#like its just distant gibberish

[killerboyratzmp3]

forever thinking abt pythagoras x icarus on bbc atlantis. like canon gay couple on the bbc in 2013 but it's pythagoras, real historical (fictionalised) Greek philosopher and mathematician pythagoras (of the pythagorean theorem) and icarus??? of Greek myth?????? like yes obviously that's iconic but that's literally unhinged

like from conception to script to on-screen development, including a dramatic (incredibly homo-erotically charged) betrayal mini-arc, reconciliation and eventual kiss?? between these two men in 2013 which is so beautiful and important but like. the STEPS? the timeline ?!

imagine watching a show about victorian england and then charles dickens has an on-screen romance with like. robin hood. am i making sense here is this anything .

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - 29 April 2024

1. Net neutrality rules restored by US agency

The U.S. Federal Communications Commission voted 3-2 on Thursday to reinstate landmark net neutrality rules and reassume regulatory oversight of broadband internet rescinded under former President Donald Trump.

2. Airlines required to refund passengers for canceled, delayed flights

DOT will also require airlines to give cash refunds if your bags are lost and not delivered within 12 hours.

The refunds must be issued within seven days, according to the new DOT rules, and must be in cash unless the passenger chooses another form of compensation. Airlines can no longer issue refunds in forms of vouchers or credits when consumers are entitled to receive cash.

3. How new mosquito nets averted 13 million malaria cases

Compared to standard nets, the introduction of 56 million state-of-the-art mosquito nets in 17 countries across sub-Saharan Africa averted an estimated 13 million malaria cases and 24,600 deaths. The New Nets Project, an initiative funded by Unitaid and the Global Fund and led by the Innovative Vector Control Consortium (IVCC), piloted the use of dual-insecticide nets in malaria-endemic countries between 2019 and 2022 to address the growing threat of insecticide resistance.

4. Germany has installed over 400,000 ‘solar balconies’

This new wave of solar producers aren’t just getting cheap electricity, they’re also participating in the energy transition.

More than 400,000 plug-in solar systems have been installed in Germany, most of them taking up a seamless spot on people’s balconies.

5. Voyager-1 sends readable data again from deep space

The US space agency says its Voyager-1 probe is once again sending usable information back to Earth after months of spouting gibberish.

The 46-year-old Nasa spacecraft is humanity's most distant object.

6. Missing cat found after 5 years makes 2,000-km journey home

Five years after it ran out the door, a lost cat was returned to a couple in Nevada after it was found thousands of kilometres away. The couple are praising the cat’s microchip for helping reunite them.

7. Restoring sight is possible now with optogenetics

Max Hodak's startup, Science, is developing gene therapy solutions to restore vision for individuals with macular degeneration and similar conditions. The Science Eye utilizes optogenetics, injecting opsins into the eye to enhance light sensitivity in retinal cells.

Clinical trials and advancements in optogenetics are showing promising results, with the potential to significantly improve vision for those affected by retinal diseases.

---

That's it for this week :)

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[the-nameless-poet]

Written Mine On My Upper Thigh

Draco Malfoy X fem!reader

Summery : Your Boyfriend Draco wants to get a tattoo and you want one too.

Draco enters the living room where his girlfriend is lounging on the couch with a book in her hands and some snacks. He gently sits down on the floor beside your leg and puts it on his shoulders and gives your thigh a sweet kiss.

"Hey darling." He speaks gently while pressing another kiss on your thigh. This little game of affection is making your heart flutter with heaving desires. Desires similar to the ones described in the book that had already left your brain in a spiral of fantasies that were unspeakable.

"Hey Love." You respond by putting your book down and lightly scratching his head. The silver strands gleaming against the skin of your fingers as your boyfriend hums with delight.

"I was thinking..." He starts while leaving a trail of kisses from your calf upto your thighs and then stops to look up into your eyes, your iris meeting with his stormy blue ones with a passionate gleam.

"What were you thinking, my love?" You encourage him to complete his thoughts, your voice a bit shaky. Not noticeable. But you could feel it on your lips, the shivers that came up from your throat and made the words quiver. Even after all this time you could swear that you fell for your Draco Malfoy everyday, all over again. The tattoo on your collarbone was the permanent proof of your ever growing love for him.

"You know how you have the tattoo of Draco constellation on your collarbone..." His hesitation was clear in his voice; you gently caressed his head as to encourage him to speak further while nodding.

"I want one tattoo of the constellation of your star sign on my arm. The scars from the dark mark are still visible and I.... I-It reminds me of the past time when I look at it and I wish to replace those memories with the ones that help me through my dark times." He laid his head on your thigh, he looked like the child he once was, afraid to ask for something he didn't deserve.

"Darling? Are you sure about it? I don't mind that at all but...are you sure...?" You try your best to show your concerns in a way that doesn't sound too cruel or act like a reminiscent of the time that he went through. You remember how he was afraid of anyone even touching his arm, the one that once held the dark mark one it. You remember coaxing him into atleast letting you touch it. He was hesitant but you were also the only person he trusted at that time. So after some persuading he let you.

And the first time you touched his dark mark was with your lips, a gentle kiss, a secluded remedy, that brought him back to light. He was shocked at first to see you commit, what was a crime in his eyes, a fatal action that might lead you to your end but soon he felt the gratification it gifted. And that was the day Draco Malfoy wrote his whole existence to your name.

"Love I've wanted this for so long. I've thought about it and it doesn't scare me as much as it used to. It's a distant memory. But its still there and I want to erase it and adorn that skin with the one that I'd dream of even after I die. Also I know you'd kiss it to make it better. So not afraid of it much." He chuckled at the end and kissed your lips while sitting on his knees, right infront of your face. You hummed at the warmth of his lips on yours and pulled back with a smile.

His words left a gibberish, jumbled mind for you to deal with. Just the thought that he would dream about you even after he dies, kills you so gently that you'd welcome death with open arms. He was yours. Forever. In his dreams, in his reality, in his death and in his life; he was yours the same was you were his.

"I'll call the muggle tattoo parlor and book an appointment for two." You said and kissed him passionately.

He pulled back with a confused look.

"For two?" You nodded and smiled at his conflicted face. You caressed his eyebrows to make him lose his frown and spoke,

"I want a new one too. Actually I'm gonna need your help for it." His face quickly lit up. Which made you giggle.

You quickly made the appointment for Sunday.

-------------------------------------------------

On Sunday, both you and Draco went to the tattoo parlor and gave the tattoo artist your ideas.

But first for your tattoo you needed Draco's help.

"Draco, I need you to write 'mine' on my upper thigh." You've been wanting to do this for a long time. Ever since you found out about Draco's obsession with your thighs, you wanted to do something about it so it would remind you of his possesive nature towards your thighs. How he puts a hand on one of them underneath the table, or how he squeezes them, how he likes to leave noticable love marks on them, how he loves to kiss them and how he loves to slap them while he made love to you. All of these things made your core wither with desire and you little minx wanted a permanent reminder of your boyfriend's affections.

And he was happy to follow your orders and in his best handwriting, he wrote 'Mine' on your left upper thigh and gave a long kiss to your inner thigh that left you wanting more.

After a while you both got your tattoos. The one on his arm looked as if it shone against his skin and the one on your thigh reflected possesion and your desire towards that obsession. Truth to be told, you couldn't hide the fact that you loved your boyfriend being overly obsessed with your thighs. Afterall you're just a girl. And he was a god when it came to loving you.

And when your tattoos were finally healed, both of you left little red and purple reminiscent of your affection. Your love for eachother was etched into your skin forevermore. And the one that was etched into your soul won't ever fade, Not even after being decayed into mere atoms. The only truth that could be fathomed was that It would shine for the eternity.

[xiaosonlybeloved]

Lost to Change~ Childe

featuring:- Tartaglia as Ajax when he was 14 yrs old, his family, gn!reader (no pronouns used) warnings:- implied angst, minor mention of injuries towards the end, nothing actually its just sad a/n:- oml my first actual writing in like weeks i kinda like it ngl. can be read as platonic or non platonic since ajax is 14 here and reader is close to his age too

wc:- 1.6k || masterlists

“Why isnt Dad back yet?” A little girl questioned you, her worry clear on her face. There’s nothing you can say, though, because you have no answer. “He must still be searching, Tonia.” you try to reassure her, watching over little Teucer who was still sleeping. “Try to go to sleep, Tonia. Tomorrow’s a holiday, but you should still get your sleep. If- When Ajax comes back home, he wouldn’t like to see you all exhausted now, would he?” Sensing her reluctance, you add, “I’m staying here. I’ll keep watch. Nothing will happen, I promise. I’ll wake you up when Uncle comes back home.”

