#serial outfit repeater

[forbidden-interlude]

If I could only wear one thing forever, it would be this

[greysnotsane]

Why do people act like repeating outfits is a bad thing? Im going to wear the clothes I like a lot. That’s kind of why I bought them.

Don’t get me wrong if you have a large wardrobe and most/all of your clothes are sustainably sourced that’s so cool. But I’m poor and id rather repeat an outfit than buy from places like shein.

Most of the clothes are second hand (and were probably cheaper and better quality than if I got them from shein or somewhere like that) but I’d still prefer to have fewer outfits that I like and wear a lot than spend loads of money on clothes I wouldn’t wear much.

[trulymadlykiki]

harry should remake this now that he’s bald

[freshnprincely]

Kind of obsessed with these jeans… and my ass

[mourning-innocence]

I was sent this, from April 2nd, his second night at Wembley!

[seriial]

ANDREW MUSIC CLUB 2023 I AM GOING TO GO INSANE

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Lost in the Woods (dp x dc)

"Why are we here again?" Tucker asked as he rearranged his backpack straps.

"Because you lost a bet and Gotham Woods are my best chance of seeing a real satanic ritual," Sam answered.

“Hey, no,” Danny protested. “We said no spooky business. This is strictly for fun.”

“Fun,” Tucker repeated, dryly. “This is how most horror movies start, you know. Camping in the woods at night.”

“I highly doubt there’s any serial killer out there,” the halfa soothed. “I checked the news. There are no escape convicts right now.”

“The Riddler’s out,” Sam refuted.

“Can you imagine that pasty twig-man willingly trudging through the woods though?” Danny asked.

“I probably go out more often than him,” Tucker conceded.

“Which means we’re all good,” Danny concluded.

The trio walked a bit further before reaching the spot they had brought the rest of their bags and dropped their heavy backpacks beside it. Tucker fell down beside them before raising a hand to chase away a mosquito that was buzzing around.

“I hate this already,” he whined as he tried to smack the bug.

“Get up,” Sam said as she nudged him with her foot. “We gotta get the tent up.”

With a groan, he stood up and they got to work on the tent. It didn’t take very long, thanks to Danny’s experience in pitching Fenton Work tents, which had come from the numerous times his family had gone camping.

“What now?” The halfa asked.

“Why don’t we walk around a little?” Sam suggested.

“Can’t we take a minute to breathe?” Tucker complained.

“It’ll be fun,” Danny encouraged his friend as he offered a hand getting to his feet again.

"I'm beginning to think you don't know what that means."

They grabbed some water and snacks before setting towards one of the closest hiking trails. It was supposed to be an easy quick walk, but as time went on the path became more and more wild and overgrown, they started doubting the way. By the time they had stopped, the path was now nonexistent.

“We’re lost,” Tucker said. “The sun is setting and we’re lost in the creepy satanic woods.”

“First of all,” Sam started. “I have a compass, and second, we have Danny. We’ll be fine.”

“Oh I see how it is,” the halfa dramatically said. “You guys are just using me for my powers.”

Before the goth could make a proper answer to that, Tucker shushed them both before dragging them towards some thick bushes. A few moments later they could see two men in long robes carrying a third, unconscious man in a black and blue outfit.

“Those goddamned bats,” one of the ones wearing cultist robes said as he struggled to carry the unconscious man’s legs.

“Shut up and move faster,” the other cultist said. “The Grandmaster said to get him to the Barn before sundown.”

“I’m trying my best here,” the first one said. “Those robes don’t exactly make it easy.”

“They’re ceremonial!”

“Right now they’re a ceremonial pain in my butt,” the first cultist retorted which made the other sputter.

As they moved passed the three teens’ hiding spot, their voices faded in the distance. The ensuing silence was broken by Sam's “Dibs on any skulls when we raid the evil lair”.

“Why can we never have normal vacations?” Danny mumbled as he let his face fall in his hands.

[meanbossart]

Okay but I would love to hear your thoughts on the other spawn

Twirling my hair shifty-eyeing to the side OKAAAYYYYY WELL IF YOU INSIST 🛀

(This is a continuation of this post where I go into some detail about my thoughts on Dalyria, Violet, and Leon ((or "Leonard" as I apparently dubbed him as by mistake))

Let me start with the one I love the most after my sweet well-meaning-child-murdering-doctor Dalyria: Pale Petras.

First of all, just look at this fucking guy. What a goober.

I pretty explicitly go off-canon when it comes to my theories about Petras. According to him, he has been with Cazador for a hundred years - I find that very, very difficult to believe. Whether I would scrap that line entirely or just tack it as hyperbole is irrelevant - though he does seem to have a knack for the dramatics, or at least he tries to.

Petras immediately strikes me as a newcomer in the group. He's the most lively out of the spawn we chat with and seems to still retain what is a pretty strong, bold personality. He's antagonizing towards Astarion and pretty much sides with Cazador up until his life is on the line - and, most interestingly to me, his immediate reaction after being freed if you instruct them to lead the spawn into the Underdark seems to be one of fear and reluctance, unlike Dalyria who almost immediately takes the responsibility upon herself and seems warm towards Astarion and the player for what they've done.

Abusive relationships don't start abusive. If you've ever been friends with someone who's hooked up with a known serial abuser, chances are that you have had to sit through their attempts at justifying their behavior as foretold by previous partners - "oh, they just weren't a good match", "they both enabled abuse towards each other", "his ex was just crazy, man." This honeymoon period can last anywhere from a few weeks, to several years - until said friend inevitably finds themselves in the exact same cycle that said ex escaped from.

That's Petras. Petras is fresh meat. He's compliant. He's gullible. As a human in a world where you're surrounded by races that live up to several hundreds of years, he's attributed power to longevity - he loves being a spawn. He loves knowing that he will never lose his youthful looks and that his newly-acquired "curse" makes him desirable in it's own, odd way. He thinks this gig is easy - go out, get laid, get fed, rinse and repeat. Sure, sometimes there's a misunderstanding and he gets his joints broken or nails ripped out, but whatever! They grow back! To a vampire with powers of regeneration, dismemberment and scalping might as well be equivalent to ten belt-smacks to the backside just like his father used to give him as a child. Plus, it's never really his fault - If Master knew the truth, he would never set his goons on him at all!

And Oh, he adores Cazador. Not as a friend, a lover, or even a family member - but an aspiration. He sincerely believes that through hard work and resilience he can one day also have his status and fortune. And it shouldn't even be hard to stand out among this angsty little crew - what are they so bent out of shape about, anyway If they spent less time moping and more time working, maybe they wouldn't have such a tough time. Especially -

Astarion.

While it is likely incidental, I find it very ironic that Petras was put in Astarion's early-access outfit. And much less accidental than that: his mannerism and word-choice are a blatant imitation of Astarion's behavior. The flair, the flirting, the flattering and the abrasiveness; I've heard it theorized that this must be how all of the spawn act - I disagree. Petras is the only one we see exhibit that type of demeanor. I think he actively models himself after Astarion because as thick as he might be, he did catch onto the fact that his master has a particular interest in the white-haired elf.

And, of course, Petras hates Astarion for it. He sees him as someone who could have had it all, but gave up on it in favor of being bitter, angry, and naively wistful over his lost life. He has the looks, he has the charm, he had his master's favor, they go out and Petras watches men and women alike swoon over him and laugh at his shitty jokes, to then return home with a long-faced, bratty little shit-head of a toddler-man who would never even understand what the paralyzing loom of mortality is like in the first place - an ungrateful, nepotistic bastard whose had it all handed over to him by daddy, who was loved and fed and given a well-paid job fresh off his teens - but now he has to put a little work in. Now he has to do things that he might find unpleasant. And all he fucking does is whine about it.

Astarion is the personification of everything Petras ever wanted to be before being turned into a spawn, and he accidentally wears it on his sleeve day in and day out. I have no doubt that Astarion is blatantly aware of that fact and it makes his skin crawl - but Dalyria tells him that Petras is too young. Too new. Cut him some slack.

And frankly, I don't think he's evil, either. He strikes me as naive and star-striken. I don't know how long he's been with the Szarrs for, but certainly the light in his eyes would eventually fade over time and he would have had all the zest beaten out of him, same as the others. But, for now - he just doesn't know his own luck.

Admittedly, I have much less to say about Yousen and Aurelia. We don't hear as much as a word out of Yousen, but I've chosen to read the silence of and about his character as indicative that, maybe, he was able to hold onto his sanity and honor the best out of all of them. He had to do what he had to do to survive, but he did it while attempting to withhold any standards allowed to him for his own peace of mind - I like to imagine he had a lot of sincere empathy for all of the spawn, and, while they were never close, him and Astarion exchanged sincere words about their situation a few times during their stay at the palace; just enough to remind the elf that he wasn't alone, but never so much that Yousen would intrude into his space, or add strain to his already fragile state of mind.

And Aurelia... She strikes me as so young and already so beaten. I'd wager that what was once a sweet tiefling girl is now a terrified animal who does absolutely whatever she can to avoid pain and punishment - the snitch of the group, the reluctant ass-kisser, the one who desperately clings to any relief in whatever form it may come - be her master's approval or the shoulder of a sibling she has damned to the kennel more than once out of fear for her own life. Everybody has been hurt, betrayed, and irritated by her - but she's just so god damn pitiful that they can't push her away forever. While she would live, I believe she would have the hardest time adapting to freedom after Violet - just completely dependent on others and burdened by what she's had to do.

