#me uploading drawings two days in a row

[ckret2]

Chapter 36 of human Bill Cipher is on death row in the Mystery Shack and would rather not be, featuring: the author being pissed as hell after spending all day drawing eight pictures for a comic oh my god it really took all day, and then discovering that the Internet connection is so shitty the images won't upload, so y'all have to pretend that I included eight pictures here and cheer and clap and applaud for them.

Insert colorful pictures here. 💦 Use your imagination. 🚗 I'm so tired.

But more importantly: Mabel makes Bill do community service.

EDIT FEB 8: i finally got around to uploading the art lmao

I don't know why I thought all that effort was a good idea. Please appreciate the hell out of it.

####

Two blue- and orange-haired girls trailed after a pink-haired girl as she furiously stormed into the stark white control room. Each wore the same uniform—a skintight space suit with a pleated skirt and heart-shaped patches that matched their hair colors on their sleeves—but the pink-haired girl had taken off her helmet and ripped the patches off her sleeves. "Please, Momoko-chan," the blue-haired girl said, "don't do it. What if you make the director angry—?"

"That devil can't feel a human emotion like that," Momoko snapped, making the blue-haired girl gasp in horror. "I've made up my mind, Aoko-chan! Are you joining me or not?"

Aoko bit her lip, pressing one hand worriedly over her chest. "I can't."

"What about you, Orenjiko-chan?"

The orange-haired girl shook her head, her curly corkscrew locks bouncing inside her helmet.

"Fine! Then I'll just do it myself." Momoko stomped into the aisle between the computer consoles and looked up at a shadowy figure at a desk, overseeing the control center from a mezzanine level high above. "Hey, Director!" She threw her heart-shaped patches to the ground. "I quit!"

The shadowy figure didn't flinch. A cold, emotionless voice said, "Is that so."

"I've had enough of your lies! You told me my anger was just me tapping into the righteous fury I needed to protect humanity—but it isn't! These battles are... doing something to me!" She held her hands in front of her face, watching as they trembled. "Every time I'm on the battlefield, my berserker rage keeps getting stronger and stronger. The last time I lost control, I turned on my own friends and nearly killed..." She looked guiltily at the cast on Aoko's broken arm. "I won't do it again. I want out."

"It's too late for that." The director leaned forward into the light. A small floppy-eared albino bunny in a navy blue suit sat on the desk, the reflection on its sunglasses hiding its cruel pink eyes, its fuzzy white paws pressed together in front of its face. "We made a deal, Momoko-chan. I gave you your wish, and you gave us your heart." A wall lit up behind the bunny, displaying a dozen glass terrariums. Each one contained a live, beating human heart. "The battery we replaced your heart with must be running low. You'll need to recharge it, whether you want to or not."

Momoko flinched. She reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a heart-shaped crystal on a chain like she was retrieving a pocket watch. It faintly glowed a hot pink, but even as she looked at it, it faded closer and closer to black.

She frowned and stuffed the crystal back in her pocket. "Then I want to trade back."

"What?!"

"My heart for my wish."

"You can't," the bunny said. "That wish is the only thing protecting your friends! If I reverse it—"

"That's just it," Momoko said. "When I made that wish, I thought my friends needed me to protect them! But now, having fought alongside them..." She looked to Aoko, and then Orenjiko. "I know the truth. And it's that they never needed me to save them! They were always strong enough to save themselves. I just needed to have faith in them."

Aoko's eyes watered up. Orenjiko said, "Oh, Momoko-chan—"

The bunny pounded a soft paw on its desk, calling the girls' attention back. "When will you learn, child! Once you've made a choice, there's no way to undo it! None of your mistakes will ever be erased—and no matter how you grovel, God will not forgive you! So will you die in shame like a worm? Or will you shoulder the burden of your sins and carry on into the future?"

The bunny sat back and looked at a photo in a cracked picture frame on its desk. It showed another bunny in an apron with big golden hoop earrings, holding a tinier bunny that was sucking on a pacifier. A tear rolled down the bunny's fuzzy cheek, hidden from the girls behind its paws.

"We must all live with the consequences of our choices," the bunny said. "Now you must live with yours."

Aoko and Orenjiko frowned and looked away from the bunny, afraid to meet their director's steely gaze. Even Momoko's scowl wavered with doubt.

The bunny adjusted its sunglasses, reasserting its cool, detached demeanor. "The next angel attack will reach Retro Tokyo at midnight. And if I'm not mistaken, you have less than 24 hours until your batteries run dry. You'll need to be in your cockpits to recharge them. You might as well fight."

Aoko's shoulders sagged in defeat. Orenjiko murmured, "Yes, sir." They meekly crept out of the control center.

Only Momoko remained, glaring up at the director. It glared down, unmoved. Momoko grit her teeth and growled at it.

"Enough foolishness. You know what you have to do," the bunny said. "Get in the Fukuin robot, Momoko."

"Dang it!" She stamped her foot with an angry grunt and trudged out of the room.

The shot closed in on the bunny's face as it murmured, "Someday, you'll understand," and then the screen went black. The words Neon Crisis Revelations Angry Cute Girl: Annihilation! Episode 23: The Dark Heart of the White Rabbit! flashed on screen as the ending theme played.

Soos said, "If you ask me, that's one of this season's best episodes. It's often forgotten for the lack of spectacular mecha combat Annihilation is known for, but I find the emotionally-driven episodes give me more to think about later, and we couldn't have gotten this kind of character development out of Momoko in a more action-packed episode. Plus, it gave Director Bunbun some much-needed depth. It doesn't excuse its actions, but it explains them."

"This is exactly why Bunbun's my favorite character," Melody said. "It feels so bad for its mistakes, but all it knows how to do is double down on them. I just wanna give it a hug."

"As much as you want Bunbun to stand down, it's clear why it thinks it can't. It's a textbook example of the sunk cost fallacy," Ford said thoughtfully.

As the episode credits played, Fiddleford leaned over to whisper to Ford, "I think I might've figured out a way to synthesize that paradox element we're needing."

"Did you? Fiddleford, that's amazing—"

"Don't get too excited just yet, I only might've figured it. Usually, I'd want to run a lot more calculations to confirm it—but considering the dire circumstances, we might just need to run the experiment and see what happens."

Ford stared at him. "Skipping calculations? Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"Heh! You hush. It ain't dangerous, I just don't know if it'll work. We'll have to pull a fast one on the universe."

Ford was dying to know what that meant; but before he could ask, the credits ended and Momoko's voice actor perkily announced, "Next time on Neon Crisis Revelations Angry Cute Girl: Annihilation!"

A school exploded. A bright orange combat mech as tall as a skyscraper exploded. A steel grey warship exploded.