Tonia eventually trudges away to her shared bedroom with Anthon, socked feet moving soundlessly across the carpeted floor. Her elder sister follows to tuck her in, leaving you alone with Teucer as you sigh, gazing out at the moon high in the sky, anxious.

Its been two nights since Ajax had suddenly disappeared without a trace. He’d borrowed some bread for some reason before he left, and no one’s heard of him since. He hadn’t left Morepesok, that much was certain, because his parents had already confirmed it with the police. Which meant that he was certainly somewhere within this quaint little village, or he was lost in the forest. You sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter, as a distant howl of a wolf was heard.

The police were searching for him too, but his dad had been unable to sit still and wait for any news, so he left to search for Ajax himself. He knows how to protect himself... He would be fine.

“Thank you for staying here, dear. I’m sorry to have asked you to, but sometimes the kids only listen to you, not me. You can go to sleep in the guest bedroom too, its alright. I’m staying awake” Ajax’s mother spoke up from beside the fireplace. At this point, she treats you like you’re her one of her own kids too, and its somewhat reassuring. You quickly reply, “No no, its completely fine, I understand. I don’t mind watching the kids at all. And I’ll give you company till he comes back, don’t worry. I’m used to sleepless nights.”

Ajax’s father comes back in the early morning, alone. The disappointment and worry is very visible on everyone’s faces. You wake Tonia and Anthon up, as promised. Ajax’s elder sister, Maria, and his two elder brothers had stayed awake through the night too. Breakfast is silent as the dim sunrays filter through the forest canopy. You insist on him getting some sleep. The house is silent as everyone goes to their bedrooms after breakfast to try and rest. You use the spare bedroom- its practically yours anyways, with how many times you’ve stayed here for sleepovers with Ajax. There’s a hoard of blankets in one corner of the room that was used to make a fort every single sleepover. It was like an unofficial tradition of yours. 

You try to sleep. Its better than drowning in worry, anyways.

******

Ajax had a guilty frown on his face as he observed your near-sleeping figure. He should have realised that you’d be tired, it had been a long day after all. But he’d been dying to watch the newest movie of their favorite series with you, and of course, you never said no to him. He’d been too engrossed in the movie to notice when your head dropped onto his shoulder- a usual thing between you two. You mumble some gibberish as he carries you to the bed (not without his struggles, you two were children after all) and switches off the T.V. “Is the movie over? I didn’t realise…” You yawn as you sleepily pull up the blankets to your chin. The nights in Snezhnaya were always freezing cold after all, which is why you dont hesitate to do the same with the second blanket Ajax drapes over you. “Nops, but we can watch it tomorrow morning after breakfast. I think Anthon would like to watch it too, if you don’t mind?” “Mm, I don’t, he’s such an adorable kid. They grow up so fast, don’t they?” you mumble. “Are you coming to sleep too?” “..Yeah.” He responds quietly, snuggling into another set of blankets beside you. “Goodnight, [Y/N].” Because you’re already in dreamland by then, having been content to see him resting beside you, you miss the swirling childlike emotions, the sparkle in his eyes. You’re so used to it, seeing it is like second nature to you, an undeniable part of every day.

You wouldn’t have believed it if you had been told that one day, soon, that innocence, that sparkle in his eyes would vanish, to never reappear again.

******

You tried to cling on to the distant memory of your dream that was rapidly fading away as you awoke. You liked the dream. The memory… you were rather untroubled in it because of the presence of your best friend. Much unlike your conscious self’s distress and concern caused due to the same person. 

The sun was glaring through the thin air and the gaps between the curtains.”She’s awake.” A small voice whispered, and another retorted, “You were too loud.” Tonia and Anthon. They’re arguing in hushed tones, startling with an incredibly guilty look as you sit up. And that face is so, so familiar that it instantly reminds you of the person they learnt it from, which reminds you that Ajax is still missing and it has been almost 3 days since then. “Is something the matter?” You question them as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. You’re surprised you even manage to fall asleep.

“Well, Mom, Dad, Maria and Atlas are going out to search for Ajax, and me and Tonia are going with them too. Maria and Dad know how to fight, so we should be safe. Alex is staying home to take care of Teucer. Dad told us to ask you if you wanted to come along too.” Anton says quickly. You nod without hesitation as you briskly put on extra layers suited for the chill outside.

As you walk, they inform you that they’re splitting into two groups, one with their dad, Anthon and Atlas and one with you, his elder sister Maria, Tonia and their mom, to scour the forest. You’ll keep in contact with each other if someone needs help or finds Ajax. You all are strictly to return home an hour before the sun starts setting.

******

There’s not much time left before dusk when finally Maria calls their dad. He immediately answers, starting to tell them to return home now, before Maria swiftly cuts him off. “We found Ajax. He’s injured. We’re bringing him home immediately, please call a doctor in the meanwhile.” She states bluntly. Nearby, you and his mom are doing your best to wrap the wounds and stop the bleeding for a while. 

Ajax was unconscious and looked much worse for wear. Somehow, his hair had grown longer than it should have in three days. Same with his height too, he was definitely taller by a few centimetres from when you had last seen him, as you and Maria carried him home together, his mother and Tonia right behind you. You meet Atlas near their house, who takes Ajax from you as he can carry him faster to the doctor awaiting you all at the house.

Despite the concern, there’s definitely relief mixed in everyone’s emotions to finally finding the runaway. There’s silence in the living room, because the doctor shooed everyone out while he did a checkup and took care of his injuries. After some time that felt like an eternity, he finally reports to you that physically Ajax was alright, he was ordered bedrest for atleast a day, to take care to not reopen his wounds, and that he was awake now. 

You were the first one out of your seat as you immediately hurried to Ajax’s room, eager to finally talk to him, maybe scold him for his recklessness.

Ajax is facing the setting sun in the window, away from you when you enter. “Ajax, you-” You stop short when he turns to face you.

Something’s not quite right.

His smile is the same, if not a bit wider and more cheerful than you’d ever seen him. There was self-confidence in his posture, something he’d lacked before. Make no mistake, you’re happy about that, but…

“Hey [Y/N]! Long time no see!” Ajax blithely exclaims with a grin, and something about it is so off. 

It’s him, its definitely him, your instincts tell you so. But at the same time, its not him. Not the Ajax you knew.

His eyes are completely dull, two dark pools of blue without any shine or light in them. Not a hint of emotion was displayed in them, just a vast emptiness that contradicted his demeanor. His eyes, which used to be your gateway to his thoughts, have locked you out firmly now, no key in hand. 

As the rest of his worried family crowds behind and around you, you realise with a bone-crushing certainty, looking at him, that the Ajax you all knew, loved and missed was gone, lost to the world in those past three days, perhaps never to return. It would never be the same again, he would never be the same again.

(help this isnt even the main plot point i had for this idea this was supposed to be the background not a whole fic on its own-) anyways reblogs, tags and comments are very appreciated thank you <333

[ckret2]

Chapter 15 of Bill's a human prisoner and everybody's grumpy about it, featuring: NIGHTMARES NIGHTMARES NIGHTMARES NIGHTM

Remember these? We're getting 'em both in one chapter. Plus: FORD! Also: a little bit of human gore, a lot of bizarre alien gore.

This is a shorter chapter, but it's the first one with a direct glimpse into Bill's backstory and home dimension. I hope you enjoy! And are deeply horrified!

####

"You have to stop spouting this nonsense." A golden line slithered around him, weaving back and forth, her furious eye focused on him as she paced. "Nobody comes to your services for deranged muttering about points of light in darkness. They don't want to hear about things that are above-but-not-north of us! What does that mean, above-but-not-north?"

"It means what it says, Mom." Above him—above, but not north, in an endless void outside the plane of the world—countless stars twinkled in an unending dark. "That's where the third dimension is. And that's what it looks like! I don't know how else to explain it to someone who hasn't seen it!"

"Then why explain it at all? They don't want to hear it! It's a surprise you aren't already losing congregants. I know you can tell you're losing their interest."

