#i still have to make all the documentation for it

[lightseoul]

cw. gn!reader, worker!reader, prohero!katsuki, aged-up (25), pining (again, if you look extra closely), a lot of cussing (are we still surprised)

part 1 (although ig this makes sense on its own), part 3 (i didn't plan this)

“What.”

It’s less of a question and more of a statement—a statement sputtered in the typically demanding way characteristic of the one and only Bakugou Katsuki.

The Bakugou Katsuki who happens to be your boss for a good (debatable) three and a half years now, who you also have to spend overtime with until who knows what time to discuss what’s become rocky employee relations in the Dynamight agency.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion or irrational annoyance—both, really—before you quickly school your expression into a neutral one. You riffle through the documents rather absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze before shooting back with: “What do you mean what?”

“I meant,” he leans back on his office chair that you know he singlehandedly picked out for its superior ergonomic design because he’s meticulous like that, “what the fuck is wrong with your face.”

“Excuse me?”

Your retort is laced with more indignant anger than intended, but at this point in the night, you cannot for the life of you bring yourself to care about your tone. It’s been a long day, and you weren’t about to let your stupid boss make fun of your appearance, of all things.

Bakugou probably senses the significant change in your demeanor, because his eyes widen in surprise ever so slightly before he sits up and opens his mouth to explain himself.

“You’ve been looking like you accidentally drank spoiled milk for the past hour and the shit aftertaste isn’t going away.” He haughtily shakes his head, and it takes everything in you not to jump him and choke your boss.

To your disdain, however, he continues.

“It’s either you spit it out or I’m going to have to force you to tell me what’s wrong.”

You gape at him. Whatever you expected him to say, it wasn’t that.

As quickly as you can, however, you attempt to regain your bearings and at least try to seem nonchalant, clearing your throat as unbothered as possible to top it all off. “Well, working overtime to iron out office squabbles isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing Friday night, thank you very much.”

He scoffs. “Bullshit.”

You almost get whiplash from how quickly you look at him. His brazen rudeness—which, right now, is worse than usual which is saying something, mind you—renders you incapable of saying anything aside from another winded: “Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Miss me with that bullshit, dumbass.”

You feel yourself heat up in irritation. “I thought I told you to stop calling me dumbass.”

“You’d rather I call you princess?”

At that, you break eye contact despite yourself, choosing to stare at his forehead instead. It’s still unnerving—looking at any part of his body, really—but it’s better than looking at him squarely and witnessing the smirk you know has taken over his unfairly handsome features.

Your voice is small, to your chagrin, when you reply. “That’s actually a lot worse.”

The man dares to bark out a laugh.

You continue to metaphorically choke him in your head.

“Okay then, dumbass,” he emphasizes the nickname and you are about 99% sure a pained expression is dancing across your face because Bakugou is observing you with even more amusement before his features settle into a look of seriousness.

“As I was saying before you missed the point entirely—I highly doubt you’re this bothered because of fucking overtime,” he eyes you cautiously before pressing on. “Something’s wrong.”

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion of the week filled with workplace conflict, or the crushing news you received this morning in the mail, or the very fact that Bakugou, despite his roughness and the annoyingly persistent way he’s been poking at your mood like it’s an itchy scab, is looking at you with genuine concern—but you end up doing it.

You give in.

You feel the tears welling up in your eyes before you even get the chance to deny them permission to, and at the sight of them Bakugou sits up even straighter in alarm—and you don’t know what comes over you because you start laughing so hard, your hand shoots up to your stomach in an attempt to keep it from cramping.

“Oi.”

The expression on his face is so unbelievably baffled that you only end up cackling to yourself more.

It takes a few more minutes before the sillies are fully flushed out of your system and really, it only took you a glance at Bakugou to realize you probably looked demented just now.

Feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, you quickly wipe away the tears in your eyes and muster enough courage to flash him a genuine smile.

To your delight, he flashes you one right back, albeit tentatively—one that is boyish and charming under the rather dim lights of his corner office.

Although he seemingly reboots to his default state because it’s immediately replaced by a frown and followed by: “You’re so weird, you know that?”

You snort and, before you can stop yourself: “Not as weird as my ex.”

At that, Bakugou’s entire countenance changes—he visibly stiffens in his seat and his eyebrows furrow in what you believe is confusion at the sudden mention of your past lover.

Bakugou says nothing, however, and so you take that as a sign to continue.

“Remember that meeting we had last March with Chef Asahi about our collaboration with his restaurant where I was late and you gave me shit for it? And when you asked I told you it was because I just got dumped over the phone?”

He gives you a curt nod, lips tight.

“Well,” you chuckle nervously, feeling embarrassed at your upcoming revelation, “I just found out that that ex is getting married in two months, and I’m invited.”

Neither of you says anything for the next—what feels like—hour.

Until Bakugou takes a sharp inhale, leans forward on his desk, and stares you down straight in the eyes: “I’ll do it.”

“What?”

He scowls at you like you’ve got a pea for a brain. “Don’t make me say it twice, dumbass.”

You frown at his hostility, your own bewilderment chipping away at your already thinning patience. “You’re not saying anything.”

Bakugou sighs, and he looks like what he is about to say next physically pains him.

“I’ll be your fucking date to the wedding.”

tagging. @kitthepurplepotato @chelbyisbord @lovra974 @katsukis1wife @brunnetteiwik

special shoutout to @he3v4n for reading the prequel to this and following thereafter--inadvertently making me check out past writing and get inspired to write this <3

[dollhog]

HELLO!! Gaining updates and where I’ve been 🐖❤️‍🔥

Thank you all for your support over this past year and a half! It truly means the world to me that I have a place and folks to update on my journey to immobility 💖Recently had some family emergencies back to back and I’m in the middle of a move across the world. So things have been incredibly hectic. Though I know I’ve been inconsistent in my posting of it, I’m OBVIOUSLY still actively working towards my ultimate goal of immobility every day. It’s sorta the only thing I fucking do with my time 😘 I need to get better at documenting the process as I’m now getting to a size where it’s all happening quite fast!

This is my lifelong art project, a goal I’m slowly working towards and have been dead set on since the moment I knew of its existence. Feederism is most certainly a muse of mine and the only thing I’ve ever actively strived for and chased after. So I intend to document the actual process much more rigorously and publicly than my first few years of just getting fat enough to be interesting! Anyways, expect less formal but more frequent posts and a lot of thought dumping when it comes to gain strategy and planning.

But yeah, thank you folks for sticking around!! I promise I’ll make it worth your while when I fulfil my lifelong dream of becoming a human mattress blob!! KISSES TO YOU ALL THANK YOU XX 🥰💋🐖

[charminglyantiquated]

9/25 update on the Nautilus, for anyone curious. Details below (long), but in summary: the damage is more expensive than we'd hoped. We will have to buy Nautilus back as salvage and repair her mostly out of pocket. We still do intend to repair her, but it seems now it will be over a timeline of several years. The fundraiser for her repairs has been raised to reflect the new estimate, and will remain up as long as we're working on her, for anyone who wishes to contribute. I'm so unbelievably, profoundly grateful to all of you who have helped us so far. Thank you so, so much.

Damage: a joint survey was conducted Tuesday between surveyors from our insurance and that of the other vessel. It will be another 3-4 weeks before we have the official paperwork, but the consensus was that the damage approaches twice Nautilus' value. In addition to the mast and all the attached rigging, sails, hardware, etc., the teak deck would have to come up in order to address the damage to the deck and hull. This means that rather than pay for repairs, our insurance company is almost certainly going to write her off as a total loss.

I am waiting for formal documentation before sharing any exact numbers. Once we have them I will be more precise. But the general process as I understand it right now is below, for anyone curious about how everything shakes out.

What a loss means with insurance: my understanding is that repair damages are only covered by insurance up to the point a vessel is totaled. Since the damages almost certainly surpass her value then she would be totaled instead. In this scenario, our insurance would give us the value the Nautilus was insured for, and then pursue the other vessel's insurance for their own reimbursement. Additionally the other insurance might give us the income we lost over the remainder of the season, but whether that will happen and what amount that would be is up in the air, with the three different attorneys we consulted agreeing that we'd be fortunate to get any amount. Anything beyond that is apparently unlikely, any other legal pursuit would possibly lose us more money that we might hope to gain.

On our end: we took out a loan to buy Nautilus in April, and still owe the majority of it. By the terms of the loan, with a total loss we would have to pay back the full loan immediately. Then, because this is essentially our insurance 'buying' Nautilus from us, we would have to buy her back as salvage. The salvage price would be determined by the salvageable parts of her, and the surveyor. Hopefully it would be less than five figures, but it depends heavily on which insurance company actually ends up with her, and how exhaustively they tally up the pieces of her that they could sell. The surveyors could not tell us at the time of the survey who would end up with her or what they would charge. For the next month or two Nautilus is in a kind of purgatory where we do still technically own her, but only until insurance gets through the paperwork, which makes it difficult to begin any work right now.

Financially: when the dust settles, once the loan is paid and we own Nautilus once more as salvage, I think that based on the current estimates we may have some funds remaining. But even in the best case scenario - low salvage price, and we do receive lost income - it wouldn't be enough to finance all the needed repairs. My partner and I will be keeping the fundraiser up for as long as we are working on her, for anyone who wishes to contribute to her repair fund. Any help from anyone who would like to see her sailing again will always be deeply appreciated, but we're both aware it's an absurd number. If we fail to meet it, we're both keenly aware it's not through any lack of generosity - I cannot possibly express how grateful we are for the help we have received already, and what a massive difference it has made over the last month as we deal with the immediate and long-term fallout, covering her haul-out and towing and bills over the months it will likely take to resolve all this.

Fixing Nautilus: my partner and I are still committed to repairing her, despite the cost and the time involved. The thought of letting her be cut up for salvage is too heartbreaking to bear. But at the pace things are progressing and with the resources we have, it's obvious now that it's not feasible to fix her fully over the winter; it will instead be over the course of several years. However, my partner and I hope that by doing as much of the work ourselves as we are qualified for, we can bring down the overall cost of repairs by a fair amount. Additionally, the broken mast was built only a few years ago by a gentleman who still has the plans for it and is willing to guide us through the process of building a replacement. There is a possibility we can connect with a local boat building school's fledgling restoration program. And a great many people have offered their time, advice, expertise, and contacts. The timeline has changed, but we are not giving up on her.

In the meantime: with the survey done, we now have at least a general idea of what the future will look like. Since working nonstop to get Nautilus sailing again by June is not on the table any longer, my partner and I are currently figuring out a long-term plan for ourselves, our little company, and the Nautilus herself. We have discussed a few ideas, which I'll share more about once we settle on anything concrete. Nautilus herself is finally clear of wreckage, with the pieces of her mast on sawhorses beside her, her deck swept clean, solar panel plugged in, and a tarp over the worst of the damage. She's as safe as we can make her for now; there's nothing else we can do except wait for the wheels to turn.

