#i've written several pages in my journal about it

[swan-orpheus]

What I said about The Incident or the Conversation: I'm fine. It's nothing.

Me days later listening to the same song on repeat:

[slime-water-shrew]

Allonormativity and BillFord

(Links mentioned are at the bottom of the post)

I think aimasup puts it best in the caption above their comic linked below “They loved/love each other but not exactly romantically do you get me.” Bill and Stanford’s relationship was mutual and they definitely cared for each other in one way or another, however I don’t believe that love was romantic or even sexual in nature. Both Stanford and Bill show a lack of interest and/or understanding of romance in their respective books as countless people have pointed out, Ford even being referred to as “plansexual” (check out the Love page in The Book of Bill.)

[Photo of a pink page from The Book of Bill. The page says the following: "Bill, have you ever been in love?" "Sure -- tell your mom hi for me! By the way, have you taken a DNA test recently? Not asking for any particular reason." "Seriously, though, have you?" "Asking me if I've been in love is like asking a black hole if it liked your mixtape or asking a subterranean fungal spore network who its favorite animated princess is. I'm a multidimensional specter of chaos that transcends reality, I couldn't possibly care less about which bag of plasma blushes at who or why!" "Okay, but like... You gotta be crushing on someone." "I will light this book on fire." "Methinks you doth protest too much." " "Methinks"? Kill me before you start telling me about your polycule."]

[Photo of a grey page from The Book of Bill. The six fingered hand symbol representing Stanford Pines rests above a block of text that reads "Sixer dreams about a pop quiz that asks him, "What are you attracted to?" Usually writes, "I'm attracted to logic and preparation." Not sure what to call that! Plansexual?"]

And yet it seems that Bill and Stanford had a romantic/sexual relationship in the past. Bill gives you flirting tips and has done several of them on Ford. He gave him rats in the book and the “The “LOVE CAGE”” in the show itself.

[Photo of a damaged and yellow page from The Book of Bill. The page has a drawing by Ford of a pile of dead rats arranged to spell out his name, "Ford". Above the rat drawing is the text "Why?" with an arrow pointing at the rats.]

The karaoke page heavily implies that they went on a date and slept together too.

[A Photo of the aformentioned karaoke page in The Book of Bill. The page is yellowed and the text written on it is messy and completely unlike Ford's normal handwritting. It is also filled with spelling errors. It is hard to read so my best attempt to write out what it says are as follows: "I probabbly shouldn't be writin this down but I had such a crazy??? WOW what a. It was a night! And now it's mornign? Cill Bipher.... He did a dream? Karaoke? And then one thing led to another thing and normally I try to be sober but... He mixed a dream drink and??? I gotta say. I just gotta say. Look it's just me and my journal here, I gotta say: This Bill guy he's really got it all figured out. Also the rats were his idea? I get it now. I'm gonna, we're gonna what a time. What a hangover. Gonna sleep. Whole day. Ad aspera asperin -Stranford Pi" The pen then trials off the page and below the wall of mangled words is a drawing of Ford and Bill infront of the stars with mics in their hands singing. Ford is holding a drink in one hand with his eyes closed in a smile and Bill has an arm around him and is looking at him sweetly. The song they are singing is Disco Girl.]

So does this mean they aren’t aroace? Not at all. I believe that the two of them confused obsession for love. As wishwizardliv states in their post linked below “NOBODY CAN TELL ME IT WAS ROMANTIC[.] THAT SHIT WAS JUST OBSESSION ON BOTH ENDS”. Ford was practically consumed by obsession. His carpets, walls, everything down to the windows were made in Bill’s image. He prayed to him and his favorite constellation is Bill. He was a god to him.

[Photo of a page from Journal 3. The page is yellowed and there is a drawing of a few constalations. One being Ursa Major and the other being William. William is a triangle with a bowtie and one eye. The drawings are labled with a note underneath with a arrow "Favorite constellations".]

And Bill was no better. From the stories we have of his past his involvement in any one person’s life is a rarity and the fact that he visited Ford often says a lot. Not to mention I do believe Bill when he offered Ford to rule the universe with him. I think he honestly wanted to have Ford by his side for all of weirdmageddon. Not to mention he carried him around everywhere like a doll and made him out of gold unlike all the other people he petrified. They were clearly obsessed with each other and in our allonormative world that is hard to rationalize unless you assume it is romantic or sexual in nature.

Hana Hyperfixates in their video Gravity Falls and LGBTQ+ subtext: Decoding the Queercoding | A Video Essay, around the 1 hour and 33 minute mark they say “... there’s a lot here about Ford wanting women to notice him, and not a lot about him noticing women. He was a guy in the 80s who wanted stardom and acclaim. Women wanting men in power was imagery he likely was surrounded with growing up.”. You might be thinking “Okay but what about Bill? We know allonormativity exists in our world but how can we say the same for his actions?” Well I have news for you: we can also see Bill Cipher literally being pressured about how “you gotta be crushing on someone” (Book of Bill Love page); it’s clear that even though Bill is not even from our dimension even he can’t escape allonormativity. All of this in mind with how deeply obsessed with each other the two of them were it makes sense they would confuse it for the traditional kind of love and try their hands at dating. Which explains why a triangle that is above love (as he kinda states in the Love page), and a “plansexual” man would go on a date and sleep together. They may not ever actually have been in love but them attempting to flirt and date makes sense when you consider they just confused their obsessions with romantic love. In this context it recontextualizes Bill’s statement in the Love page shown below.

[Photo of a pink page from The Book of Bill. The words are written in white blocky but setchy leaters with a black box around them. The text reads: "Love is a trick. And worst of all. It's a trick you play on yourself!"]

What at first seems like the bitter words of someone who feels like love is pointless could be taken more literally. It was in a sense a trick he played on himself.

As an aroace person myself who has often confused obsessing over fictional characters or gender envy, or just really caring about a friend deeply with a crush, I have to say there is nothing more relatable than that.

Sources & Links

wishwizardliv : https://www.tumblr.com/wishwizardliv

wishwizardliv’s post : https://www.tumblr.com/wishwizardliv/758841130677862400/nobody-can-tell-me-it-was-romantic-that-shit-was?source=share

aimasup : https://www.tumblr.com/aimasup

aimasup’s comic : https://www.tumblr.com/aimasup/758803563813224448/they-lovedlove-each-other-but-not-exactly?source=share

Hana Hyperfixates : https://www.youtube.com/@hanahyperfixates

Hana Hyperfixates’s queer reading video : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFRx3ibU3yU&t=146s

[gin-juice-tonic]

So, while it's certainly not my intention to talk about pages of the bill book basically every day, it seems every time I write one post I end up thinking about something else. Here's the next something else.

This time it's these two pages. There are several things that are odd to me here. Not necessarily on their own, but when compared with the journal.

First and foremost, I want to use something that struck me here for a quick bit of doyalist analysis. (I know, I know.) Several people have said to me they didn't believe Alex had gone back and read through journal 3 again, and this could be a reason why things are so different and contradictory. But the thing is, these pages hold lines that are strikingly similar.

That top image is small, so I'm going to zoom in on what I mean. These are lines from that first book of bill page:

Here is a line from the "hiding places" page of journal 3:

and here is another line, from the page after this one:

You could argue that the thing about the caves is a plot point, and something Alex might've remembered. But part of Ford's motivation to get going to the caves so soon being the snowfall? Well, I certainly didn't remember that anyway. It's pretty a minute detail. Could its inclusion mean nothing? Maybe. But maybe not.

And if you read past my carefully placed initial highlighting, you'll also notice that lines inclusion is slightly different in the two versions.

Like I said, in journal 3, the pushing factor in getting Ford to make his trip with haste is worrying about the soon to be inclement weather.

But in the Book of Bill he mentions "little time". Why? Because of what's been written down on the previous page:

Im not going to paste the whole thing in here, because it's very heavy. But Ford has been given an express time limit by Bill.

Why then, is the snow even worth bringing up in the first place? I'm having a hard time getting the words together. But I just find it all very odd.

But the similarities between these pages and the ending of the first act of journal 3 aren't all I want to talk about. There's more differences than just the specifics of the snow line.

So, Differences:

This first one is small, but notable to me at least. On the matter of Fiddleford, here's what the Book of Bill had to say:

And here's what Journal 3 had to say:

Fiddleford being "gone" is a lot different from Fiddleford "refusing to speak" to Stanford. The former implying Ford couldn't reach out even if he wanted, the later implying he's made attempts that have failed.

And it's important to remember that the narrative is the Book of Bill pages were ripped out. Ford has written Fiddleford is missing, rips out the page, and decides upon next re-write that Fiddleford just isn't talking to him?

.

The next thing is a really big difference, and requires the addition of two more original Journal 3 pages. It also requires a new question to be asked: "Where do the two Bill pages I've shown fit within the journal?"

Here are the new pages that will be submitted into evidence added into this post:

Though I want to mainly focus on this second one,

The page where Ford's plan all starts to come together. It's worth noting this page comes before the "Hiding places" page I've shown before.

The order of events as laid out by Journal 3 are:

Ford goes to and escapes the truck stop and notices the twin motel sign, realizing he can contact Stan -> Ford lays out where he's going to hide the journals and that he's going to make the trek up to Bill's cave -> Ford fully discloses his plan to hand journal 1 off to Stan.

The Bill Book pages I've been discussing are directly after the page of Bill tormenting Ford within his mind. (Again, not going to post that page due to the subject matter). But we see that the top of the first page says "I awoke from the hallucination" so chronologically it's safe to assume there were also no non-missing pages in between them.

which means the order of events as laid out by the Book of Bill are:

Bill torments Ford within his mind -> Ford futilely searches for clues to Fiddlefords whereabouts -> Ford announces he must make his trip to the caves -> Ford realizes he must contact Stan.

The Bill book is stating "Ford came up with his plan first, and realized he needed to add Stan second."

The journal is stating "Ford was able to come up with his plan upon realizing Stan can help him."

These are very different ideas. And while it's framed in a bit of a cheesy way, I think that Journal 3's idea is very important. Despite everything stacked up against him at this point, Ford was able to keep going and come up with his plan upon realizing that he's not all alone. And specifically, working together with Stan has been the key to defeating Bill since the beginning.

If we are to take the Book of Bill's idea as truth, what of the trip to the truck stop diner and the twin motel sign? When is this supposed to have happened? Is it trying to claim it didn't at all? It's a bit silly, but I don't find it to be fake personally. Nor do I think Ford would have any reason to waste time and pages concocting a fake narrative at this point in his story. In both narratives, Bill is tormenting him every time he loses consciousness, he is exhausted from both the abuse and his general lack of sleep. He does not have time to spare.

But that's not the end.

This book of Bill page:

And this Journal page:

Are sort of paired off again, aren't they?

Supposedly, the "Should I contact S?" Bill page takes place before this journal page with the perpetual motion machine, as this page says Ford has already "Sent word to him".

Ford includes his own mini pros and cons list here, with notably more pros

There are also less cons. The idea Bill might get to Stan, or the idea Stan might destroy the portal no longer seem to be concerns.

Do the pages contradict? Well, not really aside from the order of events I've laid out. But that's sorta the thing, right?

Ultimately the two pages I've been discussing stand out to me because they're re-writes of things already in J3. Very similar except for the big hole of cutting out Ford's motel story.