He could tell. Sullenly, he said, "Maybe we just—just need smarter congregants. If they weren't too stupid to understand—"

"People are stupid, sweetie. That's why they follow you. You don't want the smart ones anyway, or they'd be smart enough to see through all the lies you make up about the third dimension—"

"I'm not making it up!"

"Every week you talk about impossible places that can't exist! Either you're lying or insane—which is it?"

How could he answer that? He looked up into space, as if the distant stars only he saw could help him.

"Oh, don't do that, I hate when your eye goes white like that. It might impress your worshipers but it doesn't work on your mother, young triangle." She paced around him faster, coiling tighter, surrounding him on all sides in gold, her eye peering straight into his. "I don't care whether you're a liar or a lunatic—you're still my golden child, and everyone else will see that too as long as you tell them what we say. Nobody wants to hear that the third dimension is a dark, empty void! Tell them it's full of color and life! Tell them it's filled with the spirits of departed shapes, or messengers, divine guides, muses—"

"But it isn't! I don't care what they want it to be, it's not true! I'm trying to make them understand!" He had to make them understand, he needed somebody to understand. He thought he'd go insane if he was the only one who could see how empty and awful space was.

"I've listened to your gibberish about points of light and up-not-north for months and I don't understand it, so how can anyone else—"

"You're not trying to understand!" Space and all its vast emptiness was oh, so close, so achingly close. Pressing against everyone's bodies, breathing over their organs, lighting up those tight-coiled fibers beneath everyone's skin, shining on the bloody bones and thin muscles. "Either you're not listening or you're stupid!" How couldn't anyone else see space?

"How dare you—!"

How could they be close enough to touch it and still deny what it was?

Why was he the only freak who could bend up into it?

Her sharp tail cracked like a whip behind his base. "I'll teach you to talk back to me like that!"

His mind was feverish with anger, pulsing and roiling behind his eye—and for a moment, he wasn't afraid of anything.

She could bend and flex and coil, she was the most flexible line he'd ever seen. The doctors thought he might have inherited his ability to bend up-not-north from her, some genetic predisposition to flexibility. If he could bend UP, so could she. He'd make her. He'd force her. He'd show her.

He jammed his corner into her side. She shrieked, uncoiling from around him to scrunch around her wound. "Watch your— What are you—"

"You'll see," he said, shoving her against the wall, shoving her into a corner. "You'll see if it's the last thing you do!" It was like cramming a long rope into a short box; each time he shoved, she bent and curved and bent again.

"Stop—stop, it HURTS—"

He could see it in his mind's eye: if he kept pushing and pushing eventually there'd be no more room in two dimensional space for her to fill, and then she'd be forced to bend UP, up into the third dimension, all that open free space. Then she'dsee the dark, she'd see the far points of light—

"STOP!" She howled in pain. He kept pushing. She was out of room.

She didn't bend up.

He shoved—and she splintered. Bone snapping, cartilage tearing, he could see inside her thin body as things broke and ruptured.

He didn't know what to do.

And for several long, long seconds—he couldn't remember what was happening. The world seemed to bend wrong, rippling up-but-not-north and down-but-not-south, and his head swam and his vision blurred, and he couldn't remember.

Her skin fractured and peeled off, strand after strand. He’d seen grotesque injuries and rotting bodies before—he’d been in hospitals and seen through the bandages, been in graveyards and seen into the coffins, unable not to see though the doors and walls and tombs. He’d seen the way the skin came off, the way it split into hairy filaments as it loosened from the body, bristly around injuries or sloughed off whole from the long dead. But he'd never seen dead skin curl like his mother's, loosely zig-zagging back and forth and wrapping into spirals like the centers of flowers. It filled the spaces between his fingertips, wrapped up his arms. He could shut his eye but he still saw it through his eyelid, still felt it tickling at the corners of his mouth. 

Irrationally, wildly, hysterically, watching his mother die, he wondered—when he died, when he was a corpse, when he rotted—when his body split open in half from his burst eye, as the labyrinth of his guts bloated and unwound and inverted themselves to spill in sick threads from his mouth, and his skin peeled free, layer by hairy layer, from his eyelid out—would his rotting golden skin curl like his mother's had?

He knew it would. He knew it would. He knew it would.

####

He woke to moonlight streaming through curls upon curls of golden skin dangling in his eye, choking him on rot.

He squeezed his eyes shut, batted the hair aside, and forced himself to breathe until the nausea subsided.

He hated how humans dreamt.

He decided he didn't want any more sleep tonight.

He dragged himself upright, shambled downstairs, and tried to ignore the coils of his internal organs spilling out of his head and dangling around his face.

He needed a drink.

####

Ford woke up standing over a bed and a body.

He couldn't identify the shape or size of the body under the sheets, due to how badly it was contorted and the way the dark pools of blood in the bedsheets distorted the shadows. All he could see was the head: a flash of a pale cheek turned away, and the unmistakeable Pines hair curls. The hair was matted with blood.

Ford's hands were coated in hot blood and cold blue flames. There was a nauseating metallic taste in his mouth and something thick and warm dripping down his chin.

He heard a quiet chuckle. He whipped around to face it—

And saw himself reflected in a triangular window, a gray shade. He was smiling so widely he could see moonlight glinting off his molars. His slitted eyes glowed a sickly yellow.

Ford woke up staring at the ceiling. He licked his lips; reassuringly dry. He held up his hands; clean.

He sighed.

Ford could roll over and go back to sleep. He'd gotten used to dreams like this decades ago; these days he hardly even had them. But he was already awake and irritated. He might as well pick up where he'd left his research at dinner time—do something that felt productive. He got up, fished a crumpled paper that said "Downstairs" out of his bedside stand and set it next to Stan's glasses, and crept out of the guest room to head for the vending machine.

Bill was in the kitchen.

Ford stopped in the next room, staring through the doorway. Bill was sitting in the dark, only his silhouette visible in the light through the window. He was hunched over the kitchen table, supported on his elbows, unmoving. Ford couldn't see Bill's reflection in the window. Not even his eyes.

Ford wondered what he dreamed about. Perhaps the thrill of possessing people.

He was half tempted to confront Bill—demand to know what he was up to—but, Ford told himself, there was nothing to confront Bill for. They'd given him permission to use the kitchen freely. Bill wasn't up to anything. It was well within his rights to sit silently at the table in the dark.

Ford just didn't like it.

He crept into the living room. Bill never noticed him.

####

Dipper divided the nightmares he'd been having since last summer into two categories: the Bill nightmares; and the Bipper nightmares—which were, in a way, also Bill nightmares.

The Bill nightmares were just his regular nightmares, except that Bill was also in them. For Dipper, regular nightmares were a mishmash of fears, insecurities, chaos, and random weirdness. It was natural that Bill, the most terrifying entity Dipper had ever met, occasionally guest starred in his dreams. The problem was that, since Bill actually could invade dreams and always brought chaos and random weirdness in his wake, it was that much harder for Dipper to realize he was dreaming rather than actually facing Bill—and, once he woke up, harder for him to reassure himself it really was only a dream.

(Mabel told him she had similar problems, and it wasn't even limited to nightmares. Sometimes, no matter how sweet or unthreatening her dream was—and sometimes because it was so sweet—their erratic scene-changing logic-breaking wish-making nature gave her the creeping sense that she was trapped back in Mabeland. Not often, she said. But occasionally, when Dipper couldn't sleep either, he could hear her wake herself repeating "—I wanna go back to reality—I want to go back—go back to the real world," and then meow herself back to sleep.)

On the other hand, the Bipper nightmares were like no dreams he'd ever had before.

They might start out as normal nightmares—dreaming of a near death experience, or a monster charging at him, or some humiliation too deep to endure further sleeping through—until he jolted awake. Or he'd think he'd jolted awake—in truth, he'd just woken up into another dream, so realistic he thought he was awake until he realized he was hovering over his bed, and the world looked hazy and false, and his body was still beneath the covers. Just like when Bill had ripped him free of his body.

The first time he'd had the Bipper nightmare, Dipper thought Bill had taken over him again, and that at any moment his body would open its eyes and laugh at him. When that didn't happen, he thought he'd died. He'd flown to Mabel's room, to his parents', to Waddles, to the neighbors' houses, trying desperately to get someone's attention—and when nothing worked, he returned to his still body in despair and waited there, sure that in a few hours his parents would come to get him for school and find him dead...

But then he'd woken up. For real, this time. And then he woke the rest of the house with his screaming.