[amomentsescape]

Hi! I love your stuff, especially for the slashers. Wanted to ask for them (the slashers, specifically including michael, bubba, jason and stu) with a reader who wants to join them in killing/wants to try it with them? Out of curiosity or wanting to help them or some morbid desire, the reasons up to you. If you end up doing this then thank you! <3

Slashers with Reader Who Wants to Kill with Them

A/N: Thank you so much! I’ve included the specific Slashers you requested. But I wasn’t sure if you were asking for just them or if you wanted all of them. If you’d like to see the others, feel free to pop in my inbox again, and I’ll make a part II! :)

Michael Myers

Michael was drawn to you for a reason

There had always been a bit of darkness brewing in you, so being with a serial killer only brought that out more

When you brought up the idea of you joining along, Michael was unsure at first

He felt that you may be too fragile to risk the danger

Although terrible at showing it, he didn't want you to end up dead

But when you kept insisting, he finally gave in

You were just forced to not leave his sight the entire time

He doesn't like you getting to the target first

He'll let you finish the job (sometimes), but he wants to be the one to knock them down

He would also want you to use a knife during the killings

Anything loud would be an immediate no

When he realizes that you may like killing as much as he does, this soon becomes a regular thing for you both

It's as romantic as Michael will ever get

He teaches you different areas on the body to target

Shows you shortcuts along the paths so you can always get to your target

But he'll be there to help you out if things go south, of course

Just don't expect him to share all of this secrets

He enjoys having that advantage over you

If you get badly injured though, it's game over

Jason Voorhees

He's pretty iffy about this at first too

His mother is the main driving force behind his crimes, so although he doesn't mind killing, it's not pure passion that drives him

So when you shared that you were interested in doing what he does, he felt a little confused

Your safety is his number one priority, so he would be pretty adamant to not let you do it at first

However, if you put your foot down, he'll give in

Will give you your very own weapon (something quiet) and teach you how to use it

Would probably bring home some random victim for you to try to kill the first time around

He wants to make sure you really want to do this (and being at home meant you were safer)

If you tell him that you truly enjoy it, then he'll take you out with him

But don't leave his sight

He'll become very pouty if you run off

He's very sweet to you after everything either way though, carefully using warm water to wipe off the sweat and blood from your face

Bubba Sawyer

The hardest one to convince out of these

You just wanted to help him and his family out, but he continuously refused

Bubba doesn't even really kill for enjoyment

He does it because it's how his family survives (or so he's been told)

So you wanting to join is mind boggling to him

It's way too dangerous anyways

But he is quite a softie for you so if it's really important, he'll eventually give in

Always has to be there and helping you though

He won't let you do anything on your own

Will give you a run down of the land and help you memorize the layout

Sounds of joy whenever you kill someone yourself

He's very sweet with cleaning you off after too

But if he sees even one scratch or bruise, he will not let you outside for a long time

You basically have to repeat the begging and reasoning with him all over again before he considers letting you help him after that

Stu Macher

Hell yeah

Stu is all over this and is basically over the moon

Killing wasn't exactly in your things to do, but the more you watched Stu come home with a high, the more you wanted to try it out

He starts rambling about what your outfit should be, where to get the best knife, who would make the best target, etc.

Wouldn't let you do any killings on your own at first

He has to make sure that he is just a few steps away so that he can help you if things don't go as planned

Seeing you in blood is an immediate turn on

He will definitely make out with you over the dead bodies

Constant praises over what you did right and how hot you looked doing it

Raiding the victims' pantries and eating their food after everything

He especially loves to shower with you at the end of the night and hold you close

All of this gets to the point where he doesn't even want to go on a killing spree unless you're there by his side

[somevagrantchild]

Favorite Random Lestat facts

I have insomnia and vampires on the brain, so here are some of my favorite random Lestat facts, in no particular order:

He stole decorating ideas for his chateau from Armand’s Trinity Gate

His fingernails were a little too long when he died, so he files them, though they regrow every night

He liked to spend hours polishing his own coffin as a meditative exercise

As a human, he never liked to masturbate, he’d just go out and find someone to have sex with

When he’s not with Louis, he always thinks Louis can’t possibly be as attractive as he’s remembering him, but then when he sees Louis again, he’s like, “Nope, he really is that hot”

Despite his vanity, he thinks he’s one of the most conventional and boring looking vampires you’ll ever see, and ordinary and uninteresting compared to the cooler vampires

He thinks his best feature is his expression

When he was human, he never had much beard and didn’t have to shave often

He’ll always mention when people are taller than him, so we know anyone whose height isn’t given must be less than six feet

He knows how to tap dance

The other vampires think of him as a poet

Most dogs instinctually hate him, and being rejected by a dog makes him sad every time

Except for with Akasha, he never killed a human that wasn’t a meal

Even as a baby vampire, he had the power to toss Louis across the room with a flick of his wrist, but would still let Louis hold him back and whale on him just to get his rage out

He absolutely adored Claudia and thought of her as his mini-me

In the decade he lived with Antoine (1860-1871), he never wanted to go out in public because he was ashamed of his burn scars

He likes to take naps

He’s a voracious reader

He only wears black socks

He’s a serial walker, not even going anywhere, just walks for hours

He performed a rock concert in a full Bela Lugosi Dracula costume and never took off his suit or cape even though he was sweating buckets. That’s commitment to the bit.

Even though he’s good at it, flying always frightens him on an existential level and fills him with despair

Despite his love of fine clothes, he’ll wear the same outfit for weeks or months until it becomes rags

His list of things that make existence worth it: the blazing warmth of fires and caresses, kisses and arguments, love and longing and blood (emphasis on the longing)

His love language is gift giving (but not receiving)

He never shows any skin in public other than his face (and soooometimes hands)

He doesn’t like how white his hair turned after repeated burnings, and wishes it was more yellow

He gets really angry at the thought of Louis being embarrassed or insulted by others

He is incapable of expressing big feelings out loud, so he writes them all down instead

He wants everyone to remember how scary he really is

He doesn’t like blood with alcohol in it because it makes him dizzy

His mom came up with his name by combining the first letters of his 6 older brothers' names, and it means absolutely nothing

[ckret2]

Chapter 20 of Human Bill is the Mystery Shack's (secret) prisoner (title tbd), featuring: at last, Wendy discovering the "house guest." And Stan discovering Wendy discovered the house guest. And Bill and Stan having the funniest argument imaginable.

Also featuring: Ford letting Fiddleford in on the secret and asking for his help getting rid of Bill for good.

####

"Hey dudes," Soos said, leaning into the living room. Bill and Mabel looked up from Mabel's phone. "Me and Melody and Ford are heading out for anime night. If you've got an emergency, call me; and if you don't have an emergency, uh... don't. Cuz we're gonna be anime-ing hard."

"Anime night?" Bill repeated. "Why's Stanford going to anime night?"

Soos blinked. "Is... that a trick question?" he asked. "Hey—aren't you not allowed to use phones?"

"He's not using it," Mabel said. "I'm using it. He's just watching a video over my shoulder. I've got him secured for our safety!" Bill demonstratively held up his bloody sock-wrapped hands.

"Oh. Smart thinking," Soos said. He nodded and left.

Bill looked back at the phone, left eye shut and right eye squinted, then pointed at the screen and murmured, "Oh, there—037, 037 is a big winner." Mabel nodded and wrote down "Beach 037" on a piece of paper where she'd been listing scratch card serial numbers.

Soos came back. "Hey," he said, "Bill. Why are your hands bloody."

"Because my eye's bleeding." As he said so, a bright red drop of blood rolled out of his right eye like a tear. He wiped it off his cheek with one hand, adding another stain to the sock.

"Oh. Okay," Soos said. "Why's your eye bleeding."

Mabel helpfully answered, "Because it's hard for him to see into a higher dimension from here."

"Hey." Bill nudged her with an elbow. "That was for your ears. But yes, if you have to know. Human eyeballs are—limited. It causes some some light cranial hemorrhaging." He squinted at the video again. Another bloody tear rolled down his cheek.

Soos stood uncomfortably in the doorway. "Looks... kinda painful."

"Excruciatingly," Bill said casually. Mabel mouthed he's fine at Soos.

Soos said, "Do you... want a headache pill? Or an eyepatch or something?"

"Oh." Bill looked up at Soos in surprise. "Is that an option?"

Soos shrugged. "Yeah?"

"Huh." Bill was momentarily silent, processing this revelation about the medical care options he was permitted. Finally, he said, "No to the pill—I think I'm getting a migraine aura, and I don't want to stop the little white spots before they develop into full hallucinations! I'd hate to miss that light show, you know?"

Soos nodded, as though he did know. He did not, in fact, know.

"But I could use an eyepatch," Bill said.

"You got it. Be right back."

Soos retrieved an unopened costume eyepatch from the spares for his Mr. Mystery outfit, brought it downstairs, and handed it over to Bill's socked hand. "Do you uh—need help getting that on?"

"I'll do it when we're done with the phone," Bill said, and returned to watching the video.

Mabel poked his side. "What do we say?"