Ford's supposedly on a mad 72 hour time-limit dash to make all his final arrangements to best Bill. He is at the end of his rope from the nonstop torment he's been subjected to. Does he really have both the time and the energy to be re-writing journal pages just because he didn't like them, let alone adding in entire new false narratives? And even if he does, why would he change it so that remembering Stan becomes the catalyst for his plan to outwit Bill?

[endless-ineffabilities]

rogue ink

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

word count: 3.4k ▪︎ masterlist

themes/warnings: fluff, language, very brief mention of smut

The reader is devastated at the loss of her precious journal, worried that it might fall into the wrong hands. And who better else to discover it, but the Rogue Prince himself?

It was a small thing.

A small, leather-bound journal. Filled with accounts of your days and nights, your deepest thoughts, your pains. An unassuming object, sort of tattered from use.

And it had been missing for three days. The gods were not good.

You searched everywhere. Every corner of your chambers, in all the pouches you had especially sewn onto your dresses, practically every inch of the Red Keep which you have called home ever since your family was invited to King Viserys' court.

And yet it was nowhere to be found.

It was immediately noticeable to your inner circle that something was amiss, but you just shrugged it off. One person you did confide in, however, was Princess Rhaenyra herself. The two of you quickly grew close after her former companion, Alicent, was sent off to wed some wealthy, Southern lord.

"So what if it has gone missing? Perhaps you have simply misplaced it? Anyway, we could easily get you a new one, y/n."

Your head swiftly turned in her direction, "I appreciate your tone of confidence, Rhaenyra - "

She nodded, making a playful show of curtsying.

" - but... I've scrolled down personal matters in those pages. Especially when it concerns..."

She paused in her step. Hands clasped behind her, she leaned forward, "Ah. I see."

When it concerns Daemon. But it need not be said aloud.

Rhaenyra has been privy to some of your musings about her beloved uncle. Only the ones that you would ever let befall on another person's ears, that is. Some of it... well... would be more than enough to make any maiden blush.

"How could I forget?" Rhaenyra smiled, "You fancy Daemon." Then her face turns sly, "He fancies you too, you know. But of course, I know why you would be reluctant to engage with all of... that."

Your hand reaches up in an attempt to hide your face from shame, "Gods, what would happen if anyone at court were to find it? It would only be so easy to determine that the thing is my possession. I've written my father's and mother's names on it, and yours, and Daemon's..."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Rhaenyra wrapped an arm around your shoulders, keeping you steady, "This court of sycophants never runs out of fodder for their dull conversations. Your journal might be spoken of for a day or two, then they shall move on to something of lesser import."

You sighed deeply, a mask of calm appearing on your visage, though Rhaenyra knew better.

It will be alright. Another half-truth. This loss will soon be a trifling thing.

If only...

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Daemon Targaryen has been having quite the interesting time as of late.

The pages of your small, tattered journal feel light on his fingertips, but he might be inclined to say that the mere feel of the parchment is exhilarating.

These thoughts were yours. These secrets, these desires were yours.

Truthfully, he has not been completely shy about his admiration for you. His precious dove. His sweetling. You thought nothing of it, knowing full well how he is. The Rogue Prince has been known to possess countless paramours.

And you are damned if you would allow yourself to be one of his mere passing fancies. To be bedded one night and forgotten the next.

He once thought that his admiration is not well-received, until one morning, when he watched as an object fell out of your dress as you sprinted down the hallway, headed to only the gods knew where. You bumped into several ladies of the court, mumbling rushed apologies, only to be met with irate stares, but you went on without any mind to them.

Daemon failed to hide the smile that sprung from his lips. He quietly shifted to the spot where you dropped something, and that's when he saw it. Your journal.

It could only be yours. Who else would scroll down that thinly veiled warning on the first page, dedicated to any stranger who might deign to read it?

Daemon, of course, believed himself immune to such threats and he hurriedly found a secluded place to sit down and immerse himself in the woman who has managed to take sanctum in his mind.

And his heart, but the notorious prince would still be loath to admit that.

A few pages in, with amusement dancing his eyes, his chest felt warm at the image of you inking these thoughts onto the parchment.

Then came – “Once more, if you might be a nosy intruder, turn away now, or the very worst fortunes shall fall upon you. I swear this on both the old gods and the new.”

Perhaps I should stop. After all, she just might impale me with mine own Dark Sister if she found this in my possession. Daemon’s hand hesitated as he was about to turn the next page.

He had half a mind to close your journal, partially resolved at returning it to your chambers without you even having to notice its loss, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the following words…

“I finally saw Prince Daemon Targaryen this morning.”

How could Daemon stop his perusing at that moment? He read on with renewed interest, yearning to know more of what you think about him.

“By the gods, he is as beautiful as he is infuriating. I was made to be the cupbearer in today’s small council meeting, and the Rogue Prince strolled in, well in the middle of the discussion, without any mind as to the disturbance that his late arrival caused, if any. Not a care in the seven kingdoms. He paid absolutely no mind to me, standing there in the corner.

But I saw him.”

Daemon found himself rolling his eyes. Of course, he would give off the worst impression upon the first moment she glanced at him. But then again…

She thinks me beautiful. Vanity had allowed him to glaze over the part where you call him “infuriating”.

I suppose I shall have further use for your precious book, my sweetling.

And so the next few days were spent raking your journal for passages about him. Daemon knows full well that doing so can be deemed a violation of your privacy, but if he can use this to get closer to you, then this is something that simply must be allowed.

In his eyes, it may even be necessary. He needs this. Wants it, even. He wants to get under your skin, and these pages all but symbolize that very thing.

After all, Daemon swore that he shall only read the parts wherein he is concerned, and that is well within his right, is it not?

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“Daemon is indeed something to behold. Yes, my opinion still stands.

However, I am not certain what to make of him. Is he to be trusted? No. Bloody well not. Is he kind? That is not really a word anyone would use to define him.

But… there is something… something in his eyes. Daemon is much more than the rogue scoundrel that his moniker deems him to be. He is more than just ‘dangerous’ or ‘unpredictable’ or a potential ‘second Maegor’ (Truthfully, I find it hard to believe that last thing). Daemon is… more than that.

I just can’t find the words to encapsulate him. Perhaps words never can.”

The days pass quickly, and Daemon finds himself opening your journal now and again.

He cannot help it. The more he reads, the more he learns of you. But that is not the only reason. He is also discovering himself, as it turns out - an image of himself that he has not entertained before.

Not only The Rogue Prince, but a person of greater value than his notorious misdeeds. He believes that you see something in him that not even he can see himself.

Something more. Something… good.

Though his intentions prove to be not entirely innocent, as is the usual case. He comes upon one specific part, with your penmanship turning into a nervous scribble. It is as if you were wary that someone might be looking over your shoulder and deign to discover what salacious scrawls you have put down about the Rogue Prince.

Daemon’s eyes hurriedly glide over the ink, basking in what he reads.

“I must confess something.

I know it is quite unbecoming of a lady. Of a maiden. But in the last hour of the owl, I…

I…

Oh, gods. I pleasured myself to the thought of him.

You know. It can only be him. Daemon.”

“Seven fucking save me.” Daemon finds himself cursing with delight at what he just read. So his sweetling does want him in return. Oh, you cannot even imagine what I will do to you…

“We have grown quite close, him and I. Daemon is… Daemon is aflame. There can be no better word for him. He is fire incarnate, and I am not afraid of getting burned.

Or… I don’t want to be. I just. Want. Him.

I want to feel him. I want to feel his lips on mine. Not long ago, he leaned in close and his musk enveloped me. His lips very nearly grazed my cheek. Silly me could not come up with a witty response then and there. A shame. But can you blame me? All I could think about was snogging the fucking Rogue Prince himself!

Ha! Gods!

Perhaps I have gone insane.”

Daemon chuckles freely, alone in his chambers, your journal firmly between both hands. Any clueless onlooker would think it strange, as the Rogue Prince does not make a habit of exhibiting such behaviour. The pleasure in the tone of his laughter rings true and genuine.

If it becomes known that the reason for this is the Lady Y/n, then only a fool would dare deny the centre of their prince’s affections.

“But I cannot deny it.

I cannot have him. I shall not… he is… he does not seem willing to devote himself to just one lady. One wife. There is never a lack of gossip about the prince’s exploits in the Street of Silk, and a hundred other brothels besides.

His need cannot be sated it seems. I… surely, I will not be enough to sate it.

And I won’t allow myself to be one among many paramours.

If I am to love, I have to be chosen as the only one.

However…

Mother spare me.

However… I find myself imagining Daemon’s hands roaming freely across the planes of my skin, fondling my chest, his fingers drifting downward until they are buried in the heat of my soaked cunt.

When the castle is asleep, I find myself writhing in my sheets, thinking about the prince’s massive co – “

A knock echoes across the chambers. Daemon’s head shoots up immediately, irritation blooming across his face, but his cheeks remain flushed from what he just read.

Who the fuck is this?

His squire enters, a gangly young lad of six and ten. He bows hurriedly, and with a shaky voice, he implores, “My prince, you are being summoned by His Grace King Viserys to the small council meeting.”

Has that blasted formality come round again so soon? Daemon shrugs, turning back to the pages. Though he can hardly focus with the snivelling interruption still present in the room, who risks arousing his master’s anger when he speaks once more, “Forgive me, my prince, but I have been instructed to report with - ”

“Will you remove yourself from my sight willingly, or shall I do it for you?”

“M-my prince… I…” The squire nearly stumbles backwards at Daemon’s wroth.

“Leave. The small council will have the privilege of my presence in due course.”

And so, Daemon is again left alone, his squire’s rapid footsteps practically bolting out the doors.

Smirking, he greets your journal like an old friend. “Now, where was I?”

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Your newly gifted journal boasts of a far more opulent appearance than its predecessor. Rhaenyra made sure that the Maesters bound only the finest parchment and leather for this very thing; the cover even has gold and red embossments, as well as inscriptions in High Valyrian.

You were reluctant to accept such a gift, but Rhaenyra was persistent. And everyone knows, there is no refusing the Realm’s Delight when she has her heart set on something.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know of the whereabouts of your journal… well, your old journal now.

Nestled in your usual spot in the gardens, you turn your new journal over in your hands, admiring the handiwork of the Maesters.

The rear possesses the inscription - Isse otāpagon hen ñuha ojūdan udra, se isse ōños hen skoros pirtra hembar… - which Rhaenyra explained as roughly translating to - In remembrance of my rogue ink, and in joyous anticipation of what lies ahead…

You did not fail to notice the deliberate placement of the word rogue, which can only be Rhaenyra’s doing. Clever.

Rogue ink. Rogue Prince. Am I to call myself Lady Rogue now?

“My Lady.” His voice calls out, nearly startling the journal out of your hands. Oh fuck.

“Prince Daemon,” you swivel around to his voice, and sure enough, he leans against one of the tall hedges, studying you. Not a care in the seven kingdoms, as always.

“Good morrow, sweetling.” He saunters over, permanent smirk on his lips. “That is a lovely thing you have got there,” he says, gesturing to the new journal in your lap.

“Why yes, it is.” You lay it down beside you, and he promptly picks it up without even asking for your leave.

“Isse otāpagon hen ñuha ojūdan udra…” He reads, the High Valyrian sounding musical on his tongue. Far better than how you attempted to voice out the same words.

“Hmm.” He hands it over, and sits right next to you, stretching his long legs in front of him.

“Rogue ink.” He mumbles thoughtfully, glancing at you.

