#i have. one left ough

[the-kipsabian]

..well this sucks

i have run out of the letter e

[bubblingsteam]

[cubbihue]

If Timmy struggled with adjusting to magic because he was raised on earth, does that mean this is the reason Peri also struggles? Since in his early years he grew up on earth with his parents?

Yup! There's a multitude of reasons why Peri struggles so much, but they all lie in his origins. Peri was born from a wish! And Wishes, well. They're not meant to last long. Most wishes become unstable as the years go by, but Peri's persisted because he's an entire living being!

CosWan initially feared Peri wouldn't grow up properly, but he turned out nearly as fine as any other Fairy would! Probably!!

Growing up on Earth, being related to the VonStrangles, born from a 10 year old's wish, living past the lifespan of wishes, beyond that of humans... Each part is rather small, but when added together, it culminates into a very... very unstable baby.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

Instability: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[fox-guardian]

I can't get over that last scene from this episode. that long pause where sam was quietly grabbing a drink and you could barely hear celia talking to jack as she put him to bed in the other room. nothing was happening in that moment that needed to be recorded. no terrible events no big revelations. just sam and celia quietly going about their lives, sharing a domestic moment.

as something watched and listened. and we don't know why it's listening.

[gemallass]

Accidentally made a 1,198 words ficlet as a sequel of sorts to this post

Cross-posted on Ao3 too if that's more comfortable

Can you imagine that's how Stan finds out that Ford regresses? 🥺

Without waiting for a proper response to his knocking he barges into Stanford's room, after all, Stanley is a man on a mission right now: Making sure his very intelligent but also knucklehead of a brother doesn't miss on a proper meal, which, could end up in two different ways.

Case one, he has to wake him up. Or at the very least get him conscious enough that he can get a bearing of his surroundings, and, hopefully, not feed the floor too much of his food.

Stan doesn't care if Ford ends up falling asleep on the table while he cooks something up for the both of them. He doesn't care if Ford blinks one eye at a time and eats even slower, which delays the task of washing the dishes and has him counting the stains on the ceiling for the next hour. And he certainly doesn't care if he has to guide or even carry Ford back to his room when he, inevitably, ends up falling asleep at the table again.

So long as he's not starving and overeating later, anything is fair game.

Case two, he has to convince him to get away from his work, which is never easy. And after having had a few arguments over eating (turned) cold hard food, bringing the meal to said room and leaving him to it isn't an option anymore.

They both know hot meals are a privilege, why waste it?

But they also know that the habits that once helped you make it to another day are hard to get rid of.

Stanley also isn't balancing the plate on his lap, either, when there's a perfectly fine table in the kitchen. Thank you very much.

He complains, mostly to himself, no doubt, about how he can feel his stomach disintegrating due to not having put anything in it--never mind the fact that he merely woke up minutes ago--but stops abruptly when he's inches away from the end of the bed-couch. And with a hand still hovering above the covers, he finally takes in the scene before him.

His brother, the interdimensional criminal, certified badass, owner (and creator?) of a hundred spacey-looking guns and the man that went through hell at the hands of a yellow demon--who Stan also wishes he could turn into his personal punching bag to use until the end of times--and still got out alive, with most of his sense of self intact, even, was sleeping with a goddamned plushie of half his height.

And with a dark blue pacifier in his mouth.

Oh, he's so not letting dear ol' Sixer live this down any time soon. He rubs his hands together while a mischievous grin appears on his face at the mere thought of a few remarks and jokes he could do.

After all, Stanley is not going to miss the chance to expand his arsenal of things to tease Stanford with. I mean, c'mon, he looks utterly and completely adorable! What's Stan to do? Ignore it and break the sacred sibling's code? Blasphemy in its purest form, he says!

Plus, the guy looks pretty relaxed too, a whole change from the usual deal. And vulnerable, which, did also differ a bit from the usual.

Hm.

That last thought brings his previous scheming and snickering to a sudden halt. He takes a seat on a free spot on the couch, careful to not touch the sleeping man at his side, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to let the peaceful atmosphere continue. Maybe even keep it from being disrupted.

Yeah, he could do that.

Because at last, Ford hadn't woken up at the slightest sound, and started pacing as if he hadn't been asleep moments ago. At last, Ford didn't seem to be fighting for his life when he was supposed to be the most relaxed, according to normal people (and verified by his fellow nerds). At last, Stanford hadn't jumped out of bed and taken the stance of a threatened wild animal when his brother, his twin, Stanley, entered his space. Something that he seemed to have learned for survival purposes--which Stan can also relate to--and that he doesn't really fault him for, yet that it came with a price when people close to you were involved. Hurting them one way or another.