He learned to cope with these nightmares, both the Bill ones and the Bipper ones. He talked about them with Mabel during the day or went to her for reassurance at night. Sometimes he called Ford, if he and Stan were in a time zone where they'd still be awake. (Ford said he'd had nightmares for years about Bill invading his dreams—and almost none of them had been real. He said that his visits from Bill were usually less chaotic than a normal dream. Bill liked his weirdness but he liked being the center of attention more; he liked to stage his dreams like a movie director, keeping a firm grip on the setting and the narrative flow, snapping from location to location and moment to moment with an artistry that natural dreams didn't have. The muddled mundanity of your average nightmare was beneath Bill.)

And Dipper learned to wait out his Bipper nightmares. Sometimes he wandered the hallways, but he found that engaging with the dream tended to prolong it; instead, if he stayed by his body and didn't do anything, eventually he'd drift back into deep sleep and wake back up. He started keeping a radio on at night—he could hear it in his sleep—and listening to the weird 3 a.m. broadcasts kept him entertained enough until he woke.

####

But since returning to Gravity Falls, Dipper had found a new way to deal with his nightmares:

Yelling at Bill about them.

Tonight, he was having his guilt-dream about his dad asking why he'd given up kickboxing; until the dream was interrupted by Bill emerging from the refrigerator to announce that Weirdmageddon was opening a second location in Piedmont and then throw a rabid skunk at Dipper's face. Dipper had woken up too angry to think straight, stomped to Bill's empty window seat, and then stomped downstairs.

He found Bill sitting in the kitchen in the dark, washing down a bag of cookies with a pack of hard cider and staring out at the night. Dipper stopped in the doorway. "You!"

Bill turned to give Dipper a bleary-eyed look. "Me?" 

"Stop messing with my dreams and stay out of my head!"

"Beg pardon?" Bill's eyelids were desynchronized as he slowly blinked. "I'm just..." He gestured vaguely around the kitchen with a mostly-empty cider can. "I am just—sitting here."

"You've been in my nightmares all year," Dipper said hotly, even as he was waking up enough to realize that Bill, down here in the kitchen, probably wasn't influencing his dreams. "So just—just..." This was stupid. "Cut it out, man."

"You've been dreaming about me? How sweet." Bill gave Dipper a mocking grin, propped his chin in his hand, propped his elbow on the table, actually missed putting his elbow on the table by at least six inches, and fell to the ground with a yelp.

Dipper stared tiredly at Bill cackling on the floor, and turned around and trudged upstairs.

Dipper found that, whenever he had nightmares about golden geometric apocalypses, it was reassuring to get an instant reminder that Bill had been nowhere near his head. Even if he thought Bill was laying on the "helpless human" act a little thick.

####

(I'm still recovering from Health Junk, so if you've got any comments, I'd deeply appreciate them now even more than I usually do. Thank you, y'all readers and commenters and friends are really keeping me going during this time of feeling like a pile of half-sentient gunk. 🙏✨)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 39

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The doors of the operating room fade behind you as the anesthetic takes you under. The splitting pain dulls as you sink beneath the veil of artificial sleep. Laced within the clouds of your unconscious you hear the beeping of machines, the clinks of metal tools in the tray, and the deep voice of your unshakeable pest; Lloyd Hansen.

The dread and horror are equally muddled by the intravenous flow. You feel a distant tugging, a plucking deep within, and somewhere beyond, you hear squalling. You’re vaguely aware of the sudden weight taken from you, and that new one that settles in its place. Tight and tender.

You float back to the surface slowly. Wading up above the layers of oblivion until you hear that steady rhythm, feeling it in your chest. That incessant tempo of your pulse mirrored by a digital beep. You groan and suck back a dribble of drool along your lip.

A longer, louder noise rolls from your throat. The pain nips its way through and your lashes flutter lightly, giving short glimpses of the world that awaits you. You hear fussing, low whispers and the soft murmur that responds. Hushing and humming that draws you in.

“Grhhhhsh,�� the gibberish slips from your lips and your hand bounces off the rail clumsily.

You open your eyes, vision fuzzy and ears thrumming. A shadow approaches as you turn your head, blinking as you try to see past the sheen of sleep. You smile dopily as your head swims. Your other hand lingers on your thigh and you cautiously feel higher; you’re now doughy where the flesh was once taught.

“Bay-bee,” you pronounce, “girl.”

“Ah, sweet cakes, yes, you have a beautiful daughter,” Dottie’s voice drips into your ears, comforting you as it pools in your chest, “she was just lookin’ for ya.”

“Dot,” you utter weakly.

“Yes’m,” she touches your arm gently, “you want the precious bean?”

“Dot,” you open and close your hand, reaching for her without finding her, “where… Lllllll.” you swallow and lean back heavily, “tired.”

“Here,” Dottie leaves you, returning in an orb of red and pink. She takes your arm and hooks it around the warm bundle she eases onto your chest, “there, there. Look at that cute little peach.”

You look down. You feel the tiny form squirm and your eyes pinpoint on her face. A baby. Your baby? Yes, your daughter. The girl without a name.

“Harlan’s just gone to get the nurse,” she comforts as she stays close, “we’re just waiting to get the paperwork done. She needs a name and all that.”

You stare at the infant. Your heart feels like iron. Still and cold. You curl your lip and turn your chin up.

“Take her,” you murmur.

“You okay, darling?” She rubs your shoulder.

“I said take it. Now,” you demand harshly, “I don’t… I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” Dottie lifts the child from your arm, “you been through a lot, we’ll just give you some time to get your bearings.”

You scowl and don’t say how you don’t think you’ll ever want to hold that thing again. The way it wriggles and whimpers, so quietly. It’s so light and small, it may as well be nothing. 

“Well, whatcha wanna call her?”

“I don’t care,” you sniff, “ask him.”

“Well, we had some ideas but Marion didn’t say which he liked,” she explains as she lays the baby back in the small rolling crib.

“How about Marion? After the father?” You snap dryly.

“Hmm, I dunno,” Dottie hums, “you want some water, I got some here–”

“I don’t want to be here,” you retort and immediately cringe, “I’m… sorry, I’m just…”

There’s no way that baby is yours. You can’t remember anything more than the gripping agony in your gut. And now, the pain persists. All that and for what?

“I’m tired. Hurting,” you lie, only in that it’s not the reason you lashed out.

“Right, honey, that’s okay,” she assures once more.

“Just going to doing a check,” The nurse enters.

You glance up and see Harlan dip in behind her. You smile at him and search behind him, expecting another to follow. Nothing but an empty doorway.

“How’s the pain, scale of one to ten?” The nurse asks as she fiddles with your IV.

“Ten,” you grit out.

“Mmm, we’ll see what we can get you for that,” she says, “gotta make sure you’re able to feed your daughter.”

You frown. Feed? You look down at your swollen chest and moan at the fullness that throbs in your tits. Fuck.

“We can have an advisor come to help you with latching,” the nurse offers, “you should feed soon.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “When can I leave?”

“It’ll be a couple of days so we can keep an eye on your recovery. We’ll make sure you know the proper aftercare before you’re discharged.”

“Days?” You grumble.

“Yes, you have a new incision so you can’t be moving too much. Once you’re home, you’re going to be limited, no lifting, no strenuous activity…”

“Great,” you shake your head.

You stare at your body, deformed beneath the flannel blanket. You can feel it. You're totally ruined. You weren't ever a supermodel but the damage is done. Worn and loose and gross.

“Baby’s getting hungry,” Dottie says softly, “please send in the therapist so we can get her fed.”

You stay silent. The nurse leaves as you glare at the door. He has to show up any minute now.

“Where’s Ll–”

“Now we were just talking about names,” Dottie interjects, “Harley, why don’t you tell her the one you liked.”

“Oh, uh, hope I’m not to forward sayin’ so,” he says.

You look at him. Just say it. At this point, they can choose.

“I liked Luna,” Harlan says, “cause that little moonlight in her nursery, ya see… always liked the looka the moon.”

You nod. It’s pretty. You can’t think of much else and they definitely wouldn’t want you calling her the leech.

“I like Luna,” you agree flatly, “fine with me.”

“Well, that’s a nice name,” Dottie chimes, “yeah, Luna, it suits her. Shining and all.”

“Where is Lloyd?” You ask curtly.

Dottie smiles and looks at Harlan. His lips are straight and set. He swallows tightly.

