#directed at the exact people who would be workshopping it

[bitsbug]

i have a ton of question/suggestions for slug sign: 1. how do you indicate emotion in SS? my best guess is using cycles but talking about smth like sadness cant really be done that way 2. is there a specific way youre supposed to type out SS in english? 3. SS seems pretty heavy on context adding a kind of adjective system may help to fix issues with specification as well as free up room for more words. an example would be making words for "cycle", "food", "region", and "direction" and then changing the current word for "cycle" into "specify" so you could say [cycle] [<specification>] to talk about the specific cycle and plan or [direction] [<specification>] to talk about a specific direction and where you may want to go.. etc. words without specification still work but use context. 4. is there a way to explain advanced movement in SS, stuff like a flip or roll. 4.5. if not id suggest adding words for stuff like "sprint" or "crouch" and to go with it "then" to explain stuff for example [jump] [then] [crouch] [forward] would be a way to explain sliding

5. did you ever have concepts for a written version?

hooh momma! thank you for all the questions!

1)

Slugsign has a few emotion indicators, but not all of them are signs. We hop around a lot and dance and flip when we're happy; hopping in place is kind of a "this is good!" while hopping sporadically is "I'm excited!"

Using "loser" repeatedly or shaking on the spot expresses frustration, alongside signing "no" a lot and hitting eachother with rocks. Also insulting whatever you're mad at, we love to insult things.

Recently we've started using "peace" as a way of saying sorry, which wasn't even intentional it just developed during a play session. Sadness is characterized by a lot of "sorry" and crouching without movement and trying to shove yourself into corners. [Me] [loser] is used to express guilt.

2)

Oh hey, you actually use the exact method we use in this ask. We transcribe signs by placing them in brackets, for example: [give?] [Moon] [quantity-lots] [scav][object]. There's no official way you're "supposed" to though, that's just what we do.

3)

What you propose sounds like an interesting idea, but idk how much it'd be utilized. I mean for direction you can just.. point in the way you want to go. And "cycle" in reference to a day is considered the current one by default- you'd use "later" to specify a future one. I think what you're wanting is an abstracted "this" sign? which yeahh WOULD be nice actually..

I've thrown out the idea of having a grammatical word order thing, like [cycle] [food] and [food] [cycle] having different meanings, but Phen's worried that'll be really hard to memorize and cause confusion. Idk I still think it's cool and would add a lot of nuance, I'm gonna try to convince her on it.

4)

We probably could add those signs if y'all really want? I know people use it for their own co-op now, but in me and Phen's sessions we both already know the movement tech. It sounds really funny to teach someone about rainworld using slugsign though, I like that.

I could see condensing all those into a single "movement" or "example" sign: you use the sign and then do the action you're demonstrating. So a backflip would be like.. [example-run] [example-turn] [fast] [example-jump].? Could probably use some workshopping.

5)

..no not really!! I'm not a linguist or a language hobbyist, me and Phen are just winging this shit according to need, and I have NO idea how I'd go about making a written variant beyond transcripts. Besides idk if we'd really.. use it? That sounds super good for the worldbuilding aspect, but we already have the legend to reference. Anyone else who wants to take on the idea, by my guest.

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

Soulmate AU worldbuilding………………………… I am workshopping

I think I want there to have been a society, historically, where warriors formed these force soulbonds to become semi-immortal and drift compatible in combat- something along the lines of being each other's link to life maybe, making it so you have to kill them both just to kill one. Because I think the concept is cool.

And I'm thinking the Sith have a super dark history with it- maybe they co-opted the above? but added hierarchy. Maybe they used these links as a form of enslavement.

I want the exact nature and origins of the phenomenon to be murky and disputed, with wildly different beliefs around them.

I think maybe the most mainstream jedi philosophy around soulmates is that the force sometimes indelibly links people in a string of fate, and these people will have a great impact on each other and learn great lessons from each other and shape each other or meet by fate in order to accomplish something. (but it's not about being inseparable and staying together forever)

But circling back to the Sith and murky origins thing I think it would be cool if there was some fringe theories about dark origins or something. Maybe even that the phenomenon is the result of some old sith curse or something. It's a thought!

(I'm also intrigued by the idea that there are no parent-child soulmates. Possibly because of fate reasons- if you already have a direct hand in someone just existing, does fate need to guide you together? idk this feels goofy but on the other hand I'm thinking how this would shape thinking around it- there's gotta be people who believe it's an inherently romantic thing, since that is technically the trope, and this would be their 'natural' proof- which leads to some horror scenarios with soulmates with big age gaps or whatnot. And also if there are Master-Padawan bonds like that, with people making assumptions about Master-Padawan bonds… it's a thought)

In terms of Palpatine & Anakin as soulmates (which is where this thought started) I can imagine that Anakin believes in soulmates with his whole heart, and that Palpatine is very ready to use that and also some deeply fucked up sith traditions. (i guess in this particular version obi wan and anakin are not 'soulmates' and possibly padme and anakin aren't either, although if they aren't Palpatine possibly contrived to fake that they were for a while)

[megamanheadcanons]

Zero, X and Axl are playing Minecraft in Zero's bedroom, which is located upstair of his workshop named Nakajima, at 7pm.

*Knock, knock, knock*

Zero:"Lemme see who's coming at this hour."

He opens the door

Zero:"Good evening."

Mail delivery reploid:"I have a package for Mr. Wilhelm Ziegler. Errm... this package is a firearm, so would please show me your ID card and registration paper please?"

Zero:"Here they are."

The reploid's eyes shines beams of laser scanning Zero's ID card and registration paper for the firearm.

Mail delivery reploid:"Hmm, all things seems to be normal and in order, have a good evening sir."

Zero and the mail delivery reploid both exchanged handshake before he closes the door.

X:"What's that?", he points at the package Zero is holding.

Zero:"Ah, It's a new rifle, a carbine to be exact."

X:"What brand and how much?", he paused playing Minecraft and eagerly asks Zero.

Zero:"SIG SG553-CB, and it's only 400 zenny"

X:"What's "SIG"? Never heard about that."

Zero:"It can be translated to English roughly as "Switzerland Industries Group"."

Axl:"Damn, that's carbine must be "Sick"."

Zero:"You and your word playing jokes, Axl."

X:"Why did you ditch the KAZM-157, given to you by the organization?"

Zero:"It's a heavy mf. I now have backache thanks to that mf when we patrol the crowded streets for 6 months. IT'S A 9KG MACHINE GUN X! Don't know how the superiors gave me a machine gun for street patrol."

X:"Hmm, maybe they see you have stromg arms, your servos are better than mine.", he suggests.

Axl:"Any notable feature about this Swiss cheese maker?"

Zero:"First,it's a carbine, a mix between a submachine gun and a rifle. So it's lighter and shorter, compares to our KAZ rifle, which is 3.3 kg, it only weighs 2kg. Second, it has the counterbalance system like the ZAX-175, so it doesn't have any recoil. And finally, it's based on AK platform, which our ZAX-175 is the direct descendant, so it's easier to accomodate with it and repair."

Zero:"Anyways, let's head back to the computers and continue with Minecraft."

Trivial fact: Zero's original name is Wilhelm Wily, but he changed his name to Wilhelm Ziegler to conceal his dark past and ties to the mad scientist and to make people feel safer when they're around him.

^

[thepariahcontinuum]

if you’re still doing the worm power thing i have an idea…

a thinker who triggered from being lost somewhere and gained a power that prevents them from getting lost again.

-has perfect sense of direction and balance; always knows their exact coordinates, eidetic or near-eidetic memory, enhanced sight and hearing to some extent, wouldn’t get dizzy or disoriented in a fight

-enhanced tracking senses; they can touch an object and get clues about its origin and where it’s been. their power also lets them track people in the vicinity, making it possible for them to fight blind if needed.

-an odd side effect: since alcohol and drugs can disorient you, this cape is immune to their effects. this can come in handy, but it also sucks, because painkillers don’t work.

Okay are all these anon asks coming from one person? If so come off of Anon lol

This Cape is interesting, it's basically a grab-bag in the style of someone like Circus with the ways they can be applied and Interact with each other and go beyond what they were initially for.

You've got a built in GPS yeah, but then perfect recall which would enhance learning new skills, no disorientation, perfect balance, enhanced senses, learning about items through touch, tracking multiple targets.....Think about what kind of fighter this person would be.

Personally I'm thinking a hero who splits her time between the Protectorate team she's a part of, workshopping problems with other Thinkers for other PRT branches and doing search and rescue/search and destroy missions; either digging people out of natural disasters or chasing down people who were on kill-lists or somehow escaped Birdcage transports (Love the idea that Assault makes a point of leaving the room before she gets there whenever their teams meet)

I'm imagining someone who fights like a mix of Mouse Protector, Harbinger and Circus as and using batons and katana with ease depending on the targe but and this is important with absolutely zero panache or flair.

I don't know why but I'm put in the mind of someone with the mannerisms of Rei Ayanami; so we'll go with a costume kinda like her plugsuit....Beige bodysuit with some armour of the same colour, black detailing and a blue-grey wig; with a big difference in the form of multiple utility belts and tools on her person at all time, she's a thinker with hangups about being caught lost or unprepared anywhere.

The name....Slight Evangelion nod and following the Rei theme, whilst fitting with how bland and generic it is: "Wonder Girl"

[liminalweirdo]

YSK why your countless online job applications never land you an interview

Why YSK: We all know how god damn demoralizing it is to try to find a new job by searching online and applying via indeed, idealist, etc. You see your dream job listed, you know you're the exact person they want/need; you fire off your resume/cv and, of course, no reply save for the confirmation it's been received and thanks for applying! /s

It doesn't matter if you apply via indeed or on the company's direct webpage. Your application, resume, cv, or whatever is never seen by a person first. It's assessed by what's called a "automated screening software," that reviews your cv/resume, compares keywords in it versus the job listing, and then determines if you're the appropriate candidate.

Sounds neat, and definitely effective, but so wholly cutthroat and you aren't even aware of it. Not even the employer who is using the site or service to host the listing.

I mean, I could imagine how fucking insane it'd be to just have resumes mag-dumped directly to my inbox and then manually go through them to assess individually. So, these things were created, but - when has anyone ever told you about this when you were in your first "resume workshop! yay!" I don't even think those people know about this software.

The simple reason your not getting callbacks is just because you aren't using the exact words that are in the job listings post. You most certainly have the skills requested, you just framed it in your own way - not the way the listing says it verbatim.

It's super arduous, annoying, and taxing to have to re-do your resume for every single listing you shoot out, but, that's the game being played, and you didn't even know it was being played.

I'll never forget learning about this when I was in a slump of no call backs for dozens of jobs I applied. I had quit a position with two colleagues at the same time as we had to get the hell out of dodge that was that job, and it was bleak. No callbacks, no interests. It was terrifying. One colleague opened their own business, so they sorted themselves out well enough, but me and the other went the indeed/idealist route. 7 months with no returns and dwindling savings/odd jobs, my colleague checks in with me about my search and ultimately shares that he's gotten a 3 callbacks in a matter of weeks as a result of some website he used (jobscan.co).

I'll never forget that conversation, that website, and the curtain pull of how all this shit works. I used that site for a bit, but once I realized that all you had to do was semi-copy/paste word usage from the job posting into my CV/resume- suddenly, I was getting equally numerous responses back and interviews.

We're beyond the times of "knowing someone to get your foot in thr door." This is what's keeping people that actually could perform the job from even being noticed as an applicant because of sorting software. It's so simple and so stupid, but that's why you barely ever hear back beyond some automated "thanks for applying!"

I hope this helps someone. Boy, do i know how horribly soul-crushing and invalidating it is to apply for something you 100% know you qualify for and would do amazing at only to just be met with non-resonses. You're good at what you do, you're just up again a stupid program, not a lame HR person.

[eristic-kaleidoscope]

The Big Lebowski | Erik | Trial 2.2 | Re: a lot of people in general / Attn: Hosts again, Byrne

Urk. The dismissal is met with a disgruntled sigh and resigned acceptance. It was worth a shot, at least. Instead, Erik simply sinks back into his podium seat, and stays silent as the rest of the courtroom bursts into activity.

There are several points during the next several minutes where Erik types something down in his personal tablet, referring to both it and the notebook on his lap. His expression is guarded and weary, a far cry from the confident and headstrong thespian you were used to, but his bloodshot eyes remained hawkish and clear as he glances around the room from person to person, taking in what they had to say.

His kneejerk responses to Erika L and Byrne are supplanted by Erik A, who he gives an approving nod to. “I’ll just echo what he has to say and stress that what’s done is done. The best we can do is focus on finding who’s responsible for our present.” That being said, he does turn to Byrne. “While I would certainly like to agree, on the basis of the limited time someone would have to set up the trap in motion, there would have been a degree of possibility. Would have, because assuming they were together when they were, both Miss Ljunggren and Miss Danger are accounted for. I also don’t suspect Miss Ljunggren would have offered us the information about having seen the pharmacy door closing earlier in the morning otherwise.” It’s a silent vote of trust that Erik really hopes he won’t come to regret. He’s also just going to ignore Arakiel, because he is so not losing his temper about Airika being possibly accused. Again.

