#god this has taken forever

[a-pigeons-soliloquy]

oouugghhh hannigram either 7 or 45. maybe even combine the two.

ok so it has been. a while. this one got, uh, more than a little out of control lmao (almost 3500 words holy fuck). but it's finally finished! i'm not sure if it exactly fits the prompts anymore but i tried to combine them both :) i hope you like it! (even if it did just end up as yet another mizumono fic lol oops)

***

"You were supposed to leave," Will hisses, and his voice is a devastated, furious thing.

There is blood soaking into his shoes and the scent of iron hangs heavy in the air, and the worst part is that Will doesn't even know whose blood it is anymore, but the question is lost to the back of his mind. Because in front of him stands a dishevelled man whose shirt is a mess of shiny red stains, a knife dripping in his hand.

A man who isn’t supposed to be there at all.

"I didn't want to leave without seeing you one last time," Hannibal says. The words one last time should be ringing alarm bells in Will's head, but he can’t hear them over the overwhelming chorus of thousands of other alarms, because everything is going wrong. There is blood on the floor and on the walls and Alana and Jack lie dying among shards of glass, and there is a SWAT team likely only minutes away, and yet Hannibal is still here.

They both are.

And now Will doesn’t know what to do, hasn’t known what to do for the last 3 months and hadn’t known what he’d do next when he’d made that phone call, telling the Chesapeake Ripper that they know. All he’d known was that he didn’t want Hannibal to die, didn’t want him locked up in a cage by his own hands. But here he is, faced with the consequences of his own actions, and once again Will doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to feel, or even what he is feeling beyond the adrenaline and desperation and horror and relief and confusion. He doesn’t want to feel the overwhelming guilt and sense of responsibility that has been steadily building behind his ribs since this whole scheme began. Yet that guilt now tears at the lining of his chest and crushes his lungs and holds his throat in a chokehold, and it’s just all too much and all he can think is none of this was supposed to happen and this is all my fault and what if?

Seeing Hannibal alive, he’d been struck by a sudden wave of relief that had almost caused his knees to give out beneath him. But now, as Hannibal’s eyes meet his, the awful look that greets him makes a pit suddenly form in his stomach, and the relief gives way to guilt again. And Will can’t take it.

None of this was supposed to happen.

This is all my fault.

What if?

And then it hits him: none of this was supposed to happen. And it hadn’t needed to. This awful mess of glass and blood and ruin could have all been avoided if Hannibal had just listened. If he’d trusted Will when he’d picked up the phone with shaky fingers and told him to run. But he hadn't. And this realisation comes with a sick sense of understanding, because for the whole time Will had known him, Hannibal had always had to have something hidden up his sleeve, always had to keep secrets from Will. Always had to know better. Feel superior. At last the final veil falls from Will's eyes, and all at once he can see how foolish he'd been to ever believe that they could be equals. How pathetic it was that, for those few long weeks they'd spent together, he'd actually believed that they were.

(Will fiercely forces back the voice in his head that whispers that he hadn’t exactly given Hannibal a reason to trust him.)

Heart hammering against his ribs, all of that guilt and fear melts together and stretches and twists and is reborn as deep, righteous anger.

Because no, all he’d wanted was for Hannibal to be safe and free and far from here, even if it meant Hannibal hated him, even if it meant they could never be together, even if it meant that one day Hannibal would come back and rip his still-beating heart from his chest without remorse. But instead here they are, highly armed police likely mere minutes out. And all because Hannibal hadn’t listened. Bitterly, Will thinks to himself that maybe he couldn’t change Hannibal in this way after all.

As if hearing the war cry of bitterness and anger, the resentment he’d kept locked away over the last year begins to bay and claw at its cage too, and, with no reason left to hold it back, Will finally opens the latch and lets it loose.

His next words come out as a growl. “Well now neither of us might get to leave at all”.

Hannibal looks at him, and before he can hide any emotion behind his mask Will can see surprise and deep betrayal warring behind his eyes. It should make him stop and consider, that surprise - that indication that he is behaving in a way that Hannibal did not quite anticipate. But the look of betrayal is like a knife to his chest, and so Will grips his resentment tightly and fumes.

