#old draft only got more relevant over time

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

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“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position. 

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood. 

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache. 

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish. 

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income. 

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air. 

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him. 

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss. 

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic. 

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt. 

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you. 

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance. 

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job. 

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit. 

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed. 

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.” 

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him. 

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment. 

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone. 

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are. 

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you. 

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you. 

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy. 

You don���t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking. 

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations). 

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too. 

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man. 

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin. 

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap. 

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind. 

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams. 

“Not bad,” you squeak. 

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

[hers-underwraps]

｡𖦹°‧ Some of my thoughts/headcannon's for the main 6 ｡𖦹°‧⭑.

NOTE!!!! : THESE ARE SUPER OUTDATED!!! THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR MONTHS AND I JUST WANTED TO CLEAR IT OUT. SO... there are some of these that are kinda old, I don't necessarily think are that relevant anymore or I've already talked about them on here at some point in time. SO I'M SO SORRY.

I really wanted to start a new list but I also felt guilty about this list just sitting here but I also didn't want to fully fix this list cause it would take a while so that's why I'm posting.

GETTING TO THE POINT, these are probably mid and you've heard them before so this won't be as good as other headcannon posts I've done. I promise I'll do better in the future

With that being said, let's get into it!

(I probably sounded like Barncales in this image typing allat and y'all probs looking at me like shellington)

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Dashi

OMG, SHE'S MY ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE. AHHHHH

Girlie in STEM. I don't feel like she gets the appreciation she deserves for this. Like my girl is out here building whole ass ROBOTS and people are just like yeah whatever.

I think she would've definitely had a hippie phase. She looks like the type to collect crystals. My girl could live out of a van

ALSO, she's definitely got good fitness. She's one of the more athletic of the crew members. - My girl likes her sports what can I say

She has scrapbooks for everyone on the ship. She has personal photo albums with silly selfies (and photos she's taken when they weren't looking)

She would love Sanrio and she would have a few Sanrio-themed clips (she's my melody coded to me)

I also reckon she would've weaselled it into the other crewmates. (I feel like shellington would absolutely love it)

Indian/Australian

If she was religious - Hindu

LOVES detective movies - (Her, shellington and kwazii bond over this) (Sherlock BBC?)

Over analyses everything

Let Tweak dye her hair sometimes (she would do pink skunk hair/pink highlighting)

She used to have long hair. Everyone else on board had shorter hair and eventually, she felt bad so she cut her hair shorter. It's better this way though, it's a lot less maintenance

She's up to date on anything that's trending and probably influences the other with it. (regularly uses words like demure and tweak lowkey wants to dropkick her)

Paints her nails (sometimes the other too)

SURFING PRO - she got into it when she was really young (her love of surfing definitely sparked her love of the sea)

She IS the Lofi girl - she has GOD tier music taste

Coding god helps tweak with programming the gups/ship

When she was younger, she use to troll people online and find their IP, full name, address etc. when they pissed her off (it really refined her skills)

Makes handmade bracelets (kwasi likes to join in he does a really good job )

I forced them to make a group chat so they would just be silly.

Is a legend at national seaographic (outstanding photos)

SHE WILL DO ANYTHING to get her photos, which often puts her a risk (she and kwazii are twinning) sometimes she does outdo him on the reckless scale the ray and the whale episode

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Kwazii

THE SILLY

Ok Just one thing I wanna point out, I feel like a lot of people think of him as some goofy ahh little kid. YES, he is not "as serious" as other crew members but just a reminder he is the LEUITENT. Just because his leadership style isn't oh ho ho ho, I'm macho serious doesn't mean he doesn't know how to take care of his crew or that he is a child. GROWN MEN CAN BE SILLY TOO.

I'm sorry that's just a sore spot

He lowkey reminds me of Jack Twist (I'm so sorry)

He's the second biggest yapper (only losing to shellington) he can keep everyone engaged for hours with his stories

Has a really fast reaction time

Carbeian

My boy would have a NICE tan

I reckon he could speak Spanish

Loves learning new languages with Shelligton so he can decode his ancient stories and mysteries

A very talented artist - he's really good at arts and crafts and loves hanging out with Dashi as an excuse to do it

Despite his typically "impatient" demeanour, he can lock in and do things with intricate detail (ADHD is out to get him)

Loves map-making places they've visited in his free time. (Potential for him and Min to bond?)

Loves singing sea shanties

Would sing in the shower

pretty boy

Look I know he doesn't show it but I reckon he worries about the crew just as much if not more than Barnacles

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Shellington

THE EEPY LITTLE GUY

I love my little brainiac

He reminds me of Ford Pines. I can see him in the get-up (like imagine him in the fit OOO it would look FIRE)

The biggest info dumper. He is the biggest yapper, he loves telling everyone about everything ever.

As a child, he would try to talk to anyone about his interests. I can imagine him calling people on the phone or talking to fishy's. His family would've eventually gone insane, lol.

When he's not bonkers, he's one of the more chill crew members to be around.

His sleep schedule is AWFUL, our little insomniac needs some sleep

Crewmates would come and chill with him in his lab when they couldn't sleep (they might be feeling homesick or just rattled from the week's events) because he's usually up until the wee hours. They often just sit in silence but he's happy just be a comforting presence

FATHER - he is always looking out for the others in his own little way, he has a very caring demeanour and is sometimes the more approachable one (cause he's not AS intense (EXCEPT for when he's in the zone THEN HE's INTENSE)

He LOVES to study with the others. He's erm... PRETTY STUDIOUS and he studies with all the crewmates when they're in the mood

He studies new languages with Kwasi (especially old and forgotten ones) and they will spend HOURS unpacking mysteries

My guy needs to hit the gym - he's kind of unfit (well compared to the others anyway)

THIS GUY IS BANNED FROM THE KITCHEN ( seems like the type of guy to burn a salad)

Very tall, he is the second tallest after Barnacles

Scottish AND PROUD

He also needs glasses

He is VERY accident-prone. He's spilt quote a few chemicals and given himself a few nasty burns( probs has scars from all of them). He's one of Peso's regulars. wrap him in bubble wrap istg

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Peso

OML THIS GUY'S GONNA HAVE A HEART ATTACK

He was SO anxious when he first started. Like he was in charge of taking care of the two most reckless lack of self-preservation guys ever. Every time they would go out on missions he would just be on edge (like omg are these two coming back ALIVE)

Because of this, I reckon he would get mad at those two (easily after bad scares (LIKE THE MANTEES EP). Like it would make him so upset he'd have outbursts - " CAN YOU PLEASE STOP BEING SO FUCKING RECKLESS ALL THE TIME. I CAN'T BRING YOU BACK FROM THE DEAD" - or something along those lines. (They would feel super bad and promise him that they would be more careful (lies))

Spanish (and can speak)

Grew up a really big family, so he finds a lot of comfort in his octo family

Even though he still gets homesick

He facetime his family every week

HE'S NOT JUST SOME TWINK- LIKE AGAIN JUST BECAUSE SOME GUY ISN'T MACHO MACHO DOESN'T MEAN THEY'RE A TWINKY LOSER RAHH

On that note - he's definitely had to improve his fitness to keep up with Kwasi and Barnacles

Sometimes he's cleaning up medbay and he thinks to himself "OMFG, I have the most accident-prone reckless crewmates ever. Honestly, man, I don't know if I can do this" - (when his whole crew got wiped from the snail episode, I know he kept his cool but like when he was alone that night he definitely just pulled a

"Guys, that was not very LIVE, laugh love of you"

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TWEAK

MY GIRL BOSS, MY QUEEN MY IDOL

She definitely has HUGE muscles from all the lifting she does

Naturally has blonde hair (I know a lot of people hc her with brown hair but I've just always personally thought blonde). She constantly dyes it - (Part of me thinks she was bullied for her blonde hair (dumb blonde type of comments) and ever since she hates it. Her natural hair is a sore subject. It used to make her insecure especially because of her field. Although she didn't let it show, the comments about her hair being "too girlie" made her despise it)

Dashi definitely helped her improve her perception of this. Being the kickass she is but also enjoying being feminine helped her get over her insecurity. (She's a little more ok with letting her roots show)

MY QUEEN IN STEM. She graduated with honours. (LIKE MY GIRL IS BUILDING ALL OF THAT, I BEEN SO PROUD OF HER)

She loves watching Matpat (sometimes watches with Shellington)

She loves playing video games

Has God tier Minecraft worlds (she could sell her build designs)

Red stone GOD

Loves wearing bandanas and headbands

She loves her crew so much, (she's worked in hostile work environments before) she loves having free rein and the support

Although she sometimes worries about what would happen to the POD without her (Barnacles knows some of the basics but...)

Camera shy (canon?) (from the volcano one?)

MY GIRL DOESN'T GIVE A FUCK.

She has very little patience and can be very blunt

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Barnacles

OH CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN

Definitely of Slavic descent. Russian/Ukrainian (can speak) (like I know he's British or whatever but like.... c'mon)

Uber is tall like 6ft+

He's a big guy but super fit. Bro's muscles go insane

Gives the best bear hugs (obviously)

He needs a hug oml

Like zero sense of self-preservation

Would sacrifice himself to save the world ah complex

He reminds me of Raph Rottmnt (2018)

He gets VERY homesick

LET HIM BE REAL PLEASE

I feel like he would be a psychology student if he was going to study anything. LIKE this man CARES about you. (also I reckon he would be like super in psychology he's got some stuff to unpack himself

I know he has his fear of small spaces but also I reckon he has this super duper tiny fear of being alone. He likes being around people but being alone just makes him a little uncomfortable. (when he gets uncomfortable he'll start talking to himself) but generally, he's motivated to get back to his crew that he can preserve and hide it pretty well

I feel like this guy would have his mobile phone super enlarged (like you know when you see middle-aged women and their phones are just like SUPER zoomed in) because he can't see for shit

Needs glasses (doesn't wear them) he should

Sometimes, I reckon he has his moments when he just

Like sometimes he just experiences the horrors

Sometimes he quotes his favourite movies (but they're all super old ) that he thinks are "inspirational" (life is like a box of chocolates ahhh) and the crew is just like huh?

Is an avid enjoyer and user of the minion Facebook memes

*stupid* he can roll a pretty good blunt (stoner Barnacles reference) (he would get stoned which Kwazii)

——————————————————————————-------------------

So that's it. I hope they weren't too horrendous!

I'm working on a more refined list filled with better headcannons so I hope that will redeem this outdated list!

BYEE

[tswwwit]

Lol omg at your last ask because imagine dippers under some truth spell and ends up spilling a bunch of secrets that Bill already knew and had stashed to use for later

This is no longer 'last ask' relevant because I had this partially written in my drafts for like a million years - but a Truth spell on Dipper would be very interesting!

So I took this prompt and didn't really answer it except in some ways.

Here's a thing!

“You never bring me any souvenirs.” Bill complains. In an all-too-whiny tone, and an all-too-close lean into Dipper's personal space.

Plus, it's a blatant lie. One Dipper shouldn't respond to. 

He does anyway. “I literally brought you harpy feathers last week.” 

“Doesn’t count! That was for a ritual you wanted to pull off!” Bill sounds miffed, though he also plants a palm on Dipper’s head and starts ruffling hair. “Now where's the emerald from last March? Or like, the headdress from that cult with all the rabbit bones? The good stuff."

Dipper grunts. He focuses on navigating back out of the cave, turning the clay tablet over in his hands.

Figures Bill would remember all the times he did get something. His memory is excellent. And he’s greedy, because a new toy every time is a big ask. 

What does Bill expect, anyway. Not every situation Dipper gets into has something to bring back. What could he even offer? An ear taken off every monster he has to fight?