“I don’t have a lot to offer in terms of my own alibi, but I can corroborate the people who have seen me around. I even have approximate times for some, but take them with a grain of salt because I was only checking my tablet sometimes. Kenshin-san and I were in our room until eleven when I left it for the Eatery, which is when Miss Ljunggren, Arakiel and I crossed paths in the hallway. I know the exact time because I was looking at my tablet when he marched up to me and called me a bitch, so I called him a cuck in return.” If this were any other time, he would have been happier to share that story as something to look back and laugh upon, but his tone is even and tired. “Nobody entered the Eatery until Eureka did at 11.40, and then she left with her sandwiches around… 12.10? We can vouch for each other’s presence at that period of time, at least. I finished up eating and cleaning at 12.50 after.”

He furrows his brows. “I saw Cosette leave Byrne’s dorm and Kenshin-san leave the workshop around the same time. They’d stopped to chat, while I waved at them and continued onwards. I… presume the both of them were behind me, and did not encounter any difficulties with the lift. I headed towards the Music Store, and spotted Arakiel leaving that while Erisu-san was heading in our direction from the back. He called me a bitch again and tried to pick a fight, whereupon she settled it before it could really begin by scolding him.” Haha, cuck. “After that, he left for the Boutique as others have spotted him, while Erisu-san and I entered the Music Store. We were in each other’s company for upwards of an hour, and it was just after two that I departed from there.”

Erik glances in Airika’s direction, and then to Erik A. “I arrived at the Fitness Store just before 2.10, and then left around 2.50 as both of them have noted. After that, I thought I’d stop by the pharmacy on a whim, honestly… I came across Cosette and Byrne, the latter sobbing.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “I stepped closer to check their pulse, found nothing, and then I started losing it until part of me snapped myself out of it long enough that I stumbled out to go bring someone back to help trigger the body discovery announcement. From there, it is as I’ve said. I got to the Music Store, rushed a brief explanation through tears, and returned with Erisu-san in tow. That’s where and when the rest of you found us.”

Deep breaths. he needs a moment to recover after reliving the whole of that all over again in his mind.

“Otherwise, the rest I can offer you is circumstantial evidence at best, but I think it merits saying, at least. We know that whoever did this had to have enough tokens left to purchase the use of the ladder, hardware tools, and implements. Before any negotiations, that would run five, two, and one token respectively, for a total of eight tokens. Aside from that, assuming Miss Ljunggren saw whoever set the contraption up, it had to be someone who was not spoken for around 11.20 and shortly after in any capacity. That rules several of us out already, assuming whoever did this worked alone, but I would like to hear everyone’s full alibis before concluding who could and could not be responsible. I… do not have someone who can vouch for me at exactly 11.20, but Eureka saw me at 11.40 and I would have had to dash to the pharmacy with all of the equipment, barely avoid Miss Ljunggren on the way there, and return in twenty minutes. Additionally, while I do understand that there’s no possible way to completely check, I’m broke after spending all of my tokens on my favour to send a letter home, and for the fishtank I now have in my room, which multiple people can vouch for separately.”

Erik pauses. “And I suppose I’ve had quite a bit of access to Airika’s and Miss Danger’s room. Me spending a lot of time with the former is an open secret at this point.“ He also brings out his handkerchief, and the scrap of paper they’ve discussed finding in the sink within it. "I also brought this along if anyone wants to check it." Clicking off his pen, Erik turns back around. "Mx. An. Ms. Calluna. May I have permission to leave my seat to pass this pen over to Byrne and get a quick handwriting sample from him?” Not personal comfort, this time.

This time, he gets a nod from Calluna. “You may, briefly.”

[lemomentfatal]

October 14, 2022, 3.33 pm

The mediator who picks up the phone seems happy, almost amused, that I am calling. We ask each other how things are. She tells me that there are quite a lot of people in the exhibition. She approaches a visitor and asks whether they would like to “talk to the artist”, and as if to convince the person, she adds: “She is very nice”.

After a short silence, a soft voice greets me, a woman's voice I suppose. I introduce my project, why I am calling. She tells me that she is not a very talkative person, but that she is willing to talk to me. In negotiating the duration of the call, we remain a little vague; she tells me that she would like to see the exhibition, but that she has no exact time limit. When I tell her that French is not my mother tongue, she asks me where I am from, and I introduce myself: I say that I am 35 years old, and that I am an artist who, in general, does not make enough money to, as they say in French, live from my art, and that I often work in other jobs “on the side”. She asks me in what other fields I have worked, if I have been a teacher.

She just turned 60 this year, and she has had several jobs in her life. She started out with ceramics, when she was young. She lived in Provence then. Later, she came back to the city to study art history. At the Pompidou Centre, she saw an exhibition with digital images that really made an impression on her, Les Immatériaux. It was the first time she had seen anything like that, in the 1980s. She met an interior designer, who worked with computers, and she began to work with drawing on computer, it became her profession. She worked for different people. Her interest was in the computer image. She drew, and that was her job. Then she learned to make websites, but it was difficult because she did not have the usual profile of people who do that. In the end, she had a job burnout. She went back to Provence, the circle has closed, she says, she is now in the process of renovating a humid old house to set up a ceramics workshop.

She does not see a contradiction between ceramics and digital images. She once held a ceramics workshop for children; they made computer mice in clay, to see how a mouse moves. She thinks it is possible to connect the two worlds. I am touched by her generosity. I feel like the conversation is going fast, I feel unprepared. Yet she seems to be answering my questions, before I have asked them. She says that after the lockdown, it was like a breath of fresh air to be able to see exhibitions again. It has happened to her a dozen of times that an exhibition touches her, art is vital for her, these are overwhelming experiences. She remembers the first time. She came from a disadvantaged background, she did not go to art museums with her family. A teacher had taken her class to see an expressionist exhibition by the painter Chaïm Soutine, she was 6-7 years old, there were large paintings of meat, slaughtered cattle, strong colours, she was very touched by that exhibition.

I asked her if she would like me to guide her towards my drawings. I tell her that I have always found it strange as an artist not to be there, not to know what is going in the exhibition. She walks a little, I ask her to stand in front of the space. I ask her if there are people looking at the drawings, she tells me that there is a group with a guide approaching, but they change direction; she is alone in the space. She reads my name on the title card, suddenly it sounds foreign to me, but I confirm, that is me. I do not know her name. 

I thank her for taking the time to talk with me. She tells me that she has answered me very sincerely. I forget to give her the address of the website, where she could read this text. It is as if the end of the conversation goes too fast, she asks me if she can pass the phone on to the mediator, I hear her walking, the mediator takes the phone back, then hangs up.

[thatbeluga]

college rant

idk why this semester I'm feeling a lot more out of place than I did last semester. Now that I have more in person classes, and I'm actually hearing the other students hear talk, I just feel like my brain is not the same as theirs. Like there's a whole high level of operational speed my brain isn't even wired to function on. And I don't even know if it's bc most of them went to super expensive private schools or what. Like, I can get most of the material eventually, my brain can get it, just not in the same way as everyone else.

And then there's just the fact that my college is FILLED with rich people. Like, I thought I was comfortable, and then I heard the very casually delivered words "Yeah, I think I'll work in NYC for a few years but I'd rather raise my kids in London" and I realized I am NOT in the same space as some of these people here. On breaks everyone just "hops on a flight" to see their friends across country. I usually go one maybe one flight every one or two years for a big family vacation.

Or how everyone seems to have all these connections in high places. I have friends who could get a job at Goldman Sachs tomorrow if they wanted to. I have a friend who casually made almost 50K at a job he worked at for a few hours a week (He also apparently knows a few Netflix producers?). They did internships at major firms or political lobbies or research facilities last summer. I picked up dog shit. My connections could get me... a casserole when I'm sick? A few hours of work here and there if I need it in a pinch?

And then there's just people from places that just don't think the same. I'm a crass, sarcastic, and sometimes rude person, because I come from a place where being crass, sarcastic, and rude is a sign of affection. And people here just... do not get it. At all. They take my every word seriously and get offended by it, when it's literally an attempt by me to connect with them. Back home, sharing insults is how you know someone is comfortable with you. And that's not something I can just shut off, it's a part of who I am, and it's so, so, frustrating when other people don't get it. But I can't even be mad at them, because I know it's not their fault!

I'm the only graduate from my high school currently at this college. There have only been a handful from my high school that have ever gone here. Getting accepted was a HUGE deal for me. It was probably my second farthest reach school, and it was a big moment for me when they told me they wanted me. That all my hard work meant that much. And then, the other night I talked to someone who said he hoped his kids wouldn't "settle" for this college. He even admitted that he "settled" for this. As the conversation progressed, he told me that this college is "where kids who didn't get into the Ivy's go." and I know that's just a difference of perspective, but it felt like a slap in the face. I was never aiming for Ivy's, I aimed for this college and was so lucky to hit the mark. He also hit the mark, but to him he missed. And that was just a perspective I couldn't fit into my head.

First semester, a lot of the stuff I just ranted about was a point of pride. Being a rural, middle class public school graduate at this institute was something I was PROUD of. I loved when I would occasionally slip into my family's accent. I loved being the wild, scrappy, worldly one in the group. I even liked being an average student, after being a really high achiever all through high school. But the charm has worn off a lot of that. People have turned out to be a lot shittier than previously thought. I'm starting to realize I don't actually have to like the people I pretended to like last semester.

The reason all of this is really weighing on me is because something I always had, something that always kept me here, was that I got here on my own merits. It wasn't some relative in admissions, or rich parents, or sports prowess or other connections that got me here. It was MY accomplishments that got me here. I have tons of friends who struggle with that, because they know it's not their accomplishments that got them here. For a while, knowing that it was my abilities that got me here was enough, but do I belong here?

Hardly anyone here gets me, and I don't get them. I miss home where people make sense. Where everyone else can afford one plane trip a year. Where "I hate you so much" means "You're my favorite person." Where the speed my brain works at is fast enough. Where knowing the old guy that fixes up houses or the church gossips are all the connections you need. Where you can boil a fucking lobster alive and no one bats an eye.

I just can't wait to be done here, and go home, and raise a family there, instead of fucking London.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

ascendance - 01

PAIRING: mob!bucky barnes x reader

WARNINGS: violence, dark themes, age gap (reader is 23, bucky is 37)

SUMMARY: she was at the wrong place at the wrong time and a misunderstanding dooms her to a life as an ascendance card under the watch of the executer.

A/N: i’m so excited to go back to my mob writing roots with this one. there’s a bit of a few twists and changes to the traditional mob writing i’ve done before and i am really excited to be sharing chapter one with you. hope you enjoy it xx

> NEXT CHAPTER 

The ambience was dark, badly lit by the yellow flickering lights in the halls with echoes of the buzzing of the hot old light bulbs. There was no sound but that buzz and the heavy sound of his boots hitting the rotting wood floor boards. The scent in the air was putrid, a mix of what seemed like life meeting its end stage, cheap cider and weed. It was definitely different and he didn’t trust it. 

At the end of the corridor there it was. 107. The 107th flat in purgatory with the door slightly opened. He pushed the door open, the smell getting more intense and his boots sticky with the liquor spilled on the floor. 

     - What did you do? - each word was punctuated with intense disbelief, as if this was all a nightmare. 

     - Bucky, help me!

PRESENT

The wind brushed and pulled her hair into different directions as she stepped off the train’s step. She rushed through the streets of New York, hair pin stuck in the middle of her teeth as she fought the winds to try and set her hair into an appropriate hair do while running down the street at the same time. The chattering people and the sun peaking through the clouds was hopeful as she grabbed her coffee from the same vendor off the side street as her eyes gazed upon the Metropolitan Opera House which had been gracing the New York landscape for longer than she had been on this earth and now she was part of it, she was a small speck in an almost 60 year long history. 

Her smiled widened as her sneakers hit the pavement, eyes gazing over the fountain and the flags of the production coming down from the opera house’s arches. The same production she was part off. Sure, she was a chorus girl but the mere thought of singing on that stage, of watching that public in those red velvet seats under the chandelier just made it all more exciting. She walked inside the theatre through the stage door, meeting the manager at the door. 

     - Hi. - she leaned her hands against the desk where the manager was surrounded by attendance and cast sheets as well as a big laptop shining a blue light onto her face. The woman didn’t even look up, instead putting up a board with the names of all people in the production in front of her. - Do you need to see my ID? 

     - Just sign in front of your name. 

Y/N giddily looked at the list of names, hers closer to the bottom but there, written in bold Arial font. She signed her name in front of her printed one with the barely working pen, before pinning it over the board and handing it over to the manager who pointed inside the opera theatre. She held onto her gym bag harshly, padding the sublime floors and looking around with such wonder one would believe she’d never been here. She’d been here before, she was here every month to watch a performance but now she was not guest, she was not just another person walking in with a ticket, she was part of it, she was part of the show. After years of doing community plays, workshops and failed auditions, she had gotten here and suddenly all those days spent in bed feeling miserable in bed after getting rejected yet again didn’t matter anymore she was here.

Her eyes glanced at every tiny little ornament in the opera house until she entered the theatre room. Her heart filled with joy and happy nostalgia as the red and golden tones of the room involved her. There wasn’t anyone in the theatre yet except for a few musicians from the instrumental pit and some cleaners so she was free to roam around. Her fingers traced the suede velvet of the red seats, finding a few missing binoculars on the grounds but not really caring. 

     - You! - she whipped her head towards the voice which came from a woman, probably in her mid 40s all dressed in black with a gold name tag slightly above her left breast. 

     - Hi. - Y/N smiled, extending her hand towards the woman. - I’m Y/N, I’m the new ...

    - I don’t care, we need silk ribbons, now. 