“It was Rhaenyra’s idea.” You say, your throat suddenly feeling dry, your heart racing from his proximity.

“Ah, yes. I was very sorry to hear of how you lost your journal. Rhaenyra said you were quite devastated.” Daemon lies plainly. His beloved niece never shared this with him, for she knows you would not approve.

“She did?”

“I do recall, yes.”

“Oh.”  You clear your throat, choosing to let it pass. “Well, she was awfully kind in giving me this as a replacement. I could not thank her enough.”

Daemon smiles, casting his gaze downward, as if he is privy to a secret that is kept from you. Does the handsome bastard know something?

“It is a shame that I could not find it,” you sigh, “I am still perturbed by the thought of someone whose intentions are unsavoury, reading all that I have written.”

“Whatever would you do to them, were you to find out their identity, my sweetling?”

You shake your head slightly at the name he has given you. Anything to distract from the warmth spreading across your face. You lean in closer, suddenly, much to Daemon’s surprise, “Would you let me wield Dark Sister, so I might teach them a lesson?”

Daemon swallows, the sight of your darkened, mischievous expression spurring him on.

“I might,” he leans in, “but I am far too fond of myself to allow something like that to transpire. Besides,” his fingers languidly trace your jawline, “I have read that you are far too fond of me to do such a thing.”

Your stomach falls, the sensation so sudden that you simply freeze in place, with Daemon’s warm breath still fanning your face.

“You…”

Your face scrunches in a mixture of what can only be shock and anger and embarrassment. Daemon only finds it endearing. Adorable.

He starts, “Now, sweetling, try not to be cross - ”

You do not let him finish. You punch him in the shoulder, hard, making him lean away. Your legs seem to have a mind of their own, because you find yourself pacing quickly.

Gods, I just assaulted a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. More pacing. Who cares? It’s Daemon, and he deserves it.

The sound of his laughter echoes in the gardens, grating in your ears.

He stands, pulling something out of the pocket of his trousers, and presenting it to you. Your little, rogue journal.

Wrenching it from him, you can only ask, “You stole it from me?”

He looks appalled, “No, I would not do that. I found it. It might occur to you to thank me. Who knows what could have happened if anyone else besides me discovered your precious journal when you dropped it in a haste.”

“Thank you?” You stare him down, your left hand squeezing your journal firmly, threatening to destroy its very structure. “Why did it take so long for you to return it to me? Did you… did you…”

“Read it?” His eyes rake your face, over and over, enamoured by the passion he sees.

You say nothing. Of course he has.

“You must forgive my curiosity, sweetling. I could not help myself, plainly, to have some glimpse into your mind, into your heart… I simply… I had to.”

You soften a little at that. “Did you read everything?”

Daemon steps forward, overwhelming your space once more, “Not everything. Not quite.”

He gently pries the journal from your fist tucked beside you, and you watch as he flits through the pages as if it were his own. He whispers, “Only what you wrote about me.”

“Gods.” You desperately look toward the sky for some respite, not finding any.

He lands on the page he was searching for, a smile spreading across his face. “I am flattered, my lady, about how you envisioned us in what can only be… very compromising positions.”

“Enough, Daemon, please…” you bite your lip, as his hands drift across your stomach, settling low on your hips, pulling you flush against him.

The journal has been discarded by your feet, and Daemon only has eyes for you. His voice is genuine when he says, “You have written about me as if I were… someone else. Someone more.”

Your eyes catch how his tongue flicks across his lips. You start to give in, and say, “Daemon, I write only what I see.”

His lips are curled in their familiar roguish way, when he drifts even closer, tilting your face up at him with one hand.

“Daemon…”

“Sweetling… let me give you something to write about.”

In true Daemon fashion, he does not reign himself in. 

His lips land on yours. The impact catches you by surprise, making you take a few steps back, and he promptly follows suit. Your bodies move in sync, until your back collides into one of the marble plinths.

His tongue pries your mouth open wide, snaking past your teeth in a frenzy. Without breaking the kiss, he takes your hands, and guides them to the back of his neck, so that you might hold him in turn. You do, burying your fingers in his silver tresses.

Your lips battle each other, and Daemon tilts your head back so that he might advance more. A low growl escapes his chest as his teeth carefully clamp down on your bottom lip, pulling at the flesh.

He pulls away, pleased at how swollen your lips have become due to his work, “If I were inclined to write as you do, the words would doubtlessly be a tribute to you, sweetling.”

You did not expect that.

Still reeling from the taste of his mouth, you finally smile, though wryly, “You could only be telling me what I wish to hear. Soften my anger at how you invaded my most intimate musings.”

He nods once, one hand reaching up to lean on the plinth above your head. His violet eyes bore into yours, burning with unmistakable desire.

“I could indeed.” He kisses you again, his lips briefly pressing against your own, with a gentleness that is quite unusual for the Rogue Prince. “But mayhaps I shall prove to be quite convincing.”

You take a deep breath, peering up at him in a haze. Your shaky nerves finally settle, and you drink him in. Your rogue muse. The object of your affection, as he now knows. “Prove it then. My new journal is in need of fresh accountings. What better thing to write about than the taste of your lips…”

Another kiss, and another.

“I am yours, sweetling.”

Been a while, loves! Hectic stuff + writing ruts can tend to cause such breaks, but I'm glad to be back and writing again ❤️

Yes, it seems that I sometimes take weeks (even months) to update series works. But then I'll get oneshot ideas, and they get done within a day (like this one). I can't explain it either 🙃

But anyway - series updates up... soon enough!

[fredwkong]

Alphaworld File 3: Diary of an Alpha Transformation (1 of ?)

Click here to read Alphaworld in posting order.

X

An undated journal. It is heavily bedazzled on the covers, though many of the gems appear to have been scraped off or stepped on. There are several stains yellowing the coloured paper of the cover, mostly sweat.

Inside the front cover, there is a space where the owner is encouraged to write their name. Two names occupy the space, one on top of the other. The lower layer is written with a purple marker, neatly spelling the name “Ronaldo Herrera.” There are multicoloured sparkles drawn around the name, and glitter has been sprinkled over it. Some of the glitter appears to have been scraped off with a knife, and there is a 3 centimetre tear at the top interior of the page, as if someone was about to rip it out. On top of the first name, the name “RONNIE H” is scrawled in crude capitals using a pencil. The pencil was applied with sufficient force that graphite scrapes are visible from where they were brushed off the page.

Journal entries flow into each other without dating, but editors have split entries based on context and labelled them “Day One, Day Two, Day Three…” despite the fact that more than one day clearly proceeds between some entries. From this point onward, journal entries are transliterated directly, with marginalia and other notes on the text rendered in square brackets [] to distinguish them from the main body.

[Day One]

OMG, I’m soooo happy to be back on campus! Staying with my parents is such a bore! They don’t let me stream any of my shows, they say drag race is of the devil, and the town is so small that I’m, like, the only twink there. I can’t even get any dl dick all holiday because country guys are all totally masc for masc. My hole is toooootally desperate.

I’m so happy that Ollie across the hall got me this journal! He made it look soooo cute with all the stones! He’s, like, okay for a fellow bottom, even tho his massive crush on me is, like, totally obvious. Sorry babe, this dick is for decoration only lmao! Maybe we could get tag teamed by a big dick boy sometime, that’d be pretty hot. I've never bottomed alongside a transmasc dude.

Anyway, I just stopped at the dorm to drop off my suitcase and get out of my het drag, there’s a whole lotta frat parties starting tonight and if I wanna end my dry spell I’ve gotta be there! I just had to live my Sex and the City fantasy by putting down a few lines in the diary first!

[a doodle of an open-faced journal with scribbly lines on the page in rainbow colours]

[Day Two]

ZOMGGGGGGG [written in double-tall bubble letters across a quarter of the page, filled in with pink highlighter]

This term is gonna be SO AWESOME.

Campus is suddenly full of massive muscle men who are totally desperate for me! I was, like, totally the target of a dominance contest at the party last night, and it was SO HOT.

So I walk in, right? And I’m dressed in my usual, my lil slutty crop and my littlest shorts. Here, I took a pic before I left so you can see how cute I was.

Anyway, I’m cute, I’m obvious, I’m ready to have any guy absolutely wreck me. Like, last night, I would have taken a bicurious frat bro fucking me raw, my hole was so neglected. So I am a blaring neon sign: I’M A FAG [written in rainbow marker colours]

And as soon as I walk in, this GOD [a doodle of a massive man is in the margin, a perfect X shape covered in cartoonishly bulging muscles] comes up to me and is all, “Hey boy, I’m Nate.” He. Is. PERFECT. Gorgeous grey eyes, windswept dirty blond hair, a tank top hugging pecs the size of my HEAD. And his voice gets me tooootally weak in the knees. I can't believe he's LOOKING at lil ol me, even if I do look like a twinky slut.

But before I can even say anything to Nate, there’s another MASSIVE arm draped over my shoulder, and ANOTHER massive guy is whispering in my ear, like, “Name’s Lee. Want a drink?” I look over, and he’s just as hot as Nate, with shiny black hair and this perfect sexy smile like a J-pop star. But, like, if a J-pop star was 250 pounds of pure muscle and sex.

I swear all the air went out of the room. Suddenly, Nate and Lee were glaring at each other over me, and all these frat bros were staring.

BTW, when did all the frat bros get so cuuuute? Like, not as sexy as Nate and Lee, but they’re all totally cut this term and I think they’ve got some skincare going? Like I wanna go back sometime lmao.

Lee, like, GROWLED as he glared across me. I felt a li-ter-al rumble from his chest. Nate started totally flexing his big pecs, I thought his shirt was gonna shred in the middle. They didn’t even SAY anything, it was so totally primal. I think I got a whiff of Lee as he tucked me closer to his chest, and I realised he totally doesn’t use deodorant. He smelled totally HAWT.

Anyway, I have two perfect men fighting over me, and I’m not letting either of them go, so I go, “Boys, I promise my holes are big enough to share.” I totes flashed my dimples at them. [doodle of a smiley face]

They kept glaring at each other, but finally Lee was like, “I get his hole.” Maybe he, like, won the contest or whatever? Because Nate looked down at the floor and said, “Fine.” And I mean, fine with me! I love getting stuffed from both ends! What a way to come back from vacay!

We didn’t stay at the party long, just long enough for Lee to get me a drink and Nate to carry me around the dance floor a bit. I checked on Lee while we were dancing, and he was, like, totally making out with one of the frat bros. Like, a guy I knew was straight. I blew him freshman year when his gf was away. I guess Lee’s just like that, lmao.

We ended up upstairs. I think Lee’s in the frat? But we weren’t in his room, which was kinda hot. Lee and Nate sandwiched me between them as soon as we were through the door. I was tooootally surrounded by massive muscle as Nate made out with me and Lee sucked on my neck. I felt, like, high, with Nate’s big cock grinding into my belly through his jeans while Lee felt up my cute ass.

“You guys kissing would be so hot,” I gasped as Nate pulled off my shirt and Lee took off my shorts.

They both hesitated, I could feel it. “Oh c’mon,” I moaned, “you’re both tooootally hot, and you haven’t touched at allllll.”

Suddenly, Lee picked me up and threw me on a random frat bro’s bed. “I guess your mouth IS gonna be busy,” he said, which was SOOO hot, and then he started slicking up my hole.