What had Hannibal expected? For Will to be small, desperate? Cowering? Begging for forgiveness? His lip curls in derision. As if he would give him the satisfaction. No, mongooses have teeth and claws, and may whatever god he believes in help Hannibal if he thinks Will won’t use them.

Hannibal manages to force the emotion all behind a mask of icy indifference, and now when he looks at Will his gaze is blank. Though it is not his usual blankness which Will has become familiar with. It is an empty, unsettling kind of blank, the sort of blank he’s only ever seen in the eye of a shark. When Hannibal speaks his voice is cold, colder than Will has ever heard it.

"Forgive me for having doubts about the sincerity of your warning when you've been lying to me for the last month. Forgive me for wanting to see the truth of where your loyalties lie."

The acknowledgement is agony. All the guilt Will had been trying to force down suddenly rears its monstrous head again, and he finds his voice suddenly drying up. His throat feels tight.

He whispers. "My loyalties lie with you'

Hannibal only scoffs. It is ugly. Will has never seen Hannibal ugly before.

"A last minute change of heart is hardly loyalty, Will," he says. “What does Uncle Jack think of your loyalty, lying bleeding out in my pantry? Alana, shattered on the street? How can I be sure you do not still intend for me to join them?”

Hannibal takes a step towards him, adjusting his grip on the knife. Will’s heart pounds. He forces himself not to take a step back.

“Because I chose you, Hannibal, I was always going to choose you, I just needed time to accept that.”

But Hannibal just looks away. “If that is what you truly believe, then you haven't just been lying to me, you've also been lying to yourself.”

It’s so wrong, yet Hannibal had said it with such certainty and disdain that all Will sees is the arrogance with which Hannibal always assumes himself to be right. He dares to presume to know what Will is thinking better than Will knows himself? It turns out Hannibal Lecter really is just like every other psychiatrist Will has ever met, and a sense of grief rises up within him at the loss of something he’d never thought he could have until meeting Hannibal.

He hates himself for mourning what he shouldn’t want.

Will smothers the voice in his head whispering that Hannibal may in fact be correct, that he really does know Will's mind better than Will does his own. Instead he lets anger take over again, and this time it burns.

“You know nothing,” he hisses. His hands shake. Deep waves of indignant resentment roll over him, the roaring of the waves matching the blood in his ears.

He doesn’t know what he expects Hannibal to do next, but it isn’t for Hannibal to hum to himself, then huff a mirthless laugh and concede in a tone both melancholy and angry, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Once again Hannibal meets his eyes. “You know, I've never fully been able to predict you, Will, but this time I had hoped. It is a mistake I will not make again.”

He prowls closer still, and this time Will steps forward to meet him. Fight has won over flight and as the rising fury makes it hard to find words Will’s body seems to have decided to speak for him. The ticking clock of the impending arrival of the FBI ignored in favour of the burning, all-consuming rage within him.

But the fear of their time running out is still there, forced down as it is, and between that and the anger it’s only getting harder to think, and Hannibal is only making it worse. Every word that leaves his mouth brings fresh waves of intense emotion and it’s rapidly reducing Will to a state where there is nothing in his brain except pure animalistic rage-fear.

He just needs Hannibal to stop talking for one moment so he can think.

With what little coherent thought remains in his brain, Will decides to tell Hannibal in the only way he can manage anymore.

“For once in your life can you please just shut the fuck up”.

Hannibal's eyes flash dangerously. His lips curl up into a snarl, and the part of Will that still understands anything knows that he’s made a mistake - he’s only succeeded in confirming for Hannibal exactly how his words are affecting him, and getting him to stop now won’t be achieved without consequences.

Hannibal is quick to recover, a cruel grin taking over his face. His head tilts condescendingly. “Terribly rude, Will,’ he taunts.

The fire inside Will soars higher. He can feel it scorching his insides.

“Fuck you, Hannibal.” He spits.

Hannibal begins to loom over him, moving closer still in a manner that can only be called predatory, until all that separates them is an arm’s length. The knife still glistens in his hand.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself, Will? Childish comebacks? I’ve come to expect better from you. I'm disappointed.” There is a gleam of self-satisfied malice in his eyes and the shape of his lips. He looks dangerous. He looks beautiful.

Will hates him.

Will loves him.

Fuckyoufuckyoufuck-

And suddenly Will can’t take it any longer.