Lastly: thank you all, more than I can say. I have been trying not to miserypost, but I have been having a very hard time dealing with this, as has my partner. It took us ten years to save the money we put into Nautilus, and the few months we were able to spend sailing her together were the happiest and proudest I have been in my life. We have lost the future we'd imagined, and regardless of how this resolves, we are never getting that time back. We are determined not to lose the Nautilus as well, but it has honestly been difficult some days to push through the grief. The one consistent silver lining has been the kindness and sympathy and outrage from everyone who has taken the time to reach out to us. I have been floored, over and over, by how many people we have rooting for us. I am never, ever going to be able to express my full gratitude to all of you. Without exaggeration, you have kept me going.

I will share more once we know more - exact numbers, exact damage, exact plans for repairs and the next steps. Until then, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

[systlin]

Was reading (and chortling over) your post about the epic pyr vs poodle showdown, and I wanted to ask: would you recommend a great pyrenees as a breed? What are some things to be aware of re: when/how they might not be a good fit? I love giant fluffy dogs and I've only heard good things about the breed, but I don't want to make that kind of decision based just on cuddly vibes.

I would recommend them for experienced owners only.

They won't do well in small apartments. They need to go outside and walk. They are loud, and won't be appreciated by too-close neighbors. They're bred to be a protective breed, and they are. This can be good, but it can also make for a reactive dog.

They're big and powerful. If you can't physically handle them, you shouldn't have them. My girl is still reactive, even after a couple years of love and patience. She'll probably never fully get over it. I don't know what happened to her in the year or two of life she lived before she found us, but it baked in some of that reactivity. She's gotten better, but she will not ever LIKE people who aren't us in our house.

They will bark. You will never get them to not bark. Barking at threats is what they are bred for. It's baked in instinct. My girl barks at the mailman, squirrels, birds, sticks falling out of the trees, and suspicious leaves. This is an extremely well documented Pyr trait.

All that being said, I adore my girl. But if I did not live in a decently sized house with a yard, I wouldn't have kept her. It wouldn't be fair to her. If I couldn't physically restrain her when necessary, I would not have kept her.

I'm not saying don't get one, but I am saying that if you DO, know what you're doing and socialize early and well.

[cainified]

did you just try to harm your lieutenant? 📏 *ೃ༄

pairing: simon ghost riley x afab!reader

cw: i suck at writing military debriefs or any at all , not proofread cos i’m scared ┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈

It wasn’t by any means your fault that this meeting was so painstakingly boring. Mapping out plans Laswell for a small takedown, ensuring every little detail was covered just made you huff each time you passed a sheet back over to the table after a quick review.

It didn’t go unnoticed by your Lieutenant, his lips in a thin, straight line as he watched you carelessly sort through documents until reaching the right one, scribbling mess over the paper before sending it away. You would wince each time the paper would fly a little further than expected, reaching over the table to push it back into the pile, giving a sheepish smile to no one in particular.

It also wasn’t your fault when Laswell had left a ruler by your side as she explained the importance of the mission, her eyebrows furrowed as she pointed out each and every possible scenario she could manage to think of. The scratched at ruler, having seen better days, soon rested half off the table, your palm holding it down whilst the other gently pressed it down, producing a short brrrring before the sound fell flat.

Thankfully, the whirr of the computer behind you, (which in no way could have been up to date for the work you were dealing with) covered it up perfectly, allowing for you to continue with your quiet antics. Well, for a few extra seconds, anyway.

The silence that ensued went ignored by you, pressing the ruler down harder to see how far you could test it. "One... two..." You whisper under your breath; "We should scout out the p-," Laswell begins, turning over to face you.

Immediately, you startle from the change in volume, your palm lifting before you could stop the vibration of the ruler- it's almost as if the world stops as the ruler flings at Ghost, making a sharp clack against his hard mask before it falls to the table. You didn't know if you should thank God that it hadn't instead hit his face against the thin fabric of the balaclava he normally dons, but the sound it had made practically punctuated your fear instead.

Fuck. That's you out of a job for harming a Lieutenant, and probably living in a shroud of shame for the rest of your life.

Soap immediately holds his hand over his mouth, sputtering at your Lieutenant, earning a sharp slap upside the head before he turns to face you. It doesn't stop either him or Gaz from guffawing at the scene in front, but you badly wish it had.

Your face burns, blood rushing up your cheeks, almost trying to help engulf you into hiding from Ghost. You reach over the table, a sight for sore eyes, or really all eyes on the table, as you picked the ruler back up, sliding it over to Laswell.

"I-I'm.. so sorry." You whisper, your voice hoarse; if you had spoken any quieter, maybe it wouldn't have happened at all. With a shake of his head, Ghost interlaces his fingers, resting them onto the table. You weren't sure if the quiet was making the situation worse, forcing you to sit there, staring down at your lap.

"Well, apart from someone attempting to take out their Lieutenant, I think we should be ready for Thursday." Price states, his hands caressing over his mutton chops before he stands, thanking everyone, gathering up the papers to slip into a plastic folder.

You abruptly stand, your head tilted down as you brushed by the three other men; if neither had seen the annotated documents still scattered on the table, they would have believed that you were never there.

Ghost turns around, ignoring Soap’s short comment, stalking behind you, leaning forward to grip your wrist once you were both out of earshot from the meeting room, “What’re y’playin’ at?” He asks, gruff with slight concern, his head tilting to the side, his shadowed eyes gashing through you like a laser.

You step back, as far as you could make one step count, giving Ghost an incredulous look. You hesitate to respond- your eyes droop down to see the moulding of his dark green shirt against his damp skin from having trained with a few rookies before the meeting.

“..It really was an accident, I’m sorry. I just get a little distracted sometimes, won’t happen again Lieutenant.” You mockingly raise two fingers, saluting him to try defuse the tension; or to make it seem a lot less worse than it did. Was it working? Absolutely not.

A bemused smile curls against Ghost’s mask - you’d be thankful you couldn’t see it if you knew- as he drops his hand, wringing his own together. Bounding down the hall, Soap claps his arm around Ghost’s shoulders, still having that half-playful, half-serious look about him. “Ye’ alreet there, hen?” He directs to you, holding up the ruler that had just attacked your Lieutenant.

Just the thought of sending a flying ruler straight at Ghost’s face makes you groan, your hands instinctively coming up to hide your face, “Soap, put that down.” Your words come out slightly muffled against your hands before they rubbed down your face, but before you could reach out to grab it, Ghost takes it, glancing over at the plastic as if it was a precious gem.

“I’ll take it, I need a new one anyway.” He slides it into one of the many pockets adorning his trousers, nodding at Soap before walking off, leaving you a little stunned. Right.

wait this is my first ever post sigh was it a flop .. thinking of doing a part 2 cos no way is reader getting away with attempted murder of a lieutenant!!!!! wink wink

taglist: (but it’s just my friend sob) @thewrstinme

[marzipanandminutiae]

Hello!

I am an aspiring author who struggles with accurately portraying historical clothing, and I stumbled across your blog while searching for photographs and information on late 19th century/USA Gilded Age fashion. From the research I've seen compiled across books/the internet, the clothing of the upper class from that area is very well documented in paintings, garment catalogues, photographs, museums, etc....but finding information on what the day-to-day wear of normal people was like is proving much more difficult. Since you seem to be knowledgeable in the subject of historical clothing in this approximate time period, I was wondering if you knew about any good resources to learn more about what people who couldn't afford to follow upper class trends were wearing in the general era as well as any general information around these items.

If it helps, I'm focused on eastern and southeastern United States farming/small railroad town/mountain mining/gulf coast wetland communities, but even just more general resources about what sort of clothing that the average poor person during the Gilded Age wore would be greatly helpful. I've been able to find a few photographs here and there, but these probably aren't an accurate depiction of a persons' 'day-to-day' wear, and I also haven't found much on how women learned to sew homemade clothes, what garments if any would have been bought, where people in rural areas would have sourced their cloth, what undergarments were like, how work shoes were made & aquired, ect.

Please feel free to ignore this if it isn't something you're interested in answering as I'm sure you get a lot of asks, but I'd greatly appreciate it if you have any pointers!

So here's the thing about 19th-century clothing:

in many ways, it's the same all the way down

now, that's a serious generalization. is a farm wife in Colorado going to be wearing the same thing as a Vanderbilt re: materials, fit, and up-to-the-minute trendiness? obviously not. but because so much of what people wore back then has only survived to the present day in our formalwear- long skirts, suits, etc. -we tend to have difficulty recognizing ordinary or "casual" clothing from that period. I also sometimes call this Ballgownification, from the tendency to label literally every pretty Victorian dress a Ball Gown (even on museum websites, at times). Even work clothing can consist of things you wouldn't expect to be work clothing- yes, they sometimes worked in skirts that are long by modern standards, or starched shirts and suspenders. Occupational "crap job clothes" existed, but sometimes we can't recognize even that because of modern conventions.

A wealthy lady wore a lot of two-piece dresses. Her maid wore a lot of two-piece dresses. The trailblazing lady doctor working at the hospital down the road from her house wore a lot of two-piece dresses. The factory worker who made the machine lace the maid used to trim her church dress wore a lot of two-piece dresses. The teenage daughter of the farm family that raised the cows that supplied the city where all those people lived wore a lot of- you get the idea. The FORMAT was very similar across most of American and British society; the variations tended to come in fabrics, trims, fit precision, and how frequently styles would be updated.

Having fewer outfits would be common the further down the social ladder you went, but people still tried to have as much underwear as possible- undergarments wicked up sweat and having clean ones every day was considered crucial for cleanliness. You also would see things changing more slowly- not at a snail's pace, but it might end up being a few years behind the sort of thing you'd see at Newport in the summer, so to speak. Underwear was easier to make oneself than precisely cut and fitted outer garments for adults (usually professionally made for all but the poorest of the poor for a long time- dressmakers and tailors catering to working-class clientele did exist), but that also began to be mass-produced sooner than outer clothing. So depending on the specific location, social status, and era, you might see that sort of thing and children's clothing homemade more often than anything else. Around the 1890s it became more common to purchase dresses and suits ready-made from catalogues like Sears-Roebuck, in the States, though it still hadn't outpaced professional tailoring and dressmaking yet. Work shoes came from dedicated cobblers, and even if you lived in isolated areas, VERY few people in the US and UK wove their own fabric. Most got it from the nearest store on trips to town, or took apart older garments they already had to hand and reused the cloth for that.

I guess the biggest thing I want to emphasize is that, to modern eyes, it can be very hard to tell who is rich and who is anywhere from upper-working-class to middling in Gilded Age photographs. Because just like nowadays a custodial worker and Kim Kardashian might both wear jeans and a t-shirt, the outfit format was the same for much of society.

Candid photography can be great for this sort of thing:

Flower-sellers in London's Covent Garden, 1877. Note that the hat on the far right woman is only a few years out-of-date; she may have gotten it new at the time or from a secondhand clothing market, which were quite popular on both sides of the Atlantic.