"Thanks," Bill said without looking up, followed by, "062." Mabel dutifully copied the number down.

Soos headed out to his pickup, where Melody and Ford were waiting. "Sorry for the delay, guys," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. "Bill's eyeball is bleeding from trying to look at a higher dimension, so I had to get him an eyepatch."

In the back seat, Ford frowned and pulled his journal from inside his coat and flipped open to the most recent page. "Which eye?"

"Uh..." Soos held up a hand and turned it as he mentally rotated Bill to figure out which side his bloody eye would be on if it were on Soos's body. "Right. His right."

"Did he happen to mention which dimension he was trying to see?"

"Nuh-uh. He probably won't say either, he was kinda annoyed Mabel told me that much."

Mabel might know, then. Ford could ask her. Probably tomorrow—late tomorrow, after the party.

Melody asked, "He's not gonna need a doctor, is he?"

Soos started the truck. "He seemed really casual about the whole thing, so, I don't think so?"

"That's a relief," Ford muttered.

They started the drive to the former Northwest Manor.

####

When Fiddleford answered the front door and saw Ford, he smiled so wide it made Ford smile too. "Stanford! It's been a month of Sundays since I saw you last!"

"Fiddleford." Ford reached out to take Fiddleford's hand—and got tugged into a one-armed hug. He recovered from his surprise enough to return it. "It's good to see you. You're looking well." Which was to say: still looking aged before his time and running around barefoot and shirtless in his overalls; but a little less sunburned, a little more bathed, and merely "scrawny" rather than "emaciated." Ford figured if the man wanted to run around shirtless in his own lavish 150-year-old mansion, that was his own business. 

"Just like we promised," Melody said, "one Ford dragged to your doorstep."

"Yes!" Soos pumped a fist in the air. "Operation Ford-Ford Reunion: completed! We uh—we didn't actually drag him, though. He was excited to come."

"He oughta be," Fiddleford said. "This'll be just like old times! Back in college, this man showed me all sortsa Japanese movies about big monsters and robots clobberin' each other. It was my first taste of international cinema!" He scratched his beard. "I wonder if that had any kinda impact on me?"

Melody and Soos looked at Ford with new respect. Soos said, "I didn't realize you were such a man of culture."

"All right, enough jibber-jabberin' on my porch!" Fiddleford waved Soos and Melody in. "You youngins go on ahead. Us old timers have to catch up. Tate's in the kitchen rustlin' up some vittles."

"Sweet, movie snacks," Soos said. He turned to Melody. "Wanna take the hidden service tunnel the Northwests used to hide the less pretty servants?"

"Pffft! Is that even a question?"

Soos tapped a foot twice on a square of Venetian parquet flooring just left of the door. A section of floor beneath them dropped down to form a slide, and Soos and Melody plummeted into the dark, squealing and laughing. The floor swung back up.

Fiddleford said, "I sure hope I fixed that tunnel to go to the pantry 'stead of the secret dungeon. Anywho!" He ambled his bow-legged way into the manor, gesturing for Ford to follow him. "We'll take the scenic route."

Ford looked around as he followed Fiddleford. He'd never been allowed in the front way before—the last time he'd visited the Northwest Manor back in the eighties, he'd been told to come in through a side door. It had been a very long walk. The front door opened directly into a great hall large enough to serve as a ballroom, with a staircase at the far end that led up to a fireplace and then forked left and right. A whale statue hung from the ceiling and still seemed dwarfed by the vast room. Ford had taken classes in lecture halls smaller than this. "I'm surprised you're still answering your own door. With all you made selling your inventions, I'd have expected you to hire a butler by now."

"I built me one a few months back," Fiddleford said, "but it kept trying to murder the feller what brings my mail. So I locked it in the coat room until I can figure out what went wrong."

There was a violent thud and scraping against a door near the entrance.

"Don't worry about that. It's reinforced," Fiddleford said. "Now, how long have you been back in town—a couple weeks?"

"Nearly." Had it really been less than two weeks? Somehow that felt both too long and too short. He'd accomplished so little with two weeks at his disposal. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come by. I wanted to as soon as I was back in town. You must think me a terrible friend—"

"Nonsense," Fiddleford said firmly. "I knew you'd come when you could—and here you are, ain'tcha? I reckoned you must've been busy with something."

"Yes," Ford agreed, with a bitter laugh. "More busy than you can imagine."

"Well, there you go! Nothin' to beat yourself up over."

Ford slowed, dropping a few steps behind Fiddleford, feet heavy, feeling like a physical pressure was keeping him from walking forward; and then he stopped. "I'm sorry to say, but that's part of the reason I'm here." He stared at the gap between his boots and Fiddleford's feet, the beautiful hardwood floor and the thin layer of dirt that had settled on it. "Of course, I wanted to visit you too, but... I need your help, Fiddleford."

He'd meant to wait until after the show to bring this up, let Fiddleford enjoy his evening without anxiety—hadn't he learned with Mabel not to try to mix business and socialization?—but now that Ford was here, the bad news threatened to bubble out of him with every breath. He wouldn't be able to enjoy his evening with his dread of the coming conversation weighing down on him. (What right did he have to enjoy the evening, when he knew he was once again about to make his mistakes Fiddleford's problem?) 

But, Ford hadn't had the self-control to keep it to himself for just another few hours—he must have been too tired—excuses, excuses—and now Fiddleford was giving him that look he got when he was fully focused on a conversation, eyes wide and surprised-looking, as if opening them further would let him absorb more of the information he was receiving. "Of course, Stanford. What sort of help?"

Of course, he said. Of course, like Ford didn't have a history of asking for help that ruined people's lives. Either Fiddleford was charitable enough to assume Ford wouldn't inflict the kind of monstrous horrors on him he had thirty years ago, or selfless enough to offer anyway.

Ford swallowed hard. "It's heavy," he warned. "I don't want to ruin the show. Would you rather wait until afterward to discuss it...?" Although Ford doubted Fiddleford would stand for that.

Sure enough, Fiddleford waved off the idea with his bandaged arm. "Don't be silly. Now that you've brought it up, it's gonna give me the heebity-jeebies until I know what's wrong! Anyway, how heavy could it be?" He laughed wryly. "Can't possibly be as bad as that triangle feller, can it?"

Ford didn't know what expression had appeared on his face, but the effect on Fiddleford was instantaneous. His smile vanished; his lined face went as white as his beard. "Is it as bad?"

Ford winced. "Let me explain—"

"It's him." Fiddleford didn't phrase it as a question. "No. It can't— You're lyin'! You're lyin'!" He backed away from Ford as if he was the threat, tripped and tumbled to the floor, and scampered backward on his hands and feet.

And here was the screaming. Age had not dulled Fiddleford's hair-trigger panic response. Ford had hoped to explain it to him gently, ease him into the bad news before revealing who it was, but if all he could do now was damage control... Ford knelt down like he was trying to coax over a frightened cat. "Fiddleford, please—"

One of Fiddleford's legs spasmed, bouncing like a rabbit thumping its foot in warning of predators. "Not him! The beast— The beast with just one—"

"Two eyes," Ford corrected.

And the unexpectedness of the correction momentarily cut straight through Fiddleford's panic. His wild eyes focused on Ford in bafflement. "Say wha?"

"He has two eyes now," Ford said. "And he's powerless and imprisoned. He survived—but he's not a threat." It was a slight exaggeration, but Ford's first priority was calming Fiddleford down. He could introduce nuance once Fiddleford wasn't panicking.

"He's—He's not a—He's—"

"Deep breath," Ford said.

Fiddleford sucked in a deep breath, held it just long enough that Ford was starting to worry, and let it out in a long, deep gush. "Whoo!" He smacked his head with his palm, and then another couple times for good measure. "Sorry 'bout that. Just—got a little excited. Let me catch my..." He took another couple of deep breaths.

Ford waited patiently. "You're better at dealing with alarming news than you used to be." Maybe that wasn't the best praise, considering that Ford had usually been the one delivering the alarming news.

"I'm not sure I am. I think I just get it all out of my system faster." Fiddleford took one last deep breath, and said, "All right. Explain this to me."

Ford gave Fiddleford the rundown on the last two weeks—Bill's arrival, his capture, the stalemate as they realized that neither side could risk Bill's death without knowing what would happen. He explained everything they knew or suspected about Bill's current powers or lack thereof, and how they were containing and neutralizing him further.

He even pulled out his current journal to show Fiddleford Bill's appearance: a few days ago, Ford had gotten a drawing of Bill in the living room watching TV, huddled up against the armrest of the sofa as if he wanted to stay as close to the doorway as possible, one eye squeezed shut, the other glazed with disinterest, the corners of his mouth curled down despondently. Ford had done the quick rough sketch while watching Bill from the kitchen, then retreated to his room to flesh out the details. There was no way Ford was neglecting to properly document the unwelcome phenomenon occurring in his house, but there was doubly no way Ford was giving Bill's ego the pleasure of knowing he was drawing him again. 

Fiddleford cocked a brow. "Bill's a woman?"

"I'm not sure whatever force humanized him was too picky about the sex," Ford said. "For that matter, I'm not sure he's picky about his sex. It's never come up." What kind of genders did Bill's species have? Did they have genders? Ford should ask. (Ford should not ask. He took that idea, stuffed it in a bag, and threw it in a lake.)