    - Oh, I ... I’m new, I don’t know where I’d get silk ribbons, m’am.

    - The costume room? Go, stop looking at me as if you were Bambi and go.

    - Oh, okay. 

She made her way hastily out of the theatre room wondering how she was going to find silk ribbons, where she was going to find them and why she had to find them. Maybe it was a hazing ritual for new people, after all, she had been into various hazings during her career, including downing a whole bottle of honey which she couldn’t even finish, only eating one fourth of it before becoming nauseous. 

She stopped in the middle of the hall, wondering where the costume room could be. It couldn’t be on the top floor, that was usually where the bars and common rooms were so if the building followed regular construction protocols for opera houses, it was probably on the underground section of the house where the dressing rooms used to be. Y/N ventured into the lift, pressing the lowest number on the number chart of the panel until she reached the underground floor. Y/N looked around, people running in and out yet no one stopped whenever she tried to question where the costume room was. She had managed to find the costume shop but no luck finding the costume room until she was pretty much pressed against a dark door with those exact words by the passing crowd. 

She twisted the knob of the costume room door, tumbling onto the dark room as a result. The room was filled to the brim with costumes on each side of the room, a plexiglass divider between the two sides which stopped every meter or so and also appeared to be divided onto female and male costumes with the ensemble costumes at the back. She padded across the concrete floors, looking through dresses and accessories for ribbons but no successful attempt. The ruffling from the other side of the room had her turning around, forehead furrowed as she walked towards the plexiglass divider. 

     - Hello? - she questioned, wondering if there was someone in this room who could help her find silk ribbons. Great, she had barely joined the company and was already screwing up. Great, Y/N. Way to go, Y/N. 

She saw someone all dressed in black just like the women before, yet there seemed to be something which didn’t match up; black jeans, black shirt and black leathe jacket as well as a pair of also black boots, scruffed and probably entirely too old to still be holding up together. Her eyes caught his which despite the low almost non existent light of the costume room, were light, a sort of greyish blue like the calm sea before of storm. His gaze pulled hers in, like gravity and she couldn’t help but clutch the jacket next to her as a bad feeling along with something she’d never felt before settled in her stomach. 

His hair was mostly pushed back yet the ones which framed his face fell like dominos. She moved along the side where she was to one of the plexiglass gaps and he did the same still maintaining eye contact with her, until the two reached the gap. She didn’t notice she was holding her breathe in until she breathed out.

    - Hi. - her own hand gripped her wrist, shoe grinding against the floors. - Uhm, I’m new here and this lady sent me down to find some silk ribbons but I can’t find any. Do you ...

    - I... uh ... I don’t know where they are. - he faltered for a few seconds before regaining his posture.

    - Oh, I thought since you were here, you might be one of the stage managers. 

    - I’m not. - his tone was monotonous, almost as if he had the answer to her question before she even made it. 

    - Oh ... - she rubbed her neck. - Are you also looking for silk ribbons?

    - I’m looking for the dressing rooms, actually.

    - They’re down the hall. -  she pointed at the door as if it was the “down the hall”. - Hum ... Are you new here too?

    - Yeah. Thanks. - he walked towards the door, opening it and stepping out before catching her gaze once again. 

Y/N remained in the middle of the room as if she were in a transe and maybe she was. It felt like she was falling yet she was firm on her feet and she did not like that feeling. She did not like that feeling of falling, it wasn’t feeling, it was hopeless falling and she wondered why looking at a man who looked like an 80′s glam rock reject made her feel like that, so lost. Maybe it was the respect he appeared to command by merely looking at her or maybe it was the nerves about being new and not being able to find some goddamn silk ribbons. Damn it. 

    - Call for 30 minutes before dress rehearsal. - the voice came from the intercom and immediately her mind dropped the idea of finding silk ribbons and moved to finding the ensemble dressing room and get dressed and ready. Damn it, this was going well. 

She rushed down the hall, bag almost slipping off her shoulder until she saw the door with the ensemble plaque on it. The young woman peaked inside the room where pretty much everyone with a role on the ensemble were already sat down. She shyly walked in the middle row until she found her own little corner, her name written on a sticker on the mirror along with photos of how the makeup should be done as well as how to get the costume in correctly. The same goofy smile returned as she sat down and saw her name above her. It was fine, she was here, she was part of a company.

    - Hey you’re new. - the girl next to her twirled her chair to face her. She already had her makeup on and hair pinned curled up and ready to put a wig cap on. - I’m Elliot but people call me Elle.

    - Y/N, I’m the new chorus girl. First day. 

    - Aw, welcome. - she had a bright smile, inviting and almost as exciting as the whole experience of being there. - Do you want help pincurling your hair? I can get it done while you do your makeup. 

    - Yes, please. - she pulled out a big box from her bag which had all her makeup and pins. 

Elle started pin curling her hair up while she put an inappropriate amount of blush on which was just appropriate to get on stage under the bright yellow lights. Turns out half the practice for opera is learning to do your makeup under bright yellow lights and then learning to sing. 10 minutes to rehearsal start, she was along with Elle going down and up to the main stage where most dancers were warming up. Elle left her to do so, leaving Y/N once again to just stand there, looking around like a little sheep in the middle of wolves. 

    - I’ve never seen you around. - her shoulders almost went up as he turned to see one of the principal sopranos, if not the principal soprano. She had seen all of her shows ever since she was a teenager and she had even wrote an essay for university on her for a module. Catherine Vargas, the best New York could offer, if not the best the world could offer. - I didn’t know they were still casting dancers.

    - Oh, I’m a chorus girl, Mrs Vargas. 

    - A chorus girl? - she furrowed her brows at her, looking her up and down. - What type?

    - The type who ... is in the back with the ensemble. - her voice lowered at least a few volumes down, back curved as if she were bowing. 

    - I know what chorus girls do. I asked what vocal type. 

    - Lyric soprano, m’am.

    - A lyric soprano in the chorus. Interesting. Where did you train?

    - Julliard, m’am.

    - Julliard? - she looked her up and down again. - That is a great school. What is a Julliard graduate doing in the chorus line?

    - Everyone starts somewhere. - she laughed nervously, scratching her arm as she did so.

    - Not a lyric soprano from Julliard. Composers sure do love an ingenue, don’t they? Don’t worry, a few months with me and you’ll be supporting. 

    - That’s ... that’s really kind, Mrs. Vargas. Thank you.

    - Don’t thank me. Could you get me some honey from my dressing room? I’m feeling a bit strained. 

    - It’s 5 minutes until rehearsal starts.

    - It’s okay, chorus normally doesn’t do much during rehearsal. Can you get it?

    - Yeah, I think so.

She straightened her crinkled skirt, looking behind her back before going down the stairs which led down to the dressing rooms. This was good, right? Getting into one of the main star’s good graces besides she was right, the chorus didn’t really get much attention during rehearsals, at least not as much as the main characters. It’s easier to get away with screwing up in the back than in the front, her teacher would tell her which would always earn a few laughs from her colleagues. Yet, Y/N hated to make any mistakes. She would stay up all night in front of a cheap piano she had bought from a charity shop, playing and singing the same 5 note progression until her flatmate yelled at her to shut up. For her, if it wasn’t perfect and if she didn’t get any criticism while performing it, she hadn’t done it right. It didn’t matter at the end of the day but what did matter was to climb up the ladder. She didn’t want to be a star, all she wanted was to be able to be on that stage forever with the spotlight shining on her and she knew there was only one way to climb up. Actually there were two, extreme luck and connections. Now, she didn’t have the best of luck so her major choice was to make connections and reach that status. 

She made her way into the principal dressing room. It was probably one of the biggest she had ever seen, with expensive decor and various flowers covering it. She wondered how many flowers she received on opening nights if that was the number she had on regular days. Y/N made her way to the desk, opening drawers and more drawers to find honey until she found it on the lowest drawn. She went down on her knees to grab it, mindless and careless to everything that was happening until she felt a sharp pain on the side of her her.

Then everything went dark. 

TAGLIST: @lookiamtrying @buckyswillows @blossomslibrary @juliesland @iloveshawnieboi @unmagically​ 

[winterpower98]

(Double Training AU) So I thought about your comment about the twins being disappointed at Red & co if they overheard the mayor.

Honestly I'm walking a fine line of somehow explaining the actions of Iron Fan and DBK, the excuse of asian parenting can only go so far and as far as I know my parents haven't unleashed a demon before so I have no reference. I think I mainly just want them to be pretty scarce with affection but still 100% proud of their son (you simply can't convince me the guy who can recite the exact hour of his son's birth isn't at least a little proud of the tyke) Iron Fan switches between matriarch of a dying kingdom and tired mom sitting in the corner of her son's workshop watching him work. DBK is trying his best but being absent for 500 years kinda makes it awkward to readjust to interacting with people. Iron Fan after DBK got sealed away, makes Red Son hug her before he leaves for things (modeling this after my mom, she said you never know which one could be our last it's a bit depressing but I think it applies well here, Iron Fan can't lose her other boy now that DBK is gone) DBK on the other hand only hugs Red when he's crying, partially so he doesn't need to keep looking at his crying face and partially because that's the only time he feels like it's appropriate to give affection.

(Side tangent: being in an asian household is weird, knowing people talk to their parents is weird, me relating to canon Red Son but also seeing multiple fics writing PIF and DBK as abusive gives me mixed feelings :/ I don't even know how to put it in words)

There's also the point of in canon Macaque was supposed to release LBD but since he never died, I don't think he's actually met her before? So maybe after using it to seal away the demon, it was kept hidden but over the years just started drifting from place to place and only recently ending up with the Mayor?

So as the Mayor and LBD's eyes in the mortal realm, he would probably have kept an eye on the recent demon attacks in the city. Letting him decide to "give" the key to Red Son instead of MK. His phone call staged and a ploy to peak the demon's interest since he can't just award the demon with the key like he did with MK in canon.

I was also thinking, maybe despite being imprisoned LBD can still interact with the living world, haven't figured out exactly how maybe magic shards that the mayor places where she directs him to? Anyways mainly I just want her to haunt DBK a bit, maybe during his imprisonment. That would help explain his megalomaniac tendencies also how he can find the tomb and why he even thinks it'll grant him power.

I think after he gets LBD out of his system he would start actually connecting with his family, to the relief of PIF and the absolute joy of Red.

I really need to write some actual fics to start tying things together haha

Thanks for letting me ramble again!

-💙

These are all interesting takes on the Bull Family

And maybe Mayor and LBD can still communicate telepathically even if she's locked away? She could direct him around and tell him what to do, but she wouldn't have a physical impact on the world

But I understand why it would make you feel weird or uncomfortable the way other people write them. We identify a lot we the characters from the shows we like, and in this case specifically, this family was in part written to reflect Asian parenting. So, it makes sense for you to have mixed feelings about the way they are written in fiction and you are valid for it

[babbushka]

Wreck The Malls: Flip Zimmerman and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Flip Zimmerman x Reader 

6.2k ; cw: mentions of gun violence, blood and injury ; NSFW (shower sex, injured sex, PIV, oral sex)

Available on AO3

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

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. But it is also universally acknowledged, that a lucky man in possession of a good wife, should want to get her something special for the holidays.

This is the story of how one Detective Flip Zimmerman of the CSPD, goes on a journey through hell and back to obtain such a gift, and might just learn the true meaning of Christmas along the way.

Now, though this story takes place on Christmas Eve, it should be noted that our Mr. Zimmerman does not actually like Christmas. He doesn’t celebrate it, and he thinks the entire holiday is one big headache. Does it bother him that his own holidays always seem to be overlooked in favor for the goyishe celebrations of December? Yes – but that’s not the reason he dislikes it so much. If you were to ask him, he would say something akin to;

“I just don’t know why the fuck everyone makes such a big goddamn deal.” He huffs and puffs on his cigarette in the parking lot. Flip rolls his eyes, “All month long, stores have been playing this shit music since the day after Thanksgiving.”

Sitting in his car with Ron – the only one of his friends patient enough to listen to him complain for an hour straight – Flip turns the radio down just low enough for Jingle Bell Rock to sound. They’re outside the big mall, something shiny and brand new, just in the nick of time for the holidays. Ron shrugs, going over his last-minute shopping list.

“We can go home, no one will know.” Ron points out for what must seem like the eighteenth time.

Flip had asked Ron to accompany him both for emotional support, but also to get a second opinion on the gift he was picking up for you. Flip loves you more than anything else in the entire world – yes, even more than his buc-wheat cereal and Greek yogurt – and even though you had already exchanged presents during Hanukkah only a few days prior, that wasn’t going to stop him.

“Of course we can’t go home, I want to get her something nice.” He says as much, flicking the ash of his cigarette out of the car window, the oppressive commercialism of the mall looming ahead.

“(Y/N) doesn’t like Christmas either though.” Ever the practical voice of reason, Ron tries giving Flip one more out, one more chance to turn back now, “You don’t have to put yourself through this, you know.”

“It’s not a Christmas present,” Flip shakes his head, finally turning the car engine off entirely, and silencing the radio once and for all. He steels himself, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror, “It’s a just-because present. I already have it all picked out and everything, I just need to go in and pay for it.”  

“You’ve got some real brains underneath those flowing locks of yours man.” Ron smiles, gets out of the car and stretches out his muscles for what he’s sure will be a ton of walking through angry mobs, “Minimizing the amount of time in there is probably for the best, considering.”

It’s the way that Flip hesitates that clues Ron in that maybe, Flip didn’t have as many brains as he had thought.

