down in her lap, her fingers running through your hair.

❀ this is so cheesy and typical but she really does like when you give each other makeovers. it's so quiet and intimate and she relishes in your gentle touches on her face as you do her eyeliner. (also imagine this with an alt!farmer, like someone who gravitates towards a darker makeup style than her, and how fun it would be to switch styles for a night in the house).

❀ lowkey though your bathroom is a wreck. a hundred bottles in the shower, makeup scattered along the counter, sweet sticky notes stuck to the mirror, necklaces and jewelry hanging haphazardly on an organizer on the back wall.

❀ no matter who proposes to who and who receives the mermaid pendant, the other will get something of equal significance. haley would opt for a necklace of her own, something with your initials engraved on it.

❀ loves giving and receiving flowers. her eyes just light up so much when she walks in to a fresh bouquet of sunflowers, having just been plucked from your own garden and arranged beautifully. she thinks you would be a florist in another life. she prefers walking around the valley, taking pictures and collecting the prettiest wildflowers along the way to present to you.

❀ speaking of taking pictures, you're her best model! she'll take photos of you working on the farm, photos of you lying next to her on the beach, photos of you posed on the bed, dressed in little to nothing. says you make the prettiest photos for her.

❀ haley's lowk a freak in some ways. she kinda craves to be worshipped, but also wants to worship you. so she thrives on praise in and out of the bedroom. adores having you kiss her, tell her how beautiful she is, and she returns the favor for you.

❀ the easiest way to really get her flustered and needy is to ramp up the praise, making it almost extreme. tell her she's a goddess, she's a queen, nobody else could ever compare to her, you're so lucky to have such a pretty girl in your bed. she'll be like putty in your hands.

❀ the top/bottom and sub/dom dynamics are relatively balanced. i think it depends on the mood and the day and how sleepy haley is feeling. for example, she'd be more of a willing and dominant top if she's had a good day, like when you've laid out on the beach together in the summer and she's gotten the privilege to watch your body in a swimsuit all day long. she'd want to be cared for and treated though if it's a cold winter and she's huffy and overstimulated from her coat and scarf all day.

❀ she loves mutual masturbation, but will never say it out loud. she'll look so pretty with her splayed across your pillows, fingers between her legs, her bright blue eyes looking at you intensely as you pleasure your own self. you notice just how turned on she is and note to return to it again.

❀ loves bathing together and shamelessly running her hands all across your body, chalking it up to just washing off the farm from you (her words not mine), but really she's behind you biting her lips as her hands graze over your breasts and thighs.

❀ she's always watching and admiring you working. she sits on the front porch of your farmhouse, watching you harvest parsnips with your hair pulled back, your usual feminine clothes having been replaced by old farm gear. she's thinking long and hard about everything she wants to do with you.

#stardew valley #haley sdv #haley stardew valley #sdv haley #haley x reader #haley #stardew haley #wlw #lesbian #sapphic #fem4fem #sdv haley smut #sdv smut #stardew valley smut #haley smut #stardew valley haley smut

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docgold13 · 2 years ago

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Profiles in Villainy Redemption

Megamind

The flamboyant super villain Megamind and his arch-nemesis, the superhero Metro Man, were both aliens who were sent to Earth as infants before their planets were sucked into a black hole. Although both landed in Metro City at the same time, Metro Man was raised in a mansion, while Megamind was raised in a prison. Growing up, he came to the conclusion that his purpose is to be a super villain. And this quickly resulted in a longstanding rivalry between Megamind and the heroic Metro Man.

As an adult, Megamind, frequently and unsuccessfully battled Metro Man for control of the city. Megamind possesses a peerless intellect and created all manner of inventions that are equally ingenious as they are insidious. He is aided in this by his fish-like companion, Minion.

While Megamind constantly schemed to destroy Metroman and rule Metro City with an iron fist, he actually enjoyed the rivalry and did not truly wish to succeed. Indeed when he did apparently destroy Metro Man and succeeded in conquering the city, he is left bereft and pining for the good old days of the former status quo.

This led Megamind to make the foolish decision to create a new super heroic rival. He bestowed the powers of Metro Man into a goonish creep named Hal. Predictably, the plan went terribly awry as Hal became Titan, a rotten and depraved villain.

Megamind was forced to team up with intrepid reporter, Roxanne Ritchi, and the two were ultimately able to defeat Titan. Herein Megamind found that being a hero is just as rewarding as being a villain and he went on to become the beloved protector of Metro City.

Actor Will Ferrell provides the voice for Megamind with the villain-turned hero first appearing in the 2010 animated feature, Megamind.

#Profiles in Villainy #Megamind #Will Ferrell #cut-out #paper art #Villains!

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sillylanzhou · 27 days ago

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Sung Hyunjae & Self. God, Human.

i find it very interesting that sung hyunjae has such a strong Self - something that is shown even in the beginning with small details like how picky he can be with most things (to the point of seeming fussy despite his composed image). a dichotomy for someone who has been denied autonomy of existence- denied a Self- in the first place.

with all of his hundreds of overlapping existences, he still retained the identity of "sung hyunjae, seseong guild leader"- even at the point he lost his memories, even when he was being reset at a cosmic level- he desperately clung to retain his sense of self.

the ego is so important to his character, despite- in spite of the crescent moon's plans of taking it away altogether. she made the contract with that purpose in the first place. but it is a bit cruel and ironic that the end goal was to strip him of his ego and make him into a perfect being to replace the Source, but in the process she gave him such a strong existence, persistent identity, a stubborn sense of Self.

as all things do, this brought me to hyunjae & yoojin.

we see it first with sigma- when yoojin acknowledged his existence and freed him from the dungeon- hence creating a separate entity with his own unique existence.

it is yoojin, who sees sung hyunjae as a human first underneath all of his semi-godlike glory. who finds the fact that he can't open a convenience store kimbap endearing. who acknowledges every sung hyunjae to have ever existed in all of his lifetimes as not just sung hyunjae of the first world or sung hyunjae of the second world- but as a real, unique person.

sung hyunjae of the world with many lakes. sung hyunjae of the world with two suns. sung hyunjae who likes to knit and has a complex about his baby face. sung hyunjae who picks the crust off of his bread, who likes to keep an odd assortment of trinkets in his inventory. sung hyunjae who enjoys fishing, who eats his shrimp tails, who likes to cook for people.

sung hyunjae- who, despite going through every day in the excruciatingly painful boredom of a repeated existence, still loves people and their mundane lives, still cares for children, still looks after people who depend on him, still still still. it is all sung hyunjae.

yes, he has clear parallels to crescent moon- he was molded after her image of a perfect Source, after all. it would seem that like her, he can care for everyone equally and just that, no more and no less. a suffocating, helpless experience for the recipient. he's so much like her, so no wonder he was the one chosen by her.

but in reality he became so much more than that. a unique existence as the little moon- but quite unlike the crescent moon.

sung hyunjae is capable of anger, of loss, of sympathy, and of frustration- a myriad of conflicting human emotions.

he has a wish to stay for every birthday, a wish to stay for every funeral.

and in the process of turning him into a God, he was made more human than ever.

#if you saw this on twitter a year ago that was me #this is remastered™️ and a better place to archive compared to that timebomb website #the voices in my head #finally put a fraction of my feeling about him in text #now back to our usual i will put him in a blender routine #sung hyunjae #han yoojin #hjyj #s classes that i raised #sctir

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orfisheus · 6 months ago

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The Problem With the Eddsworld Fandom's Depictions of Red Leader/Future Tord, A Disabled Perspective

Disability is a contentious concept for most of society, with most either treating us with disgust, confusion, refusing to treat us as human, or to see our struggles as what they are. Ableism affects all people in many different ways, but as someone who focuses a lot of my energy in fandom spaces, the pervasiveness of ableism with how media and their fans interpet and react to disabled characters is a very personal situation for me. While many may argue that an ignorance to these topics in fiction has little bearing on real life, the prevalance of these tropes have echoed and led to feelings of othering for many disabled people, and oftentimes support the same notions that lead to the day-to-day ableism in our own personal lives.

In recent years, I have experienced this most often with the prevalance of negative disability tropes perpetrated by fanfiction surrounding the character of Tord, also known under the alias of Red Leader in some fanworks. It is a problem not just common in the Eddsworld fandom. A more recent, and much larger fandom in Mouthwashing also shares a common trend of repeated ableism in fan depictions and interpretarions of disabled characters. Most fan creators are unaware of these tropes and the harm that they cause, but as a disabled person, I am unable to ignore it.

For context on myself, you can call me Fish. Get it? Or"fish"eus? I like to think I'm funny. I am a mentally ill, disabled, and neurodivergent creative who has niche interests in representation in media and the intersection of intersectionality and fandom spaces. I experience chronic pain due to a multitude of conditions, all of which are invisible disabilities. I am NOT an amputee or have a facial difference, like the character I am analyzing. I can only speak based on my own research in my attempts to portray him positively, but I want to mainly focus on the ableist tropes I see and the real life effects they have. That is something I CAN focus on, because I've been dealing with it for years from conditions that came onset later in my life. I will be speaking from that perspective, but will be doing my best to try to educate on what I do know from my research to help authors, artists, and creatives create a better portrayal of him in fanworks.