Wait, no. Bill would love that.

Dipper makes a face. “You've just proved that it's not ‘never’. With examples." 

"Sure, but when’s the last time it was cool?” 

Dipper sighs. No point in arguing. Bill could go on forever about how 'unfair' it is that he doesn't get trophies from every trip, or trinkets from conquered lands, or, again, ears from every enemy. When he’s decided to complain, no reasonable argument will shake him out of it.

“Too bad, then. You’re only getting some gifts.” Dipper shakes his head rapidly to dislodge Bill’s hand from his hair. "It’s hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to you."

“Hey! I could argue that it’s related! In fact -”

Dipper tunes out the rest of Bill’s ramble, rolling his eyes. Listening with half an ear to Bill's ongoing tirade about being a poorly kept man, and unappreciated in his time. 

Despite how much he already has, Bill always wants more. Somehow he sniffed out Dipper’s latest excursion, showing up right at the end and looking for ‘loot’.

Which Dipper, by all rights, should prevent. 

 Anything magical falling into Bill's hands can cause chaos, no matter how innocuous it seems. The flower incident alone is reason not to hand Bill anything, ever, and the fact that Dipper still does sometimes should be appreciated, damn it.

Bill's complaining on and on, but whatever. Eventually he'll get bored.

 In the meantime, Dipper turns the clay tablet around again with a frown. He found something interesting, at least.

Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a language he recognizes. The script is strange, scrawled in different directions. For all he knows he’s holding it upside down. He hopes Bill doesn’t notice until he’s figured out - 

"Whatcha got there?" Just as expected - and right on time. 

Dipper feels the tablet yanked out of his grasp, unfazed. He doesn't break his stride.

"I found it in the lair, after... you know." Charred bones, explosions - Dipper wishes he could use, like water, or something, but mastery over even one element is powerful as is. "Anyway, that monster was collecting a lot of weird magic stuff, and this was the only interesting thing it had." He shrugs. Then, because Bill will like it, adds, "So... to the victor go the spoils?"

“Now that’s the spirit!” Bill gives him a grin, holding the tablet up to squint at it. Thankfully not turning it around. One point for Dipper, on not looking incompetent.

Still, if anyone can read it…

“What language is this?” Dipper not-so-subtly leans over, trying to peek around Bill’s arm.

"Old Draconic," Bill says, without missing a beat. Humming to himself as he apparently reads the text. Perking up a bit, smile widening. "Oh, hey! Iambic pentameter."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, sapling. I just wish when people did the whole 'ancient poetry curse' thing, they'd get a little more creative. You never see hexameter! Or tetrameter! Not even a tasteful use of spondee.” Bill sticks his tongue out.  "Come to think of it - I don’t think anyone’s done a prose epic that made the reader wanna tear their eyes out since Joyce."

Sometimes with Bill, you have to read between the lines. The long, irrelevant babbling lines.

"Just tell me if I need to get Ford or not." Dipper says, flat. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

Among all the other stuff, Bill said ‘curse’. Never, ever a good sign.

Though the monster he just took down wasn’t a dragon, and that wasn’t really a ‘horde’ so much as something resembling the contents of the Mystery Shack, there’s absolutely no good thing about a curse. If Dipper somehow triggered it - 

Great. As if hanging around Bill alone didn’t invite enough bad fortune, he’s picking up parts of his own stupid curiosity.

"Nah, don’t bother with the loser uncle!" Bill waves his concern away, amused. “This is just purple prose! Buncha  ‘oooh, bad things’ll happen if you mess with my stuff.’ Totally boilerplate spellcraft with some flowery wording.” 

With a shrug, Bill dismisses the whole thing. Which includes chucking the tablet over his shoulder, but Dipper manages to snag it before it falls and shatters into a million pieces.

“Typical dragon horde enchantment. All bluster, no burning.” Bill keeps walking without a care in the world. “They’re full of hot air!”

“So I’m not cursed,” Dipper prompts, catching up to him. “Aside from you, I mean.”

“Flatterer,” Bill says, slightly warmer. He continues, shrugging. “No reason you would be! No dragons in the area, and the warning sign there’s too old. By my guess, the original horde was raided centuries ago! Just another piece of random crap that got dragged into that junkyard." And he ruffles Dipper’s hair again, in the second-most annoying way. "You’re stuck with me, though.”

Dipper ducks and twists, thus freeing himself from the minor torment. “I think I can live with that.”

One would think that chatting with a demon - one as cryptic and ominous and aggravating as Bill - would only cause irritation, at best. 

It still does, of course. But when it comes to Dipper, Bill… sometimes lays things out straight. On occasion. Especially when he’s instructing, doubly when it comes to magic. Like he’s trying to pour all the facts he can into Dipper’s brain, overfilling the cup.

If his goal is to overload this one mortal mind, though, he'll have to work a lot harder. 

Dipper gets out his notebook, while Bill looks away, and pretends he didn’t see it. Yet another poorly-veiled lesson, with Bill obviously trying to plant seeds re: actually casting curses. Tough luck managing that. His subtle lean towards chaos might escape the unwary, but to Dipper? Bill’s way too transparent.

The fact is, that Dipper absorbs things fast. Even Bill will admit it, sometimes without being prompted. 

That Includes stuff Bill doesn't even know he's teaching.

Bill’s also rambling on about historical curses, and how often these things backfire, or misfire. It’d almost sound like a series of unconnected, gossipy anecdotes, if it weren’t for the extra technical details. 

And Dipper’s not falling for it. As far as he's concerned, his first curse was his last one.

But then…

Even if he’s not going to use the knowledge, there's no reason not to learn it. Knowledge about making curses can also be used to break them, after all. Taking all the facts Bill smacked a ‘For Evil Purposes Only’ sticker on and using them to shatter an evil plan would be very satisfying.

They’re nearly out of the cave at this point, so Dipper figures it’s fine to let his guard down a bit. The monster's dead, all the traps were cleared out on the way in - everything should be fine.

He clicks his pen a couple times, and asks Bill to repeat that last thing, about the life drain. It gets a snort of amusement, but Bill’s more than happy to elaborate at length. Dipper struggles to keep up with Bill’s rapid-fire speech; he's trying to make this intentionally difficult, damn it.

Bill leads on with careless gestures and an uninterrupted stride. Getting ahead of Dipper by several meters, but Dipper’s got to note down what he says before he has to do something awful, like ask Bill to repeat himself.

Dipper is, in fact, so busy trying to write in shorthand, and walk, and not hit a stalactite with his face, all at the same time, that he sort of loses track of where he is.

And okay, maybe he trips over a rock slightly, and nearly faceplants, bonking against the sudden curve of a wall with a swear.

Dipper takes a step back, rubbing at his forehead. Annoying, but, whatever. There were a few traps around, but he pretty much cleared out the cave on the way in, so it’s probably - oh, hell.

Not fine, he dropped the stupid tablet.

Great. The only really interesting object, shattered into half a dozen pieces. So much from saving it from Bill; Dipper himself fumbled the bag.

He backs up to evaluate the damage -

The stone sinks under his foot, and something goes ‘click’.

With a start, Dipper raises a shield without thinking, arm jerking up as he wills his magic into the gesture. It's solid enough for something done on reflex, but an impact hits hard on his side, with sudden, stinging pain. 

And a pretty hard impact, at that. He didn’t get it solid enough, damn it, wasn’t expecting something physical -  

Dipper wheezes out a breath, slumping to the ground and clutching his stomach. 

Alright. So. He got most of the traps. 

He sits down, and lets his head thump back against the stone, teeth bared in a grimace. Stupid. Should have been paying attention. 

The commotion makes Bill turn his head, blinking at Dipper sitting on the ground. 

Then -  because he’s an asshole - he starts laughing. 

“I know I’m fascinating, sapling, but really?” He tuts, setting fists on his hips. “Not sure if I should be flattered that you’re obsessed with me, or disappointed that you’re dumb enough to walk right into a wall.”

Dipper sucks in a breath, gingerly touching his side. Doesn’t seem like - he glances down. Sure, it stings, and his shirt’s torn, a long, shallow cut on his stomach, just near the old scar. But that’s about it. Over to his side, an arrow rolls against the ground, stone head clicking against the ground.

Over by the cave mouth, Bill’s cackling. God, he’s a jerk sometimes. 

But he must not have seen the trap set off, too wrapped up in his own stupid bullshit, or he’d be less of one. Dipper knows that for a fact. Though he’d really, really prefer he’d never had that experience. 

“C’mon, kid. If you’re not even more brain damaged from your bump, let’s ditch this joint.” Bill jerks his head over his shoulder. 

Dipper hugs himself around the torso, grimacing. Not bothering to respond. His heart is still pounding, or he’d have a retort ready. Adrenaline’s helped him out in a lot of situations, but not with talking. He’ll get up when he’s ready.

“What, you smash your skull open or something?” Bill raises one arch eyebrow. 

Though Dipper knows why Bill’s like this, it’s still deeply annoying. He shakes his head in lieu of a reply. In a second, he’ll be calm enough to tell Bill exactly what he thinks of his incredibly poor bedside - and cave-side - manner. 

“Figures. Can’t leave you alone for five minutes without your guts spilling everywhere.” Bill clicks his tongue, folding his arms and stepping forward. “What’s the damage?”

“It hurts.” Dipper says, through gritted teeth. Then pauses. Wait, he meant to say - He shakes his head rapidly, only for more words to force themselves out, unbidden. “I got cut again.”

Again, not what he intended. Dipper lowers his chin, teeth clenched. What the hell, he shouldn’t have said that. Bill’s mocking aside, maybe he did hit his head a little too hard. Once Bill gets the mockery out of his system, he’s going to be a total pest about it, too.

With a huff, Dipper slumps. Settling in for a sulk, waiting for the next jab - But there’s no insult forthcoming. Or argument. 

In fact, Bill’s gone totally silent. Which is super weird. 

Dipper looks up at the cave entrance, expecting a comment or a question, or at least a huge grin. He tenses up, hunching over.

And meets a frozen, unsmiling face. 

Bill dropped his arms, they hang limp by his sides. His expression’s gone blank.

The next moment, he’s right in front of Dipper, kneeling and tugging at his arms with alarming urgency. 

“Alright, lemme see.” Bill’s face is very close. Though he’s trying to pull his arms away, Dipper resists out of sheer surprise. Bill growls, eye darting around until it lands on the arrow. “Oh for - Really can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Move.” 

Another pull, less hard this time. Like he’s trying to ease Dipper’s arms away.

“Wh- Hey!” Dipper plants a foot against Bill’s chest, but that hardly stops anything. He raises his arms. Holding them up, in fact, like he’s at gunpoint. Where’d this come from. “Don’t get upset, I’m fine.”

“Ha! Good one, sapling. Who’s upset, exactly?” Bill says, teeth bared, and in a deeply upset way. He tugs Dipper’s shirt, up, fingers tracing the cut before pressing into his stomach. “I’m just wondering if I need a replacement mortal this soon into your miserable existence. No big deal!”

Okay, this is too much. 

Dipper struggles up, despite Bill trying to shove him down again. Bracing himself on the cave wall, and glaring. “Calm down already.”

“I’m perfectly calm.” Bill says, through gritted teeth. At best he looks miffed, but he’s at least stopped trying to make Dipper lie down in the recovery position or whatever. With a glare, he tugs up Dipper’s shirt, prodding at the shallow cut. “What the hell, kid. I thought you said it hurt!”

“Ow.” Dipper’s stomach jumps at another poke. He smacks Bill’s hand away. “It does, alright? Quit poking.”

Bill doesn’t seem impressed. His fingers trail over the larger, older scar on Dipper’s left side, then glares at Dipper’s stomach like it’s insulted him. A beat, then - “You don’t usually complain.”

