#THEY UNHINGE ME DO YOU UNDERSTAND

[nyxofdemons]

still not over this. never going to be over this. what the fuck

[gideonisms]

This is such a small problem when you compare it to problems anyone else has or even previous problems I personally have had but I am bummed out by the lack of weird too online genderweird dykes in my real life. I have to pretend to be normal so much. Soooooo much. Do you know how many normal sentences I come up with daily? It's so many. And I am like I can't keep doing this by myself. where are my fellow freaks

[suddencolds]

insatiable appetite [1/?]

sooo... this is one of the thirstiest things i have written—and also one of the only times i've written a character with the kink, ever T.T warnings in advance for mess, character getting sneezed on, implied contagion, possible ooc-ness, & me writing this entirely with my d instead of my head

ivan and till are from al//ien sta//ge (a very fun watch which will only take 30 mins out of your life; i really recommend it!!). that said, this fic takes place in a modern au setting, so feel free to read it without any prior context :)

special thanks to @6pmsoup for sending me a very cute alnst doodle of these two which altered my brain chemistry permanently

—

Summary: Till shows up to a dinner outing with a brewing cold. Ivan suffers. (est. relationship, kink!Ivan, ~2k words)

—

For all Till tries to hide it, Ivan can tell immediately.

There’s this: Ivan has been paying attention to Till for most of his life. A full decade before they’d gotten together officially, and some more—this is how long Ivan has had to observe his tells. Always from the sidelines, always with a detached air of indifference that, in reality, was anything but.

All the signs are there the night before. Till, turning up the thermostat a couple degrees higher than he usually keeps it. Spending a little too long in the shower and using up almost all of the hot water. Clearing his throat one too many times in the morning before Ivan leaves for work, his smile distracted, the rasp of his voice nearly indistinguishable—but only nearly.

Now, Till is here for dinner—it’s a dinner they’ve had plans for a couple weeks now, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown, in celebration of Till’s recent promotion. Ivan had booked the reservation a couple weeks in advance.

When Till arrives, stepping out of a taxi cab, he’s wearing a scarf, even though the weather is too warm for it. Ivan steps up to meet him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Till says. “Traffic here was the worst I’ve ever seen it, swear to god.”

“Was it cold outside today?” Ivan asks, a little pointedly, tilting his head towards his scarf.

Till looks at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Colder than usual, for this time of year.”

“Strange,” Ivan says, just to be difficult. “But the weather forecast says it’s the same temperature today as yesterday.” 

“It’s probably just windier today,” Till says, readjusting his scarf around his neck. His face is a little flushed.

“Your voice sounds a little off, though.”

Till clears his throat with a scowl. “You must be imagining it,” he says. “It always sounds like this.”

No admission, then. That’s fine. Ivan will get the truth out of him at some point. He lets Till guide him into the restaurant.

It’s a nice restaurant—worth the hassle of the reservation, Ivan thinks. Each table is set with flowers arranged tastefully in long glass vases, empty wine glasses turned on their heads. The server—who leads them to their table in a small, private booth—is wearing a suit.

It’s a shame, really. Ivan has a feeling that he won’t be able to pay attention to any of that tonight.

They sit. Ivan looks down at the menu, picks out something at random in a matter of seconds. Truthfully, he can hardly think of anything less worth his attention right now. He turns his attention to Till instead—Till, who’s seated directly across from him, the scarf still around his neck, obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Till sniffles, reaching down to turn the page, and oh. The sniffle is terribly liquid—has he been sniffling like that all afternoon? Perhaps it’s a good thing that they work at different offices—Till at a law firm, Ivan as a senior manager at a consulting company—because Ivan certainly doesn’t think he’d be able to get any work done with Till sniffling like that. 

It’s not two minutes later that Till is reaching up to wipe his nose against the back of one knuckle. All in all, it’s discreet. Just a quick brush of the fingers against his nose, which is still hidden under the scarf. Though, the look of sheer ticklishness that passes over his features for a brief moment there is...

“What are you thinking of ordering?” Ivan asks.

“I can’t decide,” Till answers. He turns the page again. “It’s between the ribeye steak and the… snf! The pork belly. Is this the kind of place that skimps on the portion sizes?”

“Not from their Yelp reviews,” Ivan says. “You know, if you really can’t decide, I can flip a coin.”

“I’ll pick,” Till says. “Why? Hungry already?”

He looks up, now. His eyes are a little watery. There’s a faint flush over the bridge of his nose. Ivan thinks that if he reached out and touched him, he’d probably be running warm. The thought is almost unbearable.

“Your taxi did take forever to arrive,” Ivan says, by way of explanation. 