The most common tropes I see with him are what I will call "The Disabled Villain", "The Innacurate Disability", and "The Ignored Disability". There are a few tropes in each, but for ease of organization (and the sake of your (and my) time), I will be talking about them together in these sections. There are also overlaps in many, but I will define the main issues with them.

The Disabled Villain

James Bond, Wonder Woman, The Witches. You name it. You have most likely seen this trope at work in cinema. A malicious evil-doer is revealed to have a "horrid" face symbolic of the true evil within their soul, while the beautiful, able-bodied hero is meant to stop them. It's a trope as old as time, one that goes back to even Plato. Tropes are tropes, people subvert them, so a few cases down the line may be excusable. But that has not been the case For many years, the most prevalent form of representation for disabled people was in these villains. Imagine if the only representation you had for yourself was narratives surrounding how the way you look or what your disability is and have it only be equated to evil people. It leads to a villainization of disabled people. People react to facial differences with disgust, because they are "shown" that it is "evil", or "ugly", or equal to being a horrible person. As stated by The Nora Project, "According to the book Disabilities: Insights from Across Fields and Around the World, disabled students are two to three times more likely to be bullied in comparison to their nondisabled classmates. The disabled villain trope contributes to this phenomenon in overt and subtle ways. For example, the trope implicitly encourages fear of disability and difference, while validating, and even elevating, those who fight against the evil, Disabled Villain. Bullying based on fear and disdain is almost a natural consequence of the trope when viewed in this light". Another big issue is that disabled characters have not been given space to exist outside of villainy. There are not many complex narratives surrounding them. This leads to our disabilities being downplayed, us being dehumanised, and we are seen more like props in real life, or simply tools to achieve a message in a narrative.

Tord's disability is never explicitly shown in the show. It is something more prevalent in Fanon, specifically in fanworks that focus on the "Future" era of the show's timeline, where the narrative and outside discussions on the show implies a high tech society, potentially dystopian, potentially a consequence of his actions. These ideas have taken a life of their own in the fandom, with many creators fully expressing these ideas. The problem arises when Red Leader falls in line with this trope. In many works, he is the sole disabled character, a figure of pure evil, or given little nuance in the narrative. Artists illustrate his scars as bright red, crimson, or, in TBATF, green. For some reason. In this way, they attempt to highlight the villainy by equating him with common symbols of evil: facial differences and disabilities. Unfortunately, these are not just symbols. These are conditions and scars that real people have, which the fandom tends to ignore in favor of dramatization.

This was a trope I most commonly saw explored in fanfiction when I first joined in 2016/17. The show, unfortunately, subtly and accidentally perpetrated it by having the only character visibly and irreparably "damaged" by the giant robot fight be Tord, despite the fact that Tom, who had a whole missile directed at him and got buried under a house, was fine with at most a leg injury and a cut on his arm. Luckily, we have grown past the need for ableist tropes, and the faults of the show can be left in the past!

... Not.

Disability tropes have simply evolved in how the fandom treats Tord. Even if it is now done with more consciousness and sympathy towards his character, ignorance still prevails. Let's talk about common pitfalls people fall into when writing him.

The Inaccurate Disability

In fanon perception, Red Leader is an amputee with a high tech prosthesis and a facial difference resulting from burn scars. Like many disabled characters, he suffers from a collective fandom lack of research. But never fret! That is what I have subjected myself to for the past four years, so your friendly neighborhood disabled Fish can tell you how to right your fandom wrongs! Just kidding! Take this as a pointer, and do your own research.

As is common with fictional prosthetics, his arm prosthetic is treated as a perfect fix for his amputation. It acts just like, if not better than an actual arm. The issue with this is that is isn't realistic. Yes, I know, I'm criticising Eddsworld fanfiction for not being realistic. STAY WITH ME HERE. Once again, if it was one instance, or a few, that explored prosthetics being incredibly functional in science-fiction, then it could be a cool concept. But when every sci-fi work has it, then that is no longer a concept. That is a misconception. And I have interacted with people who believed that prosthetics were 100% functional! The thing is, like all disability aids, it does not suddenly make us able-bodied. For example, I have ear defenders that I wear when I experience pain within my ears. But that does not mean my hearing will now become normal, and I will no longer experience pain from the sound I'm hearing. What WILL happen is that I will straight up not hear you. Like, literally. Can you repeat that? I had my ear defenders on. Oh, you're saying that my ear defenders aren't prosthetics and are not a fair comparison? Well, that's fair, but take this as an illustration of a disability aid and how they differ from able-bodied experiences. Also, many prosthetic users do many things without their prostheses, and some even prefer NOT to wear them. Blogs that explicitly cover disabled representation, such as @/cripplecharacters, have posts that cover WHY many amputees are not fans of this trope. The problem comes with that it erases disability, and yet also treats us like we are given a space at the table of representation. It's just another way that authors avoid actually doing research.

Other things that people tend to ignore are how burn scars, or any scars, would not only appear on a character, but also affect them. I have seen, aside from skin tones that looked like they were picked out of a crayon box instead of what would appear on a person, teeth exposed, wounds that look as if they are fresh from the explosion YEARS after they occurred, and what I like to call "paper shredder" scars. Because instead of them looking like burn or shrapnel scars, it appears as if his skin was put through a shredder. Once again, another consequence of the show's at most-30 second scene with questionable decisions that made massive ripples in the fandom. With the injuries Tord received, it is most likely that he would have two kinds of injuries: a burn on 18% of his body (minimum, based on rule of 9s), and/or shrapnel scars from debris. While shrapnel scars would manifest as darker scars, the burn scar would likely be a hypertrophic scar, as "70% of patients develop hypertrophic scars following burns" (Finnerty et. al). The scars, when healed, are warm toned on the boundaries of their areas and cool in between. When on a pale skintone, they are not too dissimilar, and would therefore not have such a drastic color difference as seen on skin. They would also not go down to the bone or skin, as that would be a completely different kind of injury, and are also commonly done to make him look "scarier", which then aids the Disabled Villain trope. It also treats these scars and injuries more like a work of fiction, rather than something that many real people have experienced, adding to continuous misinterpretations of real life disabilities and facial differences.

For writers wanting to include consequences of burns, what would be more likely to be affected are his hearing, vision, and nerves on the right side of his face, as burn scars can go as deep as nerve endings. Also, burn scars, especially third degree burns, require treatments, such as burn-specific skincare. Scars, especially burn scars, can affect you and become disabling. For artists, the main thing I don't see artists do is draw him with damaged hair follicles. Burn scars damage the scalp and eyebrows, preventing hair growth. I am sorry, but he would not still have fluffy, luscious hair. Do not kill me. He just wouldn't. And if you are saying that he had it in the show, I can't hear you because my ear defenders are on, but I hope you heard me, as we've gone over that the show is inaccurate and we should do our own research.

Even well intentioned authors and artists ignore many aspects of the disabilities he would likely have!

Which brings us to the last trope...

The Ignored Disability

Many well meaning people intend to give him nuance by trying to avoid the Disabled Villain trope. Accidentally, however, they end up completely ignoring his disabilities instead.

Just like the high-tech prosthetic, the real disabling aspects of having a disability are at best rarely mentioned. I have seen, in some fanworks, that he goes straight from amputation to having a prosthetic. And that is where his disability ends. Because the prosthetic ends up being a fix-all situation. Authors refuse, or forget, to include aspects of amputation, such as the healing process, stump or phantom pain. Artists will cover up his scars with a helmet or a mask, another trope that undermines his disabilities and attempts to brush it under the rug. I understand that there is a discomfort for able-bodied authors in thoroughly exploring how a character feels about their disability. That is something I think we should. Avoid. If you're not familiar with the experience of being that minority, you do not need to add commentary on it. And if you do, and it just falls into more negative tropes, I will send a salmon cannon at you (/j). However, I do not agree with brushing every disabling aspect of his life under the rug.

People can assume it's not a problem, like it isn't something blatantly apparent. But, if you assume that disability and being disabled is not a "big thing", you end up where your medication is denied because your insurance refuses to see your common procedure as not a necessary medical intervention because you're "too young". And that is not fiction. That is what inspired me to write this essay, because the day that I got that news was the same day I sat down and told myself that I needed to share my perspective on the perception of disabled characters by honing in on one of my favorite characters and how the fandom treated him.

Disabled characters deserve to be included in media, disability and all, with care given to how their life would operate as a result and what they would experience with their specific disability. That's why many people recommend sensitivity readers who can give proper insight upon that disability and can advise people to properly portray it.

But if you cannot afford or access that resource, what can you do?