“Now, hon, he… just went out to deal with some stuff, to make sure you can go home,” she explains, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh.” You accept bluntly. “Right.”

“Too bad you didn’t see him,” she takes out her phone, “but I got a picture.” She holds up the screen to show you the image of Lloyd holding the bundle child. His eyes are wide as he stares at her. “Baby looks just like you, sweetheart.”

“Does i– she?” You ask.

“Well, I think so,” Dottie says, “but you know, babies always take after their daddies early on.”

You nod and play with the string of the linen gown. You watch the door. Waiting. This isn’t your mistake, it’s his.

[evnovaa]

Blame | snippet

Chris Sturniolo x reader

“ I feel stripped of my skin and alone ”

a/n: hi hi stars!! soooo here’s a little snippet from blame 😚 promise full fic will be out in a day or two! Prepare its gon be a long one lots of shit we gon feeeeellllllll💔💔💔 but lmk what y’all think so far 💋

“Chris you are seriously starting to piss me off can you MOVE.” Nick says to his brother as he stands in his way from getting into their shared apartment.

“Kid, you can walk around me you know that right?” Chris says in an annoyed tone.

Nick rolls his eyes and pushes past him “fucking imbecile, I swear” Nick said mumbling under his breath.

Chris was standing in the door way mainly because he was trying to get a hold of his girlfriend who doesn’t seem to be answering the phone. Recently she’s been distant and he has been assuming the worst either she is cheating on him or she’s hiding something that she might be enduring without his knowledge.

Chris⭐️ : y/n can you please just respond to say you are okay

Chris⭐️ : y/n I don’t know what’s been going on with you recently, and I’m not fucking akinator this shit is getting annoying.

Read at 9:59pm

Chris is still getting no response from y/n, she’s clearly reading his messages which now indicates that she’s ignoring him.

“Dude are you gonna stand there there the whole night?” Matt says to him coming down the stairs.

Chris goes ahead and ignores what his brother just said to him, in that moment it sounded like nothing but gibberish as he is still staring at his phone.

“Before Christmas Christopher.” Matthew says to him awaiting a response.

Chris sighs and puts his phone in his pocket and walks into their apartment. He shoots straight to his room and shuts the door behind him.

Next morning

Y/n pov

I can see my boyfriend texting me and I know he’s gotten irritated with me, but right now he is the last person to be irritated.

Me and Chris have been together for almost 3 years now, he is really amazing and been amazing all these years. What has changed you may ask? Well all these years he has been amazing but like everyone else their boyfriend may do something they dislike but don’t have the heart to say anything. For me it’s him and his never ending friendship as he’d like to say with his ex-girlfriend.

Earlier yesterday

“She really is incredible, but y/n hates the mention of her, I’ve noticed anytime I mention Lola around her she tends to get quiet and isn’t present in the conversation anymore” Chris says venting to his friend Larry.

“Chris imma have to be honest with you, it is lowkey weird that you’re so close to Lola while dating y/n, I don’t know the boundaries surrounding your relationship, but usually girls don’t want their man parading around with their ex-girlfriend.”

“But listen she’s more of a friend to me, dating her was like something I did because I felt alone, and needed the reassurance of a partner, but Lola and I grew into friends more than a couple, hence we broke up” Chris knows what he’s saying is true in his mind but in his heart he loves Lola still, but refuses to come to terms with it.

“I don’t know chrissypoo, you’re gonna have to figure that one out with her.” Larry says knowing this conversation will be far from productive if anything it was moving in retrograde.

───────── ౨ৎ ───────── ───────── ౨ৎ ───────── ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

a/n : Chris an idiot that’s all imma say but will he be able to explain himself to y/n and fix what she’s actually realized? Ion knowwwwwww🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫 okay bye stars!!

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 2 - SECRET

All the air in the room shivers and gusts like an expulsion of breath; the sluggish, oil-slick water below resumes its flowing; Arabella, liquid metal curled lacelike over her skin, starts laughing.

It’s dark, in this dank cavern. Karliah left the lamp she carried outside and did not suggest lighting another. Perhaps it would be sacrilege. For several minutes, all had been shadow; but now if Arabella squints, she can vaguely make out the motion of the water, the distant shine of filigreed armour, the bird-mark on the floor. She can make out Karliah on the middle plinth and Brynjolf on the distant one; she can make out the cracked stone below her; she sinks down, low, into a crouch, hood pulled down over her forehead, and cackles. It echoes in her mouth, against the fabric-smoothness of her mask.

“Well,” says Brynjolf’s voice, blankly, from across the room, and again, “well.”

“The first meeting can be… overwhelming,” Karliah says, tactful. Like Arabella’s cracked under the pressure of watching someone talk to a big not-light in a hole so soggy-stale it feels as familiar as the cistern. She is still laughing – she can’t help it (it’s either funny or it’s very serious, and she’d rather not take it seriously) – as she rolls her shoulders back the way she practiced in the armoury, lets the metallic carapace unravel itself, shrinking and sinking again into her skin, to the cold metal mark she pressed like tattoo ink into the back of her neck. (She’s been branded – she’s been gulled – perhaps she should be taking it seriously, but it’s so ridiculous that she doesn’t want to.) The armour goes away. She can, just about, see her skin again.

She is still laughing, birdlike high and delighted.

Brynjolf shakes his head – she catches it only because of the way his eyes glint in the mask – and says, “Didn’t wake up this morning thinking I’d be meeting a Daedric Prince.” He sounds very deliberately careless; taking everything, very intentionally, in stride. “Suppose I’m honoured.”

“Oh, yes,” Arabella crows, “most honoured bargaining chip –” and she goes off in peals of laughter again. Her language is bleeding into Bos, a little – she’s getting her grammar mixed up in her head, blending her words in ways that should give them layers but instead just turns them to gibberish. Most-honoured, ill-weighted, played like lamb-tendon lute-strings, all an unintelligible mess of sounds. It’s all so patently ridiculous.

Brynjolf pauses, asks, “Does this happen, often?” with a nigh-audible furrow of the brow.

“Arabella,” Karliah says. “Arabella. What, the hysterics? No, or, I’ve never – Arabella, pull it together.”

“Lest your Lady think –” and the rest of it is lost to scrambled syntax, but then Arabella wipes her mouth – probably smudging her paint, she realises after the fact, damn it – and stands up straight and says, gleeful, “You liar. Well done.”

“Are you listening, now?” Karliah asks; when she moves, she gleams, ever-faint.

Arabella echoes, “Will you tell us, now? You’ve been so dreadfully surreptitious.”

Karliah gleams again. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I’m sorry I’ve had to mete out information so slowly. But now that you’ve transacted the oath –”

“Such a vague oath,” Arabella remarks, shark-toothed.

“I would like to hear more about the oath,” Brynjolf puts in, “and whatever else, but do we have to have this out in the dark?”

“I would like to hear about how it’s supposed to make us more powerful,” Arabella says, “and why I can’t feel any bloody difference.”

Karliah moves – coils her fingers, maybe, so her armour can slink off to puddle in her hand, pulled night-dark in toward the mark at her wrists – and Arabella can see her a little better, then, a ghostlike shape standing ill-defined on the platform. “That,” she says, soft-voiced, “relates to what I was going to say; Mercer’s –”

“Do you feel a difference, Brynjolf?” Arabella calls.

Sharply, Karliah says, “Stop interrupting.”

The water burbles quiet below them. Arabella’s smile is pinned so broadly to her face that her cheeks sting.

“We’re going back into the hall,” Brynjolf decides. His armour sloughs off as he starts picking his way back down the shadow-cracked stone. Halfway down, he looks over, his face a smudge in the dark. “No. But it’s new.”

“New indeed,” Arabella agrees, the soles of her shoes ringing against the marks in the stone; she holds her arms steady for balance as she steps onto the spit of rock. “Whatever power we expect, Karliah – it won’t come up until we’ve made amends with your goddess, will it?”

She is so very spectral, in the dark. Blue-grey, distant-pale. “Nocturnal’s favour alone is a powerful thing,” she says, clipped. “It will give us an edge.”

“Will it,” Arabella says. It is not a question. She is putting considerable effort into not giggling again.

Even in the dark, even without the masks, she can just about catch the shine of Karliah’s eyes as she looks at her. There is a lengthy pause. “It might.”

Brynjolf, a shadow almost at the end of his stone-spit tightrope, pauses. “Ah,” he says, and then, faintly disgruntled, “Really?”

