#it very rapidly became not just a sketch

[ultrabreaksounddownwavemagnus]

"Hello my old heart"

[tbob-enthusiast]

"Safe..."

In honor of the release of TBOB, I've made a silly AU and I want to share it! Rather lengthy explanation ahead:

I call this baby "Absolem Ford": in which the twin switcheroo in the end of Weirdmageddon never happens, and Ford accepts Bill into his mind... as well as his body and soul. That was a trick, causing them to permanently fuse into a single being. Ford believed that if they fused, they would become mortal, and therefore humanity would stand a chance at defeating Bill — and, per the terms of their deal, his family would remain safe regardless of the outcome.

In the end, they became something incredibly abnormal: an amalgamation of limbs, thoughts, morals, experiences, and the feelings attached to them. They feel Bill's madness, his desire to conquer Everything, clashing directly against Ford's morals and hero complex. It is, by definition, a mind built by conflict. Needless to say, they're really not the most stable fella out there, hahahee. They have no more legs, but have twelve arms and all of them have six fingers except a single pair, which has four fingers on each hand! They have three eyes and are smiling 99% of the time.

They DO feel an incredible amount of care towards Ford's family (plus, their deal did say they had to be kept safe and sound from all sorts of harm...), so, they turned them all into golden statues and kept them in the very top of their pyramid, as it's the safest place they know. The remains of the Shack and the tapestries made out of the rest of the Zodiac are kept inside as well!

Ironically, this also served well to make them understand each other better. Absolem understands now, what Bill was thinking when he put Ford through hell, and they understand what Ford felt like while he was going through that. Absolem understood the difference between love (warm, comforting, like looking up and seeing the stars for the very first time, all the time) and fear (thorny and painful, like finding out who you really were). And they loved it (and they hated it).

Stanford lied when he said he knew how to break out of Gravity Falls. So, Absolem stays inside, and as self-proclaimed King of All Weirdness, they allowed all creatures to run free inside their town, including their Henchmaniacs (who really don't like their new boss all that much anymore*) and the average townsfolk.

Absolem is often found either crawling rapidly around town and freaking everybody out (as they may or may not eat/stomp/tear creatures apart along their way), or they're holed up in their pyramid, thinking about what they have become, holding their family close. It's comforting to have them there.

(*Absolem has succumbed to the scientific curiosity of "what exactly are these creatures made of?", and has vivisected each and every one of the Henchmaniacs. In their defense: which dignified scientist wouldn't be curious to see the inner workings of, say, Teeth?)

Absolem and the rest of the Nightmare creatures remain quarantined inside Gravity Falls, just waiting to be found again...

Anyway, here's an unfinished, crappy sketch I got of them! Malachite-looking creature HAHEHE. They can open their body up and swallow you whole!

[sinister-things]

Yandere ROTTMNT Headcanons

NOTE: I do not support this behavior in real life. This post is made for entertainment purposes ONLY. Everything in this post(and beyond) should always stay fictional. Please seek professional help if you or a loved one are experiencing any of these behaviors.

This post was inspired by @pianocat939 's headcanons

Also ⚠️TW⚠️: Mentions of stalking, murder, kidnapping, manipulation, and body restraints

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

Raph

Dependent + Protective

Everytime you visit the lair, he's dragging you to the training room to show you the newest move he learned

He just gets so much comfort when you're around! He feels so warm and safe!

But, overtime, he becomes dependent on your attention. He secretly follows you places without you knowing

Treats you like glass. Is super afraid to hurt you

Which results in babying you to the extreme. Basically deludes himself into believing you can't do anything by yourself

If he needs to go anywhere(like patrol or something) he has one of his brother's watch you

If you ever escape, he's sent into a rampage that not even his brother's can tame

"Hun, where are you? You're freakin' me out!"

Overall, he's very suffocating, but he means well... if locking you away in the sewers is your definition of well

Leo

Manipulative + Dependent

Master of mind games

He won't admit it, but he feels useless

So, to make himself feel better, he makes himself useful... by making you feel helpless

The reason he manipulates is because he want's you to see him as your knight in shining armor

Anything could trigger an obsession. Likely some kind of heart-to-heart interaction

If you're someone who isn't manipulated easily, he will up the ante

I imagine he'd snap if he found out one of your friends had a thing for you

He's 100% killing your friend

Then he's coming to your house to whisk you away

Don't bother trying to hide. He'll find you

"There you are, princess! Don't cry– your knight is here!"

You're his little darling, all vulnerable without him guiding you

Donnie

Obsessive + Controlling

Poor Othello Von Ryan felt that his inventions weren't enough for his family(but he would never admit that)

You asked about one of his inventions and he immediately became an excited little boy on christmas morning

Praise him. Tell him he did a good job. He's weak at the knees

Finally, someone sees his genius!

He rarely shows emotion. But when he's alone, a dark voice drives him mad with horrible thoughts

You're just so precious! You mean the world to him!

Tends to stare. He likes to admire you but would never make eye contact

However, if you resist him, he won't hesitate to punish you

However, he's smart and thinks about aforementioned punishment. He wants to find the best way to break you

He's knows what he's doing is illegal and you don't like it, but he doesn't care

Get's jealous very easily

Either he'll kill those... pests or his tech will

"I don't express my feelings very much, but I love you dearly. You're just too paranoid to see that right now."

Mikey

Delusional + Worshipper

Mikey develops an obsession quite rapidly

You're an angel to him! A goddess even!

Mikey believes that you can do no wrong and that nothing is ever your fault

He memorizes your routine and likes to sit outside your window at night

You just look adorable! So peaceful!

He considers you his "muse"

Pictures of you fill his sketch book and line the walls of his room

He believes that you love him just as much as he loves you

You visit the lair and greet him first? Oh, you little flirt!

You hug him a few seconds longer than you did Leo or Raph? You're dying to touch him as much he does with you!

He believes he is the best choice for you and that no one is worthy of your presence

But, if you try and resist him, he'll just tie you up in his kusari-fundo and cuddle you

Drugs your food if he gets that upset. Only sleeping pills, it's the only thing he has access to

He treats you like you solved world hunger

Oh no, your friend was murdered? How terrible!

You wouldn't blame him, would you?

"You're so pretty, like a goddess!"

[joachimnapoleon]

Hi! So I have a quick ask, I have read about how Murat was always proud of having never personally killed anybody and that he does not believe that he could live with himself if he had done so, so do you think that him possibly having killed somebody personally might've contributed to his mental deterioration?

Honestly, I’ve always been very skeptical of the claim that Murat never personally killed anyone. The quote attributed to him on this subject comes from Jean-Michel Agar, the Count of Mosbourg, who was a boyhood friend of Murat’s and later became his finance minister in Berg and then Naples. In the decades after Murat’s death, Mosbourg began compiling documents with the plan of writing a biography about Murat, to counter all the hostile publications about him. Unfortunately his health deteriorated before he could follow through with it, but he did write a short biographical sketch about Murat that was used as an introduction to Murat, Lieutenant de l’Empereur en Espagne, 1808, published in 1897 by Murat’s grandnephew, Joachim Joseph André. Here is the part about Murat allegedly not killing anyone, from Mosbourg:

A single trait can give a just idea of the character of Murat: a hundred times during our intimate conversations, he told me: “My deepest satisfaction, when I reflect on my military career, is to never have seen a man fall killed by my hand. It is undoubtedly not impossible that when firing a pistol shot at the enemies attacking me or who I was pursuing, I wounded someone, even mortally; but I was unaware of it. If a man was killed in front of me, under my blows, this image would be with me always; it would follow me to the tomb.” Such words will without doubt astonish from the mouth of a man who, all his life, made war with such impetuosity.

Out of all the marshals, I think Murat would probably have had the highest likelihood of killing a man personally in battle just given the fact that he was so often in the thick of the fighting. It is almost inconceivable to me that he never killed a single man in all the combat he experienced combined during the Italian campaign, Egyptian campaign, and the campaigns of 1805, 1806, 1807, 1812, and 1813. Especially leading cavalry charges and wielding a saber.

Whether Murat really ever actually said such a thing to Mosbourg, or whether Mosbourg fabricated it, is impossible to know for sure. If he did actually say it, the part of the quote about being “unaware” of potentially killing someone is probably the key, and if the idea of killing someone really did bother Murat, ignorance really might’ve been bliss.

As to how knowing he might’ve killed someone might have impacted his mental state, it’s a good question but I don’t feel like I have enough information to give an opinion on it one way or another. I haven’t really been able to piece together much of Murat’s mentality towards war, or the effects that experiencing so much of it had on him mentally and emotionally over the years. Did he become desensitized to it? Did he have trauma, nightmares, any sort of what we would now call post-traumatic stress disorder, etc? Leading his men straight at the enemy on so many occasions, he would’ve seen innumerable horrors over the years, with men being cut down by musket balls and blown to pieces by artillery, all around him. He would’ve seen the grisly aftermath of countless battlefields. At Borodino he oversaw a number of amputations of enemy wounded. I don’t know how he—or any of them, really—coped with it all, especially repeatedly for so many years. But I haven’t seen anything indicating whether it affected him in peacetime. I can’t imagine it didn’t, but it’s just difficult to piece this sort of thing together from the available materials. Murat’s mental (and physical) health suffered most when he was faced with rapidly deteriorating situations that were slipping beyond his ability to handle or cope with; we see it first in Spain in 1808, then in Naples in 1811, which was when his mental health reached its lowest state. There is no indication from any primary sources I’ve seen that he suffered as a result of his experiences in war; then again, he might’ve just been very good at hiding it, or too proud to show it. I’ve always found it interesting how he’s repeatedly described as being perpetually outwardly cheerful, when you don’t have to dig too deep, especially during his years in Naples, to see how thoroughly unhappy he was. I can’t help but be reminded of Robin Williams, concealing his depression behind a mask of joy and humor.

Sorry if that was a bit long, but your question touched on some very interesting subjects. 😅 Thanks for asking!

[biiguru]

Mortal Kombat 1 OCs!

Here are some raw sketches of concepts of the Chaos Children! They are the future children of Havik and Darrius when they live in Chaosrealm after it is established. What's drawn here are the basic ideas for them! I will post info about each of them under the cut!