Which, speaking of, he isn't sure if Ford would take kindly to him knowing about... This... That he does.

Stanley doesn't think anything about it. Really. Specially since it seems to be so effective on helping Brainiac sleep for once. And it appears to be harmless, so, who cares? Not him, that's for sure. But, if Ford had wanted him to know, he would've spoken or at the very least mentioned it, right? Back on the boat, there were nights where they slept on the same bed due to old not-so-happy memories resurfacing, or even just nightmares involving either them or the other, and they could use the reassurance that everything was and is okay and also that the other was safe and relatively healthy (some habits did start to catch up with them and did not mix well with the old man problems. (Cursed be the nicotine manufacturers on Stan's case)).

Did Stanford need it then and there but abstained from it to not seem "weird" in his brother's eyes? Please! Stanley ran a business in Gravity Falls for 30 years, for Moses’ sake!

Surely he knows that the jokes he throws at him are just harmless banter and that he never means it as a genuine attack, right? He must know he wouldn't judge him for something like this, right? Jeez, Pointdexter, I wouldn't hit you so low. Stanley thinks. Not again, never again.

Were it not for the--quite painful--pang and literal growl of his stomach, Stanley would have continued studying his sleeping brother and thinking about how to approach the topic. If at all. But alas, he's needed somewhere else. Somewhere with fresh food. And maybe coffee.

As gently and slowly as he sat down, he gets up, but freezes mid-way through when the still figure decided to not-be-so-still anymore. His brain scrambles for a way to book it out of there without making a sound while his heart beats in his ears. Finally, when he sees that Ford was definitely still asleep, and that he also feels his soul come back to him, he gives the rest of his body permission to continue working as usual. His lungs being the first to get back into action with a big release of air and subsequently an intake.

He glances back at his brother with a soft smile one last time before deciding to take his leave.

Stanford can have his secrets. Stanley would make sure to guard and protect them (and him). Ford didn't have to know that Stan knew, if that's what he had wanted in the first place. Stanley could keep his mouth shut.

Besides, it wouldn't be lying if it was never brought up. Nothing for him to deny, so, Stan is on the clear here.

. . .

Hopefully.

[whaliiwatching]

hm. them. also ding ding

[lovesickeros]

☆ i dream of embers

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes no au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.1k

The House of the Hearth is quiet — or, if you really wanted to be precise, the rats scuttling through the walls are working around the bubble you exist in. The children dare not tempt fates hand unless you asked for them by name, a contradiction. An order to the rules — they mustn't approach you with trivialities, but they must listen if you speak. Your words carry more weight than gold in this house, whether you know it or not.

A tenuous position.

You haven't done anything to earn their reverence, their almost acrid fear — but Arlecchino has. She wields her silver tongue with as much ease as her polearm, ensuring your care in her absence. Her devotion, her service, is felt in the warmth of her chambers, the silks she adorns you with, the bed so soft you feel as though you melt into it. A gift, a promise — a gilded cage need not be something undesirable.

You've grown used to the encumbrance of her presence, these days. The deep timbre of her voice, honeyed yet melting into something rougher, quieting into haunting silence as if she seeks not to disturb you. Dim candlelight is all that illuminates her broad frame as she slowly presses the door open and closed behind her, pallid skin streaked with darkening red, her bottom lip smeared with it like lipstick. There is a tension to her shoulders even when she sets aside her polearm, out of sight and out of mind, harsh lines on her face visible in the deep furrow of her thin brows.

Here, she let's the weariness settle deep into her bones — it's just the two of you, even if she hasn't acknowledged you at all. Still, it's a vulnerability she shows no other, even if that vulnerability is hidden behind layers of barbed wire and teeth.

You watch rather idly from the bed as she wets a cloth in a basin of water, the bed creaking beneath you as your feet sink into the plush rug beneath. You know from experience that trying to help her is like trying to soothe a wild dog, but your knuckles brush over the sharp line of her cheek anyway, free hand stealing the soaking cloth from her hands when her jaw flexes and tenses beneath the pads of your fingers.

It is only then that she looks down at you, eyes as sharp as blades yet so indescribably warm — like a flame licking at your skin, burning so deep you feel it linger for weeks after. Arlecchino is not soft, far from it — but she blunts her jagged edges for you anyway, brushes her lips against your knuckles and allows you a moment of adoration. Carves her worship bone deep in the ghost of her touch against your lower back as she leans down, let's you wash away the blood certainly not her own, never blinking as if you'd simply up and leave if she stopped looking at you for even the smallest moment.