Also London, turn of the 20th century.

A family in Denver, Colorado, c. early 1890s.

Train passengers, Atlanta, Georgia, probably 1890s.

Hope this helps!

[strawberrystepmom]

neuvillette x fortune teller f!reader. semi established rapport/friendship, mutual pining, flirtation, references to astrology. / wc 2.1k, divider thanks to @enchanthings

The heavy door separating Neuvillette from the rest of Palais Mermonia opens up with a drag across the floor, grasping the attention of the man himself while he works at his desk. The sun is hardly visible through the window behind him, still making an arrival into this world and taking her time just as you have.

“Please forgive my tardiness.” You curtsy with as polite a smile as anyone could accomplish while stepping through the crack. “You know how particular Mona can be when discussing, well, anything at all.”

The judge laughs to himself, aware of the mage’s tendency to mumble and subsequently hold others captive to her ramblings. Shuffling papers between his hands, he settles on tapping the bottom edges of the documents against his desk to organize the stack. Placing it down, he casts a measured if not nearly warm smile in your direction and nods toward the set table that has been awaiting your arrival.

“It’s quite alright. Although if I may, I’d like to encourage you to remind her that your time is as valuable as hers in the future.”

Entering his office, you shut the door quietly behind you and nod in agreement with his sentiment. You’ve always been terrible at asserting yourself, especially if you get the sense that someone needs to be heard.

It’s always strange to be in a place so grand. When compared to your office back at the newspaper, scattered with books and half scribbled messages that your connection to the stars has given you to spread to others, this place becomes a museum. Despite the differences in standing and work environment both, you never feel out of place amongst the hanging portraits and the stacked gold spined books across the shelves.

The Iudex also rises, making his way around the ornate desk where he does most of his work and arriving at the small table set for two to pull out your chair and then his. Nodding appreciatively, you sit down and immediately begin preparing your tea. You set the pitcher of cream next to your saucer, tidying everything while he looks on fondly.

“I’ve already added two sugar cubes to your cup so proceed with caution,” he mentions offhandedly, watching you reach for the small bowl in the middle of the table containing a perfectly aligned pile of them.

The pair of you have been engaged in this dance for long enough that he has become very familiar with your tea and how it’s taken; two sugar cubes, the tiniest splash of cream, four shallow stirs and your spoon will always gently clang against the lip of the cup on the final one.

Pouring tea over the sugar, you tilt your head to watch it pour. Neuvillette watches you intently, refusing to move even an inch as he settles into his seat.

“Mona is more than aware of the one appointment I maintain yet insists upon making my mornings complex for reasons I have yet to discover,” you sigh theatrically, lower lip jutting out slightly. Neuvillette steals a glance at your mouth but averts his gaze quickly, reaching for the chalice sat in front of his place at the table to sip his water.

This buys him blissful time to consider his next move. Perhaps he’s too careful in his approach to you, insisting upon his life being unfit for romance to avoid confronting the truth about why his chest flutters when you peek your head around his door. He swears he smells your perfume if he shuts his eyes and sniffs deeply enough, your essence permeating every inch of his office and consciousness until he can hardly think.

These feelings are hardly something he can run from or face head on. He’s caught in a trap made of his own desire for your company but at the same time finds himself haunted by the very real notion that his feelings may not even be shared.

“Then it’s paramount that we begin enjoying the time we have together while we can, no?”

This is the sentiment he settles upon as he works through his internal struggle, giving you a practiced smile and placing his chalice down.

Noticing the slight change in his demeanor, you lift your cup and sip demurely, smiling against the lip as the promised sweetness covers your tongue.

How could one not smile at such a kindness? A man who is not indebted to you yet enjoys you enough to understand your desires is a rarity. You’d be foolish not to flutter your lashes at him ever so slightly while leaning forward and placing the cup back down on the table below, handle turned toward you.

“It’s wonderful that you are ready to begin because the stars have spoken and given me some excellent news for you, Iudex.”

The pearls adorning the collar of your gown create a lush sound as you move, one that Neuvillette has long come to associate with your presence. It’s similar to the comfort of rainfall but accentuated by your laughter which he has not heard enough of yet today.

How can a laugh chase away his loneliness yet send him spiraling into its depths at the same time? A puzzling situation to find himself in, to be sure.

In an effort to compose himself, he raises his brows and crosses his legs with one knee bent over the other.

“Is that so?” Thoughtfully humming, he drums his fingers against his impeccably well dressed thigh.

You sneak a glance at his thigh and the way his impeccably tailored pants stretch across it while leaning in to hook your finger around the handle of the teacup in front of you, sipping and nodding to play off your own lecherousness lest you be caught.

It’s not uncommon that you attempt to shroud your readings in mystery though he’s never quite sure if it’s in an effort to thrill or further confuse him. He has never been one to indulge in games unless it is for the enjoyment of another but there is a compulsion in him to play along with yours.

The effusive smile you’ll graciously bless him with when you leave as thanks for being allowed this indulgence will make it worth his while anyway.

“May I guess what they’ve said first?”

A slight lilt of amusement in his voice draws your attention back toward his handsome face, head tilted to the side playfully.

It’s impossible to deny such a kind and charming man a thing. You nod affirmatively with a giggle, leaning forward in your chair but taking pains not to place your elbows on the table, instead keeping them resting on your thighs with your hands linked together.

“Be my guest.”

Your light as a feather response draws an elegant laugh from the man. He has left you no choice but to hide your pleasure at being the one to make him laugh by drawing your shoulders inward, going against your body’s natural response to shimmy them in excitement.

The mere thought of being someone Neuvillette enjoys enough to smile with thrills you. You could do nothing but make him smile for a lifetime. You’d feel permanently satisfied draped across the chaise in his office with a story or a quip or a joke to uplift him. Anything to hear the laughter that stirs a storm inside of you.

Realizing you’re losing yourself in romantic notion rather than reality, you focus back on the task at hand. Being fortune told by the judge while you’re the judge of his telling, a strange bit of role reversal. Maybe he isn’t so stuffy after all. You’ll let your mind wander to that possibility later while you’re alone.

He clears his throat, shifting his face to admire you from the corner of his eye. You feel his gaze upon you and fix your posture, shoulders no longer drawn inward but rolled back, head held high and neck extended.

“I bel –” Eyes traveling down to your now very exposed neck and throat, he stumbles on his words. This leads him to stop himself and reach for his water.

Taking a quick sip and shooting you an apologetic glance, you hold up your hand to dismiss him and nod to encourage him to continue. Swallowing, he follows your example and straightens out his posture.

“I apologize for that.” You shake your head and smile at him, holding your hand up again. “As I was saying. I believe that the stars have foretold that I’m going to have a wonderful day and that great fortune will befall me, correct?”

Smiling, you shake your head and bite back another giggle. He’s so loose with his tongue when you’re around, your sense of humor clearly rubbing off on him at least the slightest bit. It gives you false hope that these meetings are actually as you’ve seen them which is a shared joy rather than strictly business.

“Not entirely inaccurate though if you begin telling your own fortunes I believe I may be out of a job.”

This is, of course, untrue. Your employment with The Steambird is as ironclad as your reputation for being as trustworthy as you are lovely. The man nods thoughtfully, his face shifting enough that you notice it and you decide to give in.

“Would you like to know what they truly told me about you?”

“Be my guest.”

He echoes your prior sentiment with a gracious smile on his face. Now looking at you head on, he nods in defiance of his concern about what is to come from your sweet lips.

How could something so desirable ever foretell calamity?

“The stars tell me that love is coming your way, monsieur.”

He must have spoken too soon. Calamity it is.

“Is that so?”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, leaning back into his chair in an effort to hide his distress.

It’s not that the notion of love itself is distressing, it’s unavoidable in every aspect of his life even in the justice that he doles out. It’s simply that it feels daunting to consider having to juggle the responsibilities of caring for another person, something he will never take lightly, with the existing extraordinary life that he has.

Considering what it would be like to love another thrills Neuvillette, against his better judgment. A less unapproachable part of him longs to hold and be held; to wake and sleep next to the same person every night. These meetings with you are the closest he’s ever come to a practical relationship.

The moment the true picture of how he views your gatherings enters his head, he visibly stiffens.

What if the love coming for him isn’t…you?

“Are you alright?”

He nods in response to your question, the slightly uncertain look on his face quickly replaced with his usual smile.

“Of course, mademoiselle. I have simply been caught off guard by the stars and their plans for me.”

Reaching for his water, he grips the stem of the chalice tightly in an attempt to ground and comfort his racing mind.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” you begin but you’re stopped when he raises his hand and extends it.

You follow his lead, offering your hand to him gingerly. He presses his fingers against the tips of yours and his thumb to your palm, closing the distance between the two of you slightly. This may not be the wisest choice but he’s following the flutter in his chest that only grows with each passing moment he spends gazing down at you, large eyes looking back up at him.

“You could only offend me if you stopped sharing your readings completely.”

The sentiment makes you smile, looking away to hide it. Warm cheeks that you feel from the inside out tell you everything you need to know about how it makes you feel to receive his reassurance and praise.

You’re in too deep.

“Excuse me, Iudex?”

The two of you turn toward the door when you hear a voice, that of an assistant coming to alert Neuvillette that it’s time for his next appointment. He carefully - tenderly - squeezes your hand while placing it down with a different kind of smile from his default across his face. You collect your hand back and place it in your lap, settling it beneath its twin so that you can rub the spot he just touched with your own thumb to memorize how it felt.

“Forgive me but I must go.” He rises and bows before you, making his way to the door slowly but not before stopping to look over his shoulder once.

“And do tell me if the stars speak any more on these developments.”

He meets your returned look, satisfied with the dazed expression on your face. You nod dumbly, struggling to find the words to form an actual response, watching him leave. The door shuts behind him, leaving you alone to gather yourself.

The stars may like to know about these developments themselves.

[vickyvicarious]

Honestly, I think it could be very impactful if Van Helsing did die in the graveyard tonight. It'd continue the trend of people taking any direct stand against Dracula being killed almost casually in return. Up the stakes even more. Maybe he could be found the next morning on a grave with his neck broken, a look of fear or defiance on his face - a reminder of Mr. Swales's death.

Jack would get the note and then find him or hear about him being found in the graveyard. The suitors would arrive thanks to the note the Professor sent them and they'd link up with him. I imagine they would go together anyway, though more expecting to support a Jack who is wondering if it can be real after all or if it was just madness before he was murdered somehow. They would all learn just how true it is together, would have to save each other and then follow the directions left to them. Or possibly seek out the Harkers first and then they might be involved in the Bloofer Lady staking. That would be a good moment of horror too, Mina seeing Lucy like this...

When the groups united they'd have to do research of their own, or go through the documents left behind by Van Helsing. Books of fairy tales and superstitions, pages with scattered notes, comparing them to the diaries...