❤️1. MEAT (pseudo-OC) Havik & Darrius' 1st child. Meat was from a strange artifact found by Havik in Chaosrealm. His unusual body had infused with some of Havik's blood magic, which has given him rapidly-regrowing, but also transparent skin! Meat was conceived from a Netherrealm Demon that was drawn to the destruction taking place in Seido. Before he was born, a benevolent force (Ashrah) had destroyed said demon and neutralized the incubating spawn he had left. Being one of the first embryos planted, Meat had not only survived the neutralization process, but it had affected him in other ways, like his personality. Meat is unsure whether or not he can regrow limbs, like his father, but it is far too dangerous to find out! Because he has no hair, he has no eyelashes, and you can barely tell when he blinks. Meat is known for being rather friendly, sometimes welcoming even! Meat is not as scary as his father, Havik. He is actually rather kind and seems pretty good-natured. Havik is only bothered by Meat's benevolent nature when it hinders him- like if it causes him to be easily persuaded and gullible. 💙2. DAEVA (in Seidan form) Havik & Darrius' 2nd child. Daeva was found shortly after Meat, which makes them almost like twins. They were both found in a similar manner as well! Daeva was found when Darrius went to investigate a disturbance in the depths of Chaosrealm's (Seido's) ruins. Just like Meat, Daeva was conceived from the same Netherrealm Demon. When Ashrah's movement became evident to Havik, Darrius had went out to scout the area where the movement had occurred. Ashrah had retreated from Chaosrealm, not neutralizing the last seed entirely. Because of this, Daeva retains the look of an Oni. However, her magical nature makes her able to give herself a more "human form", or rather, a "Seidan form." (It works in a similar manner to Syzoth, though not necessarily similar in-nature) Her "Seidan form" makes her look like the biological child of Havik and Darrius, mimicking their features. She has similar eyes to Havik, and a similar mouth & nose to Darrius (since she never saw Havik's mouth & nose) 💚3. SYLOI - Havik & Darrius' 3rd child. He is a Seidan, born from Chaosrealmers. Very tall and wide, Syloi has the potential to be somewhat of a juggernaut, but he prefers to handle explosives. He is a scrapper, much like Darrius, and he loves making his own bombs. As a baby, Syloi was left out in the open for someone to take him. Chaosrealm, unlike Orderrealm, has no rules in regards to procreation, which leads to more reproductive freedom, but also leads to many unchecked pregnancies. And so, Syloi was taken in by Havik & Darrius. Syloi is arguably the "most chaotic" of all of Havik & Darrius' children. He constantly wears a "deliriously delighted" expression on his face, amplified by the worn-down skin on the corners of his mouth. He has an amusing little laugh that's unmistakable from his siblings. He also has a deep love for destruction- Most of the time, his passion is encouraged, but when it isn't, his siblings are usually quick to stop him! Syloi has been scratching at the corners of his mouth since he was very little. Since then, he has worn the skin off of his cheeks. This, and other forms of "self-mutilation" has become a hallmark amongst Chaosrealmers.

💜4. ERIYEN - Havik & Darrius' 4th child. She is a Seidan, born from Chaosrealmers, like her 2nd older brother. Eriyen likes to find ways to infuse magic with different items. She is very interested in alchemy. Eriyen, like Syloi, was born from an unplanned pregnancy. She was handed to Havik & Darrius by her older sibling. They took her in and raised her with the rest of their children. Eriyen has proven to be incredibly smart! She has excellent learning skills and has quickly moved on from learning about science, to learning about alchemy, and the ability to infuse inanimate objects with magic! The first success in her endeavors, is her "magic-eye," of which she had replaced with her left eye. Eriyen is noticeably quite fashionable, wearing many accessories. Her parents consider it to be a trait "left over from Orderrealm." There was nothing wrong with Eriyen's left eye, she just replaced it with a "better" one. This follows the desire to mutilate oneself, which has become a strange, innate feature amongst Chaosrealmers.

💛5. UNDERTOW - Havik & Darrius' 5th child. Another Seidan. Undertow has one natural arm and 2 bionic ones on the side where the other arm would be. It is assumed their missing limb is actually a birth defect and not from an accident. Undertow is also a hydromancer in-training. Undertow is (so far) the youngest child. Unlike Syloi & Eriyen, they were found by Havik & Darrius as a small child, rather than as an infant. They were a feral child, running around in one of Chaosrealm's residential areas. The interesting thing about Undertow is, their missing arm is actually from a birth defect- something that would cause the child to be euthanized under the former "Orderrealm." Instead, their new parents saw this as an opportunity to give the child a powerful prosthetic limb- or rather, 2 limbs! Thanks to their new bionics, Undertow has 3 arms! They sometimes come into conflict with their aggressive older brother, Syloi, which makes them closer to Eriyen. They are rather shy and talk very little. They are also said to have a "spiteful streak" but not much is known about that yet. Undertow's 2nd & 3rd arm slide close together & far apart on a bar that is fixed to the side of their upper torso. Each arm has 1 finger-like tip. They look like insect legs. When joined together, they use the 2 fingers like a normal hand/fingers.

[mxmollusca]

Tomorrow I'm releasing my sequel to An Arm and a Leg, called The Sticking Place. If you enjoy dismantling internalized ableism, have a passion for single subject research design, or like Macbeth, then I've got 14k words of anatomically correct, tentacular silliness just for you!

***

He let his eyes drift closed and held a tentacle aloft in anticipation. Stede focused on the cues from his body, and as he waited for Ed, he noticed something curious. In the absence of visual stimuli, his limbs became more active. He could feel them roam, suckers massaging more earnestly, limbs climbing and squeezing and tasting and seeking—seeking more information, more connection—

And then Ed brushed something against the tip of Stede’s limb. It immediately reacted, seizing the small item and squeezing it—

Stede was wracked with a full-bodied shiver as he was overcome with an nearly incapacitating sensation of tang. Every suction cup exploring the item puckered before slowly relaxing once again as the mental twinge transmuted into a sunny sweetness that tingled from the tips of his extremities straight into his core. He passed the small item from one arm to the other; it was oblong, pulpy, and now wet—Stede could feel a liquid dripping down the length of his arm—oh! An orange! It was a segment of orange, he was sure of it!

“Fucking wild,” he heard Ed murmur. “You like that one?”

Stede opened his eyes and, sure enough, Ed appeared transfixed by a new pattern on Stede’s tentacles. He was no longer a vibrant teal but a pearlescent white, a scatter of sapphire specks concentrated along the tops of his arms much like freckles on a cheek brought out by the sun. Ed’s eyes flicked up to meet Stede’s and Stede watched a blush creep up from beneath his beard, and Stede’s blue freckles intensified in turn.

Ed blinked rapidly as if snapping out of some hypnotic state. “You can taste it, can’t you?” he asked, scooting closer with his graphite and notebook. “Tell me everything.”

Stede released the side of the boat with his hands in order to relax back and bob in the water to contemplate his response. He held the orange segment aloft, absently rolling it up and down the length of his arm by passing it from one suction cup to the next. “Gosh, well, does it make sense to say I can taste it everywhere? Normally, if I put an orange in my mouth it would be a very… localized experience. This, though—Ed, I can feel the taste. It’s like my whole body knew it was sour and sweet but is coming to the realization at different times, and my arms—”

“Reacted before you knew what was happening.”

“Precisely!”

Stede brought himself back up to the boat and pulled himself up to meet Ed, holding the segment out for him to take. Instead, Ed’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he leaned in closer to examine Stede’s undulating grasp on the orange, periodically looking down at his notebook to add to his sketch.

Stede felt truly fantastical under Ed’s study, but ached for a more, well, hands-on approach. He swallowed and then cleared his throat, letting the tip of his tendril bring the orange segment closer to Ed—to his mouth. “You aren’t going to let it go to waste, are you?” he asked hopefully. “After all, we’re supposed to be rationing.”

Ed’s mouth dropped open slightly as realization dawned, and Stede took the opportunity to press the piece of fruit to Ed’s lips. Ed opened his mouth wider to accept the offering, and before Stede could pull back, Ed wrapped his lips around the tip of his arm and gently sucked.

The sudden intimacy had Stede embracing the entire dinghy like a sea monster of myth until he felt it creak under his grasp. His tentacle stiffened in Ed’s mouth as he felt his tongue tease the ridges of the tiny cups, sucking away the remnants of juice until the only thought left in Stede’s mind was a steady thrum of Ed—Ed—Ed.

[wingless-thrush]

Impossibly Imperfect

(The following is an edited version of a personal blog originally posted on 10 May 2012.)

I lived in Asheville, North Carolina for a couple years while growing up, which is located in the mountainous western part of the state. Our neighborhood was perched on the side of Beaucatcher Mountain, and was comprised of a lot of hilly, windy streets. One particular neighborhood street was especially steep, with a sharp S-curve at the bottom of a long, straight hill. Just beyond the S-curve, the terrain dropped off dramatically into a rugged, wooded ravine. If the street had been a busier road, it would be one of those notorious stretches of highway that has a nickname like Death Hill or Blood Alley.

As it was, the street didn’t have very many houses on it and was lightly traveled by cars, so it became a favorite spot for us to play. I’d pull my red Radio Flyer wagon to the top of the hill, climb on board, and then ride at top speed down the hill, with the wind blowing in my face. The feeling of flying downhill was as ecstatic as the first big drop on a roller coaster, but was tempered with the very real danger of missing the curve, flying off the pavement, and ending up broken and bloodied at the bottom of the ravine.

The memory of flying down that hill in a Radio Flyer wagon at high speed, with a near-certain bloody and painful death at the bottom of the hill rapidly getting closer, has become somewhat of an unfortunate metaphor for my love life over the years. The whole realm of relationships and sexuality has been a very difficult one for me, and it’s not without a degree of hesitation that I write about it here.  While I do a pretty good job at maintaining close friendships with quite a few attractive women, things always seem to fall apart whenever there’s a hint of romantic feelings involved.

Part of it may have to do with the uptight Calvinist background I grew up in, where sexuality was hardly ever discussed except in the context of there apparently being far too much of it on television and in popular culture. And then there’s the fact that I was sexually abused as a child, by an older neighborhood kid who promised to allow me into his “club” if I performed certain acts down in the woods behind the house. Somehow my membership card to his secret club must have repeatedly gotten lost in the mail, because I kept having to go through the initiation process over and over again.

I'm also mildly autistic with some related mental health issues like anxiety and depression, and that no doubt plays a big role as well, even though I never knew I was on the spectrum until I was well into adulthood. Nowadays I can do a pretty good job of pretending I’m at least somewhat normal, but as a kid I was clueless. Nobody really had a name for my condition at that time; I just assumed I was a weird misfit due to some horrible character defect on my part. While my classmates were playing with their Transformers or G.I. Joe action figures, I was usually off in the corner sketching pictures of bridges and spaceships. A few years later when they were having their first sexual experiences, I was still sketching (slightly more refined) pictures of bridges and spaceships. It’s not that I didn’t have sexual feelings or wasn’t incredibly attracted to certain girls at school; it’s just that I was too chickenshit to actually act on those feelings. My classmates assumed I was gay or asexual, and bullied the living shit out of me accordingly. During bus rides home in 5th grade, a few of the popular kids would corner me in the back of the school bus and ask me invasive questions about my sexuality. If they didn’t like my answer, one of them would give me a swift punch in the stomach.