“Considering what?” Flip asks, the second clue.

“Flip, it’s Christmas Eve.” Ron spells it out plainly, and wishes he had a camera to capture the exact moment that the next thought enters Flip’s mind, and subsequently spills out of his mouth:

“…Oh fuck.”

Shaking his head fondly, Ron claps a hand on Flip’s shoulder as he rounds the front of the car, and the two of them brave the great unknown together.

 Flip was not nearly as familiar with the mall as he likes to think, but he knows where the jewelry store is, and really that’s all that matters.

They make their way down to that section of the enormous space, and it’s almost impossible to ignore the sheer abundance of Christmas Cheer that surrounds them. Nearly every store had something in its window display: lights, statues, mannequins modeling holiday attire, some even had moving animatronic animals that gave Flip the shivers. Every pole and railing and kiosk in the place was covered in garland and lights, and in the grand atrium, enormous ornaments were suspended from the ceiling.

Pausing for a moment and looking up at them, Flip wonders what the likelihood would be for them to all come crashing down.

He’s so caught up in fact, that he nearly misses Ron branching off in another direction.

“Hey wait, where are you going?” Flip jogs a couple paces to catch up, a frown already forming between his brows.

“I need to pick somethin’ up for Patrice.” Ron explains, holding up his little shopping list. Flip gives him a mildly panicked look, but Ron only reassures him with, “We’ll meet up at the food court?”

I can do this, Flip thinks to himself, it’s one store. How bad could one store be?

“Sure, don’t take too long.” Flip eventually agrees, swallowing down the feeling of impending doom – otherwise known as “acid reflux” according to you – and squaring his shoulders.

He didn’t need Ron, he was a grown man after all. He fought in Vietnam twice! Surely he could go to the jewelry store…right?

Making his way over to the escalator, Flip has his eye on the prize; Goldsmith’s Jewelry is just off to the left, he can see it coming. Playfully taking the five golden rings theme and running with it, large decorations spin gently in the window, glittering in the light. Flip’s relieved to see the place relatively empty.

Not completely dead, but definitely not a line out the door the way that the toy store had. As a matter of fact, when Flip walks through the glass doors, he’s greeted by less than ten people, including the owner himself, who lights up when he spots his friend.

“Philip! Good to see you son. Here for those earrings you were looking at?” Carl, a fabulously eccentric man with no less than fifteen pieces of jewelry on at any given time practically jingles when he comes around the counter to give Flip a hug.

“You bet Carl, how much am I layin’ out for you?” Flip has to bend himself nearly in half to reach the kind gentleman’s embrace, already reaching for his wallet.

Carl was one of those men who could reminisce and catch up for hours on end, and as much as Flip would love to listen to the story about how Carl lost his dentures in his shoe for the hundredth time, he would rather listen to you instead. Thankfully, Carl doesn’t seem too pressed about it, and he only beckons the detective over to the register counter.

“Tell you what, since you’re practically family and helped out Darlene with her car troubles, I’m taking half off.” Carl announces with a twinkle in his eye, making Flip feel a little guilty about wanting to scram as fast as possible.

“Oh you don’t have to go doing all that Carl really – ” Flip tries, but Carl is having none of it.

“I want to!” He smacks at Flip’s hands when he tries to offer him the full amount of cash, fully turning his back on Flip to go into the little employees only room. “You stay right here, I’ll just go into the back and get it wrapped up real nice for you.”

Left alone once again, Flip has no choice but to let his eye wander. The entire place was sensory overload, really, and Flip wishes he could have a fucking cigarette. Was the music at the mall always this loud and discordant? Chewing on his lip instead of the butt of a cigarette, Flip looks around the store.

He makes uncomfortable eye contact with a man who is clearly picking up something for the wife and something else for the girlfriend, and he looks away when he realizes. Training his eye on the great big mirror up on the wall instead, Flip frowns.

Is that…no, it couldn’t be.

Santa Claus wouldn’t be taking a break from the Workshop near the foodcourt to stop into a jewelry store, would he? Flip shakes his head, he’s probably just being paranoid. The guy is probably on break and looking for something for Mrs. Claus. Flip cracks himself up with that thought, and is about to turn around and joke with the guy about it – when he notices through the mirror that the Santa is ever so cautiously reaching around the counter, looking for the lock mechanism.

“Shit.” Flip licks across his teeth, when he manages it open and begins pulling out necklaces with seemingly no one noticing.

Carl still hasn’t come back, so Flip casually reaches for the phone on the counter near the register, dials the direct line number to his buddy back at the station.

“CSPD this is Jimmy – ”

“It’s me, I’m at the jewelry store on the second level of the mall downtown. I think there’s a robbery about to go down, I’m going to need backup.” Flip mutters as quietly as he can into the receiver, keeping and eye on the Santa.

Sure enough, he’s pulling out a sack, and it looks as if this guy has already hit up quite a few stores, if the brand new boxed electronics filling it are anything to go by.

“Is he armed?” Jimmy asks immediately, and Flip tries to get a good look.

“I can’t tell, he’s in a Santa suit.” He explains, and then scowls when the line goes silent for a moment.

“…Flip are you serious?” Jimmy tries to start some bullshit but Flip doesn’t have the time for this.

“Yes I’m fucking serious would you just tell Trapp I need backup? Ron is here somewhere but I don’t know where the fuck he went.” He hisses, teeth clenching tight enough that he can feel the muscle fluttering in his jaw.

“Okay okay! I’m on it, keep him in your sight.” Jimmy replies, before hanging up.

Trying to steal a glance through the mirror again, Flip realizes he must have been a little too loud, because the Santa has bolted through the doors, sack filled with diamond and ruby and sapphires galore.

“Fuck.” Flip grunts to himself, before slamming down the phone near the register and rushing out of the store with a futile, “CSPD! Hands where I can see them!”

 This would be much easier, Flip reasons, if it weren’t Christmas fucking Eve. The mall is swamped with people, loud and slow like big dumb buffalo – no, he wouldn’t do buffalo the disservice of comparing them to these last minute mall shoppers who cannot decide if they want to walk on the left or the right side of the aisle. Santa, he needs Santa – but there are so many! Nearly a dozen guys in red coats and white beards ring bells or wave or laugh jolly hearty laughs, and Flip feels like he’s in hell.

No, he supposes, Hell must be the five-story Hibbard & Co., where he finally manages to catch sight of the Santa he’s after. Bolting across the large expanse of the mall and into the first level of the store, Flip trips and stumbles through displays of empty cardboard box presents and wooden nutcrackers, causing shouts and screams of distress to erupt around him from the patrons of the store.

The employees however, are entirely unphased, they continue to spritz the air with their perfume samples, directly into the face of Flip, who is scrambling and already breathing heavy as it is, his boots carrying him around the sharp corners of the mirrored kiosks in the perfume department.

“Oh – shit – fuck!” Flip’s blinded by the perfume, his eyes stinging. He’s choking on it, unable to breathe as rose water stings his vision. “I love my job, I love my wife, I love my job…”

He chants to himself as he blinks and coughs, to no avail; he’s so blinded that he crashes into a display of coats, which in a domino-like effect crash down all the other displays of winter clothing on their way down, but Flip can’t stick around to apologize, the Santa is getting away.

“Out of my way – Ron!” Flip shouts as he pushes and shoves himself through the large swathes of people, Christmas music blaring bright and cheerfully as he runs and runs and runs, shouting out, “Ron if you can hear me a little help would be appreciated!”

The Santa isn’t making this easy for him, Flip curses, as he runs down the up escalator.

Following suit, there’s real screams now when the Santa pulls out a gun and starts blindly shooting behind himself at Flip, making everyone on the escalator, and everyone in that area of the mall for that matter, scatter. If Flip thought the crowds were bad, a mob was even worse, and soon everyone is running in every which way direction, as this Santa gets off the escalator and sprints down towards the food court.

Flip wonders why the place isn’t on a lockdown yet, wonders what the hell is taking backup so long to get there already. Didn’t this place have cops? Weren’t the mall cops good for literally anything? What a waste of his time, Flip thinks, as he runs runs runs with his gun in his hands, trying to hold steady as he aims to shoot, the robber in his sight, he can see him, he can practically smell him --

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this – oh fuck me -- !” Flip collides hard with an unsuspecting dad who just happened to be grabbing lunch from the food court for his entire family.

“Watch where you’re fucking going pal!” The dad shouts.

All at once, a whole tray of pizza slices doused in red sauce and melted cheese, and four large cups of pepsi are flying through the air and landing all over Flip’s brand new shirt, the one that you had just given to him for Hanukkah. He wants to be livid, wants to choke this guy out but the robber is getting away, Flip’s losing visual on him, and after all the trouble, there’s no chance he’s letting him get away.

“You fucking watch it!” Flip scrambles up, which isn’t easy to do on freshly mopped linoleum floors covered in soda pop, his gun spiraling a couple feet in front of him that he lunges to pick up, muttering to himself, “Ruined my goddamn – ugh – fuck!”

He has to change, and he has to change quickly – scanning the nearest stores, the closest one in the mall that sells clothing. He runs over to it, already unbuttoning his ruined shirt, and grabs the first thing on the rack he sees, which happens to be the most hideous, tacky, terrible looking Christmas sweater.

Flip raises his eyes up to the ceiling, and can practically feel the universe laughing at him when he groans, “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

There’s no time, he doesn’t have any other choice, so he yanks the ruined shirt over his head and throws the sweater on. It’s two sizes too small, and it’s itchy as all fucking hell, and of course, as if the situation couldn’t get any worse…the faux lights turn out to not be so faux after all, and they blink as he accidentally rips a tag off so not to trip any alarms.

Throwing money onto the counter as the employees stare at him like he’s a maniac and not just trying to do his fucking job, Flip’s chest heaves as he stands there, gun drawn, scanning the panicked swarms of people in front of him.

“Where did you go you motherfucker?” Flip growls, growing more and more pissed off by the minute.

A moment or two goes by, but then he spots him – the pet grooming salon.

Without any hesitation, Flip is chasing this man down with all his vigor, lungs pumping full of recycled mall air conditioning, blood pounding in his veins. The sooner he catches this guy and gets him cuffed, the sooner all this pandemonium will end.

“Hey!” He hears an authoritative shout from the other end of the mall, and lets out a sigh of relief.

The mall security has finally shown up, and he’s about ready to tell them that Santa is in the pet salon, when he notices they are not slowing down in their full force sprint towards him.

“Shit, shit shit shit,” Flip realizes they think he’s the maniac! “I’m a cop! It’s not me – I’m – oh for fuck’s sake.”

Flip realizes he doesn’t have the time to explain, so he does the exact opposite thing you’re supposed to do: run.

Into the pet salon Flip goes, hoping that if he can just grab the Santa it’ll all be explained, but there is no Santa to be found. Instead, Flip is met by a dozen dogs that have been let loose. Big dogs, like Dobermans and Rottweilers, and small dogs like Poodles and Pomeranians have all been released from their cages, and for whatever reason, are baring their teeth at him, and lunging after him as he runs the other way.

“Heel! Sit! Stay – ow!” Flip feels teeth sink into his ankles, and doesn’t bother looking back as he kicks away one of the smaller dogs in the pack that is chasing him.

He can see the Santa, and now, chased by dogs and mall cops, Flip chases him down for hopefully the last leg of this race. He can feel steam shooting out of his ears, he’s never going to leave home again he decides, never is going to step foot in this fucking mall again, as he’s chased.

 Meanwhile, blissfully unaware over in the lingerie department of Macy’s, Ron Stallworth’s greatest dilemma is trying to choose between the red velvet bra and panty set, or the navy satin set. He’s been staring at the two sets for quite some time now, and is conscious of the fact that Flip must be waiting for him, so he calls over one of the employees for her opinion.

He explains that it’s for his girlfriend, and while red and blue are both colors she likes, he isn’t sure which would get the most use – when he sees a Santa Claus stumbling and tripping over himself, shoving people out of his way as he runs past the great big glass windows.

“Huh.” Ron frowns, putting the sets down and moving over to the windows to get a better look.

Ron hears the commotion before he sees it, but when he does see it – ‘it’ being his best friend bleeding, in a blinking fuzzy Christmas sweater, gun brandished, chased by dogs and security who are blowing their whistles and brandishing guns of their own – he grabs all his shit and makes leave.

“If you ladies will please excuse me – ” Ron gives a parting excuse to the employees, who only frown at him as he runs and runs and runs to catch up to, “Flip! Flip what the fuck is going on!”

“It’s about goddamn time!” Flip shouts, nearly red in the face from exertion and sheer unbridled rage as he points with his gun to the man in red a few yards ahead, “That Santa! Is! A! Maniac! I don’t know how many stores he’s stolen from, but at least from the jewelry store and is shooting at people – watch out!”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, half a dozen men throw large plastic ornaments the size of cars out onto the floor as a means to blockade the hall. They’re dressed in green, with red and white stockings and pointed hats that have jingle bells on the end, but these were no innocent visitors from the North Pole.

“Of fucking course he’s got elves.” Flip grunts as he tries to run around them, tries his best to avoid getting hit square in the chest with them as they bounce and create a rampaging path of destruction.

“I’ll handle the dogs and the elves, and the mall cops, you catch Santa.” Ron slows down enough, until he’s far enough away that Flip can’t hear him, his own feet still on auto-pilot as he hunts down the Santa.

And then – then!