“Did you really wait that long?”

He looks uncertain, for a moment. Ivan says, “Not at all. But you know, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

Till rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “There was a meeting that ran late. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Is that also a part of your new position?” “I guess so, yeah.”

“I can see why they were eager to promote you, then,” Ivan says. “How productive can late afternoon meetings be, anyways?”

Till snorts. “Not that important. It definitely could have been an email instead. I was about ready to doze off.”

He sniffles again. “Okay. I think I know what I want.” The way he says know betrays the slightest hint of congestion. 

“At long last,” Ivan says, just to be a little bit of an ass. “I’ll call over the waiter.”

He flags their waiter down, waits for Till to order first.

“A spiced apple cider,” Till adds on, at the end, with the slightest of coughs. “Hot, if you can.”

That’s new, too. Till seldom orders hot drinks at restaurants, though he’ll drink tea without complaint if it’s offered. Perhaps his throat hurts, then, from the cold that has clearly started to settle in his system. Subtle, still, but Ivan is familiar with colds like this. He knows it will probably only be a few hours before this deceptively “small” cold turns into…

Ivan orders, too, and thanks the waiter, who leaves with a curt nod. When he looks back over to Till, there’s a… strange something to Till’s expression, a slight distractedness. Irritation.

Ivan swallows hard. He should look away. 

He should, but then, Till’s breath hitches. He pulls the scarf higher over his face preemptively, as if he anticipates having something to have to cover for. The sharp intake of breath that follows is breathy, though Ivan can hear Till’s voice in it. He should really look away.

Instead, he takes the scene in, painstakingly, little by little, as Till’s shoulders jerk forwards. As Till presses a hand to the scarf, presses the fabric closer to his face, to muffle a sneeze into his fingertips:

“hhH-Ih!! hiHH-’IESCHH-eew-!”

God. It sounds utterly miserable, the harsh release of it scraping against his throat, the spray tearing into his scarf. It’s the kind of cold sneeze that is undeniably telling: this is going to be one hell of a cold. It’s not very quiet, either, even muffled into the fabric.

For more reasons than one, Ivan is glad they’re in a private corner of the restaurant, not somewhere more public.

“Bless you,” he offers, once he can trust himself to speak. It’s a good thing that Till is too distracted to look up at him right now. Ivan isn’t sure he can keep what he’s feeling off of his face.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to endure a whole night of this.

The problem here is that Till—Till, of all people; Till, who Ivan has been pathetically in love with for almost as long as he can remember—has no idea about Ivan’s… relatively niche interests. That is to say, he has no idea what effect it has on Ivan when he does that.

“Thanks,” Till says, a little stuffily. He sniffles again, lowering his hand. 

Ivan can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning, but he can feel his self-control dwindling by the second. “Don’t you think it would be better to take off your scarf, now that we’re inside?”

Till freezes. “Y-You know what,” he says evasively. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

Ivan tilts his head in question. “And just how do you plan on eating like that?”

“I’ll take it off when our food comes.”

“I can ask the waiter to turn the temperature up, if it’s a problem,” Ivan says. 

“It’s not a problem.”

Ivan rises from his seat. Till watches him, perplexed, as he heads to the opposite side of the table, where Till is seated.

When he gets there, he stops. Stands, unmoving, so he can study Till from above. 

“What are you—”

Ivan reaches out, settles his palm across Till’s forehead. As expected, it’s warm. Not quite feverish, which is a good sign, but warm enough to be notable. 

“Just how long were you intending to hide this?”

Till stares back at him, wide-eyed. “Hide what?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “The fact that you have a cold.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Till says, slowly.

“Hmm.” Ivan drops his hand to his side. He is a little concerned, now. “We could’ve called a rain check.”

This time Till really does roll his eyes. “For the reservation we planned weeks ahead?” he sniffles again. “That just sounds completely and utterly unnecessary. Are you the type of person to call things off just over a little cold?” 

Ivan leans over, tugs down the edge of Till’s scarf. Till bats his hand away just a moment too late, cups his other hand over his face to shield his face from view. For a moment, he looks faintly mortified.

Then his expression settles into something more disgruntled. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

So uncooperative. “Let me see,” Ivan says. Slowly, gently, he pries Till’s hands away from his face, and then—because the restaurant is dimly lit—tilts Till’s face up slightly so that it catches more of the overhead light. 

Till’s nose is redder than usual. He’s probably been rubbing it all afternoon, if the redness that percolates into his cheeks is any indication. There’s  a damp, liquid sheen on the underside of his nose.

“What’s there to see?” Till says, a little crossly.