Director Bunbun's voice said, "Remember, Momoko, your true enemy isn't the angels, but entropy itself. We are fighting to save the universe from a cold grave. If God wants to kill us, we'll just have to kill God first!"

A giant one-eyed mechanical angel spread out four white-hot arms and six wings with metal feathers like enormous knives. It threw back its inhuman head and trumpeted toward the heavens. And then it exploded.

Tate pointed at the exploding angel, pointed at his father, and said, "Don't even think about it, Dad."

"I wasn't! I ain't got enough beards to run all them arms." Between episodes, Fiddleford hissed to Ford, "I'll explain tomorrow. Come over with Stanley and Soos. I'll need all y'all's help to pull this off."

Ford nodded. He'd have to tell Stan in the morning. He just hoped whatever Fiddleford had in mind would work.

####

As soon as the vending machine opened, Ford could hear Mabel in the living room: "Checkmate! You owe me a soda."

"That's what yooou thiiink," Bill said, voice sing-song. "Congratulations on cornering my king's body double."

"Aw, man! I hate when you do that."

"Good luck finding him amongst all my pawns!"

They were up this early? Ford had thought he'd have to wake the kids. (He'd hoped he would get to them before Bill was up.) He leaned into the living room to see what they were up to.

Bill and Mabel were sitting at the table, playing chess. He recognized some of Mabel's "fairy chess" pieces on the board. They were obviously well into their current game; each had claimed about half the other's pieces.

(It was eerie how much more Bill looked like Bill these days; he'd somehow found a top hat to add to his ensemble, and now when Ford saw him from behind—yellow hair blending into his yellow hoodie, with the eye on his hood laying flat on his back—for a split second, he nearly looked like himself again.)

Mabel waved. "Good morning, Grunkle Ford!" (Bill glanced back at Ford over his shoulder, and the illusion was shattered.) "You're up early!"

"Good morning. So are you." He nodded toward Bill with a disapproving frown. "You do know he cheats, right?"

Mabel gushed, "I know! It's so fun!"

"She's a worse cheat than I am," Bill announced proudly.

"It's not cheating when I do it, I'm a senator!" Mabel leaned across the table, snatched the top hat off Bill's head, and proudly set it on her own. "I can legalize anything I want!"

"Well oh-kay, Miss Senator." Bill stole the hat back. "We're still monarchists on this side of the board."

Ford took a few steps closer to inspect their game more closely. "Why are there sandwich cookies on the chessboard?"

Bill said, "Mabel's got the knights all cozy in the horse stable," he pointed at the "nest" Mabel had made by folding the bottom of her sweater up, "so I'm trying to coax mine back out with delicious treats."

"It'll never work!" Mabel crowed. "The horses are too cozy!"

"I'll get them eventually! Even the loneliest monkey goes to Wire Mother to feed!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Ford said, "He's referring to an important psychology experiment where baby monkeys were..." He caught sight of Bill's face, looking right at him and grinning oh so brightly, and mumbled, "Never mind." He cleared his throat. "Anyway—Mabel, when you've finished your game, could you head downstairs? I need to discuss something with you."

"Oh. Okay, sure," Mabel said, giving him a questioning look.

"How come?" Bill's exposed eye was locked onto Ford like a laser. "Is it about the Mysteries?"

The what? Before Ford could ask, Mabel quickly said, "I haven't told Bill anything about the Mysteries, I promise!" She winked at Ford.

Hmm. Ford looked at Bill and said coolly, "I don't think the Mysteries are any of your business, Cipher." He had no idea what game he'd just been roped into, but he was gratified by how quickly Bill scowled.

"I'll be back downstairs in a few minutes," Ford said; and then left to pass the same message on to Dipper and Stan.

####

Ford woke Dipper; told him, like he'd told Stan, not to go through the living room to reach the elevator so Bill wouldn't notice how many people were congregating downstairs; and then headed back down. Stan was out of bed by now, drinking coffee and still in his underwear as he spectated the chess game from the doorway. Stan nodded, "Morning."

"Morning." Ford paused to watch alongside him.

Over thirty years ago, Ford's chess games with Bill had been minor acts of psychological torture. In their first meeting, after flattering the dickens out of Ford's intelligence, Bill had set up a game of "interdimensional" chess; Ford had quickly figured out from Bill's moves that some rules of interdimensional chess were different from Earth's chess; and then, afraid of looking ignorant in front of this strange, friendly muse, Ford had decided to try to pick up the rules of interdimensional chess based on what Bill did rather than ask for an explanation.

The challenge of figuring out the new rules might have been fun, if he hadn't lived in fear of making a fool of himself in front of an interstellar angel. As it was, though, he constantly fell into traps he didn't know were there ("Rookie mistake, by using your bishop to check me you activated my wormhole!"); he never seemed to remember all the things the pieces could do ("Sure, I upgraded my queen to ricochet off the edges squares—I'm surprised you haven't yet!"); and more often than not, when he tried to emulate Bill's moves, Bill gently "reminded" him that it wasn't the right time or place for Ford to do that; and Ford, humiliated and sheepish, had "corrected" his error. He won rarely, but not often.

It took years for Ford to learn there was no such devil as "interdimensional chess." Bill had used the name as a ruse to make up whatever rules he wanted. And on top of that, Ford had it from several reliable sources that Bill wasn't even that good at chess.

Now here Bill was pulling the same con on Mabel with "fairy chess"—and when he tried to tell her it didn't matter that she'd taken out his (disguised) king because the queen was co-regent, she told him that her pieces had democratized and Bill couldn't win until he'd defeated all of them. He not only allowed her this rule; he actually seemed thrilled. Proud.

It was so different from the cordial, half-interested way he'd played chess with Ford.

Ford was sure Bill had just decided this was the best way to keep Mabel's attention; she would have seen secret rules as an unfair imbalance rather than a mental challenge, she had no doubt asked Bill to explain how "fairy chess" worked rather than stupidly tried to guess herself, and if she noticed her opponent was disinterested she'd probably lose interest too rather than try harder. Obviously, Bill had to handle Mabel differently than Ford.

But a small part of Ford wondered: if he'd ever looked Bill dead in the eye, moved a rook like it was a bishop, and confidently informed him that the board had slipped into a mirror universe—would Bill have laughed in delight and congratulated him on figuring out the game?

Stan nudged Ford. "Hey. You look like you could bite through a chair leg," he murmured. "Are you alright?"

Ford snapped, "No, of course I'm not."

Stan gave him a surprised look. "What?"

"What?" Ford shook his head. "Sorry—I misheard you. I thought you asked if I was jealous. Of course I'm not jealous; and yes, I'm alright." He cleared his throat. "What was I—? The study. Right." He clasped his hands behind his back and marched across the living room, nodded to Mabel as he passed, ignored Bill, and swept into the gift shop.