As if by some miracle, the Santa trips, and he and his sack full of stolen goods all come crashing down to the linoleum floor. In slow motion, Flip jumps using all the strength he has left, hands extended to grab the Santa, and as he flies across the distance between their bodies, Flip swears he sees his life flash before his eyes.

Thudding to the floor, he manages to get the Santa in a chokehold, letting out a triumphant shout of victory.

“Got you!” He pins the man down, rolls him over onto his back so that he can pin his hands behind his back, Flip fishing for his handcuffs that he managed to keep in his back-pocket this whole time, “I got you you son of a bitch!”

 Off to the side, a group of small children watch a grown man leap and tackle Santa Claus to the ground.

Little Stacey gasps in shock and horror, before her older brother Jacob can quickly cover her eyes with his own mittened hand. They, along with their friends – an assortment of ten to twelve year olds left unsupervised on Christmas Eve while their parents and gaurdians get gifts for in-laws they don’t like – immediately turn to one another, while Santa’s body jerks and writhes underneath the heavy knee of some strange man.

“What should we do?” Nicolas asks the leader of their group.

“Well there’s really only one thing we can do.” Dewey says with all the determination of a man about to walk into battle. The children exchange glances with resolution and with all the authority that an eighth-grader can muster, Dewey regards his friends, “All in favor of rescuing Santa and saving Christmas, say ‘aye’.”

“Aye!”

It is this emboldened shout of unity that draws Flip’s attention – before he is promptly charged by six small children who proceed to punch, and bite, and smack at him.

In the chaos, Santa manages to slip out of Flip’s grasp. Thankfully he’s still handcuffed and he’s dropped his gun, but the children don’t notice that. No, they’re too busy beating the shit out of Flip, who can’t bring himself to fight back against the angry fists of fury that are descending onto him.

“Get off of me! Get – I am a police fucking officer get off -- !” Flip manages to shake them away, and they stare up at him with wide eyes when he wipes the blood away from his nose at being slammed to the ground.

“Don’t you assholes have parents – oh forget it.” Flip doesn’t bother, caring so little about anything anymore.

He’s is almost defeated, almost, but Santa is handcuffed and limping, he can’t get too much farther, he’s so close – he’s right there –

“Oh shit!” Flip jumps back, as suddenly, out of nowhere, Ron in one of the security mall-carts comes darting from around the corner and t-bones the Santa from the side.

Santa’s body slides across the floor, and seconds later, Bridges, Trapp, Jimmy, and a dozen or so other familiar faces flood the large floor, in their blues and with their walkie talkies loud.

“Flip!” Bridges darts over to where Flip has practically collapsed onto the floor.

He’s directly underneath those ornaments, and he practically wills one of them to unlatch from their suspension and crush him to death.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Bridges has the audacity to ask, looking Flip straight in the face.

His bleeding, swollen face.

There’s a moment or two where Flip can’t think of anything other than how badly he wants a fucking cigarette, but eventually he licks across his teeth, scratches the back of his neck.

“Honestly?” Flip muses, before replying in the most dry deadpan way he can muster, “I’ve never been better.”

Blood drips onto the blinking Christmas sweater, and with that, Bridges claps him on the back and nods.

“Go home. We’ll get your statement after the holiday weekend.” He says, and sweeter words have never been spoken. “Don’t worry about Ron, we’ll give him a lift home.”

 Flip’s snowy home in the mountains has never, ever looked more beautiful, Flip can’t help but think. It was quiet, so quiet up here. Snow dusted itself along the length of the front porch, draped the roof and surrounding trees in a blanket of crisp clean fresh white. No dirt, no blood, no sweat – just white. It was purifying, to say the least.

But not so purifying as the front door opening and your stunning face lighting up to see him.

That is, until you notice him limping, notice him covered in blood, notice his hair destroyed and his face bruised. Then your smile melts into something closer to shock and terror.

“Phil! What the fuck happened to you?” You rush to him, trudging through snow that’s up to your calves. You’re not wearing shoes, and Flip can’t bear the thought of you getting too cold, so he hoists you up and holds you against his side, walking you back to the house.

“I…really…don’t want to talk about it.” Flip sighs, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers with you and never emerge.

“Holy shit, are you bleeding?” You push your hand up to his face and feel at his tender nose, making him wince.

“That sounds about right.” He mutters, slamming the door behind him with his foot when he finally crosses the threshold into the foyer of the house.

Flip puts you down and immediately shoves his entire face into your neck, trying hard not to cry. What a fucking day it had been, he can’t help but think as he lets the stress and frustration finally mount behind his eyes. His face hurts, everything about him hurts, his legs are exhausted, his back is fucking killing him, and worse of all, his ego is beyond bruised.

“I hate Christmas.” Flip hiccups, knowing that he’s smearing blood against your pretty robe. Now that he’s got you in his arms, he doesn’t want you to go away, doesn’t want you more than a foot away from him.

“I know sweetheart, I know. Come on let’s go take a shower.” You card your fingers through his hair, and lead him up to the bathroom.

 In the light of the bathroom, you do your absolute damndest not to laugh. It’s not that you’re laughing at him, because you would never laugh at him of course, but you’ve never seen your husband look more angry in his entire life, and you’ve been there for a significant portion of it. You have a million questions that you know better than to bombard him with right now, knowing he’ll explain all in due time.

So instead, you peel away his layers until the both of you are naked. A Christmas sweater that blinks bright red and green is buried under blood-stained and ripped jeans, your robe, underwear and socks. Flip turns on the heat and waits for the water to not be so frigid, and in the meantime, you examine him.

“Were…did you get bit by a dog?” You frown as you see crescent bruises blooming underneath his skin. Thankfully, it looks like no actual puncture wounds – what a Christmas gift that would be, rabies.

“More like a pack.” Flip grumbles, making your eyebrows shoot up nearly to your hairline. You want to ask, but Flip dismisses it for now with a sigh and an, “It’s a long story.”

Finally the water seems to be good enough for him, and Flip leads you into the shower. At once, the water runs pink as it washes him clean of the day from hell. Your hands in his hair are heavenly, washing the muck and sweat and grime out of the locks, and Flip could practically cry.

“I know what you need.” You whisper, kissing at the side of his face that’s not tender.

Keeping heated eye contact, you slowly slowly slowly slink down to your knees. Water cascades down your shoulders as your hand reaches for Flip’s cock, as you pump it ever so carefully in even strokes until he’s fully hard.

Your tongue licks up a thick stripe of his shaft, and Flip has to lean fully against the wall so his legs don’t give out and he winds up in the ER with a concussion again. Your mouth swallows him down, feels the weight of his cock on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat.

“Bed, now.” Flip stops you before you can get any further, and you pull off with a smile, glad to see that though he’s in a bad mood, he’s willing to let you help him feel better.

Barely drying off with a towel, Flip kisses and kisses and kisses you as you both stumble to your bed, falling down on top of the covers. You’re giggling against his lips just because you love him so much, but he’s not smiling. No, he’s still in a proper pissed off mood, and you’re glad to let him do what he will with you.

Flip’s cock throbs as it slides in real easy into your cunt, the wet heat of your body welcoming him on the first thrust. Your eyes fall shut as your back arches off the mattress from the feeling of being so filled so fast, the breath punching out of your lungs.

“God you’re wet.” He has to groan, swipes a few fingers over your clit just to massage it and get your legs shaking, your shoulders squirming for him, “What – were you jerkin’ off missing me? Thinkin’ about me? I was thinkin’ about you.”

The thought makes him break out into a sweat as he starts to thrust, his limbs aching and sore from all the running and bodily contact, but too desperate for you to give a fuck.

“Yeah, yes Flip – I missed you, missed your cock.” You whine, giving him permission to, “Give it to me, take it all out on me honey.”

The flood gates open, and Flip’s ramming into you hard and fast. He’s bouncing the mattress, slamming the headboard from it, from the grip on your hips as he fucks and fucks and fucks you. Spit strings down from his teeth as his jaw is clenched, savoring the feeling and chasing that feeling, of your beautiful body opening and squeezing around him.

“Fuck ketsl, fuck I – oh damn that feels good.” He grinds himself all the way up inside you, pushes you up the bed with the force of it. He grabs at your hair, yanks your head back so he can suck and kiss at your throat, can feel your fluttering pulse as you moan and sigh and gasp.

“Yeah? How good? Tell me.” Your hands don’t know where to go, you don’t want to accidentally touch a bruised spot, so instead they fist in the sheets as you push your hips up to let him rail into you from this new angle.

“I’m gonna knock you the fuck up, that’s how good it is, that’s how hard you make me ketsl, do that thing I like? You know the one.” Flip’s delirious, doesn’t know what he’s even saying, but you breathe out a harsh moan from the words, hands pushing your tits together.

“Like this?” Your voice wobbles from the fucking he gives you, breasts bouncing, nipples peeking through your spread fingers as you cup and hold them for him.

“Just like that – fuck, goddamn baby you’re so pretty, I could fuck this pussy all night long – ow!” Flip is about to lavish kisses onto your cleavage, when something twinges in his back, and his arms collapse underneath him and he falls square on top of your chest.

“Shit, Flip are you okay?” Your body tenses immediately, worried for him, the mood ruined.

“Yeah – yes, dammit,” Flip groans, never feeling more like an old middle aged man than he does right now.

“Okay maybe don’t fuck me all night long,” You chuckle, calming and soothing him with your hands in his hair, abandoning the hold on your breasts. Still, you’d hate for him to not even get to come after all of that, so you kiss the side of his tender nose and whisper, “Are you close?”

“Yeah, sorry I’m sorry – ” Flip rolls you onto your side, eases back into you that way, where he doesn’t have to hold himself up.

“Don’t apologize, just come in me honey, come in me.” You encourage, knowing that he’ll get a good few orgasms out of you once he’s feeling a little better.

Flip nods and kisses you, wet and hot and sloppy as he thrusts a few more times, your legs corralled over his, until he grunts out long and low, spills into your pussy.

He rides that high, rides the feeling of your sweet lips on his, until all he can do is groan from being sore.

“I think I need to see a doctor.” Flip grumbles, sounding so dejected.

“Yeah I think so too handsome.” You give him an apologetic smile on behalf of the universe, and he sighs.

You’re an angel though, striking up a cigarette for him. Passing it to him, Flip pulls out of you with a wince and the two of you starfish out onto your backs, staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. You let him have a few minutes of silence, but eventually the curiosity kills you and you have to ask,

“Hey, how come you were even in the mall to begin with?” Peering up at him through your lashes, wondering what the hell he had even gotten himself into, “I thought you were just popping into work for something.”

At that moment, the cold dread of realization crashes through Flip, and despite his injuries and general exhaustion, sits straight up in bed and gasps out, “Oh fuck!! I’m sorry ketsl I was going to surprise you with – ”

Just then, the doorbell rings, and the both of you frown at one another.

You weren’t expecting anyone to come over, even though it was Christmas Eve, you didn’t have any plans to celebrate anyway other than with some Chinese food takeout and a good movie. Considering the state that Flip is in, you go to reach for your robe, but Flip shakes his head and grabs for his instead.

“No, let me. You’re not dressed.” Flip says.

You love him enough not to point out that he isn’t dressed either, but Flip deserves to do what he wants after the day he’s had, you think.

 Creeping down the stairs, Flip tries to look through the front window to see who it could be, but whether it’s the angle or something else, he can’t get a good visual. He pulls the robe sash tighter around his waist, looks through the peephole.

Strangely, there’s nothing there, no one to be seen. No car in his driveway, either.

How strange, Flip thinks, as he cracks the door open, wondering what the fuck else the day has in store for him.

Sitting right there on the front porch, is a small box. It’s wrapped in a golden ribbon, bearing the logo of Goldsmith’s Jewlery in a wax seal on the side. Frowning, Flip approaches it, picks it up. It feels like the right weight, but to be sure, he pulls open the ribbon and peeks inside.

Sure enough, resting atop the black velvet interior of the box are the diamond earrings that had started this whole mess.

Something about that, something about those earrings being there, makes Flip’s heart warm through. Even though it’s cold, he doesn’t feel the bite of the wind. All he can think about, is you, waiting for him upstairs in your bedroom. You, who care for him, who takes care of him, even on days when he doesn’t even want to take care of himself.

The earrings twinkle in the grey sunlight of the snowy day, and despite it all, Flip smiles to himself. What was another year of bullshit, really? He could go through anything, could do anything, as long as he had you by his side. Yes, Flip thinks, it’s all worth it, or at least it will be, when he sees your smile once again, when he gives you this little token of his appreciation, of his love.

And as he casts his gaze up to the sky, half expecting to see the real Santa Claus flying away in his sleigh, half expecting to see some friendly man smiling down at him behind a team of reindeer, Flip feels something that maybe…just maybe…might be akin to Christmas Spirit.

Until the moment passes, and he’s reminded of the day’s events by a twinge in his side from where he was donkey kicked by a twelve year old.

“Who the fuck am I kidding,” Flip scoffs to himself after a shake of his head, locking the door behind him, “Ba fuckin’ humbug, and a merry new year.”