Pretty soon, both hunks were balls deep in me. They were SOOOOOO big [doodles of massive, soft cocks cover the margins of this page] and I took ALL of them. Lee filled me up SO good, rubbing my prostate like he was fingering me. And Nate tasted, like, perfect. And the whole time, Nate kept pulling back just far enough that I could watch him and Lee kissing over me.

FUCK, they made me look like a little doll between them! I think once they were in me, all the dominance stuff went away, because they were TOTALLY making out. Nate’s, like, SO noisy, and Lee kept on doing that growl thing like he’d done before, which made me moan around Nate’s cock, which made him even noisier.

I came handsfree right before Lee flooded my ass and Nate filled my mouth with cum.

By the time our clothes were back on, Lee and Nate were back to playing their weird dick measuring game, keeping me between them as we went back to the party. I think Nate left pretty soon, but I danced for a bit longer and made out with a few frat bros. They really ARE super cute now, and they all seemed totally into me. Guess they finally got over being raging fucking homophobes lmao.

Anyway, I got home and crashed as soon as I’d cleaned all the cum and sweat off. Now my hand’s all crampy from writing for so long lol. Oooh, I should go tell Ollie all about it!

[Day Three]

I was, like, SO right.

The last few days have been AWESOME!!!! [jagged star doodles all around the word] I swear there are soooo many hunks on campus all of a sudden! One of my profs this term is a tooootal musclestud.

So I’m taking this class on fashion history, and when I looked it up, this Prof. Romano guy was listed for it. He was cute, one of those cute tweed aesthetic guys. You know, a fag who studies fashion. Like, OMG, that picture must be SO OLD.

I show up for class all ready to sit in the back row, but then I see this MAN standing at the podium. Like, total Italian stallion, with the dark waves and the stubbly jaw. He was, like, BURSTING out of his blazer. I could watch his pec bounce through three layers of fabric.

So obv I run down and sit in the front row. I’m not the first fag to have the idea, there’s already like 3 other twinks down there, but I’m totally the cutest. As the rest of the class comes in and sits down, these two GORGEOUS boys walk in and go up to the prof. They’re totally shredded, and dressed in complementary button-ups. And the muscle-god prof pats each of them on the head! Then they go sit down in some chairs behind the podium, and I can see their boners in their cute slacks.

The prof clears his throat, and it’s this DEEP, RESONANT sound. I got a total eargasm just listening to the rumble. “Good morning, class,” he says. And then his next words are TOTALLY burned into my brain:

[written in shaky block letters across a whole page] “You will call me Alpha Mario.”

And then he says, “I am your professor, and I will see you all for extra credit,” while rubbing himself through his pants, like half the class isn’t ready to have his babies. My cock was ROCK FUCKING HARD in my jeans. [doodle of a leaking penis]

He introduces his TAs as Beta Max and Beta Owen. IDK, maybe it’s a kink thing? He’s clearly their dom or something, they were totally devoted to him all class. I’d happily be Alpha Mario’s Beta if he’s hiring, lmao! [hearts are doodled around “Alpha Mario”]

Anyway, that’s just one ep in the PORN SHOW that is my life these days! Ollie’s room has been, like, a revolving door of cock since we got back, and I usually take two or three loads a day out on campus. This group of straight computer science geeks actually begged to fuck me yesterday, so I was dripping all the way home.

They were surprisingly buff for nerds, too! I should point out to Ollie that we gotta hit the gym if we wanna keep up with all the boys on campus this term. Can you imagine? Us at the gym! [The rest of the page is covered in stickers of the laughing emoji]

[Day Four]

Went to the gym today! Not to workout, but I had this new outfit idea and I thought it might get me noticed if I just hung out in the locker room. OH BOY, was I right!

Last few days all my clothes have been feeling super tight, so I’ve been doing a lot of [scribbled in rainbow marker] SHOPPING. It’s too bad, all my old clothes were suuuuper cute, but I’ve started giving some of my old faves to repeat fuckbuddies. One of the guys who used to push me around for being faggy, this guy called Brendan, has been coming over for the last few nights. I never realised how cute he is before!

Anyway, the first night Brendan came over he throatfucked me, but last night he told me he really wanted to feel my fingers in his hole, so I started fingering him! It was soooo hot that my cock ended up totally hard and before I knew it HE was blowing ME while I rubbed his prostate. He’s been texting me all day, begging to service my cock again. Lol, he just sent a voice message all like, “Please, Ronaldo, I’ll do anything to make you cum again!”

My point is I gave him a pair of my old booty shorts. They fit him perfectly, even though he NEVER had an ass as nice as mine before. He’s been wearing them all day today, just like I told him. It’s so hot, knowing he’s showing off like a fag even though he used to be a straight homophobe.

Fuck, I was writing about MY clothes! I’ve been so distracted by hot beta boys the last few days. I thought it was kinda time to change up my style, plus I looked super hot trying on some more dude-type clothes, so here’s the pic of me I took while I was hanging out at the gym.

I had guys HANGING OFF OF ME after a few minutes. It was totally hot, they wanted to do anything I said. Before long, I had a bunch of hot guys kissing me all over and all the cocks I could want to suck. Guys kept running out to grab their hot friends to join us, and all these guys were focussed on me.

At one point one of the staff came in, and I could tell it was to tell us to stop. He was a cute guy, really filled out his work polo, you know how gyms always hire swole dudes and curvy gurls to work at the front desk. I just gave him this LOOK from the middle of my pile of dudes, and I could feel his straightness melt away as his cock started leaking in his preppy shorts.

But just as I was about to cum, my cap got ripped off my head and I was dragged out of the pile by Nate, the guy from that frat party. I swear, he got even BIGGER since last time, he held me up by my shoulders like I was a paperweight. He was totally growling at me, too. He said something like, “I hate when they’re half done,” whatever that means, and then he yelled at all the other boys to get back to work.

Once we were along in the locker room, Nate shook me like a doll. “All the ex-het Betas can treat my gym as neutral ground, but it’s MY territory to you and the other half-done Alphas, you got it?” [note: Alpha and Beta are capitalised in the original text, although Ronnie does not seem to have been aware of the Alpha Phenomenon]

I was like “What are you talking about?”

Nate said, “You’ll get it.” Then I started smelling this INCREDIBLE smell. It was like really sharp cedar cologne mixed with fresh sweat. There was something else too, and it made me feel totally out of it.

Next thing I knew, I was on my knees swallowing Nate’s cock again. “Yeah,” he was saying while he fucked my throat, “this’ll speed you up. You’ll probably never submit again after this, so I’m gonna enjoy it.”

I just stayed there, taking him all the way into my throat. I feel like a week ago it would’ve been totally hot, but today it felt different. Nate using me made me MAD [underlined several times]. I felt like I should do something about it, like punch him or steal one of his boys, but the smell coming off of him kept me docile.

Nate came really quietly, which made me madder. My throat is an incredible tool, okay? Any guy should be screaming when I blow him, especially a noisy top like Nate. Then he patted me on the head like I was a little boy and said, “Head home. Drop a load in that guy who lives across from you, he should be progressing well too.” Then he just. Walked away.

I was gonna stay here all night just to spite the asshole, but I’m super horny again and I don’t wanna go back out. Maybe I’ll go see if Ollie’s got any visitors tonight or if he wants me to fill his holes for him.

[Day Five]

[From this point, entries are written in a noticeably heavier hand. Lowercase Es and Os become jagged.] Fuck, last night was fucking awesome. I knocked on Ollie’s door, and he answered in nothing but a thong, showing his bottom growth right through the fabric. His legs have been getting so hairy and thick, he looked super slutty. Plus his room smelled like sex and cum. I’ve been sleeping out, but seems like Ollie’s been taking house calls.

“Ronaldo?” he said, blinking up at me in surprise. I think we used to be a matching pair of little twinks, but guess I’ve had a growth spurt.

I shoved through the door. What was he gonna do, stop me? I was like, “Where’s your lube?” It came out of my mouth so deep, in a crazy manly register. “I wanna finger you.”

Ollie fuckin’ moaned when I said that, and stumbled over to his night table to grab it. He keeps his lube right out in the open, proud of how much cock he takes. I was already dropping my jeans, my cock was getting super hard and I hate feeling it strain. It deserves to be seen anyway.

Once I grabbed Ollie’s lube, he stood against the wall and presented his ass for me. Fuck, just remembering the look of all that hair on his fat ass is making me leak again. Okay I jerked a bit, should be able to write. [there is a stain on the page here]

Ollie’s hole was still loose from his last dick appointment, so I pushed three fingers in nice and easy. Ollie was moaning, all, “When did your fingers get so thick,” and “What’s happening to us, Ronaldo?” so I roughed up his G-spot a bit until he wasn’t being so articulate anymore.

“What’s happening to us is we’re gonna rule this school,” I hissed at him. I’d realised that it wasn’t gonna be enough to finger him and make him blow me. I needed to shoot inside his ass right fucking now. “Fags are in fucking charge here now.”

Fuck, wait, I need to text Brendan and get him over here. I need him milking my cock so I can focus on writing.

[There are several crude doodles of dicks, asses, and cum splatters in various marker colours before the entry continues on the facing page]

So anyway I slammed Ollie against the wall and shoved my cock into him. My cock’s so much fucking bigger now, too. Like it’s really filling up Brendan’s mouth while he sucks on me. I had enough cock to really saw at Ollie's asshole, and I felt him cum handsfree onto the wall.

“That’s it,” I growled in his ear as I had to hold him up. “This is what you’ve wanted ever since we became neighbours, right? Ollie wanted to get Ronnie’s big alpha dick in his hole.” It felt good to call myself a

[in massive letters on its own line] ALPHA

Ollie didn’t really say words at that point, just lots of “Yes” and “More.” I could hear his voice getting deeper with every thrust, too.

By the time I was getting close, Ollie’s room reeked like ME. It wasn’t a bad smell, but I knew any boy who came in here would be able to tell that all this musk and spice wasn’t just Ollie. It would take weeks for this to be really Ollie’s territory again now that I had marked it. “Fuck, show me that man pussy,” I ordered him, and threw him down in his bed.

Switching holes felt like the most natural thing in the world. I’m fucking built for topping, I can’t believe I thought I hated it. I fucked Ollie through a couple more orgasms and then let myself fill up his man pussy with what felt like 3 loads.

I fell asleep still inside him.

FUCK. I just came in Brendan’s mouth, and it felt totally different. Like, I marked Ollie’s room, but I didn’t mark HIM. His holes are open for anyone to fill. He can own other boys for all I care. But Brendan? Brendan’s fucking MINE. He’s mine he’s mine he’s mine. MY Brendan. [scribbled hastily] I need his hole NOW.

[written later]

I took a pic of Ollie before I started fingering him. I bet he looks totally different now, like me. Gotta go, MY Brendan’s gonna show me how to do a gym session.

To Be Continued...