Thematically, it would fit pretty well with all the other deaths around this part of the book. The parents are all dead and gone. And while Van Helsing is not a parent to anyone here, he was a mentor and guide to Jack in particular. He would join in with the others who now are orphaned/have to figure things out themselves. Jonathan has inherited the responsibilities of a law firm, Arthur has inherited the title and all that goes with it, Jack would inherit Van Helsing's final task.

There would be more collaboration in general (rather than all mostly following) and more leadership emerging from Mina, probably. None of the suitors are going to be as ready to take the lead in this situation, at least not as totally as Van Helsing. Of course, issues with her being left behind probably aren't going to just totally go away. But I imagine less so, or in a different way. Along the way I think there could be more moments for Arthur or Quincey to shine as well, stepping in at different points where originally Van Helsing took the floor.

The end of the story, where everyone splits up three ways, would have to be changed somehow, of course. Either someone has to go alone, or they have to ignore one route entirely. But I think that might be the biggest actual plot change you'd find completely necessary. Other than what happens to Mina, of course. I do think Dracula would still go after Mina somehow, even if she went with them to examine his boxes. But maybe they wouldn't get to the point of doing so as quickly until they collated all their info. Maybe things happen slower, maybe what happened the final night (Jonathan hypnotized into sleep right next to him) would happen more often. Oh, I guess the other change might be no one to hypnotize Mina while spying, unless this is some skill Quincey happens to have or whatever. But then, Jack seems familiar at least with the theory, so maybe he could make an attempt at it.

I mean, there's no reason you would have to stick that closely to the original story. But for the most part I think you could if you wanted, and it would just be a different tone that would still be really powerful. And it would be kind of interesting to have Van Helsing's role be limited to failing to save Lucy throughout. Hiding information right up until he tries to share it, after which he dies. That phrasing makes it sound really brutal, but... I mean it would kind of be brutal, but his legacy would be bringing the two groups together, showing them the truth (or confirming it as the case may be) and entrusting them with the future.

[nifexchange24]

Announcing: The Nirvana in Fire Fanwork Exchange 2024

Sign-ups — 1st-14th Oct

Prompt claiming — 17th-21st Oct

Assignments — 24th Oct

Check-in — 1st-5th Dec

Deadline — 21st Dec

Gift reveals — 25th Dec

Creator reveals — 31st Dec

The Nirvana in Fire Fanwork Exchange is an event for anyone who's a fan of the show Nirvana in Fire, its sequel series The Wind Blows in Changlin, the novel, manhua, audio drama and any other associated media I've forgotten.

It takes the form of an anonymous fanwork gift exchange: gifters will be matched with recipients based on prompts submitted by participants during sign-up. All participants will create a gift and receive one.

The event is open to all types of fanworks: fic, vids, visual art, crafts, podfic, etc.

Announcements will be crossposted to Tumblr, Discord and Dreamwidth.

If you would like an invite to the Langya Hall discord server, which has a channel for discussing the exchange, please let me know.

How It Works

During the sign-up period, you will be able to submit a Google Form with a list of 3 prompts for fanworks you would like to receive, as well as space to list any Do/Do Not Wants. The link will be posted on the DW community, the Langya Hall discord, and on this Tumblr.

On 17th Oct, participants will be sent an anonymous list of sets of prompts and asked to rank their top 5 choices. Once all participants have responded, the mods will do their best to match everyone according to their preferences.

On 24th Oct, participants will be sent their individual assignment: the prompt list of the person they have been matched with, along with that person's AO3 username.

On 31st Oct, the prompt list will be made public, for anyone, whether they signed up or not, to creat additional 'treats' for the prompters.

There will be a mandatory check-in 1st-5th Dec. Participants will be asked whether they are on track to complete a gift by the final deadline of 21st Dec. Participants who miss this deadline without contacting the mods will be assumed to have defaulted and their assignment will be sent to a pinch-hitter.

Gifts should be submitted to the AO3 collection (still under construction) by the end of the day on 21st Dec. Participants will still be able to make edits, but the gift should be in a giftable state by then.

On 25th Dec, the gifts will be revealed: everyone will be able to see all works in the collection, though the creators will still remain anonymous.

On 31st Dec, the names of the creators will be revealed.

TL;DR: Sign up with prompts, choose the prompts you'd like to fill, make a thing, post a thing, get a thing, shower your fellow creators with love and comments.

Minimum gift requirements

Treats

Fic: 500 words

Podfic: 5 mins

Art: 1 artwork (B&W or colored)

Video: 30 secs to 1 min, depending on complexity

Crafts: 1 picture and/or documentation of the finished project

If you don't want to sign up as a full exchange participant, you can still create fills for prompts as 'treats'. The prompt list will be made public on 31st Oct. Treats can be posted to the AO3 community and tagged with 'NIFTREAT24'.

General Points

BYOB: Bring your own beta. In previous years, the exchange has offered a beta-matching service, but we're running at reduced capacity this year, so if you want your work beta-read, please organise this yourself.

Timezones: Deadlines for participants are 11.59pm of the date in question, wherever you might be in the world. Timings for the mod doing stuff are based on 'when I have a spare hour during that day' and I can't be more precise than that.

AO3: You'll be able to add your work to the Nirvana in Fire 2024 Exchange collection on AO3 (currently under construction but you can see last year's collection here). If you need an AO3 invite, we can arrange this, but please let me know before December if possible.

Contact a mod: If you're in the Langya Hall discord server, feel free to ping me @ sinni-ok-sessi on there, or @ withans for a PM. You can also contact me @sinni-ok-sessi or via the @nifexchange24 Tumblr. Nominally I am on Dreamwidth, but I almost never remember to check it, so that's not your best bet. If you sign up, you will receive instructions for how to email me.

[thesleepyfable]

~ SWTD: Still Here AU Part 14: ~

Operation Spy Part 3:

The finale of Operation Spy. Yes, this is a short arc. It's a bridge into the next, much longer chapters.

As the minutes ticked by, things seemed to calm down. The dock crew were quick to realise the infected were harmless. Seeing the Beria crew talk to them as if nothing happened helped wash away their nerves. It was just a lot of them to take in as a third party. Still, Brodie and Finlay lingered by the only phone you could use to contact the outside before reaching Bernard's office because they weren't going to risk having police or military find them. Archie soon made his appearance. Loyal to the core, he waited here the entire time. The scream from earlier woke him from a nap he was taking somewhere else in the building.

Someone found the courage to ask Addair about the album he carried under his arm, which he returned in kind by showing off his wife and sons, going into great detail for each picture. From what they were doing to location. Whether it was just for attention or because he somehow turned over a new leaf in the span of 24 hours was anyone's guess. The same went for Gibbo. They wanted to know about Eleanor after seeing the chain, which he obliged, but when it got too much, with everyone sharing their own stories of their wives, eventually talking over each other, he literally retreated his head into the mass. Douglas and Dobbie were quick to vouch for him, and it was taken well. 'I wish I could do that,' one commented. Yes, Gibbo can somehow breathe. No, he didn't know how he was doing that. He just subconsciously knew.

Trots, for once, didn't go on about a Union and instead told his side of the story with Archie listening because he was the last to learn about anything surrounding yesterday's events. Muir, Caz, and a few others from Beria stood to the side.

'Are you sure your ma and pa will be okay with this?' Caz asked.

'They should be,' Muir answered. 'I cannae think of anywhere else we can go. I want to go home anyway and it's got the most room for us.'

'No harm in trying then.'

As for Rennick, it was clear there was a history between himself and Bernard. Roper could feel it as he awkwardly sat beside his manager in the makeshift office they made, which was just the trio sitting further away between the maze of containers.

'Is this necessary, Davey? Aren't we friends?' His voice perfectly matched the description of a weasel-bodied, rat-faced, snake.

'That ship sailed a long time ago. So long in fact, it's done three laps of the world by now.'

Roper took out the documents O'Connor gav to him and handed them to Bernard, who was trying his best to control his shakey hands. Not because of fear, but anger.

'This should help you close the investigation. We made sure to collect everything.' No answer. Bernard took the time to scan over everything. All the medical and financial records, the payslips, food intakes, orders that never arrived, and a list of crew. A red mark against those who were gone. He wanted to find one mistake. Something. Anything to make sure he won. Not because he wanted the crew to still work for him, even if the infected would be good for heavy lifting. It was out of pride. Bernard Cunningham can never be wrong.

'And, just so you know, we're all quitting.'

'Yeah, I fuckin' got that.' He caught a glimpse of Rennick smiling. Seems Bernard wasn't above keeping up appearances. 'Have you got something to say, David?'

'Not really. I'm just enjoying this.'

'Enjoying what? Watching you toss away your career? Everything I gave you? You've got some fuckin' nerve to be smiling right now. Just look at yourself.' The sickly sweet office attitude Bernard carried himself with had long gone. This was the real him. 'You're disgusting.'

Roper's eyes went wide as saucers. He glanced between the men, having never heard anyone talk to Rennick like that. He was at a loss for words. Rennick remained strong. The words cut deep, but he wasn't going to let Bernard know he had any effect on him. The bastard wasn't going to win.

'So, you know we all need Severance pay?' A pause. Bernard couldn't believe Rennick was telling him how to do his job. 'And we're also going to need to borrow a couple of the trucks.'

'Why?!' Bernard's voice was exasperated.

'We're not walking all the way to-'

'I don't care where you go, you prick!' Bernard's voice bounced off the metal. 'You've already taken my rig. You lot can go fuck yourselves if you really think I'm gonna let you take more from me!' The chairman was red in the face and looked like a fish gasping for air.

'My rig,' Rennick corrected with an eerily calm manner. 'Don't worry about it, we'll return them. I can speak for everyone here, that we don't want anything from you.'

'Except for the dosh,' Roper interjected. Rennick ignored him.

'Don't worry about it, big man. The sooner we're out of your hair, the better.'

Bernard huffed, rubbed the temple of his nose. Rennick has clearly said something right because in less than a few seconds, he snapped with a 'fine.'

'But, I better not see any of you again.'

Maybe he was petty. Maybe he wanted to play into how Bernard saw him, but Rennick, without warning, shook his hand. If he thought he was disgusting, then he'll want to leave a metaphorical mark on Bernard. How? By wrapping a tendril completely up and around his arm and holding it for a few seconds too long. He used that fake yet convincing smile to the untrained eye. Bernard saw right through it but was more distracted by the obvious. He tried to pull away, but with no luck. 'It's been a pleasure doing business with you.'

The tendril retreated back into Rennick's body. He turned away, and Roper followed. The pair had never been on good terms, but Roper would be lying if he said he didn't feel bad. Bernard's words were cruel, but it certainly explained why Rennick managed the Beria the way he did for years. With a 'friend' like that, who needs enemies? Apparently, Rennick, because he seemed to make that his mission. Still...

'Are you okay?'

'Should I not be?'