[justasimplesinner]

Ok first of fucking all I love the way you write, it's really hard to find a writer who can make a character or topic im not particularly interested in actually worth reading. Fucking spot on my guy 👌. Secondly, I was wondering if you'd be up for a request with Mof Johnathan and Arkham Eddie? If you could write a scenario were he's sitting down at his workspaces or couch working on something villain related and they feel a full blown breakdown coming on. Like they're really fucking stressed for whatever reason (take your pick) and the fact that they can't even focus on their own work is making it worse. Their s/o walks in and all it takes is a glance in his direction to figure out they've stumbled upon a ticking time bomb. So, as a spur of the moment attempt to distract him, they plop themselves into his lap and start whispering sweet nothings and praise while they stroke his hair (your choice whether it gets saucy from there or not). I'm a soft bitch and I need you to quench my thirst for hurt/comfort fics.

nothings better than making grown men break down. also, despite being short, this took so god damn long, i swear. but writing eddies pov is just so enjoyable, thats rewarding enough. he's such a stupid fuck its adorable

Masters of Fear!Jon getting comforted hcs:

It didn't feel right. At all. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. Every scratch of his pen on the paper felt like nails on a blackboard and his ears were ringing. His hands were shaking and instead of words, there were just crooked lines, like a hand-written ECG record. Every little sound from outside made him jump, every little drop of rain falling onto the window felt like a small bomb going off right besides his ear.

Ever since he woke up today, everything felt so wrong. You weren't in bed when he woke up, your side already cold because you left for work. Because he slept in and couldn't even say goodmorning to you. Or goodbye. And if something happened to you? It was Gotham, everything could happen to you. And he didn't even get the chance to see you, talk to you, kiss you. And the scrambled eggs he reluctantly made for breakfast almost made him vomit. He didn't eat them. Actually, he hadn't ate at all. Nothing. Not a crumb. It made him sick.

It's like he felt something coming, but he had no idea what. Like a storm, like danger. The feeling you get when you're being watched. The feeling he always got when he heard those specific footsteps in school hallways. Very specific. Measured, every move thought out - the trait of a sportsman. But heavy. Not clicking on the floor, but thumping. Very loud and very obvious. The footsteps that made him freeze in place because even if he tried, he wouldn't outrun them. They would follow. The pain would follow. Thump, thump, thump on the floor, foretelling nothing good, right around the corner, right... behind him!

He jumped up high in his seat, whipping his head around, eyes trying to scan the room but it all felt foggy. The only clear thing was the loud crack of the pen breaking in his clenched hand. And the first thing he saw was a hand, reaching out for him, maybe for his throat, maybe to thrash him around - he didn't know, but it was too close.

– Jon? – it was like something snapped in him when it was your voice that rang in his ears and his breathing stilled when he realized you were lightly rubbing your right hand. Did he hurt you? He wanted to ask, he needed to know if he hurt you, if he fucked up again but when his eyes finally looked up into yours, he couldn't say anything. 

The best thing was, he didn't even need to. It's like you already knew. Like he didn't have to do anything and you just saw it. Knew it. Sensed it. And when you got closer this time, he didn't push you away. There was no pain. No pain when your brows furrowed in genuine concern. No pain when your hands cupped his face to look him in the eyes. No pain when you slowly lowered yourself onto his lap. You never brought pain.

– Oh, baby... – your tone was condescending in the best of ways, and your fingers glided up into his hair so gently, nails scratching softly at his scalp, and it's as if his eyes shut on their own accord as he curled into you, wrapping his arms tight around your torso to press you closer. Keep you there, in that exact spot. So that you would never leave.

– I'm sorry I hurt you. – he practically cried into your neck, pressing his face hard into your skin to remind himself that you were there for him. He had you right in his lap, and yet he had to fucking remind himself still. Why was he so fucked up? You didn't have to put up with this. You didn't have to care. He wasn't your responsibility, he was nothing. And yet...

– You could never. It's fine.

You hugged him tight, one hand combing through his messy hair, tangled from him pulling on it, and the other one tracing up and down his back, making up shapes as it went. There were spirals, zig zags, waves, straight lines - he focused strictly on the feeling of your fingers, imagining every little shape they drew.

He kind of wished his shirt was off. So that he could actually feel you on his skin.

– I'm sorry. – and he was, because you just came back from work, probably exhausted, and now you had to baby him since he couldn't even fucking take care of himself. Why was he like this?

– Don't. You don't have to be sorry for feeling something. It's what humans do.

How did you always know what to say? How did you always know what to do? What has he ever done to deserve even an ounce of what you gave him? Did it matter? He was so fucking glad you were back home.

Arkham!Eddie getting comforted hcs:

Mistake. One after another. Each one followed by the next, like a chain reaction. The only thing he fucking did today was mistakes. All the measurements were wrong. All his coding was wrong. Every single little thing was at least a little bit off. He didn't accept 'a little bit off'. It was either perfect, or it was nothing to him. He was nothing. Nothing but a fucking failure, constantly fucking things up, unable to perform even the simplest tasks. Every last idiot could programm a computer. And he wasn't an idiot. Or was he?

A groan ripped from his throat, the hand in his hair tightening.

If he wasn't an idiot, why couldn't he get anything done? If he wasn't an idiot, why did Batman, of all people, outsmart him? If he wasn't an idiot, why hasn't he won yet?

It's like his body wasn't his own when he let out a pathetically high-pitched growl and his arm instinctively threw the first thing it gripped at a wall. The coffee cup smashed into little pieces upon the impact, coffee splashing everywhere, blemishing everything. You brought him this cup. And the one before that. You put it there. You did yet another thing he hasn't asked of you. Why couldn't you just listen for once? Stop disturbing him? It was all your failt that he couldn't focus, because you were constantly going in and out of his workshop and he clearly told you to stay away.

Oh, speak of the fucking devil, he could already hear your thumping footsteps nearing the door, probably lured in by the sound of his cup shattering. Because you were 'worried', as if he would be stupid enough to injure himself or do anything reckless! He furiously pushed some old scraps of metal to the floor, making them clink loudly, feeling a slight sting on his forearm. Great, now he fucking cut himself because of you-

– Eddie, baby? You alright? – the sound of your gentle voice echoed in the room, overpowering the earlier noise. He didn't even grace that with a response, just sighed heavily, annoyance seeping out of him, as he leaned his head on his palm. Why did you have to ruin everything?

And then, just to spite him, you moved closer. Close enough for your sweet scent to fill his lungs, your fingers dancing over his shoulder and he almost shook them off. Instead, he abruptly leaned back in his chair, gritting his teeth. You wasted your chance to get out of here without a scratch.

What he didn't expect however, was your legs slowly, yet suddenly straddling him, hands on his shoulders, digging in lightly to massage and manipulate them into whatever it was you wanted. He felt his stomach churn, his blood boiling to the point where he felt hot all over and his hands almost, almost shot out in your direction. To push you off.

– If you haven't realised yet, I'm working. – it was a blatant lie and you knew it immediately. He wasn't working, not at all, only tinkering with things and fucking them up further. All because of you-

Your hands slowly travelled up, surprisingly careful not to tickle his neck, grabbing his face on both sides with that gentle, motherly fucking smile of yours. Like he was some child. Like you were trying to lure him in and... and... kiss his forhead, and... push your own against it, and- argh!

– Maybe take a little break, hm? – you muttered and he felt it more than heard it, your lips moving lightly against his skin, your nose soon nuzzling his long one and it's as if his head moved along on it's own accord.

This was such obvious manipulation-...!

– I don't need a break! I-...!

– I know you don't, Eddie. – you rudely cut him off, thumbs caressing his cheekbones – But I'm asking you nicely. I miss you.

Even if he protested, you wouldn't've let him go. It was obvious in the way your arms slid around his neck and shoulders, hugging him to your body, almost suffocating him in your chest and he just had to brace his hands on your back. And maybe he would've even pulled away, but you were so... warm. Soft. Like a pillow. And it made him snuggle in further.

– You're so clingy sometimes, you know that? – he muttered, his arms wrapping around you tighter, fingers hooking into your flesh and he felt your fingers slide into his hair, gently massaging his pounding scalp, making the ache almost instantly ease off slightly. His muslces started relaxing, too, his spine finally having a break from holding up his weight.

– You know you like it. – he clearly heard a chuckle in your voice, and it made his hand slide up to the back of your head to push you further into in, to quiet you, as his chin found it's place on your shoulder. Your nails dragged up and down his back, sneakily creeping under his clothes sometimes, and it made a violent but pleasant shiver run through his body, causing his arms to tighten around you.

Maybe he could take a break. You clearly needed him, it would be unwise to ignore you for too long. You could feel neglected, abandoned even - that could cause... problems. He didn't have the strength to deal with problems now. He could just indulge you for a little bit, no harm done. And so, his grip tightened, his body curling around you so every possible part of it was touching you.

You so obviously needed the comfort, and truly, he could never deny you.

[anistarrose]

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

[watchinglikeafangirl]

Lovely Writer episode 3 - analysis

The episode this week changed everything again. We see more of Nubsib's true colors and we see the two become closer. Nubsib is still pretending but his true personality is also showing here and there, Gene starts having thoughts and is confused how he feels about Nubsib. All in all, this week's episode had a lot of information and was even more fun to watch. Especially the scene, when they film "bad engineer" and the first meeting of the characters ending in a weird embrace filmed in slow motion. It was hilarious...

Honesty and no filter

I don't know if honesty is the right word here but I would say it kind of fits. Even though Nubsib is crossing many lines, Gene at least tells him immediately when he's uncomfortable. Especially in the scenes when his personal space is invaded which he is not used to. He lives with Nubsib but kissing him is a whole different thing. He is someone who is very closeted and only opens up to Nubsib because he learns that life doesn't happen in fantasies and books. But when Nubsib tries to kiss him in the second episode, puts his face aggressively closer to Gene's, Gene pulls away immediately. This shows that even though he might be an introvert who is living in his head very much, he is not shy in the way that he doesn't talk about any emotion. He felt very uncomfortable and told Nubsib immediately also because he feels that Nubsib would listen and back off, which he then did.

In this episode, we get a similar scene. Nubsib pushes Gene on the sofa in a very slow, dominant and erotic way and Gene is kind of okay until Nubsib is too close.

Right before the kiss, he's extremely uncomfortable and says that he is. Nubsib is really concerned and sorry about it and backs off immediately. You could also say about this scene that Gene was not really uncomfortable and just scared of his feelings towards Nubsib but I think, it was just their closeness. They only know each other and live together for three weeks and Gene opened up just yet. It would be out of character if he would have settled into a kiss or even a make-out.

Nubsib is his true self when he comforts Gene who is having a nightmare. There is no sound effect, just some music playing and this scene is very slow and calm. Nothing disturbing the peaceful moment of taking care and there is no rushing.

Defensiveness and hidden feelings

Like I said, and like we all know, Gene is an introvert which becomes very clear when we get to know that he is living alone in a condo that is too big for one person alone. Everything is chaotic and as soon as Nubsib moves in, it's very tidy and clean. But Gene is too scared to admit it. He's too scared to admit that he likes Nubsib's company. Nubsib knows he does and jokes around when he's trying to get a confession from Gene. Gene, completely confused why that kiss is stuck in his head, gets defensive whenever Nubsib flirts and teases him.

This difensiveness becomes more after Aey says "he seems to like you" which confuses Gene even more. He can't stop thinking about it and ends up throwing Nubsib out of his condo because he is too scared to admit it. To himself and to Nubsib. Gene is very inexperienced and insecure about romantic stuff, so he doesn't know if this feeling of tenderness is even real and if Nubsib is really honest with him. There is an awkwardness between them that reminds us that they don't know each other well and Gene would have to get to know Nubsib more in order to be okay with his feelings. Because now, Nubsib still is a total stranger. The insecurity in romantic things and feelings leads Gene to question the meaning behind every word Nubsib said to him and if they were even true. This growing friendship with a stranger and growing romantic feelings for him is too much for Gene and he feels like he won't be able to focus on writing any more. For him it's either living or writing and he chooses writing over everything and feels like he can't think straight.

His feelings which he can't name or distinguish make him get defensive whenever he feels Nubsib is playing around.

Pretending and unawareness

Nubsib gives us all the vibes of fakery in many scenes and we feel there's something breeding under his skin that will show its true colors at some point (and I think very soon). Gene gets that vibe too and that's why things get awkward between them sometimes when both suddenly turn quiet like they don't know what to say to each other which could be because both can't get rid of the picture of their kiss. I mean, both obviously think about it. Nubsib can't even kiss Aey for the scene and Gene can't focus on writing because of it.

Nubsib is the one pretending here. Especially on the sofa. He even says that he learned it "in a workshop" which means the way he is behaving is all inspired and copied from these acting workshops. And that adds depth to his character. He is inexperienced too. He acts like the typical dominant BL character but even says himself that he learned it from the workshop.

That means, he's also insecure but is very good in hiding it. Because he feels like being his true self when it comes to romantic stuff is not enough and that he has to cover those stereotypes in order to appeal as attractive. Especially because Gene wrote this kind of character in the novel himself. So, Nubsib thinks it's the right way to act and is too shy to be his real self which is very sad and thankfully doesn't work out that well when they are on the sofa. Gene gets uncomfortable and I guess a bit frightened by the now very dominant version of Nubsib.

I don't think Nubsib is aware of the effect the moments when he is his true self have on Gene. They are the moments when Gene likes him and falls for him, not the ones when he's pretending. As soon as the pretending stops, the sound effects stop as well and they are talking more natural and real.

Same goes for Gene. What I noticed this episode was that the moment Gene enters, the sound effects start. That means Gene is pretending too but not in such an obvious way and maybe not even on purpose. He backs out of every situation because he sacrificed his life to writing. Writing defines his whole day, social-life, sleeping-routine and health. But I think, deep down he wants to live a bit more. He pretends to be okay with the situation, with how his life is going, but he sees, now that Nubsib moved in, that his way of living covers up all the desires he himself has. Nubsib unlocked something in him, makes him see that life is not only in your condo and especially with other people. Gene sees that now and he'll get sad.