“Your face, since you’ve been so intent on hiding it under that scarf,” Ivan says, leaning in to get a better look.

Till scowls at him, but there’s no heat to it. “You see my face every day.”

“On the contrary, I don’t see it nearly enough,” Ivan says. “And you hardly ever get sick. Is it so wrong for me to be concerned?”

Without looking, he reaches behind him with one hand to grab a couple cocktail napkins. The other hand he keeps held up to Till’s cheek. 

But then, Till’s breath hitches. “Wait,” he says. Panic flashes through his face. “Ivan, move, I—”

Oh. Well, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be able to get the napkins over in time, it looks like he’ll have to improvise. If Till wants to cover, Ivan can help with that. He moves his hand to cup it loosely over Till’s mouth. Not a second too late, it seems. Till jerks forward unceremoniously, his nose twitching, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHheh-! HHh’EIITShHh’yYiew!” he gasps sharply. Two? “Hh-! hHiiH’DSSCSSHh-IIew!”  

The jolt of the sneezes is practically electrifying—all of that force, brought to an abrupt halt behind Ivan’s waiting palm. He feels the expulsion of air against his skin, the warmth of Till’s breath, feels the slight dampness behind his hand as the spray mists over his fingertips.

Ivan swallows, hard. Thank god it’s so dark here, otherwise Till might notice what this is doing to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, withdrawing his hand at last to wipe it on one of the cloth napkins. It comes out slightly raspier than he intends it to, though perhaps it’s a miracle that he’s still able to talk at all. “Some cold, hmm?” Belatedly, he hands Till the stack of napkins.

Till practically snatches them from him, turns aside to blow his nose wetly into the top few. The way he sniffles afterwards suggests that his nose is still very much running. 

“Do you have no self preservation? It’s as if you want to catch this,” Till says, drawing back with another sniffle.

Oh, Ivan thinks, fighting back a shiver. That would be far from the worst thing.

[lucabyte]

Purrgatorio Update

[sandrabullockthehedgehog]

a parent emailed me at 11:35 am on friday, then followed up yesterday morning on monday at 9am. that is around 5 working hours. thats the same as emailing someone at 9 am then following up at 2. insane.

[mochiajclayne]

"If I die, we both die, Sasuke."

Definitely lots of layers going on to which I interpret as:

Naruto knows he doesn't want to exist in a world without Sasuke. His resolve is clear: he'd bear the burden of Sasuke's hatred and die together with him. He doesn't want to die like a loser but he doesn't want to die as the hero that killed his friend to protect the village, either. This is a blatant rejection of what Hashirama did when he fought against Madara. Naruto chooses Sasuke above all else. If Sasuke dies (literally) and Naruto lives, he would spend the rest of his days devoid of his driving force, even the prospect of becoming hokage doesn't fill the empty space which was originally meant for Sasuke--the one who reached out first and saved him from his own darkness. His bond with Sasuke became exponentially bigger than his worldly dreams.

Sasuke, on the other hand, would fall deeper into darkness. Dealing with loss, heartbreak, grief, misery. As much as he takes action on severing his bond with Naruto, when confronted with the idea, he couldn't handle it to the point that he doesn't want to record the memory of Naruto dying with his Sharingan. He knows how far he'd fall and he could never recover from it--he'd end up powerful enough to conquer all but like how Naruto finds irrelevance in a world without him, he'd spend the rest of his days with a resounding emptiness filled with hollow excuses until it runs out and he'd go mad. Perhaps destroy the world because his one and only died in his hands long ago and nothing else matters, be reckless and die in the process.

And both of them are aware of all of this because they were able to see each other's hearts. They would not function without the other. They're connected by wretched fate but their bond goes beyond the organized shinobi system that enabled their burdens and justified their twisted circumstances. At the end of the day, that bond led them to understand one another and they hope it would influence the same system that failed them in ways more than one.

[starbuck]

to the person in the tag who just said “I fear I'm giving you all a very skewed idea of what ravenous 1999 is like,” we may not know each other, but we are brothers in spirit

[dragonairice]

WARNING FOR THIS POST- CHARACTER SHOWN AS VERY OBVIOUSLY AFAB AND TRANS AND VAGUE DYSPHORIA SO IF THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE PLEASE AVOID THIS POST

I wasn't going to post this but I blame @dirk-menace for being a terrible influence and a great friend (/aff)

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

getting invested in your own au is so dangerous because sometimes you'll start wanting to make an au of your au, and you'll come to a tough split point decision where you have to decide if you do that Or if you just make your idea canon to the first au, because no one can stop you

anyways. i need to be physically restrained from touching lucky jumbo right now

[writingjourney]

hannigram to durgetash pipeline has to be real

[a-so-called-person]

Jayvik is my barbenheimer

[musical-chick-13]

Instead of "I've always loved you" try:

Somewhere, the atoms stopped fusing. I'm still your favorite regret; you're still my weapon of choosing. And out there, stuck in a quantum pattern, tangled with what I never said, you say it doesn't matter.