“I-” Okay, true. Dipper glares anyway. “Shut up.” 

He doesn’t complain because it’s the only option. For all that Bill whines and teases and taunts Dipper, all the time, about being some ‘fragile mortal meatsack’, already rotting before his eyes, he really doesn’t like it when it’s brought forcefully to his attention. 

God, he shouldn't have said anything. Ninety-five percent of the time, there isn’t any harm to mention. But when Dipper does ends up showing he is kind of… mortal, and it’s small, he just. Doesn’t bring it up. For all that they bicker all the time, he doesn’t like to make Bill upset.

Bill grunts, mouth turned down at the corners. He stands up quickly, folding his arms. His lip curls up in a sneer. “If you wanted attention, kid, there are way better ways to-”

Oh, fuck that. Dipper flips him off, and starts storming off. 

God, this is stupid. Whenever Dipper ever breaks a bone or something, he gets teased about being so weak and vulnerable. Which he is, but neither of them like the reminder. 

These days, it also comes with some weirdly maybe-sincere ‘kiss it better’ thing that Dipper then has to disinfect. A lot of hovering, and rambling commentary. Sometimes creative descriptions of how much worse it could have been, and Dipper never needed those, at any time. Bill gets oddly fixated on such random little moments, and it’s just -

Dipper doesn’t like it, is all. Bill gets the way he gets, it’s a lot, and it’s easier just to avoid it. If he were a different guy - a human guy, or even mostly-human monster- Dipper might try to talk to him about it.

But Bill’s a demon. Not normal, barely sane even on his best days, and worse, he’s Bill, so. That conversation would go precisely nowhere.

Behind him, he hears said demon approaching, fast. Stupid jerk. He should be as tall as his real form. That’d be fair. More accurate, too, and then Dipper could properly stomp off without Bill catching up so easily.

Already the bastard is by Dipper’s side. A tall, irritating presence. Hovering close without grabbing on, which adds to said irritation. 

Dipper leans away, but Bill catches him around the waist and drags him in.

“Don’t get so grumpy, sapling, you’re fine! A little nick in the outer layer rarely killed anyone since they invented antibiotics.” Though he pinches Dipper’s cheek, he yanks his head away with a grunt. Bill sighs. “Everything’s a-okay here! Looks like I don't have to find a replacement just yet.”

Bill’s an idiot. Dipper scoffs, though an unpleasant feeling crawls in his gut. “Oh yeah? Who would you replace me with?”

“Eh, not like I got anyone specific in mind.” Bill waves that off, nonchalant. “But I have options! Lots of options.” He bumps a hip against Dipper. “Keep that in mind before you go charging off into obvious traps.”

This goddamn liar. Dipper  elbows him in the side, because the asshole deserves it. 

Not that Dipper’s worried, or anything. From what little he’s heard of Bill’s exes in the demonic rumor mill - Bill’s been, as they say, less than successful. Already Dipper’s outstripped his longest by years.. Bill can lie day in and day out about his options, put on a brave face - but they both know he’s not going to find this again. Not easily. 

“Good luck finding another husband, asshole.” Dipper says with appropriate derision. It’s annoying that Bill even brought it up. There’s a good riposte in there, somewhere - but while his brain is coming up with an insult, his mouth runs on automatic. “But I was really worried that you would last week. I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day until you sent a dick pic. It was weirdly comforting.”

Bill turns toward him with genuine surprise. He even blinks a few times, no retort emerging, and Dipper looks back at him with equal surprise. 

Until his mind catches up with what he just said. 

Dipper digs his heels in the ground, slamming to a halt. Clapping both hands to his mouth, eyes wide.

Beside him Bill nearly trips at the sudden stop, flailing for balance with a swear.

Shit, shit shit. Dipper really didn’t mean to say that. He knows Bill’s not looking around, that he’s not interested. Cynically, that he couldn’t manage it if he was. Last week was just a one-off anxiety, like all the others Dipper’s brain comes up with when it gets too much free time. Totally irrational, and really hard to stop fixating on.

Bill keeps staring. Not angry, just confused, for long enough that Dipper wants to shrink into the ground and melt into nothingness. 

Then he asks, “What the hell, Pine Tree?” 

“I don’t know! I don’t know why I thought that. I don’t know why I said that.” Dipper cringes into himself, grimacing and ducking his head. He runs a hand over his slightly sweaty face. “I didn't even want you to know I got hurt.” 

At that, Bill snorts. “Oh, please. I’d have seen that first time I got your shirt off. You can’t keep secrets from me!” 

Dipper folds his arms, internally seething - and his stupid mouth moves to say,  “I’ve done it before.” 

This time, the silence is tense.

Dipper wipes his sweating forehead again, not daring to meet Bill’s eye. God he shouldn't have -

Before he can think, he blurts out, “I think something’s wrong.” 

“Probably!” Bill agrees, with a smile just a little too sharp. He takes Dipper’s face in both hands, eye narrowed. “Hold still a sec.”

As Bill’s eye flickers blue, and the magic between them surges -  Dipper squirms a bit, but. Well. If anything’s wrong with him - magically, anyway - Bill’s the best one to diagnose it..

Bill tilts his head to one side, then the other. After a moment, his mouth twists up into something unpleasant, eye glowing slightly brighter for an instant.

Then he sighs, and lets Dipper go. His expression is neutral, except for the slightest downturn of his mouth. His lips part like he’s about to speak, then twist up into a grimace.

Uh oh.

Whatever Bill saw, he didn’t like it.

“What?” Dipper pats his head, then his chest. If there was something weird, magically about him, he - wouldn’t be able to tell, actually. He’s too close to get a good look. Oh god, what if he did hit his head too hard, and something in his brain is bleeding, or worse. “Wait. Am I dying?”

“Worse! You’re telling the truth.” Bill claps his hands together. Though he’s smiling again, it’s brittle and annoyed. “Don’t suppose you know any curse breakers that aren’t your great-uncle?”

“Not really,” Dipper admits. Bill's words catch up to him, and he bites his lip. Then, because the situation deserves it, “Fuck.”

Protection curse. The tablet.

Damn it.

A part of a horde, from a long time ago. Messed with. It should have been something less awful. Like warts, or sprouting plants from his skin, or a big fireball. Pretty much anything else would be less awful.

Truth curses are rare, they’re difficult as hell - but judging by the words spilling out of Dipper, he’s caught a pretty strong variant.

Of all the curses that could hit him. Why this one.

Hell, maybe it’s intended to be the worst curse possible for the ‘thief’. That would explain how targeted this feels. 

And knowing Dipper’s luck, that part was explained on, like, the back of the tablet.

“Welp! Good thing I’m not short on contacts, kid.” Bill grapes his shoulder, shaking him a bit, before he trails an arm over Dipper’s shoulders. “Who wants some fumbling idiot uncle to fix this kinda spell, anyway?”

Dipper would! If it was feasible. He makes a brief attempt at shrugging Bill’s arm up before letting his shoulders slump.

The idea of Ford hearing about this is….

Dipper sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Ford really would have a way around this. He'd certainly have the best intentions, Dipper’s certain. He'd...

Also not have the best sense of boundaries.

Though he'd be doing it for the right reasons, he'd ask the wrong questions. Out of concern, and arguably valid worry; he's never fully believed that Bill can't influence him. Despite how many times Dipper’s tried to explain it to him, Ford just can’t wrap his mind around certain truths.

With this curse, though. Between poor social sense, the Pines curiosity, and what Dipper might blurt out, while compelled to answer - 

On this, Dipper agrees with Bill. They’ll have to find something else to break this.

In the meantime, he’ll manage, like he has all the other times his life has sucked. Hardly the worst case scenario. If Bill had been cursed - someone who lies like he breathes -  Who knows? Give it a few days, and he might just explode from all the backed up bullshit.

“Wait.” A horrible thought strikes. Dipper reels on his husband, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

“What, me? I’m a perfectly moral human man,” Bill says, resting a hand on his chest, lifting his chin with pride. “A boring sentient mammal who’s never found curses entertaining.” 

Yep, Bill’s fine. As always, it’s Dipper who gets the short end of the stick. 

He breathes in slowly, and lets it out. 

Yeah. Still sucks. He’ll deal. Cursed, but not dead. In danger, but not the worst - and his husband’s being annoying, which means he’s perfectly fine. There’s a solution too - it’s just going to be a huge, annoying process getting to it. 

“So,” Bill says, slowly. Drawing the word out in a long string, while he finger-walks his arm up around Dipper’s shoulder.

Uh oh.

Speaking of annoying…

“Watch it,” Dipper hunches his shoulders, not daring to look his idiot husband in the eye. “You’re this close to sleeping on the couch for a month.” Not a big enough threat, Bill’s still thinking- “Or for a year.”

“Oh, sure,” Bill says, in a distracted tone. His fingers pause on their walk, one ‘leg’ poised on Dipper’s clavicle. They hold the position for a long moment, tapping out a little marching step - and seconds later, his palm slaps down on Dipper’s shoulder. “So, Pine Tree! How do you feel about this ‘Bill Cipher’ guy?”

Though Dipper resists, and he really tries to, the words slip out past his teeth, his lips form the sounds -

“I love you.” God. Damnit. He clenches his fists, as Bill’s sheer smugness radiates from him like heat. “And I’m thinking about shoving you off a cliff right now.”

When Bill paused, Dipper thought he might have fended this off. Wishful thinking, really, Bill’s almost impossible to stop. Dipper used what leverage he had, but all he’s managed to avoid are the worst, most invasive questions.

When it comes to Bill, that’s pretty close to a win.

Not that it’s going to feel like one.

Bill has, in fact, been encouraged. Now that he’s heard something he likes, he leans in like a weird creep. Dipper can practically hear the leer in his voice. “And on a scale of one to ten, how handsome am I?

“Ten point five,” Dipper needs to loosen his jaw or he might break a filling. Being pumped for information is bad enough without pumping up Bill’s already ridiculous ego. “You bastard.” 

Bill’s chest puffs out, there’s a strut in his stride. The grin is so wide now Dipper’s pretty sure it should hurt- and if he dares to pucker up, he’s not getting lips on his awful face.  “And am I the most clever and sexually amazing guy in the universe or what?

This time, Dipper snorts. 

“Definitely not.” He ignores the sharp, indignant sound next to him, tilting his head in thought. “For one, there’s succubi and incubi, so. Sexually, you’re not even on top amongst demons.” He glances over at the offended ‘o’ of Bill’s mouth. “And I know you’re not the most clever, because I win our debates nearly half the time. Maybe you’re up there, but not the most. And that’s just the surface level stuff.”

Dipper doesn’t have a complete cosmological view of the multiverse, but he has learned a lot. Mostly stuff he picked up from his husband, and demonic gossip. It’s absolutely enough to go on a long, long ramble about how Bill most likely doesn’t rank number one in anything. If Dipper avoids the topics where he actually is.

He’s barely fifteen seconds in before Bill starts scowling, with a grumpy hunch to his shoulders - But screw him. 

Dipper starts smiling, just a bit. Then, to be a dick, he adds, 

“The ten and a half is just me, anyway. To the average human, you’re maybe an eight..” Dipper continues, over another spluttered protest. Again, true; not everyone likes the slightly inhuman maniac cyclops look. “Six with your personality.” 

Bill groans. “Ugh, you pedant.” He squeezes Dipper’s shoulder, jostling him slightly. “C’mon, you know what I meant! What’s the real - “

“Don’t ask questions if you can’t handle the answers,” Dipper warns, jabbing Bill in the chest. So far it hasn’t been too much, but it could be. Time to draw a line. “I will suck so much fun out of this for you.” 