"Huh." Fiddleford gave Ford a skeptical look. "Y'all're letting him watch TV?"

"He's threatened to kill himself if he gets too bored," Ford said tiredly. "He knows if we were to completely lock him up, he'd be as good as dead, since we could just keep him there until we find a guaranteed way to kill him. He says he'd sooner die by his own hand in that circumstance, and he's mad enough I think he'd make good on it. So, to maintain the current stalemate, we've agreed on some... limited privileges."

"Including television."

"Honestly? Moving the TV out of the living room just so he couldn't watch it didn't seem worth the trouble. We use that TV too."

Fiddleford grunted; but he offered the journal back to Ford. He offered it held open, and his gaze didn't break from Bill's face until Ford shut it and put it back into his jacket pocket. "So," Fiddleford said. "You said you need help?"

"Yes. At the moment, we're safe from Bill. All we have to do is find a way to destroy both his body and whatever's inside it, whether it's a human soul or an energy being—and use it before he learns we have it and does something drastic."

Fiddleford pressed his lips together, so thin they disappeared behind his whiskers. "Stanford, I want to help any way I can, but none of my killer robots or deadly lasermajigs are designed for incineratin' space demons. I don't rightly know if I can help."

"But you've already helped. You—" Ford hesitated. "You might want to brace yourself for another shock."

Fiddleford wrapped his arms around his chest and laced his hands together behind his back. "Ready!"

"While I was exploring other dimensions, I found a parallel Earth where you—where we..." Ford swallowed his guilt. "Where... things turned out better. Your parallel self helped me perfect my weapon to destroy Bill."

"A parallel..." Fiddleford's gaze briefly went wall-eyed as he processed the implications of the second life-altering revelation of the hour; but he quickly shook himself out of it. "Well, shucks, then this oughta be easy as pie! If I can do it, then so can I! So tell me about this weapon."

Soos appeared at the top of one of the stairs at the end of the great hall. "Hey, dudes! What's the hold up? We're ready to roll!"

"We'll be right there," Ford called, then turned back to Fiddleford. "Perhaps I should show you the blueprints after the show."

They headed for the stairs. Fiddleford gave Ford a cheeky grin. "Stanford Pines, shilly-shallying around watching cartoons when there's work to be done? Now, my memory ain't what it used to be, but that don't sound like the Stanford I recall."

"I've learned the hard way that a strict diet, exercise regimen, and regular meditation alone can't save a human from burning himself out." The image of Bill's eye and Cheshire Cat smile peering out from beneath a dark towel flashed through Ford's mind. He pushed the memory aside. "Now more than ever, I need to make time for a little play." Goodness knows he hadn't made any time in the last couple of weeks, unless that emotionally fraught trip to Portland counted. "Besides, I—don't want to ruin your evening with my problem."

Fiddleford reached up to put a hand on Ford's shoulder. "That sonova cosine ain't your problem; he's ours. All of ours."

"Thank you, Fiddleford." It was exactly what he needed to hear.

At the top of the stairs, Fiddleford hopped in the air, kicked his heels together, and shouted, "Now let's go watch some giant robots commit atrocities against God! YEEHAW!" He tore off down a corridor with Ford chasing close behind.

####

Stan had given Wendy a copy of the Mystery Shack's keys a year ago, back when the only secrets in the shack had been hidden beneath the vending machine. She still had them, and she could still let herself in at any time; she'd just needed an excuse to minimize how much trouble she'd get in if she was caught.

"Sorry, I forgot my ice cream was here and I just came to pick it up" was a much lower offense than "I was sneaking in specifically to find out the thing you were trying to keep me from finding out."

Staking out the shack from the woods was boring work—she would've liked to bring a friend along, but then she really couldn't use the "I was just swinging by to grab my food" excuse—but she could pass the time whittling until she lost light, and after that she had like a billion scary story podcasts to go through.

Friday night was anime night. Around seven, Soos's truck pulled out, with Melody and Ford on board. That was right—she'd seen Ford talking to Soos about joining in on anime night. One less person she had to look out for. Half past ten, the last light in the shack turned out.

Wendy went in.

She automatically avoided the creakiest floor boards as she let herself in the front door, and then crept into the kitchen. She closed her eyes as she groped around in the freezer for the  sorbet she'd left behind so that the light couldn't disrupt her night vision. There. Excuse retrieved. If anyone caught her now, she could wave her dessert in their face and pull the dumb teen routine.

Now what?

All she knew about the shack's latest secret was that it had ripped up Soos's coat, it might be psychic, and it was possibly locked up and shouting mad about it. That didn't give her a lot to go on. The kitchen didn't look much different. Less clutter out on the counters and shelves than usual, but that wasn't evidence of paranormal activity. Maybe Abuelita had gone on a cleaning spree.

She'd start with safer locations and move out from there. If she was caught, where would she get in the least trouble for snooping?

Sorry guys, I just came by to get my sorbet; and then I really needed to use the bathroom, so I thought it wouldn't be a big deal if...

She crept out of the kitchen.

Wendy wasn't risking waking anyone by turning on lights; but by the glow of her phone's screen and the living room fish tank, she could see that Abuelita's sofa was missing its cushions. No signs of anything else weird though. She crept down the dark hall, phone pressed to her chest to hide the glow until she'd passed the guest room and Abuelita's room.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she tried to grasp the downstairs toilet's doorknob, but only brushed fabric instead. She held up her phone. They'd replaced the door with a curtain? That was weird, but...

She pulled the curtain aside.

Something sat cross-legged on the closed toilet. One blood-dripping yellow eye stared up at Wendy. 

Wendy screamed.

"Hello to you too," the thing said. "Come in?"

Wendy punched it in the eye and bolted.

She heard it stumble-thud out of the bathroom, call, "Wait, wait—Wendy!" and then laugh, and then mutter, "ow, ow, ow."

Wendy slowed halfway to the exit as what she'd just seen fully registered. That was a human person. Whom she'd socked in the face.

Wendy about-faced. "Oh, man, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" She  came back and flipped on the bathroom light to check for damage.

The stranger was a heavyset brown-skinned woman with a mass of loose golden curls hanging to her shoulder blades, wearing a baggy yellow hoodie and knee-length skirt—and something about her was familiar, but Wendy couldn't put her finger on what. The stranger shrugged, grinning, and said, "It's not the worst thing to happen to that eyeball today!" She moved an eyepatch over from her left eye to cover the bloody eye Wendy had socked—and that was why Wendy had only seen the one eye in the dark. The eyepatch.

Wow, smooth move, Wendy, punching somebody for having a painful-looking eye condition. She winced. "Sorry. Do you... wanna ice that?" She awkwardly held out her sorbet.

The stranger looked at the pint thoughtfully. "Can I eat it instead?"

"Um. No?" Wendy pulled it back. "Hey—did you call me Wendy? How'd you know my name?"

The stranger shrugged. "What, you work here, don't you? I see you all the time."

So they had met before? Wendy studied the stranger's face, trying to remember where—and then her eyes widened. "Wait—hold on, Toga Lady? No way!"

"Wh—yeah, that's me!" She laughed. "I can't get over how many people recognize me because of that."

"Yeah, everyone in town knows you." She flipped open her phone to show Toga Lady a meme Tambry sent a couple days ago: the picture Wendy had taken of her in the gift shop that spread all over town, currently captioned, "When you're meeting Plato but still wanna look kawaii."

Toga Lady cracked up. "Hey, I love that! Send that to Sh—Mabel, I wanna save that."

"Sure." Did Toga Lady not have a phone? Or maybe just didn't want to hand her number out to a stranger who punched her in the dark. "So... what are you doing here? Are you visiting the Pines?" Wendy vaguely remembered Toga Lady asking about the Pines a few months ago. "Who are you?"

"The name's Goldie," the stranger said. "And I'm... just staying here for a bit. As a house guest." (And, Bill realized, if Wendy asked him any more than that, he was in trouble. He and the Pines had very briefly arranged his cover story: if and when somebody noticed him, he was Goldie Locke and he was staying as a guest. But why was he staying as a guest, where had he come from, how long would he be here... they'd never gotten that far. He'd better think up some boring cover story the Pines wouldn't object to—maybe claim to be one of Abuelita's distant relatives, staying with family between jobs...)

Wendy said, "So, hold on. Are you the big mysterious supernatural phenomenon the Pines have been trying not to talk about?"

Goldie blinked. And then a brilliant, gleeful smile stretched across her face. "Wow, you're a smart one! How did you guess?"

####

To Fiddleford's evident despair, Soos had made good on his threat to put a moratorium on mecha anime. Instead, he played a few episodes of a period drama about a former samurai, desperate to retire from the sword, who kept running into civilians with inconvenient problems that could only be solved with a two-foot steel blade.

In the 1920s, the Northwests had added a private movie palace to their manor so they wouldn't have to watch picture shows with the common folks; and it hadn't take Soos much work to rig up a new projector to play from his laptop. The Northwests had outfitted the theater with armchairs, loveseats, and coffee tables, which had conveyed with the manor. Once the show was over and the snacks were cleared aside, one of the coffee tables made a perfect space for Ford to spread out his blueprints and research notes. While Soos, Melody, and Tate discussed the likelihood that unemployed samurai really used their swords to rescue stuck cats by chopping down tree branches, Ford explained the quantum destabilizer to Fiddleford.