Fish's Non-Cohesive List of Ways I Tried to Write Tord as a Non-Amputee Without a Facial Difference

Do research!! The more you are to try to understand what you are writing about, the less you are to misinterpret or misrepresent it.

Look into resources that focus on portraying disabled characters, especially with those you wish to write about. Read blogs, research tropes that are common in disabled characters, and hell, read medical journals. They can provide great insight (<< nerd who likes reading medical journals)

Include more disabled characters. Make the other boys be disabled! Want to be canon compliant? Create OCs who have disabilities! I have a bunch! It's 2024! Be cringe and be free! The character's disability would go against the traditional narrative form of "usefulness"? I'm an animator who can't wear headphones and a theatre performer who can't physically handle the volume of a band. And yet, we find ways to persist, to exist. We will always find our way to live in the way we want to, in whatever way we can.

Look into disability activism. Learn the difference between the Medical Model and Social Model of disability. Know what an invisible disability is. Listen to us when we say that we don't want to be treated as special or an inspiration for simply living (inspiration porn). The more you are aware of what we struggle in real life, the more aware you will be to not repeat those mistakes in your fiction.

Write what you can. Highlight little talked about aspects of having a burn scar or being an amputee, such as the recovery, or treatment for the chronic pain, or how different he would be in battle due to decreased depth perception. As a disabled author, I have personally touched on the experience of gaining a disability later in life, and how he copes with it. Now, not all of y'all can do that. But that is a personal experience I do have, and it is something I have highlighted in my own work. So, while I couldn't tell you the ins and outs of having a burn scar or a prosthetic arm, I could describe the shock and frustration that comes with suddenly experiencing difficulties, or even being unable to do what you had done before.

I ask that, if you are willing to do better, or to start on the right foot, you take what I have written, reflect on it, and treat disabled characters, and in turn, disabled people, better from here on out.

Fiction is not reality, but the way we deal with it is reflective of who we are and what we believe. The boundary for our own personal being does not suddenly stop within fiction. When we interact and interpret it and create for it, it is integral that we remain conscious that bigotry runs rampant, albeit often as an unseen force, within fandom spaces, and do our best to counteract that.

I have doubts that the new eddisode will treat this topic with the same respect. I hope you can all go forward with what you have read in this WAY LONGER than I expected essay, and do what those grown British men cannot. Even if they erase it, retconn it, or do not treat it with respect, let's all go forward and do better!

As for always, you can discuss more in the tags or my inbox!

I hope you have a wonderful life,

Fish

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growthhyp · 5 months ago

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Hello sir, you wouldn't happen to have a tie for sale would you? I just found out I need one for my upcoming job interview. I'll take any color or design of tie you have at this point, I'm desperate.

The Black Tie

It's a crisp morning, the kind that makes the air feel alive with possibility, and you're feeling pretty good about yourself. You've scored a decent black tie from a garage sale, which you're now wearing proudly as you step into the gleaming lobby of a high-rise building. The company you're interviewing with is one of those big, corporate giants, the kind that makes you feel like a tiny fish in a very large pond. But you're not just any tiny fish; you're one with a brain that's been honed to a sharp point by years of study, and a degree that proves it. You've got this interview in the bag, or so you think.

You wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead, feeling your heart race as you make your way to the correct floor. The walls seem to be closing in, a reminder of the pressure you've been under to land this job. You've always been the smart kid, the one who'd rather hit the books than the gym, and here you are, surrounded by men who look like they've stepped out of a fitness magazine. But you shrug it off, reminding yourself that brains got you this far. You went back to the elevator and pressed the correct floor.

As the elevator doors glide open, you step into a sea of corporate sameness. Suits and ties as far as the eye can see, you stand tall, the tie around your neck a symbol of your determination. The interviewer, a stern-faced woman with a clipboard, motions you to the waiting room. It's a small space filled with equally nervous candidates, all of them flipping through their resumes like they're reading a map to hidden treasure.

You sit down in the chair, feeling the cool leather against your skin, and that's when it hits you. A warmth, starting in your chest and spreading like wildfire. The kind of warmth that could either be nerves or something more. You wipe the sweat from your brow, noticing the damp stain spreading across the fabric of your shirt. The heat pools in your stomach, a warm, sticky reminder of the extra pounds you've been carrying around. But as you look down, you realize something's not quite right. Your shirt, which was snug around your midsection just moments ago, is now baggy. You tentatively poke at the fabric and feel the firmness of a flat stomach beneath.

Panic sets in, but it's quickly overridden by something else. A strange, exhilarating sensation as your chest starts to rise, pushing against the fabric of your shirt. You grunt, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the quiet room. You glance around, but the other interviewees are too busy with their own nerves to pay you any mind. Your hand moves to your chest, feeling the firmness of muscles you've never had before. It's like someone's pumped you full of air, and your shirt is straining to contain the new you. Your shoulders follow suit, pushing through the sleeves of your now too-small coat. You can't help but stare, watching in a mix of shock and fascination as your body transforms before your very eyes.

The feeling spreads like a wildfire, igniting every muscle fiber in your arms. Your biceps balloon, your triceps pop, and your forearms thicken into ropes of power. Your back muscles start to stretch and bulge, pushing at the seams of your shirt. You can feel the fabric tearing, giving way to the new, more powerful version of you that's emerging.

The pain in your stomach is intense, but it's quickly replaced by a sense of awe as you feel your abs forming. The soft, squishy flesh of your belly is now a tight, chiseled landscape of definition. You can feel the ridges of each muscle, the way they knit together like a finely woven tapestry. Your obliques, those elusive lines that you've only seen on the most dedicated of gym-goers, are suddenly prominent, creating a V-shape that leads down to your waist.

Your mind races with excitement as you flex your arms again, this time harder, watching the muscles dance beneath your skin. The sleeves of your once baggy coat now hug your biceps like a lover, showcasing every bulge and curve. Your forearms, now thick and ropey, the veins pulsing with the beat of your heart. Your lats spread like wings, pulling the tails of your shirt taut across your broad back. The feeling is exhilarating, and you can't help but let out a soft growl of approval.

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the polished glass of the conference room door. The sight of your new physique is like a punch to the gut, but instead of pain, you feel an overwhelming sense of pride. Gone is the shy, overweight man who used to dread taking his shirt off at the pool. In his place stands a muscular Adonis, a creature of power and beauty that you never knew existed. You can't help but strike a pose, one hand on your hip, the other flexed in front of you. You look like a Greek god who's been teleported into a corporate jungle, and it feels absolutely amazing.

The seams of your pants are screaming for mercy as your legs and calves swell to match your newfound upper body strength. Each flex of your quads sends a shockwave through the fabric, threatening to rip it apart at any moment. Your feet, now larger and more defined, feel like they're straining the confines of your shoes. You can't resist the urge to stand and stretch, feeling the material of your pants strain with each movement.

You smirk, feeling the confidence suddenly growing on you. You can't help but revel in the power surging through your veins. The room seems to shrink as your presence grows, your muscles casting shadows on the walls.

But then it was not yet done. You felt something stirring in your pants, something that didn't quite fit the pattern of your transformation so far. Your cock began to elongate, stretching out like a firehose slowly being pulled from the base of your skin. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that made you moan and groan. It grew longer and thicker, pushing against the fabric of your boxer shorts, straining the elastic band to its limits.

As your newfound member reached its full potential, your mind was flooded with memories that didn't quite feel like your own. They were memories of your workouts at the gym, pushing weights until your muscles screamed, and early mornings spent measuring your meals down to the last gram. The numbers and formulas of accounting that once filled your thoughts were replaced by workout sets and protein shakes. The thrill of the grind, the desire to sculpt your body into something worthy of admiration, it was all there, as vivid as if you'd lived it yourself.

You couldn't help but let out a deep, guttural groan as your body finished its transformation shredding the remains of your clothes, leaving only black tie in your bulging neck and your black boxers with a bulging anaconda desperately containing it. The room was silent, all eyes on you as your muscles bulged through the shredded remnants of your once baggy shirt and pants. Your cock, now a monstrous extension of your newfound masculinity, stood tall and proud, the head poking out from the top of your boxers like a beacon. Your voice, once high-pitched and uncertain, was now a deep, commanding rumble, a testament to the power coursing through your veins.

The interviewer's jaw dropped as he took in the scene before him. He'd seen a lot of things in his line of work, but nothing quite like this. His eyes darted to the clock, then back to you, and a look of realization dawned on his face. "Oh, sir," he stammered, his eyes wide with shock, "you're in the wrong place. The modeling agency's interviews are on the floor below."

With a flex of your massive bicep, you grinned and said, "My bad, Ms.!" The room was silent, every eye in the place was on you, taking in the spectacle that was your transformed body. The other applicants, all so neatly packaged in their suits, looked positively puny in comparison. You could see the envy in their eyes, the way their gazes lingered on your chiseled abs and the thick, powerful muscles that now rippled with every movement.