Bill Cipher, unintentional teacher once more. Now Dipper knows the curse isn’t about perfect truth. When he can deliberately misinterpret a question’s intent, and can go on tangents  - that means he has loopholes. There might even be more, if he tries.

And if they can’t get this settled soon, he’ll need every one of those he can find.

“Clever brat.” Bill’s frowning, but he can’t disguise the amusement in his voice. His eyebrows wiggle, his arm hauling him close -  "Go ahead, then. Anything else you wanna share?"

"I know two and half ways to kill you, Bill Cipher." Dipper gets right up in his face. He won’t let Bill push this any further. "Don't tempt me to use them."

Being face to face like this, Dipper watches Bill’s eye go wide - ha, didn’t expect that, did he. With that threat, he’ll - 

Start cackling. And weirdly, turn a little pink. Dipper feels all the momentum he had whoosh out of him like sad balloon animal. 

“Boy, you are a saucy one!” Bill whistles, low. He places his hands demurely on his cheeks, fluttering his eye at Dipper with amusement. “Oh, yeah. Talk deadly to me.”

By this time, Dipper figures he should be used to stumbling into demonic flirtation. Only it turns out it’s basically fractal in nature, and he keeps running into new and newer edge cases.

“Fun as this is - we gotta get you cleared up, and no time like the present!” Bill’s calmed down enough to scoop an arm around his waist, leading Dipper onward. “Can’t have you babbling everything to everyone, y’know?”

“What, you don’t want me telling you everything?” Total bullshit. Dipper elbows him in the side. “I thought you wanted to get in my head.”

“Hey! I didn’t ask for our game to be set on ‘beginner’ mode. That’s boring.” Bill flicks his fingers - but he’s got his ‘evading questions’ look on. “You’re lucky I’m so- oof.”

Another elbow, harder this time. Bill grunts, but capitulates. Rubbing at his eye briefly, he sighs.

“So! How many of my secrets would you say you know, Pine Tree?” Bill tightens his grip on Dipper’s waist, tugging him closer. “And I’m talking about the ones that I wouldn’t enjoy getting out in the world.”

“More than I can count.” Dipper says without thinking. Then, with thinking -  “Oh.”

Dipper hadn’t considered how much Bill’s taught him, before this exact moment. How much he’s learned. Even unintentionally. Especially unintentionally. 

Crap, even his threat before was kind of - 

Shit. There’s definitely, absolutely, no way can they go to Ford about this. Total recipe for disaster.

“See? We both got liabilities in play here.” Bill moves easily as Dipper picks up the pace. If anything he’s amused, and not feeling nearly as urgent. Another reason he’s an idiot. “All we gotta do is get you patched up quick, and no more loose lips sinking ships! Easy-peasy.”

“It better be,” Dipper mutters. Nothing ever goes right for him. And by extension, them.

“Trust me, kid! I got this handled!” Bill snaps his fingers - and smacks Dipper’s butt with a wink. “I know some guys!”

[pyriteplates]

Give us the full story behind Jirazero baby

THERES SO MUCH BRO. but I'll try to go in chronological order of what we have so far.. as for her conception, it was a joke at first, but I quickly got attached to her... see the attached image... And here we are under 2 weeks later with over 100 images on her toyhouse!! WOW!!!!!

I'm going to put the rest under a readmore for everyone's sanity!

All of the links throughout this post will be toyhouse links (marked with an x) to relevant pieces of art ☺️

Let's start with the story before the timelines split. This first part, I'm going to have to talk briefly about mpreg, so skip to the next paragraph if you don't want to read that! We start off with our average jirazero, toxic as hell but we love them for it. We decided that Zeroro ends up having a cryptic pregnancy, because otherwise that thang is getting aborted! Zeroro ends up giving birth in his bathtub, you'll have to unlock level 5 Plates friendship to hear more about the specifics of that.. 😋 in the end, Zeroro and the baby end up moving in with Jirara.

x x x x

Zeroro loves his baby girl! She's his bundle of joy, the light of his life, she's just plain perfect. She represents the perfect nuclear family he always wanted, and fantasized about having with Jirara. What seemed like a pipe dream before seems to be unfolding perfectly in front of him. Of course, it's not Exactly what he had imagined, but he's sure their family will get there! Jirara is a good man at heart, he knows he is!

x x

Jirara, as you can imagine, is not Stoked about this baby! He's adamant that this baby stays a SECRET from the public no matter what. She could absolutely destroy his reputation. He doesn't allow them to leave the house without disguises to cover their symbols. But, overall, he's uninterested in and annoyed by her. He only assists with costs, and maybe halfheartedly watches her when Zeroro is in the shower. Above all, he's disappointed that his best soldier has become nothing but a bumbling housewife.

x x x x

Zeroro homeschools baby to the best of his ability. Giroro and Keroro come by to help out occasionally when Jirara is out of the house, and Pururu acts as her doctor, although she has a very limited knowledge in pediatrics. Jirara doesn't trust that a doctor won't be paid off by the press to leak the fact that he has a bastard daughter with his subordinate, but Zeroro managed to convince him to allow Pururu to make home visits. She is the only other person within this circle to interact with Jirara directly. Zeroro's family does not know about the baby.

x x

Let me be very clear that Jirara is not physically abusive, but psychologically and emotionally abusive. I don't want to see anyone getting the wrong idea and drawing baby or Zeroro with a black eye or something.

Now, onto where the timelines split. We'll start with the Giroro timeline, since it's the least developed and will take less time to get through here.

In this timeline, Giroro and Keroro are able to convince Zeroro to run away with Baby and move in with Giroro. (Of course, it wouldn't be a story I worked on without girodoro 😉 although it won't come until MUCH later!) When they run away, baby is about 6 years old in developmental human years. (1,500 in Keronian years)

x

Zeroro feels a lot of heavy guilt about leaving Jirara, but luckily he's got a support system, and he's finally able to tell his mother about his child! And Baby finally gets to go to SCHOOOOOL!! There's still a lot that needs to be figured out about this timeline, so wait patiently and all will be revealed... But, overall, this is the timeline where baby grows up to be the cheerful girl she was meant to be!

x x x

The Jirara timeline is the timeline where they're unable to convince Zeroro to run away from Jirara, and their life continues as dysfunctional. When baby is 12 in developmental human years (3,000 in Keronian years), Zeroro is drafted into a platoon for the Pekopon invasion. Here's a comic I haven't posted before about it, since I never got a chance to finish/ink it..! (as well as the transcription, i know it's very faint)

Before he leaves, he does his best to teach baby some basic self-maintenance, like doing her own laundry, dishes, etc, but he's not able to teach her as much as he'd like to, leaving it to Jirara once he gets deployed.

x x x x x

On Keron, Jirara is still largely uninterested in baby at first, but eventually decides to start training her as an assassin. By the time Baby is 16 (4,000) he ships her off to training camp, where she meets her roommate, Friend.

Friend is the contrast to Baby. She's an average girl, she's up-to-date on trends, she makes friends easily, and she's much more willing to bend the rules than Baby is.

x x x

When Baby is 19, Friend helps her sneak out of the camp and onto a train headed to Pekopon.... what happens next... is still in the works! So once again please be patient to find out!

[kyuummie]

read about my sons NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!’!

recently ive taken it upon myself to turn glitterduo (argbur and incelbur/simpbur) into my ocs, allen (he him) and salem (he she they) after realizing how much i was attached to them and might go as far as reclaiming even more relevant burs

theyre kind of like a gag anime with a broad plot that has only 50% to do with the actual episode youre watching. They just kind of exist and go through day to day things together because theyre buds. maybe you will like them too if you liked bur sonas…i just wanted to share something that gave me joy. theyre like if triple baka was double baka mesmerizer if it was awesome

who should be the third baka or the yellow one that wasnt in mesmerizer vote down below /hj

more random stuff about them under the cut

no salem is not an incel. Thought i should preface that LMFAO (i still think its crazy how much the fandom (using that term lightly cause of how fan driven the concept of burs were) “woobified” incelbur/simpbur seeing how much of a creep he apparently is. its ok i was a part of it and i never do anything wrong ^_^)

i originally had a really hard time trying to figure out a plotline for these two, my first draft “salmon alley” was about them being platonic soulmates and having to figure out how to live together. one, i didnt like the name cause it sounded to much like salmonella. Second, i didnt really know where to go with the soulmate thing and i didnt even know if i wanted to have a story for them

then, i wanted to go the unconventional route and make them little magical girls (“1-chance duet”) with the point of them being tied together as two magical girls who were destined to save, well, mentally unstable people 😭, before they could save themselves, and i gave salem a bunny hood which is where his current hat comes from

i might use some of this as au ideas or their general “plot”. but i kind of like them just being there and only serving as comfort and a source of joy? these two just Happened to both be my faves and also be created by some douche. so, if you were also a bur sona liker, youre like a sleeper agent 🕵️ maybe theyll go ghost hunting and find blue (gb). Travel back in time to find an old timey president at a bar (lmanbr). go a couple months forward to find him depressed, and deceased the next day (pogbr). maybe theyll be taken by the mad scientist who sent them back in time(malpractice). maybe theyll meet god himself (100p??). Hey allen why do all these guys look vaguely like us and all have brown shoulder length hair

i remember i had my designs for og glitterduo memorized like muscle memory, i have no idea how i got over them so quickly but when i was reminded of them i couldnt keep the demons inside…i drew arg all the time in class and i love edgy characters so he was my perfect little guy. i might still refer to them (especially allen) as arg/incel/simp. Maybe this is another 2 week phase but i love them

also, i dont know what to call their “series”. i have two in mind: amygdala’s resonance/just amygdala, or hatena (as in question mark) but i think amygdala seems way too dark and edgy for what im thinking

[bonefall]

Better Bones Profile: Shredtail

[ID: A version of Shredtail from Warriors. He is a thick, spiky-furred, solid brown cat with prickly whiskers, a tattered white tail, and red scars. He is holding a spear with white and yellow twine.]

A guy whose mate and kits got eaten by a pig and he was VERY normal about it. He made a very normal weapon for the occasion. He normally hunted down a gigantic white boar for the rest of his life and revolutionized hog hunting in ThunderClan.

Shredtail didn't only target the grand boar Deadfrost; he aimed for any hog with a fleck of white on its body. If he would have no bloodline, then neither would it.

His obsessive quest for vengeance to kill Deadfrost eventually lead to him using a clanmate as bait to slaughter the beast. He died with his spear snapped and jammed in two places within the hog's hide, taking down his old foe with him.

Alignment: Dark Forest, ex-ThunderClan.

Time Period: Code Era

Relations: Unnamed mate, unnamed kits

His addition to the Dark Forest is Deadfrost's Hollow, a mazelike thicket where a giant white boar gives endless chase. With enough taunting, Deadfrost can break out of the hollow and terrorize the cats in the Dark Forest.

(more below the cut)

No more evil brown tabbies. Society has progressed passed the need for evil brown tabbies. Solid brown with white highlights.

Dark Forest cats need more types of motivations and new stories! Canon Shredtail has nothing written about him besides being very old, so I've decided to build something very relevant to Better Bones.

Shredtail was a huge innovator in hog hunting, and his techniques are still used to this day. He's only slightly younger than Cloudberry and Ryewhisker.

Traps, baiting, and spear-craft. Shredtail had a paw in creating or perfecting the creation of these things.

After leading his first successful boar hunt after the death of his family, he earned an Honor Title. His name went from Thornwhisker to Shredtail.

He is a highly valued member of Tigerstar's Dark Forest coalition, because of his innovative mind.

Shredtail was behind the technical plotting of Firestar's murder (but not the idea). It's nothing personal, but he wants Godhood just as much as his cohorts.

He's ruthless and dedicated. He believes strongly in the value of patience. His presence can be intense.