As you might imagine, relationships and sexuality – things that, in an ideal world, should be sources of joy and happiness for those involved – had come to be strongly associated with feelings of guilt, shame, rejection, and violence in my mind. When you crash the Radio Flyer wagon into the ravine too many times, you start to dread the idea of hauling it back up the hill for another ride.

Fast-forward to this past week, when a random bit of news during my workday brought back vivid memories of a time when I flew down that metaphorical hill way too fast, and ended up crashing into the ravine in a most spectacular manner.

As it turns out, a former crush of mine is getting married on Saturday, and not to me. You’d think I’d be over it after almost a decade, but this one really stung. For a few months in late 2002 and early 2003, “Jennifer” and I had developed what I considered a pretty deep long-distance relationship, which culminated in her flying to Philadelphia and meeting up with me during her spring break.

I’ve always had a pretty specific picture in my head of what my ideal partner is like, and it was uncanny just how close she came to that mental image, in a number of important ways: her intelligence, her emotional maturity, her overall great looks, and so forth. Nobody else before or since then has come quite so close to my idealized version of Miss Right. I was much more religious back then than I am now, and I was convinced she was the gift from God that I had been praying for almost my entire life.

I’ve always been drawn to the unique and unusual. In a neighborhood full of bland McMansions, I’m the guy who would buy something like the Mushroom House. Whenever I’d get a handful of candy corn around Halloween, I’d always pick out the mutant pieces and eat them first, because they were special and stood out from the others. I was somehow convinced this made them taste better.

Likewise, for as long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated by and found beauty in people with certain unique physical characteristics – even something as relatively minor as having a pair of webbed toes – but particularly with people who are missing one or more limbs, either by birth or through circumstances later in life. Jennifer wasn’t the first amputee I’d felt romantic feelings toward, and she likely won’t be the last. The first crush I ever had was toward Carol Johnston, a gymnast who was born without part of her right arm. Her story was the subject of a Disney film I saw on TV while growing up, and I was enthralled with the shape and movement of her partial arm, which ended with a small, round stump just below her elbow. (Carol is almost old enough to be my mother, but she appeared much closer to my age in the film, which had been produced a number of years before I saw it.) Jennifer was completely armless, not unlike Simona Atzori, an Italian artist and dancer who was also born without arms. No stumps or even scars, just perfectly smooth shoulders where a pair of arms would normally begin. Her use of her feet for daily tasks was as fluid and natural as most people’s use of their hands. I’d gladly pick somebody like her over any number of plastic-looking supermodels.

There’s a lot more to it than just the physical attraction, though. What I find equally appealing is the fact that people like Jennifer have a unique story to tell, that they know what it’s like to be different and to overcome obstacles. My favorite people in the world are those who strive to overcome life’s challenges with grace and humor, and who embrace their own uniqueness. This might be the one element that all my closest friends have in common, regardless of how many limbs they have.

An army of therapists could spend countless hours speculating on all the reasons why I have these feelings, and still not come up with a satisfactory answer. I wouldn’t really call it a fetish, although sexual attraction is certainly one part of it. I’ve always felt different throughout my life, and I think maybe I find a kindred spirit in somebody who is as different on the outside as I am on the inside, and who has spent a lifetime overcoming obstacles and dealing with other people’s stares and clueless comments, as well as more mundane things like a lack of wheelchair ramps or doorknobs that are difficult to grasp. To be clear, the attraction has nothing at all to do with any hardship or suffering that comes with being an amputee. I’ve had a few close friends over the years who are amputees, and I wouldn’t wish those phantom pains, ongoing medical issues, or the cost of a prosthetic limb on anybody.

As you might imagine, being attracted to amputees brings forth a lot of conflicted feelings that include heavy doses of shame and guilt. Pop culture values physical perfection to an obscene level, and people don’t like to be reminded that they might someday lose a leg in a car accident, or give birth to a child that has less than ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. Veterans who lose limbs in combat are either swept under the rug and ignored by the people who sent them into combat in the first place, or are maybe put onto a pedestal and briefly worshipped as folk heros – but never portrayed as the guy next door who lost his legs and a couple of close friends to a roadside bomb, and who still has nightmares about it. But I didn’t choose to have this attraction any more than Jennifer chose to be born without arms, and I reject the notion that I should beat myself up over an aspect of my psyche that I never willingly signed up for.

Soon after high school, my family got a computer, and I was introduced to this new thing called the Internet for the first time. After dialing in to AOL and doing a couple of creative searches (I’m really dating myself here), I soon discovered that I’m not the only person who has this attraction; people like me are typically referred to as devotees within the community. (The phenomenon also has a very dry technical term: Acrotomophilia.) Personally, I find the terminology inadequate – the term admirer has also been tossed around, which I find more apt – but for better or worse, devotee seems to be the accepted label.

How do amputees typically feel about this attraction? Opinions vary widely. Some find it very flattering and liberating; a common sentiment is that it’s nice to be seen as an attractive woman with no caveats, as opposed to being seen as attractive despite a disability. Others find it extremely repulsive and threatening, feeling that devotees are getting their jollies from what for many amputees is the most painful and traumatic episode of their lives. Most amputees’ feelings probably fall somewhere between those two extremes, perhaps accepting of the attraction despite some reservations. As a gross generalization, my experience is that amputees who were born that way tend to be more accepting of the attraction than those who lost a limb later in life due to trauma or disease. It’s a very controversial issue within online support groups and other amputee-related communities, with very passionate feelings on all sides of the issue. The purpose of this post isn’t to change anybody’s mind about it, but to simply articulate my own feelings.

Back in the 90’s there used to be a small online community of devotees and devotee-friendly amputees, mostly on IRC and an email listserv. There were even occasional real-life gatherings, and a number of marriages have come from those meetings. With a fairly intimate community it was easier to keep the predatory elements away, of which there are unfortunately quite a few. In the amputee-devotee subculture, the bad apples usually consist of guys who get off on some sort of power trip by being with somebody they perceive as helpless, or people who live out their fantasies by pretending to be amputees online.

Unfortunately, with the explosion in social media such as MySpace and then Facebook over the past few years, what used to be a fairly tight-knit and self-policing internet subculture has become a free-for-all, with some devotees pursuing amputees with all the grace and chivalry of the Nazgûl pursuing the One Ring, and ruining it for those who have better social skills and more honest intentions. There are still some vestiges of the old community left, but it’s a pretty small and isolated group with relatively little in the way of new blood.

I know of a number of amputee/devotee couples who couldn’t be happier. I also know of devotees who have gone their entire lives without finding their ideal partner to settle down with, and I know of others who ultimately married non-amputees only to find themselves depressed and frustrated, and their marriages failing. As for myself, it certainly makes things difficult because my ideal dating pool is a tiny fraction of the general population. I can go months or years at a time before seeing an attractive female amputee out in public, and the whole online scene is a crapshoot. On the rare occasion I see an attractive amputee out in public and I fail to make any kind of meaningful contact with her (which is almost always the case – I universally err on the side of keeping a respectful distance and doing nothing, rather than annoying her with any awkward advances), it can haunt me for months or years after the fact.

Mind you, I’m still very attracted to able-bodied women as well. The longest relationship I’ve had so far was with somebody who wasn’t an amputee, and I don’t regret a minute of it. But in looking for a long-term relationship or marriage, I face a bit of a dilemma. When I was in that relationship, there was always a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn’t being true to my feelings and that I was “settling” for something that was less than my ideal, and I was overcome with feelings of guilt. I didn’t feel like I was being fair to either her or myself. Nobody likes to be told they’re a second choice.

Jennifer seemed flattered by my unusual form of attention, and I was thrilled with the idea that after so much longing and searching, I had finally found somebody to share my life with. But the day after she arrived in town and we first met face-to-face, she called me up at work just a couple hours before we were supposed to meet again, and slammed the brakes on any notion of a relationship. She never did give a clear reason, but seemed to imply that she wasn’t ready for a relationship and that the chemistry didn’t feel right.

On one level it was understandable, as there was a pretty significant age difference between us, we had different backgrounds and ambitions, and lived a couple thousand miles apart. At that moment on the phone, though, I felt like a bomb had just been detonated within my already-fragile psyche. I blame myself for getting my hopes up too high in the first place, but that euphoric feeling of being head-over-heels in love was incredible while it lasted. For a brief few weeks, I felt like I was racing downhill in that Radio Flyer wagon, and the S-curve and ravine were no longer a threat. I haven’t experienced anything like it since then, and part of me wonders if I ever will.

She said she wanted to remain friends, and held out the idea that maybe sometime in the future, things might work out between us. But it never happened. The phone calls and online chats became less frequent, and then stopped altogether. My greetings went unanswered, and after a lot of heartbreak and depression on my part, I eventually moved on. She became somewhat of a minor media celebrity with her motivational speaking gigs and other accomplishments, and I continued quietly making slow but steady progress toward my academic and professional goals.

I had pretty much put that episode out of my mind until now, but learning that she’s getting married this week brought it all back. In all honesty, I wish her the best, and with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, I can now look back and see about a million reasons why things never would have worked out between us. As painful as it was for me, she probably did the right thing by breaking it off sooner rather than later.

So now I’m spilling my guts here, mainly just to get it off my chest and hopefully gain some catharsis, but also to shed some insight into an aspect of my life that, until now, I’ve kept pretty private. No doubt some parts of this blog entry dove pretty far into TMI territory for some, but I’m hoping the benefits outweigh any negative blowback. A few of my closest friends already know about this side of me, and seem generally accepting of it, even if it’s impossible for them to fully understand it.

One of my resolutions for the new year was to try and let go of some emotional baggage that I’ve been carrying around my neck like an albatross, and this is part of that process. With people all over the country being denied equal rights and bullied to the point of suicide because of who they love, it seems hypocritical for me to champion their rights while keeping my own sexual proclivities safely tucked away in the closet, out of danger. Maybe some good will come of this blog post, and there may be some negative consequences as well. But I think I’ve reached the point where I’m finally willing to stop living in fear of the what-if scenarios, and to let the chips fall where they may.

[translationandbetrayals]

The Cabbage Quality!!

The quality of animation has always been a very intrinsic part of how enjoyable an anime is. This can always vary, even in the same episode of a series. And the way people measure it or judge it mostly depends on some very common factors or personal opinion/bias.