“She played us well,” Arabella tells him with airy unconcern; her teeth scratch against the meat of her lip. “Very cleverly. I bought it just about enough.”

“It might help,” Karliah insists, dogged; “I – I hope it will. And I couldn’t tell you the whole truth if you remained outsiders – we would have been ineffective, barely a chance –”

Arabella slides the last half-metre of damp stone on the flat soles of her shoes, skirt flaring, hair in her mouth. She says into the dank cavern, “You sold us to curry favour.”

“Yes,” Karliah snaps; she strides down back to the ground, quick and practiced, a blur against the stone. “Yes, all right – we need her favour if we’re going to be able to return what Mercer stole, which you still won’t let me tell you about, we need – it’s been a decade.” (Arabella remembers the thick patterns of dust in these strange halls.) “It’s been a decade, Arabella, this is my life, and if bringing it back isn’t – maybe it won’t help! But I told you, it’s business.” She tosses her head; she’s still hooded, and it’s still dark, so this conveys very little. “Yes. I negotiated acquittal. And if you want to be angry about it, that’s fine, but do it less obtrusively so we can actually start –”

“I’m not angry,” Arabella says, and she licks her teeth. Karliah looks at her; in the dark, her eyes don’t flash. Her face is an ink-smudge. Arabella grins. “I just wanted you to admit it. That’s truly astoundingly selfish.”

“In fairness,” Brynjolf says, before Karliah has a chance to rail at that, and he gestures, quick and loose and just fast enough for her eyes to register it, to the lax little circle they stand in, like the points of a lopsided triangle. “Would you expect anything less?”

It’s still so dark – so little light comes in even through the entryway – but the water sounds cold and quick as it runs, and Arabella is good at taking up all manner of sensory space. “Touché,” she says through beaming teeth; shrugs, exaggerated, the motion rippling the metalline mark pressed into the back of her neck. “Really, Karliah, I don’t mind. Nocturnal can have my soul. What worth is it to me?”

[ryuryuryuyurboat]

home is where the heart is

synopsis: family members don't have to be blood relatives, right?

genre: fluff

characters: adelinde x gn! reader (platonic/familial)

warnings: reader is referred to in 2nd person, reader is implied to be a ragnvindr, diluc + crepus + moco and hillie cameo, mentions of injuries from battle

a/n: entry #1 for @i23kazu's ebg :) likes, reblogs and comments highly appreciated!!

©2023 ryuryuryuyurboat. do not repost, translate, plagiarise, or modify in any way, shape or form.

masterlist

maid! adelinde, who enters the manor of dawn winery, uncertain of what her future holds, and who’s greeted by a shabbily coloured banner, the ‘e’s in “WELCOME” inverted, its artist – you – waddling over to her with a proud grin.

maid! adelinde, who’s clueless on how to decipher your incoherent gibberish, and opts to nod nervously in faux understanding as you babble and point at various parts of the house.

maid! adelinde, who’s cautious around you, almost as if she were stepping on eggshells, meek “good morning”s and “have a good day”s as the only interactions you share.

maid! adelinde, who maintains her distance, never meeting your eyes and only talking when directly addressed.

maid! adelinde, who’s taken aback when you spread your arms wide open and demand an “upsy!” from her, looking to master crepus for guidance (and permission, too).

maid! adelinde, who gingerly lifts you up, unsure of what to do next, and brings you to her chest, freezing up when you sigh in content and rest your head on her shoulder.

maid! adelinde, who gradually warms up to her life in dawn winery, slowly increasing her interactions with the manor’s inhabitants.

mais! adelinde, who frantically waves her hands as she tries to insist you stop addressing her so courteously as “miss [ade]linde”. keyword: tries. she can’t help but smile as you huff with your hands on your hips, assuming the role of an intimidating master and standing your ground. “you WILL let me say miss linde. master’s orders!”

maid! adelinde, who unconsciously increases her pace to finish her chores as early as possible just so she can spend some free time to entertain you while master crepus is buried in work. (diluc pouts and looks on in envy, but cheers up when you stretch your hand out to him in invitation)

maid! adelinde, who feels a strange warmth flooding her heart when you shyly ask her to read you a bedtime story – she’d be an abyss mage if she rejected you when you requested it so nicely.

adelinde, who tucks you into bed every night after retelling the story you insisted never got boring because “miss linde makes it sound like a new story every time!”, gently moving away stray strands of hair from your face, bidding you “good night” in a gentle whisper as she extinguishes the candle and dims the lights.

adelinde, who is roused from her slumber by a series of soft knocks on her room door, only to be greeted by your trembling figure, tear stains evident on your cheeks. she hums you back to sleep in her embrace, to the beat of the rain’s dulcet staccato on the windowpane and the rumble of the distant thunder.

adeline, who watches you grow from that little child so easily frightened by lightning to a young adult capable of taking down enemy fatui camps without breaking a sweat, quite nearly swelling with pride every time she hears Mondstadt citizens praise you for your deeds (and your looks, but that’s a story for another day).

adelinde, who tuts in worry when you come home all bruised and battered from a full day of clearing out enemy camps, rushing to get out the first-aid kit to tend to your wounds, all the while nagging you for being so careless. “what were you thinking? you could’ve been killed!” “sorry, mom…”

adelinde, who pauses in her action of applying antiseptic to a particularly bad cut on your arm, and looks up to see you equally shocked, eyes wide in realisation.

mother figure! adelinde, who doesn’t know when you’d started to see her as a mother figure, but also has no idea when she’d started to see you as her own child either. 

mother figure! adelinde, who leans in to hug you tight, tears welling up, as you reach your hand up to pat her head – just like she used to do when you were little.

mother figure! adelinde, who, on a certain second sunday in may, wakes up to a commotion in the manor’s kitchen, and sighs as she makes her way down, mentally prepared to chastise moco and hillie yet again.

mother figure! adelinde, who stops short in the kitchen doorway, watching an unaware you curse under your breath as you pick up fallen bowls from the floor. “why is cooking so hard….”

mother figure! adelinde, who sighs yet again, a fond smile on her face as she walks in to offer you a hand, the smile only growing wider at your frantic attempts to shoo her out because “i meant to bake the cake for you!! how can it be a surprise if you’re helping me– oh. nevermind.”

the sun rises, bathing dawn winery in its glow– yet the warmth it radiates cannot compare to the aura around the pair in the kitchen.

if you liked this, do consider dropping me a follow for more :>

[themarginalthinker]

Bittersweet

The months before the divorce were hard.

-

"-and if you think I'm going to take this-"

"-No, you're gonna run away, just like you always do!"

"At least then I won't have to sit here and watch and pretend that you're not doing exactly what you're doing with that woman-!"

The house never feels so small as when the screaming inside of it reaches its maximum volume. The sound of it echoes and bounces through the kitchen, up the stairs, and through the hallway. The hardwood floor makes for great acoustics, letting Sam know exactly the moment someone - he knows who - throws something glass on the floor. It's the only thing he can hear, the noise replaying for long seconds in his head.

At least, he tells himself, it's just a plate or a cup. Not someone's hand against their body.

Sam stares outside at the slowly sinking sun. He sits at his desk, the red-gold rays providing enough light he doesn't need to turn on his lamp yet. Under his hands, the pencil clutched limply in his fingers, his math homework sits, half-done.

If you have two parents, and one decides to get caught with someone else, how soon will all hell break loose.

It would be kinda funny, if it were happening in another house. To another person, another family. In a TV show or movie or book. Sam's hands shake as he lifts them from the desk, palms clammy. He tries to take a breath - and jolts when there's the deep, rattling slamming of a door, the garage door. An engine stars with the same kind of screaming as was happening with human voices, and soon, it's silent.

Sam doesn't know if he likes that any better.

Foot steps up the stairs, and Sam turns quickly to his door. It's closed, and he waits. But they move past, towards the end of the hall. The master bedroom.

That door slams too.

Through the wall by his own bed, Sam can hear his mother's voice gasp and heave. Sobs, muffled through layers of wood and drywall. Sam turns back around to his desk. The light was getting redder as the sun moved, imperceptibly, soon to be below the distant craggy mountains past the city limits. Sam kept his eyes on them as the noises quieted to nothing.

Then, a knock at his door.

Michael doesn't wait for Sam to answer. He sticks his head in.

"Hey."

Sam tries to keep his voice steady. "Hey," he answers.

Michael glances to the side, towards their parents room. Then back to Sam.