[witchygirlgray333]

Journal prompts / ideas

Poems (either ones you've written or just ones you enjoy or connect with)

Book review

Film review

Write about your day

Collage

Vision board

Habit tracker

Calendar page

Notes from something you're learning

Quotes you like

Draw some outfits you like

Search up creative writing prompts and do those

Meditate and write down your thoughts before / during / after (I don't do this everytime or sometimes I'll only write afterwards but when I write before, during and after it's always really interesting to read back on and see how much has changed)

Stickerbomb page

Films to watch

Books to read

Wishlist

Bucket list

Highlight of the day (I like to have a page in my journal where I write a short sentence of my favourite thing that happened that day, it's nice to look back on and it's nice especially for days when I'm not feeling well enough to do a longer entry)

Gratitude list

Random thoughts

Drawings and sketches (I'm not even good at drawing but I love drawing or sketching in my journals and just expressing myself)

This one is more for chronically ill people but making notes for doctor / hospital appointments which helps so much! I have severe memory loss so a lot of the time I'll turn up to an appointment and have totally forgotten about anything I'd hoped to say so this has been a total lifesaver

Along with what I said in my last point about living with severe memory loss my whole journal works towards helping me deal with living with the memory loss. I'll probably do another post soon about more in depth ideas for journaling to help life with memory loss but I write down SO MUCH. I've got to do lists, a calendar page, my night routine (I'll also have my morning routine written down once I've actually worked one out!), things I need to do everyday (such as brushing my teeth, washing my face etc), contact info for people I'm close to, labelled photos of my loved ones (it can be really scary when I don't recognise people so having these pages really help), a list of things I can do throughout the day (I'm on bedrest but having a list of things that I enjoy doing written down is a nice reminder, some of the things on the list at the moment are make tiktok videos, do makeup, watch a movie or tv show, journal, scrapbook etc)

[captain-mj]

The Journal

I don't know. Cw: Ghost's backstory

Soap found the unassuming book on his desk. The edges of the paper had turned slightly yellow and they were clearly flipped through quite often. He frowned at it, wondering who went into his room and set this there. It felt... almost threatening.

Soap gently opened the book to look at the first page.

I'm writing this journal as a "therapy" exercise. Frankly I think it's fucking bollocks. I'm fine. I dream about nothing.

Well. That wasn't very helpful. The handwriting was odd. Almost scrawling, like the person who was writing had shaky hands but also couldn't be bothered to hold the pen properly.

Soap frowned. This seemed a rather personal thing to give to a person. But it was in his room.

Just one more page.

Apparently I'm supposed to introduce myself. Fine. My name is Simon Riley. I belong to the SAS. I was a POW for a couple of months. I keep hearing numbers but none of them feel right. I think parts of me are still down there.

I hurt. Everywhere. Especially when people touch me. I can't sleep. Can barely eat. My mum is worried. So does Tommy. I want to tell them to fuck off. I have. But they keep worrying. I wonder if this is how Beth felt.

On the page was a polaroid. A baby faced Simon with nasty scars on his face, still fresh and angry. He looked half dead. Dark circles under his eyes and an expression nothing like his usual. Someone had their hand on his shoulder, but he could only see their arm.

Soap sucked in a breath. There was no way Ghost gave this to him. No fucking way.

He got up and grabbed the book, going straight for Ghost's quarters, planning on returning it immediately and pretending he had found it and couldn't find Price to turn it in.

Ghost's quarters were empty. His knives were missing, but his clothes were still there, meaning he was on a mission.

Fuck.

Soap paused and tapped his foot. He wasn't sure if Price was around. How did someone get this? If he left it in his room, he was worried someone would find it. He'd have to keep it. Just to be sure.

Soap set it back on his desk. When he saw Price, he'd talk to him.

After a minute of staring at it, Soap shoved the book into a drawer and closed it tight. He left to talk to Gaz to distract himself for a few hours.

Gaz was nice enough to tell him that Ghost and Price were on a mission together and that they wouldn't be back for a few days.

No big deal.

A few days with a book that potentially had a lot of answers to some questions he had about Ghost.

Soap didn't make it the night before he was reading more pages. He never claimed to have great self control.

Good morning. I feel like a teen, writing in a diary. I've been put on new medication today. Supposed to help. It makes me dizzy for some reason.

My mum keeps making me tea. She wants to make sure I'm real. I see her hands hovering around me. If I wasn't such a shit son, I'd tell her she can hug me. The thought makes my skin crawl. I see her dead body in my dreams. I see the skull they said was hers. I want to tell her I'm okay, but I don't want to lie.

Soap felt sick. There was a drawing. It was crude, clearly done out of boredom and with no real care behind it. Soap was pretty sure it was a skull that was dripping something. Maybe blood. The ink was all black so there was no way to tell. "Mum" was written several times around it.

I dreamed about her again.

That caught Soap's attention. Her? Was Ghost into women? That seemed unlikely.

She used to speak so soothingly in spanish to me. I wonder if she was like me. Did Roba rape her too?

Soap shut the book and shoved it under his pillow. Enough of that. Nope. He didn't want to think of those words and what they meant.

Fucking too.

No.

No...

No!

The idea of something like that happening to his Lieutenant was... It just... didn't happen.

Soap pulled the book out and kept reading. Just... to prove it wasn't real.

I don't know. It's not a nice thought. Maybe I want someone else to hurt too. I tried to jack off the other day and ended up scrubbing myself raw afterward from how it made me feel. How pathetic right?

Not sure what this is doing. What benefit this has. I'm writing my thoughts. Trying to feel better. Tommy joked about me buying a hooker. I had a panic attack. it was like i was back in high school again. fucking baby.

There was a picture of someone, presumably Tommy, and Simon hanging out. They were both smoking and Tommy was making a sign with his hands. He had a giant grin on his face. Simon had a carved out Glasgow smile that looked like it hurt. Raw. it looked to be after the earlier polaroid. The dark circles hadn't gotten better, but there was more color and flesh in his face.

My mum wants me to talk to my dad. I don't know why. I don't know want to see him. Can't let him see me right now. Maybe when I'm recovered. Last time I saw him, I beat his ass. Doubt he's going to forgive me.

Bastard is pure evil. He gets off on hurting people. Got off on hurting me. I think he's trying to use the cancer as an excuse to get close to my mum again. I'll beat his ass again. I'm putting on more weight. I'll fucking do it.

There was a little stick man drawing labeled 'Simon' and 'Bitch' with Simon beating him to death. Soap thought the blood was rather well drawn, even if the stick figures wasn't.

As the week went on, he kept reading a few pages at a time. He learned... things.

Ghost liked Vanilla tea.

Ghost had been assaulted by more than one person.

Ghost's father had beaten him. A lot.

Ghost was scared of snakes.

Ghost loved his Mum.

Ghost hated most mystery movies.

Tommy was Ghost's brother and was the second most important in his life.

And that they were all dead. All of them.

He wrote an explanation of everything there. In a clinical, harsh detail.

I wish I had died down there in Mexico. I wish I had laid down in that grave and died. It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault.

It kept repeating and then he had just started over and wrote over the first layer.

Soap was crying. He couldn't help it. Tommy was so... young. Not to mention the descriptions Ghost gave of his family in general. The pages after that were mostly drawings or scribbles, all made with heavy hands.

Simon knocked. He could tell by the sound he made when he knocked. "Johnny?"

"When did you get back?"

"...Just now. Can I come in?"

"Yeah." Soap wiped his face so he'd look... normal. "Yeah come in."

Ghost stepped inside and saw the book. "Enjoy it?"

"What?"

"I left it for you."

"Why?"

Ghost hummed. "Thought it would be the easiest way to let you in."

Soap swallowed. "You don't do anything half assed do you?"

Ghost's eyes stared at him. Answer enough right there.

[teejaystumbles]

Against all odds (part 2)

Part 1

Dream unmakes the latest nightmare he's been working on for the umpteenth time and heaves a humiliatingly human sigh of relief when the glass dissolves back into sand again. This is not working. Perhaps confronting his fear head on is not a good idea.  Instead of continuing his work he casts out his awareness, looking for a certain someone.

Hob Gadling is not currently asleep, but he seems to be daydreaming quite a lot. As much as Dream tries not to pry he can’t help but curiously skim over his friend’s imaginings. Has Hob read Dream’s journal entry yet? How has he reacted to it? Dream is prepared for resentment, disgust even, for Dream’s failure to meet with Hob, and his flimsy excuses. What he perceives instead are snatches of misty, rainy skies that blanket a multitude of wistful and fragile thoughts Dream does not dare look closer at. Hob seems to be lost in nostalgic memories, both sad and fond.  The lack of rage or hurt makes Dream relax a fraction. Later, when Hob sleeps, he will visit his friend’s lodging again to try and see if he has written an answer to Dream’s entry.

-

Dream steps out of the shadows of Hob’s curtains and gazes at the sleeping man. This time Hob has put on appropriate sleepwear and has pulled the blankets over himself. His sleep is restless, his dreams having a certain sense of urgency Dream can feel, but he does not intend to be here long.

He steps up to the desk and looks at the notebook. It lies open again, pen by its side, as if in invitation. Pulse thrumming with excitement, Dream eagerly bends over the pages to read the newly added words.

June 8th, 1989

Dearest stranger, my friend! 

I can't believe I am allowed to call you that! Let me tell you that I nearly fainted when I found your message in my notebook this morning. I've read the words you've written a hundred times by now and still I almost can't believe them to be real. I can’t believe I’m touching the pen you must have held, that I missed your presence in my room

As devastated as I was after you didn't come yesterday, as happy am I that you chose to contact me after at all.

I'm quite embarrassed about my drunken ramblings that you must have read. There's no lie in them, but I would try and put the truth into less desperate words if I could. I must seem like a fool, fixating on you like this, after all we've only met six times so far. Still, what I wrote, that you are my one constant in life, is nothing but the truth. Our meetings are fixed points in time that I measure this immortal life of mine by now. I try not to, but meeting with you has often felt like the start and finish of an era of Hob Gadling, despite it being probably more in the middle of several. Every centennial meeting with you was the most important appointment that I would plan and prepare for (as best as I could) for months, sometimes years. So if writing to you like this is the only way I get to speak to you then I will gladly take it, and thank you for it. 

But make no mistake, dear stranger - I would love to see you again and I hope you will be ready and willing to meet me in person again someday. Because

Dream stops reading to collect himself for a moment. Hob is not angry at him. He still wants to meet Dream, in fact eagerly awaits him. Dream feels himself flush with strange longing and can’t help a rush of power escaping him, the equivalent of a shudder, of goosebumps. A mistake, he realises, as he hears a sudden gasp come from behind him.

He freezes.

“My friend? Is that you?”

The urge to not acknowledge Hob and simply disappear is so strong that Dream feels his form already dispersing. Hob’s desperate tone of voice, cracking at the end, stops him.

“Please wait! Please…”

Dream waits, frozen, unable to turn around and face his friend. His form is trembling, rattling, whisping around him like smoke and Hob makes a keening noise.

“You don’t have to- I won’t-”

A sigh, a calming intake of breath.

“Look. I don’t want to pressure you, and if you want to leave I obviously cannot stop you. But…maybe. We can talk? A bit?”

He sounds so hopeful, so sincere, it tugs at something inside Dream and makes him shut his eyes. Hob has not moved from where he sat up in bed but Dream can feel his restlessness, his daydreams of reaching out, of hugging Dream-

“There’s- there’s phones now, you know? You don’t have to look at me at all, we could talk no matter where you are, it’s amazing really-”

“Hob.”

The man immediately stops talking and Dream draws in a deliberate breath before turning around to face him. Strange, how such human mannerisms help him calm down now. After his imprisonment, the act of breathing feels like a luxury to him, a comfort all in its own.

Hob gasps again when he looks at him and Dream wonders what he sees. The man swallows heavily and his fingers nervously grip his bedding. His eyes are red-rimmed and Dream can see tears gathering at the edges, in the tiny wrinkles created by a life full of laughter. The wrinkles deepen as Hob breaks into a grin.