You turned and strutted away from the room, each step a deliberate show of the new confidence that filled you to the brim. The stairs were just a few feet away, and you could feel the eyes of the other hopefuls boring into your back. The idea of being late for a modeling interview was almost laughable. You had the body of a god now, and you knew it.

#muscle growth stories #personality change #jockification #jock tf #male transformation #ai generated #nerd to jock

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seaslugandscylla · 9 months ago

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Some notes under the snacking issue of Sebastian post caused my brain to weeoweeo it way too much than I expected, so well here are the continuing of topic xd

Sorry it's an essay because I can't write succinctly

1. How did the evil corporation(insert it’s name please) feed?

As far as I’m concerned, the shady corpo experimented on him to check/make people to able to breathe under water. Keeping him alive was quite crucial to success so I think they would provided him with proper amount of of food or at least the full nutrient content preparation. However, it changed when his body started to rapidly mutate, grow and evolve into what he’s now. The vast increase in his need of food and the fact that the gills didn’t develop very well, due to the scientists not very smart move - mixing his DNA with atmospheric oxygen snake and whale, caused the team to shrink his portion and gave him bare minimum in form of drip-feed… Auch

2. How didn’t he die from literally any nutrient deficiency sickness?

As I said it before I do not know the lore very much only basis. So forgive if I mess up some facts about the events. Going back to topic, after the event of beating the life out of his guards/special troops everyone left the lab immediately. Leaving everything behind including the rations, which were sent there for the staff to eat, all kind of medicine - pills, drops, syrups, injections etc. and whatever crops left( no idea if in the game is any „farm” but the transport would be extremely expensive so I think they would love to slash costs especially when there are vertical farms which are efficient, cheap and easy to maintain and during evacuation they could simply destroy it if nothing like this exists there). He simply gain most of crucial elements via all those supplements. Especially via drips which are the least painful without activating all digestive track. I like to think the reason why his extra arm is in the bandages is the fact that he often injects himself with various needles and his veins are in horrible state. At some point point all these supplements will end and it won’t end well for him, but not yet. That’s solves a bit the issue of lack of scurvy, nyctalopia and any other issues alike. Here’s the misery fish and his banana bag of lovely Zn and vit C

3. Another snacking issue

He is in constant state of hunger. No escape from it. The small human stomach ruthlessly dictates the size of his next snack and for how long he cannot eat, because it’s full, but it’s better to have at least one full than none. That could cause another big issue which is connected with the unconditional reflex - food in mouth equals activiting the synthesis of digestive enzymes and HCl in both tracks at the same time. Both are connected to one nervous system and the information goes to both, no matter if only one should start working. Not good situation, one belly is digesting itself,easy way to get ulcers or esophagitis, which not only are extremely painful but also deadly especially in his case with no health care or even chance to get any. He had to figure it out quite quickly how to make his eating as harmless as it’s possible. The easiest way I think would be simply some herby stomach drop, the one which highers the ph and stops HCl from being created. But I fear it works on human part- So he had to create strict timetable - when he eats, when he takes drops, when he can eat again. To keep the snake stomach in check and never letting it be fully empty and miraculously avoid the sinister autodigestive ideas of snake element. So his best friend is a tiny bottle of disgusting drops from a nurse office

4. How not to starve to death with body like that?

Dense soup. Maximum proteins in the smallest velocity and in easy to consume and digest way. It passes both stomachs faster because tough long chains are already broken into smaller ones so it can be faster absorbed and used. It’s also very easy to make and can contain many ingredients giving the biggest diversity in one sip. Still starves because it’s not enough, but there is no better way :”)

And no he wouldn't threaten anyone that he would add them to his soup. He was a human and he exactly knows there are too many weird fellas out there. No way he'll risk getting new traumatic event, he won't take it anymore-

The last thing is this two sentences:

Honestly I wasn't prepared to read something like this with straight face at 6AM. It wasn't in my weekly bingo card, but jup it made my day, thanks

#sebastian solace #roblox sebastian solace #sebastian pressure #pressure sebastian #sebastian #roblox pressure #pressure fanart #the pressure #pressure

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most-datable-datable-bracket · 5 months ago

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MOST DATABLE DATABLE CHARACTER 2 THIRD PLACE

Claude propaganda:

"To say Claude has trust issues is an understatement—you have to spend half the game earning his. (Claude isn't even his real name!) Once you have it, though, he's absolutely ride or die for you until the stars go out. He is so full of heart and ambition: He wants both sides of his heritage to get along, he wants to open borders and eliminate xenophobia and promote equality between commonfolk, and deep down, I think he craves a partner to stand with him at that new dawn, or an equal who sees his vision for the future and will fight for it just as hard. Nobody believed in him when he was a kid, but if you put your faith in him, he'll return it tenfold. Some people don't like that he's calculating, or has to leave the player character at the end of the game to go back to his homeland, but both are necessary elements for his goals to change things. He will always come back, and everyone who bets against him and his love for his companions is wrong with a big fat W. #KhalidForMostDatablePrez"

"Claude is a fun little onion of facades. He calls himself the embodiment of distrust, he acts like he's carefree and without worries, an unscrupulous schemer--and so many in universe buy into that hook line and sinker. He's used to others viewing him with suspicion and uses it as armor to obscure his not-so-dark truth: that he cares immensely, that he values minimizing the loss of life, and that above all he has so much hope that people will fundamentally choose to do better given the choice.

His front guards a center that his conflict filled world would be happy to tear apart. As the child of people from two nations in constant conflict--one of which is explicitly isolationist and dehumanizes those outside its church's reach--he hasn't really had a place where he can be without his facade. As a child he thought he could run, but when confronted with the fact that this hatred existed no matter where he ran, he chose to instead try to create a more just and kind world.

His inability to let others in beyond his facade at first may lead to a sense of distance, but isn't it then all the more satisfying when you're allowed in? All he wants is a little trust, a little faith, and--like what he wants to give everyone--a chance to be better.

And like that you got a charming young lad with a fun personality that your grandma would be thrilled to have stay forever."

Elliott propaganda:

“Just look at him. Pure hunk energy.”

“I will punch anyone who dislikes him. He’s like a fire emblem character in the modern day. He’s so flamboyant and handsome, he can play the piano and he’s best friends with the old fishing man!”

“dramatic writer man with sexy hair”

"Since I like elliott. I will state some reasons why I like him

Imagine if Mr. Darcy didn’t insult your family first time you met him, that’s Elliott. The man who’s basically the hallmark romance love interest. He’s a writer who moves to the small town in the country side to find inspiration for his writing. Then he finds the farmer.

He has a crab living in his pocket

He can play the piano (hopefully it isn’t the river flows in you however)

His fans sometimes hc him as a merman and that’s just a major plus IMO

He genre of the book he writes is dependent on what genre you say you like.

He also sends letters to you if you marry him

Okay and also some things I dislike

His liked gifts, the easiest one is pomegranates, which cost like 6000g to grow a tree if you don’t pick the fruit cave. I AM NOT GETTING SQUID INK IN YEAR ONE FOR YOU.

he might be British /j

The fact he has no kitchen but still likes food like lobster, like he is just a mystery. Lives in a cabin, with no kitchen, no washroom (okay no character has a washroom), but still likes the most fancy food out there and has luscious hair worthy of a L’Oréal ad.

Gifting him on rainy days when you don’t have two hearts"

#claude von riegan #Fire Emblem #fire emblem: three houses #fe:3h #sdv elliott #elliott stardew valley #Stardew Valley #Third Place #MDDC 2

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verdantflamingo · 1 year ago

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"Tomorrow, I must leave the Sea--forever!" - All Fish Are Not Created Equal

So, the fact that it's Mermay again hit me about five days ago, so I slapped my forehead and tried to contribute something at least. I had tons of ideas, but the final products were not great… On my tablet, I have about 10 sketches, if not more, and about ten more are waiting in the "To draw later" folder. So maybe you can look forward to a flood of underwater X-Men, or maybe not… with my pace… I also have an AU story for it… but I don't have much hope for its creation…

This is Jean Grey; she's an "ordinary" mermaid of the common mermaid type. Her tail is green, like her costume, and the underwater super algae she uses as a wrap around her chest is yellow, like her costume. The only thing that sets her fin apart from those of ordinary mermaids is the elongated back fin membrane. She is one of the oldest protégés of the lord and master of the seas - Xavier the Professor Fish. For now, she takes care of the well-being of all underwater creatures, but one day she is expected to take over from her "teacher". Everything you need to know about her for now can be gleaned from the dense cluster of words in the top right corner. Most of it is readable, and what isn't will quickly make itself known.

#Mermay #Mermay 2024 #X-men #X-men Fanart #Jean Grey #Marvel girl #Fanartblr #xmenuniverse #Marvel #Marvel Fanart #Verdant Flamingo is fanarting #Digital art #Jean the Mermaid #X-men under the sea #All Fish Are Not Created Equal #2024 #31. may #It is my day!

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kanroji-san · 24 hours ago

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Okay, I want to explain about my Au that I came with. We all know that in Kpdm have like angels and demons. But what about other mystical creatures? Like sirens? And here the idea.