Before he knows what he is doing, he’s grabbing Hannibal by the bloody shirt and crashing his lips into his.

Time seems to stop, the world narrowing into a millisecond of time in which Hannibal’s hair brushes against Will’s forehead, breath warm against his mouth, their noses pressed almost painfully against each other. A moment where the cooling blood on Hannibal’s shirt soaks into Will’s palms and stains his fingers red. A moment where Hannibal stands deadly still, as if frozen, and Will feels as if he’s been frozen too.

There is a distant pressure in the corner of Will’s abdomen, then the vague sound of something clattering to the ground. But Will’s lips are on Hannibal’s and it is as if everything everywhere is inconsequential other than the feeling of Hannibal’s teeth against his, just as he’d imagined on so many a lonely night.

The moment seems to last an eternity before Hannibal’s hand finally comes up to grasp the back of his shirt tightly, and Will feels the sharp pull of the fabric against his skin, the pressure of Hannibal’s knuckles firm against his flank. A breathy gasp escapes his burning lips, and he can’t help the animal noise that subsequently tears its way from his throat. Luckily it seems that is what it takes for Hannibal to finally move his mouth and kiss back with equal force, teeth scraping sharply against Will’s. They gravitate closer and closer until Will’s arm is wrapped around Hannibal’s neck and their hips are pressed tightly together.

Eventually, Hannibal lets out a deep growl before he at last pulls away, dragging Will backwards until there is an arm’s distance between them. Will’s eyes flutter open and he gazes up at Hannibal. The adrenaline is still coursing through his veins and setting him alight, but this time it is not with anger but something wholly new.

As they lock eyes, Will realises that Hannibal is finally allowing Will to see, without barriers or veils, the full breadth of emotion in his eyes. There is still frustration and betrayal, yes (indeed, Will hadn’t let go of his either) but there is also - and Will’s heart skips a beat when he recognises it - pure and all-encompassing adoration. A wonderful warmth blossoms within his core, rendering him both weak and solid and light as a feather, and it is unlike anything Will can ever remember feeling.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to be loved.

Then those wonderful, expressive maroon eyes flicker downwards, and Hannibal’s brow furrows, lines around his eyes deepening. Confused, Will follows his gaze, and is surprised to see a growing deep red stain on his shirt, though any reaction he distantly thinks he perhaps should be having is dulled and seems to float just out of reach. It’s strange; there isn’t any pain, just the memory of an odd pressure that he’d ignored at the time and a peculiar sense of unreality.

For a moment he just stands, uncomprehending, but as the adrenaline finally starts to wear off he becomes increasingly aware of a dull ache at the site of the wound, and it isn’t long before that dull ache blossoms into a terrible burning pain. Hand instinctively falling from Hannibal’s shoulder to hover protectively over the wound, Will looks back up at Hannibal, a mix of confusion, surprise, pain and betrayal written across his face. An involuntary whine slips from his suddenly dry throat.

The vocalisation appears to spur Hannibal into action. He takes Will gently but firmly by the arms and quickly guides him to a nearby sofa, helping him lay down across its seats before sinking to his knees beside him and pulling up his shirt to inspect the injury. A moment passes, then a near-imperceptible line of tension seems to drop slightly from Hannibal’s shoulders and he pulls Will’s shirt back down.

“It is as I thought: due to the angle and the quick loosening of my grip on the handle, only the tip of my knife entered your body. The wound is not so deep as to require immediate attention, but it will certainly require stitches.”

He guides Will’s hand back to his injury and helps him to apply the right amount of pressure. It hurts, and when Will winces and lets out small pained noise, Hannibal brings a hand to his hair and cards it through the damp curls. It feels nice, it feels so very nice and right, and Will’s eyes slip closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling. When he opens them, Hannibal is looking down at him, face once again carefully blank.

“There is likely very little time left before the FBI arrives,” he begins, “and I will soon be leaving for Florence. I will offer you this once and only once, and you will have until I return with our passports and a select few other items to make your decision.”

He fixes Will with a heavy look. “One last chance, Will. You can come with me to Florence, and I will show you the city where I became a man. We will leave immediately, take up new identities, and likely never return.