"You wanna take a ride? You've been working on that since you got home."

He nods to the papers on Sam's desk. Half done. Interrupted. Equations that read like number salad in his head, repeating the same instructions over and over, notes from class that sound like Charlie Brown adult gibberish when other words were so much more clear and ringing in his head.

Sam nods. "Okay."

He grabs his shoes, a colorful overshirt to slip over his plain tee. Michael's got his bike keys in hand, and with a scribbled note left on the counter, they're off.

The warm air of the coming summer whips wonderfully past them as they zip through the streets of the suburbs and into town. Whistling and light. The noise of Mike's motorbike filling the silence between the two of them until its not silence, and simply quiet company. It's roaring when Michael pushes it past what really is the legal speed limit, and when idling at a light, it purrs a constant hum of contented, but prepared energy. Sam likes the sound.

"Don't tell Mom," Michael says, pulling up to an open-air shop with a good crowd of people milling around, sitting at tables and on the curb. "She'd kill me for this."

Sam smiles. "Get a hot dog to go with it, then. That's a balanced dinner."

"Good thing we're young," Michael laughs.

-

Sam orders double-chocolate. Michael gets strawberry with cheesecake bits, and hot dogs for them both. They sit at a table, and watch the sun go down.

[spicymiilk]

Should I continue this?

Muted light is spilling out from the edges of an eclipse, casting shadows over the outer walls of a dull, colorless shack. This high up, the only sounds come from the distant screeching of banshees and the soft humming of the technology that fights to keep them alive. Every once in a while that hum will stop, like a heart skipping a beat, and all she can do is hold her breath until it stutters back to life. She tries not to think about it, about how every single bit of air that enters their lungs is a blessing just waiting to run out, but it’s hard. It’s hard to do that when they’re surrounded on all sides by reminders of humanity’s limits. 

A loud ‘Mmh’ tumbles through the silence feuling Paz Socorro’s thoughts. The sound crackles through the walkie-talkie turned baby monitor that she has resting on the lid to her tool kit, which she reaches over to grab before pressing the talk button. 

“Watcha doing, sweetheart?” She asks into the walkie-talkie. It’s more rhetorical than anything. Spider’s been doing this for a couple of weeks now. She thinks he’s trying to say ‘mom’, but that could just be wishful thinking. 

She hears what she assumes are blankets rustling around before Spider repeats ‘mmh’ into his monitor. It sounds louder than last time. He must’ve been crawling closer to the monitor. He’s been doing that for a bit now, too. Trying to crawl everywhere.  “Yeah? Is that so?” Paz hums, doing her best to convey interest. “Tell me all about it.”

Spider forms a few more sentences of babbled gibberish before a bumping sound followed by a piercing screech causes Paz to flinch back, dropping the screwdriver she was holding in her free hand. The tool plummets down into the trees hundreds of feet below them and she hisses out a curse, her hand whipping out to grab onto the piece of chord she has tied to the shack. Working on repairs is always tricky. The floating hunk of rock they’re on hardly has enough space for their shack, let alone for her to get out and work on said shack, and they’re so high up that one wrong mood could mean—well, she doesn’t want to think about what it could mean. For her or for her son. 

Usually Spider stops crying just as quickly as he starts, but this time the cries continue to ring out through the walkie. With a sigh, Paz carefully gathers her remaining things and retreats back into the safety of the shack. After setting her things down and taking off her breathing mask, she makes the brief journey into a cramped adjoining room. In it, a small tv-esk device is filtering in recordings from Earth—bits and pieces from documentaries, the news, tv shows, and even messages from people in the past. The light from the device is the room’s only source of illumination at the moment. In the center of the room is a nest of blankets and pillows and bedsheets where Spider should be, but alas. Instead, her baby boy is sitting near a chair, a tiny red mark on his forehead and big tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. 

“Oh, honey,” Paz croons, scooping her battered little birdie up. His hands instantly latch onto her, his cheek coming to rest on her shoulder. She makes soft shushing sounds as she bounces him up and down gently, rubbing his back all the while. His soft golden curls tickle her skin as she sways.  “Don’t worry baby, Mommy’s here. Shh, you’re okay, it’s just a scratch.” Her comfort seems to do the trick. Before she knows it he has quieted down, relaxing in her arms with a content sigh, his scratch forgotten. On the tv, the scene of a horse race fizzes away to blackness briefly before it flashes back on, vibrant waves on a beach taking its place. 

“Look at that,” Paz whispers, pointing to the screen. She says it in a tone that beckons importance, the same tone she used to use on her little siblings. Spider, recognizing it, turns his head and sees that she’s pointing. His soft brown eyes follow her limb to the screen, where they reflect the sea.

 “Ocean,” Paz says. “That’s the ocean.”

“Mmh?” 

It occurs to Paz then, like it already has so many times before, that Spider will never get to experience what it’s like to feel the cold pacific waters lapping at his feet. Hell, she never got to feel what it was like. What’s the point of seeing anything, she wonders, if you’ll never get to experience it? It’s better than going to some place where the very air you breathe could kill you, she guesses. 

Just as she’s about to turn around and put Spider back in his make-shift bed, the tv goes black again, Only this time it’s not alone. Everything goes dark, the shack’s energy giving out. She can no longer hear the hum of the atmospheric converter. Just like every other time, all Paz can do is hold her breath and wait until the blip corrects itself, hoping and praying. When the lights come back, she releases it and hugs Spider closer. 

On the tv the screen has shifted again and a woman is sitting across from the camera. 

“Where do you think we’ll be 150 years from now?” The man interviewing her asks. The woman smiles that bright smile everyone on tv seems to always wear, the only smile they seem to know how to pull off. She looks like she might be a scientist.

“Well, Jared, I bet we’ll have made it to Mars by then.”

Ooooh hooooo is this a kind of ‘Paz leaves the RDA and lives with Spider on Pandora’ type of AU? I fuck with it so hard

I like your writing a lot! I would read the crap out of it if you continue, so you definitively should. Join the ranks of Spider writers 💪💪

[clown-ged]

a Morning Routine with Bad Reception

every morning the same thing

i wake up to a layer of plexiglass between me and the world

i struggle to move my body enough

to get enough momentum

to sit up

then stand

then step

then step

then step

then step

all the way to the toilet to relieve the pressure

one I've been feeling for nearly an hour now as I've been struggling

desperately

to connect my mind to my body

just enough

to twitch a finger

to cause that cascade of movement

until I have come to rest again

and risk facing that struggle once more, once the need arises

to pilot my body to another location

the connection between my controller and my console seems to be faulty.

it resets without warning.

minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades, millenia pass.

like radio static, filling my skull.

like the buzzing of thousands upon thousands of bees.

the vibrations become heat that liquefies the grey matter.

there is no sound but the universe is So Loud

there is only sound, inescapable

the pounding heart in my chest sounding so far away

but sounding nonetheless

distant drums from across a dark abyss

is this droning in my ears that is drowning out the world

the call of the Nothing that I feel that it is?

or is this sound simply Everything

All At Once

every thought I've ever had, am having, will ever have

all playing on top of each other

like standing in the center of a crowd of voices

all saying different things

but all of them directed at Me.

and then

I

am

aware again.

how much time has passed?

when did I lose track of it?

I open my phone to check if I sent any messages during the time I spent in the static of the Noverything.

I look for any evidence I have left from before and compare the time stamps to the present clock.

when i find out that the centuries I spent in the static were only

a handful

of minutes

the plexiglass thickens.

I muster up the strength to relocate.

I stand

I step

I go to wash the cats' bowls

to feed them their breakfast

a meal they are pestering me for

with meows and purrs and rubbing their fur against my ankles

making me have to focus more of my attention

on each step

by step

by step

to the sink

and as the water makes contact with my hands

I realize, abruptly

that while I was lost in the echoing garbled gibberish from earlier

I neglected to piss.

and I must return to step one

of my morning

and hope

my perception and reception on reality remain

just stable enough

to make it to another hour

another moment

another chance

for the plexiglass to thin

perhaps even lift

even if for a moment

and even though the memory of those moments

however recent they may be

may feel as though it was experienced lifetimes ago

once on the other side

the moments can still replay, however distantly

reminding me that even though reality may seem to

skip

and repeat

and jump

like a faulty CD

the continuity of my life can be traced

to a single being

a human one

a human being now increasingly aware of the burden of the task of self-maintenance

until it abruptly isn't aware anymore

the fog

the static

the abyss of nothingeverything

the body going limp

catatonic

only aware of itself enough to know it has done so

but with no power to change anything about it

nothing left but the whirling wheels of thoughtless thinking to taunt me

the knowledge of my state of being driving me further into it

until I can grasp at just enough of a thought

to follow its trail

back up to reality

somehow finding myself only minutes ahead of where I was before

once again

and now must continue the burst of whatever task needs doing.

tasks always need doing.

what task was I doing?

the plexiglass thickens again.