But there is one particular measurement that is very particular, born from a very distinct incident back in the 2000's.

The anime that started all, Yokae Mae yori Ruriiro na (Brighter than the Dawning Blue), is a pretty standart anime for its time. A Romantic comedy fantasy, where a pretty average guy has a tsundere childhood friend and his not-actually sister as love interests, but the main heroine is an alien. In one episode, one of the characters goes to cut a cabbage, this just being one green globby orb, that behaved weirdly.

This scene gained so much attention, especially in the Japanese community. "Is this the quality we have to expect now? Green balls for cabbages?". It reached such a level that the producers had a table discussion about this, and publicly apologized, but mostly it is shredded in rumor, as most of the initial incident happened overseas. However in the DVD release, the animation was replaced for a better looking and animated cabbage.

This did not stop however, the impact it would make. It rapidly became an in-joke in other anime series and the community, that cabbages CAN'T look bad, or look hyper-realistic. Sometimes they even look better than the whole anime!

Some series that made reference or parodied this, like Hidamari Sketch where they stray up just put a photo of a cabbage.

Or Hataye the combat, where they literally went and animated the green gloob ball. 

Some attribute this as one of the reasons food in anime tends to look so good, or why the animators go over the top just to animate certain vegetables. In truth there is so much more to it than that, but it is a fact that you MUST DRAW your cabbages right!

-Millaray Gonzalez

[thelightningthatjumpsbetween]

Forty Four

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Sequel of Winters and the Beast, a Resident Evil: Village Story

Table Of Contents

The sensation of traveling through the strata of the consciousness was beginning to feel familiar to Ethan; as he sank upside down through the black he realized he could now tell just how deep, how far removed from everything this “core” was.  He felt that he was traveling a great distance, performing a difficult feat even by mold travel standards.  It became clear to him that this path was never meant to be taken.  

Godric had been put here to suffer, alone, eternally. 

This should have made Ethan even more resolute, or happier, when he pushed open the large wooden doors, but he was afraid.  He assumed Godric would be ashamed of him, or otherwise disappointed for the very clearly out-of-control display this morning–if Godric knew about it, but he seemed to know about most things.  

As usual the large, broad man was reclining in his throne with legs splayed out in front of him, while his arms swallowed the meager rests they were given.  He gave his usual coy look to Ethan, and rose with his usual joy.  Ethan could only manage a thin, worried smile when he was pulled into another bear hug, lifted off the ground and given a kiss on the forehead this time.  His blush was profound. 

It seemed as though Godric wasn’t disappointed.  

“How did you like my battle plan?” He pulled Ethan down onto the wooden pew and then draped himself forward, one long arm behind Ethan.  He put his other hand on Ethan’s knee, which caused a blush so deep it had probably never been seen in this realm.  

“Well,” Ethan said, “thank you for helping Evie find her humanity, you’re wonderful–” Godric beamed, batting his eyelashes, “And, you finally got Karl on your side by helping get his brother’s crystal back.” 

“She is lovely.  We talked for so long.”  Godric gestured at the pews and the floor, which Ethan saw were now covered in an older child’s artwork along with the charcoal-marks made by Rosemary.  Ethan could pick out a few things in Eveline’s artwork that were familiar: all were terrifying, scribbles having to do with mold-related memories, but he noticed himself in stickman form, standing with a smile and holding the hand of a girl in a blue dress.  She’d even drawn them holding little ice cream cones.  

Godric winked, and then said, “The crystal, it can still be corrupted.  By that witch. Keep it protected.”

Ethan’s eyes widened.  “Okay…I’ll…we will.” 

“You have seen something,” the King said eagerly, changing the subject. His English had gotten even better, Ethan marveled, and then nodded hesitantly, unsure how to explain.  Godric was not interested in hearing it. 

“May I see?”

“Uh-”

The crypt appeared out of the darkness, Ethan’s flashlight showing the way.  Right , Godric hadn’t meant photos or travel-he was an expert at reading Ethan’s memories.  They appeared like a movie in front of the pair.  Together they witnessed, from Ethan’s perspective, the note, the skeleton, the crypt.  He heard the whispers again. 

He was v er y l o  v e   d

Godric raised an eyebrow at this, and then both of his eyebrows rose at the sketch of his own face, as Ethan scrambled to look at the papers that were on the ground by the crypt.  His expression seemed similar to Heisenberg’s in a moment of truth–he wanted to trust, to believe, but didn’t quite dare. 

This is where the rather intrusive memories of Alcina came back to him, and Ethan remembered the pain of it.  The King nodded and stroked Ethan’s hair, muttering as, in the memory, Alcina approached– “You absorb so much, in a way that matters.  Is good, you care about others, feel as they feel..” 

“It felt like I didn’t have a choice,” the blond grumbled.  

“Maybe not, but it is still good of you to be.”  Godric’s large hands could thread through his hair easily, rapidly.  

At the memory of Alcina, Godric elbowed Ethan and wagged his eyebrows.  Ethan actually laughed at this, realizing slowly that Godric didn’t hate him or think that he was evil.  He quipped, “She might be your match in strength.  She’s pretty big.  And mean.” 

“I cannot walk in those shoes of hers…with the spike bottom?”  He was talking about heels, Ethan realized with a smirk, “...so, she has beaten me,” the large man chuckled.  He cleared his throat.  “Mean?…she is scared, and alone.” 

When Ethan touched the crystal that was encrusted under the Dimitrescu emblem, Godric rolled his eyes and then scoffed, patting Ethan on the head as if he were a hopeless case.  He held up Ethan’s hand and turned it, eyeing how the digit was still grey, unhealthy looking.  Ethan frowned.  He’d noticed, but had been so distraught this morning he didn’t even try to fix it.  Godric tsked. 

But then the King dropped the hand as the lid was moved and the white light fell over the crystal form in the sarcophagus.  Godric made a strangled noise, and his strange eyes widened, his thick eyebrows rising as his mouth opened.  Ethan watched a look of absolute sorrow and pain, then relief, then shock, fall over the rugged features in waves.  The pure love and warmth that radiated from Godric was palpable.  Ethan desperately wanted to speak, to comfort the man who had given him so much emotional reinforcement.  He stayed silent and still, however, as the memory faded and Godric’s shiny, pale eyes found his own. 

The voice was small, hoarse, nothing like the booming resonating tone he usually had.  

“He came back?”

“Seems that way.”  Ethan couldn’t help but offer a sardonic, sad smile.  

“How did you…find him?”

The blond frowned.  Godric mopped at his eyes with one hand and stroked Ethan’s hair with the other.  “It was all the voices.  They led me right to him.”

“But how? Why?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d know that.”  Ethan stared, and Godric stared back.  Finally a wide smile crept across the King’s face.  

“He came back.”

Ethan didn’t know what else to say, so he satisfied himself with playing with the long strands of auburn-chocolate hair, marveling at how long they were.  Godric seemed to enjoy this.  He was silent for a moment, still staring at Ethan, and then said, “Will you do something for me?”

“Of course.” 

“Bury him.” 

This wasn’t what Ethan expected.  He frowned.  “But don’t you want–”

Godric shook his head slowly.  “That crystal you touched…deathly bad, imprisonment.  If his soul has any chance to be free, it will be returning to the Black God.” 

There was a pair of words he didn’t want to hear.  Ethan gulped, but spoke with confidence anyway.  “Okay.  Sure.  Where?”

“Somewhere beautiful.”  Godric sighed.  

Ethan turned to look at the door; the strands of void moved in front of it, shimmering.  He wondered what would happen if he just stayed down here, refused to leave.  Godric answered him aloud, speaking close to his ear.  “You would be trapped.” 

A chill ran down Ethan’s spine at that, and he shook it off, shrugging his shoulders.  Feeling unusually bold after the fear he teased, “Couldn’t ask for better company though.”  

The roar of a laugh returned.  Godric tsked again as if Ethan were being naughty, and added, “I agree.”  They both smiled, and Ethan sighed.  Hearing that laugh was like drinking a big glass of warm apple cider on a windy day.  

Godric stroked Ethan’s neck.  “But something troubles you.  Now I can help, in exchange?”

“You don’t ever have to do anything for me in exchange for….” Ethan faltered.  “We’re friends.  Just–”

Godric was already pulling another memory from him, but this was one that Ethan had never seen, or felt.  He realized, strangely, that he was seeing and hearing himself from someone else’s view.  Heisenberg’s.  How could Godric do that ? 

Heisenberg’s voice in darkness.  “Everything is fine.  I can’t do this….Not now.”

His own voice.  “Now.”

Ethan’s heart was beating rapidly.  Godric seemed to notice this and patted him reassuringly.  

“Ethan– Ethan, get off me.” 

“Tell me –”

The lights were suddenly, abruptly on, and Ethan gasped aloud at seeing his own whitened, calcifying skin and his dark features.  He looked very similar to Miranda when she was on the verge of a transformation.  

“Get OFF.” 

“I can’t lose you.  Tell me, and I’ll bring him back.”  

Ethan actually put a hand to his mouth; he dug his fingernails into his own lips as if in punishment.  It sounded so much worse, hearing it said aloud.  

“The Black God wishes to be restored.” 

“Ethan!”

Just as the flying tool collided with his head, Ethan stood, his breath ragged.  The vision pulled away and Godric looked curiously up at him.  He shook his head, and began pacing in the small stone area.  The door was nearly covered with the same void that dripped from the walls and ceiling, and Ethan considered just sticking his head into it and maybe getting lost for good.  

“Calm down,” Godric said gently, but he was smiling.  “It is all right.” 

“What about ANY of that was all right?  How do I keep it from happening again?”

“You have to be in control,” the King shrugged, saying this as if it were the easiest thing in the world. 

“I think I was a little too in control in that moment,” Ethan argued.  “Or, a part of me was.” 

“Fear.”

“THAT is fear?”

“Fear is the most powerful.  Fear is our prime weapon.  Do you know,” Godric crossed a leg very flamboyantly, very Karl-like.  “Our warriors went through rituals to remove fear.  Do you know what happened?”

Ethan shrugged.  Godric bounced his foot up and down, stroking his beard.  Ethan wondered how much like him Karl would have been without the trauma.  

“They were stupid.  Buffoons.  Razed down like beasts.  No fear means no will to win, nothing to lose.”

Ethan immediately remembered the lycans.  They were fearless.  They were also stupid, and once he’d gotten the hang of it, pretty easy to spot and kill.  The same with Karl’s Soldaten, he realized ironically.  Not having fear made those foes somehow beneath Ethan.  He’d had the edge on them. He tilted his head, actually considering for a moment the relevance and insight from a man who lived hundreds of years before him.  How could he not let his fear get the best of him? It was still a mystery. 