'Well, what he said was terrible and-'

'For fuck sake, Roper, I'm fine.' He didn't sound fine. 'I don't-' Rennick caught a quick glimpse of his reflection and looked away. His jaw tensed and he looked to the floor. He just wanted to leave. 'I don't need one of your therapy sessions. Give it to Gibbo.' Roper let him pass. Rennick knew he heard the pained tone, but he won't let that get the best of him. He pushed the feelings to the back of his mind and continued forward. 'Attention crew of The Beria!' Everyone turned. 'Grab your stuff, we're getting out of here.'

Thankfully, it was smooth sailing for everyone. Bernard gave them two trucks, but on the conditions that a member of the dock crew drove them. He didn't care if they were driving to Glasgow or to Cornwall, just as long as they were gone.

Sadly, this is where most of the crew would be parting ways. Many could and have made it home from here. This included Roper, Sunil, Dobbie, McLurg, Scooby, Douglas, Archie, and...

'Be sure to stay out of trouble.' Finlay. This was her goodbye. At least for now. She lived in Glasgow, as did most of the crew. Easy to meet up and travel together for a visit.

'Nae promises,' Caz laughed. 'But, are you sure you don't want to come with us?'

'Nah. I've got me boy to get back to. He came home last week, and I wanna see him.' She chuckled. 'I have a story to tell him, eh?'

The pair shared a hug. Finlay had always been there for Caz, and not just because she was a fan of him during the boxing years, but because she cared. It might be because she was the only woman on board, but she really was like a mother to most. A strict mother, but one none the less.

'Safe journey.' Caz slipped a piece of paper that had a home number. He made sure everyone got one. 'Call us whenever.'

'Aye. Now, go on ya blighter before you make an old biddy like me cry.'

Muir and Rennick took one truck. Caz sat beside the driver, followed by Roy, then O'Connor. Innes stayed in the back. Gibbo, Addair, and Trots took the other, with Trots being able to sit in one of the passenger seats. Brodie and Raffs accompanied them.

Why were Brodie, Raffs, and O'Connor staying? They needed to plan their trips home. All three lived off the mainland, and they weren't going to plan another long treck home now. Especially O'Connor. Bad enough, he was on the east side of Scotland. He needed a few days of rest.

'Okay, that's everyone!' Raffs called from the passenger window, to which Roy returned a thumbs up. The trucks roared to life and slowly made their ways out of the docks. The crew members who stayed behind waved until they were out of sight. Raffs took advantage of being the closest to the door and rolled his window down to rest his head and elbows out. Seeing the sea vanish from view for the endless countryside with patched fields of snow was like whiplash. A well-deserved whiplash. The smell of the sea air was replaced with an Earthy aroma.

The infected and Innes couldn't see the outside, but just knowing they were on a road was something they never knew how much they needed until now. A sense of calm overcame them. Finally, they were back in Scotland. Even if they'll never be human again, it was good to be back on the mainland. Rennick felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders. Never again will he have to deal with oil rigs that made him lose sleep and cause so much stress, he refused to eat. Even if Roy saved him leftovers.

A small window divided them and the seating. Rennick tapped on it for Caz to slide open.

'So, where are we going?'

'Braemar.'

'Where?'

'Home,' Muir answered. 'We're going home.'

[zutaranation]

Secretly, Zuko prefers the tea Katara makes him over Iroh's.

Another late night where Zuko needed to fetch a second oil lamp. He'd burned through the first one and his eyes were aching through to the back of his head from staring at parchment so long. Katara swore that he'd inflicted the need for glasses upon himself, but he saw it as nothing he could help. These documents needed to be finished before the Earth King arrived tomorrow morning. As did all the others that came before.

"You're going to fall asleep at the meeting, Zuko," Katara said as she opened the door to her husband's study, balancing a tray in her hands.

Zuko perched his head, a soft smile overtaking his face as he met his wife's gaze. "Oh, I won't. Kuei's far too loud for that," teased Zuko. "Plus, you will too. What are you doing still awake? I thought you got everything ready you wanted to present to Kuei tomorrow already."

"I did," replied Katara, walking over to Zuko's desk and setting down the little tray with a slight clatter. Katara then walked behind Zuko and placed her hands on his shoulders. She gently began massaging where she knew the knots usually were as Zuko sighed, setting down his quill pen. Worked every time.

"Hm, that's good you're finished," Zuko said, relaxing under Katara's ministrations as her thumbs worked into the muscles in his shoulder blades. He lost track of his train of thought for a moment, falling weary under Katara's touch.

"You must have a good outline by now, Zuko," Katara said in a gentle, singsongy voice. She wanted to coax him to bed. She knew he'd be better at the meeting if he was well-rested.

"I'm almost done," he insisted as he let out a deep sigh. "And, no fair, you were up all night before meeting with Pakku's officials last week. You wouldn't listen to me trying to make you go to bed on time for three nights straight."

"That's different, my love. You know I do better at nighttime than you," Katara quipped, leaning down to press a kiss to Zuko's scarred cheek. Though, it was true. She was being hypocritical. Zuko was down in her study less than a week ago, pleading with her to come to bed with promises of ice cream and wine as she insisted on each finishing touch of her proposals.

Zuko moved his hand to caress Katara's cheek as he chuckled. "Of course," he retorted, bantering with his old friend as his attention turned to the tray on his desk. It was a pot of tea with his favorite cup and a little plate of cookies.

"It's jasmine green with peach — your favorite," Katara said, reaching around Zuko's neck to embrace him from behind.

"Thank you, my love," Zuko answered, nuzzling his face against her cheek as she hugged him.

Zuko then pulled the tray over and poured himself a cup of tea. It even smelled delectable. "Did you want some, Katara?"

"I won't say no," she replied, then moving to grab one of Zuko's spare stools and pull it beside his seat.

Zuko then poured them each a cup of the comforting, though awakening, blend. There was nothing like a specially-brewed cup of tea by someone you loved. As Zuko grew older, he found himself more appreciative of teas. The warm cups brought comfort and also could help with staying alert in times such as these.

"Cheers," said Katara teasingly before blowing on her hot cup and taking a bite of a biscuit.

Zuko then took a sip of the tea and sighed. "It's perfect," he told her. "You know, you have to promise me you'll take this to your grave, Katara."

She looked up, a bit concerned. "Of course, Zuko. You know I'd never tell anyone anything. You can always trust me," she assured him, placing her hand atop his over the desk.

Zuko chuckled, shaking his head, "No, don't worry," he said, turning his hand to hold hers affectionately. "It's just… Your tea blend is my favorite. I think I like it even more than Uncle's."

"Zuko!" Katara said scoldingly in shock, though through a laugh. "Your uncle's tea is the best in all the Four Nations!"

"I know, I know… but… I just really love the one you make me. I don't know," he confessed, putting his hands up in playful surrender.

"That is definitely something I will be taking to my grave," Katara assured, "Though, I can't say I don't enjoy the ego boost."

Zuko took another sip, smiling behind the rim of his cup. "I wouldn't lie to you."

"Hm, maybe you should've told me that before you promised you'd be in bed two hours ago," Katara retorted.

"Thirty more minutes?" he said, "Just to use the caffeine boost from the tea?"

"Alright, Zuko, thirty more minutes."

[crguang]

can I request nsfw prompt #78 for yukong? 🤑🤑

i miss my wife so bad. why is this 2.5k words

cw: some smut at the end, oral sex w/ sub!yukong for the soul

It’s almost ten in the evening when you check your phone to send Yukong a message. You had been too preoccupied this afternoon to let her know that you would finish working later than usual, so you’re a little surprised to not find a text from her checking up on you once she realized you wouldn’t show up for dinner. You type out a message telling her that you’re back in Starskiff Haven and on your way home. You barely put the phone back in your front pocket when it buzzes with a reply. You walk through illuminated streets as you read it and frown.

Okay. I’m finishing up some things at the Palace of Astrum, be there soon.

It’s quite late, Yukong should have gone home hours ago, if she’s still working it means she likely got lost in the mountain of documents and reports on her desk and won’t want to step away from it until the pile has significantly been reduced. You sigh quietly, pocketing the device and changing the direction of your footsteps towards the Palace of Astrum. You wonder if she’s eaten dinner at all, you know how focused and negligent of her needs she can get; she’s also been feeling a little irritated recently due to hormonal changes and doing paperwork at night is easier without the usual clatter of employees and computers. It’s an old habit you’ve been trying to break by going home together whenever your schedules allow and having your last meal of the day in each other’s company (Yukong’s cooking is to die for.) It forces her to leave the office around six at the latest and that way, you get to have her for yourself all evening. You stop by her favorite takeout place on the way to her workplace and order some soup dumplings to go. Warm food in hand, you quickly make your way to the Palace of Astrum, knowing Yukong would still be there despite her earlier message.

The large door creaks open when you push it with one hand. You walk inside the spacious headquarters of the Sky-Faring Commission and instantly spot Yukong’s bent figure at the far end of the room, desk alight as she scribbles things on a document. She’s so busy with whatever she’s doing that she doesn't hear you come closer like she would normally. Her ears are flattened forward and her shoulders look tense, a clear sign of her discontentment.

“Yukong?”

Her head raises abruptly at the sound of your voice so near and the woman blinks as her gaze settles on you walking up the couple of stairs needed to reach her work station. You see a flicker of guilt blending in the violet of her eyes at the realization that time has passed her by once again and you smile to alleviate her worries.

“You’re here,” Yukong states softly then glances at the takeout bag in your hand. “What’s this?”

“Dumplings. Did you eat?”

“Ah…”

She doesn’t say no, but indirectly answers your question anyway. You step closer to her to peep over her shoulder at the dozen of papers laying before her, some of which are annotated with her neat handwriting while others are sprawled on the surface as if she was looking for something in particular. Yukong follows your gaze to her work and sighs.

“I lost track of time, I’m sorry,” she apologizes in a low voice, stacking documents on top of each other before organizing the piles into different folders. “I was so restless today, I could only focus when most of the staff had gone home. I didn’t realize it until I saw your message.”

“It’s alright,” you assure her lightly, “are you okay?”

Yukong looks up at you with a small smile, your concern appreciated. “Yes. Just… not quite myself at the moment.”

“You probably need a break. Let’s go home so you can eat, and I could give you a massage if you want.”

She hums. Your words sound nice but they’re not enough to keep her attention off the work waiting for her on her desk. She glances back at it, lingering on a certain pile to her right, and the tip of her ears twitch the way it does when she’s about to say something you won’t like.

“I still need to finish those though…”

You lay the bag of dumplings on the ground, freeing your hands to cross your arms over your chest. Yukong pointedly avoids the purse of your lips.

“They’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“Yes, that’s the problem. If I finish tonight, I can focus my attention on other matters tomorrow.”

“You’ve been working for hours. When was the last time you took a break? Two in the afternoon?”