It was a death ray designed to obliterate whatever it hit—whether matter, energy, both, neither, or other. If it hit a human, they'd be crushed into nothing. If it hit something as powerful as Bill, he'd be fatally collapsed into a miniature black hole, taking anything under his influence with him, and then he'd disappear. Not even ashes would be left behind. No matter what Bill was now, this could kill him.

The problem was the fuel, which Ford had obtained from another Fiddleford, who in turn had obtained it in a paradox dimension: an element that was inert when observed and highly radioactive when concealed. Parallel Fiddleford had named it NowUSeeitNowUDontium. But Ford had used up the last of his fuel on a wild shot during Weirdmageddon. And—short of rebuilding that accursed portal and venturing back out into the multiverse—Ford didn't know how to get more.

"Your parallel self helped me make all the modifications to my destabilizer to let it run on Dontium," Ford said. "You know your own mind better than anyone else. Perhaps if you see your parallel self's design modifications, you might be able to deduce the necessary properties of the substance used to fuel it, and we could... find a way to synthesize an artificial substitute, maybe?"

Fiddleford frowned worriedly at the blueprints. "Frankly, I don't know that I do know my own mind," he said. "But... I'll take a look-see at this, see what I can make of it."

"That's all I ask. Thank you, Fiddleford."

"What'll we do if I can't work it out, though?"

He'd already wondered that himself. Making an element was harder than finding one. There was a reason the gold miners outlasted the alchemists. "We'll find another way. Maybe adapt the destabilizer to another fuel source. I initially designed it for portability in anticipation of a fight with a highly mobile, flying opponent. Now that it'll be used for the execution of a captive, portability is less important. Perhaps it could be modified to plug into an external fuel source?"

"It'd have to be ginormous," Fiddleford said dubiously. "What about that infernal-lookin' summoning circle you had us try? Is that still an option?"

"I've considered it, but... there are four members of the zodiac who still don't know Bill's alive—and they're all children. I never learned exactly what the zodiac does, much less whether it would have any effect on Bill as a human, so I don't want to get them involved just to discover that solution doesn't work. The destabilizer will work."

"If'n we can fuel it."

Ford sighed. "We'll call the zodiac 'plan B.'"

####

On the way out, Ford stopped in the door and said, "Oh, Fiddleford—I nearly forgot." He took out a folded paper he'd stowed in his journal's cover and handed it to Fiddleford, grinning.

It was a hand-made card, with a cover that featured a cake and puffy stickers that read, "PARTY!" Inside was a crayon drawing of Stan and Ford holding hands and smiling next to the words, "Come to our 62nd birthday party!!! Saturday, June 15, 1:00 PM, at the Mystery Shack!!! DON'T BE LATE!!!!!"

Wryly, Fiddleford asked, "Did you make this yourself?"

"Mabel helped," Ford admitted. "I almost forgot our birthday entirely until she brought it up this morning."

"Did you? Now I don't feel so bad that I'd plumb forgot myself. Tomorrow—whoo-ee." A hint of anxiety entered his eyes. "Will the party attendees be including...?"

"We're having our party outside. Our 'houseguest' 'Goldie' is not allowed outside."

Fiddleford immediately relaxed. "Then I'll be there, don't you worry! With gifts, too!"

"Then we'll see you tomorrow." As Ford followed Soos down the long driveway toward his truck, he mused to himself that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a birthday party. He didn't think he'd ever invited somebody outside his family to a birthday party and thought they would actually come. Felt good. 

Ford was halfway to the truck when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Tate. Had they ever spoken one-on-one before? "Tate? What can I do—"

Tate took a step too close, and Ford's back immediately went stiff. "Don't think I didn't see those blueprints you were showing my Dad," Tate said. "Now, you listen here, Dr. Pines." He said "doctor" like it was an insult. "Thirty years ago I lost my father thanks to you and your stupid science project, and I just got him back. I ain't keen on losing him again. Is that clear?"

Oh. "I—yes. Perfectly clear. I don't want any trouble. I'm asking for his help to prevent trouble, actually."

Tate drawled, "Oh, yeah? That so? You usually need futuristic laser bazookas to prevent trouble?"

How good a look had Tate gotten at the blueprints? He'd been on the other side of the room. "Tate... listen." Ford took a deep breath. "You've got every reason to distrust me. Thirty years ago, I was so wrapped up in my own problems that I turned my back on your father when he needed help the most—and you, your mother, and he all suffered greatly for it. But whatever happens, I won't turn my back on him again. I promise."

Tate considered that in sullen silence. "Fine," he said. "See you don't. But I've got my eye on you."

He turned back toward the manor, paused, and faced Ford again. "When I came to Gravity Falls, the first place I went was the last address Dad wrote from. The man who answered the door said he never knew no McGucket and he'd never stayed there. I called him a dirty liar, and he chased me off his property with a hammer." He pointed at Ford. "You... You were gone by then, weren'tcha? That was your brother."

Ford's stomach dropped. "That's right. That... Stanley didn't know anything. We were estranged the whole time I knew your father. I didn't even call Fiddleford by name in my journals."

"All these years he told me he never knew my father, I thought he was just too big a coward to own up to what he'd done. When all along I was resentin' an innocent man, while you were..." He trailed off; then set his jaw firmly, squared his shoulders, and said, "Welp. You take responsibility like a man. I hope you act like one, too."

Ford shrugged helplessly. "I've been trying to."

Tate nodded once. "Good to finally meet the real you, Dr. Pines," he said coolly. Then he turned back toward the manor and walked away.

####

Stan was sure he'd heard a scream.

He stared at the ceiling. It was too late for people to be screaming. He didn't wanna get up. He couldn't hear anything now; but then, his hearing aids were out. Which meant the scream must have been really loud.

Grumbling, he sat up, put in his hearing aids, put in his teeth, put on his glasses, put on his slippers, dragged himself upright, and shuffled to the door.

The moment he stepped out, he could hear Bill's voice, chattering from some dark corner of the shack: "I was actually one of Stanford's research assistants! Haha! Yeah, during the earliest portal tests, I got sucked into the psychic plane between reality and dreams—ever heard of the 'mindscape'?—and everyone assumed it killed me! I've actually been haunting the shack like a ghost for the last three decades! It sure is great to be alive again!"

Stan's first thought, still half asleep, was, I don't remember Ford telling me about that part. And his second thought was, Wait. Who's Bill talking to?

Then he heard Wendy's laugh and his blood ran cold. "Aw man, that's insane! What'd you eat? Is there food in the mindscape?"

"I didn't need to eat, sleep, or age! Convenient, huh? Now I look thirty years too young!"

"How'd you keep from getting crazy bored without anyone to talk to?"

"I watched TV over Stanley's shoulder and eavesdropped on tourists' marital problems! I saw you all summer—"

Stan followed their voices to the living room and fumbled on the light switch. Wendy started and cringed back into the armchair she'd claimed, squinting in the bright light. Bill, who'd been standing in the dark like a creep, didn't flinch—but he slowly stood a little straighter.

"What the heck's going on in here?" Stan snapped.

"Hey, Mr. Pines," Wendy said weakly. "Sorry—I forgot my ice cream when I left," she held up a pint, "so I came back for it and... um..."

"I spooked her in the dark and she socked me!" Bill laughed.

Stan moved between Wendy and Bill. "She's got the right idea." As Stan moved further into the room, Bill circled him to get closer to the doorway.

"But—I mean, is Goldie all you were keeping secret?" Wendy asked. "I worked here all last summer. I know what this place is like! You know I can handle learning that some woman's been stuck in a parallel plane—right?"

Before Stan had a chance to say anything, Bill piped up again: "They're all just worried about the thirty-year-old missing person case they could have helped solve! But hey, I don't mind. I'm sure the only reason they didn't try to find me was because Ford thought I was dead and Stan didn't know about me." Bill looked straight in Stan's eyes. "Isn't that right?"

Oh, Bill had them all over a barrel now.

A good two-man con was a lot like good improv theater, in that neither actor could contradict the other one's story; once one of them introduced a detail, the other one had to agree "yes, and—" and roll with it. No matter how stupid or insane your partner's contribution, if you start arguing about your story in front of your mark, they'll know you're lying—and there goes your mark.

Stan knew that. Bill knew Stan knew that.

And Bill had gotten to Wendy first. Now, unless Stan wanted to completely spill the triangular beans to Wendy, he had no choice but to play along and "yes, and" Bill's stupid story about being Ford's assistant.

Fine. But no way was Stan playing along on Bill's terms.

Stan scoffed loudly. "Or maybe the reason my brother didn't try to find you is because you're a no-good lying creep who"—(what do nerds hate each other for?)—"tried to steal his research!"

From the corner of his eye, Stan could see Wendy's eyebrows shoot up and her mouth open slightly. Yeah, good. Yes-and that, Cipher.

Stan expected anger. There wasn't anger. The ghost of a smile flickered across Bill's face before he got his expression under control. There was a spark of light in his eye, like something sleeping in him had activated.