This is a warrior who is both huge and intelligent.

When asked about what he wants to do with godhood, his voice grows soft. "...I want to craft kittens."

The cross below the arrowhead is called a "lug." It's there to stop an impaled boar from pushing further down the shaft to get you. This was one of Shredtail's first improvements.

Yellow twine is for ThunderClan, white twine is for his mate.

The spear is something I'm going to refine the design of over time, this is a first draft.

Shredtail is based a little bit on Captain Ahab because I think that is very funny. The white boar, the obsession, the going down with it. Good stuff.

Today, weapons are typically only used for boars! Blades are considered a highly dishonorable battle tactic, and usually their claws are sharp enough to be as lethal as they want them to be. Shredtail tainted the association of spears forever.

He doesn't really do 'politics,' he just wants results and will work with anyone who can provide them.

So he doesn't care what Tigerstar actually wants or believes, if it means entry into StarClan.

[wutheringmights]

So, I read Lightlark by Alex Aster, and of course it's bad! I was there when the drama surrounding this book first happened. I read crow-caller's review! I knew what I was getting into.

That being said, a part of me was half-convinced that the badness of this book was over hyped. There was no way such a perfect shit storm of bad writing could actually occur. Something had to have been over exaggerated.

And... nah. It's perfectly hyped. The plot is nonsensical. The characters are nothing. It's reads like the first draft where the author is just throwing spaghetti at the wall to just get through the ordeal, only to never revise in order to weave in foreshadowing or fix plot holes.

The really infuriating thing is that a once-a-century death game populated by the heirs of various kingdoms in a bid to prevent their kingdoms from being cursed is a really fun idea. From that description alone, I already got a billion plot and character ideas. Lightlark doesn't even do it's core concept well. Fuck, the core concept isn't even there. But the book is so infamous that no one can take the idea and do something with it without being known as a Lightlark ripoff.

Every time I read a bad book, I try to use it as an opportunity to reflect on my own writing and see where I can improve. Lightlark is an interesting case in that the prose isn't 100% terrible. Some of the imagery so pretty effective, and you can tell that Aster has written something before this. Where it's not effective is when Aster tried a motif or image and didn't succeed. I have more sympathy for this than I should since there are plenty of times I have gotten too over ambitious with my imagery and ended up writing a big stinker.

That's not to excuse the sun being a "yolky thing," though. That's a really bad piece of imagery turned into foreshadowing, and for that reason alone, it's used constantly. Ugh.

But the imagery isn't my real concern. It's the overwriting. Aster has no faith that the reader can remember anything about the plot or stakes, and will have Isla restate plot points and her motivations endlessly. It's really infuriating having to wade through it while trying to get through the plot.

But that form of overwriting is also something I do. On one hand, I do this because CTB chapters release weeks apart and things from two years ago suddenly become relevant; I lean towards trying to remind the readers of old information so that they don't get confused in the moment. On the other hand, a lot of this overwriting is evidence of me trying to work out a plot point as I am writing it; sometimes, something doesn't make sense to me until I've written out the evidence to support it.

I need to get better at editing these moments out so that scenes are less cluttered and readers are less infuriated.

But, yeah. I read Lightlark. It wasn't really worth my time, but it was still better than Sasha Alsberg's Breaking Time. 1 out of 5 stars.

[zenlesszonezero]

You feelin' fired up now? Make way for the undefeated Champion! —Welcome to New Eridu!— PS5™/iOS/Android/PC | Version 1.3 "Virtual Revenge" of Zenless Zone Zero, HoYoverse's urban fantasy ARPG, is out now

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Sliding doors, dvd bonus, processing, and small things for SOTF?

This is so many, omg. Hopefully I can think of enough satisfying for this!

SLIDING DOORS: pick a character from one fic to drop into another!

I mean, I've kind of already done this twice lol

Cassana Strong kind of technically got ported over from The Red Princess, because I didn't want to remake the Strong family tree more than once (although it being made for TRP at all is an artifact of an old draft of the plot that I don't want to get into) & she sort of accidentally became important to the plot. And Aldreda got plopped into the main SOTF modern AU because I just think its silly if she's there, but she's not in the main text. I don't think she'd really mesh into SOTF though, because the Master Of Ships position on Aegon's small council is gonna be flush with options & he won't have an issue filling it.

So doing this in the way it's probably intended: I think that having Taryne in SOTF would be fun! She'd fit pretty unobtrusively & wouldn't change a whole lot of the plot though. The only thing that'd really get altered would be Alicent having a friend in King's Landing & Gwayne coming in a little sooner than he's most likely doing in SOTF (don't ask when he's showing up in SOTF, I have not even thought about him in that fic yet. I still haven't even figured out how I'm writing Daeron). All their stuff would be happening off page, but also, maybe, Taryne's second son wouldn't die in SOTF because it's likely that the opportunity for his death would be gone. Again, not guaranteed, but there'd be hope for him maybe!

I know that the real real intent of this particular ask is probably to say how an OC from a different fic would heavily alter the plot, but tbh, I do not vibe with how Daenys (the most major OC I could use to alter the plot of SOTF) would alter things. Because Daenys's story is (I'm planning/hoping at least) will have as happy & hopeful an ending as the Roycegaryens', but going in a complete opposite direction, so by extension it would kind of make SOTF way less happy (& probably way less fun to work on😅)

DVD BONUS: pick a fic and I’ll describe or write a deleted scene!

So, in the latest chapter, I have Aemon write Ella a letter telling her that he's had his first kiss. And, through the sheer power of writing things about his dynamic with Medric & then having dumb stuff dawn on me I know the general idea behind this! And it's so fucking silly.

Behold the main inspiration to riff off of [soured from pinterest]

Working off of the established canon that those boys just don't knock when going into each other's rooms; Medrick walks in on Aemon changing & has his "congrats on the pipe" moment. Aemon jokes it off by saying he hopes he doesn't scare whoever Lord Desmond finds for him to marry, & Dumb Horny Teen Boy™️ that Medrick is, he yes ands this joke with the pretty explicit implication of being into Aemon. Back & forth thinly veiled "I'm down if you ares" continue until Aemon has some pants on, & then Medrick gets vulnerable for a second to ask if he can kiss him.

PROCESSING: pick a fic and I’ll tell you what it was like to write it!

It feels like this the entire time

I always have at least 3 documents open at the time, Valyrian gets cobbled together from the English/Valyrian dictionary with guess-worked grammar & individually translated/stitched together words I pick through various google searches for how sentences work, & every time I have to write a meal or feast I black out for half an hour & don't physically reenter my body until I have a ridiculously decadent meal plan I only half touch on in-text. I keep accidentally making some stuff more relevant than intended because I forget canon things attached to what I stuck in based on vibes.

Did you know that Criston Cole & Borros Baratheon did not originally know each other because I randomly picked Borros's dead mom's House from a list of Stormlands noble families after having forgotten that Criston's dad works for Peepaw Dondarrion?!

I will barge into messages with friends at random hours & ask them if something sounds like it makes sense. @emilykaldwen has regularly watched me string chapter outlines together by way of rambling text walls. At any given point, I can string together the specific outfit someone was wearing in a scene & I will touch on one (1) detail of that in text if I am lucky.

Each chapter has the potential to be a slow descent into madness, but I'm honestly having a great time

SMALL THINGS: pick a fic and I’ll tell you my favorite minor detail from it!

This is very hard, I have so many silly little details that exist as definite canon within SOTF but never get mentioned. Can I have 2? I'm gonna have 2.

Lara Mormont's mom [Yngress] is a wildling who let herself get captured during a failed raid south of The Wall after circumnavigating it by way of the Bay of Ice (see: threw herself at Jeor Mormont's feet & very loudly tried to prompt him to kidnap her before just openly coming onto him & saying she'll be his woman if he brings her home instead of turning her & her kin into the Night's Watch)

Queen Alysanne had an affair with Alaric Stark, & Alyssa is his kid. A few doubled up doses of Latent Northern Genes is why Griffith/Ella's son looks Like That™️

[rosetheocto]

hi!!! i wanted to ask about your thoughts on what should be changed in eeveelution squad!! ive been thinking about it a lot recently and ive seen you on the tag from time to time and i wanted to know more about what you think!!

OOOOOO there’s a lot of things actually!! This is kinda long and all over the place tho so uhh have fun with that!! :0

if you want me to elaborate more on certain things or have a point make more sense just send another ask my way lol

No CC. sorry to whoever made her but she SUCKS and I don’t like her. Her backstory makes no sense even in an AU and she’s just. very overpowered lol (also her and Gai have no chemistry)

speaking of ships with no chemistry: Lazuli/Speed/Silvia. theyre all so toxic to each other and Speed has shown clear disinterest in them both for nearly the whole comic. They only got together in the end cuz The Fans Wanted It, completely ignoring stuff like Lazuli/Silvia kissing Speed during a PTSD flashback without his consent. I can go on and on about how much the romance in this comic is bad but I’ll be here all day lmao. I may make a rant about them all in another post in the future

TLDR for that being: most speed ships suck (I see him as aro tbh, Stella was an exception), Black and Pearl also suck but not as much, I’m glad Crystal didn’t get with Trace

Leaf needs more personality, tbh all the girls do. Like seriously name one female character that doesn’t have any major ties to a guy. like even Sunshine has a love interest in Axel and they’re 3/4 years old

I wish the berserker lore made sense. ik EV made it overly complex to Spite The Haters or whatever but I just don’t really get it half the time. in terms of unique stuff ES has like those and the Coastal Eevees or the timeline resets it could’ve been handled a LOT better and made more sense

(and I know the Journals have more info but I’ll get to those in a sec)

Shade just sucks as a villain and you can tell he was rushed to give the finale a proper final battle (Special 12B wasn’t meant to be the finale originally if you didn’t know that)

(If I were to make a final villain to ES it would’ve been Alan but that’s just me lol)

there’s way too many characters and most people can’t even tell the slight differences in appearance as well as I can. like there were people mistaking Blaze (Pearl’s mom, Flareon with the hair swirly thing) and Mollie (Triplets mom, Flareon with a leg missing) as the same person for a while and that isn’t really good for design and story stuff. and like there’s so many characters that show up once and never again until you find out that They Actually Had A Bunch Of Story Relevancy You Didn’t Know Until Just Now! (Shade)

and looking at the drafts for the After Story it doesn’t really answer any questions and just made things more confusing?? and there’s also stuff that I just. refuse to accept as canon. Speed would NOT abandon his daughter for years just cuz “he wants to explore again” yeah he may not be the best father figure in the world but CMON :((

AND SPEAKING OF THAT: there’s way too much Journal only content, which is fine if the average reader knew about all those journals. The stuff from those should’ve really been incorporated into the story sooner, cuz most stuff that’s been established in journals for years only got to shine in the comic at the very end

Those are all the major things I can think of really! If you read this far, then thanks!! I have a lot of thoughts on this comic lol

[chronotopes]

PERSONAL WRITING WRAPPED 2023

Getting this done significantly earlier than I got it done last year, which I think may in itself be an indication of being in "a better mental place."

Let's get to it.

CREATIVE NONFICTION, NEW FIRST DRAFTS:

"Catalogue of Thoughts, With Rebukes," January. CLASSIC katia journal entry turned essay format, which is "conversation between versions of myself." Artistic enough suffering that it totally counts as a cnf essay.

"I Can't Remember..." (titled in real life "my homework from brenda and julie"), January. Essay Written For Practice, specifically inspired by the prompt "Write an essay where every sentence starts with 'I can't remember.' Cathartic and has some bits of very pretty prose. Maybe I don't agree with the overall conclusions it draws, but I sure like it as a piece of writing.