“Or, I can leave you here. You can wait for the cops to arrive and take you to a hospital. Your reputation will remain intact, and you can go back to your job and your house in the woods, your life as you know it, and you will never see me again.”

An almost undetectable pause, and then, “This is your final decision, Will. I suggest you make it wisely.”

With this he climbs to his feet and leaves the room

For a while Will sits thinking, but deep down he knows his mind is already made up. The myriad of complicated feelings he harbours towards Hannibal still plague him, and a part of him still wants to lock the man up and throw away the key, but he’s finally willing to admit that it’s all inconsequential. He knows now he can't live without Hannibal, for better or for worse, whether he loves him or hates him, or a twisted mix of both. He’ll miss his life terribly for the isolated comfort it brought, but he’d miss Hannibal far, far more.

There is only one choice to make.

The moment Hannibal reappears in the doorway Will is speaking.

“I want to come with you.”

Hannibal’s face remains carefully blank. “You understand there is no going back from this. I will not change my lifestyle and you can never return to the false life you have led. You will be shedding your sheepskin for good this time, and the world will be on our tail for as long as we-”

Will cuts him off.

“I want to come with you,” he repeats firmly.

A long pause, and then a small but genuine smile graces Hannibal's lips. With a dip of his head, he seems to accept the decision. “Very well,” he says, though Will can hear the unspoken relief that lies beneath it. He lets himself smile back, tired but overjoyed and honest. It feels right.

Hannibal comes back to where he lies on the couch, and helps him get up, his touch firm yet gentle as he holds Will against his side.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asks.

Will’s breath catches as the shift to being upright pulls sharply on his wound. While it could have been far deeper - and Will doesn’t want to imagine what Hannibal’s initial plan for him was - it is still painful, and increasingly so as the last of the adrenaline wears off. Plus, he’s losing a fair amount of blood, and the change in angle temporarily darkens his vision and sends stars dancing across his eyes. Grimacing, he closes his eyes and waits for the pounding in his head to stop. Hannibal lets him lean against him, steadfastly taking his weight, and says nothing.

When the stars fade and he feels steadier on his feet, Will considers Hannibal’s question, and after a moment of assessment nods - he’s been shot in the shoulder before, he can handle this - and lets Hannibal lead him out of the house and down the street to an unfamiliar car.

Alana is unconscious now, and Will catches Hannibal’s eyes lingering on his jacket where it lies over her body. He looks at her, the person he’d once imagined sharing a life with, and thinks of how important she had always been to him, even after everything. A pang of bittersweet nostalgia hits him, accompanied by a longing for a simpler time when maybe it could have been possible. But ultimately he allows Hannibal to help him into the passenger seat of the car. This is the life he’s chosen, the person he’s chosen, cannibalism and all. There is no going back now, and nothing to be gained from contemplating what ifs.

Then the car door closes, and Alana is hidden from sight.

There is another noise as Hannibal gets in the car from the other side, and after fiddling with some dials and buttons, he starts the engine.

“I will drive us to the airport where our flight awaits. When we are a safe distance from the house we will stop and I will clean and suture your wound. But for now I suggest you sleep - you will need the rest if you are to recover well.”

He must notice the lines of discomfort on Will’s face, as he adds, softening slightly, “There are some painkillers in the door.”

After taking the pills as directed, Will lays his head back against the headrest and allows his eyes to close. The last of the adrenaline has left his system, leaving behind a sudden bone tiredness that makes his lids heavy and breathing slow.

With the sound of the vehicle lulling him and the comfort of Hannibal’s presence beside him - alive, together - sleep comes quickly, and the last thing Will knows before the darkness claims him is the feeling of a warm hand gently coming to rest upon his own.

[volfoss]

it is beyond infuriating how anne rice seems to insist on marius being a positive force in anyone's life ever. like she can't fully commit to exploring the fact he groomed armand and has repeatedly taken away his consent for what marius thinks is best (take the end of TVA as an example) and just kind of flatly puts it in the narrative. there's not really much interest in how these horrific events make marius come across as the worst because EVERYONE loves him. for gods sake, lestat learns from armand exactly what marius did to him in TVL and then proceeds to go find marius and be super friendly to him in the same fucking book. even armand and pandora, two of the people who have MORE than enough right to hate him, do not. it doesnt feel like shes trying to explore the toxicity of the abusive dynamic he traps them in, it just is there. and like yeah ofc the toxic vampire romance series but i think that this should be handled with more care. and it is not ever really framed in a way that she is interested in exploring how marius should easily be one of the most horrific characters in this series because it kind of feels like sa/rape/grooming/other things of that sort are just put there to further plot and not to really get the respect that they deserve in a medium.