They stared for another moment, and Godric rose, supplying the usual bear hug.  Above Ethan’s blond hair he whispered, “Time to go, Ethan.” 

“Godric.  What is the Black God?”

The King smiled and patted Ethan so heartily that he felt wounded.  He pushed the blond back toward the door, and threaded his fingers through Ethan’s hair as he kissed his cheek fondly.  While his lips were next to the pale skin, he muttered with a smile, “We are.” 

When Godric withdrew from Ethan, his stare was intense, his smile light.  It stunned the blond into silence as he slowly pushed through the doorway, and into darkness.  

=====

He hadn’t quite stuck the landing; Ethan toppled headfirst back onto the yard, hitting one of the stepped gardens and falling into a very ungraceful somersault over the hill.  He landed on his back and winced as he heard the patera clang to the ground beside him.  Shit.  While picking himself up in the mud, while a torrent of rain continued to fall, he realized he could sense…hear? Someone coming. 

Ethan stood, covered in mud, as Heisenberg and Salvatore approached from lower in the yard.  From Heisenberg’s garage, perhaps?  The former looked mildly annoyed, the latter absolutely mesmerized at Ethan apparently wallowing around in mud puddles.  He said nothing though, and Ethan only frowned as he attempted to pull some of the worse clumps out of his hair.  

Heisenberg could not have cared less about whatever Ethan was doing out here.  He said through a cigar, “You see uh, a horse go by here?”

“Is that some kind of joke?”

“No!"  That was Moreau.  "The Duke’s horse is gone from the stable!”

Ethan frowned, and asked, “Sage?”

Karl shrugged.  “She’s safe an’ sound.  Door’s still locked.”

Ethan’s frown deepened.  He picked up the patera and tucked it under one arm as Donna had done.  

Karl shrugged again, tossed the cigar on the ground, and began to walk past the blond.  Ethan realized he felt very shunned, and he could still sense the guard that Karl had around him.  Salvatore looked almost apologetic as he followed his ‘brother’ toward the rear door of the home, passing by mud-covered Ethan. 

“Heisenberg,” Ethan said in what he hoped was a brave voice.  

When the brunette’s head turned, it was sharp, his hat brim flinging water droplets away as he looked expectantly at the other.  

Feeling very doubtful, Ethan slogged the several steps that separated them and after flinging mud from his hands once more, pressed his palms onto Karl’s jaw gently, pulling him forward into a kiss, leaning down to narrow the already small gap in height.  At first the engineer-who was somehow still warm despite the autumn rain-froze, taken aback, but after several moments he gripped the muddy shirt Ethan wore and pulled himself closer.  Their muffled breaths fogged in the small pocket of air between them.  

A boyish, goofy giggle interrupted what was shaping up to be a very purposeful, intense kiss, and both men pulled away to turn and stare at Salvatore, who clapped a hand over his mouth and ran away toward the house in a strange bobbing gait, as though he’d just witnessed something utterly forbidden and hilarious.  He laughed the ridiculous, honking guffaw one more time as he pulled open the door and disappeared.  

Heisenberg rolled his eyes, and turned back to the blond.   “What was that all about?”

Ethan's gaze was on the door where Moreau had disappeared.  “I don’t know, he’s a moron?”

“I meant you…that.”  

“I just…I want to comfort you.  I’m not running from or in denial about anything, I’ll figure this out, I want to salvage this miserable day, and…” the blond shrugged rather pitifully, “I saw a handsome guy in the rain and wanted to make out with him.” 

Karl’s indulgent chuckle was almost as flamboyant as his ancestor’s propped leg.  He looked positively giddy.  Ethan gave a jockish half-smile that could have passed for cocky if he didn’t look utterly ridiculous, covered in mud.  It wasn't often that he could 'get' Heisenberg, but being this direct sure did the trick. 

As they turned to walk inside, Ethan took the gloved hand in his own.  “With the whole situation the other night…and then this morning…How do you deal with me?” 

“Easy,” Karl supplied, pulling open the dining room door, “Been dealin’ with morons my whole life–”

Eva, Alcina, Donna, and Moreau all stood in the kitchen, and now their faces dropped in unison at Karl’s words.  

“Right,” Karl said, tipping his hat, “That’ll be my cue.” 

As he scurried past Ethan and out of the room, Alcina stared up and down at the blond and said after a moment, “Do you also need a cue?”

“No,” he said honestly.  “I’ll go shower.”

“We await your return with bated breath,” she griped as he passed.  

Notes:

[id0ntwantyourbloodmoney]

???

So i was doodling some sketches when all of the sudden, my eyes became very wonky and started to give me headaches and made me rapidly look around the room (with my eyes of course)

has anyone expirienced this? Or is this just me?

[thatslikely]

lined-paper confessions - s.s.

lined-paper confessions - stiles stilinski x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of fighting (scott and jackson predictably), strict teachers

word count: 1.5k

a/n: head full of stiles rn... requests for our favorite sarcastic boy are open right now so send some in!

Why is every teacher at Beacon Hills High the absolute worst?

Mr. Harris had just rapidly climbed your (highly opinionated) mental ranks to number one: your new least favorite educator. Giving you after-school detention, for doing nothing but watching with horror plastered on your face as Scott McCall, Stiles’ best friend, threw punches left and right at a topless, water-drenched Jackson, who reciprocated every strike as if he were nothing but a reflection. Seriously?

Previously, you had simply been sauntering down the locker-lined hall, Stiles on your right, passionately ranting about some unnamed problem that had him on edge for the past few weeks. You two turned down the empty, cinder-block-walled athletics corridor as he continued to agitatedly let off steam; the setting was decidedly unromantic given the unshakeable scent of overly pungent deodorant and mildew that was all too familiar. 

You clung to every word emitted from his mouth with an almost comical frown like it was a mug of steamy hot chocolate on a bone-chilling winter day. To your disgruntlement, however, his ramblings were stopped mid-sentence when Scott and his wealthy rival Jackson tumbled out from the dingy boys’ locker room, hands clenched in fists and eyes flaming with fury.

Stiles bent down in a rush, poorly attempting to conclude the boisterous brawl with furrowed, concerned brows, but he looked not dissimilar to a toothpick compared to the two burly teammates. 

“Detention for all of you!” Mr. Harris spat venomously as he dashed to the scene, his voice ringing above the grunts and slams that came from the fighting co-captains of the lacrosse team. “Detention now, Stilinski, McCall, Whittemore, Argent, and Y/L/N! Come on!”

You were dragged by the ear to the vacant library, a place which you often resided in whenever you studied with Stiles (often about mythical creatures, to your confusion). Posters that looked commonplace in an elementary school lined the walls, vibrantly encouraging students to pick up a book, or pen works for a writing contest of some sort.

Golden strips of fleeting sunlight peeked through the slatted blinds, and three gum wad-dotted tables were beckoning for the group of you to sit for the next two hours, or until Mr. Harris would finally decide that your soul had rotted away enough to release you.

You were sternly directed to the uncomfortably stiff chair opposite Allison’s, whose eyes shot daggers wherever they glanced. You flashed her an almost unregistrable smile, as if to say ‘hello.’ Slinging the loose straps of your backpack over your seat, your gaze flickering through the pin-drop silent room immediately locked on Stiles’ figure.

Boy, was he perfect.

The unbuttoned flannel over his shoulders speckled with mud from some vaguely mentioned adventure, his soft, tousled hair, that always had a lock out of place, his freckled face, that always bore some goofy expression, all of it. You couldn’t get enough; nothing would satiate your innermost desire for your lips to meld with his’, for your hands to intertwine through the hallways before class, after class, whenever, wherever. 

One eyebrow-cocked, knowing look from Scott in your direction sent Stiles’ umber eyes to meet yours’, an almost confused look swimming through them. He opened his mouth curiously, surely to ask a question, most likely something along the lines of, ‘is there a stain on my shirt?’, but before he could, Mr. Harris seethed, “Take your seats, now.”

Stiles whipped around, not wanting to anger Mr. Harris any further, and he took his seat. The room was quickly conquered with suffocating silence, which the snotty chemistry teacher was bent on ensuring.

You unsheathed a doodled notebook from your backpack, eventually indenting its pages with inky black strokes of various weights and thicknesses. Your habit of penning loose sketches, vague outlines, began one day in math when the clock seemed to tick aggravatingly slow, and every word from the teacher became drawled further and further until they dissolved into the hum of the air conditioning and the chewing of gum: the rhythm of the classroom.

The unconscious lines eventually formed to a familiar portrait: Stiles. Some would be tempted to call him your muse, your kindling of an elegant flame of creativity. You’d always nod your head in complicity more than agreement, for the smart, albeit rebellious boy meant eons more than that to you.  

You had just hit your stride, your wrist’s movements thoughtless and easy, when someone- rather something, hit the back of your head lightly with a small crunch. It was a small, scrunched piece of loose-leaf paper, ripped at the edge. 

You turned your head to the direction that the projectile was tossed at, but both Scott and Stiles appeared to be very, very engrossed in a hushed conversation, neither of their postures attempting to suggest anything suspicious.

You smoothed out the paper of the angular fruitwood table in front of you, attempting to read the almost unintelligible handwriting.

Hey :)

(this is from stiles, by the way)

Your mood lightened a smidge, a grin bubbling onto your face. You tore a piece of paper out of your notebook along the perforation.

Before you threw it in an arch in Stiles’ direction, you penned a response to his note.

Hey ;) how’s detention treating you?

(This is from y/n, by the way)

Crunch.

not great, as expected. I think I saw harris pick his nose. do you have any bleach to douse my eyes in by any chance?

You chuckled a little, a small smirk glimmering on your face for the first time this excruciatingly long afternoon.

Sorry, I’m all out. used it all after I saw Jackson shirtless. how do you survive in the locker room every day?

A smile lifted on Stiles’ face, one so inflated with abundant excitement (and hormones), he might have burst at the seams.

“Man, you’re down bad,” Scott simpered, nudging his best friend’s forearm.

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed with an eye roll.

just keep your head down and you should be fine. one time, Greenberg looked at him a little too long and he nearly turned to stone, like jackson’s abs were medusa or something.

“Passing notes, are we?” Mr. Harris queried with a malicious scowl, his knuckles white from asphyxiating a helpless ballpoint pen. He slinked over to the tables you and Stiles rested uncomfortably in, raising his brow in heavy suspicion. 