Stan stared after him, stared into the living room trying to figure out what the heck Ford could possibly be jealous over—Bill and Mabel were cracking up over a rook Mabel had turned upside-down and debating the mechanics of a reverse-gravity chess variant—then shook his head and headed back to the kitchen.

Mabel took out one of Bill's bishops and snuck two sandwich cookies off the board to eat without him noticing. He was only half focusing on the game now, distracted by the sound of the most beautiful word in the English language ringing in his head: jealous, jealous, jealous.

####

Stan was the first down, followed by Mabel—"Grunkle Ford, just so you know, I told Bill you gave me that clear pyramid because you inducted me into the Mysteries! He's been going cuckoo trying to find out what that means!"—and then Dipper, hair still disheveled from sleep. Ford nodded. "Good. Everyone's here."

"Great," Stan said, "now what's going on? What's with the whole cloak-and-dagger act?"

"Yesterday, Fiddleford informed me that he may be on the verge of a scientific breakthrough—but he needs some assistance. Stanley, he specifically said it's crucial that both of us and Soos help."

Stan groaned, rolling his eyes. "If this is another one of his cockamamie giant robots..." (Mabel laughed, "Cockamamie.")

"It isn't," Ford said seriously. "Soos is already prepared to go. But if the three of us are at the Northwest estate..."

Stan nodded in comprehension. "And Mrs. Ramirez is out visiting family today." He looked at Dipper and Mabel. "So it'll be just the two of you in the shack with the demon today."

Mabel nodded. Dipper frowned; he'd had an investigation he wanted to go on today. "So, this scientific breakthrough—is it...?"

Ford paused. "Too soon to tell. But, if everything goes stupendously well... it could be, yes."

"What are the odds of it going that well?" Stan asked.

"At a loose, uneducated guess? 20%. But I'd give only 20% odds that it will end in complete failure, too. Far more likely, what we do today will just bring us one step closer to... to." He shrugged. "To the end of everything."

There was a split second too long of silence as everyone tried not to look at Mabel to see how she took that. But she just nodded again.

Ford took in a deep breath and nodded. "So. Dipper, Mabel, you've got Soos's number in case of emergency," he said. "I know you've dealt with Bill yourselves a few times, but—are you both confident you can handle him entirely alone today?"

Stan laughed, breaking some of the tension in the room. "Of course they can handle him! Have you seen 'em? Mabel's got that monster doing anything she says!"

"Oh, come on," Mabel said, waving off the compliment but grinning. "I just get how he thinks, that's all."

"Yeah, and that makes you the only one!"

Dipper gritted his teeth. It stung that only Mabel was getting a vote of confidence—what, did they not think he could handle Bill, too? But he supposed he couldn't argue with it. Mabel was the expert on Bill. Dipper couldn't even have a full conversation with him without getting tangled up in weird haunting metaphors about caves and shadows.

Ford nudged Stan. "But they still need to keep their guard up around him." To Dipper and Mabel, he said, "Do not tell him we're gone, so he can't try to take advantage of the adults being missing. And don't leave him unsupervised. We should be back by dinner."

"Got it," Dipper said.

Mabel snapped off a salute and said, "You can count on us!"

####

Mabel burst into the living room, made a beeline for Bill lying down on the couch, and flung herself across his stomach. "Hey Bill! If you don't tell anyone that I told you that the adults are gone, I'll take you outside to do something fun!"

Bill grinned and tossed aside the Gold Chains For Old Men issue he'd picked up. "Deal!"

####

"This is such a bad idea," Dipper told Mabel as she collected buckets and towels. "You don't trust him that much, do you?"

"It's fine. We have an understanding now," Mabel said. "We speak the same language!"

Dipper grimaced. "I don't really think..."

From the entryway, Bill called, "Found the bracelets! They were hanging on the coat rack." He ducked into the kitchen, already wearing one half of the enchanted bracelets. "Ready?"

"Ready!" Mabel grabbed her half as she ran by, and they were out the door.

Dipper reluctantly followed.

####

On Summerween, some kids had gone at Stan's car with eggs, toilet paper, and—by the looks of the damage—probably also several rocks, keys, and the scratchiest branches they could find. Stan had already washed off what damage he could; but there were still some bits of egg stuck in the seams of the car, and the paint job was a tragic scraped-up disaster, capped off by the giant phrase "TRICK-OR-CHEATER" scratched across the driver's side doors.

Mabel led them to the car and set down her buckets. "Wait here, I've gotta get the hose."

Bill studied the contents of the buckets—cleaning brushes, towels, various liquid soaps. "So, what are we doing?" He emptied one bucket's supplies. "Adding to the damage?" He lifted the metal bucket over his head, prepared to throw it down on the car's hood.

"NOOO! BILL!"

He laughed, "I'm messing with you!" He set the bucket back down.

Mabel returned with a running hose and started filling the buckets. "Grunkle Stan was complaining about how hard it is to repair a classic car like this," she said. "So, I thought we could surprise him by fixing it while he's gone. And you can show everyone how much nicer you're getting by helping!"

"Aw, what?" Bill planted his hands on his hips. "You took me outside to do community service?"

"Bill." Mabel grabbed his arms. "I think it's really important that you show everyone how much nicer you're getting. Really."

Bill swallowed down the urge to scoff. "Sure—but by doing chores for Stan? I'll be nice, but I won't be boring."

"We can play with the hose, too!"

Bill thought that over. "Okay, I'm in." It was an opportunity to get some sunshine, at least.

"Good!" Mabel grinned evilly, lifted the hose, and sprayed it at Bill's face.

He ducked just in time for the stream to miss his head and knock off his hat (which Mabel had generously permitted Bill to hold onto, since she'd forgotten she owned it). He snatched up a brush and a towel like a sword and shield and backed away from Mabel. "Ha! You'll have to do better than that, kid! I can see every possible future branching out from this moment—you'll never land a surprise attack on me!"

"You can see the future, but can you see... this?" Mabel yanked on the hose. It pulled taut behind Bill's ankles.

He tripped, yelped, and landed on his back. "No," he said, staring at the sky. "Apparently I can't."

Mabel sprayed the hose in his face.

Within a couple of minutes, they were on opposite sides of the car, lobbing soggy soapy sponges and towels back and forth at each other—and, in the process, accidentally managing to get the car a tiny bit cleaner as their projectiles drizzled soap over it. Bill had thus far successfully dodged nearly all of Mabel's projectiles—his lower legs and sleeves were more soaked than the rest of him, and mainly from preparing his attacks—while Mabel was quickly drenched and accusing Bill of cheating. Waddles, who had been allowed outside (and, Bill noted, not required to wear a leash), elected not to join the battle, but was quite content to bask in the mud puddle expanding around the car.