In the split second between Bill's lips parting and the first syllable emerging, Stan realized—a moment too late—that he'd made a terrible mistake. Bill wasn't just a con artist. He was one of those guys. The guys who got into crime because they couldn't get into theater. The divas. The attention hogs. The guys who enjoyed lying for the thrill of it.

And Stan had just given him an opportunity for drama.

"Steal it?" Bill snapped. "Steal it?" He raised a hand and pointed a thumb at himself, elbow jutted out to the side, chest puffed up, making himself bigger. "I am his research! Over half the stuff he put in his journals comes from material I dug up for him! By his third journal, he was practically my ghostwriter! But do you think I was gonna get a co-author credit?"

"Oh, that's a load of bull—slander," Stan snapped. "I am not letting you talk about my brother like that! He did all the hard work while you, what—" what fit the story they were inventing, "—picked up books for him at the library like a good little undergrad—?"

"Hey!" Bill turned sideways to jab a finger at Stan, like a fencer making his profile narrower before driving his sabre home. "Post grad! I was working on my dissertation! And I didn't just 'pick them up'; I found the books he needed, usually because I'd already read them and he hadn't!"

"Oh, you read a few books! Oooh, I'm so impressed! But you're not the one who wrote about them, sister!"

"HA! The hundreds of pages of notes I gave him say otherwise! So what if I wanted to publish first while he was hoarding the fruits of my labor in his basement, it was my right—!"

Stan bellowed, "That kind of talk is why you got dismissed from your dissertation program for plagiarism!"

All righteous indignation, Bill raised his voice to match, "The plagiarism charges were unproven! I dropped out on my own terms!"

"Oh SUUURE, because you wanted to see the WOOORLD! And how much of the world did you see hiding in a podunk logging town doing my brother's primary research for him, huh?!"

"HA!" Voice nearly a shriek, finger raised to the heavens in triumph, Bill crowed, "SO YOU ADMIT I DID ALL THE PRIMARY RESEARCH—!"

Ford said, "What the devil is going on here?"

Stan and Bill fell silent. Ford stood in the entryway, looking one part irate and two parts bewildered. The front door was still open, Soos and Melody peering around Ford.

Ford could doom them. Stan knew how to improv like a con artist, Bill knew how to improv like a con artist, but did Ford? Ever since they'd been kids, he'd always been just a little slower with a lie. If Stan had a chance to ease him into the backstory they'd concocted without requiring him to improvise himself—hey, we were just explaining to Wendy how 'Goldie' used to be your research assistant until 'she' got eaten by a portal test—

"STANFORD," Bill snapped. Stan almost jumped out of his skin. Oh no. Bill glared at Ford, pointed at Stan, and said, "Tell Stanley the plagiarism charges were unfounded, I was unfairly accused!"

Stan held his breath.

Ford stared at Bill, and then stared at Stan—Stan could almost see the gears turning in his head—and then stared at Wendy, and then stared at Bill again. And then he snarled, "After you tried to beat me to publication, you two-faced liar?"

"HA!" Stan pointed at Bill's face, laughing too hard to speak. "HAAA!" He pounded on the TV, half hysterical with mirth, and had to lean on it as he wheezed for breath. Ford—what a dark horse, Stan could kiss his cheek—Ford was maintaining the most stoic poker face Stan had ever seen. 

Bill was violently biting his lip, red in the face, brows drawn tight together, trembling all over. It took Stan a moment to realize Bill wasn't angry. He was battling hard to look furious—playing the part of the loser of the argument—when the creep was actually fighting not to laugh.

Bill made eye contact with Stan, very nearly lost it, and turned his back toward Wendy so she couldn't see his face. He gestured vaguely toward Stan and Ford and croaked, "You see what I have to put up with?"

"I dunno, man." Grinning, Wendy said, "Not to make light of the whole 'stuck haunting the shack for thirty years' thing, but it kiiinda sounds like you had it coming."

Mission accomplished. And let that teach Bill a lesson about trying to out-lie Stan Pines.

Soos waved a hand. "Hey, uh, what's going on—?"

Now that was a disaster waiting to happen. "I'll catch you up." Stan zoomed around Ford, scooped his arms around Soos's and Melody's shoulders, and hustled them out of the room.

####

"You're sure you want to bike home alone this late?" Ford was walking Wendy back to where she said she'd left her bike, just outside the clearing the Mystery Shack made in the forest. "I could give you a ride."

"Thanks, Mr. Pines, but I'm fine. This whole part of the forest is basically my backyard."

"If you insist." He supposed the Corduroy cabin wasn't that far off—the local kids probably ventured further on a regular basis. They just didn't usually drop by the Mystery Shack at this hour. "What were you doing visiting the shack, anyway?"

"I came back to get my ice cream," Wendy said, holding up her sorbet pint demonstratively. "Which... is probably completely melted by now." She shrugged, popped off the lid and drank it.

She came by this late for ice cream? Ford had his doubts. But then, if he'd been a sixteen-year-old with a summer job in a house keeping a supernatural secret, would he have done any differently? (He was just glad she hadn't worked out who their "guest" really was. He'd have to thank Stan later for his quick thinking with a cover story.)

Wendy picked up her bike and hit her helmet against a tree to dislodge any bugs that might have crawled in. "Hey, uh—please don't tell my dad I was over here, okay? I kinda didn't mention that I was going out."

Wendy was Boyish Dan's kid, wasn't she? How different they were. The Dan that Ford knew hadn't been much older than Wendy, but he'd regarded these woods with a respect that bordered on fear. He'd never be wandering around this late at night. "I can't imagine why I'd need to bring it up." Ford had snuck out for dumber reasons as a kid.

"Thanks, Mr. Pines." She put on her helmet and got on her bike. "I'll see you in the morning!"

"The morning? The party isn't until one, is it?"

"Yeah, but I'm running an errand with Mabel." Wendy waved as she left. In the dark, her arm blended in with the trees.

Ford hadn't heard Mabel mention any errands. What was she doing that she needed Wendy's help for?

Ford waited until he couldn't hear Wendy's bike anymore; and then headed back into the shack.

####

(Y'all have no idea how long I've been waiting to post that argument. If you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you thought! I need comments to survive. Like tinkerbell. Thanks!!)

[stirthewaters]

Blue

Just a lil Halloween drabble! Double points if you actually dressed up as Bluey this year 😤✊

“You’re dressing up as… what?”

Wednesday’s tone was filled with disbelief and confusion at your statement; you had to hold back a giggle as you repeated.

“I’m dressing up as Bluey.”

“…Bluey…” Wednesday repeated slowly; you could see the gears turning around in her head as she tried to process. “And that is the show that I’ve seen you watching with Enid on various occasions, correct?” At a nod from you she continued - “the one with cartoon dogs?”

“Seeing as I’m a werewolf and it’s a pretty popular show I figured it was a good costume,” you nodded with a small smile, tugging on said costume as you spoke. “Don’t diss Bluey, that show is good as hell.”

The Addams watched you change into your costume in silence, seemingly still processing as her dark eyes flitted over your outfit, taking it in before glancing up at you. “I will say that it is childish enough to fit your demeanor.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as you clipped your blue tail in, fastening the belt as you pulled the said tail from the hole in the back of the costume, bending down to pull on the cheap footpaws. It was a good costume but the execution was probably a little low quality. Oh well. At least you had a costume. Straightening, you grabbed your pillowcase before glancing at Wednesday, eyebrows furrowed as you saw her dressed in her normal clothing, her black heavy jacket thrown over her sweater. “I thought you said you were dressing up?”

Wednesday glanced at you before responding “I am.”

“As what?”

“A serial killer, clearly. They look similar to anyone else. It’s the mindset that’s needed to master the craft.”

“Ah.” You nodded, offering your pinky to hers. “Ready to go?” The raven didn’t look at you or your hand as she without hesitation linked her pinky in yours, allowing you to tug her toward the door.

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

You watch slasher movies? I haven't done so in years (much to my disappointment), got any recommendations, classics, popular, underrated, anything really?

I knew I hadn't watched them in a long time, but it wasn't till I had to try and write something based on classic slashers, that I realized how long its been since I consumed that kind of content.

My only plan so far is that I need to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Alright, Pandora, it depends on your tastes, and what you look for in a "slasher" ❤️

As you may remember, I fucking love the OG the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and when I got pretty bad last month emotionally I watched it on repeat for two weeks straight. However, if you go in for a regular slasher film you will be disappointed. The first movie is incredible, focusing on amazing shots and atmosphere for nearly the entire first half. It's less of a slasher as we would come to know the genre, and more of an artistic film centered around the horrors of humanity. The series is a wonderful mess of multiple timelines and little continuity, but the sequels better fit the slasher archetype. The best sequel (imo) is the one directly after the first, and it's a black comedy slasher, focusing more on the kills.

Now, slashers ❤️

If you're a nerd and want to experience the slasher history, then before Halloween (which still holds up) there was Black Christmas, and before that the Town that Dreaded Sundown.

The Town that Dreaded Sundown is based off a true serial killer, and unlike TCM which is loosely inspired by Ed Gein, a lot of the kills (except the trombone scene) are based on actual murders, with his mask accurate to the only real world survivor's testimony of her assault. It's very slow pace, and with how desensitized we are as a society you might find it boring, but if you ever get a phonecall from Ghostface, then you have to know the Town that Dreaded Sundown. Fun fact, his mask also inspired Jason's mask from Friday the 13th part 2!