[doggytail-duck]

Why is it that I can be reduced to tears at a few notes of the viola every single time Penelope's theme plays

[ctrl-lupin]

Yes, I would be very interested hearing your head canon (@tim-ribbert-56) (in response to this post)

I have decided for my personal entertainment that Clarisse de Cagliostro is related to Lupin III, and here's why.

-pulls out Arsène Lupin's Wikipedia page-

In the novel La Comtesse de Cagliostro, a young Arsène Lupin (at the time going by the name Raoul d'Andrésy) was courting Clarisse d'Etigues, a young lady of a well-to-do family, and trying to win her hand, despite her father's disapproval.

Throughout the course of the novel, Lupin meets and falls in love with Joséphine Balsamo, aka the Countess of Cagliostro, and abandons Clarisse in favour of her. To clarify, Joséphine is not actually countess of anything, she is (or claims to be) a descendant of Giuseppe Balsamo aka the Count of Cagliostro (who was also count of jack shit), a famous conman from the 18th century.

Shenanigans ensue, which I will not go into in details on, but oh my god I am insane about Raoul and Joséphine, I want to dissect them and study them under a microscope. It turns out Joséphine aka Cagliostro is evil as fuck, Raoul/Lupin realizes that and goes back to Clarisse (whom he had previously abandoned like an old sock, I fucking hate this guy), marries her, and a few years later has her kid.

Unfortunately Clarisse dies in childbirth, and Joséphine, who was still around and very very pissed at Lupin (and jealous as hell of Clarisse whom, may I mention, had never personally antagonized her in any way whatsoever, Joséphine is just fucking bonkers). Joséphine also kidnaps Lupin and Clarisse's son, Jean, and raises him as her own son. (I have not yet read the following novel The revenge of Cagliostro so I don't really know what Jean's deal is, I just know he's an antagonist).

The following is my headcanon, based on these events. In the universe of Lupin III, Joséphine Balsamo was actually countess of the small kingdom of Cagliostro (maybe Giuseppe was count, maybe he conned his way into becoming count, maybe he bought the land and built a fake kingdom with a fake history, who knows).

After the events of The revenge of Cagliostro, Jean settles down in the country of Cagliostro, gets married, has a child, and that child will later have a daughter of their own, who they name Clarisse, after their late grandmother. Clarisse de Cagliostro, of Lupin III: The Castle of Cagliostro fame, would thus be the great-grand-daughter of Arsène Lupin, making her Lupin III's cousin/niece/whatever you call this specific degree of separation.

I am choosing to make Clarisse de Cagliostro a great-granddaughter of Arsène Lupin, rather than a granddaughter, because Arsène Lupin was very young when the events I described unfolded: he is 20 years old when he meets Clarisse d'Etigues and the whole Cagliostro debacle happens, and 25 by the time Jean is born. I'm assuming he had Lupin II much later in his life. So Jean and Lupin II (half-brothers) would have a significant difference in age, and so Jean's hypothetical child (grandchild of Arsène Lupin, so of the same generation of Lupin III) would be much older than Lupin III. Clarisse de Cagliostro is younger than him, maybe around the same age if you stretch it, so she's have to be a great-grandchild.

Now I need to read The revenge of Cagliostro and study Arsène Lupin's wikipedia page in more detail to determine when exactly Lupin II was born and who his mother was. And also where Albert's family branched out, because the fact that he's called D'Andrésy should theoretically place him as a descendant of Arsène Lupin's mother but not of Arsène Lupin himself; but Jean was also going by that last name, so who fucking knows.

No I am not insane I promise, I am just a gigantic nerd.

[notmoreflippingelves]

I need to ramble more about Esteban Flores, because everything about this character and his arc seem as though it was tailor-made for me and specifically designed to make me absolutely feral.

This going below the cut, both because I do not want to spoil the entire show for my friend who is think of watching Elena of Avalor and because I go full-on apologist here and I feel like that will annoy some people.

Imagine making the absolute worst mistake than anyone could possibly make, because you are 18 and scared and stupid and tired of being ignored. And it results in you losing your family and your freedom and what little self-respect you had left because you know all of this is very much your own fault.