And Dipper, meanwhile, sat on the porch, his journal open and ignored in his lap, glaring at Bill and Mabel, disapproving of this scene as hard as he could.

"Okay, truce!" Mabel shouted. "Time out! Pause! Sto—" A soaked towel landed on her face as Bill cackled. She pulled it off. "My bucket's empty, I've gotta refill it."

"You think I'd show mercy just for that?"

"Seriously, Bill!" She ran over to the porch with her bucket and hose.

"Coward!" Bill called; and then, bereft of any targets to attack, entertained himself by picking up a sponge and actually starting to clean the car.

Dipper leaned over toward Mabel. "This is such a bad idea," he muttered.

"No it's not, it's great. Look, he's already helping."

"I'm serious. His aim's getting too good, he could throw a bucket over the top of the car and knock you out or something—"

"But he won't," Mabel insisted.

"How do you know?"

"Because..." Mabel attempted to convey her knowledge by swinging her arms emphatically. "Because he won't, okay? Bill's gonna do community service today and nothing's gonna go wrong!"

Dipper glared toward Bill—just to see that he was looking straight at them, not even trying to hide that he was listening in. He flipped up his eye patch to wink at Dipper.

"Fine." Dipper slammed his journal shut and got to his feet. "But I'm not sticking around."

Mabel gave him a surprised look. "Dipper? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" Just Mabel thinking washing a car would make Bill worthy of coming off of death row—which meant she wasn't taking the threat he posed seriously. Which apparently she didn't need to, because she understood him so well—everyone said so—while Dipper, official junior paranormal investigator, somehow wasn't the one who understood the alien demon, and now Mabel kept spending all her free time around Bill because they got each other so well—but Dipper didn't care. Why would he care? There was like a 20% chance Bill could be dead by the end of the day. Which wasn't big, but it was something. "I just don't wanna sit around watching you wash the car, okay?"

"Oh," Mabel said, shifting awkwardly. "You could help out?"

"No he can't!" Bill yelled.

Dipper ground his teeth and tried to ignore him. "I've got other stuff to do. I have a paranormal investigation to go on. It's what I wanted to do today until we got stuck on triangle-sitting duty. So if you're so sure you've got the situation under control, I can just go ahead and do that anyway." Under his breath, he muttered, "I thought we could do it together, but if you'd rather hang out with Bill..."

Mabel bristled. "Well—fine, then! I do have it under control. Thanks for noticing." A tad guardedly, she asked, "So... what's today's big investigation?"

Dipper hesitated, trying to decide how irritated he really was; but if Mabel had extended an olive branch, so should he. He flipped through his journal. "You know about all the recent nighttime burglaries?" He showed Mabel a page where he'd glued a printed-out photo of a long-legged, armless, ghostlike creature, and next to it paperclipped an article cut out from the Gravity Falls Gossiper. "Something's been stealing jeans from every clothing store in town. Based on the surveillance footage, I bet that it's a mysterious, little-known creature called—"

"The Fremont Nightwigglers?" Bill cut in. "Yeah, this is about the time of year their migratory route should take them through Oregon. You oughta check the dumpsters in town. They flock in parking lots at night, but during the day they tend to nest together in half-empty dumpsters."

Dipper stared at Bill.

"You're welcome!" Bill said.

Dipper couldn't even enjoy a good old-fashioned monster hunt without Bill stealing half the thrill of discovery. "Great," Dipper grumbled. He'd better get out of here—before Bill also spoiled what planet the Nightwigglers were from. "I'll see you later, Mabel." He trudged off to find his bike, angrily kicking a patch of grass as he went.

Mabel watched him go, half considering chasing after him.

And then Bill very carefully lobbed a soaking sponge straight at the back of her head.

Mabel squealed—"Bill!"—and charged back into battle.

####

It took them the better part of the morning to finish washing the car—in part because the growing mud puddle kept undoing their work. When they were done, Mabel stepped back and announced, "Okay, great work! Now it's time for... part two! Covering up the scratches." She whipped out two aerosol cans, "With spray paint!" She rattled the cans like underwhelming maracas. 

"Whoa, and you didn't even bring me safety goggles?"

Mabel stared at him. "Since when do you use safety anything?"

"I'm just saying. I'm not sure I trust you wielding spray paint near me."

Mabel thought it was still too soon to be cracking jokes about anything that happened in the Fearamid; but she punched his arm and said, "You'll be fine as long as you don't try to kill me. Here!" She handed him a third can.

He accepted it and shook it up. (Mabel felt like he was just doing it to hear the little ball rattling, too.) "So what's the plan?"

"Grunkle Stan said usually, car dents are... hammered out? Somehow?"

Bill nodded. "Intriguingly counterintuitive."

"But I don't know how to do that," Mabel said. "But! I saw this great makeup tutorial that explains contouring! You use makeup a little lighter and darker than your skin to make fake shadows so your face looks like a different shape!" She held up her cans next to Bill's; his was as near to the same color as the car as Mabel could find, while the other two were a bit lighter and darker. "So I thought, maybe we can use different shades of red to contour the dents and make them disappear? If we spray the shadowy parts with light red and spray the pokey-outie parts with dark red?"

Bill looked at the car thoughtfully. "Yeah, that makes perfect sense! I mean, what's 'three-dimensional' vision anyway?" He set his can on the ground so he could hold his arms out, forming a rectangle between his thumbs and forefingers, framing the car in between like it was a picture. "It's just a two-dimensional view that you take on faith is three-dimensional, because your mind's learned that highlights and shadows are the curvature being revealed by sunlight!"

Mabel had never considered that her vision of the world was a 2D view that looked 3D; but she had taken a lot of art classes, and the first lesson of a new art class was always drawing a circle and carefully shading it in pencil so that it looked like shadows being cast on a ball, so she kinda sorta figured she got it. "Yeah! Exactly like that."

"So you're absolutely right: shadowing the highlights and highlighting the shadows will just cancel out that curvature and make it look perfectly flat," Bill said. "You're an art genius, Shooting Star. We'll have this car looking good as new in no time."

####

Thirty minutes later, they had a scratched, dented car covered in terrible-looking mismatched blobs of red. They actually made the dents stand out more.

Mabel and Bill surveyed their masterpiece silently.

"I've figured out our problem," Bill said. "We forgot to account for Earth's rotation. As the planet turns, the sun casts shadows at different angles, so the dents' shadows will look slightly different."

"Ah. Yeah," Mabel said. "That's gotta be it."

"When I take over this town again, I'll freeze time and we can paint this thing properly."