Stiles’ deep, dark chocolate-colored eyes widened in worry. “No, sir.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you, Stilinski. You too, Y/L/N.” 

As soon as Harris was out of sight, perched back at the desk and typing furiously, another wad of paper tapped your occiput. 

hey, y/n, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.

The note, while its contents wouldn’t usually spark too much concern, was subtly unlike the few ones you had previously received. The lines of each letter were neater, more methodical. The small blots of ink resting at the conclusion of every stroke were larger, deeper, as if the nib of his pen had rested in the liquidly black pool for a second too long.

Your face scrunched with confusion, and upon noticing your shift in emotion, Allison nimbly tapped your wrist and mouthed, ‘Is everything okay?’

You nodded with wrinkled brows while shakily scratching a reply.

what is it?

Your knee bounced up and down reflexively, clicking from your rapidly retracting pen echoed through the idle shelves and arrays of desktops. It felt like years, centuries even, before a reply finally tumbled at your feet.

do you like me?

(circle one)

yes? or yes? 

Your jaw nearly fell to the carpeted floor in shock as if gravity had been multiplied; your speedily thrumming heart was doing flip after flip in the cavity of your chest. Without a second thought, you quickly circled both of the ‘yes’es as if there were no friction under the ink-dispersing tip of your pen. Before cupping the piece of paper, you scribbled out an additional little note.

wanna go out this saturday?

Stiles’ anxious gaze bore into your hunched-over figure as you giddily wrote your reply. What if you rejected him (even though the page lacked a ‘no’ option, meaning that you would have to add one, which was even worse)? Was it possible for him to ask to go to the bathroom and just never return? Are there any secret werewolf abilities that Scott could use to make him disintegrate on the spot? 

But his overthinking was soon alleviated when he received your response, this time neatly folded into a paper heart instead of a crunchy ball. Each crease was crisp and thoughtful; he didn’t have to unfold your expert origami to know which option you circled (or lack thereof).

He grinned goofily like an idiot as his chocolate eyes glazed your response a million times over, taking in every letter, every stroke, the dot in your ‘i’ or the question mark ending your simple but heart-rate-escalating proposal.

Crunch.

stiles stilinski/teen wolf taglist:

it’s a date then. i’ll pick you up at 6? passenger seat’s already reserved for you ;)

@loulouloueh @when-you-wish-upon-a-starrynight @ronbrokemyheart @dylobilysmomg

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[scorbleeo]

Under the Skin | Drama Review

2022

Image Source: Google Images

The young painter Shen Yi resigned from the Academy of Fine Arts and entered Haicheng Public Security Bureau mysteriously. Interpol Captain Du Cheng was furious and said that he would never accept those who caused his comrade to be killed in the police force.

Five years ago, Shen Yi, who was still a student, was sketching on the street. A man took a picture of a child and asked him to draw what the child would look like as an adult. However, this painting caused Haicheng detective Lei Yi Fei to be exposed as an undercover agent and he was killed. And Lei Yi Fei happened to be Du Cheng's long-time friend and confidant. The strange thing is that, no matter how hard Shen Yi tried of recall for a few years, he couldn't draw the face of the man who asked him to paint the child's photo.

Five years later, the guilt became heavier. In order to find out the truth, Shen Yi accepted the invitation of Director Zhang of the Public Security Bureau and became a portraitist of the Interpol Team. Under Zhang Ju’s persuasion and arrangement, Du Cheng had to accept that he became a colleague with Shen Yi, but he was still full of annoyance and despised Shen Yi’s “drawing to solve cases,” and the two became the “ticking bomb” in the team.

However, in several collaborations, Shen Yi has repeatedly cracked the "dead end" of cases with his "three-year-old painting", "drawing based on audio," "micro-color discrimination" and other stunts, which slowly started to impress Du Cheng. More importantly, the truth of Lei Yi Fei's death is still buried in Shen Yi's memory. On the way to find out the truth of Lei Yi Fei's life and death, the two people who were pursuing alone gradually untie their knots and rely on each other. In the end, "the heaven-matched partners" work together to uncover the dust-covered secrets and create a new world for each other.

Source: MyDramaList

My Favourite Chinese Drama!

Crime, mystery, thriller, these are common genres you see in dramas, TV shows and movies. However, I loved that in Under the Skin, it's the portrait artist that gets the spotlight. There is always be a portrait artist in shows like this but they are never the main, which makes Under the Skin more unique than other crime-related dramas. It's a rather refreshing take in watching this team solve cases based on Shen Yi's godly artistic skills. It also made me realised just how important a portrait artist is as well, in spite of technology advancing rapidly these days.

If you are planning to go into Under the Skin thinking this show is going to blow your mind with its cases, don't. The cases might be constructed and portrayed really well but there's nothing special about the cases in this drama. What makes Under the Skin more extraordinary is the the chemistry between Shen Yi and Du Cheng. This is not even a BL drama but our two main leads have more chemistry with each other than some BL couples. I absolutely loved watching Shen Yi and Du Cheng work together to solve the cases, their skills are on different parts of a spectrum but boy do they make their skills match each other so well! I really have to applaud Tan Jian Ci and Jin Shi Jia, these men were what made Shen Yi and Du Cheng so charismatic and admirable. Moreover, if you know what these men's personalities are like, you would be blown away by the amazing talent that is their acting. Absolutely mind-blowing.

Honestly speaking, I think it also helped that Shen Yi's artistic style is right up my alley. I have watched plenty of shows where one or a few roles are artists but I was never impressed by their art. Shen Yi's drawings though, that's the style I love.

It is an understatement when I say I am very impressed by this drama. The story, the cast, the roles, the cinematography and the flow, they were really what I appreciate in a drama. Under the Skin kept me at the edge of my seat the whole time and I just could not stop watching it. I would also like to add that even though that was a cliffhanger ending, the drama actually wrapped up what needed to be wrapped up.

To wrap this review up, please let there be a second season with the exact same cast, thank you very much.

Rating: ★★★★★

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Hmm, maybe some lighthearted laiden shenanigans? Any rating is fine with me.

A/N: Sorry, this didn’t turn out quite as lighthearted as I wanted it to, but there is a happy/hopeful ending, with a generous sprinkling of Aiden/Lambert humour. In summary, Lambert thinks art is fucking useless, but he likes praise, so develops a knack for it.

“Draw me. In your journal.”

“Aiden, I can’t draw for shit.”

“Gotta start somewhere. C’mon. Do you want me to get naked? I can get naked, if it’ll help. What’s it called? Still life? Like when you draw fruits…”

“If you get your fruits out, I won’t be drawing you.”

Aiden chuckled. “Ok, ok. Just like this. Nice and simple.” He sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire. Lambert watched the firelight dance across his face, the flame picking out the red in his tawny beard and the flecks of yellow in his green eyes.

Lambert reached for his journal—full of notes, calculations, formulae, but no pictures—and put pencil to paper. Begrudgingly. Those huge, kitten eyes counted as ‘severe duress’.

Lambert’s first effort was a stick man with a beard.

Aiden loved it.

Lambert had never seen much use for art. You couldn’t eat art. You couldn’t drink it and fight a monster. You couldn’t use it after the monster was dead to patch the wounds left behind. It was a foible, an excess for the rich, powerful and imbecilic. Besides, there was nothing in the world worth committing to canvas.

“Hey,” Aiden beamed down at Lambert’s fiftieth attempt to draw him one evening, “you’ve been practising. You’ve really captured my jawline.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lambert took the journal back. “Now get your pants off.”

Art may be fucking useless on its own, all things considered, but he continued to develop his new craft. The first sketches could have been made by a child with crayons, but, as with all things, Lambert improved rapidly. He practised on monsters mostly, annotating their limbs and entrails for Kaer Morhen’s laughably sparse records.

“You’re adding colour now,” Aiden grinned, running his thumb over the perfect drawing of his eye. Lambert had spent all evening gazing into them intently, punctuating each new stroke of colour with a kiss, some deep, some fleeting. “Knew you were a romantic sap at heart.”

“I was practising my shading technique.”

“Uh-huh. Blowjob?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Lambert’s journal became his Book of Aiden. Every time they met up, his usual notes were littered with sketches—Aiden in motion with his sword braced for an uppercut, Aiden crouched by the fire, Aiden asleep in the early hours. It wasn’t just the good images that Lambert valued. He loved them all. From the very first bearded stickman, through to the childish attempt at real life, to the first time, he began to incorporate a little shading.

“Wow, Lam,” Aiden whispered in awe as he looked at a perfect recreation of his own face. They had known each other for five years. Lambert was a quick study. “I think you’ve made me a bit too handsome.”

Lambert took Aiden by the chin, nails scratching through his beard, and pulled him close. “Nah,” he said, looking down through thick eyelashes, “think I got you just right.”

A year later, he would wander around Novigrad showing his journal to Aiden’s contacts—“have you seen this man?”—and receive only passing recognition. Aiden was in trouble, but nobody knew where he was or what had happened. Lambert found out eventually. The news cut the soul from his body. He went on a rampage in his grief, with his brother at his side.

When the dust settled, when Lambert was left only with his grief and his emptiness, he sat in a stinking inn and sketched Aiden through the tears that refused to fall. One of the bar girls ambled over with his fifth beer and squinted over his shoulder, frowning deeply. “Hey,” she said softly. “That looks awfully like the man upstairs.”

Lambert looked up. “What?”

“Yeah,” she said, less brightly, because being beneath the intent gaze of a witcher was rather intimidating. “Except he has an eye patch. Couldn’t tell you his name, he isn’t really sure himself.”

“Show him to me.”

[penguinblackoutdrabbles]

First off, your headcanons are amazing! They are really cool to read!

Second… Ok, I know you just posted it, but you hit me hard with the Origin Story Herbert headcanon, and I must ask if you have more of them for this starving soul? Thank you.

Let's expand then! Enjoy!

(Open to start reading!)

The Village

Off an obscure and small island in the North Pole icecaps lived a passionate and brilliant bear on a slow-growing village. The island's main profits were fish, snow hut building, and coal. A bland, boring, and cold island who's entire government was created hundreds of years ago and founded upon the believe of Mother Nature and the many Sky Gods.

Mother Nature and Her Sky Spirits

The rapidly heating of the air? The melting of the island caps? The erratic pattern of blizzards and storms? The impossible farming conditions of the North Pole? This was the work of Mother Nature and her Sky Spirits. She decided what happened to the weather and when it happened. Good weather was a blessing by the Sky Gods for the village's hard work. Vicious storms was the punishment the village would receive for rebellion against her and not following the culture norms. The entire village of polar bears spent all their lives predicting the weather to the best of their abilities. They were very accurate when they had the time to predict it! Just by looking at the sky they knew. But when the weather became more unpredictable...