Black Christmas is awesome! I'd recommend it more than Sundown, because of pacing, characters, acting, and overall atmosphere. I love my second wave feminism horror (Stepford Wives (mwah)), and it did a lot better with it's feminist themes than the loose remake from 2019 that tried to be intentionally feminist (ignore the 2006 remake entirely, so bad, so lame, so gross). It did the first person perspective of the killer nearly four years before Halloween's iconic opening. It introduced the idea of the final girl, but she wouldn't become a sexually repressed younger woman until Halloween solidified the trope. It has some great kills that still hold up, and Billy is iconic. I really feel the only reason why he isn't more well known in non-horror spaces is because he doesn't have a mask or outfit that can be replicated and sold in Spirit.

After that we have our most well known slashers, and they're popular for good reason ❤️

A Nightmare on Elm St, Friday the 13th, and Halloween spawned sequels that spiraled off into varying degrees of madness, but still have fun moments.

After the success of Friday the 13th (and the realization of the franchise-ability of slashers) there were a lot of slashers that tried to capture the money magic of the first few success stories. Not all of them were great, but a few notable slashers imo are My Bloody Valentine and the Dentist.

Although Candyman is often lumped in with slashers, like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the first movie is more than a traditional slasher. I recommend the first one as a beautiful love story about the horrors of American racism. It's score is still incredible, the behind the scenes are so interesting, and Tony Todd is absolutely beautiful. Such an amazing actor. (Not so) Fun fact: Tony Todd said in the behind the scenes that there originally was a romantic scene where Helen proclaimed her love for Candyman, but they were forced to cut it, because "they were okay with a tall, black man covered in bees.. but, mm, when it came to a kiss, or something like that, it was a little bit too risque..." ( :/ )

(Please please please watch Candyman)

Then the best, or worst (depending on your views), thing happened to the genre; Scream.

One of the best slashers there is, it isn't the first self referential, meta horror (see Wes Craven's New Nightmare), but it did change the slasher genre for a very long time. It was a revival for the genre, since it was declining in popularity by the early 90s. However, post Scream horror was very meta. See Chucky's personality changing from the occasional funny quip, to Bride of Chucky levels of silly (still love him tho). Of the terrible horror trying to copy Scream, I'd recommend Urban Legend over I Know What You Did Last Summer. It was a shame, just how silly a lot of scary movies got back then, trying to be as smart and self aware as Scream was.

But my favorite (outside of Scream) meta horror slasher film is Behind the Mask: the Rise of Leslie Vernon ❤️ took meta to a whole new level, mockumentary style, a camera crew follows a wannabe slasher killer explaining how to be a slasher icon.

I've watched too many slashers to remember all of them right now, but if you want really meta black comedies, Tucker and Dale vs Evil isn't a slasher but a loving joke on the genre, and the Final Girls made me laugh and cry like a little bitch.

A lot of slashers since the late 90s have drifted closer to the black comedy sub genre. Killers that kill for the sake of killing are often B-rated blood fests, that can be great for mindless fun but not so great for box office gains, especially in our current horror renaissance. Slashers don't fit in to the current horror culture. Serial killers aren't scary for desensitized audiences, and the mindless gore expectations set by older slasher films have created a pretty specific genre setup and pay off (dumb people who only exist to die get brutally murdered). It either has to be B-rated mindless fun (Laid to Rest 1 and 2 had terrible camera work and directing, making even incredible actors like Lena Headey feel lackluster, but the practical effects are so impressive I'd recommend it just for the blood and guts (and bewbs)), or comedic (the Hatchet series has great cameos, genuine laughs, and more impressive practical effects, but with good cinematography and directing (still bewbs)). Slashers that don't lean in to how ridiculous the concept of slashers are and try to take themselves seriously often end up falling short, either creating boring killers with no personality or trying to force a plot into a generic slasher shaped hole.

This does include most remakes of slasher movies, as a lot of slashers were remade in the early 2000's with less interesting characters to be killed off by the slashers. The remake of Candyman was an exception, because even though it wasn't as good as the original, it did go back to it's non slasher roots, learning from the mistake that was the third Candyman.

TLDR:

Non slashers that are considered slashers because of the slasher sequels/iconic murderers:

the Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Candyman

Child's Play

Best Precursor to the genre:

Black Christmas

Popular Classics:

Halloween

Friday the 13th

a Nightmare on Elm St

Pre 90's Slashers that I recommend:

The Dentist

Sleepaway Camp (it's divided on whether it's problematic or interesting representation)

Alice, Sweet Alice

My Bloody Valentine

Post 90's meta commentary/black comedy:

Scream

Behind the Mask: the Rise of Leslie Vernon

Hatchet

The Final Girls

Tucker and Dale vs Evil

There are obviously a lot more, but these are a few off the top of my head ❤️

[im-getting-help]

okay, but what if:

"and then he said 'doesn't this proves how much of a good friend i am?' it was fucking insane!"

"I don't want to tell you I told you so, but..."

"Farleigh shut-"

"I don't think I will Felix. I told you since the beginning that little goblin was dangerous and you didn't listen, so, I don't think I'll shut up ever again."

Felix sighed, his fingers combed through his hair for the hundredth time since he began the story, his signet ring reflected the sunlight every time he fixed his bangs. "He's not... dangerous. He's... he's insane but he's not dangerous."

"Yeah right. You can't be serious." Farleigh shaked his head and chuckled, but Felix wasn't laughing.

"Felix, you can't be serious."

Felix remained silent, he refused to meet his eyes.

"Are you thinking of forgiven him?"

Felix shrugd, a small movement, almost as he didn't want to acknowledge what was being said.

He knew that it wasn't the smartest move on his part, there was no valid justification, no a single thing could explain why he did what he did, but Felix wanted so badly to forgive, to forget. The memories of that night kept repeating, his brain replaying them like a movie and he was unable to look away, no matter how much it scared him. He felt stuck, fixed in a moment. Something about the way Oliver pleaded, the way he cried, the way he hold onto him, he couldn't take the image of Oliver's eyes filled with tears, real sincere tears.

That wasn't an act, he was sure of it, it was nothing that he ever seen Oliver did before, he was desperate. That right there was truly Oliver Quick, and he didn't want to let go, he couldn't.

"I think he needs help? I don't think he's a bad person, and he isn't dangerous. He said that I was his only friend..."

Felix's hands seem to had a mind of his own, playing with loose threads and picking skin.

Farleigh got up from the couch, patting his pockets to feel for the pack of cigarettes, his hands trembled slightly, although he was sure Felix wouldn't notice.

"You can't smoke in here Farls, mommy is going to end you if she finds out."

"I know, i know. I'm going outside." He retrieved the lighter from his right pocket and the cigarettes from his left while he stride to the entrance of the long gallery. He always hated that rule, "it could ruin the old folios and paintings" said uncle James, even though they could smoke in every other room, as if they didn't have relics or expensive paintings in there too. Right now though, he couldn't be more thankful to find an excuse to leave this conversation.

"Farleigh..."

"I need a smoke, Fee. Let's take a break, you can keep telling me about Ollie-dear later, yeah?"

Felix was already behind him. With the rush Farleigh didn't even hear him get up. He felt one of Felix's heavy hands on his shoulder and even though his outfit was making him sweat he shivered. Felix's movements were slow and gentle, he coudn't be furthest form an aggressive person yet Farleigh felt his feet stuck to the floor. He looked at his hands. still shaking.

"Farleigh, I need you to promise me that you're not going to tell anyone about this, about Oliver."

"'Course. I don't think auntie would be to pleased to hear about it anyways."

Felix grip tighten a little as he turned Farleigh around. Being face to face with Felix this way made Farleigh remember his mother. She teach him about boundaries and limits. They used to spent the afternoon sharing a cup of tea, the only british custom she maintained. "If you don't feel comfortable with someone you can put distance, you should, you have to. If you feel uncomfortable or uncertain about a situation or a person you can and should stay away".

"I mean it Farls. I need to know that you won't tell anyone about Oliver. Not mom or Venetia or I don't know India or Jackson, no one. Not one person Farleigh."

"I promise Felix. I don't want anything to do with it anyways. If I can stay away from Oliver Quick believe me, I will."

"You make it sound like he's a serial killer Farls." Felix scoffed.

"Yeah, well, you know me... I like to dramatize."

Felix had his eyes fixed on Farleigh, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Can I go now?"

"You won't tell anyone?"

Farleigh sighed heavily. He was scared for his cousin, he was scared for his family. Oliver wasn't only dangerous, he seemed to be completely demented, passed the point of reason. He was scared that Felix ended up really hurt because of him.

He was no stranger to Oliver's dark side. He seen it that first day of tutorial, something in between his words, something in the way he smiled, the way he looked at him.

He was also very, very tired. He'd been tired of cleaning Felix's messes for a long time. Since Venetia chose to take a leap year that became two years and then four years he suddenly became Felix new adiviser and bodyguard. He was tired of dealing with every Felix fuck up. Dealing with Felix's ex-friends and ex-girlfriends and ex-whatevers, dealing people who got hurt by Felix's carelessness, by his indifference. He used to scold Felix, telling him to be more careful with his relationships. How funny it is that he found the worst person in all England to take interest in? Farleigh wanted scream, he wanted to slap some reason into him but he knew that no matter what he did or what he said Felix had already made up his mind. He was a big boy now anyways, he could take care of himself.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Felix. I don't think I know an Oliver Quick. Now, can you please let go?"