Mabel wondered if there was a way to briefly freeze time with the time tape they'd confiscated, before quickly remembering exactly what she'd been trying to do when she'd started Weirdmageddon in the first place. "Let's come up with a plan that doesn't involve messing with the fabric of spacetime."

"Hm." Bill planted his hands on his hips thoughtfully. "I have a great idea. What if we cover up the dents with something cooler. Like—flames. Or lightning—"

Mabel gasped, "Or a wizard!"

Bill gave her a puzzled look. "Where are we going to find a wizard—? Oh, right, painting a wizard."

"Bill, that's perfect. We could give Grunkle Stan the airbrushed wizard van of his dreams!"

"Oooh. Oh yeah. I love that." Bill nodded appreciatively. "I've always thought Stanley was more of an 'airbrushed hot babe' guy, though."

"We can put a hot wizard babe on the other side," Mabel said. "And the wizard could be fighting a unicorn! Because that's awesome! And the unicorn probably deserves it. Grunkle Stan would totally fight a unicorn if he ever met one."

"I think we've got a plan."

They retrieved a wider variety of spray paint cans from inside the shack. Mabel took over the majority of the art duties—she was the only one of the two of them who could draw wizards or unicorns—and she left the little details (stars and lasers and so forth) to Bill. He got sidetracked several times drawing multiple copies of his own face around the battle scene, until Mabel pointed out Stan would get arrested driving around with those so they'd just have to cover them up.

Mabel had finished the first mural and was working on the hot wizard babe (it was riding a dolphin) when Bill called from the other side of the car, "Head's up, we're out of orange."

"That's the fourth color you've run out of. What are you doing?" Mabel circled around to the other side of the car to see his work. He'd added some graffiti across the windows in an alien alphabet—Mabel recognized some of the letters from when he'd left coded messages in Dipper's journal—and between the wizard and the unicorn...

Mabel wrinkled her nose. There was an immense multicolored blob stretching between the two figures, scribbled over multiple times in random patterns with every color they had. Well, now she knew why Bill was running out of colors. "Bill, what is that?"

"It's the wizard's magic rainbow laser! The one he's shooting at the unicorn."

"It's too many colors," Mabel said.

Bill gave her a shocked, deeply offended look. "Too many—? Who are you and what did you do with the real Mabel?"

"You can't use every color. For a laser like this, it's gotta be three or four colors."

"Unbelievable."

"And they need to be straight! If it's scribbled like that, it looks like a blob."

"It's more realistic that way! Wild magical powers don't go in a straight line—the more powerful it is, the more chaotic it gets!" Bill gestured insistently at the blob. "I'm doing a perspective thing, here—the colors layering over each other shows how they're all weaving together and wrapping around each other! See?"

Mabel studied the blob more closely. She shook her head. "Sorry Bill. It's just a mess."

Bill threw the empty orange can on the ground and flung his hands in the air. "I can't believe you of all people don't appreciate my art."

"The stars look nice," Mabel said. "And the alien text. It looks like magic wizard runes."

Bill grunted.

Maybe they needed a break. "I think we need to buy some replacement colors before we can finish," Mabel said.

"Yeah, sure," Bill said. "Pop open the car door for me, I can drive us to the hardware store—"

"Nope!" Mabel didn't trust him that much. "You're staying here. We'd get in too much trouble if anyone finds out I let you drive."

"You worry too much about getting in trouble," Bill said; but now that the conversation had moved on from the blob, he already sounded less irritated.

"Sorry, but you've gotta wait here while I get supplies. I'll just bike to the hardware store." She pointed at the house. "Back inside!"

Bill considered the command like he thought he had a choice in it; then nodded in approval. "Fine. Just help me get lunch outta the fridge before you go."

Surely he could find some way to entertain himself, all alone in the Mystery Shack, completely unsupervised.

####

(This chapter was a nonstop train of the most ridiculous scenes I could think of, I hope y'all enjoyed. If you did, I'd love a comment—some of my favorite jokes and character moments so far are in this chapter and I wanna know what y'all liked. Also after spending 9 hours on a comic my internet is too shitty for me to post I could really use some nice comments, thank you, I suffer so much for my art)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #mabel pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #gravity falls fanart #my art #(now that it's been ADDED) #(last couple weeks I've been trying to draw Bill more 'on model' relative to the body proportions used in canon. which means Big Head.) #(looks kinda goofy to me. helps him look shorter tho.)

[glitchpirate]

It's 2023 and I'm still using the same template now 7 years in a row! Yippeee!

This year I decided to ramble about each artwork presented so uh. Storytime! Under the cut.

(Also usual reminder that now I have a GW2 side blog so that's where I'll upload GW2 artworks from now on -> @glitchgw2 (except the zine piece because I entered the zine with this blog))

January: I was going through a bit of an artblock, most of the things I drew this month were traced. One of the only things not traced was this Anassy! "Ah, etto... bleh!" I said after tracing the 5th drawing I saw on the internet.

February: a commission! Long overdue, but I finally finished it. Sylvaries are always tough to render. >.< The other things I drew this month were art party doodles and personal stuff.

March: one of the two months where the featured piece is the only thing I "finished" that month. And last minute, too! Made for trans visibility day which was on the very last day of March.

April: due to several things, Tyria Pride 2022's art commission giveaways got delayed to 2023. This was my piece for the person I was assigned to! ^_^ This was fun, I found out some new ways to render sylvari hair...

May: I vividly remember seeing a Diavolo art with this same reference and I was like hey. I could do this too but with Lucien. How haven't I done this before. P.S.: he's actually nothing like Bateman but it's a sick cover anyway lol. Mmm knife...

June: it was a sick (as in like epic) month for me. I reworked Dawn and Incendere (my Ghost OC), welcomed my unhinged self and drew a lot of nsfw. But not good nor holy enough to share. :P But it was a nice practice anyway. I chose one drawing of Dawn because out of everything I drew it looks the most "clean" and finished.

July: I remembered My Life as a Teenage Robot as I do tri-monthly and almost made an AU for Lucien. Almost. So instead I just made whatever this is. This was one of the most fun pieces I've ever did, I finally feel comfortable lining in CSP and just in general this was super shapey and smooth to work on. <3

August: Tyria Pride giveaway commission but this time, in time! I got to work on a lovely charr which I don't do often! My other choices would have been a cropped nsfw commission but I lowkey like this one better.

September: the other month where I didn't draw anything but this. Had a banger idea for Gliaster's future which is them becoming a lich but also being corrupted by malignant powers so they're now even more evil and also driven by vengeance towards the Commander and Aurene. Tried to come up with a design for them, alas this piece. It's... very in progress. But I like said progress so far.