[zeb-z]

The thing about Forever and Bad is that they don't know how to deescalate, and they start at 100 straight from 0 every time with each other. They will spend hours arguing about semantics that don't matter. They will go to the extreme ends of pranks (which as fun as the audio remixes were, spending hours trying to find the source was literal hell genuine psychological torment). They will go for the throat just to antagonize the other.

So no, I don't think Forever knows a thing about Dapper or the other eggs whereabouts. He just knows better about the way Bad operates, the way he lies and deflects. He's familiar with his crafty words and how he turns a conversation on its head. He knows that what Bad is being accused of is entirely likely, that he is not who he usually is when the eggs are around. And he knows that Dapper, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is who Bad cares for most of all.

This isn't something he can argue hours about, to chip away little by little like he usually does. For both the safety of the worker, because the longer they're locked up surely the worse off they'll be - and for the safety of Bad, who if he wasn't under extreme watch by the Federation, he certainly is now, after Tubbo very loudly accused him in his Federation office.

He goes for the throat, immediately playing a trump card that he knows Bad won't just brush off or ignore, because as much as Bad can be unpredictable, Forever knows that Bad cares about the eggs as much as he does. As questionable as his morals are, as slippery as he can be to pin down, Bad has always placed the eggs as the highest priority - and he needs Bad to have no choice but to be honest, or to knock him off guard enough that he'll give him something to work with.

Is it fair? Maybe not. But when has Bad ever played fair with him?

[papercuttragedy]

hi I love your Solygbm headcanons, do you have any more headcanons for the skeleton brothers?