“Hello, old stranger. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Dream very much doubts that. He knows he still looks emaciated, despite all the power returned to him. His form echoes the unease he still feels a lot of the time. He is closer to a nightmare than a dream. Yet Hob seems to genuinely delight in seeing him and Dream feels himself flush with warmth, and embarrassment.

“I- it is good to see you, Hob. Apologies, for not-”

“Accepted. Forgiven. Forgotten,” Hob interrupts him eagerly, “You’re here now.”

“I am...”

He is, and he feels at a complete loss for words. Hob cocks his head slightly, his expression sobering.

“But you were rather…not…?” he asks with a small frown. Dream twitches, caught out. Why it is that this human can see through him so easily he will never understand. It is slightly…terrifying.

Hob looks at his hands gripping his blanket and says quietly, “Look, if talking isn’t- if you’d rather continue the writing, that’s fine. I will accept that. I-”

He stops and Dream can see him grind his teeth. He still feels unable to respond, caught in watching Hob Gadling go through several inexplicable emotions. Then he breathes harshly through his nose and looks back at Dream with a tense but genuine smile.

“I don’t know what happened to you, but I know something did. You wrote as much, and I can see it in your face. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable. So if it’s me-”

He swallows again and blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to hold back tears and Dream takes an involuntary step forward.

“It is not. You. Hob. It’s…”

Dream subsides, again unsure how to voice his insecurities, unbecoming as they are of one such as him. 

But Hob does not know what you are, a small voice whispers inside his head and Dream shivers. 

Hob does not know who he is. Has Dream not confessed that that is exactly why he enjoys the man’s company so much? Without knowledge of Dream’s power and function, Hob will not judge him for being…frightened. Of tight spaces. Of glass. Of people. He will only see his friend, in need of comfort.

Dream suddenly wants nothing more than to let Hob comfort him, knowing that the man before him, with his eyes full of hope and tenderness, would not send him away. He can finally speak.

“My friend. I have tried to work through some issues I have…accumulated over the last century, due to very. Unfortunate events. Yet exposing myself to these uncomfortable sensations again…has not had the therapeutic effect I wished for. I am at a loss how to overcome my reluctance to…mingle. Once again.”

Hob looks wide-eyed at him, frowning again. “Wait. Are you saying. You tried to treat yourself with exposure therapy? To what, exactly? If I may ask,” he adds hastily.

Dream shifts nervously.

“...Claustrophobia. Among other things.”

“Jesus,” Hob gasps and wipes a hand over his face, “yeah, I don’t know if, I don’t know, shutting yourself in is really helpful with that. How fast have you been taking things? Have you tried being in larger rooms first, or…” he trails off and looks around his bedroom.

“Are you fine in here? Do you need me to open a door or window?”

Dream is perplexed. Instead of asking what happened Hob’s immediate concern is for his comfort in the current situation. He relaxes a fraction at the realisation that he made the right choice. His friend will not judge him for his weakness.

With a small smile he says, “No. I am alright. Your rooms are. Not uncomfortable to me.”

Hob almost glows at his words and also relaxes a bit. Dream has basically admitted to feeling safe in Hob’s presence and clearly the man has understood that immediately. He is a lot smarter than Dream ever gave him credit for. Hob Gadling has learned a lot about people in his life, it seems. Even if Dream is not exactly people, his current troubles are very human, he supposes.

He sees the moment it hits Hob, when he puts two and two together and realises what Dream has been telling him.

“You said, issues you’ve accumulated…over the last century. Which means, you weren’t claustrophobic before- my friend,” he exclaims and scoots closer to the edge of the bed as if barely holding himself back from approaching Dream.

“What happened? Can you- would you-” Hob asks, his voice trembling a bit, his eyes wide. “Tell me? Please? I want to help,” he says in a very small voice that makes Dream again feel sorry for how he treated his friend in the past. He looks at the notebook, contemplating.

“It is. Hard for me, to speak about these things. Maybe…I can borrow this book? To-”

“Yes! Absolutely! Take it! Sorry, I mean, please, feel free to write to me, I would be delighted. If it makes it easier for you to talk about things…I understand,” Hob says, nodding vigorously. Then he hesitates.

“Does this mean…we won’t see each other again? Until 2089?”

He looks so openly horrified and sad at the idea that Dream immediately dismisses any thoughts he had of saying goodbye for a hundred years once more. In truth, he does not think he would have managed it himself. Writing to Hob is preferable when it comes to confessing what happened to him, but Dream has to admit to himself that he has missed seeing his friend, and he has not looked his fill.

“No. I would like to meet you again. Earlier. I am not sure when, but…I wish to. Introduce myself. After I have given you a more detailed account of my century. I would also like to listen to your own tales. In person.”

Hob beams at him and nods.

“Yeah, I’d love that. My friend,” he says, taking a steadying breath, “I am so very happy to see you. I hope you know that you coming back to talk to me, or write to me, means everything to me. Because I do not take our friendship for granted. Far from it. It is…very precious to me.” He swallows heavily and his smile wobbles a bit. Dream nods awkwardly, feeling embarrassed by the way Hob’s words make shadowy, star-speckled butterflies escape from the back of his coat. He hopes Hob doesn’t see them.

“I…yes. Thank you, Hob,” Dream says awkwardly and then takes the book from the desk. He carefully tucks it into his coat and turns to leave. He looks one last time at his friend, taking in his sleep-mussed dark hair and his gentle smile and feels again a strange pang of longing in his chest.

“Take all the time you need,” Hob says softly, and Dream knows he means it; means that he will be waiting for Dream, no matter how long it takes. Dream can only nod silently again and then, with more reluctance than he would like, leaves Hob Gadling’s bedroom behind.

Part 3

[thatonebirdwrites]

Realized a truth yesterday about how far I have come in my healing

My abuser destroyed my love and joy of writing. I've alluded to this story off and on, but honestly, the only time I ever came close to encapsulating the horrors of that time was the poetry I wrote during therapy.

In fact, the only things I wrote in this dark period of my life was either:

Poetry, which came at a great price.

Essays that I treated like a college assignment.

For several years, attempts to write anything were physically painful. I couldn't write my original fiction at all. Attempts to write fiction left me in spirals of panic, where I drowned in the flashbacks of my abuser.

The one consistent thing in my life had been stolen from me.

It slowly ate its way into everything I wrote, until I could barely write journal entries, and I've written in journals since first grade.

I tried everything to repair this, but that looming abyss of horror obliterated my attempts each time.

One of my chosen family offered a suggestion I'd never considered.

"Bird, what if you write fanfiction?"

But how does one undo years of hurt? Could fanfiction be the key to rediscovering a loophole in my trauma?

When I asked my chosen family, one of them countered with a question, "If there was one thing about a favorite show you'd change, what would it be?"

"Asami needed more screentime to explore her trauma," I replied. "Oh, and Lena and Kara from Supergirl deserved to kiss at Alex's wedding."

"Well, go write that."

Which sounded utterly terrifying. So I dabbled and wrote shorts to familiarize myself with the lore, but that wasn't helping me. It only spun me in circles. I kept tumbling back in the terrifying void that the abuser had hurled me into years ago.

Fanfiction was meant to be shared, right?

So I wandered to AO3, and I read a Korrasami story by Paxbanana. Then I read a supercorp story by @snowydragonscave.

Each word those authors painted on the page spilled hope into my veins. I discovered other stories through the tags on these tales.

These stories on AO3 brimmed with creativity, amazing talent, and lit the flames of a tenuous hope.

Maybe I could find my way back to fiction writing.

Maybe I could eventually return to my original SF novels.

Fanfiction might just be that loophole.

So I took tentative steps in the Korrasami fandom because it's smaller, quieter, and older than Supergirl's. The first fics I posted were not up to my usual writing standards, but it'd been so long since I really exercised my fiction writing muscles.

When I panicked about whether to share or not, my Legendfire chosen family deluged me with words of support. Reminded me that no matter what the response was, I deserved to be heard.

So I posted my fics to AO3 for the first time. The trickle of kudos and kind comments startled me.

People liked what I wrote?

It wasn't even good, I thought.

So I tentatively wrote more.

Then, after a sixth rewatch of Legend of Korra, I found myself wondering, "What if I rewrote Book 2 so that Korrasami happened by the end of it?" Then I wondered if there was a way to reveal Raava's tale piecemeal to Korra and the reader, and thus Book 2 of Shared Moments was born.

I wrote at a feverished pace because I was terrified that if I dared to stop and rest then I'd lose my ability to write fiction again, where the claws of my abuser's legacy would suffocate me once more.

Not a healthy approach, especially as my fear of loss almost burnt me out mentally and physically.

A new approach appeared after a week long, forced break from writing. I randomly read a ficlet by @fazedlight, and felt so compelled that I wrote a follow-up from Lena's perspective.

Not my best work honestly, but it taught me an important lesson. I don't have to write feverishly in a desperate bid to cling to the act of writing.

It hadn't left because I took a break (mind you, the break was partly due to a week long hospital stay, but that's not the point).

I was still able to write after a break.

The claws of my abuser had started to fade.

So I snatched up Kate and Kia from my original science fiction novel -- The Lost Ones -- and dived into a scene with them.

That was a mistake. It set me back. Panic soaked my neurons, dissociation stalked me, and I almost deleted all my fanfiction and nuked my AO3 and Tumblr from the agonizing pain of that set-back.

That's when I got a surprise message from a Korrasami fan @snazzy-korra, who wrote a wonderfully kind message. (Which became the start of a beautiful friendship). That saved me from my own urge to self-sabotage my own healing.

I put away all the original writing, and acknowledged I had not healed enough for it.

But fanfiction?

I could still write that, even if I never felt fully satisfied with the prose. So I returned to carefully staying in the fandom lane. I suspect this journey is why my fanfiction focuses heavily on healing.

A few weeks after that fateful start of a new friendship, I found some GIFs on Tumblr from Supergirl Season 4. The idea for the scene formed, and I tentatively wrote it and posted to AO3.

Also not my best writing. Honestly, I didn't really like it at first. I knew I write it better. That I had written better prose in the past, but I couldn't get past that suffocating terror of loss yet.

I named the fic Confession, and it became my first Supercorp fic on AO3. The amount of kudos and comments on that fic deluged me, and I almost drowned in the shock.

Korrasami felt like friends whispering stories to each other around a campfire.

Supercorp was a whole-ass writing and reading community that felt as big as a city.

To say I was a bit intimidated at first? Maybe terrified? Is putting it lightly.

But then I read more fanfiction by fazedlight, snowy, @luthordamnvers, nottawriter, and others. (One of them shared a link to a supercorp server, and I have a bad habit of collecting discord servers only to lurk out of fear of revealing how broken I am).

Little by little, fanfiction began to heal what I thought had become too shattered, too broken for me to ever recover.

Maybe writing could be a joyful act again.

At that time, I wasn't there yet. My soul still hurt. I still trembled in fear, shrouded in dissociation, lost in a feverish fog, desperate for any nugget of hope that healing was possible.

I didn't really understand how to interact with readers that first year of fanfic writing, and I made mistakes thinking I could befriend people. I still make that mistake, and I often end up hurt by it.

I didn't have to try to appease these readers and live up to what was impossible expectations that I set on myself. I didn't understand yet that fanfiction writing didn't mean I had to keep writing a story when reader's demanded.