October: the opportunity for an art related full-time job came up which meant I had to up my portfolio and draw some realistic/semi-realistic studies. I was surprised by myself lmao but ngl it was also a big pain in the ass. Art is suffering. <3

November: the continuation of October but now with an original piece! Felt like drawing one of my best friend's GW2 characters. <3 Haven't uploaded this one yet as I might rework the background sometime.

December: and finally, my piece for Commander Of Your Heart GW2 zine! Which wasn't actually restricted to only Commander characters, but any other OCs/player characters too, so of course I chose Gliaster. :D And we can apparently show teasers, so I can include this little bit! But what is Gliaster up to? Find out in February, for free!

*

Aaand that's it. It was actually super fun to look back to the year not only in pictures but some words too. :D If you read this all, I appreciate you, thank you so much. <3

#2023 #2023 art summary #art summary #my art #im gonna be evil and tag the fandoms too <3 #rayman #gw2 #guild wars 2 #splatoon #tf2

[pokemonranch]

Bestie how far into the future do you play usually before drawing and uploading it?

-🐈 (calling someone bestie when you literally don’t know eachother at all is so funny LMAO)

//Usually I draw 2-4 drawings in a row (depends on the mood, inspiration and my free time) and I queue them so they post every two days or so. So when I finish something, it's between a day and a bit less than a week before it gets posted. That's only for "personal" art AKA Clay's Pokémon

//For an ask, it depends if it makes me feel inspired to do a doodle or nah? If it does it honestly hangs around my drafts until the weekend, I draw it and then I send it to my queue to be posted the next day. I have around a day and a half of queue always prepared in advance, just in case. Idk

#//unnecessary long response but im like that. #//im sorry dkdk #mod talks #//also my inbox is... bigger than you might expect so there is at least three days of buffering until i get to a given ask #pokeblogging #ask

[chirpycreations]

I live, I think :P

Hello, I've been drowning in school work & procrastination the last 3-4 weeks. How have you all been doing? Good I hope and if not, I'd like to offer you a complimentary hug :)

Okie dokie, so I'm nearly finished my art course! Rather exciting, I've got two big assessments left, and I'm done. I'm looking forward to sharing some of my work once the course is over, I've got a couple really nice ones I wanna share & add to my portfolio.

I also want to get back into doing weekly art uploads. It's a habit I've really fallen out of and want to get back into. Try get my creativity going again too. I dunno how to describe it but I've been feeling really... blank. I just... I want to draw, but I look at the paper and nothing happens. Which, it's really weird given I used to be SO good at it. I think it's a lack of practice, since I've really been hammering away at story writing the last 2 years. Nothing wrong with that, and my wrist injury certainly thanked me for the long break, but I just wanna get the creative juices following again and a consistent upload every week schedule is a good way to rebuild this rusty habit and you guys'll get some cool art out of it too ^^

I don't have much else to say. It's late my side, my brain is sleepy. Mostly wanted to pop in, give a quick update on life and lack of art & story writing.

For my Lost Children folks: I'm working on it. Suffering some minor writer's block in all honestly (or maybe burn out from 4 nightmare assessments in a row >> ), so I'm doing what I can without forcing it.

Righty'O, I'm off. Good night/day.

#update #sleepy brain

[ir0n-angel]

I posted 17,622 times in 2022

That's 2,641 more posts than 2021!

104 posts created (1%)

17,518 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@madangel19

@crackinglamb

@steamcaptain

@lilbittymonster

@taygertot

I tagged 10,640 of my posts in 2022

Only 40% of my posts had no tags

#minerals - 1,851 posts

#hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha - 1,066 posts

#i'm hungry - 873 posts

#awesome art - 685 posts

#gaming dice - 496 posts

#sound on - 406 posts

#this - 249 posts

#but also - 241 posts

#cute art - 237 posts

#for reference - 179 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#can you imagine what the world would be like if our governments weren't run by people with fortunes tied to harmful environmental practices?

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Please use punctuation.

Please use punctuation, especially if you’re making a long post. I don’t care if it’s the wrong one. It can be all commas all the time. Or periods. Or be radical and use a semicolon. It’s hard enough to read walls of text. It’s impossible to read them when there’s nothing to break up the sentences.

This message brought to you by one of the millions of users with dyslexia.

18 notes - Posted October 2, 2022

#4

@fiadhaisteach 

A present for you.

21 notes - Posted November 23, 2022

#3

*skin crawls* *hits the block button*

Okay, because there seems to be a little bit of miscommunication here, please take note of the following:

I’m a bi/pan-romantic demisexual, ADHD sufferer, and I have a tenuous acquaintanceship with gender at best. I’m an atheist omnivore that believes black lives matter, trans men are men, trans women are women, nonbinaries are awesome, children are real people and not property, love is love, vaccines save lives, climate crisis is a real problem, platonic love is just as important as romantic love, abortion should be safe and legal and none of your damn business, social media is bad for your health, no one should own assault weapons, and diet culture and capitalism and cult of celebrity should die in a fire.

We got that? Good. I’m not interested in having a debate with y’all over this. I don’t care to hear your point of view and I don’t dance with devil’s advocates. I’m here for rocks, recipes, and the occasional awful pun. If it ain’t enough for you to sit quietly and enjoy the pretty pictures, get blocked. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Good riddance.

29 notes - Posted July 20, 2022

#2

If you have the spoons (& willingness), I am curious & would love it if you could tell me why so many pretty minerals look like red lyrium.

Manganese! Also traces of iron, magnesium and/or calcium. But mostly manganese! Manganese gives you red!

I assume we're talking about this bad boy right here:

Rhodochrosite.

Also known as manganese carbonate (MnCO3), it occurs as a hydrothermal vein mineral along with other manganese minerals in low temperature ore deposits such as silver. In its purest form, it creates beautiful crystals like the one pictured above. However, calcium (and sometimes magnesium and zinc) frequently replaces the manganese in the structure, leading to shades of pink, the most common color encountered:

See the full post

31 notes - Posted February 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

💙Back again for the third year in a row, with new prompts!💙

FLUFF-uary is a creation celebration designed to display all your sweetness and light for the whole month of February. There will be a prompt for each day and you can do as many as you like, in any combination or order.

Feel free to write, draw, edit photos/videos...whatever you're inspired to create. Have fun, it's not a contest. You can join in for the whole month, do one or two, or even come up with your own. Do it at your own pace, even after February is over. There's no word or size limits or restrictions other than to keep it sweet (no whump, please – we're all about the comfort zone here).

When uploading your fluffs, please tag properly with the prompt, the tag fluffuary2022, and any other applicable tags (like genre, characters, any content warnings if you decide to go NSFW etc.) Any questions can be directed @ir0n-angel​ and @crackinglamb.   As always, we hope everyone has a good time.