Hi, thank you so much for taking the time to ask! And, lucky you! I have another backstory. It's how Sans and Tops became friends. Sorry if it took a while. I took a lot of breaks and spoilers for my later re-adaption for this fiction. Coming soon!

~~~~~~

So, even when Mar (Sans' mother) was still alive and well, Sans was a bit of a friendless kid. Sure, he got along fine with his brothers (mostly) and yeah, he was decent to anybody who had the time (tolerance, really) to talk to him, but overall, he was often at home with his mother to keep her company, while Wingdings searched high and low for any sort of day job to keep them structured. She was actually the one who taught him all sorts of jokes, and he loved every single one of them. He even tried to come up with his own (due to his age at the time, 7 or 8, he wasn't at all great, but Mar enjoyed it dearly and even helped him with more original ones).

After Mar was brutally attacked by a group of monsters that fateful summer night (whether of Asgore's affiliation or not, we'll never know) and died a painful and slow death from those injuries, Sans had a mental shutdown.

He wouldn't talk or look at anybody for days on end. His already friendless personality developed an unusually aggressive behavior towards all to leave him alone. Which, unfortunately, worked. Any slight mention of that incident or even of his mother in general would make him furious and helpless and just full of self-hate.

One day, a few months after Mar's murder, his newfound loneliness caught the attention of older, shit-headed kids who felt the impulse to mess with somebody. I'll never know who exactly escalated it, but eventually, one of the kids says something triggering, which escalates to a 1 on 3 fight. Sans, despite his strength, is easily overpowered, but before a beating can occur, a blue bunny monster, 2 years older than Sans, (and one that Sans had rarely seen, but never really talked to) managed to use his wit to get the boys' hands off him and whatever other half-ass strength God gave him to dispel that fight and leave those small-minded bastards to run off, (presumably not to get caught).

Sans, still saddened and extremely pissed of what one of the kids said to him, begins to quietly leave, though it only causes the bunny boy to follow him, who tries to engage in conversation and see if he's alright.

At first, Sans ignores him, but soon he can't stand the "coddling" anymore, and simply tells the rabbit to "go away" and how he doesn't want his help or pity. This, in turn, pisses the bunny boy, who's confused by what's his deal and how Sans would rather let himself get hurt and unintentionally (without any knowing context) asks if that's what his mother taught him to view himself. This re-angers Sans, and with that, he punches him hard. The bunny boy stays in shock for a moment and then shoves him back in defense. A full-on boy fight happens in that neighborhood alleyway, and by the time both boys are tired, Sans has lost one of his adult teeth, and the bunny boy, a chunk of his ear.

They stay like that for a while, and as Sans breaks into a helpless sob, the bunny leaves him for a bit and takes something from his rendor and gives him a nice cream from his homemade work, something that was influenced from humans.

The following went something like this:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stranger's voice sounded more persistent.

"C'mon. Take it. You're upset."

Sans snarled at him (or at least tried to).

"Fuck off."

"I will if you just take it."

Agitated, hungry, and far too exhausted to fight back anymore, Sans used his remaining upper body strength to snatch (though his hand trembled far too much to give the aggression he wanted to show) the red frozen thing from the bunny's hand, and took a large bite.

The texture was cool, crisp, and yet a sweetness covered his senses from head to phalanche. He froze, and for a moment, the bunny tilted his head in response.

He probably thinks I hate it.

"Think it's nice?"

Sans didn't bother to respond but simply gave a slow, affirmative nod without looking at him. He looked the type that would boast. A satisfied hum could be slightly heard afterward, somewhat confirming this.

"Well. I'm glad ya like it. Took me all day to get the taste perfected. It ain't much, but I hope it makes your day somewhat less shitty."

Sans searched for any sign of deception or condescension in that cheerful tone. Surprisingly, and thankfully, it wasn't.

"...thanks."

"No problem. If it's okay with you, I can walk you home in case those goons come back for a reround. It's dangerous out here, day or night. Does your mother even know you wander alone out here -"

The remaining sentences died off as soon as Sans felt his gaze return to him, and the gut-wrenching look of misery and hate resurfacing. He wanted to cry all over again but willed enough strength to not give any sort of satisfaction.

After what seemed forever, all that could be heard was a simple "Oh."

"..."

"I- I had no idea. I'm so sorry. I really am."

Took you forever to read the room.

Sans felt himself impulsively wanting to say that thought bitterly, but whatever could come out was interrupted by the bunny boy again.

"I know what you feel. I lost my mother too, recently. About 2 to 3 years back. It's not that long once you think about it. I only have my brother now."

Sans stared, slowly taking the time to look at the bunny again, seeing instead a downtrodden face that stared at the dirt that stained his already dirty clothes.

"I've only got my brothers too."

"Huh. No father?"

"Barely knew him. Wingdings never wants to talk about him."

"Wingdings?"

"My older brother."

"Oh. And your other brother?"

"Papyrus. He's about to be 4 soon."

"I'm really sorry."

"Don't be. It ain't your fault. I'm sorry, too. For being a dick...and for your loss as well."

"Don't be. It ain't your fault either."

....

The bunny turned his face up to look at him, and Sans finally truly looked at his face. They stared at each other, and suddenly, the bunny let out a goofy chuckle and said; "You look not half bad without that tooth there. My mama would have called you a ruffian."

Sans snorted before instinctively rolled his tongue to the spot where the now empty gap in his mouth remained. He couldn't but be impressed.