Sirens are also demons but water ones. But they are not so easy to get contract with. Sirens are know for being much more dangerous than demons or equals. Because they are not eating souls (in most cases) but human flesh. But not always. Sirens are carnivorous. They can easily eat regular fish in the seabed or even mermaids (if they stumble upon them).

Sirens and mermaids are not the same! Mermaids are known from their curiosity, romantic, kind-hearted and gentle personalities. They are living in Coral reefs. This colorful, full of life place is matching their personalities.

Meanwhile sirens are known for their seductive, mischievous and deadly personalities. They live on rocky islands, sing to lure sailors, whose ships crash when they approach.

Hunters have encountered them, too, but very rarely. Sirens can come out onto land with the help of amulets that help them maintain their human form. They use them when they go out onto land to find food. But you should never fight them in the water. It's an automatic defeat. Even the demons don't risk it. But on the land they are much more weaker and because of that many sirens have died from the hands of hunters. And after that sirens never appeared on the land again

But there were some special casesthat sirens could have children with humans/demons. But that was rare.

Gwi-Ma doesn't control the sirens! Sirens have their own ruler. The queen Nereida.

Ordinary people can become sirens in my au. The souls of the drowned go to the queen of the sirens. Namely, to her scepter. And then she decides what to do with these souls.

Okay but let get know for the Kpdm. The ecological problem reached its peak. The sirens had nothing to eat and began to attack each other from hunger. M!Y/n proposed his idea to the queen to get food on land. Namely, to create a K-pop group so that they could lure them into the sea. Nereida refused this idea for a long time because she was afraid that the hunters would catch them. But Caelis was able to convince her that the sirens had not appeared on land for several hundred years and some began to think that they were just a myth. In the end, she agreed and made them amulets. And now they start to get ready for their idea.

And meet our sirens! NYXID!

M!Y/n

Caelis

Ravelle

Queen Nereida

P.s These arts don't belong to me! I found them on Pinterest!

I hope I could make these Au clear. And please don't steal my idea! Give credits if you are planning to use it! Thank you all for understanding.

Maybe I would rewrite the au a little bit but I hope you liked it.

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coldbronzemoon · 2 months ago

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To Extend Our Reach to the Stars Above

A one-shot based off of @nropay's superhero au concept :). Featuring Mabel and Dipper as a pair of magical girls (magical pre-teens, more like) and Stan and Ford as a retired villain and not-quite-retired hero who are horrified to realize what their niece and nephew are getting themselves into.

Yes, the title is taken from the Team Rocket motto.

The more Dipper read through the mysterious Journal 3 he’d found, the more he was convinced that he had discovered a gold mine. There were so many cool things in there—zombies, ghosts, magical springs that transformed you, living fire, a dozen other strange and magical mysteries!

Mabel was less interested in the whole thing, so Dipper was hunting through the book for cool things she’d get excited about as she flipped through tv channels in their Grunkle’s living room.

"Look at this," Dipper exclaimed, scooting closer to his sister on the recliner and angling the book so she could see it better. He began reading off the cursive. "I've recently uncovered a spell meant to magically infuse those who recite it with incredible power! By placing candles within a circle of the zodiac and reciting the following incantation, one should be gifted powers from a higher plane.”

“Hold on,” Mabel said, her eyes shining as she sat up and started skimming the page with him. She looked more enthused about the Journal than she had all day. “Can we get ourselves some real magic?”

Dipper continued on. “I attempted the spell, but it produced no observable effects..."

"Awww," Mabel groaned, deflating.

"No, no, hold on. But this may be due to my established connection to another source of magic. Perhaps I can experiment by having others perform the ritual..."

"Oooh," she said, immediately perking up again. "So it will turn us into witches or something?"

"Maybe," Dipper said. "Or whoever wrote this is just crazy. Or the spell is real, but it will just drive us mad or curse us forever or something."

There was a beat of silence. Mabel and Dipper looked at each other, their eyes both narrowed in contemplation.

Then: "So we're totally gonna try this, right?"

"Yup! What else are we gonna do? Ask Grunkle Stan for more chores?"

They burst into laughter at the very idea, jumping up at the same time so they could search for candles and Mabel's washable markers. There was no time like the present when it came to committing dubious magical rituals to gain power.

"No glitter!" Dipper shouted to Mabel as he went to the kitchen. He was pretty sure there had been a bunch of those plain, thin candles below the sink.

He had no idea why Grunkle Stan would have those candles—maybe some sort of apocalypse-prepper thing like the cans of brown meat?—but he was grateful for them. If he had time to go to the store to get some, he might have time to back out and Mabel would tease him for it endlessly.

They met back up in their bedroom, dumping their ritual supplies on the floor. Dipper had gotten the candles, some paper plates for the candles so they didn’t have to scrape wax off the floor, and a knife, because he assumed most arcane rituals would include a knife somehow. Mabel procured a rainbow’s worth of chalk instead of the washable markers.

“Good thinking,” he told her. It’d be easier to wipe away the chalk, and he was pretty sure most ritual circles were done in chalk anyway.

Mabel flashed him a smug smile. They got to work recreating the one sketched out in the Journal onto the wooden floor of their bedroom. Mabel’s skill at creating perfect circles came in handy as Dipper focused on the smaller, strange symbols near the middle.

The ritual circle was comprised of three layers: the largest held the symbols of the Western Zodiac. Below that was a secondary ring of more puzzling symbols, like glasses and a fish and a bag of ice, and then in the very middle was a small circle with a set of six strange pronged lines springing out from equal sides of it.

Mabel insisted all the symbols be different colors, and Dipper obliged her. He didn’t see how that could mess the ritual up or anything.

Once they had the circle set up, they retreated out of it to consult the incantation in the Journal. Dipper was pleased to see that he was right and that they did need a knife for the ritual, as it required a bit of blood from them.

First, though, they read the incantation together a couple times to try and remember it, eventually agreeing to just put the book in the circle to read from once it became clear that Latin they didn’t actually understand was pretty hard to remember.

Mabel donated her pig plushie Waddles to the effort, setting him against the Journal so it stayed open on the ritual page even if their cool magic chanting ended up generating some wind or something. That left Dipper holding the paring knife he had taken from the kitchen.

“Should we, like, cut our palms or something?” Dipper said.

He kind of wanted to cut his palm. It was what everyone in every type of media always seemed to do while invoking an arcane ritual, and they always looked so cool doing it.

“How are we going to do anything with a cut palm?” Mabel said, adjusting Waddles. “I don’t wanna wait weeks for that to heal, Dip-dop. We only need a little blood.”

That was an unfortunately good point, Dipper had to admit.

They settled for each pricking a spot on their arms and using their fingers to smear it on the wood floor, which was probably fine for the ritual. If whatever god they were going to call to didn’t like it, that god could get over itself.

With the blood added and the book in place, there was little else to do but actually do the spell.

They stepped into the symbol together, standing on either side of the smallest circle. Dipper’s palms were getting sweaty from a mix of nerves and pure excitement. They were about to do an actual magical ritual!

Mabel grabbed his hands.

“Uh,” said Dipper, a little baffled.

“It’s a ritual thingy, isn’t it?” she said. “Don’t they always have people holding hands in a circle and stuff?”

The entry in the Journal hadn’t said anything about having to hold hands while summoning whatever crazy magical deity was going to give them sick superpowers, but just as he opened his mouth to tell her that, he actually looked at her. Her eyes were a little tight even as she grinned, and the grip she had on his hands was equally as tight.

Oh, he thought with clarity. She’s a little scared too.

That wasn’t going to stop either of them from doing this, of course. But he lifted his arms up so that it was easier for Mabel to hold on.

“You’re right.”

Her grin widened, looking more genuine. “Doi! I’m always right.”

They snickered together. Then Dipper tipped his head down to the Journal where it laid between their feet so it was still visible to read. It was upside-down for him, but that was fine, he read upside-down really well. He could tell by the way her hair fell from the corner of his eye that Mabel was mimicking him.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

“Okay. Go.”

They took matching deep breaths and began to recite.

“Volumus nitidis astra supernis;

Nos inter mare nigrum vocamus;

Deprecamur lacte lunae.”

Without meaning to or even noticing, Dipper’s eyes slipped closed. He could hear Mabel reciting clearly next to him, could feel her fingers squeezing his clammy palms, and that was all he needed. The Journal lay forgotten.

“O, superi numina! Imperator supra!

Est in hoc humili mundo malum,

Et pereamus ad mortem!”

Their voices both got louder, feeding into each other. Behind his eyelids, the warm light of their bedroom’s desk lantern receded away until he was seeing only darkness. He didn’t notice. His focus was on the feeling of the spell as he spoke it, the strange, faint press of cold.

He didn’t quite feel like he was standing on the floor anymore.

“Imperator, ad imaginem cosmi reficis!

Imperator omnium, cupimus te!”