 And so you proceed to spend the next 41(!) years eking out a miserable existence in an oppressive state. Upon fear for your life, you are forced to be the reluctant right-hand of the evil witch-queen who conquered your country, killed your aunt and uncle and trapped your cousin in magical prison. In spite of this, you nevertheless do everything within your limited power trying to hold the kingdom together and make sure the people don't starve, because the queen certainly doesn't care about anything except greedily bleeding your country dry.

And no exaggeration, this is just what canon explicitly gives us outright in the pilot. Like that's not even getting into head canons/interpretations/common sense of what exactly this sort of life entailed for you. Because this is a children's show so there's only so much they will let us imply about living under that kind of system. Especially as a young, attractive, terrified person who is the last living member of the previous royal family who is likely being kept alive partly as a combination trophy/punching bag for the evil queen (even if the show never actually states this outright).

And then by some miracle, what's left of your family comes back after all this time. The evil queen is overthrown, partly because you yourself finally stood up to her at a critical moment. You and your country are finally free again, and what's more, you and your family are finally together again after over 4 decades. But you still feel like an outsider--partly because you always were an outsider in your family even in the better times and partly because  over the past 41(!) years, time stood still for all of them except you.

And as a result, no one ever cares to ask what those 41 years were like for you or even just if you’re doing okay. Not only because your family can’t even begin to comprehend what it must have been like, but also because they don’t care to even *try* to understand. Because the narrative has decided that everyone else’s respective traumas is worth way more than your own.  (Though tbf the narrative really doesn’t dwell much on anyone’s trauma in general but yours gets especially neglected , except to briefly play it for laughs or to remind you that your trauma is *your own fault and only your own*).

For a little while, life is pretty okay. It’s weird not having to watch your step every instant to make sure you’re not putting a toe out of line. And so you never really fully break out of your “survival mode” conditioning, making sure that you are still considered important and valuable enough to keep around.

But all the while, you know that your past—and especially your terrible little secret—is eventually going to come back to haunt you. And it does. First via blackmail and then via the return  of the evil witch-queen herself. Fortunately, she is defeated for good before she can take avenge your “betrayal of her” but you still have to deal with seeing the ghost from the past who terrorized you for 41(!) years.

And then, your secret finally comes out in the open and you are disowned by your family—the family you *just* got back a few years ago—for an admittedly super bad decision that you made over four decades ago and have regretted ever since.  Rather than face the rest of your life in isolation (as though you didn’t already have enough of that during the previous regime), you escape before you can be sent into exile. This puts you directly in the path of *another* terrifying, evil magical milf who you are forced to ally yourself with. Because you have 40+ years of conditioning that when a woman like that says “jump,” you say “how high?” if you are to have any hope of survival.  Especially given that the only people who could’ve protected you from her are the family and friends who have just definitively washed their hands of you.

Despite this, you are still trying to seek your cousin’s forgiveness and to protect her in the little ways that you can. But you are constantly getting rebuffed over and over again, and if anything, your attempts at reconciliation only seem to make your cousin angrier, and she now hates you just as much as—if not MORE than—the woman who actually murdered her parents.

Your cousin is so angry at you specifically that she actively ignores the greater threat of Witchy Milf 2.0, because she happens to see your face and is enraged. This ends up backfiring spectacularly for you both, though it does indirectly lead to the defeat of said Witchy Milf 2.0.

But guess what?  There’s no time to breathe or celebrate, because her defeat occurred during the successful summoning of a third power-mad, feminine-presenting magical humanoid and her allies. At least, this one treats you with some initial respect and actually gives you outright what you-think-you’ve-thought-you-always wanted. But she also turns your family and friends to stone in front of you as a warning of what’s to come if you dare to defy her.

But this time, you are finally done with this, have finally lost enough that you have paradoxically found your courage. You sacrifice yourself to save your cousin, and she is finally able to accept that you’ve sacrificed and changed enough that she can forgive you. And her forgiveness is so powerful and pure that it not only restores you to life but also undoes all the other evil magic. Together, you defeat this final enemy, paradoxically by banishing her to the same Underworld where your mistakes accidentally sent your aunt and uncle and her parents long ago.  Peace has been restored. You have returned for good and are finally secure in your family’s love.

And after all that, there are *still* people (both presumably in universe and in the fandom outside of it) who say it's too little, too late and that it would've been better for everyone if you'd simply stayed dead.

Like I'm just... are we really victim-blaming the character who has 45 years of unprocessed trauma and guilt (both survivor's guilt and guilt in general) because of a decision he made when his brain was still developing and he was being manipulated by an older, much more powerful person?

[runawaymun]

DAD'S HOMEEEEEEEEE