Criticism and jokes

This show criticizes many different aspects. Basically everything of the BL industry is being criticized.

Mostly the charcters don't stand up for themselves when they are feeling uncomfortable. The scene on the sofa was definetely too intense and Gene didn't like it at all. I was already turning my eyes because I was just like 'not one of those scenes' but surprisingly the scene didn't go the way I thought. In many shows this would've gone in a very different direction even though the other charcter is not okay with it. BLs sometimes like to romanticise harrassement.

The writers are mostly female and the target audience is as well. BLs are mostly a fantasy and that's totally fine. It's just boring that every show is basically the same with the same stereotypes and exact same plot. The characters are not in any way real and Gene just copied this idea for "bad engineer". BL novels are created by women for women and that's what is criticised here because there's nothing real about it. In fact Gene wants to focus more on character developments and not NC scenes.

Fanscervice blends over problems the actors might have with each other. Nubsib and Aey don't get along that well but they have to, for the fans. This is a new level of pretending and also very uncomfortable to watch because they have to sacrifice their own values in order to have a job in the first place.

The jokes ... they are just very funny. Having a discussion about product placement for product placement?

Changing in the women's changing rooms because you thought it was 'unisex'?

Nubsib wearing a shirt saying 'eat me'?

There are many more but these are the ones I remember laughing at the most.

Questions

What's the deal with Aey?

Nubsib obviously doesn't like him but why? What did he do?

Is Nubsib jealous? Does Aey have a crush on Gene?

Will Aey become a character we feel sorry for?

What's going on in Tum's life? (I'm concerned)

Ending

This show adds layer after layer and from afar it looks like the typical BL but it's way, way better than that. It's funny, entertaining, realistic and interesting. Basically a writer navigating helplessly through the BL industry and learning that everything needs to be mainstream and is not allowed to be very different from the rest. I like this idea very much because as fans of BLs, we only see the things from the outside and can only assume the stuff that's going on behind the scenes. Here we have people who know what they are talking about whom we can use as a ressource. I found new aspects in this show I didn't even think about being a problem with the BL industry. It's just very interesting.

Preview

The previews always promise some heavy developments and I'm really excited to see jealous Gene and also drunk Gene. What will he do and will he be different? I mean, Nubsib is going to move out but I guess in the end, he won't. I don't know, something will happen because when Gene said "you can stay" he looked very sorry. Perhaps Nubsib shows more of himself and I think we all agree that he's probably messed up. He thinks pretending and manipulation leads to love...

[phoebosacerales]

The 6th house in Astrology

I thought I'd just share this excerpt from "The Plague", which feels like a whole lesson on the 6th house, while also being very relevant in these times of covid-19. It says a lot more than I could ever try to say and explain about the joy of Mars.

"The word 'plague' had just been uttered for the first time. At this stage of the narrative, with Dr. Bernard Rieux standing at his window, the narrator may, perhaps, be allowed to justify the doctor's uncertainty and surprise, since, with very slight differences, his reaction was the same as that of the great majority of our townsfolk. Everybody knows that pestilences have a way of recurring in the world; yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that crash down on our heads from a blue sky. There have been as many plagues as wars in history; yet always plagues and wars take people equally by surprise.

In fact, like our fellow citizens, Rieux was caught off his guard, and we should understand his hesitations in the light of this fact; and similarly understand how he was torn between conflicting fears and confidence. When a war breaks out, people say: 'It's too stupid; it can't last long.' But though a war may well be 'too stupid', that doesn't prevent its lasting. Stupidity has a knack of getting its way; as we should see if we were not always so much wrapped up in ourselves.

In this respect our townsfolk were like everybody else, wrapped up in themselves; in other words they were humanists: they disbelieved in pestilences.

A pestilence isn't a thing made to man's measure; therefore we tell ourselves that pestilence is a mere bogy of the mind, a bad dream that will pass away. But it doesn't always pass away and, from one bad dream to another, it is men who pass away, and the humanists first of all, because they haven't taken their precautions.

Our townsfolk were not more to blame than others; they forgot to be modest, that was all, and thought that everything still was possible for them; which presupposed that pestilences were impossible. They went on doing business, arranged for journeys, and formed views. How should they have given a thought to anything like plague, which rules out any future, cancels journeys, silences the exchange of views. They fancied themselves free, and no one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences.

Indeed, even after Dr. Rieux had admitted in his friend's company that a handful of persons, scattered about the town, had without warning died of plague, the danger still remained fantastically unreal. For the simple reason that, when a man is a doctor, he comes to have his own ideas of physical suffering, and to acquire somewhat more imagination than the average. Looking from his window at the town, outwardly quite unchanged, the doctor felt little more than a faint qualm for the future, a vague unease.

He tried to recall what he had read about the disease. Figures floated across his memory, and he recalled that some thirty or so great plagues known to history had accounted for nearly a hundred million deaths. But what are a hundred million deaths? When one has served in a war, one hardly knows what a dead man is, after a while. And since a dead man has no substance unless one has actually seen him dead, a hundred million corpses broadcast through history are no more than a puff of smoke in the imagination. The doctor remembered the plague at Constantinople that, according to Procopius, caused ten thousand deaths in a single day. Ten thousand dead made about five times the audience in a biggish cinema. Yes, that was how it should be done. You should collect the people at the exits of five picture-houses, you should lead them to a city square and make them die in heaps if you wanted to get a clear notion of what it means. Then at least you could add some familiar faces to the anonymous mass. But naturally that was impossible to put into practice; moreover, what man knows ten thousand faces? In any case the figures of those old historians, like Procopius, weren't to be relied on; that was common knowledge. Seventy years ago, at Canton, forty thousand rats died of plague before the disease spread to the inhabitants. But, again, in the Canton epidemic there was no reliable way of counting up the rats. A very rough estimate was all that could be made, with, obviously, a wide margin for error.

'Let's see,' the doctor murmured to himself, "supposing the length of a rat to be ten inches, forty thousand rats placed end to end would make a line of...'

He pulled himself up sharply. He was letting his imagination play pranks, the last thing wanted just now. A few cases, he told himself, don't make an epidemic; they merely call for serious precautions. He must fix his mind, first of all, on the observed facts: stupor and extreme prostration, buboes, intense thirst, delirium, dark blotches on the body, internal dilatation, and, in conclusion... In conclusion, some words came back to the doctor's mind; aptly enough, the concluding sentence of the description of the symptoms given in his medical handbook: 'The pulse becomes fluttering, dicrotic, and intermittent, and death ensues as the result of the slightest movement.' Yes, in conclusion, the patient's life hung on a thread, and three people out of four (he remembered the exact figures) were too impatient not to make the very slight movement that snapped the thread.

The doctor was still looking out of the window. Beyond it lay the tranquil radiance of a cool spring sky; inside the room a word was echoing still, the word 'plague'. A word that conjured up in the doctor's mind not only what science chose to put into it, but a whole series of fantastic possibilities utterly out of keeping with that gray and yellow town under his eyes, from which were rising the sounds of mild activity characteristic of the hour; a drone rather than a bustling, the noises of a happy town, in short, if it's possible to be at once so dull and happy. A tranquillity so casual and thoughtless seemed almost effortlessly to give the lie to those old pictures of the plague: Athens, a charnel-house reeking to heaven and deserted even by the birds; Chinese towns cluttered up with victims silent in their agony; the convicts at Marseille piling rotting corpses into pits; the building of the Great Wall in Provence to fend off the furious plague-wind; the damp, putrefying pallets stuck to the mud floor at the Constantinople lazar-house, where the patients were hauled up from their beds with hooks; the carnival of masked doctors at the Black Death; men and women copulating in the cemeteries of Milan; cartloads of dead bodies rumbling through London's ghoul-haunted darkness, nights and days filled always, everywhere, with the eternal cry of human pain. No, all those horrors were not near enough as yet even to ruffle the equanimity of that spring afternoon. The clang of an unseen streetcar came through the window, briskly refuting cruelty and pain. Only the sea, murmurous behind the dingy checkerboard of houses, told of the unrest, the precariousness, of all things in this world. And, gazing in the direction of the bay, Dr. Rieux called to mind the plague-fires of which Lucretius tells, which the Athenians kindled on the seashore. The dead were brought there after nightfall, but there was not room enough, and the living fought one another with torches for a space where to lay those who had been dear to them; for they had rather engage in bloody conflicts than abandon their dead to the waves. A picture rose before him of the red glow of the pyres mirrored on a wine-dark, slumbrous sea, battling torches whirling sparks across the darkness, and thick, fetid smoke rising toward the watchful sky. Yes, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility....

But these extravagant forebodings dwindled in the light of reason. True, the word 'plague had been uttered; true, at this very moment one or two victims were being seized and laid low by the disease. Still, that could stop, or be stopped. It was only a matter of lucidly recognizing what had to be recognized; of dispelling extraneous shadows and doing what needed to be done. Then the plague would come to an end, because it was unthinkable, or, rather, because one thought of it on misleading lines. If, as was most likely, it died out, all would be well. If not, one would know it anyhow for what it was and what steps should be taken for coping with and finally overcoming it.

The doctor opened the window, and at once the noises of the town grew louder.

The brief, intermittent sibilance of a machine-saw came from a near-by workshop.

Rieux pulled himself together. There lay certitude; there, in the daily round.

All the rest hung on mere threads and trivial contingencies; you couldn't waste your time on it. The thing was to do your job as it should be done."

"The Plague", by Albert Camus.

[greatworldwar2]

• Warsaw Uprising

The Warsaw Uprising was a major World War II operation, in 1944, by the Polish underground resistance, led by the Polish resistance Home Army (Polish: Armia Krajowa), to liberate Warsaw from German occupation. The Uprising was fought for 63 days with little outside support. It was the single largest military effort taken by any European resistance movement during World War II.

In 1944, Poland had been occupied by Nazi Germany for almost five years. The Polish Home Army planned some form of rebellion against German forces. Germany was fighting a coalition of Allied powers, led by the Soviet Union, the United Kingdom and the United States. The initial plan of the Home Army was to link up with the invading forces of the Western Allies as they liberated Europe from the Nazis. However, when the Soviet Army began its offensive in 1943, it became clear that Poland would be liberated by it instead of the Western Allies. The Soviets and the Poles had a common enemy in Germany but were working towards different post-war goals: the Home Army desired a pro-Western, capitalist Poland, but the Soviet leader Stalin intended to establish a pro-Soviet, socialist Poland. It became obvious that the advancing Soviet Red Army might not come to Poland as an ally but rather only as "the ally of an ally". The Soviets and the Poles distrusted each other and Soviet partisans in Poland often clashed with a Polish resistance increasingly united under the Home Army's front. On October 20th, the Polish government-in-exile issued instructions to the effect that, if diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union were not resumed before the Soviet entry into Poland, Home Army forces were to remain underground pending further decisions. However, the Home Army commander, Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski, took a different approach, and on November 20th, he outlined his own plan, which became known as Operation Tempest. On the approach of the Eastern Front, local units of the Home Army were to harass the German Wehrmacht in the rear and co-operate with incoming Soviet units as much as possible. Although doubts existed about the military necessity of a major uprising, planning continued. General Bór-Komorowski and his civilian advisor were authorised by the government in exile to proclaim a general uprising whenever they saw fit.

The situation came to a head on July 13th, 1944 as the Soviet offensive crossed the old Polish border. At this point the Poles had to make a decision: either initiate the uprising in the current difficult political situation and risk a lack of Soviet support, or fail to rebel and face Soviet propaganda describing the Home Army as impotent or worse, Nazi collaborators. The urgency for a final decision on strategy increased as it became clear that, after successful Polish-Soviet co-operation in the liberation of Polish territory, Soviet security forces behind the frontline shot or arrested Polish officers and forcibly conscripted lower ranks into the Soviet-controlled forces. On July 21st, the High Command of the Home Army decided that the time to launch Operation Tempest in Warsaw was imminent. The plan was intended both as a political manifestation of Polish sovereignty and as a direct operation against the German occupiers. On July 25th, the Polish government-in-exile (without the knowledge and against the wishes of Polish Commander-in-Chief General Kazimierz Sosnkowski) approved the plan for an uprising in Warsaw with the timing to be decided locally. In the early summer of 1944, German plans required Warsaw to serve as the defensive centre of the area and to be held at all costs. The Germans had fortifications constructed and built up their forces in the area. This process slowed after the failed July 20th plot to assassinate the Nazi leader Adolf Hitler, and around that time, the Germans in Warsaw were weak and visibly demoralized. However, by the end of July, German forces in the area were reinforced.