You are well aware she is caging you in. You let her.

Though she is still stiff as a board up to the moment you set the washcloth over the side of the basin, her jaw flexing again, a moment of consideration given. She is not used to soft and brittle things, though — not used to touch that does not lead to steel at her throat, in her gut, carving out softness like a butcher carves up meat, section by section.

But this affliction of affection is stronger than the discomfort, at times.

You almost half consider letting her take the room and have a night of proper rest, but she is faster than you — a calloused hand tilts your head back, half lidded eyes glinting beneath the weight of exhaustion, her thumb firm against your bottom lip. She could kill you without even blinking, you are aware, but she is nothing but careful with her touch — not soft, not Arlecchino, but there is adoration in her touch. Like thumbing a locket portrait, trying to imprint their features into memory by touch alone.

Her touch is fleeting, but the warmth lingers long after — you don't need to be touching to feel the weight of her attention. She stokes the flames of the dying fire, has one of the children bring a fresh pot of tea, lingers even when she doesn't have to. You're sure her desk in her office is far more comfortable to work at, but she'd crammed a small desk into the room anyway, stayed even long after you fell asleep most nights. You never did get to stay up long enough to notice her slip in beside you, nor wake up early enough to find her there with you, but the heat lingers — she leaves breakfast at your bedside table, a small note of affection if she's feeling particularly sappy. Even when you don't see her, she makes sure you feel her presence however she can.

Neither of you need to speak to express it. The silence is..oddly comfortable, filled by the shift of paper or scratch of a pen, the clink of a cup or crackle of fire. It's a little too easy to get lost in watching her work, masking a smile whenever she glanced back at you with a question on the tip of her tongue that goes unsaid.

It's better that way, you both think. The silence was best left undisturbed — as if trying to break it would be like breaking the mirror to each others lives. You don't busy yourself in the affairs of the House of the Hearth, and she doesn't make you. It's better that way, too. Maybe that makes you naive, blind even, to the bodies at her feet piled so high she could drown, but you don't want to give up this fragile tranquility.

So you let the dull scratch of a pen lull you to sleep, try not to smile too much when a hand reaches out in uncertainty to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheek with so much affection it makes it hard to breathe.

It's a tenuous balance, but come the next night you will wipe the blood from her cheek again and she will care for you the only way she knows how — distant service.

And when you wake up to an empty bed, warm despite the fires long burned out, you'll still feel her presence in the allure of a warm drink and pastries at your bedside, a note tucked beneath the plate.

Just like the day before, and just as you expect tomorrow to be. But one day you'll gently pull apart the barbed wire and be let in — not today, no, but someday. It's a slow process, but you're patient enough to wait — and when she let's you in, you'll tend to the scars that it left like you've always done.

One step at a time, one day.

[unordinaries]

presented without comment

(chapters 280 + 344)

[triple-a-daybreak]

FUCKING HELLO????

[ PT: Fucking hello???? \End PT ]

i actually think len's card is kinda mid and tsukasa's 3* is better and emu's is better than len's but still just alright

[ PT: i actually think len's card is kinda mid and tsukasa's 3* is better and emu's is better than len's but still just alright ]

but overall this set is KILLER omg.

[lorebird]

Monster with a hundred faces

[fox-guardian]

ten panels left.... ough

[elmaxlys]

currently being thoroughly devastated by a book I got almost by chance and ouuuugh

[soloavengers]

watching the game cut to black during the Caged Magistrate even tho i took my arisen’s shirt off to see if it would or not. like oh silly game for not considering this… at least i got to stare at his slutty waist

[alatariel-galadriel]

OKAY okay one last thing before I shut up: the STAGING AT THE END. Jesus dies. They carry him from the cross, lay him down, and leave. It’s just him and Judas on the stage. The music cuts, and then he…gets up. (Stay with me here)

In the dead silence, he sits opposite Judas, and slowly, painfully, takes off the crown of thorns, setting it on the ground between them. They stare at each other, Jesus covered in blood and Judas in the silver paint that has spread to entirely coat him after his betrayal and death.

And then the stage goes dark. The show is over.

[who-is-page]

if you leave us, chimeras, and orion in a room alone together, there's a 75% chance you'll come back to us in a cuddle pile working on a new project

the other 25% chance is Minecraft

[regrettablemeasure]

my adhd medicine didnt get refilled on time and brother i am fucking struggling today