(reader-friendly plain text under the cut)

1. Holding Hands

2. Long Conversations

3. Trust

4. Being Silly

5. Moral Support

6. Shopping Together

7. Love Letters

8. Taking a nap together

9. Caretaking

10. Cooking Together

11. Compliments

12. First 'I love you'

13. Night Out

14. Mutual Pining

15. Love Bites

16. Flower Crowns/Putting Flowers In Their Hair

17. 'This Made Me Think of You'

18. Domestic Intimacy

19. Spooning

20. Acts of Devotion

21. Trying Something New

22. Bearhugs

23. Reminiscing

24. Wearing/Stealing Each Other's Clothes

25. Adopting a plant/pet

See the full post

358 notes - Posted January 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[fandomwh-0-re]

Sunday Brunch- Chapter One

pairing: dramione

coming back from hiatus for a long term dramione fic. i wrote a small drabble on tumblr that me and a lot of people ended up really liking! i’m uploading it here, on twitter, and ao3. i’ve got the same username on all three! enjoy.

warnings/summary: draco is a little angsty and a simp

word count: about 850?

masterlist

Draco had earned his respect back. He had endured a year in Askaban and another four climbing his way out of the hole he put himself in. He even got a job at the Ministry. He was set.

He had this grand plan and so far, he had performed it well. He spent time learning to talk without…negative infliction in his voice. He donated money to charities that he had hand picked and even cared about. He figured out what muggle coffee machines were. He found a way to stop depending on his fathers approval. He found a therapist. He apologized to quite a few people. He made friends. He certainly lived up to his name as head of the Dragon Research an Restraints Bureau at the ministry. All he had to do was work his way up the department ladder. All he had to do was find someone willing to marry him so that his mother would get off his ass. And then he was set.

Except for the atrocious, nagging, infuriating disturbance that was Hermione Granger.

He couldn’t escape her. She was everywhere all the time. She was always around Draco’s friends, but he couldn’t complain about that because they were hers first. She was always sitting next to him when they went out for drinks after work. She was always in his office asking questins for work. He supposed he counldn’t blame her for any of these things much. But he could blame her for being beautiful and distracting and making him laugh and believe that maybe he has some redeeming qualities left. She was holding him back from finding any woman that could live up to her and if he was honest, she was keeping him from climbing the corporate ladder. If he changed offices, would she visit him still? Would she stop by to clarify the wording in his letter if she had to walk all the way to the department offices? Would she still ask him for coffee breaks? He didn’t want to take the chance of losing what he already had and Draco wanted to entertain the hope of more for as long as possible.

She was ruining his plan.

-/-

“I just don’t understand why goblins running the bank is a fine idea but Merlin forbid any other creature decides to be a productive member of society,” Hermione stabbed a peice of her salad, “They say I’m too radical every time I bring up expanding voting rights.”

“Well it is,” Hermione shot him a glare, “Let me finish, Granger. It is radical to them, it’s the only way things have been done for the past few centuries. It’s going to be a slow process of overturning opinions.”

“I know, I just…” She didn’t finish her sentence, shoving salad into her mouth.

Draco glanced up to the clock near the door, deflating when he realized it’s been half an hour. Hermione followed his gaze and he cursed at himself for drawing her attention.

His eyes flickered to her as she ate one last tomato and then covered the to-go bowl with a plastic cover.

“Well,” She gave a small smile as she stood, “Time for work.”

“So it is, Granger.”

-/-

Draco’s days went by excruciatingly slow. It seemed like a single day lasted 70 hours. He used to be very energetic as a child. He had loved climbing the trees surrounding the manor and would put his energy into reading and studying during hogwarts. He felt like there was never enough time to learn and write essays and make potions. In his 6th year, he was so very parched for time. He was running from it constantly trying to fix that cabinet in time for…

But when she leaves after lunch every day, he is left in the silence of his office. He is left doing paperwork and debating if he should invite her out for drinks again. They went last week. Is it too much to go two weeks in a row? Or does it make it a thing and will they continue to go out every week? Should he ask for coffee tomorrow? Brunch on Sunday? What qualifies as a date? He shook his head, she was taking over his thoughts. She wouldn’t go on a date with him. He knew that. He repeated that inside of his mind, enforcing it again. Maybe he’d stop longing for her if he could force it into his brain that he would never get her.

Draco didn’t end up inviting Hermione to anything. No drinks, no brunch, no coffee. The next day she returned for lunch. She enthusiastically informed him on how to use a muggle coffee machine through bites of a club sandwich. He was happy with this. He could live with this. He was okay being friends. Just friends.

#dramione #draco and hermione #draco/hermione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #harry potter fanfiction #dramione fanfic

[homeofjonicles]

The Jonicles - Entry 1

Note: This is the first entry of The Jonicles, hence why the date does not match when this is being posted. This was written back in May of this year before I started this blog, and there will be errors or developments in how this series was being written. Please enjoy (or don't enjoy) the first entry of The Jonicles!

It's currently May 22nd, 2022, on a Sunday at 10:45 pm. It has been three days since the beginning of my Jon Arbuckle fixation, so today is day #4.

Hello, it's me. I have started this series of notes to document an odd development in my fictional character simpery because I feel it is important, as well as unusual. Recently, I have begun to develop a strange fixation on a certain blue shirt wearing cartoonist from a particular comic strip series focusing on him and his lasanga eating ginger cat. It all started when on Thursday, May 19th, I, for no particular reason, was awake at four in the morning, and I made the sleep deprived descision to search up Jon Arbuckle (Specifically in search of the "Why do they call it oven when you of in the cold food of out hot eat the food" image). It was relatively quick and sudden, and from what I can remember, when I found a particular image of the man (The one displayed above), I began to feel... something. An odd, yet familiar feeling, and a part of me somehow knew what was to come. And it haunted me for two whole days.

I denied it at first. "There is no way you are simping for Jon fucking Arbuckle" I thought. "Spamton is already cutting it, we can't get any weirder than that". However, I often said this right after I had just finished drawing Mr. Arbuckle in an almost perfectly emulated style to Jim Davis's own, and by then, I already knew I was gone. Somehow, this painfully relatable geeky cartoonist perplexed me in such a positively fascinating way that I began to become fixated on him. Naturally, I looked furhter into this man. I already knew of the Garfield Minus Garfield series of comic strip edits that erased the snarky feline from existence, but I never knew they would cut so deep, as now when viewing them, they felt different. Unknowingly, I had developed an emotional attachment to Jon and felt a huge empathy for him, and I had no idea what was to come next.