Their voices both rose even further into a cry:

“AXOLOTL, AXOLOTL, AXOLOTL!

LTOLOXA, LTOLOXA, LTOLOXA!”

They opened their eyes in perfect sync as though they had been commanded to.

The first thing Dipper saw was Mabel’s face. Her hair floated around her head like they were underwater. Her eyes were wide and luminous and almost scared. She could feel it too, he knew—the perfect, vast emptiness around them. The lack of any sensation.

All he could feel was the way her fingers dug into his palms, the bump on her left ring finger from holding pencils and pens and markers, the nick on the side of her palm from a pair of dull scissors.

He turned his head. She did too.

The second thing Dipper saw was THE AXOLOTL.

THE AXOLOTL was colossal, bigger than anything Dipper had ever seen. Bigger than the Earth, than the Sun, than the whole galaxy. THE AXOLOTL was beyond anything. They floated in front of one of THE AXOLOTL’S huge dark eyes, eyes held all the size and power of a black hole itself. A thousand nebulae gleamed in that eye.

Dipper could almost feel something in his brain crack trying to understand what he was looking at. He clutched at Mabel’s hands like she was the harbor he was desperately trying to find amid the endless sea, and she clung right back.

Then, as the two of them stared out at THE AXOLOTL in pure mute awe, THE AXOLOTL looked back.

THE AXOLOTL shrank. From one moment to the next THE AXOLOTL was filling up all of reality, and then the riotous color of the stars and the inky black of space between them took up the place THE AXOLOTL once filled. THE AXOLOTL became the size of an Earth axolotl, swimming up to them with a placid smile on a pink face. Frills swayed in a non-existent breeze.

HELLO, CHILDREN.

THE AXOLOTL’S voice was not really a voice. Dipper found that he didn’t hear THE AXOLOTL speak so much he remembered THE AXOLOTL saying something, an old memory so faded it was a reproduction of a reproduction, communicating nothing of the voice’s quality or sound.

Even at a new size, THE AXOLOTL’S mere presence was almost too much. Dipper found his mouth glued shut.

Mabel managed to speak first, her voice weak and hollow in the vacuum of space as she dazedly muttered, “You’re… you’re adorable.”

In any other circumstance, Dipper would’ve laughed out of pure shock. He stared at THE AXOLOTL.

SO I AM.

Dipper’s mouth finally un-stuck itself. The thought that had been ringing in his head since his first look at THE AXOLOTL broke through.

“I’ve… we’ve met you before.”

The memory wasn’t there, more a hole in his head where something should be, but he knew it. He knew that it was a memory of THE AXOLOTL.

THE AXOLOTL’S head tilted.

I HAVE MET EVERYONE, AND EVERYONE HAS MET ME, MASON.

I AM THERE FOR THEIR BEGINNING, THEIR ENDING, AND THEIR MOMENTS OF TRANSFORMATION.

I KNOW YOU. I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME.

WHAT YOU COULD HAVE BECOME. WHAT YOU MAY YET BECOME.

THE AXOLOTL swam closer to float in between their faces, in between their linked hands forming a circle. Infinitely deep black eyes peered down at their hands.

Dipper knew that it was those clasped hands—the circle, the endless loop, the cycle of return and movement—that had brought THE AXOLOTL to them more than anything else. He knew it like a baby knew what it meant to cry, like a seed knew what it meant to sprout.

I WILL GIVE YOU A GIFT: THE MAGIC OF THE GALAXIES.

YOU WILL HELP UNMAKE A BEING WHO DOES ONLY AS HE WOULD PLEASE.

Dipper could feel that this moment was ending. Just before, though, he remembered THE AXOLOTL saying one last thing. A parting remark, a careless promise.

I HAVE ALWAYS LIKED TWINS.

Dipper and Mabel fell. THE AXOLOTL passed from between their arms. They could only watch as THE AXOLOTL shrunk once more, this time due to the pink form receding away from them as their bodies rushed downwards. As much as downwards counted for anything in space.

The stars bloomed around them, light racing to be seen, to find and caress the edge of the universe. Thousands upon thousands, millions, billions, numbers beyond reach, all of them bright eternal eyes of THE AXOLOTL.

All of those stars watched them fall. Their light was racing towards them, arms reaching to catch.

Like the endless arc of a comet, Dipper and Mabel fell to Earth.

They woke up collapsed on the floor of their bedroom, still holding hands as they both righted themselves into a sitting position. A glow bounced off of the walls, filling the whole space. He could tell from the vivid red of his closed eyelids.

Dipper opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Mabel’s face. Her hair was floating around her head like they were underwater. Her eyes were wide and luminous and burning a bright white. So was her hair.

Dipper opened his mouth and screamed in shock.

—

“This is your fault. This is your fucking fault, Sixer.”

Stan’s brother let out a groan in response, his face still pressed against the greasy tabletop of Greasy’s Diner. He was definitely getting syrup in his graying hair. The place lived up to its name. Stan would’ve laughed at him if he wasn’t too busy being pissed off.

“They were hidden,” Ford bemoaned.

“Not well enough!”

Ford tilted his head to glare at Stan with one eye. “They stayed hidden for thirty years straight, Stanley. I would call that a good record.”

“And now one of them isn’t hidden,” Stan said, thoroughly unimpressed. He shoved his plate of eggs and bacon aside to lean over the table and prod Ford in the temple with his fork. “You are so, so fucking lucky they didn’t find the one with the ritual for Bill instead.”

Stan got to watch Ford pale as the reality of that risk occurred to him in real time. He prodded at him with the fork some more just to add to his twin’s misery. It was deserved misery.

Ford eventually straightened back up, smacking Stan’s hand away. He turned to look at the source of their hushed argument with a grimace.

A newspaper, the front page dedicated to the two newest heroes on the block: a pair of young twins with star power. There was a large, impressively clear picture of the pair before the article.

Stan and Ford had recognized them instantly.

Sure, the glowing white hair and eyes made them look a little different, and the flashy outfits drew the eye away from the face, but those faces were completely uncovered. Of course they recognized their own niece and nephew.

There was only one way for the kids to get cosmic power from what Stan and Ford knew of. Ford’s own Journals, the third of which contained a ritual to call upon the stars for power.

Ford hadn’t made it work; he was already bound to an interdimensional being when he tried it. That was the theory he gave Stan when mentioning his attempt once, at least.

But Dipper and Mabel…

Stan told his brother, “Once we have a plan and we’re out of the public eye, I’m kicking your ass.”

Ford sighed. “I’ll deserve it. But I won’t go down without a fight.”

They finished their food. It was quicker than attempting to flag Susan down to get them a pair of to-go boxes, and Stan refused to let them pay for the food and then leave it behind. He might’ve been a supremely rich criminal now, but he wasn’t going to pay for shit he wasn’t going to eat.

Leaving a tip at Ford’s insistence—chronic goody-two-shoes—they made their way back to Stan’s El Diablo where they could actually talk openly.

“We most likely can’t outright remove their magic,” Ford said, tipping his head back against the headrest. “If the magical being gave them their power, it wants them to have it. And trying to convince a god to take back their decision is…risky, at best.”

“And trying to ban them from going out and taking names won’t work either,” Stan grouched.

The kids were Pines—they already couldn’t be stopped from doing what they wanted in the first place. The second eyes weren’t on them, Dipper and Mabel could vanish from thin air and return in thirty minutes having gotten into a fist-fight with gnomes or video game characters come to life or other such fantastical issues that plagued the area.

And now those kids had magical powers. What little capacity Stan and Ford had to corral them had shrunk even further. The only ways Stan could imagine stopping the younger twins involved essentially imprisoning them and ruining their trust in him and Ford forever.

He rode the tail of the car in front of him just to make himself feel better. The driver rolled down her window and flipped him the bird, which did get a laugh out of him.

Ford was too busy massaging his temples to scold him. “No, it won’t. They’ll be worse than us at twelve.”

A terrifying notion. They had been absolute hellions at twelve, all without fancy new magical powers.

Stan drummed his fingers on the wheel, his mind turning over every possibility. He knew the scene and he knew those kids. Give them a week and they’d be going up against the biggest assholes on the block just because they couldn’t help but stick their noses into everything.

If only they could learn on some easy targets, someone who wouldn’t really hurt them… but Stan couldn’t trust anyone to do that, now could he?

Anyone except—

“Hey, Ford,” he said slowly. “If we can’t stop them, we’ve gotta prepare them. How ‘bout we give them a practice round? Some two-bit villain to fight against and learn the ropes on?”

Ford picked up his head from his hands. “And who exactly do you suggest—”

He stopped and sighed, and Stan knew they were on the same page.

“I think it’s time for the Piranha to start swimming his old waters again,” Stan said, grinning. “And maybe Six-Shooter can show up out of the woodwork too, since one of his old heels is back in action. Maybe give some tips to the new heroes.”

He waited for Ford to shoot the idea down immediately.