Percival Herbert...

Percival Herbert was smart, a genius, you might say, compared to the boring-minded polar bears of his village. His father was the past Chief of the village. With his leadership, the village advanced twice as fast. Not everyone agreed with his decisions, though. One day, the stress of his job, the panic of the Fish Crisis, and the fighting amongst the village, led his old age to work against him... Mr. Bear inherited his father's genius, and spent his free time growing up learning about technology, building, gardening, and climate. Most of these books could NOT be found in the library. Mr. Bear did a lot of exploring, and found an abandoned lab with a computer setup. He goes there from time to time and works.

And His Igneous and Defiant Inventions

One of the first of his odd inventions was finding a new way to survive, by growing a garden! He created a basic greenhouse system to help keep plants alive. Lots of bears thought this was pretty useful, but an odd choice, as vegetables and fruit was not their primary diet. Caring for his personal garden changed his diet quite a bit, and started his vegetarian craze. He learned how to create general pieces of technology to help his close peers. They appreciated it, but felt awkward about the gifts and didn't use it. The village is so reliant on there own efforts that all of Percival Herbert's technological advancements felt almost like witchcraft and magic.

The Climate Crisis and The Last Solution

The weather became so unpredictable in Mr. Bear's last years in the North Pole that the village's predictions were wrong, multiple times. This sometimes had MAJOR costs to the village's structure. Mr. Bear could not stand to see his village destroyed and have them believe they were the cause behind the rath of Mother Nature. He started created tools to predict the weather (like wind vanes, thermometers, anemometers, barometers, etc). He even started sketching ideas to help miniplate the weather. These were his most useful inventions, but when he showcased these to the village Chief, and the Council heard his ideas and beliefs towards the weather, they feared against them. The idea to control and measure forces of gods was like sacrilege to them. He got the same treatment his father did: fear, anger, disappointment, betrayal, and to the point of mockery. (Imagine the Salem Witch Trials, and you got the vibe).

The Doom of Polar Bear Island and Abandonment

As the worst blizzard to ever occur started to approach the island, Percival Bear informed, warned, and pleaded the island to listen to his words. Every statement he made about this upcoming storm was met with resistance.

"The sky has been beautiful for days! Look out into the sea! No waves have appeared, how could this storm you speak of come?

"Why would you speak against the predictions of the Sky Watchers? They have been trained all their lives. You believe they are not qualified to speak the truth?"

"The Council would not like to hear these words of blasphemy you speak of. Only Mother Nature knows when the end of our island shall be. Not you."

Inevitably, the island was forced to watch as a swift but powerful blizzard appeared suddenly before them, and wiped out their village. In the aftermath of chaos and sadness, Herbert P. Bear was forced to abandon his island. He now believed they could not, and would never try, to understand someone like him...

What a similar fate he would meet.

[clear-as-starlight]

Nathan Hale’s Death vs the Primary Sources

(aka did William Hull actually know anything?)

“The first the Americans heard of Hale’s death was on the evening of the twenty-second [September 1776], when Captain John Montresor…an aide de camp to General Howe, approached an outpost…under flag of truce. His main business…did not concern Hale, but was to transport to Washington a letter from Howe offering an exchange of high-ranking prisoners. Joseph Reed, accompanied by General Israel Putnam and Captain Alexander Hamilton, rode to meet him. After passing over the letter, he casually added that one Nathan Hale, a Captain, had been executed that morning.”

This passage comes from “Washington’s Spies: The Story of America’s First Spy Ring” by Alexander Rose and it, along with the wonderful @queerrevolution1776 inspired me to go on a (brief) primary source deep dive of Hale’s death. A challenge, given the lack of primary sources surrounding Hale’s spy work, and the tall tales that grew up around it.

I started here: Why was Hamilton there? He was not an aide-de-camp at this point, why would he be present? And that question, my friends, led to a whole host of others!

(Info under the cut because there is a lot, and it’s fascinating :))

The (Un)reliability of Recollection 

The idea of Hamilton having been present to hear of Hale’s fate, so far as I can see, is first related in “Revolutionary Services and Civil Life of General William Hull”, a biography based on Hull’s unpublished memoirs, and written by his daughter, Maria Hull Campbell:

“In a few days, an Officer came to our camp, under a flag of truce, and informed Hamilton, then a Captain of the Artillery, but afterwards an aide to General Washington, that Captain Hale had been arrested within the British lines, condemned as a Spy, and executed that morning. I learned the melancholy particulars from this officer, who was present at his execution, and seemed touched by the circumstances attending it.”

William Hull was a friend of Hale’s from Yale, and they were both in the 19th Regiment, before Hale transferred to Knowlton’s Rangers. A lot of what we know of Hale’s death seems to come from Hull’s memoirs, right down to his (possibly incorrect and/or exaggerated) final words: “I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Hull was a close friend of Hale’s, so it does make some sense that he’d know something of it. However, the above biography was written in 1848, and related conversations that had taken place a long time earlier. Campbell herself admits she includes conversations not even present in her father’s memoirs.

Though her book is not the only 18th/19th century one about Hale’s death, it quickly became clear that all of them were based on conversations with Hull. The first time the name ‘Nathan Hale’ even entered the public conscious properly after the war was in 1799, in Hannah Adams’ “A Summary History of New England and General Sketch of the American War” where she writes: “The compiler of this History of New England is indebted to Gen. Hull of Newton for this interesting account of Captain Hale.”

Hale isn’t mentioned again until 1824, in a book by Jedediah Morse, who says he got his info from Adams, who in turn got it from Hull. It seems likely, then, that the idea of Hamilton being there (and indeed, that most of what we know) came from Hull’s supposed recollection, 20+ years after the event took place.

Now, this is not to say that Hull was lying. Return records show that he and his Regiment were certainly present at “Camp near to Harlem Heights” with Washington’s forces at the time that Washington would have been given the information about Hale, and we know Hamilton and his Artillery were present also, as it is at Harlem Heights that he apparently first came to Washington’s notice (according to John C. Hamilton). It did seem a bit strange though, to both me and @queerrevolution1776 , for Hull or Hamilton to have met with an official flag of truce, when they were both only Captains, and not on Washington’s staff (he’d only just become aware of Hamilton’s existence, after all).

Washington makes no mention of either of them in his correspondence, instead writing to Jonathan Trumbull Sr. that it was Colonel Joseph Reed whom Howe’s aide, John Montresor, met with. It makes sense that Reed would have met with Montresor, given his position on Washington’s staff. Reed is mentioned in Rose’s book, but not Hull’s account, and I thought that was a discrepancy worth a look. Hull, writing after the fact, mentions only Hamilton, who by then was a well-known, and scandalous, public figure. Reed, on the other hand, was nowhere near as popular, and perhaps did not serve as such an interesting figure in a story about Hull’s friend, one of America’s earliest spies.

Sure, Hamilton could have been nearby, or overheard the discussion, and in turn told Hull what he had heard—which could explain why Hale’s last moments have been exaggerated, or perhaps accidentally falsified, given that a British officer who was present apparently heard: “It the duty of every good officer, to obey any orders given him by his commander in chief” and not what is so often recounted. Even a newspaper (The Essex Journal) publishing an account five months later, quoted Hale as having said: “If I had ten thousand lives I would lay them all down, if called to it, in defence of my injured, bleeding country”—No one seems quite able to agree exactly what he said! Hull may well have also told his children he was there to make the story seem more personal, and exciting.

(And I’m really starting to doubt that Hamilton was at the meeting at all. It’s never mentioned in any of his writing, or in the John C Hamilton biography)

There’s no “official” reports of Hale’s death either (excepting the noting of his death on the 22nd September casualty list) which is why so much has relied heavily on what Hull claimed to have been told. When Washington wrote Trumbull about the flag of truce meeting the next day, he was mostly concerned with the fire that had engulfed New York the day before, and the claims that Continental soldiers and spies had set it. The only possible reference we have from him that concerned the meeting between Reed and Montresor, with perhaps an oblique reference to Hale, is as follows:

“On Friday night about eleven or twelve o’Clock a fire broke out in the City of New York, which burning rapidly till after Sunrise next morning, destroyed a great number of Houses—By what means it happened we do not know; but the Gentleman who brought the letter out last night from General Howe, and who was one of his Aid De Camps informed Colo. Reed that several of our Countrymen had been punished with various deaths on account of it. Some by hanging, others by burning & c. alledging that they were apprehended when committing the fact.”

Howe himself never mentioned Hale explicitly in official correspondence between him and Washington, and Washington never did either. In fact, neither of them mentioned the spies or the fire to one another at all, concerned with prisoner exchanges, and the accusation of ill-treatment of British prisoners (Howe to Washington 21st September 1776 and Washington to Howe 23rd September 1776). Hale, and his fate, was unfortunately left to Montresor’s verbal account, and Hull’s dubious reporting.

Tench Tilghman on Hale’s Death

In terms of other primary correspondence that might reference Hale’s death, even remotely, we have accounts from Washington’s aide-de-camp, Tench Tilghman.

Firstly, Tilghman wrote his father, James Tilghman, on the 25th September 1776, of the events and executions surrounding the fire. He was sent to deliver Washington’s reply to Howe’s camp under another flag of truce the day after Montresor’s, and spoke with some men in Howe’s camp then:

“Reports concerning the setting fire to New York: If it was done designedly, it was without the knowledge or Approbation of any commanding officer in this Army…every man belonging to the Army who remained in or were found near the City were made close prisoners. Many Acts of barbarous cruelty were committed upon poor creatures who were perhaps flying from the flames, the Soldiers and Sailors looked upon all who were not in the military line as guilty, and burnt and cut to pieces many. But this I am sure was not by Order. Some were executed next day upon good Grounds… I went down to the Enemy's lines yesterday with a Flag to settle the Exchange of prisoners…I met a very civil Gentleman with whom I had an Hours conversation…”

In Rose’s book, he mentions Hull & Colonel Samuel B. Webb going with Tilghman to the camp to further question Montresor about Hale. Webb, another aide-de-camp to Washington, may well have gone. But it seems a bit strange for Hull to have done so. And Hull’s account did not mention Webb, or Tilghman, which is also a bit odd. Rose made no note of his source for this, but I’d like to find it! Perhaps it’s mentioned in Webb’s journals, something I’d have to travel to Yale to see :(

Tilghman did, eventually, mention Hale explicitly, though not by name, when he wrote to Egbert Benson on 3rd October 1776:

“I am sorry that your Convention do not think themselves legally authorized to make examples of those villains they have apprehended…The General is determined if he can bring some of them in his hand’s under the denomination of spies, to execute them. General Howe hanged a Captain of ours belonging to Knowlton' s Rangers, who went into New-York to make discoveries. I don’t see why we should not make retaliation.”