Yukong’s smile turns apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

You don’t throw in the towel, instead shifting close to where she sits and lifting a leg to straddle her lap. Yukong lets out a soft sound of surprise, instinctively raising her hands so you can get comfortable on her plump thighs. You feel the desk’s edge against your lower back. Her eyes meet yours and you circle her neck with your arms, fiddling with a few strands of silky hair and curling them gently around your fingers. Her body is warm, like always, and you can’t help a smile at the unimpressed look she gives you even as one of her hands rests against your waist. If the place wasn’t totally empty, she would have pushed you off.

“What are you doing?”

“Now you have to focus on me.” From up close, the smooth bow of her lips seems to draw you in. Your gaze flitters to its pink curve before taking in her narrowing eyes.

“I really need to finish this, kit.”

“But do you?”

Yukong simply sighs once more. You know she’s close to breaking, to succumb to your insistent wishes, she just needs a little push. Your fingers leave her long hair to ghost over her warm cheek with your nails, drawing senseless patterns on her skin. There’s a faint flush across her face, and you briefly wonder if she’s feeling hotter than usual. You can feel the tension in her shoulders evaporate slightly at the loving gesture, but she also shifts under you a few times, seemingly restless. To convince her further, you lift a hand to the back of her left ear and brush the soft fur at your disposal in a languid motion. Her lashes flutter involuntarily.

“Come on…” you support your saccharine tone with a small pout, “go home with me?”

“It would be irresponsible—”

You don’t let her articulate her argument. You lean forward to press a chaste kiss on her lips and despite its short duration, her words melt on her tongue. The taste of her is familiar and brings comfort you only find in her. You can’t resist capturing her mouth with your own a second time and Yukong lets you, eyes falling shut. She returns your sweet kisses as you absentmindedly stroke the back of her ear, and a little quiver runs through it at your gentle touch. Again, her thighs shift under your weight, brushing together almost unconsciously. Her breath blends with yours with every quiet exhale through her nose. You’re first to withdraw from her puckered lips, gaze dulled by the tenderness of the moment. The pink hue of her cheeks spreads to the base of her neck and her chest rises a beat quicker. Her hands now hold your body to hers.

You recognize the veil over her irises as she looks at you, the sight of her dilating pupils is the last piece of the puzzle concerning her mood lately. The prominent flush of her skin, her restlessness— you spare a glance behind her and notice the sway of her fluffy tail. Her affliction becomes obvious.

“Yukong…” you start slowly, and she already looks embarrassed at her reaction to a few kisses, avoiding your growing smile for a moment. You bring her back to face you with kind fingers under her jaw. “Don’t be like that, Helm Master. Are you getting a little needy?”

Yukong makes a face that illustrates her self-consciousness. She doesn’t respond, but you don’t need a reply.

“Tell you what,” you continue, “we can go home and I’ll gladly take care of you, or… I could always get you off right here, right now.”

The mortification on her features makes you laugh and she swats your hand away from her chin, shaking her head like she aims to erase the thoughts that popped in her mind at your suggestion.

“Don’t be lewd.” She pauses for a couple of seconds after reprimanding you. “We can go home.”

You wear a smug smile as you stand from her lap and watch her put away her documents. She locks them in a drawer, quickly tidies up her desk and ignores your triumphant face all the while. She’s still flustered, you see it in the movements of her tail and the blush that colors her collarbones. You decide not to tease her further for now and readily lace your fingers with hers after she offers you a hand, picking up the food off the ground and leaving the Palace of Astrum behind for the night. Her warmth travels to your palm and up to your chest like a soothing balm and you drink in her proximity on your way back, occasionally pulling her to your side when she strays too far for your liking.

Yukong’s desire is written along her body, it’s in the flick of her ear and the grip of her hand around yours as you make your way home, and in the eagerness with which she pulls you forward to kiss you once you’re behind closed doors. Your breath is stolen by her fervent touches, her tongue wets your lips the moment they part, and it takes you a couple of minutes to regain your bearings. She is flushed against you, trapping you between her burning skin and the front door. She takes what she wants because she can’t help it and is too embarrassed to ask for it. Your hands squeeze her waist and a muffled noise sounds from somewhere in her throat. In one swift motion, you switch places with her, pressing her back to the door and her chest to yours. Your mouth doesn’t let her go, not that she minds. Your blissful sighs become one with each exhale and your hands dip into the cuts of her dress over her hips to feel more of her skin. You think you feel her shiver. Yukong’s kisses are eager with the hint of a desperation that you find deeply endearing. She verbalizes her needs through soft, muffled moans against your lips, and your mind fogs up with arousal at the low tone of her voice. Your knee wriggles between her thighs just to hear the sharp intake of breath from her mouth.

Her body is pliable under your hands, it bends and moves at your will as you lead Yukong to the bedroom, the takeout you bought forgotten somewhere near the entrance of the house. You’re suddenly hungry for something else. Yukong can’t control the sway of her tail or the hairs that rise across her body, you find it so arousing to witness her reaction to your devoted touch; you undress her carefully even in the face of her impatience, letting the fabric of her dress crumple to the floor, and you take a measured step backwards to admire the curves of her stomach and hips. She tugs you to the bed with a hand. When she gets like this, your weight on her grounds her to the present, to the open-mouthed kisses you plant over her jaw and the sensation of your fingers digging into her thigh. Wetness pools in her underwear just from having you so close.

“Hah… Mmnh…”

Yukong makes the sweetest noises when you finally take pity on her and trail your tongue up her wet slit, collecting her arousal like it’s a treat to be enjoyed. The dark hairs on her cunt are slick with her need, and like an obedient pup she keeps her thighs spread for you, allowing you to lose yourself in the heat between her legs. Her tangy taste overpowers your senses. Part of you hears the quiet moans that tumble from Yukong’s lips and feels her fingers in your hair, holding you firmly against her pussy, but your nose is buried in her and you can’t focus on anything else. Her clit throbs for your attention so you comply with her silent request and wrap your lips around the aching bud, sucking it lightly into your mouth. Your arms are around her thighs to keep her close, and you eat her out as if she was a glass of cool water on a hot summer day.

“K-Kit—“

The loving nickname, in this context, makes you moan into her cunt. Your tongue laves her puffy lips steadily, sometimes teasing her dripping entrance for more of her taste etched onto the walls of your mouth. You feel a throbbing sensation between your legs but ignore it for now, fully dedicated to having Yukong come on your tongue. Her breasts rise and fall with the beating of her lungs, perky nipples hard as gemstones and just as pretty. Her hips meet the pace of your mouth, desperate for her impending release. The tremble of her thighs indicate how close she is to coming for you and you flick her sensitive clit with your tongue a few times to send her over the edge.

Her eyes squeeze shut with the intensity of her release and a pitiful sound of pleasure sticks to the back of her throat, her cunt throbbing beneath your devout mouth. You lap up the cum smeared over her pussy with a satisfied hum. Yukong’s breaths are heavy, she lays against the pillows as she comes down from her high, and you clean her up as one would savor an iced dessert. Softly sucking on her clit earns you a noise close to a whimper. She’s too far gone to feel embarrassed about the sounds she’s making, the thought makes you smile.

You raise your head to look at her properly. You run your hands up her hips. She’s so beautiful, wrecked by your tongue. Yukong blinks slowly, gazing down at you through lidded eyes, and you recognize that lustful stare. You’ll be ruining her multiple times before the night ends; she won’t be entirely satisfied until her limbs ache and she’s emptied herself for you.

[goathouseofficial]

i am going to say something BAD it is a BAD thought that i had. it's canonical evan stuff. but at the same time, it's canonical evan stuff. so, look out for yourselves

evan is obviously in a much better place, if not mentally, then physically, than he used to be. and one of the big changes seems to be just that he has resources now. he's able to make a space evan-proof. all his documents are forgeries. he had the email account not yet created, but pretty clearly prepared.

even the haircut and the clothes are all things that he's learned, that he didn't have the capabilities for before. the failsafes, the clearly meticulous care that's been put into keeping himself at bay- im just thinking, like, has he found a way to kill himself? not actively, obviously, but just in case. because he decided to keep the magic but he doesn't seem to be living, exactly

idk idk the amount of fear he had doesn't just go away and healing is a process but if he's still trusting objects and safety nets more than himself to keep him safe, i think that would be a logical conclusion??? to keep that option open just in case

Couple things I'm not sure of, though:

1. if he even can die

2. who he would trust with that information

then again, he's trusting himself enough to live in a city and work at a petrol station. he seemed prepared, at least, to deal with any potential intruders with magic. all the intense prep with the tape and the lights and the shadows could be what he needs to feel secure in a space. so idk! idk

[sammylkcho]

Hello! It's me again with other fic, enjoy!

The metal weapon you held in your trembling grip felt heavier with each passing moment, a weak attempt to aim precisely at your target.

Sebastian.

Your main mission was to kill Z-13 and retrieve the crystal from the Blacksite, all in exchange for your freedom.

When you were preparing to descend in the submarine, you didn’t even have time to ask what you might encounter, or if there were at least any safe zones. They explained nothing to you beyond your primary objectives.

You barely made it past the first doors by sheer luck, with Angler and the rest of its variants hot on your heels.

You had a brief moment to catch a breath when he offered you the safety of his shop.

"Welcome, welcome! My name is Sebastian, your only friend. Here you can restock on everything you need, in exchange for documents, USB drives, and small vials of DNA. Things you don’t need. You get rid of what’s useless to you, and I get what I want."

You still remembered those words clearly, spoken with a dizzying display of friendliness.

From that moment on, everything became blurry fragments you couldn’t clearly recall anymore.

The most likely scenario that led to your current situation was a possible game of cat and mouse. As soon as you drew the weapon you'd brought in your diving gear, the real intentions became apparent.

You couldn’t be sure where in the facility the two of you ended up. Both of you were gravely injured by the other’s attacks—you had shot Sebastian in one of his arms and other parts of his body, and he had struck you in a blind spot during an encounter in total darkness.

You were bleeding out, possibly suffering from internal injuries, though you weren’t sure. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that kept you standing, panting heavily.

But as soon as you stopped running to catch your breath, you instantly regretted it. A sharp, stabbing pain coursed through your entire body, making you fully aware of your condition.

While you were consumed by your misery, Sebastian was enduring an even worse torment.

He had multiple injuries along his tail, his three arms were stained with blood, his nose was bleeding, and small drops of blood trickled from his mouth. The front of his head had a wound that seemed difficult to stop unless enough pressure was applied.

You pointed the gun at his forehead with a trembling hand, unsure.

Did you really want to kill him? Ending his suffering—and yours—was an option, yet you didn’t feel right about doing any of this.

No one was watching you from the cameras, no Urbanshade operative breathing down your neck.

Aside from the power outage caused by an Angler not long ago, your options were limited now.

You could leave him there, let him bleed out, and then succumb yourself to the same fate—either from the massive blood loss or exhaustion.

But that would only prolong both your suffering, especially Sebastian’s.