"As the sun sets over [my local river], I consider Joan of Arc," January. broooo why were my early-in-the-year cnf titles so pretentious. Lyric essay meets prose poem but I'm choosing to classify it as a lyric essay. First draft dictated into my voice memos, mad scribe style. Man i used to love voice memos.

"Elegy for a life I can't live," April. Boooo emo bullshit booo but once again cathartic and perhaps more clear-sighted about things than the previous work. Anaphora got me through a lot in the first half of this year.

"I don't understand music," April. Finally, creative nonfiction that isn't about depressing shit! About a) piano and b) love, obviously. Needs a lot of editing but I am fond of her.

"Orthodox," July. Old poem about national identity and religion that I reformulated into a very unpolished essay.

"Two gay preteens and a lake monster," July. Another old poem, reformulated into a flash essay this time. Polished it enough to submit to a call for flash essay submissions and then never did.

"Nikolayevna," July. ALSO an old poem reformulated into a flash essay. This is my favorite trick and I will do it to all of my mid-but-promising poetry one day. This one's about ~generational cycles!~

"My dead boss and my dead friend," July. New addition to my senior spring flash essay series from last year.

"A spoiler, displaced in time," July. Another new addition to the senior spring flash essay, in an effort to make it more rounded with context I did not then have.

"[personal bullshit relevant situation], or 'The Kids from Yesterday.'" The Senior Spring Essays in their totality cannot ever seen the light of day for many reasons and one of them is that the ending rests partly on an MCR-based metaphor. Which is very silly.

"Justifications," October. Oh lord back to For Processing Purposes Only creative nonfiction. That's cool I guess. Mad about how good the prose in these quasi-journal entries is and the degree to which i did not write enough of them this year.

12 pieces in total.

CREATIVE NONFICTION, NEW DRAFTS OF OLD STUFF AND UNFINISHED BUT PROMISING NEW STUFF.

"Catalogue of Kitchenware," February-August. What it sounds like.

"Obsidian Greythorne's Depression Cannot Be Cured By Finding A New, Alive Girlfriend" and "Fornax And Annue Cannot Ever Have Sex For Reasons I Just Made Up," March-June. Two entries in an envisioned series of essays exploring adolescent sexuality/identity/experience through old fictionwriting adventures.

"Catalogue of Berries," July. Eastern Europe posting.

"On Taking the Waters," July. I said "Oh, I know what's missing from this old essay about being very sad in bath!" and stuck my friend who died in there. Classic essay trick.

"A Grand Palatial House of the Old South," July. Heterosexual roommate angst processing essay, refined.

"On being old enough to talk about the war," July. Flash essay (really edging out of flash essay territory, it got long) from last year about the Russian invasion of Ukraine, completely rewritten.

"A Hill in the [local civil war history location]," July. Also a flash essay from the senior spring essays, rewritten enough to count as a newish thing.

"A Car Is Like A Little House," August. Suburbia, weather, immigration, the interstate highway system, all the usual suspects in my writing.

Nine pieces in total.

POETRY:

"Myopia in seventh-grade notebooks," January. "It is january 2023, and one year ago I should have known better. / And unlike all of the other times I ruined my life, that time, it was for forever." Less Vent Poetry and more unified concept worth working from. About reading notes to myself in old diaries.

"Novice time traveler," February. Jesus christ reading through these is killing me. This one shares a lot of ideas with dialogues but is less good lol.

"3/23/2022," February. A sestina I wrote for Gabe on the occasion of our first anniversary, and certainly a sestina I like a lot more than the first sestina I wrote. Not groundbreaking stuff but I like it anyway. I would have to take a Real Poetry Class to get properly good at poetry, I think. For those curious: my words were moon, dare, blossom, spring, test, and time.

I would write Gabe little poems every day for the last few months of being longish-distance. Not all of them were good, and I cannot count them to save my life, but among them were "Sonnet for a job application," "Sonnet for an orchestra concert," "February Villanelle," "Sonnet for warmth," "Sonnet for Spring," "For Dusk," "For the sinking sun." Some of them will be something one day. Others had value in their ephemeral Baby Poem status.

Ten completed pieces in total, a whole lot more little stuff than that.

FICTION:

52 or so thousand words of what was once titled Adventures of the Extranei and is now titled fucking, like, Untitled Quartz the Novel Project, June-November. What started out as last year's fascination with an old, sprawling, deeply flawed novel turned into a perhaps-ill-advised attempt to rename (almost) all the characters and rewrite it to be coherent. Currently, it exists in the form of a 100-page outline and one nanowrimo's worth of novel (three parts out of like twelve complete). I'll go back to it after I finish Aivide, if only because of Sunk Cock Theory.

A rewritten prologue to what was once titled Adventures of the Extranei: The Next Generation and is now titled Dude If You Rewrite All Of Nextgen Too You're Going To Have To Start Asking For Money For It Because Seriously We're Talking 500k+ words of story here. What can I say, sometimes the grip of "I could do this BETTER" overtakes you.

Three edited existing chapters and one brand new revised chapter of AIVIDE THE PREQUEL, August-December. READ IT HERE, unless you haven't read Vinbre the Novel yet, in which case read Vinbre the Novel first. Very proud of the ways I've sneakily grown as a writer since first drafting the last three chapters, very glad for the opportunity to write it as I see it now and share it with the world.

About 85,000 words in total if you only count the completely new chapter of Aivide, somewhere around 100,000 if you count stuff I added to the old ones. I could probably be more accurate about it if I wasn't writing this at 2 AM on new year's eve. (Afternoon after edit: About 37,000 new words of Aivide + 51,980 words of Quartz + 10,007 words of nextgen bullshit = just about 98,000 words of fiction. yippee!!)

Overall, 26 completed(ish) pieces in total, counting the venty drafts and the revisions, which constituted a lot of what I wrote this year.

SUPERLATIVES:

Most Economical: "Two Gay Preteens and a Lake Monster," "My Dead Boss and My Dead Friend"

Most Romantic: "I don't understand music"

Greatest Potential: "A car is like a little house," "Orthodox"

Best Emerging Genre: Essay collections

Biggest Comeback: Fiction

Most Likely To Succeed: "Catalogue of Berries," "On Taking the Waters," "Orthodox," "A Car is like a little house"

The One You Should Read: Aivide the Prequel

Worst Girls of the Year: Quartz Greythorne and Aivide Thieri

[raccoon-crown]

Sonic Beyond: The puppeteer in the shadows

Tails didn't knew either what was going at the beginning of the Eggmatization.

Yeah he was hearing his worst nightmare voice in his head but it was so rare, and usually by night or on the days he barely slept, that it didn't surpassed the relevance that stoping hearing the noise had and he was sure it would have something to do with all the trauma he had.

Actually, he started feeling better sometimes reaching the point were he started to invent again in his head, but without actually going to his workshop or using his tools. One night, he was having a lot of trouble falling asleep, he felt like there was something he had to do but could understand what.

Tired, he got out of his room seeking for Sonic when he saw the hedgehog snoring in peace over one couch and he just couldn't woke him up, he was aware of the problems he caused to his friends and how little rest Sonic had in the same time. So instead he went for a walk.

He just give the house a full tour for no reason, and he was kinda enjoying the alone time, at least till he passed next to his workshop, he remembered that there was a time that being close to any tool would give him panic from the memories of what Eggman did to him, but that moment he felt like he could just open the door and go work like the old times.

And he did.

...

He didn't know how or why but suddenly he was inside the room shaking a little from the view. He tried to tell himself that it was HIS place not EGGMAN'S and made way on his desk to actually do something. At first it was hard to concentrate but eventually an Idea came to mind and suddenly he was working on the drafts of a new creation, but at the same time he started to feel tired from the lack of sleep.

But for some reason he couldn't stop from scribbling, it was like something was telling him to keep on with an idea he didn't know where it came from.

Next thing he knew was that he woke up in his room with no recall of what else happened the previous night. He didn't know that he finished the design and of course he didn't remember drawing Sonic's face on the borderline of the paper and when he saw it he got really confused.

That was until a voice he hoped that disappeared talked in his head.

"See Dr. Prower? Don't you think we work well together?"

Tails got scared and somehow tried to look out for the owner of the voice even if he was conscious that he was not actually there. This happened over and over again, Eggman's voice would appear in the shadows of his mind without advice before disappearing for a short time, but as it got worse he even began having some blackouts while working only to regain conscious with some weird inventions he didn't designed.

He wanted to tell his friends about it, but there was something, a weird feeling like a wire that tied him and prevented the call of help.

In every one's eyes, Tails was just recovering just fine, but inside him he was just getting more and more lost into the wires of an evil and manipulative puppeteer who smiled using his face when no one was paying attention.

[missgryffin]

Hi missgryffin! Firstly I’m such a huge fan and avid reader of your works, especially ES which is an absolutely beautiful story! I know you’re taking some time rewriting etc to update to your current style and I obsess over every snippet haha. My question is, after publishing work how do you feel like a story is finished to your liking? I know I struggle with feeling like things I produce are ever properly finished and I can only assume rewrites on ES is such a massive undertaking, what prompted you to revisit the older chapters? Secondary to that, would you ever consider putting the old version up along with the new one? Obviously it’s your artistic choice and you’re rewriting for a reason but I personally would be so interested to read and compare the two, especially because I adore your snippets and it’s crazy to think you could upgrade a story I already love so much haha. I hope that’s not overstepping! I wouldn’t want to offend! Anyway, I love you’re writing and I hope you have a great day!

Hey! Ahh thank you so much!! 🥰 Under the cut for length 🫶

Oh this is such a good question and honestly there's no easy answer. In the short term, whether a chapter/story feels finished really is just a feeling. I've become more of a plotter over the years, so I am better about knowing what needs to happen to close the arcs of the story and have it feel resolved. (Or, if it's just a chapter, have it feel like it's propelling the story forwards.) Also, when I'm first starting a fic, I have a pretty good idea of the mood and imagery I'm wanting to evoke with that story. (And I love making moodboards for myself for this purpose.) So something I look for when I'm rereading what I've written is whether what I see when I read matches what I'd imagined in my head.

In the long term, I think a sense of completion comes from time. The wonderful thing about fic is that you can always update works if you catch a mistake or spot something you want to fix. (I usually find at least one small thing I could change every time I reread something of mine, lol.) But whether it's "finished to your liking" is really a measure of, when you reread it a year or two later, are you still happy with it? And where you're at in your writing journey (/how much your writing may have improved or changed over time) will bear on that.

For example, when I reread for the hope of it all earlier this summer, I found some typo mistakes and edited some phrasing here and there, but it really did feel like I was just doing a proofread with fresh eyes. The story itself felt complete; I didn't want to change a thing, and I was so proud reading it.

By contrast, when I reread Eternal Summer earlier this year, the document became unrecognizable from how much I marked it up. Once, that draft felt complete to me, but this time (two years later), I felt like I was reading an early draft I'd outgrown. For one, ES was written in past tense, and I've now been writing almost exclusively in present tense. For another, I felt like I'd crammed too much into my chapters, resulting in scenes feeling rushed or overlooked simply from the sheer volume of stuff happening. I wanted to tease certain things out more and pace things differently so that everything got its ~moment~. In the first go-around, I had veered significantly off my original outline as a reaction to reader feedback/pressure at the time, which resulted in me getting myself very, very stuck. This time, the experience of writing these characters for 2+ straight years allowed me to think about the plot and the character development more holistically. I have a better understanding of how to "show not tell" in terms of relevant backstory and Jily's respective head spaces. I took prior times where readers were confused into account, and I knew how I could address/resolve them in the new narrative. I still very much loved the ES world and the plot I'd created—and there were so many scenes I felt so proud of (and many I'd forgotten that I loved!) —but the overall feeling was, I can elevate this story. I can tell this better. Knowing I wanted to continue ES into the rest of their seventh year and beyond, I simply couldn't continue writing without addressing all these thoughts I had about it. (And believe me, I tried 😅)

As for whether I'd put up the old version with the new one…I haven't thought about it much, but my initial reaction is leaning no. Idk, I'm open to hearing thoughts on it, and it's a ways away anyway. I just don't want people getting confused by what's "true" and what's not anymore if they're looking at the old version.