Part of the healing process is relearning trust in my own mind.

I'm not there yet. I'm better, yes, but the healing is not a linear process.

A few months ago, I re-learned the lesson of how nonlinear healing truly can be. I reacted badly to someone who left a bizarre and accusatory comment on the most vulnerable fanfic I've ever written -- my Shattered fic.

Shattered was a fic where I poured my heart and soul into exploring my pain and healing, where I dared to share that with others in this fictional lens. I had not done this since before my abuser.

The accusations in the comment (and DMs) triggered massive flashbacks. I panicked, dissociated, and spiraled into a dark place, especially after reading the claim that 'that no one can stop another from writing.'

My wounds still bleed at times, where for several years of my life, my writing was stolen from me, ripped from my hands, torched by abuse, until I was nothing but a husk of a person.

This happened in the same week as my disability healing, and both threatened to torch my healing progress.

I came very close to deleting my AO3 account and Tumblr yet again.

Yet this time my friend, Raveneye's random picture of a cat reminded me of a crucial truth:

Reach out when in crisis.

@fazedlight and @nottawriter came to my aid right away, faster than even my LF chosen family (which is impressive). They talked me through the panic. They provided support when my mind was on fire, when I dissociated so bad that I lost days if not an entire week of time. Their encouragement and kind words prevented a major backslide in my healing.

While they helped me on that front, my LF chosen family showed me the evidence that my perception of reality is accurate.

That two-pronged approach rescued me from spiraling into a very, very dark place. (The disability hearing being that same week really was the icing on a major trauma cake.)

That incident is life reminding me yet again that healing is a nonlinear journey, but it's not one we must walk alone. We can reach out to others for support.

We may not know one another's stories until those stories are shared with each other, and even then, it's often not the full story. it takes time and effort to truly listen and seek common ground.

That's not easy to do, so finding a community of people who holds space for a shattered, broken husk of a person like myself? Where I mess up more than I can count? Who struggles against the spiral of panic and dissociation?

I never thought I'd ever find community again.

I realized recently that a piece of me still believed my abuser's claims that I'm unworthy of such care, that no matter how much love or support or hope I try to share with others, no matter what I write, no matter how hard I try to heal -- I was doomed and too broken for care or support.

But so many people have, often without realizing it, taught me that my abuser is wrong.

I am worthy of care and support.

And yes, it is possible to hurt someone enough to suffocate the words from them.

Because it happened to me.

But it's also possible to heal someone enough to rekindle their spirit.

Because that too has happened to me.

Re-learning how to write from my heart and soul? That is an ongoing journey I continue to this day.

It's why I write Shared Moments.

It's why I write Shattered.

It's why I write this meandering post. What I shared here is the tip of the iceberg of my journey. It's not the full story, as it can't be. That is beyond my ability to write in a nonfiction setting.

I can only share tidbits like this here and there.

But I am slowly rediscovering the heart of my writing -- where I explore my story through fiction. Where I explore themes I care about through fiction. Where I explore justice and healing and hope through fiction.

Can I lose all this yet again?

It's possible.

But I realized yesterday that even when people hurt me, intentionally or unintentionally, I no longer face it alone. Yes, sure, I might be physically isolated due to my disability, but through the power of the Internet, I found community despite that.

My abuser sought to rip me from my communities, from my Legendfire Chosen family, and slowly kill me. She almost succeeded, and for a few years, she did succeed in killing the one joy in my life -- writing.

But I found that joy again.

And I found it in fanfiction. Yes, it is true that I am still too hurt to write original fiction yet. This haunts me still, but I'm a step closer.

I have rebuilt connections with other people. I've found a new community who have been kind and welcoming. Who put up with my weirdness and fractured mess of a mind, who listen when I overshare, who let me listen to them in turn, who write with me, who share supportive messages.

When I mess up, they give me grace, accept my apology, and we work through it. When they hurt me, I do my best to offer the same, to try not to let the trauma speak for me.

Because of them, I have a fighting chance at surviving any future painful events.

Never underestimate the power of your words. Never underestimate the power of your presence.

I am here today, writing this, because of people whose writing and kindness helped me weave my spirit together again.

And to those people, I will forever be thankful.

May they never forget how amazing, how awesome, and how powerful they truly are.

Take care, and keep on writing, friends.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

a lil good omens brainrotted update from your mascot

Hello my maggots it's nearly midnight here's how the brainrot's going (spoiler alert, there are no, uh, ripe braincells anymore).

I just spent a rather significant amount of time drawing leaves into my bullet journal (because it's Crowley themed this month).

That whole time I listened to first Crowley's apartment ambience and then to a bunch of Good Omens edits and got extremely emotional about it but in the best way. God I love this show.

Every day (it'S a-GEtTinG clOSeR) I have a stare-off with the Good Omens book that keeps me company on my desk.

It laughs in my face, daring me to read it.

I recall the last time I opened it (to summarise, I read a line about Crowley and burst into tears like the macho guy I am). I refuse.

We are locked in a battle of wills. Who will win, the book or I? I'm torn between wanting to read it so bad and the fear that I will never be emotionally stable again if I do.

Speaking of books, just for vibesies an update on the one I'm writing, I've written 7,200 words in the past six days (when I pulled the WIP out of its musty folder because of that post Neil made).

The page I made in the bullet journal was actually a writing tracker here lemme show y'all because I'm proud of the progress I made:

[Yes, that is the Good Omens book lurking in the top left, it's never far away. The battle is perpetual.]

Crowley quotesssss all the Crowley quotes I love them so much it's insane.

Also, I'm gonna go get yarn to I can continue my endeavour to learn crocheting to make a Crowley-beanie. @singalongpoppet is my guru and leader in this journey. Not sure if I'll manage it, but a guy can dream. Channeling my non-existent cottagecore era.

I am also considering getting a Plant.

Weirdly enough, this is not entirely brainrot, I was supposed to grow a plant back in January because my word thing of the year was Grow (the burden of prophecy is real).

However, I am dreadful at taking care of them, even succulents. I managed to kill a wild cactus that I brought home from a roadside. It survived several months but in the end being around me was too much for it, poor thing.

I assume there is a bit more to plant-parenting than misting them and screaming at them to GROW BETTER, so any advice, please?

End of update, I have no idea how to write conclusions so have a snapshot of the dynamic of Rian and Avi, the characters in the book I'm writing [spoiler alert: their dynamic is dumpster fire].

Love you my maggots have a wonderful brainrotted day xxx

[nerdygaymormon]

Processing

I told my therapist that I have a book I started in 2018 after I'd spent several months in therapy. I began by including the eulogy I wrote for myself when I was suicidal (which is what prompted me to seek therapy at that time), and over the years I've occasionally added other thoughts or written about my feelings. Sometimes I go back and illustrate the pages.

The therapist said this is a form of processing. He asked if I have a history of journaling? I started a few times, but I was always so worried about what if others found and read it, even if it's after I'm dead, so it was very filtered and felt fake, very performative, and not of much value to me. But this was current book is meant only for me.

For decades my body and mind found ways to cope with being a queer Mormon. This has resulted in a lot of mental health challenges like low self esteem, social anxiety, disordered eating, self harm, and internalized homophobia. These got me through rough times but aren’t healthy.

It's interesting to me that after I was in therapy and understanding those challenges and dealing with them, my mind & body found a way to help process those hard things, helping me heal.

[ur-dad-satan]

Bill Cipher is taking over my brain <3

Okay so ever since I hear that the Book of Bill was coming out, that stupid little geometric dream demon has been bouncing around in my brain nonstop. And then with the thisisnotawebsitedotcom website coming out and being live for a few weeks now, I thought I'd infect you all with this little demon as well.

Maybe spoilers if you haven't been on the website

One thing I've noticed is that a lot of the commands from the computer seem to be from Bill himself. Like of course there's the Hectoring thing from McGucket to show you how the computer works, but there's also so very many more prompts that work. I literally have over 100 prompts written down ranging from character names, Disney themselves, random words that work for some reason, and even fucking MatPat. Some of these bring up little things on the website, some bring up phrases on the computer screen, some take you to different pages, and some even download things to your computer/phone/device.

Now, I want to share some of my favorite prompts and what they do when they're typed into the computer.

Axolotl- "You ask alotl questions" Soos- a note for you and Soos is THRIVING (I'm so happy for him) Gideon- a Google search for sweat resistant bolo ties Bill Cipher- eye of providence Wikipedia page (changes sometimes) McGucket- Cotton Eyed Joe by Rednex on YouTube Disney- "Rat.GIF censored for your protection" Weirdmageddon- A newspaper denying it happened Deer teeth- "For you, kid!" Season 1- Season -1 Antigravity falls MatPat/theory- MatPat saying thet we're on our own Mason- Dipper and Ford message about making anagrams History- (actually gives you several things the more you put it in) Giffany- (just put it in several times) One eyed king- Bill convincing you to pledge your soul to him Babba- Dipper singing Disco Girl by Babba (the whole thing)

You can also pledge your soul to him too! (I've pledged mine to him) A lot of the things I have were found online because for some of them you need the Book of Bill and Journal 3. Before I go though, have some out of context pictures from the website. <3

If y'all want, I can do a big post of all of the prompts and not say what they lead to. But, I just needed to get Bill out of my fucking head.

[helioscopepdx]

Happy Hamm Tips Tuesday!

Today we're highlighting this incredible volume of Jesse's writing on Alex Toth, available for just $5 on Gumroad. In Jesse's own words:

Over the years, I've written several essays about master cartoonist Alex Toth, focusing on his strengths and methods. I've compiled everything I've written into one 106 page PDF. Included here are seven essays, an obituary I wrote for The Comics Journal, and excerpts from several conversations I've had in the comments sections at my blog, where I answer questions from readers about the man and his work. All told, there are 15,300 words, plus illustrative images and diagrams. 

Other books collect Toth's work and describe his life, but if you've ever wanted a book-length, in-depth discussion of Toth's methods, here it is. 

[wholesomefluffdaddy]

Wednesday's new court mandated therapist is having her keep a journal of her thoughts and feelings. Wednesday finds this to be a complete waste of time and decides instead to use it to record her observations of her unusual roommate Enid Sinclair. Wednesday POV.

——————————————

Entry 14

Current Moon Phase: Waning Gibbous 🌖

I must admit I have been most timid around my werewolf as of late. Now that my madness has been given a name it seems to have grown ever more powerful. I desire Enid severely but have not the faintest idea how to proceed. The madness craves her touch and I cannot help but bend to its will. Enid has been too generous in placating these whims. I'm starting to suspect she must suffer a similar madness as she seems to take great pleasure at our continuous physical contact.

I am also ashamed to admit that I have intentionally placed myself in rather compromising positions to elicit a more 'amorous' touch from her. It is very fortunate we are unable to reproduce; for I fear I would be unable to resist carrying her spawn if she requested it of me.

Dear Diary,

I don't know what's going on with Wednesday - but then again I never do 😣 After she said she loved me on the balcony she's been really flustered. It's kinda cute but I worry about her sometimes. She's been acting even more like a cat than usual. Like she's possessed by a cat. (Maybe she is? 🙀 I don't know how her powers work!) She really likes when we cuddle and stuff but she also pretends not to? It's like she wants to be affectionate but doesn't know how to ask for it.