Ford only looked out the windshield with a thoughtful frown tugging at his lips. “...I think that might be our best option at the moment. We could keep tabs on them like that—but we’re going to have to work double-time to keep all of this from them both in and out of the masks.”

Stan shrugged. “Eh, we’ve managed it so far. Can’t be too hard.”

He would come to regret those words. But for now, he believed them.

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #my writing #SUPES AU SUPES AU SUPES AU #if you see any mistakes in this no you dont <3 #might add this to ao3 later

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bedupolker · 5 months ago

Text

PLAYLIST. @viv13drainbow I think if you like that song in particular you'd also really enjoy Summer Salt, Little Joy, and Babe Rainbow for chill beach-y rock (not included). Commentary below:

The Blue Album - The album to start all albums, the album that launched weezer to success. Many hail this as their best album (I love this album but respectfully disagree) but nonetheless it's an essential for weezer fans and alt rock fans as a whole. Plenty of people who know way more about music than I do have praised blue album at length, and it's a funny meme nowadays too. Of course say it ain't so is an all-time classic, a heart-wrenching look into Rivers's relationship with alcoholism and his parental figures. I dunno if anything on the blue album can be called a proper deep cut, but only in dreams is an overlooked gem, and probably my favorite outro in their whole discography. Hopeful but somber, that slow buildup a the end to the guitar solo. Suzanne is a nice B-side.

Pinkerton - the infamous Pinkerton. Their sophomore album. Their breakdown album. Although weezer's not exactly an emo band, this album is often credited to being influential to the genre as a whole. No two people have the same experience with love or breakups, and one of the beautiful things about art is that we can see an experience through anothers' eyes, but I don't think I can think of a more painfully relatable album than this one. The balancing act of portraying its sympathetically-unsympathetic protagonist as equal parts pathetic and lonely while also entitled and aggressive. Some of the vocals are so raw for a second you see the monster in the five foot six, nerdy, physically disabled, lead singer that he sees himself as. Hard for me to pick a favorite standalone song off this one; the good life is a funky jam that wouldn't be out of place next to wheatus or RCHP's tracks, but that's where all the funk ends. Why bother? is a driving, catchy song that starts to show the cracks of his depression, falling for you is full of emotion, and if you get your hands on the deluxe edition, tragic girl.

Green album - At its time of release, Pinkerton was not received well. Creating such a raw, personal piece of art is hard. It's like the artistic version of getting crazy drunk, pouring your heart out, feeling catharsis for a moment, then realizing you'll have to deal with it all the next day. A lot of people interpret island in the sun as a happy song, but to me it's the tylenol after that night of drinking, a lie to tell yourself just to get through the day. It has a peaceful rhythm and brings to mind a tropical paradise, but there's something undeniably melancholy beneath the sunshine and smiles. You've tried to face your pain and you barely escaped alive, maybe you're better off just ignoring it. (That being said, although the damage has been done, Pinkerton has later been reevaluated and is now as widely praised as the Blue Album amongst music critics, and Rivers himself has made peace with that phase in his life.)

Maladroit - Overall this album is rather overlooked. It leans a bit more heavily into the rock aspect compared to green album, yet the lyrics remain impersonal and goofy. It's still not a bad album, though doesn't reach the heights of the first two. The singles, Dope Nose & Keep Fishing are both solid, but Burndt Jamb is my personal favorite. A little beach-y, probably their Stroke-y est song, (the band, not the medical emergency), it's been a mainstay on several of my chill out playlists for years now.

Make Believe - Probably one of their most hated albums by fans. It has the infamously shallow and poppy beverly hills, but you know what? I'm a Make Believe Defender. I truly think it could've been a great album, maybe even on par with Pinkerton. Not because of the album itself, but the demos. Haunt you Everyday is solid on the final product but rips at my heartstrings in this demo, ditto for tell me what you did (different name on the final product), everybody wants a chance to be alone (I said burndt jamb was their strokiest song but I think it might actually be this one) purple flowers (lyrics are a little rough but the melody, the meloncholy... so good) Actually on that note, weezer has, like, multiple album's worth of unreleased content that's miles better than anything on a published album (Link for one of my favorite fan compilations). Yes, the lyrics sound like something I wrote in my diary after a breakup, but that makes them all the more real. A deep dive into weezer will reveal the terrifying truth we've all been blind to: weezer never got bad.

Red Album - Mixed feelings on this one. It was produced by Rick Rubin, industry titan and famous for bringing bands "back from the dead," he's produced more than one of my all time favorite albums. Red is not one of them unfortunately. It has its fans though. Pork and Beans is fun.

Raditude, Hurley, Death to False Metal - Skipping these bc I don't care abt them

Everything will be alright in the end - To fans, this was their first "good" album since Maladroit, maybe since Pinkerton (12 years prior!) depending on who you ask. Although it wasn't as commercially successful as some others, it's a very strong album. Really, what is it about rock bands forgetting they're rock bands then suddenly returning to releasing rock music and magically being good again?? I'm looking @ you too, fall out boy. I have a hard time picking a really standout song- it's one of those albums that's evenly good throughout, no skips, but no obvious standouts either. Da Vinci is fun.

White Album - A fantastic album. You can hear some pretty heavy beach boys influence in this one. Unlike EWBAITE it has a few skips for me, but the highs are very high. Speaking of high. Do you wanna get high has to be my favorite off this one, Endless Bummer could be a sequel to island in the sun, Summer Elaine and Drunk Dori is just good clean weezy fun.

Pacific Daydream - I'm a Pacific Daydream defender. Check out QB blitz. Weekend Woman is flawed, but fun too, the bridge really makes it for me. Very evocative of Good Vibrations by the beach boys.

Teal Album - Oh god a cover album. No Scrubs is probably the only one really worth checking out if nothing else to hear a geeky white guy say "A scrub is a guy who thinks he's fly" like he's reading it out of a dictionary. (TLC, who wrote and performed the original song, allegedly got a kick out of it)

Black Album & Van Weezer - I don't care about these either. Damnit I thought we were gonna be good again!

Ok Human - A good album!! What a relief. Could you imagine how embarrassing it would be to name yourself as a homage such a groundbreaking radiohead album and have it be.... bad??? I particularly love this one because in some ways it feels like it's his most personal album since Pinkerton- only instead of being an honest dialogue from a horribly lonely and isolated 20 year old student, it's a much more well adjusted, happily married, 50 year old father who is subject to both optimism and ennui. And it rocks! In a soft, subdued way. The songs flow into each other so nicely, the first three in the album debatably are my favorite 3-song-run in their discog. Aloo Gobi and Grapes of Wrath especially. The transition from dark and somber Dead Roses to light and upbeat Here Comes the Rain never gets old to me. This album (alongside MGMT's little dark age and The Stroke's The New Abnormal) was also like my essential Coronavirus holy trinity.

Spring/Summer/Fall/Winter - This is a compilation of 4 EP's, one of each released during their respective seasons in 2022. I think it's solid all around, with Summer being the strongest. Records and Blue Like Jazz are both very catchy, Thank you and Goodnight... just wait for the outro, trust me.

#weezer

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strniohoeee · 2 years ago

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Can you do one with Chris where he overstims the reader until they use the safe word??🩵

Brutal

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo X Female Reader

Synopsis: Chris has been in one of his moods lately, and when Y/N doesn’t like it….Chris gets a little upset, and takes his anger out on her. This is for this request I got, and another request asking for an angry Chris🫂

Warnings⚠️: This is SMUT!! There’s spit, smacking, use of the word slut, dom Chris, overstimulation, and I think that’s all🤭

Song for the imagine: Bathroom, Hotel-Montell Fish

⚠️This is an 18+ imagine, so minors do not interact, or do??⚠️

I wasn’t too sure what was wrong with Chris lately, but he’s been so aggy and rude, and I had given him some space for a few days, because honestly me and a rude Chris equals me cursing him out and telling him to leave

I hadn’t seen him in three days, and we texted here and there but he was back at the house with his brothers. Nick and Matt created a groupchat with me and not Chris to tell me how fucking annoying and rude he’s been.

I honestly wasn’t shocked. Chris gets like this every few months. He gets all bitchy and annoying, and usually I have to fuck him, so he gets whipped back into shape. But I wasn’t his mommy, and this behavior had to stop

Nick was texting the groupchat about the latest issue between them

-Y/N Chris is so fucking annoying I’m not even sure how you deal with his annoying ass….like I’m about to put his ass out, and change the locks on the door-Nick

-It’s that fucking bad? What’s the issue now???

-He started complaining while we were filming about how the car video was stupid, he was hot, he was annoyed and that Nick and I couldn’t get our shit together-Matt

-The fuck is wrong with this kid?? Is he a fucking child?

-He might as well be. We had to stop filming because he started cursing like crazy, and started to hit us and shit. He fucking knocked me in my mouth and I started to bleed-Nick

-he’s so fuckkkg ridiculous…like I’m getting tired of putting up with this shit….