I think I have to pee.

[greatqueenanna]

"when one can see no future, all one can do is the next right thing" versus "when one can see all future, all one can do is the next right thing".

Opinion.

Elsa shouldn't believe the gibberish, the troll should be executed for the greater good. Its ability is useless for the good of the future.

I'm guessing that you're critiquing Grand Pabbie's character. Correct me if I'm wrong.

I'm not going to try and defend Grand Pabbie as a character, because I do believe that he is the weakest aspect of the Frozen franchise's writing. I understand why he's there. He's meant to fill in the role of Mr. Exposition with a hint of Vagueness is Coming in order to get the plot moving forward. It's still very annoying regardless.

He can't directly tell Elsa and her parents that love is the answer to controlling her magic, because then there's no plot. But he has to be there in order for the current plot to work - otherwise, you'd have to come up with a different reason for the girls to be close as kids but then distant, a reason why the parents kept them separate without making them look completely cruel, and why Anna doesn't know that Elsa has magic. I'm sure that everyone is thinking of an alternate way to accomplish this without the trolls as we speak lol.

Same in F2 - if he just directly tells them that the dam is the problem, then you lose the plot. But someone has to tell them where to go and what they need to do. It seemed like they originally had an alternate version, where they discover Iduna's personal notes instead (as implied in the deleted song "I Seek the Truth" and the deleted scene of The Secret Room). I don't know why they removed this idea, but honestly, it would've been better than Grand Pabbie coming in again and causing drama again.

As for Elsa executing him - nah. He means well. He's just used as a plot device too many times.

[pancakesandpopcorn]

Songs run through your head in a low and repatative way but you don't have the will to pick up your earphones and play any of them.

Things that you had planned to do come back to haunt you again and again but you don't have the strength to do any of it.

Everything starts feeling distant and disconnected from you. As if there is a glass wall between you and the rest of the world.

Your eyes struggle to focus, and instead just lie there, lifeless, as if they have been seeing sadness for quite a while now.

All the cries of "It will be fine" and "You will get better" that you say to yourself become meaningless and hollow. Like a word that has been repeated too long, the phrases become mere whispering of the wind. Barely audible, indecipherable gibberish.

As you sit there observing yourself you wonder why are you this way. Things are not so bad after all. But that doesn't make the sadness go away.

You don't have the energy to live but you also don't have the guts to die. So you just lie there staying somewhere in between. Inside a dark cave where its hard and cozy.

[another-corpo-rat]

Assorted

A small gathering of very short drabbles to play around with catching other character's voices and getting lil ideas out there. Below the read more: Mythology | Goro Takemura & OC Aftermath | Adam Smasher/OC Treason | Michiko Arasaka & OC Impression | Mitch Anderson & OC Kintsugi | Sandayu Oda/OC

.

[Mythology]

“My, my, Takemura; such ill-mannered language.” Her lips twitch minutely, it takes but a moment for her to let the smile bare her teeth. There is nothing sweet about it now; what he sees is the grin of a rasetsu, eager to devour. “It’s almost like you can’t stand me.”

“Because I cannot.” Something sharpens in her smile, a glint alight in her eyes. “You have polished yourself to a shine Ms Crane, but that does not hide the rot within.” She doesn’t insult him with the pretence of offense; they both know his opinion is of no matter to her now. If he has heard the whispers, then there is no doubt she also knows what he has been coined; the bladeless rōnin. A toothless dog.

[Aftermath – Follow up to Midnights]

It was calmer now, a sort of ease between them that she hadn’t anticipated; one that makes her shoulders rise with tension and clench her jaw as she waits for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t come hours nor days later, now they were pushing into weeks and her bones were aching with how tightly she’s held herself.

Adam’s fingers, cold chrome, comfortable in his Dragoon frame once more, are gentle as they curl around her own. Like a knight in an old tale he lifts her knuckles to his jaw, brushing them against his mandible in his mimicry of a kiss. It’s a bold motion in its blatancy, drawing curious eyes of significant enough faces – they look away when met with his unblinking stare, the unspoken challenge to question him. None do.

Her shoulders relax.

 [Treason]

“I think,” Crane pauses, mulling over her words as she stares into the deep red of the wine. It’s an odd sight for how long the younger woman draws it out, lets herself express freely the thoughts that pass her mind. The beauty of wine, Michiko thought, disarming even those with a knife for a tongue. “That perhaps Yoriunbo knew what he was doing, in the long run.”

“You don’t think he overestimated Smasher’s loyalties?”

“Everyone knows Smasher is no samurai, he’s not bound by devotion the same way Takemura or Zaburo are,” she lifts her glass, gesturing carefully to the balcony where Michiko’s own assigned guard stands; still watching, but respectful of their space. “He’s more like…like a praetorian guard.”

There is a significance there that Michiko is not entirely aware of; history had always been a blind spot of hers. She waits, but Victoria offers nothing further as she sips at her wine, gaze distant as she follows that thread of thought privately.

[Impression]

She was a spiteful thing; that much Mitch knew just by looking at her - could see it in the distaste that caught in her eyes like a shine whenever Saul’s back was turned, the way her lips pressed tightly, screwed upwards whenever someone that wasn’t him opened their mouth. Try as they might, corpos could never really grasp how nomads worked; placing genuine value in someone else’s input was a foreign concept to them. Add to it that that someone was coated in oil and dust and they looked at you like you just sprouted a second head and started speaking gibberish.

His lips twitched, more than happy to be the source of this suit’s disgruntlement.

“You got a problem?” And this is where he expects a surprise, however brief, that she was caught. She offers none, merely looking down and slowly, purposely, clawing her gaze back up – it never lingers, but he catches how her eyes narrow now at the state of his clothes.

“Multiple.” She says, an exaggerated exhaustion clinging to the word.

 [Kintsugi]

“It was cruel what he did to you.” Oda’s words are a mere whisper, almost lost to the din of Night City’s ambiance as his fingers deftly trace where golden chrome meets skin. Later tonight, his lips will follow that same path; as gentle and ghosting, tender in a way she’s wary of.

“Hardly.” Victoria hisses, needlessly defensive of a dead man. “It was necessary.” The cyberninja pauses, pale eyes narrow as he considers his next words; caution was always advisable when the topic of Smasher breached its head. The memory of him as unpleasant as he had been in life; his grip on Victoria still as tight, and she entirely unwilling to shake free.

“Do you truly believe that?” He presses gently, a kiss placed on her shoulder to soothe the rise of frustrations he expects will come. It does not, instead a shuddering, uneasy breath takes its place as she crosses her arms tightly across her chest, shoulders hunching as she pointedly looks away.

He accepts the victory with a grace she was never offered.

[djd3rpy]

Feeling forgotten, a diary

I feel like I have no purpose at all. I feel unmotivated, lost, stressed out, easily distracted and on the verge of insanity. No matter how much I tried to do my best at something, no matter how I'm trying to perfect a skill to something I'm really passionate that one day will become a dream come true, I'm getting constantly denied, undesirable and at a point where I just want to give up. Everyday, I've always have a strange feeling that I'm probably missing something in my life. Every time I tried to be the best older sibling, the best eldest son to my loving parents, the best nephew to my aunts and uncles, the best cousin, even trying to be a good friend, I've always felt left out and forgotten to the point where I'm being ignored or just a distant memory from their conscious. I always have a voice in my head telling me to do it, when I don't want to, even though its a constant pain that I'm currently living for 6 years. I know the title may not make sense at all and I understand that it's a bunch of gibberish that I'm just typing out but it's a struggle that I don't even know I can get out of. I thought I was fine, I thought my mental health is stable enough where I can't be sad any more. I guess it came crawling back and bit me in the ass. Depression may be gone for a while but it's always hiding in the shadows ready to strike and drag you back down to hell. Being in my 20s is the most insufferable and toughest experience I've ever lived through. I want all of this to be done and over with.