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts days 40, 41

From this prompt list. If you've read this far, I'm not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn't written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm Anyway, I finished the rough draft a while ago and am now unlocking the old entries as I edit.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here

Days 38 and 39 here

***

3. “That’s sweet and all but do they touch you the way I touch you? Fuck you the way I fuck you? Mm, yeah, didn’t think so.”

92. "Let me show you how much I mean what I say."

113. "What did I just say?"

***

Tim headed to the Cave a little earlier than usual for his pre-patrol briefing. He'd checked the rotation earlier and noted to his disgust that Damian's "see you tomorrow" had been based in fact rather than a farewell. They both were slated to patrol in adjoining sections of the city, along with Stephanie, Cass, and Bruce. Overkill, considering the lack of current supervillain threat, but he'd take that over being understaffed.

He'd spent the day getting caught up on a couple of developing cases Bruce wanted him to take over, as well as using a data-collection program he'd written to record the movements of Damian, Jon, Karen, and Jaime globally. If Bruce asked, he would say he was training the facial recognition algorithm to be more sensitive to people who weren't white male humans. Of course, he was only going to pay attention to Damian's data and save the rest to be reviewed later for his stated purpose, but Bruce didn't have to know any of that.

The early results hadn't yielded much. Damian appeared to socialize only rarely outside of Gotham, despite his recent return from an out of town mission. There had been several instances of hanging out with Jon, a few meetings with Ravager, one with Red Arrow, and several with Flatline. So far, Tim hadn't seen any physical affection between any of them except with Jon, but then again he'd only had a chance to give the footage a cursory glance before he'd had to leave.

Maybe Damian had just been bluffing. Sure, he was gorgeous, but the superhero community as a whole had never shown much love for his personality. To be fair, that was an entirely mutual sentiment.

A full-body sensory flashback assailed him, the give of Damian's muscles as they loosened against him all at once, like the tension in them had been cut off with the flip of a switch. The edges of his teeth, nipping at Tim's lips till he got what he was silently demanding. The blunt pain of his fingertips clenching into the muscles in Tim's thighs.

No, he hadn't been bluffing. The way he'd pushed every button Tim had in ten seconds flat had been experience working.

Tim was going to strangle him.

Stephanie threw herself into his arms for a hug as soon as she saw him, Cass gave him a more restrained though no less heartfelt embrace, and even Bruce clapped him once on the shoulder while saying, "Good to have you back." All of which would have been a lot nicer if it hadn't been for Damian glowering in the background of each of the interactions, making no attempt to hide his narrow-eyed stare. Still, it was kind of gratifying, in the surprise sort of way, to know his absence had been noticed. He hadn't realized he missed them, too, until he saw their faces.

Patrol was more than the usual mess. Tim had been given the harbor as his section of the city, and had planned to see if he could find some connections with the trafficking case. It turned out someone was hawking knockoff Joker Venom through corner vendors, of all things, so he had to bust some heads together until someone gave up the relevant names, and that ate up most of his night. He got back later than the others and spent a long time entering his case notes, mostly so he could sneakily send more surveillance files on Damian to his remote computer in order to analyze them in privacy.

By the time he hit "submit," it was five in the morning and he was starting to feel the effects of jet lag (space lag?) despite the time difference. He rubbed the itchy bits of domino adhesive still stuck around his eyes and nose as he finally headed to the showers.

The sound of one of the showers running greeted him when he stepped into the room. He frowned. Who else would be up this late? It wasn't good regardless of who it was, actually.

A pile of black and brown clothing on the bench outside the four shower stalls caught his eye. This must be Damian's new costume, now that he'd adopted the Shrike moniker. Tim hadn't looked directly at him before, so hadn't really taken the details in. And their presence meant Damian was in here with him.

Tim sighed and briefly considered going back home to shower the way he usually did, but his costume was sticky with the remnants of the pseudo-venom and his skin itched, even though he knew it was psychosomatic. Fuck Damian, he didn't get to make Tim leave their shared spaces now any more than he had as a homicidal 10-year-old. Tim might not want a confrontation, but he wasn't going to let his lack of desire for one change his behavior.

Tim deactivated the booby traps that protected his costume's closures and pulled off everything but his leggings before turning on the faucet in the stall on the opposite end of Damian's. While he waited for hot water, he finished undressing and stood just outside the stall door.

"What are you doing?"

Tim refused to show in any way that he was surprised by Damian's voice, or by Damian having left his own shower stall while the water was still running. "What's it look like? I'm gross after patrol. I want to get clean. Why are you walking around dripping?" And naked?

Damian scowled. "I neglected to get my soap from my locker and didn't realize anyone else would be in here. Since you are, you can get it for me."

Tim hooted with laughter that was barely forced. "You're ridiculous. Get it yourself." The lack of impulse control brought on by tiredness and the desire to knock Damian off his high horse combined into a single devil that grabbed his tongue. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, though I think my memory might've been more generous about some things than you earned." He deliberately kept his gaze from dropping to Damian's cock, soft against his thigh. Better to leave some ambiguity.

Damian didn't react with fury, as he'd expected. He opened his mouth, closed it, looked down at the floor and shook his head once. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that Tim had to strain to hear it over the white noise in the room. "No one else has expressed the same level of disappointment as you. Perhaps your standards for this are as twisted as all the others you embrace."

Self-doubt writhed in Tim's belly, but he couldn't give an inch or Damian would take a mile and drag Tim behind him on the road. "Well, you are always saying my standards for my own performance are pathetically low, so I guess that could be true. Also, I don't recall expressing any disappointment, so unless you've added telepathy to your arsenal you're just making shit up now."

Damian crossed the room, leaving puddles behind him, and opened his locker to rummage around. The door hid his face. "I failed enough in my performance to force you to let me down easy, as I believe the saying goes, so the disappointment was implied, though obvious. In the time since, I have remedied what little I lacked through training, as I would have with any other skill. Of course, I do have a natural facility for everything I put my hand to, so I suppose it's no surprise that I am now as superior in my sexual prowess as I am in other areas."

A weird urge to scream swelled in the back of Tim's throat before he turned it into a strangled cough. He fought to keep an insouciant tone. "What, am I supposed to believe you went on a world tour of sexual masters while I was gone? Don't tell me Lady Shiva gives those kinds of lessons too."

Damian slammed his locker door shut again and stalked back to his shower, closing that door more gently. His voice drifted up along with the steam billowing from the gap at the top. "What you believe concerns me about as much as the weather in Antarctica. I have surpassed you in the sexual arena as I have in every other with the nominal help of my instructors. That is the knowledge you should take away from this conversation."

Tim forced his hands to unclench. When had they balled up into fists?

Just drop it, he lectured himself. Drop it and walk away. It's never going to be worth it so just leave it alone.

Some force propelled his feet to Damian's shower door. He wrenched it open again with a squeak of the hinges. Damian showed no sign of surprise, merely continuing to rub his sudsy washcloth across his chest while he glared at Tim. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak Tim said, "It's really cute how you think you can somehow prove your superiority when sexual experiences are subjective."

He stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him, giving Damian a shove to the chest that had him dropping the washcloth and snarling, "The others I've been with at least treat me with the respect I deserve—"

Tim spoke over him. "That's sweet and all." He grabbed the back of Damian's neck, fully expecting him to fling Tim's hand off without an instant's hesitation, but instead Damian froze. Tim stepped closer until one of his legs wedged between Damian's, their torsos brushed together, and the water poured over them both. Immediately his muscles eased, tension he hadn't noticed before draining at the contact. Damian kept watching him with that unwavering gaze, motionless. 

Still forcing himself to radiate confidence he one hundred percent did not feel, Tim cocked his head in mock inquiry. "But do they touch you like I do?"

He bit lightly at Damian's collarbone. Damian sucked in air between his teeth, and still didn't move an inch, even when Tim squeezed his hip too.

Tim slid his hand around to palm Damian's cock, rapidly growing harder against his touch. "Fuck you like I do?" he continued, conversational, like he wasn't silently screaming at himself what the fuck what the fuck what the ACTUAL fuck?!

Damian let his head fall back against the wet tile, lids dropping to half-mast when Tim wrapped his fingers around his erection. His hands hung loose at his sides, his shoulders down. Tim had no idea how to interpret what he was seeing, but he knew he should be grateful he hadn't been punched in the gut by now. He gave Damian a long moment to answer, but when no response was forthcoming, said, "Mm, yeah. Didn't think so."

Damian's cock felt fantastic in his grip. He didn't want to let it go, or back away, or do any of the things that would make rational sense. "And another thing," he added. "You need to stop telling yourself this bullshit narrative of you somehow being the victim of my super-high expectations. I told you I'm attracted to you and I told you I just assumed you were done with fucking me, so quit slandering me in that labyrinth you call a brain and get over yourself."

Damian licked his lips, still tracking his movements through slitted eyes. He said in a rough voice, "You should stop lying."

Tim tightened the grip he had on Damian's neck and shook him like an errant puppy. "What did I just say?" He dug his thumb into the thick muscle curving into one broad shoulder, and Damian shuddered and sighed, eyes finally sinking closed like he was drifting off on a massage table. Something about the sight made Tim's heart clench in his chest. He kissed Damian on the sternum without thinking, realized how stupid that was, and stood on tiptoe to nip one of his earlobes instead.

"Let me show you how much I mean what I say," he murmured into the same ear.

Damian's knees buckled against his for half a second before he caught himself, still leaning against the wall. He nodded, keeping his eyes shut. And Tim smiled against his cheek.

days 42-47 here

[morteamore]

I've finally been able to write for self-care again. Hallelujah. I'm feeling inspired and on fire.

Anyway, Yes, Chef!: Second Course is a fic I'm doing for no good reason. It's a 'where are they now' type story canon to The Cooking Chronicles AU and also explores plotlines that fell to the wayside in the original fic because they weren't relevant. It's sort of vignette style, but I'm going to try and make it a coherent narrative.

This is an extremely early draft and just me working some things out for now. If it ever gets finished and posted, which seems unlikely but maybe, it'll probably get drastically changed

=========================================

It was about 13:45 on a Sunday afternoon, and the plaid couch sitting in the center of the cabin’s main living room was fully occupied, as were two of the armchairs and recliners off to the sides. The air was rife with chatter, layered and meandering, and thick smoke, which was weighted by heavy notes of chicory and ash. Woolen drapes blocked soft golden sunlight from glaring against an enormous holo screen. The sound was muted, replaced by the backdrop of sizzling meat cooking on an induction stovetop in the nearby kitchen. The couch frame creaked as Zane Flynt leaned back, his feet, snug in a pair of hiking sandals, coming to rest on top of the coffee table. He blew smoke from his cigar towards the ceiling fan making a slow rotation high above him, ashing into an empty beer can sitting between his legs.

“It’s what I said, innit? Thinking this old dog has reached the end of his tether. I’ll still be on with the lot of you. Just to the lesser extent.”

Sitting in one of the armchairs, Athena had turned away from reading the closed captions on the holo screen to stare Zane down. Her features were drawn and rigid, her gaze unwavering. Zane, who made brief eye contact, looked away and sighed.

“Anywho, wasn’t going to do it till after the holidays,” he added. “Give you all some time to find the next chef with the right amount of bollocks.”