His sudden murmurs and curses snapped you back to reality in an instant, drawing your focus once more to his dire state.

The fins on the sides of his head twitched slightly as he lowered his head to the ground. His dark hair obscured much of his face, making it hard to tell at a glance if he was still alive. The only signs that indicated otherwise were the tears falling from his eyes and the short, shallow breaths raising and lowering his chest.

"Mom... My older sister, my brother…" he muttered in a weak, raspy voice, unaware of his surroundings.

From Sebastian’s point of view, he was no longer aware of what was happening around him and had completely forgotten your presence.

Small fragments of the life he once had, before being blamed for the murder of nine people and becoming an Urbanshade experiment, flashed before him.

He wasn’t even conscious of the moment he mentioned his family. He simply saw a vivid image of his mother appear in front of him.

This image of his mother had short hair, instead of the long, cascading locks she used to have, but he didn’t dwell on that detail. He focused solely on the loving gaze she always gave her son, without judgment or fear.

With weak effort, he extended his hands toward hers, which seemed hesitant to take his. But once he grasped them, he didn’t care.

"Please, help me…"

Those words were the final push you needed to take hold of his hands more firmly and make a decision.

With the same trembling grip you had for a while now, you tore off a damaged piece of your wetsuit and used it as an improvised bandage around his head, where the bleeding was most severe.

You had no knowledge of first aid, and the little information you did have seemed to vanish in the face of your nerves. You acted on instinct, applying pressure to his wounds while doing the same for your own once you finished with him.

You wanted to cry with all your strength for what you had done to him, for putting both of you through this nightmare.

But you didn’t even have the energy for that, so closing your eyes for just a second didn’t seem like a bad idea.

[fedora-official]

I've been a life long windows user but I'm thinking if trying out Linux with fedora! fot any advice for someone new to all this? the terminal seems a bit intimidating still

it you're that scared by the terminal, maybe try out @linuxmint-official , it's more polished and user friendly.

Most of the time though, you don't actually need the terminal. Mint, Gnome, and KDE all ship a graphical software center, so installing software can be done just like how it would be done on windows if the windows store wasn't trash.

The differences between mint and fedora will start to show when you need to install software that's not "an app". For instance the proprietary nvidia drivers. Mint has a very convenient that does it in one click.

On fedora, there are at least 2 ways of doing it, neither of which is perfect. Fedora may also be missing some video codecs upon installation, because they're not all 100% free and open-source. In these situations, you'll need to use the terminal.

Whether you go with mint or fedora, my advice is the same: when you have a problem, just look it up and try solutions.

When I started using fedora, I had no idea how to solve the fedora-specific issues, but i just tried stuff until it worked. In the beginning, you'll run into issues that have been documented and solved. By the time you get into tougher stuff, you'll already have a decent understanding of how things work.

I often make it seem like fedora is harder than mint but that's because i don't want beginners to hate linux when they install fedora and find out they can't watch youtube out of the box. Apart from the few dumb issues you'll encounter after the installation, you'll find fedora is fine.

[underfaller]

in his house of mind, dead cipher waits dreaming

Chapter 3: Frilliam II

Rating: T

Synopsis:

You really think you won that day/You packed your bags and sailed away/You think you left your past behind/But trust me/I'm still on your mind

A year has passed since Weirdmaggedon and the Pines family, victorious in the end, are happier than ever. Stan and Ford are adventuring at sea, making up for lost time. Dipper and Mabel are now freshmen and are ready to take on high school-- geometry, bullies, (student eating?) clubs, and all! However, things take a turn for the worst when Dipper and Mabel receive of horrific message from Ford:

Bill is back.

“C'mon Fordsy, let me outta here! I promise I won't undo my stitches again!” 

Bill struggles against the leather straps that bind him to a cold, metal table. It rattles as he purposely shakes it back and forth. Stanford shoots him a glare. 

“Will you just shut up for once?” He snaps. 

“Make me!” Bill yells back. 

Stanford presses his lips tightly, but doesn’t continue the conversation. He knows that there isn’t any point in engaging with Bill. The demon only sweet talks you when he wants something and vexes you when he doesn’t. Ford instead continues writing in his new journal, documenting his failures to bring Stanley back. After their fight, Ford immediately turned the Stan-o-War II back to the only place he could possibly go-- The Mystery Shack. The lab is exactly the same as it was 30 years ago save for its equipment’s slightly worn appearance and a framed photo of the kids on the desk. Stanford’s heart twists. 

What would they say if they knew their Grunkle was like this? 

“I have to admit though, I'm impressed!” Bill continues. “You really went for the kill back there. Talk about cold-blooded!”

Memories flash in Ford’s mind. Stanley on the bridge floor, eerily still, in a pool of his own blood. Perhaps one of the scariest moments in Stanford’s life was that of momentarily realization that he’d accidentally killed his own brother-- Even more frightening than when he was sucked into the interdimensional portal. Thankfully, Stanford is a skilled medic and was able to successfully resuscitate Stanley. Still as Stanford’s eyes stray toward Stanley’s chest, still wrapped in white bandages, he feels gnawing guilt eating away at him. 

It all happened so fast. Bill came at me. I didn't mean to actually shoot him. 

Please forgive me, Stanley. If you are still there. 

No, he can’t think like that. Doubt leads to stagnation. Stanford cannot afford to doubt. He will not stagnate in the pursuit of his brother. Bill may have taken over his body temporarily, but Stanley is still there. Somewhere. He has to be. 

He has to be. 

“I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. It's not like you actually respect the guy anyway,” Bill chimes. “Sure, you love your brother and all. Blah, blah, blah! But you don't actually respect him. Deep down, you still see him as a fumbling idiot. As you should, you're the superior twin after all!”

Stanford narrows his eyes. 

“Your manipulation isn’t going to work this time.”

“Tch, it’s not manipulation. It’s the truth,” Bill sneers. “Like how you loved me too. Before, you know, all the drama . Only difference was you actually respected me too.” 

Stanford raises an eyebrow. 

“Seriously? I always knew you were the jealous type but getting jealous of my brother? That’s a bit low, even for you Cipher.” 

Bill growls. 

“Whatever. I don't have to convince you of the truth. You'll do that on your own eventually. I just planted the seed in your little noggin,” Bill huffs. “All that knowledge bestowed upon you and this is the thanks I get. Seriously, is this how you treat all your partners?” 

“We were never partners.” 

“Denial is a river in Egypt-,” Bill momentarily pauses his pettiness, craning his neck and watching as Ford surrounds the table with candles. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m going into Stan’s mind and forcibly removing you myself.” 

Bill laughs.

“Seriously, you’re actually gonna meet me in the mindscape?” Bill’s lips curl into a dark grin. “Wow, a date with Stanford Pines. This is gonna be interesting.”

Stanford rolls his eyes before pulling out a lighter from his pocket. As he lights the candles, his heart pounds in his ears. The last time Ford spoke to Bill face to face ended with Bill frying him alive for an equation to end the world. Stanford sits crossed legged on the floor, ignoring the demon’s giggles and closes his eyes. He tries to calm his mind but Stanford realizes that he’s slightly trembling. 

He’s wary of his former muse but he’ll do anything for Stanley Pines. After all, he did the same for Stanford by bringing him out of the portal. Stanford can’t help but notice the obvious irony in all this. It’d be amusing if this were a novel he was reading instead of his own life. 

However, it wasn’t and that made it terrifying. 

Stanford takes a deep breath.

“Videntus omnium. Magister mentium. Magnesium ad hominem,” Stanford calls. “Magnum opus. Habeas corpus! Inceptus Nolanus overratus! Magister mentium! Magister mentium! MAGISTER MENTIUM!” Bill smirks. 

“See you real soon.”

There’s a blinding flash of blue light. It envelops the entire lab and as it does, Stanford can feel himself floating up and up until he’s out of his  body. Stanford stands up, a ghost outside the physical world, and examines himself, still sitting on the lab floor, illuminated by candlelight. It's uncanny. He shivers slightly. Despite having done it dozens of times, Stanford will never get used to this out of body experience. He swims across the air before floating right into his brother’s skull. There is another flash of light and when Ford opens his eyes, he finds himself in a completely blank space with no signs of Stanley or Bill in sight. 

Stanford conjures his weapon of choice- an interdimensional gun- into existence, pointing it as he delves further and further into Stanley’s mindscape. 

“Show yourself, Cipher!” He calls. 

The air crackles with electricity as a shrill laughter fills the space. 

“Well, well, well! It’s actually Sixer in the flesh! Welcome to my humble abode!” Ford whips around to see his ex muse. His messy, blonde hair rests over his leery face, covering his right eye. Bill bows, tipping his top hat. “Look who missed me,” Bill simpers, adjusting his bowtie. He leans on his slender, black cane, a leery smile etched on his pretty face. “Ya’know I just had to change my form for the special occasion. Remember it? You used to absolutely adore seeing me like this.”

Ford points his gun at Bill, ignoring the redness in his ears. He knows that Bill Cipher is just messing with him-- similar to how cats play with their food before they disembowel it-- but even Stanford is slightly caught off guard by Bill’s sudden change of physique. “I’m not here to play games, Bill. Get out of here before I-”

Swoosh.  

In a flash, Bill is in front of Ford, grabbing the gun and pressing its barrel against his chest with wide eyes and an even wider. Ford flinches, trying to pull away, but Bill pulls him closer so that Ford can feel Cipher’s hot breath against his face. 

“C’mon, Ford! You’ve already tried that; it’s not gonna work. What’s the saying again, doing the same thing expecting different results makes you insane?” Bill croons. His hand snakes towards Ford's fingers. They're cold, like talons scraping against his skin. “Unless you’re actually going insane, then I’ll happily accept you by my side with open arms!”

“We're in the mindscape now. Stanley's mindscape. It'll be different blasting you out of here,” Ford hisses. 

Bill tilts his head.

“Do you really think you can bring him back? Face it, you're a scientist, not a necromancer.”

“He’s not dead. You may have taken over his mind but he’s still here somewhere.” 

He has to be. 

“Hmm.. that’s an interesting hypothesis,” Bill says. “It’s out of your control though. Take a look around! What’s done is done!”

If this truly was Stanley's mindscape, where is everything? His memories, his thoughts, the very mental image of himself? It should all be here and yet, it is not. Even Stanford, the master of rationalizing all things wrong when it suits him, cannot delude himself of that stark fact. Bill notices Ford's hesitation and chuckles. 

“But….If you make a deal with me, perhaps we can actually bring him back!” Bill adds. “We'll keep him around like a house pet. How's that sound?” 

Ford eyes blaze, clenching his fingers over the gun. 

“How dare--You isosceles prick!” 

Ford pulls the trigger. The shot rings in the empty space as the ray blasts through Bill’s suit, creating a giant hole in his chest. Ford watches as the flesh and tendons twist and wiggles, returning to their original state. The only piece of Bill that doesn’t reform is his white dress suit, leaving his chest bare as Bill clicks his tongue in annoyance.  

