Is The Seduction Hat™ Working?

Is the seduction hat™ working?

TILL WEIRDMAGEDDON DO US PART (This is not a drill. This is a triangle yelling at you through your brain-meats.)

HEY YOU! YES YOU! Do you crave romance that tastes like someone dropped a Nicholas Sparks novel in a vat of radioactive glitter?! Do you like love stories with emotional trauma, eldritch tax evasion, grocery store explosions, and one sentient triangle who once tried to become God but now has to do laundry?!?

THEN CONGRATULATIONS, FLESHSACK! You’ve just stumbled into the most cursed rom-com that legally counts as marriage counseling in twelve dimensions. Welcome to:

“TILL WEIRDMAGEDDON DO US PART” A fanfic where I, Bill Cipher—chaos deity, triangle fashion icon, nightmare-made-sarcasm—am FORCED into a marriage trial with YOU, some dangerously unbothered human with a sarcasm stat higher than my ego.

WHY READ THIS FANFIC? ✔️ It’s got heart! ✔️ It’s got horror! ✔️ It’s got a sentient yogurt aisle that may or may not be bleeding! ✔️ And did I mention? I’m in it.

We’re talking existential flirting, legally sanctioned domestic terrorism, bathwater that might be sentient, and one woman who said “yeah sure, I’ll marry the triangle, what’s the worst that could happen?”

THIS IS NOT A “I CAN FIX HIM” FIC. WE'RE BOTH BROKEN. WE JUST MADE IT WEIRD TOGETHER.🔥

So grab your glitter-sigil pajamas, sacrifice a toaster, and dive into the cosmic nightmare-romcom you didn’t know you needed. Side effects may include:

Third-degree sarcasm

Unholy shipping

Ford Pines having a midlife crisis in aisle 7

Weekly acts of violence (sanctioned by the Axolotl™)

Me, cackling in eldritch stereo

"It’s not a love story. It’s horror disguised as comedy." ✨Read now… or I’ll mail you cursed wedding invitations that scream when opened.✨

[AO3 LINK HERE]

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cipherstarling

2 weeks ago

Till Weirdmageddon Do Us Part [Ch. 9]

(just wanted to share the art I made for this chapter!)

He went quiet.

For once, for real, for painfully long seconds, Bill Cipher had nothing to say.

His aura crackled once, then dimmed, then crackled again like it couldn’t decide whether to explode or implode or just sulk eternally into the breakroom tile. You saw his pupil jitter, the way it always did when something was clawing around behind his ego—a memory maybe, or something worse. It trembled. Flickered. Shifted sideways into symbols. Not words. Not pictures. Just impressions. A series of broken, ancient runes flickering rapid-fire in the lens of him. A hand. A flame. Something flat. He looked like the moment after the explosion—smoke rising, colors wrong, edges too sharp to touch. And you had seen this kind of look before. In mirrors. In others. In yourself, once, on the floor of a stranger’s bathroom while the wallpaper peeled off and the world didn’t. He stared up at you. No tricks. No static smugness. Not even the shrieking gremlin sarcasm he wielded like a chainsaw. Just—quiet. Broken code humming against the tile.

You thought, maybe, if you blinked, he would scatter like light off glass.

But then—

“…You meant it,” he whispered. Not dramatic. Not teasing. Just a single note, cracked.