From his place on the other end of the couch, Rhys turned to Zane. The space in the center of the couch was occupied by Wilhelm’s girth, so he had to lean forward to situate the other man in his line of sight.

“What?” Unable to help himself, the latter half of the word came out in a squawk. He cleared his throat. “When were you planning to tell us?”

“I’m telling you now. That night we do final holiday seating before we close for sabbatical, that will be my last huzzah.”

Troy Calypso, who’d been slouched down in one of the recliners, sneakered feet dangling over the edge of the raised footrest, looked up from the portable game device he was thumbing.

“What, you got wanderlust, old man? We should celebrate.”

“I’m not leaving yet, Calypso.”

Troy hummed, his articulated cybernetic making a dismissive gesture. The cybernetic arm was new, upgraded with the salary that had been bolstered with a promotion to line cook. Rhys had hooked him up with a prosthetic specialist and Troy had managed form there. For a man who’d relied on rudimentary prosthetics or nothing entirely most of his life, he’d adapted quickly.

“Good, cause I’m not taking up your mantle.”

“As if ye even could.”

“Guys,” Rhys’ tone dipped sharply, cutting between their banter. “Zane, let’s discuss this in private next time we get a chance.”

“We can talk about it now, since you lot are here and the floor’s quiet.”

“No, we’re here to relax and enjoy a meal as family. I’m not letting that get char-broiled to hell without a fight.”

“Sounding more like Jack everyday, boyo.”

Wilhelm grunted. It was the only sound he made, unclear if it was an agreement or just him growing annoyed by the bickering.

“Well….” Rhys began, his smile tight. “Speaking of, I should go check on what he’s doing to that poor prime rib.”

As Rhys stood up from the couch, Athena asked, “When was the wedding again?”

It took some time for Rhys to answer. He seemed to be assessing if Athena was being serious or not. Then he remembered that she didn’t seem to have any type of sense of humor.

“We haven’t even set a date with Pandora’s justice of the peace yet. It’s on the agenda. Soon as I figure out the new tasting menu and get Jack’s approval for a few things.”

“You should hurry figuring it out then.”

“Trying, chef. You know Jack.”

“Yes. I know him well.”

There was a sharp creak as Troy spilled over the side of the recliner. He came to stand next to the couch, snatching Zane’s cigar away in nimble robotic fingers.

“Me and Flynt, we’re getting hitched, too.”

The cigar sizzled as he drew on it, the lit end blazing vibrant for a few elongated seconds. He held in the smoke, straddled Zane’s lap and threw himself at the man. As he met Zane’s lips, the pushed him off, sputtering.

“The feck we are, boyo.”

But Troy opened his mouth then, and Zane’s protest died on his tongue. Instead, he succumbed to that sweet smoke between them, inhaling. The two fumbled into another kiss that was too forceful and noisy to be the simple act of shotgunning.

Rhys’ jaw worked and Athena scowled.

Shoving Troy’s elbow from his ribcage, Wilhelm said, “Knock it off.”

As if in response, Zane’s arm came around Troy’s waist, fingers slipping beneath the loose waistband of the man’s cargo pants. Troy’s growl was muffled.

“Okay, I’m going to go check on Jack now,” Rhys said, trying not to gape at the pair.

“Got to make a phone call,” Athena deadpanned.

Rolling his eyes, Wilhelm scooted over on the couch to the space Rhys had previously occupied. He found the TV remote and hit the button to unmute it.

“How’re the kids getting along?” Jack didn’t look up from where he was turning rib steaks over on the induction cooktop as Rhys entered the kitchen. “My brother show up yet?”

“Zane and Troy are about to bone on your couch right there out in the open in front of everyone.” Rhys opened the fridge, grabbed two crisp, cold bottles of IPA and held one out in offering. Jack shook his head in declination. “Tim’s a no-show so far.”

“Tell Flynt and Calypso they better clean up their mess when they’re done. Tim’ll show up eventually.”

“You sure? He said he’d be here over an hour ago.”

“I’m sure. Wilhelm’s here.”

Rhys sprung the top from the beer bottle using only his robotic grip and swigged. “Good point.” The label on the drink was considered and set down. He came up behind Jack, planting a soft kiss on to the man’s cheek. “Sorry. I forget you stopped drinking. I shouldn’t be doing it around you.”

“S’kay, Rhysie. You having a drink ain’t going to put me on a bender.”

“Still.”

His arms circling the other man, Rhys pressed himself against Jack’s back and leaned his chin into his shoulder. Over the last few months, while he followed a strict plan of abstinence, Jack had bulked up, parts of him yielding less to prodding now. In the middle, though, he had softened, likely due to his metabolism returning to a natural state. Once, Jack had mentioned offhand that he’d gained something like over fifty pounds in the last two years of not being on the good shit. Rhys was fond of the change.

“Am I interrupting something?” came a new voice. It was identical to Jack’s.

Rhys let go of his fiancée and turned around. Abandoning his steaks for a moment, Jack followed suit, nodding a greeting to his brother.

“I was just about to stuff my boyfriend full of meat,” he told Tim, keeping a straight face. “Feel free to wait in the living room until I’m done.”

[sisterdivinium]

Hello from anon again! Thanks for posting the your handwritten notes 😌

It is in fact a little hard to read but I’m confident that it’s a resolution thing and not at all your fault. As for journaling, eh it’s a toughie when you don’t have your own space. Maybe one day when I am an old decrepit hermit living in the neighbourhood’s infamously haunted house. (It’s me, I’m haunting it.)

PS I’m definitely reading that Dr Superion fic when it’s out. I wish we had more scenes of Mother Superion and her girls. S2 kinda just glossed over all nuns from all the OCS chapters dying. I wish we got 10 episodes just like in S1. We could’ve so much more!

Hello again! First off, you will be happy to know that I have finally finished the draft to your answer, so all I need now is to revise, type it up and add the relevant screen captures :)

People who read my handwriting for long periods of time get used to it eventually (my friend who reads everything I post here before anyone else has read a whole novel written in my hand LOL), but I do think it's a bit tricky despite your charming attempt to be nice to me about it :) Even for me! I've tried focusing on legibility but I think very quickly and I fear losing something if I don't catch it on paper as soon as I can, hence the desperate scribbles!

And I get you, anon, I do. Another reason why I take so long writing stuff down is because I'm constantly interrupted by family. Still, I would be driven to madness without diaries... If it's a privacy thing, have you ever considered coming up with a code to write in? I once stumbled upon this website with constructed languages and scripts and it might offer some inspiration if that's of any help.

As for the fic, it's also coming along! Slowwwwlyyyy, given the circumstances, but surely. I just hope nobody gets too hyped up about it only to get disappointed later! What excites me might not be what excites others, after all.

It's unfortunate that we had less episodes in s2 than s1, but I can respect the story they wanted to tell. Laser-focus on one thing and the others must suffer; then again, it's also thanks to this that we get the pleasure to tinker with whatever has left us wanting more through fanfic, so it cannot be all that negative :) Often, it is suggestion and the blanks left in a work of art that instigate us the most! Would I have loved to see more of Mother Superion? Sure, but you're talking to someone who would gladly watch hours and hours of just her running the convent while nothing of note happens, really. As it is... I only hope we do eventually get a season three or a movie or something that lets the story go on so we can laugh and cry and cheer and love these characters for some time still!

[beatrice-otter]

Also, you have to ask yourself "why is this the one group of feminists that is separate from the main body of feminists?" and for that, you have to know a little bit of history.

First wave feminism was the suffragettes working for the right to vote, and was hella racist. White ladies in white dresses telling white men that they should give them the vote because white women would be their allies in oppressing black men. (There were black suffragettes, and white suffragettes who did not follow that, but overall, very racist.)

Second-wave feminism started in the 60s, and was women going "okay we've got the right to vote, why are we still second-class citizens?" There were a lot of Black feminists who were very influential, but at the same time, the majority of women in the "feminist" movement were middle-class white women, who very often told their black "sisters" that their problem was that they just didn't care enough about women's (read: white women's) issues, and that Black issues weren't issues feminists needed to concern themselves with. In this period, the 60s-80s, there were two basic wings of feminism: liberal feminism ("society is basically fine the way it is, we just need to open up more opportunities for women") and radical feminism ("society sucks, patriarchy is the root of all problems, we need to completely change society"). The typical example is the draft. A liberal feminist would say the draft should apply to men and women equally, a radical feminist would say we shouldn't have a military at all. In this stage, the radical feminists were doing a lot of really insightful social commentary about gender and related issues. But also, things are still hella racist, and Black women were banding together and calling themselves womanists because they weren't very welcome in mainstream feminist spaces.

Then in 1989, Dr. Kimberlé Crenshaw of the UCLA School of Law coins the term "intersectionalism" and we are off to the races of third-wave feminism. Women get tired of the old "radical vs. liberal" framing--it's too restrictive. Feminism gets applied to everything in a lot of varied and contradictory ways. As part of that, suddenly the power structures of second-wave feminism fall apart. All of feminisms problems and dirty secrets are suddenly being talked about instead of being shoved under the rug, especially the racism and homophobia, but also the classism, ableism, abuse, and many other problems. In the US, over the next decade, the vast majority of feminists (liberal feminists, radical feminists, womanists) are transformed into Third Wave feminism! Old distinctions collapse, the "radical vs. liberal" thing is no longer the main way of classifying feminists because nobody cares any longer. We've moved on. We're taking the positive stuff from second-wave feminism--all branches of it--and putting it as one tool in the toolkit along with all the stuff we got from intersectionalism and other new tools of third wave feminism.

In the 2010s, you get Fourth Wave feminism starting up, which really intensifies the focus on intersectionality and sexual assault. The Third Wave really fragmented things as people went off in a million different directions, the Fourth Wave is about coming back together and sharing the wisdom we learned along the way and bringing the focus back to core issues ... but this time recognizing that gender is one axis of oppression, not the whole of it, and intersectionality has to be the core of advocacy or you're going to hurt the most vulnerable people.

We are now two whole waves of feminism past the point where radical feminism was the cutting edge of feminist thought. And the radical feminists of today are the ones who looked at third and fourth wave feminism--intersectionality and all that it brings with it--and explicitly rejected it. They rejected anti-racism. They rejected anti-homophobia. They said that none of that is relevant to (their brand of) feminism. The only oppression that matters is the oppression of women by men, and all men are guilty of oppressing all women. This is biological and innate and either you are about protecting women from men, or you are about oppressing women. (But they get to dictate who counts as a woman, and they get to dictate what issues women care about, and they get to dictate what counts as oppression.)

Please never stop ignoring that white supremacy is a huge core element of radfem/terf ideology.

Like yes they hyperenforce gender roles and stereotypes on all cis women, but it is primarily women of color that they target and accuse of being predatory and "not real women" when they're targeting cis women.

The metrics of "real woman vs trans woman" that terfs love to share are almost all just white eurocentric beauty standards. Small nose, thin fine hair, little/no body hair, petite but somehow curvy, hell I've even seen a post saying skin lightness is a determiner.

Terf/radfem circles are racist at their core. You cannot separate radical feminism from it's violently white supremacist roots. You can't have "anti-racist radical feminism", that's a fucking oxymoron. There is a very clean path from terfs to tradfems/tradwifes, to just straight up conservative republican women.

Yes yes always, terfs are super misogynistic. They hurt all women by forcing them back into the little impossible painful boxes that they claim they're fighting. But one of their biggest targets other than trans women is black women. Not to mention ignoring, discrediting, or just straight up trying to erase all the hard work that black trans women did for queer rights.

Radical feminism is very much transphobic, homophobic, and misogynistic. I'm not saying stop addressing it as such. Don't ever do addressing it as such!

But racial feminism is white supremacy in a coat of pink paint. Please never forget that when talking about how it hurts us all.