Wingdings is gonna kill me.

"Speak for yourself. It ain't gonna come back anytime soon. Neither with that nick in your ear."

The bunny placed a hand to cover that ear. His smile spreading farther. "At least it looks cooler."

"Really? No way."

"Oh no?"

The bunny paused again, his smile becoming more gentle as he slowly retracted his hand from his ear and lent it out in a greeting manner.

"Name's Tops."

Sans paused again, and for a moment, he felt as if it were another trap for him to fall into. But, that face was so genuine that it didn't seem likely.

So, hesitantly, he offered his hand and clasped it into a firm shake. Sans felt a smile he never knew was there grow.

"Sans."

[vanweezer]

very very personal, just insight into where im at w my family and things that bother me/have encouraged me to move out

"i know youre moving out so im just gonna say no ones kicking you out and if you feel like this is something you have to do then ok"

thanks! i know im not being kicked out! but yknow i kinda yet a weird vibe when your out of touch husband takes me to a cemetery to yell at me, tell me im just like my father/dont give my father "the time of day", and that im "mean to people who care about me" in front of his dead mother's grave in a poor attempt at guilting me out of speaking my mind. but no yeah thanks for stating the fucking obvious that im leaving on my own terms

[fullgrownpalace]

I just like… keep making them

[apathyfairy]

if i read through my old notes or my old posts from like 3 years ago i’m like. who is that like that person is dead. who even am i anymore like i have lost all sense of self at this point

[aromanticasterisms]

read through all of neuvillette's stories on the wiki and. what do you MEAN people were right about him giving furina her vision

[leviiackrman]

Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, I can wholeheartedly confirm that:

Margot Durand in fact, has a happy ending.

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

MAC I HAVE A QUESTION. VERY IMPORTANT. what on EARTH is the suckening. i have seen posts on ur blog with blood and such tagged jrwi suckening and i am so so intrigued i love blood and gore and fucked up homoeroticism <3 pls pls pls tell me what the suckening is i am on my knees begging rn

oh dude holy fucking shit . so. u know i have been posting about jrwi it has been my main thing since like november. well. in case u do not know. its a dnd podcast run by charlie slimecicle, grizzlyplays, condifiction and bizly. their main campaign is called Riptide and its the one with the fish guy and all the pirates. WELL. they have a patreon and on their patreon they sometimes do mini campaigns! let me preface this by saying i have never even REMOTELY had an interest in paying for ANYTHING on patreon only because i fuckinf hate subscription payments and also im usually hesitant about paying money for fandom things especially in the content creator sphere etc etc you know how it is . HOWEVER. god their pther campaigns are so fucking worth it dude. the long running secondary main campaign thats been going along around the same time as riptide is called Prime Defenders and its a superhero themed one! i am just at the beginning of season 2 rn its so good william wisp my absolute beloved. (something else rlly cool is that they rotate being the dm for each of the campaigns and i think that makes each of them really fresh and unique bc everyone has a different dm style and a different way of telling a story. god i fucking love dnd and collaborative storytellint its incredible)

ANYWAY IM GRTTING SIDETRACKED. so during hiatuses from riptide and pd they sometimes run limited campaigns that only go for a handful of epsiodes. one of this is. regrettably. called the Suckening. its run using the vampires: masquerade ttrpg setup and ruleset which is. obviously. centered around vampires. CHARLIE SLIMECICLE is the dm and i fucking love it because god that man has a mind for horror. (he also ran blood in the bayou which was a 4-epispde mini campaign using call of cthulu and ive listened to it like 3 times now bc its got nasty bug body horror in it hooooly shit its so good) ANYWAY. um . its not *as* homoerotic as the fanart makes it out to be. just a warning. but there is a scene where two homies drink each others blood (one is a human one is a vampire. theres this think in the masquerade called blood bonding and its like. if you get a human to drink your blood on three separate occasions they become your servant basically. really homoerotic stuff in theory) and when the vampire is scolded for it he goes "well he already loves me. hes my boy" and they generally have that dynamic going on. fizzfangs i lvoe you.

ANYWAY UHHHHH. the first ... four? five? episodes are up for free on YouTube and theyve got a fun little visual novel style to them with the official character art :] heres a link 2 the first ep!!

the rest (there are 8 episodes as of rn!) are totally on patreon but if u end up listening and liking them enough to want the rest hit me up because ive got those download links i can share with u bc ur my beloved mutual and i love sharing things with my friends so they dont have to pay for them <3

[bugwolfsstuff]

Me about mcga Loki: Free my mans! He did all those things but it was funny!

[syn4k]

i miss the copper king so bad man

[unhinged-nymph]

.

[mybiasisexo]

rents due and I’m $400 short

[legobiwan]

I swear I will finish this chapter this week even if it kills me, which it might.

Bowser out here with the REAL questions.

~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Brobot!” Luigi lets loose an ear-piercing whistle, the ground shaking as a penumbra of steam and gears descends from the sanitized heavens. Mario slaps a hand over his mouth as the gargantuan tower of metal settles a few feet above the ground, twin irises boring a laser-tight target onto the center of Mario’s chest.

“When the hell did he have time to build another killer robot?” Bowser exclaims.

[pepprs]

bad enough that i am stuck in my life but even worse when i have to work through / around the stuckness in front of people i care about / explain it / be perceived in experiencing it. UGH!!!!!!