So he definitely knew of Hale’s death by then, and it seemed to anger him greatly.

Miscellaneous Reports of Hale’s Death

There were also reports made by various others, that mention explicitly, or might imply, Hale’s death:

“Friday last we discovered a vast cloud of smoke arising from the north part of the city, which continued '‘ill Saturday evening…those that were found on or near the spot were pitched into the conflagration, some hanged by their heals, others by their necks with their throats cut. Inhuman barbarity! One Hale in New York, on suspicion of being a spy, was taken up and dragged without ceremony to the execution post and hung up.” (A Letter from September 28th 1776)

“We hanged up a rebel spy the other day, and some soldiers got, out of a rebel Gentleman’s garden, a painted soldier on a board, and hung it along with the Rebel; and wrote upon it, General Washington, and I saw it yesterday beyond headquarters by the roadside.” (Kentish Gazette, November 1776)

“A spy from the enemy (by his own full confession) apprehended last night, was this day executed at 11 o’clock in front of Artillery Park.” (General Howe’s diary)

“The Enemy charged some stragglers of our people that happened to be in New York with having set the City on Fire designedly and took that occasion as we were told to exercise some inhuman Crueltys on those poor Wretches that were in their power.” (Committee of Secret Correspondence to Silas Deane 1st October 1776)

What does all this mean?

Hamilton probably wasn’t there (but I can’t make a call on that for sure!)

basically, it’s clear that the primary sources on Hale’s death are few, and somewhat contradictory in places. I found it super interesting, and thought y’all might too! Please keep in mind I’m not calling William Hull a liar (and I definitely haven’t done anywhere near enough research to say anything conclusively!)

But I definitely think it’s always worth examining what we think we know from primary sources. And it’s very fun!

[pwarkluv]

❝ let me adore you ❞ - hrj

huang renjun x reader | fluff | 1.8k words

WARNINGS | lowercase is intended, slight angst if you look hard enough, college au, friends to lovers au, non-idol au, like one curse word (in the story and in the author’s note so does that make it two?), mutual pining lol, unbelievably fluffy, whipped!renjun, artist!renjun, oblivious!reader and lowkey oblivious!renjun because would it be a f2l without that?

SUMMARY | when you’re his perfect model and the girl he’s been crushing on for the past three years but we don’t talk about that.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | inspired by “adore you” by harry styles. i thought this would fit for this idea hehe :P but don’t get me wrong, renjun would be a little shit as your best friend (even though he loves likes you) but there are moments where he absolutely adores you such as this.

you were completely engrossed into the book you were reading, head laying on renjun’s lap as you two settled on his bed in his college dorm. one hand was softly caressing your head while the other held a pencil in his hand, sketching the finer details of the model he’s sketching.

his model.

his fingers rushed to capture each expression, nose scrunch, and gasp you took as the plot progressed, shocked at the turn of events in the storyline.

❝ i get so lost inside your eyes, would you believe it❞

the way your eyes scanned each line, the vibrant color it held, and the fire behind it as you approached the climax of the story. renjun was mesmerized. 

your eyes were one of the hardest things for renjun to draw accurately, for he never liked how it looked. he just always thought that it never looked right.

however whenever he shows you one of the (many) portraits he’s made of you, you’d always reassure him saying it was a literal copy of your face which somewhat eases his worries. 

renjun couldn’t tell when he first fell for his best friend.

ironic isn’t it?

the lonely art kid just so happens to fall for the only girl he’s ever been friends with, the only girl he’s ever felt so at home with. just one day he woke up and saw you only to realize you were his whole world.

it was a little scary to be honest. he has never felt anything like this for anybody before. yeah there was the love he felt for his handful of friends, the love he felt for his parents, the love he felt for art.

but his love for you? it was a much stronger and intense feeling than his love for all those things. in his heart, you were everything.

❝ you don’t have to say you love me, you don’t have to say nothing ❞

but he couldn’t tell if you liked him back, let alone love him.

he couldn’t tell if the way you held his hand in your sleep whenever he drives you two back home from the school library, was something platonic or was your way of showing your feelings towards him.

he couldn’t tell if the fond look he sometimes catches you give him whenever he laughs was because he was your best friend or because you genuinely loved his laugh.

he couldn’t tell if the reason you always act a little distant whenever you spot him talking to the girl he’s tutoring was because you were jealous or something else. 

and it killed him not knowing. it killed him having to act like some platonic close best friend when all he wants to do is kiss you.

❝ you don’t have to say you’re mine ❞

you’ve had a crush on renjun even before you two became friends.

you remember seeing him back at your high school, always in towards the back of his friend group. you remember how ethereal he looked whenever he was focused on one of his drawings, his tongue poking out a bit as he struggled to perfect a small detail.

you remember the day you became friends, how flustered both of you were. for him it was because he was talking to a girl and for you, it was because you were talking to the boy you’ve been staring at for the past eight months.

you weren’t watching where you were going and bumped into renjun, his hot coffee spilling all over your chest and lowkey leaving a small burn. his eyes widened in shock before becoming an apologizing mess. from then you guys hit it off. 

you two then graduated and surprisingly went to the same college where you were now as best friends. 

best friend

the two words sounded bitter in your mind and you hated knowing he wasn’t yours. you hated knowing he might fall for another girl and then he won’t be around you as much. you hated it.

but what you hated the most was not knowing how he felt. much like renjun (though you don’t know that), you could never tell if the sweet gestures were because he was your best friend or because he liked you. 

you tried being obvious. you always hold his hand whenever he sleeps over, you always make sure he sees you staring at his beautiful face at least once or twice a week (you’re not that bold), you always try to make it known how painfully jealous you were whenever you saw him and that girl talking in the halls.

does he buy your favorite snack every morning before you meet up to walk to school because you were that good of friends or because he felt something for you?

does he call you beautiful whenever he draws you as a friend or as a lover?

does he always cuddle with you during your annual friday movie nights as a platonic thing or because he liked the feeling of you being in his arms. you sure did. being in his embrace, all snuggled up was what made you feel at home. 

❝ honey, i’d walk through fire for you ❞

renjun then focused on your lips, his favorite thing about you as a person and his favorite thing to draw. whether it be portraits of you or just your lips in general, it always made an appearance in his sketchbook.

renjun dreams of them, wanting to know how they felt against his. wanting to know if they were really as soft as they looked, wanting to know what your cherry lip balm taste like. 

his heart quadrupled in size as he watched you pout, clearly reading the sad part of your book. renjun had to stop himself from chuckling a bit to not disturb you, to not disturb the beauty. his hand was still running through your hair and you hummed a bit, leaning into his touch to let him know it felt nice. 

renjun forced himself to look away, trying to not go red at how adorable you were. blinking rapidly, he focused his attention back to his drawing in an attempt to sketch out the layout of your mouth.

he was doing well until all of a sudden he heard a sniffle.

“y/n are you oka-”

you bursted out in tears, quickly sitting up from your position as renjun panicked.

he cupped your face in his hands, worry evident in his look as he saw the tears flowing down your cheeks.

“y/n, baby, are you okay? what happened?” renjun asked worryingly, his drawing long forgotten on the other side of his bed.

you shook your head and pushed it towards the crook of his neck, finding comfort in it. renjun forced his heart to beat normally as he focused his attention on you.

not knowing what to say he immediately wraps one arm around your waist and the other on your hair as he pushes you to sit on his lap, letting you cry out whatever the hell just happened. his hand soothingly stroked your hair, wanting you to calm down.

so you cried. you cried for a good five minutes on renjun’s lap, wanting nothing more than his warmth and loving embrace as your mind thought about the ending of that book.

after you let it out, you quickly felt embarrassed and turned red as you lifted your head from his neck, not wanting to look at the clearly worried boy you’re sitting on.

you pushed yourself out of his lap but his firm grip on your waist kept you in place. you already knew he was gonna demand some answers as you placed your hands on your face in an attempt to hide yourself.

“are you good? you had me very worried over there.” renjun’s free hand went to move your hands from your face as you fought back, chuckling a bit at how red you’ve gotten.

you whined a bit as an answer, wanting nothing more than to disappear off the face of the earth. you literally just had a mental breakdown over the ending of a book in front of the dude you’ve liked since your second year of high school.

“y/nnie that’s not an answer~” renjun teased, happy to see the tears no longer on your face.

though he didn’t show it, his heart broke at your sad expression and malfunctioned a bit, not knowing what to do. he only hugged you and stroked your hair because that’s what he saw in those soap dramas he and his grandmother used to watch as a kid. 

his hand went up to your face again, successfully removing your hands. “now tell me what’s wrong princess.”

renjun didn’t know where this sudden confidence came from, calling you two nicknames in the span of ten minutes. but seeing you flush in response all the more fueled it.

your heart sped up at the nickname but you cleared your throat as you whined a bit.

“but you’ll laugh at me junnie!” you pouted, poking back at him by calling him a nickname as well.

renjun’s eyes widened at the sudden jab but laughed it off because of your cute pout. your lips were all he could think about.

now’s not the time renjun, he mentally scolded himself as he reassured you he wouldn’t laugh.

your glossy eyes met his as you explained.

“he fucking died jun, he died!” you cried out, face going back to his neck as renjun stiffened in shock.

you were crying because a character died?

he couldn’t help but laugh as his arms came back to your waist to engulf you in a hug, laying you both down a bit as he laughed.

you could feel the vibrations of his laugh since you were on his chest which caused you to hit him on the arm in embarrassment. 

“you’re so mean to me.” you huffed, refusing to look at the boy you were on. you once again attempted to get off his lap but renjun was quick to tickle you as a defense.

“it’s cause you’re too cute y/n!” he chuckled as you squirmed on his bed, laugh talking and begging him to show mercy on you.

“renjunnie no no i’m sorry!” you laughed out as you wiggled on the foot of the bed, arms failing at protecting your middle from renjun’s evil fingers. 

the boy looked at you with an evil glint as he continued to tickle you, watching in amusement at your feeble attempts to stop him.

you suddenly pulled him down, causing him to land right in front of you, his arms keeping him stable from falling on your face. 

you two froze, lost in each other’s eyes. the close proximity between you the two of you both made your hearts race and in the spur of the moment renjun asked, “can i kiss you?”

❝ just let me adore you ❞

you nodded and leaned up a bit to meet him in the middle as renjun finally learned the answers to all his questions. 

for your information, yes your lips were as soft as he thought.