Okay, so like just yesterday I was sitting in the quad with Yoko and Divina, and we found this cat - I think you know where this is going. So the cat is just sitting in my lap when Willa materializes out of nowhere. She sees the cat, looks deeply offended, and has this intense stare down with it 😅 Yoko starts joking 'looks like that cat just stole your girl, Addams!' And I think Willa took that a little too literally because she starts arguing with the cat and demands that the 'foul beast relinquish mi querida or face my wrath.' (My brave babycakes 😝 💕) I picked up the cat and held it out to her, because seriously Willa, it was a little cat and it was so cute! Anyway! She accepts the cat, immediately sets it down, (I swear I thought I heard her hiss at it!) and sits in my lap instead. 😭

Yoko can't handle it and leaves and Divina chases after the cat (it ran away after Willa put it on the ground) And Willa is just sitting there looking so stupidly pleased with herself. 😅 My silly little jealous raven.

Another time I was sitting on my bed writing a paper on my laptop while Willa was writing at her desk. Her alarm goes off to signal the end of her writing time and she just gets up and looks over at me. She asks how my paper is 'progressing.' I'm honest and say it's going to take a while. (It was like a 5 page homework assignment 😣) She glances at the clock then at me before laying down on her bed.

Every couple minutes I hear a very small impatient sigh or huff or groan. Apparently she needed attention and I was taking too long 😅 So after about maybe 10 or 15 minutes she just gets up and wanders over. She pretends, very badly, to be interested in stuff around my bed. I asked if she needed anything and she says 'no.' I try to focus on my paper and she sits down on the edge of my bed. I give her a look but she doesn't say anything or acknowledge me. When I go back to typing I start to notice her slowly scooting towards me.

I close my eyes for a moment and then suddenly feel my laptop leave my hands and her crawl into my lap!? I open my eyes and ask what she's doing and she just says 'I shall assist you with your assignment.' I didn't ask but like okay? I think she just wanted cuddles but didn't know how to ask. So she looks over what I've written so far and starts making corrections. I just accept that this is where she's decided to be and wrap my arms around her. She tenses up at once and I feel a shiver go down her spine.

I ask if she's alright and she takes a shaky breath before saying she's fine. I shrug and rest my chin on the top of her head. I can practically hear her heartbeat at this point. 'Do- do you wish to be amorous?' She asks all out of breath. I can tell she's trying really hard to sound casual but like, I know what my babycakes wants 😏 So I figure I'd tease her just a little bit and say 'I thought you were helping me with my paper?' 'I, yes, of course.' She says all flustered and types slower.

Her hair smells really nice and I can't help burying my face in it. Well, as much as I can while it's in those braids. I can feel Willa's body heating up as I start scenting her and trying to get her scent on me. She gulps. I really want to run my fingers through her hair so I gently (it was gently I swear!) tug on one of her braids, because I wanted to ask her if she'd undo them, and she lets out this super adorable sound! 😖💕

'Querida! I can bear this torment no longer!' She says all dramatically before setting my laptop on the ground and turning to face me. She has the cutest blush and I can see her freckles. 😳 I raise my eyebrows and ask 'what torment?' She lets out this little moody huff and I can't help myself - I pounce on her. I can't even begin to describe how cute she looks every time I pin her down. Like she looks all offended and flustered but also secretly really excited.

'If you wanted this, all you had to do was ask.' I tell her before kissing her. She lets out the tiniest whimper and I just can't! I start to get worked up and kinda whisper growl at her to roll over. She does immediately. I, um, you know… Wolfish instincts and everything. (She's such a pillow princess💕) She turns into a trembling mess as usual. I'm pretty sure we reached the, what was the phrase again? Petite mort? We reached the petite mort at the same time. 😏 I ask if she wants to clean up before cuddles - I should probably mention we were both clothed! We haven't mated mated yet. Willa just gets super w- Nevermind!

She nods and bolts off all embarrassed. (Its okay Willa!) When she comes back I just pat the bed and she shyly sneaks over. Once she's on the bed she curls up into a little ball so I can spoon her. She really likes her spooning time. We cuddle and I get to pet her hair while I tell her how much I love her. She's usually just super quiet during but occasionally I'll hear her whisper something back in like another language. I've been working on my French and Spanish so I can kinda understand a little of what she's saying (I catch her saying 'love' or 'beautiful' or 'wolf' a lot ).

After we cuddled for a couple of hours I got up cause I had to get back to my paper. (It was due before midnight) But I guess Willa wasn't ready for cuddles to be over just yet because as soon as I got my computer and sat back down she wrapped her arms around me from behind. She just snuggled into my back for the rest of the time I was writing. It was really cute 💕

[marcelwrites]

These excerpts were found within a decaying journal inside an old house I was clearing out for a family friend before it's demolished and the land is cleared and put on the market. After asking around and doing some research, I found out the owner was a man named Jeremiah Balcom. Jeremiah was not known for his friendliness or conversation but was considered to be a good neighbour albeit one that kept to himself. On the contrary, his wife Ramona was well known around town and to this day is spoken about by some of the elderly community with love and respect. Interestingly, I learnt that his wife, Ramona, was reported missing in 1972. Extensive searches were conducted up and down the lake and estuary systems but no trace of here was ever found. The local children still play a game where they'll swim out towards the middle of the lake and say Ramona three times under the water. Upon doing so a pale white hand is meant to ascend up from the depths and tug at your ankle. Jeremiah himself went missing in the late 1970s. His current whereabouts is unknown, but given his age at the time of his disappearance, 55, he is presumed deceased. Someone was telling me that about 30 years ago they were travelling up north and after spending some time in Darwin, a man that looked eerily similar to Jeremiah sat next to them in a pub. However, after some soft some conversation and soft questioning, the man abruptly paid his tab and left. Strange.

*March 3rd, 1977*

Oh, Ramona, I dreamt of you again last night. You came over me like a curse. A naked spectral body, the moonlight shining through and illuminating you from within. You descended from the heavens, just for me. Was it in forgiveness? If not then why was your touch so gentle for I surely don't deserve the grace of your fingers on my flesh.

*March 7th, 1977*

The whispering, almost like a chant, I couldn't make it out clearly, and it's keeping me from sleep. I've combed through your old diary and some of your correspondence to try and find some hint, a glimmer of truth, hidden amongst the pages but it remains unrevealed. I believe you're trying to tell me something or else why would I have dreamt of you at all?

*March 8th, 1977*

I found something you'd written about wanting to write a novel about a loveless marriage and I hope it didn't reflect some true feelings you harboured within. God knows we had our problems but no marriage is perfect. I'll read further in hopes to elucidate your reasoning.

*March 11th, 1977*

Sleep escapes me still. When I drowse, I'm startled awake, as if thrust by vile hands back to consciousness. The trembling in my own hands is persistent and exacerbated by this lack of rest. Perhaps it's the cold Victorian weather. I'll look into warmer climes soon enough.

*March 15th, 1977*

Rest! Finally! My dear Ramona came to me again but this time covered in unsightly bruises and scars. Why does she torment me so? Is it not enough that I'm a mess of sleeplessness and guilt?

There are several journal entries unrelated to Ramona where Jeremiah speaks about doing yard work and trying to cut down his nightly drinking to just a single glass of whiskey. The troubles seems to begin anew around April Fool's Day.

*April 1st, 1977.*

More nightmares. Ramona whispers to me and it sounds like she's saying, "Murder!". It can't be. That isn't true at all. She wouldn't and I must be mishearing or misunderstanding what she's saying. Ramona wouldn't lie to me. I know she wouldn't!

More to follow once I've read further into the journal.

[overwatch-xoxo]

So ima simp for Zenyatta so bad- and I’ve been craving a certain side of him. The -ahem- yandere side of him. You don’t have to write a fic, but head cannons or a lil drabble on how you think he would be as a yandere would be much appreciated.

Nonnie, you are so valid! Receiving this ask got me really excited to write for this blog again, so I've been working hard on this. I've never (intentionally) written yandere before, so I hope I was able to do this idea justice for you. Enjoy!~

tw: emotional manipulation, stalking, possessiveness, obsession

it starts small. you catch zenyatta’s gaze lingering in your direction for an extra moment, just long enough that you notice, but brief enough that you dismiss it. perhaps it was all in your head. 

suspicion turns to butterflies as his interest in you becomes more pronounced. when he speaks to you, it’s in a gentle, even tone. he makes time to spend with you, often accompanying you for walks in gardens. he recites poetry and philosophical musings, and you can get lost in his lilting verse.

while zenyatta’s voice is soothing, his words are complex and often leave you feeling more dazed than comforted. you get the feeling he knows he’s talking circles around you. when you ask clarifying questions, he laughs, his chuckles light as blossoms on the air.

although zenyatta has a reputation for keeping a cool and effortlessly calm exterior, he struggles to keep himself that way around you. the prana, the life force energy that flows through his body and makes him alive, becomes overwhelmingly frenetic in your presence. he might shake or stutter. this feeling is especially exacerbated by even small inklings of jealousy or anxiety within him.

when it comes to himself, zenyatta also values inner peace and calm, devotion, honesty. he quickly finds that your presence interrupts that balance he has worked so hard to maintain. even when you are not around, his mind swirls with visions of you - your voice, your hair, your scent. 

above all, he seeks balance, and he knows one thing for certain: your very existence throws him off-kilter, for better or for worse. sometimes he feels devastatingly hopeless at the idea of you leaving him for something different, more suited to your lifestyle, and he’ll soothe himself with healing energies. and sometimes he buzzes so vibrantly with joy that you are in his life at all, and he’ll bring himself back to the plane of reality with discord and malaise. he occasionally excuses himself to center his feelings in this way. but as you grow closer and he falls deeper into his obsessive love, leaving your side only serves to worsen this imbalance.

when he finally confesses his feelings to you, his words spill out frenetically, as if he couldn’t keep this chaotic love inside his body for a moment longer. 

“I once followed the Iris, thinking it would be my salvation, the only path to enlightenment for my people. I now realize the error in my ways. I should have always been devoted to you.”

one day, in zenyatta’s personal meditation room, you come across a worn leather journal with your name lovingly embossed into the cover in omnic script. Intrigued, you thumb through it. every page spills with written word about you - thoughts, musings, meditations, poetry, even records of little things you said to him that had been mundane, benign. glancing at his tidy shelves, it dawns on you that this is only the most recent volume of several. the earliest journals date back to before you even remember being introduced.

at night, he spoons you protectively, pressing every inch of his body to yours, reciting ancient spiritual poetry until you are lulled to sleep. not needing to rest himself, he keeps watch over you until dawn, wondering the whole time how he is fortunate enough to have you. sometimes you wake with the taste of metal on your tongue, and the thought of his hands in your mouth shivers in your mind.

“i wish to surround myself with nothing but you. I meditate on the image of crawling inside you, of taking up all the space within you until I know you are mine, and I am yours.”

he is remarkably protective of you, and although his face shows little expression, when he is enraged, a ferocious glint appears in his eye. when you talk to another person, anyone he sees as a romantic or physical threat, he touches you gently on the small of your back, barely concealing his trembling.

it isn’t long before his protective impulses get the better of him, and he insists on being with you at all times like a bodyguard. sometimes his obsessive needs grow so strong that he might forbid you from leaving his room at the temple, where he can keep an eye on you and know you’re safe.

“i want to know you like I know myself. i will devote every moment i am granted to wrapping myself in your soul, in everything you are, until you have permeated every iota of my being so thoroughly, I can no longer tell where you end and I begin.”