“Now look at what you did,” Bill says. He grabs Ford, pushing him to the ground as he straddles him with his long legs. Ford struggles wildly but Bill quickly overpowers him. He leans into the man’s ear. 

“Let me break it down for you, IQ. Your brother and I are one now. My mind is his. I’m in control here and you, Stanford, are in enemy territory. Do you know what happens to little six-fingered freaks that get into places where they shouldn’t be?” 

Bill raises his hand. 

“They go SPLAT!” 

Bill strikes Ford and the world goes black. Stanford gasps, ears ringing as he opens his eyes. He falls back onto the lab floor. The candles are blown out. Ford stumbles to his feet, making his way towards the table. Stanley is unconscious but Bill is certainly still there, his ugly smile still etched on his brother's sleeping face. Ford slams his fist against the metal surface. 

“GODDAMMIT!” He yells. Stanford paces back and forth, muttering and cursing. He's seeing red, adrenaline and anger racing in his veins. 

What now, smart guy?

Stanford is supposed to be a genius! If he couldn’t even bring his brother back, what the hell was he good for? Stanford grits his teeth, grabbing his pen and documenting the trial in his journal before he loses his temper once more and throws the book against the wall. He slumps to the ground, head in hands. That stupid triangle. He was toying with him. Why, why, why was it that after everything, that demon still had power over him. Ford shakes his head. This is going nowhere.

Stanley. I’m sorry. I’m trying. 

After a few minutes, Ford calms himself. He takes a deep breath, counting to ten over and over like he did when he was a child angry at his father for scolding Stanley. Then, Ford picks himself and his journal up and locks the lab door behind him. 

Stanford needs help.

Ford makes his way up the dark stairs before pressing the vending machine from behind and stepping out into the quiet Mystery Shack. All the tourists have gone to their motels or RVs for the night. As moonlight wafts through dirty windows, Soos sweeps the floors of the empty gift shop, whistling. When he sees Stanford, he pauses, waving slightly. 

“Hey dude. Any luck on getting Mr. Pines back?”

Stanford shakes his head. 

“Not yet, Soos.”

Disappointment flashes in the young man's eyes as he frowns. Soos sighs, propping his broom against the counter, taking off his fez and playing with the worn tassel. 

“He's not actually dead, is he?”

There's sadness in Soos’s voice, as if he's expecting the worst answer despite desperately hoping for the opposite. Stanford once again feels crawling shame for his recent failures. He doesn’t know Soos very well but Stanley often spoke of his former employee as his son. Soos no doubt sees Stanley as a de facto father figure in return. It's probably why Soos was more than willing to let the Pines stay at the Mystery Shack for the time being. Stanford clears his throat. 

“Of course not. You know Stanley. It's gonna take more than that yellow bastard to kill him.”

His words make Soos brighten up just a little. He laughs. 

“Yeah man. If Bill tries to kill him, Mr. Pines would probably punch him to smithereens-- again!”

There’s so much enthusiasm and hope in Soos’s voice-- it makes Ford grin just slightly. 

Their conversation is interrupted by a light in the hallway being switched on. Melody leans in the doorway, still in her pajamas, a worried expression of her face as her hand rests over her very pregnant belly. 

“Soos, there's gnomes in the trash again! Do you know where the broom is?”

Soos jumps up, grabbing the broom. 

“I'll handle it!” Soos says. “You can go back to bed.”

Melody tilts her head, placing her hands on her hips.  

“Just because I'm pregnant, doesn't mean I can't do anything you know,” She replies, teasingly. 

Soos chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I know. You're awesome, Mel but you're doing enough already taking care of Sooslet,” Soos pecks Melody on the check before adjusting his cap. “A few gnomes is nothing compared to what you're doing!” 

Before Melody can protest, Soos is already racing to the kitchen. She shakes her head, but is clearly amused by her husband. She turns toward Ford. 

“Still helping Mr. Pines?”

Stanford nods. 

“Yes. I apologize for having barged in on you two on such short notice.”

Melody shakes her head. 

“No problem. Technically, it’s still your house, is it not? If there's anything we can do to help Mr. Pines, let us know. Soos is very worried about him.”

Stanford nods once more. 

“I know. We'll get him back soon. I promise.”

He says it with conviction but Ford isn't sure if his reassurance is for Melody or for himself.  ~

Lake Gravity Falls is serene at this hour of the night. The air is crisp and cool as opposed to the hot, stiff Oregon summer daylight. Cicadas sing loudly as fireflies float across still waters. Stanford sits on the dock next to Fiddleford. 

“Asking to go fishing in the middle of the night? I have a feeling this isn’t some ol’ rendezvous just to catch up.”

Stanford sighs, fiddling with his fishing pole. He never really liked fishing. Stanford wasn’t a very patient man and fishing was a very patient sport. Fiddleford, on the other hand, absolutely adored it, always begging Ford to join him in their younger years. Stanford scoffs. 

The first time I actually go and it’s for my own gain. 

As Stanford fills his old partner in on the recent turn of events, the old engineer grows silent and serious. Fiddleford scratches his beard. 

“I could always construct another memory erasing gun. You can try that again.”

Ford shakes his head. 

“No more guns, F. I think I've shot my brother enough times.”

Fiddleford nods. He gazes across the lake with a faraway, thoughtful look in his eyes. 

“I want to help but we're dealing with forces outside this realm of reality, on a plane of existence even God doesn't dare step up on.” 

“Not so different from last time.”

Fiddleford scoffs. 

“No, not very different.”

Ford turns towards him. 

“I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t have anyone else to turn to,” Stanford says, quietly. “You’re the brightest mind I know., F-”

Fiddleford interrupts him. 

“Ya know-- you're the only one that calls me that.”

“F?”

“F, Fiddleford. Everyone I know calls me Old Man Mcgucket ‘cept little Tate of course. I don't even think half this town knows my real name.”

Stanford grimaces, remembering all he put his old roommate through. He reels up his line, abruptly standing up. Fiddleford looks at him, confused. 

“Where are you going?”

“I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I can't drag you back into this. Not after last time-” 

“Oh, sit yer butt down!” 

Stanford is shocked by Fiddleford’s sudden sharpness and quickly sits back down. Fiddleford shakes his head. 

“I’m not telling you this to guilt you.” “Then why?” “You’re so damn impatient! I’m getting to it!” “Ok! Ok! Sorry, F.” 

Fiddleford clears his throat. 

“When we parted ways all those years ago, I was a broken man with a broken mind coming home to a broken family-” 

“You must have despised me.” 

“I did. For a little bit,” Fiddleford admits. “Then I forgot. Then your grandkids helped me remember again and when I remembered you again, I was happy. I never wanted to forget you. I cherished you in my mind, even in my anger.”

Stanford sighs. 

“I'm sorry, Fiddleford. I never meant to hurt you.” He says. “I squandered your life. Your potential. You could've been a billionaire with your computers. You could have still been married to Emma May. You could have had a relationship with your son.” 

“I do have a relationship with Tate, though and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with now.” Fiddleford laughs. “As for Emma May… Well, let's just say things probably would have ended the same with her whether I left for Gravity Falls or not.”

Fiddleford bows his head, smiling softly. 

“I guess what I’m tryna get at is that you keep blaming yourself when you've already been forgiven. The past is past, Ford. You’ve got to put it behind you,”  Fiddleford states. “Apprehension is unnatural for the Great Genius Stanford Pines.” 

Ford shakes his head. 

“It's hard when the past keeps haunting the present.” 

Fiddleford hums. 

“Perhaps, but when it does, you've got people around you to help blow it back to where it belongs.” Fiddleford says. 

“I'm gonna stay by your side. Not like before.”

Fiddleford holds out his hand. Stanford stares at it, utterly bewildered yet grateful that Fiddleford so willingly forgives him despite everything. Still, Ford smiles, shaking his hand. 

“Right back at you, partner.”

Suddenly, Fiddleford lets go and jumps, pointing at the water.

“Look at that!” 

In the darkness, the small shadow in the water seems like a formless blob but as Stanford shines his lantern closer to it, he realizes that it’s an Axolotl, pink with a dreamy smile on its face as it paddles through the water. Fiddleford slaps his knee, laughing. 

“Well I’ll be! It looks like Frilliam. Remember that little guy?”

“How could I forget?”

“Perhaps it's one of his great- great- grandsons. He’s got the same frills, after all, just like your sideburns!” 

Fiddleford bends down and dips his hand into the water. The Axolotl swims tentatively towards Fiddleford’s fingers, looking up at the two men. Its deep eyes glisten as it stares at Ford. For some very odd reason, Ford feels as if its expression is one of familiarity, as if it recognizes the old man. Then, it flicks its tail, leaving as quickly as it came, sending ripples across the starlit lake as the two men sit together in peace. 

Bill Cipher is dreaming. 

He’s out at sea, watching the waves crash against a small boat as the vessel lurches back and forth. He despises it. He’s getting seasick just standing there. 

“Hey Pointdexer! Check this out!” Somewhere in the distance, Stanford is laughing. 

Bill feels a wave of nausea rise in him. That voice-- he hated that voice-- The voice of Stanley Pines. He claws at his own skin, trying to escape this hellscape. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here- 

“Woah buddy! Chill out!” Bill’s eye snaps open. He is in a white space, somehow more empty than his cell. He sees himself waving back at him. 

“Hey Handsome, long time no see,” The other Bill tips his hat. 

Bill checks his own hat. It’s still on his head. Bill narrows his eye. 

“What the- Who are you?” The triangle laughs. 

“I’m you, dummy. Duh!” 

“No, I’m me.” 

“I know you are, but so am I!”

“What?”

The triangle breaks into another fit of giggles before wiping a tear from his eye. Bill crosses his arms, obviously not amused by this other Bill mocking him. He’d dice him into tiny squares if he still had his powers. 

“Lemme explain,” The other Bill states. “You’re the little broken pieces the Axolotl picked out of Stanley’s mind, put into ‘therapy’.”

He pretends to gag before motioning to the empty area around the two demons. 

“...and I am the one that stayed.”

Bill crosses his arms.

“That’s impossible.”

“Aww, where’s your faith, William?” Bill puts his arm around Bill, waving his hand as he explains. “Even the axolotl makes the mistakes, sometimes.” 

Bill leans closer. 

“Mistakes that can work in our favor.”

He steps back, looking smug and shrugging. 

“While you’ve been doing arts and crafts, wallowing in self pity, I’ve been making moves! Moves towards total dimensional annihilation and sweet, sweet revenge!” Bill yells. “So hurry up and get out of timeout and join me; it’s getting boring without the full use of my powers.”

Snap. 

Bill suddenly sits up, awake and still in his dark cell. He looks down at his orange jumpsuit. Was there truly a way to get out of here? Half of him was already out there, having fun and causing chaos-- all he had to do was join him. Slowly, a smile grows on his face. 

Yes, perhaps things were finally changing.

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