-Yeah, and then when we went back home, he started going off about the garbage not being done, and the fucking dishes not being done, but like when I told him to do he started flipping the fuck out-Matt

-Where’s he now??

-in his room yapping like an annoying bitch-Nick

-oh brother…let him calm down he’s having a temper tantrum

-yeah..put his ass in time out next time you see him -Matt

-I sure will LMFAOO

An hour had gone by, and I was just at home chilling. I had showered and I was reading a book when I got a text message

-Chris is on his way over to you…he literally flipped out on us again-Matt

-oh brother….time to play mommy with this kid

-LMFAOOOO lord help you idk how you do this-Nick

About thirty minutes later I heard my front door open, so I knew it was Chris

“Babe” he called out

“In my room” I yelled to him

I heard his Timbs hit the ground in thumps, and then suddenly my door busted open

“Yo” he said taking his hat and shoes off at my door

“Yo? Am I your homeboy” I said raising an eyebrow at him

“I’m not in the fucking mood” he said bluntly

“Oh excuse me…you better fix your attitude because I’m not doing this temper tantrum bullshit” I told him shutting my book and placing it on my nightstand

“Listen I’m not in the mood okay. I just want to see my girlfriend and decompress” he said walking over to the bed, taking off his shirt

“Yeah, and you’re not going to come in here with an attitude and bark at me about what you want to do in my HOUSE” I said rolling my eyes at him

“You piss me off sometime” he said looking over his shoulder and scoffing at me

“Well then….the doors right there Christopher” I said to him

“Stop fucking doing that….stop fucking calling me Christopher and talking down to me like I’m some fucking child whenever we get into an argument” He said giving me his back

“Don’t act like a fucking child, and I wouldn’t have to do this” I said to him

“I should fuck the shit out of you right now, so you know your place” he said running his hands through his hair

“Please Chris….we both know I fuck the SHIT out of YOU” I told him staring darts into the back of his head

“I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll won’t even know where you’re at” he said finally turning around and looking at me

“Try me then” I told him

Immediately Chris got up and came over to me looking down at me like I was his prey

He grabbed my neck and immediately my hands grabbed at his hands, and he smashed his lips into mine sloppily making out with me

He pulled away still looking down at me

“Fucking slut” he said and smacked me. I loved when he did that

He roughly grabbed my boobs through my shirt, squeezing them hard

“Can’t wait to fuck you dumb” he said ghosting his lips over mine

He removed his pants and was just down to his underwear’s.

“You’re so hot when you act like this” I said removing my shirt

“Shut up” he said pulling me in by my neck and making out with me, he then roughly pulled me away

“You gonna use that big fucking mouth of yours to suck my cock?” He asked

“Whatever you want” I told him

“Good…I trained you well” he said

He took his underwear’s off, and stood in front of me before once again grabbing me by my neck to bring me up to eye level with him

“Open your mouth” he said, and I obliged

He spat into my mouth and pushed me away

“Fucking suck my dick” he said sternly, and I immediately went to his dick

I started to lick the tip before hallowing my cheeks out

“Fuck yeah…so hot when you’re not barking at me and just sucking my cock” he said immediately putting his hands in my hair to push my head down causing me to gag

“Awww too big?” He said in a mean way

At this point he was just face fucking me. I was gagging and my eyes were watering non stop

“So good to me, but I’m ready to fuck you” he said immediately pulling me off of his dick

He swiftly removed my underwear and flipped me over so I was on all fours

“I love when I get to fuck you like this” he said smacking my ass

“OW ASSHOLE” I yelled at him

This caused him to pull me up by my hair causing me to wince

“Watch the way you fucking talk to me doll face” and then he threw me forward

He smacked my ass again and then massaged the ache away, spreading my legs and spitting on my pussy

“FUCK, CHRIS” I yelled out moaning into the sheets

He slowly rubbed his cock up and down my pussy causing me to whimper, and then suddenly he slammed into me

“CHRISSSSS” I moaned out loudly

This only amped him up because he started to pound into me so fast and hard I couldn’t even think at all

“Taking me so well like a good slut” he said smacking my ass and fucking into me

Chris was gripping my waist so hard while pounding into me non stop, I had never been fucked this hard by Chris and I was loving every second of it

“FUCK FUCK FUCK” I started screaming out as he drilled into me

“Take it slut fucking take it” he said grunting from behind me

Chris attack wasn’t slowing down, and I was drooling all over my sheets….he was literally fucking me dumb

“Is she drooling everywhere….pathetic” he said smacking my ass again

“CHRISTOPHERRRR” I yelled out

He grabbed my arms and started to pound into me, my nails scratching and digging into his arms….he would for sure have marks

“Chris Chris I’m gonna cum” I yelled out, and immediately came all over his cock while moaning like a bitch

“I didn’t say you could cum…just for that you’re giving me two more” he said

“No Chris I can’t” I said whimpering

“YES YOU WILL” he said pulling out of me, and flipping me over to face him

He smacked my cunt and then spat on my pussy again. Causing me to moan out

He immediately slammed into me causing me to shiver because I was so sensitive still

“Youre gonna take it, and you’re gonna take it good” he said slamming into me and coming down to leave sloppy kisses all over my neck

I had my legs wrapped around his waist while he relentlessly pounded into me. I started to grip and scratch at his back

“FUCK CHRIS” he screamed out scratching harder

“Fuck baby keep doing that” he said as he started to kiss my neck and slowly taking one nipple into my mouth

“Oh god” I moaned out throwing my head back

Chris was pounding into me, and then suddenly he brought his hand down to my clit to start rubbing ruthlessly

“FUCK FUCK IM GOING TO CUM” I screamed out gripping onto his hair with my right hand

“Come on baby you still owe me one more” he said as he fucked into me harder

I felt myself clench down on Chris, and suddenly my back was lifting off the bed as I was cumming all over Chris’s cock again

“AHHHH” I started to yell out as my nails scratched harder

“One more” he said still pounding into me

“CHRIS NO NO” I said moaning out

“YES” he said, and continued to pound into me

Causing me to whimper and tears to form in my eyes

“Keep on baby cum on my cock so I can fill you up” he said thrusting into me harder

Chris was pounding into me so hard my mouth fell slack and my eyes shut. He was grunting above me and his sweat started to drip down onto me

“Oh fuck Chris” I said as I felt another orgasm beginning to form

“Come on baby give it to me” he said thrusting into me harder

“FUCK” I screamed out as my legs began to shake and I came all over Chris again. I was seeing flashes of white, and my body was shaking from how hard I just came

Chris soon came into me while moaning out my name with a slack jaw. He was fucking into me still trying to ride out his high

“ROSE ROSE ROSE” I started to scream out our safe word as it was becoming too much for me. He immediately pulled out

“Sorry baby. Are you okay?” He asked coming and laying next to me

“Yes baby…it was too much” I said weakly

“I’m sorry my love” he said running his hands through my hair

“It’s okay…that felt amazing” I said looking at him with lazy half lidded eyes

After Chris had fucked the shit out of me he had to help me to the bathroom, and we showered together, and went to lay back in my bed

“I’m sorry for being such a dick” he said stroking my hair

“It’s okay baby. You just gotta talk about your feelings more” I said kissing him on the cheek

“I’m trying, I will do better” he said kissing my forehead

“I love you, and know that I’m always here to talk to you” I told him

“I love you too baby, and yes I know that, so from now on I’ll come to you, so I’m no longer in these weird funks” he said to me

That night we fell asleep in each others arms, and the next day Nick had asked me to come over so we could have a pool day, so Chris and I got ready and headed back over to his house

When we got to the house Nick and Matt were already sitting in the pool chairs getting ready to get in the water at any moment

“Heyy guys” I said as Chris and I walked over to them

“Hey Y/N…..how’s the baby?” Matt asked laughing at Chris

“He’s better now” I said looking over at Chris and pinching his cheeks

“Fuck off” he said laughing and pulling away

We had all been sitting around for 20 minutes before deciding to get in the water

Chris removed his shirt, and when he turned around to jump into the water my mouth dropped

The scratches….he had scratches all over his back and arms

“No wonder he’s in a good mood” Nick said looking over at me

“Oh my god” I said starting to giggle

“The fuck ya talking about” Chris asked turning around

“Your back looks like you got into a fight with an animal” Matt said

“No wonder my back was burning” he said rubbing his chin

“Yall make me sick” Nick said

“Sorry I was fucking the shit out of her last night that would explain the good behavior on my part today” Chris said smiling at them

“CHRISTOPHER” I yelled, and then pushed him into the water

When he came to the surface he reached up and pulled me in by my arm. That day we spent the whole day in the pool, laughing, chatting and just have a good time

I kind of want Chris to get in those moods more often….loved the way he treated me yesterday

The End

Alright here’s some Chris smut for yall! Hope you enjoyed and I hope the people who requested this liked it🖤🖤 thank you all for 365 followers . This is insane like a week ago I had 60 followers??🥹🥰

-J💅🏽

#sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplet smut #Christopher sturniolo smut #smut

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