Felix hand fell to his side, his lips curled up in an attempt at smiling. Farleigh could see the purple colors under his eyes, he hadn't been sleeping well since the party.

"Thank you Farls, I knew you would understand"

Farleigh bit his cheek and nodded before quickly exiting the room, he strode towards the stairs that led to the rooftop.

Mid walk he realized he had to walk pass Oliver's room on the way to the stairs. He was surprised to find an open door when it finally reached the area, he had no intention to cross it of course, but he stood there, observing.

The interior showed a man profoundly asleep, snoring softly, black hair a mess. Farleigh lit his cigarette and observed Oliver, the open curtains let the midday sun in, the room was warm. Oliver looked so innocent wrapped under the covers like this, like a little boy. The antiseptic smell that lingered in the room and was the only thing that reminded him of the reality of who was the person behind the sleeping beauty facade.

Farleigh snickered and walked away, Oliver Quick wasn't his problem anymore.

[kit-kat-jo]

a collection of obscure murder drones headcanons and thoughts before i forget them:

(some of these are very obviously speculative or possibly debunked but i just think they’re neat)

worker drones have more insect symbolism and behavior while dissassembly drones act more like wild animals, specifically carnivorous or cat-like (classic predator and prey) Nature repeats itself even if its through manmade robots, it would seem

worker drones, after humans kicked the bucket, continue to develop and update based on their initial software as some sort of survival instinct (not including the absolute solver), in order to keep on going. i imagine their software would have to heavily adapt to frequently creating little pill babies with their code, and maybe even certain instincts to protect themselves from murder drones

dissassembly drones can sometimes have different body builds based on status: lither bodies and less complicated outfits for squad members and more sophisticated getup and thicker / taller body mass for squad leaders, or maybe just specifically for pilots like N. (it could very well be a gender thing but i just think this idea is cooler!)

lil developing drones pick out their hard hats and what color they want when they’re old enough to be built a head, and once you have it built in and melded to your robot skull there’s no changing it. so Uzi partially wears a beanie because she hates the color of hers and wants to cover it up to uphold her emo phase aesthetic

drones don’t wear pants because… well they tried when first integrating themselves into a society, but because of how flat their bodies are built, they just slide right off. Maybe they could modify fabric or come up with some gadget to make them fit, but maybe it’s just not worth the trouble. (moreso, for an embarrassingly long time i thought the fuzz underneath Uzi’s hoodie was a skirt, but no it’s just the bottom of her hoodie… and i was wondering why literally no other drone in the show wore any fuckin pants)

before she rebooted as a zombie drone, little maid Cyn had the exact same personality as the solver acted out in episode 5 (just without the eltrich horror and glados voice attached) and just used it to blend in

i like to think there are a bunch more disassembly drones that the solver has under its belt that are scattered all over the other parts of Copper-9, scrounging other colonies and just waiting to appear in the big final fight or whatever the solver has planned up for the finale… the whole alphabet squad pulling up

branching off of this one, when serial designation bots run out of letters they cycle through them again, imagine N face to face with another DD and they have the same name and V just kills his proclaimed brother in front of his eyes traumatizing him forever

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

raindrops fallin' down all over my love 

A/N: this is an older fic, originally posted back in July 2022. it was just a silly little birthday present for my soulmate @fightingdragonswithwho ♡

Summary: not everyone would find a surprise downpour to be a mood booster, but you do. 

Warnings: Spencer Reid x reader, fluff, bau!reader, rain, established relationship, kissing, wet clothes, wet shoes, allusion to sex

Word count: 1192

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

“Y/n, come on, that’s enough for today,” Spencer walked up next to you and gently tugged the beige file from your grasp.

“Oh, come on! I was almost done reading that!” you whined, “can’t I take it with me back to the hotel?”

“Fine, but only if you promise not to touch it till the morning,” he stuffed it into his worn satchel, “I better not find you reading it in the middle of the night.”

Humming disappointedly, you squinted your eyes, “Hotch, Spencer’s being a party pooper. Can’t I just room with Morgan instead? I don’t think he cares as much about my work-life balance.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he ignored your plea and just spoke instead to the tall man walking beside you, “Reid, make sure she gets some rest, will you?”

“Yes sir,” Spencer replied and watched the stoic man open up the front door of the police station. The sound that caught your ears on the other side of those heavy doors made you instantly forget the counterargument your brain had already come up with. 

“Of course, it’s raining,” Hotch sighed.

“At least the hotel is only just around the corner,” Spencer tried as he watched his boss ultimately decide to just book it, leaving the two of you standing alone by the exit. 

Looking down at you, prepared to hold the papers in question under lock and key, he instead just saw nothing but pure bliss engulf your features. 

“It’s raining,” you beamed, hitting him in the arm excitedly, before darting out into the storm. Standing in the middle of the dead street, you cast out your arms and tilted your head back, letting it all soak in. Welcoming with open arms the wet dots that littered your clothing and quickly altered your whole outfit into a much darker shade. Twirling around you shouted, repeating the same observation to your boyfriend who was comfortably standing there, admiring you from the doorway, “it’s raining!”

“It is,” he smiled, watching you get right up next to a large puddle, taking a moment to behold the many mesmerising rings that kept appearing in it, before looking up again at Spencer, now with a bit of a frown on your face.

“I don’t remember, is there a spare pair of shoes in my go bag?”

“Yes, the black ones.”

Merely walking out here in this weather for a second would drench you to the bone, so you might as well take advantage of it and fill your inner child with joy. 

Squealing, you jumped into the puddle, splashing water everywhere. 

“Come on Spencer!” you kicked your foot through the small pool. 

“I’m good right here.”

“What, are you gonna sleep at the station?” you joked, walking back up onto the sidewalk.

Glaring up at the dark sky, “maybe, yeah.”

“You’re just gonna let me walk back to the hotel all by my lonesome?”

Leaning against the doorframe, he snorted, “you’re an FBI agent.”

“So are you, but apparently there's a serial killer out on the loose and as we learned just a few hours ago, I fit his type a just little too well, so…” you let your head fall back, stuck out your tongue and welcomed in the feeling of the cool water droplets against it. 

Letting a huff out through his grin, he slowly walked out to grasp your hand.

“I don’t ever think I’ll completely comprehend your fascination with this weather,” he leaned down to give your lips a sweet kiss.

“It’s just so…” you mumbled against his lips, not even knowing the words to describe it, as he stole another quick one, “I don’t know why, but every time it rains, I’m 6 years old again and I feel so safe and innocent.”

Walking down the hotel hallway, your steps probably looked a bit goofy. Jumping in the deep puddle might have been fun, but the soaked shoes weren’t the nicest side effect to deal with, “I think I might get blisters if I don’t take these off now.”

Letting go of your hand, he turned his back to you and lowered himself a bit, “hop on.”

Not giving him a moment to change his mind, you jumped up on his back, clinging onto his sopping woollen jacket.

Grinning, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, feeling a flutter in your stomach as he walked the last few feet to reach your hotel room. You knew he had you, this wasn't the first piggyback ride he’d given you. The first time he offered to lift your body in any form of the word, you refused and only agreed after he’s finished giving you a lecture on proper lifting technics, physics and how if something is closer to your body, it isn’t as heavy to lift. 

Stopping, he removed one of the palms that were tightly clasped under your bottom, in order to fish out the key card from his pocket and unlock the door. Swinging it open, crossing the threshold, he then gently sat you down again.

“Thanks for the ride,” you pushed some of the clinging hair off his forehead and out of his eyes, lightly tracing the prominent vein at his temple with your fingertip. 

“Anytime,” he closed the door behind you and moved a little closer, causing you to back up against it. With the feeling of his hands snaking around your waist, you couldn’t help but get carried away by the intimate bubble that he always had a way of creating around you with but a glance, “Y/n, I will carry you. If you need it or want it, I’ve got you.”

His fingers fiddled with the wet fabric of your coat, “but right now, I think we need to get you out of these clothes,” and with a gentle tug, you let it fall.

“Doctor Reid,” you glided your hands up around his neck, “are you trying to get me naked?”

“I’m trying to make sure you don’t get sick,” he slowly, painstakingly worked at the buttons of your shirt. Leaning in, close enough for your lips to touch, he never let them, hard as you tried, “you getting naked is just a nice bonus.”

Kicking your shoes off, you chuckled, “a nice bonus, huh?”

Opening up the last few buttons, he slipped his fingers under it, gliding over your bare sides, effectively sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, then finally kissed you hungerly. Rooting your fingers in a tight fist at the nape of his neck, you whimpered.

Sliding his palms down your body, gliding them over your ass, he then effortlessly scooped you up, instinctually wrapping your legs around his torso. Parting from your lips, he then moved down to your neck, focusing on that sweet spot where he could feel exactly the power he had over your pulse. 

“And what about me?” you fought to open your eyes, “do I get a nice bonus?”

“What,” he exhaled against your damp skin, “do you not want me to get sick either?” 

“No, I just want you to take your clothes off,” you smirked.

© 2022 thyme-in-a-bubble