On July 27th, the Governor of the Warsaw District, Ludwig Fischer, called for 100,000 Polish men and women to report for work as part of a plan which envisaged the Poles constructing fortifications around the city. The inhabitants of Warsaw ignored his demand, and the Home Army command became worried about possible reprisals or mass round-ups, which would disable their ability to mobilize. The Soviet forces were approaching Warsaw, and Soviet-controlled radio stations called for the Polish people to rise in arms. On July 29th, the first Soviet armoured units reached the outskirts of Warsaw, where they were counter-attacked by two German Panzer Corps. Believing that the time for action had arrived, on July 31st, the Polish commanders General Bór-Komorowski and Colonel Antoni Chruściel ordered full mobilization of the forces the following day. The Home Army forces of the Warsaw District numbered between 20,000, and 49,000 soldiers. Other underground formations also contributed; estimates range from 2,000 in total, to about 3,500 men including those from the National Armed Forces and the communist People's Army. Most of them had trained for several years in partisan and urban guerrilla warfare, but lacked experience in prolonged daylight fighting. The forces lacked equipment, because the Home Army had shuttled weapons to the east of the country before the decision to include Warsaw in Operation Tempest. Other partisan groups subordinated themselves to Home Army command, and many volunteers joined during the fighting, including Jews freed from the Gęsiówka concentration camp in the ruins of the Warsaw Ghetto.

Colonel Antoni Chruściel (codename "Monter") who commanded the Polish underground forces in Warsaw, divided his units into eight areas. On September 20th, the sub-districts were reorganized to align with the three areas of the city held by the Polish units. The entire force, renamed the Warsaw Home Army Corps (Polish: Warszawski Korpus Armii Krajowej) and commanded by General Antoni Chruściel – who was promoted from Colonel on September 14th, formed three infantry divisions (Śródmieście, Żoliborz and Mokotów). The exact number of the foreign fighters who fought in Warsaw for Poland's independence, is difficult to determine. It is estimated that they numbered several hundred and represented at least 15 countries – Slovakia, Hungary, Great Britain, Australia, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Greece, Italy, the United States of America, the Soviet Union, South Africa, Romania and even Germany and Nigeria. They wore the underground's red-white armband (the colors of the Polish national flag) and adopted the Polish traditional independence fighters’ slogan ‘Za naszą i waszą wolność’. Some of the ‘obcokrajowcy’ showed outstanding bravery in fighting the enemy and were awarded the highest decorations of the AK and the Polish government in exile. During the fighting, the Poles obtained additional supplies through airdrops and by capture from the enemy, including several armoured vehicles, notably two Panther tanks and two Sd.Kfz. 251 APC vehicles. Also, resistance workshops produced weapons throughout the fighting, including submachine guns, K pattern flamethrowers, grenades, and mortars.

In late July 1944 the German units stationed in and around Warsaw were divided into three categories. The first and the most numerous was the garrison of Warsaw. As of July 31st, it numbered some 11,000 troops under General Rainer Stahel. These well-equipped German forces prepared for the defence of the city's key positions for many months. Several hundred concrete bunkers and barbed wire lines protected the buildings and areas occupied by the Germans. The second category was formed by police and SS under Col. Paul Otto Geibel, numbering initially 5,710 men, including Schutzpolizei and Waffen-SS. The third category was formed by various auxiliary units, including detachments of the Bahnschutz (rail guard), Werkschutz (factory guard) and the Polish Volksdeutsche (ethnic Germans in Poland) and Soviet former POW of the Sonderdienst and Sonderabteilungen paramilitary units. During the uprising the German side received reinforcements on a daily basis. Stahel was replaced as overall commander by SS-General Erich von dem Bach in early August. The Nazi forces included about 5,000 regular troops; 4,000 Luftwaffe personnel (1,000 at Okęcie airport, 700 at Bielany, 1,000 in Boernerowo, 300 at Służewiec and 1,000 in anti-air artillery posts throughout the city); as well as about 2,000 men of the Sentry Regiment Warsaw (Wachtregiment Warschau).

After days of hesitation, at on July 31st, the Polish headquarters scheduled "W-hour" (from the Polish wybuch, "explosion"), the moment of the start of the uprising. The decision was a strategic miscalculation because the under-equipped resistance forces were prepared and trained for a series of coordinated surprise dawn attacks. In addition, although many units were already mobilized and waiting at assembly points throughout the city, the mobilization of thousands of young men and women was hard to conceal. Fighting started in advance of "W-hour", notably in Żoliborz, and around Napoleon Square and Dąbrowski Square. The Germans had anticipated the possibility of an uprising, though they had not realized its size or strength. That evening the resistance captured a major German arsenal, the main post office and power station and the Prudential building. However, Castle Square, the police district, and the airport remained in German hands. The first days were crucial in establishing the battlefield for the rest of the fight. The resistance fighters were most successful in the City Centre, Old Town, and Wola districts. However, several major German strongholds remained, and in some areas of Wola the Poles sustained heavy losses that forced an early retreat. In other areas such as Mokotów, the attackers almost completely failed to secure any objectives and controlled only the residential areas. In Praga, on the east bank of the Vistula, the Poles were sent back into hiding by a high concentration of German forces. Most crucially, the fighters in different areas failed to link up with each other and with areas outside Warsaw, leaving each sector isolated from the others. After the first hours of fighting, many units adopted a more defensive strategy, while civilians began erecting barricades. Despite all the problems, by August 4th, the majority of the city was in Polish hands, although some key strategic points remained untaken.

The uprising was intended to last a few days until Soviet forces arrived; however, this never happened, and the Polish forces had to fight with little outside assistance. Among the most notable primary targets that were not taken during the opening stages of the uprising were the airfields of Okęcie and Mokotów Field, as well as the PAST skyscraper overlooking the city centre and the Gdańsk railway station guarding the passage between the centre and the northern borough of Żoliborz. The leaders of the uprising counted only on the rapid entry of the Red Army in Warsaw (`on the second or third or, at the latest, by the seventh day of the fighting`) and were more prepared for a confrontation with the Russians. At this time, the head of the government in exile Mikolajczyk met with Stalin on August 3rd, 1944 in Moscow and raised the questions of his imminent arrival in Warsaw, the return to power of his government in Poland, Stalin refused. Thus, the Warsaw uprising was actively used to achieve political goals. The question of assistance to the insurrection was not raised by Mikolajczyk, apparently for reasons that it might weaken the position in the negotiations. The question of helping the "Home Army" with weapons was only raised, but Stalin refused to discuss this question until the formation of a new government was decided. The Uprising reached its apogee on August 4th, when the Home Army soldiers managed to establish front lines in the westernmost boroughs of Wola and Ochota. However, it was also the moment at which the German army stopped its retreat westwards and began receiving reinforcements. German counter-attacks aimed to link up with the remaining German pockets and then cut off the Uprising from the Vistula river. Estimates of civilians killed in Wola and Ochota range from 20,000 to 50,000, 40,000 by August 8th in Wola alone, or as high as 100,000. The main perpetrators were Oskar Dirlewanger and Bronislav Kaminski, whose forces committed the cruelest atrocities. The policy was designed to crush the Poles' will to fight and put the uprising to an end without having to commit to heavy city fighting. With time, the Germans realized that atrocities only stiffened resistance and that some political solution should be found, as the thousands of men at the disposal of the German commander were unable to effectively counter the resistance in an urban guerrilla setting.

Despite the loss of Wola, the Polish resistance strengthened. Zośka and Wacek battalions managed to capture the ruins of the Warsaw Ghetto and liberate the Gęsiówka concentration camp, freeing about 350 Jews. The area became one of the main communication links between the resistance fighting in Wola and those defending the Old Town. On August 7th German forces were strengthened by the arrival of tanks using civilians as human shields. After two days of heavy fighting they managed to bisect Wola and reach Bankowy Square. However, by then the net of barricades, street fortifications, and tank obstacles were already well-prepared; both sides reached a stalemate, with heavy house-to-house fighting. Between the 9th and 18th of August pitched battles raged around the Old Town and nearby Bankowy Square, with successful attacks by the Germans and counter-attacks from the Poles. German tactics hinged on bombardment through the use of heavy artillery and tactical bombers, against which the Poles were unable to effectively defend, as they lacked anti-aircraft artillery weapons. Even clearly marked hospitals were dive-bombed by Stukas. The Poles held the Old Town until a decision to withdraw was made at the end of August. On successive nights until September 2nd, the defenders of the Old Town withdrew through the sewers, which were a major means of communication between different parts of the Uprising. Thousands of people were evacuated in this way. Those that remained were either shot or transported to concentration camps like Mauthausen and Sachsenhausen once the Germans regained control. Soviet attacks on the 4th SS Panzer Corps east of Warsaw were renewed on August 26th, and the Germans were forced to retreat into Praga. The Soviet army under the command of Konstantin Rokossovsky captured Praga and arrived on the east bank of the Vistula in mid-September. In the Praga area, Polish units under the command of General Zygmunt Berling fought on the Soviet side. The Germans intensified their attacks on the Home Army positions near the river to prevent any further landings, but were not able to make any significant advances for several days while Polish forces held those vital positions in preparation for a new expected wave of Soviet landings. Polish units from the eastern shore attempted several more landings, and from the 15th to 23rd of September sustained heavy losses (including the destruction of all their landing boats and most of their other river crossing equipment). Red Army support was inadequate. Plans for a river crossing were suspended "for at least 4 months", since operations against the 9th Army's five panzer divisions were problematic at that point, and the commander of the 1st Polish Army, General Berling was relieved of his duties by his Soviet superiors.

By the first week of September both German and Polish commanders realized that the Soviet army was unlikely to act to break the stalemate. The Germans reasoned that a prolonged Uprising would damage their ability to hold Warsaw as the frontline; the Poles were concerned that continued resistance would result in further massive casualties. On September 7th, General Rohr proposed negotiations, which Bór-Komorowski agreed to pursue the following day. Over the next 3 days about 20,000 civilians were evacuated by agreement of both sides, and Rohr recognized the right of Home Army soldiers to be treated as military combatants. The Poles suspended talks on the 11th, as they received news that the Soviets were advancing slowly through Praga. A few days later, the arrival of the 1st Polish army breathed new life into the resistance and the talks collapsed. However, by the morning of September 27th, the Germans had retaken Mokotów. Talks restarted on the 28th. The Poles were being pushed back into fewer and fewer streets, and their situation was ever more desperate. On the 30th, Hitler decorated von dem Bach, Dirlewanger and Reinefarth, while in London General Sosnkowski was dismissed as Polish commander-in-chief. Bór-Komorowski was promoted in his place, even though he was trapped in Warsaw. The capitulation order of the remaining Polish forces was finally signed on October 2nd. All fighting ceased that evening. According to the agreement, the Wehrmacht promised to treat Home Army soldiers in accordance with the Geneva Convention, and to treat the civilian population humanely. The next day the Germans began to disarm the Home Army soldiers. They later sent 15,000 of them to POW camps in various parts of Germany. Between 5,000 and 6,000 resistance fighters decided to blend into the civilian population hoping to continue the fight later. The entire civilian population of Warsaw was expelled from the city and sent to a transit camp Durchgangslager 121 in Pruszków. Out of 350,000–550,000 civilians who passed through the camp, 90,000 were sent to labour camps in the Third Reich, 60,000 were shipped to death and concentration camps (including Ravensbrück, Auschwitz, and Mauthausen, among others), while the rest were transported to various locations in the General Government and released.

The Eastern Front remained static in the Vistula sector, with the Soviets making no attempt to push forward, until the Vistula–Oder Offensive began on January 12th, 1945. Almost entirely destroyed, Warsaw was liberated from the Germans on January 17th, 1945 by the Red Army and the First Polish Army. By January 1945, 85% of the buildings in Warsaw were destroyed: 25% as a result of the Uprising, 35% as a result of systematic German actions after the uprising, and the rest as a result of the earlier Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, and the September 1939 campaign. In 2004, President of Warsaw Lech Kaczyński, later President of Poland, established a historical commission to estimate material losses that were inflicted upon the city by German authorities. The commission estimated the losses as at least US$31.5 billion at 2004 values. Estimates of German casualties differ widely. Though the figure of 9,000 German WIA is generally accepted and generates no controversy.

Most soldiers of the Home Army (including those who took part in the Warsaw Uprising) were persecuted after the war; captured by the NKVD or UB political police. They were interrogated and imprisoned on various charges, such as that of fascism. Between 1944 and 1956, all of the former members of Battalion Zośka were incarcerated in Soviet prisons. In March 1945, a staged trial of 16 leaders of the Polish Underground State held by the Soviet Union took place in Moscow. Many resistance fighters, captured by the Germans and sent to POW camps in Germany, were later liberated by British, American and Polish forces and remained in the West. Among those were the leaders of the uprising Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski and Antoni Chruściel. The facts of the Warsaw Uprising were inconvenient to Stalin, and were twisted by propaganda of the People's Republic of Poland, which stressed the failings of the Home Army and the Polish government-in-exile, and forbade all criticism of the Red Army or the political goals of Soviet strategy. In the immediate post-war period, the very name of the Home Army was censored, and most films and novels covering the 1944 Uprising were either banned or modified so that the name of the Home Army did not appear. From the 1950s on, Polish propaganda depicted the soldiers of the Uprising as brave, but the officers as treacherous, reactionary and characterized by disregard of the losses. The first publications on the topic taken seriously in the West were not issued until the late 1980s. In Warsaw no monument to the Home Army was built until 1989. Instead, efforts of the Soviet-backed People's Army were glorified and exaggerated. By contrast, in the West the story of the Polish fight for Warsaw was told as a tale of valiant heroes fighting against a cruel and ruthless enemy. The belief that the Uprising failed because of deliberate procrastination by the Soviet Union contributed to anti-Soviet sentiment in Poland. Memories of the Uprising helped to inspire the Polish labour movement Solidarity, which led a peaceful opposition movement against the Communist government during the 1980s. In Poland, August 1st is now a celebrated anniversary. On August 1st, 1994, Poland held a ceremony commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Uprising to which both the German and Russian presidents were invited.