I feverishly begun searching up r/imsorryjon in search of more of this type of content. Within the cracks of horrific, fever-dream like illustrations of the monstrous Garfeldi creatures, I ended up finding what I would consider the cutest and heartstring tugging fucking fanart I had seen at the time, which only made my liking for Mr. Arbuckle even deeper, and in my conquest for more Arbuckle brainrot, I knew what I had to do next.

Without realising, I had already watched the HD upload of Jon Arbuckle absolutely killing it on the dance floor five times in a row from sheer excitement and fascination of the groovy fellow, and I hadn't even known. I mentioned this odd phenomenon to my friend Hyphen the next day, who asked "Are you hyperfixating on Jon" to which I simple answered "I... Don't know", though by now, the answer is quite clear.

And so, that is how his all began. I've drawn Jon about over thirty or more times (A number I think will soon skyrocket), including him in some... Erm, ""sussy"" shenanigans, to say the least... I have many pictures downloaded relating to the cartoonist, mostly originating from the aforementioned Garfield Minus Garfield edits. I went on a research gathering haul on the man, and ended up finding a page featuring an entire gallery of Jon himself, which excited and interested me greatly. I've heard and enjoyed his voice plenty a time (Specifically the time he was voiced by Thom Huge) and I've... even started becoming attracted to the man???? he's super cute though.... Ahem, anyway, and finally, I've already watched the upload of Jon dancing like an absolute GIGACHAD more than what is reasonable for a normal human today alone.

Am I losing my mind? Maybe. Is Jon taking over my head like Wilson and Spamton have? Probably! But is Jon one of the most handsome fictional men I've ever seen drawn on a comic page? You bet your ass he is. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any way. I welcome Jon Arbuckle into my chaotic, unorganised mess of chaos I call my brain with wide, open arms.

can i just point out how fucking weird he looks in the 3D movies and shows though. he looks really feral and it's so funny he's also canonically a gamer in the garfield show and i love that

Last edited at 11:12 (approx)

*note: i should specify that the last edited thingy means that it was last edited on May 22nd at 11:12 pm.

This is the first entry of the Jonicles, and because of it being very early in the series, I feel I must explain some things and provide context to them.

So basically, I do this thing where sometimes I hyperfixated or develop a "crush" on a fictional character and get feelings for them. I've basically just accepted it as a normal thing that happens at this point (and it's completely healthy, don't worry). And at the time of writing, I was previously hyperfixated on the character of Spamton G. Spamton from the game Deltarune by Toby Fox, so that's why he is mentioned here. Spamton is a bizarre character to have a "crush" on (it wasn't serious dont worry), and because of how memey Jon is, i was like "wait no wait this can't possibly be unironic hold on wai". turns out i was terribly wrong and no, it is completely unironic and i do truly love this character. God help me.

Anyway, more of the entries will be posted soon! There's gonna be two links on The Jonicles page sometime after this one is posted, and I'm scheduling it for... Let's say tomorrow at 7:00 AM in whatever timezone the Australian one is!

Cheers,

Your Local Jonnoisseur

Posted on the 18th of July, 2022 at 7:00 am

#jonicles 1 #wow an acient artifact! #what if someone finds these tags and therefore finds this blog oh god oh fuck #they're going to be SO confused #jon arbuckle aliance babeeeyyy

[blu-engineer]

shout out to my third grade teacher telling me not to watch game grumps and inadvertently changing the course of my life forever

> be me, in the third grade

> don't know how to make my own email, use my school account to watch videos

> watch stampylonghead -> recommended & watch dantdm -> recommended & watch jacksepticeye (eventually)

> after school, teacher wants me to find something on youtube through my google account

> ohshit.jpg

> scared i'll get in trouble because jacksepticeye vids have swears in them and i was a goodytwoshoes

> act paranoid to the point of actively drawing suspicion

> teacher tells me, "it's okay, we don't care what's in your recommended. just don't watch this channel called ### #### #####"

> what did she say?

> repeats herself clearly with full diction, "The Game Grumps"

> go home and look them up because of course i do

> never the same

- cut to a few years later -

> be me, 12 years old

> let's check on the game grumps, i haven't watched them in a bit

> see they started a series for [REMOVED GAME], curious so i check out what's uploaded

> catch up to the current episode

> holy shit this game is incredible, i HAVE to know what happens next

> ask my mom to buy it on switch

> finish the game, the second one, the third one

> synapses are firing like crazy. all of the happy chemicals are in my brain

> baby's first hyperfixation

> remember old tumblr account made a year before that i never touched

> "maybe i can find other fans on there!"

> join a discord server to meet people who know the series

> "my parents said i should never use my real name on the internet... let's say my name is myles"

and here we are now.

i've come very far since then. it's been almost 5 years since that day in june, and a little after that it'll be 5 since i began transitioning. it's crazy how one little thing did so much.

i haven't kept contact with a single person from that server, or from its iterations afterwards. it was for the best. i needed to learn, to grow, and to improve myself as a human being, and even after all that growth i'm not sure talking to them would be the brightest idea. but this isn't about that, at least not right now.

any one variable could have changed EVERYTHING. my third grade teacher could have chosen not to say anything (which probably would have been wise). i could have heeded her warning and not looked them up.

what would have happened? would i be a cis girl? would i have realized i'm a system? because those two realizations ended up being related, funnily enough.

on that server, we met a system. no specifics- we don't keep contact. they didn't know they were a system at first, but they figured it out eventually. when they told us, part of it resonated with us, and we said as much. but another part of us was in denial. he believed we were making it all up. he was wrong, of course, but we held onto that guilt for a long time. we still do, in a way.

i don't think anyone still follows me from all the way back then, but if you have; you've seen a lot of this journey play out in real time. you are one of very few witnesses to what i believe to be a miracle. if it wasn't for that one sentence- that one channel- that one game- that one server- that one person. a series of coincidences, all lining up like planets in a row; like a magnifying glass, the sun, and an anthive. i've been burned on the way here, but i made it out okay. i think that's the real synthesis to all of this.

you will make it out okay. your realizations will make their way to you in funny ways. ways that seem irrelevant, or strange, or unhelpful. give them time. let them stew. the way forward will show itself when you walk down any path.

#bluposting #long post #not a vent but long

[frogsandfries]

I started cutting down the second strip, got bored, started cutting down the third strip, numbered my second document worth of pages. Got the entire first strip of pages saved into my Canva document. I like using Canva for making my books.

I wish I knew better ways to make this process more efficient, but I think it's about as efficient as it gets, apart from not having enough layers to number my pages. I just kinda have to make the numbers and get it over with.

It would probably be most efficient to cut down each of the strips all in a row and then turn the strips into pages, then put the pages into Canva. But that just sounds boring. Why not just do everything all at the same time?

So tomorrow, I'd like to finish cutting the second strip and get that uploaded into Sketchbook and numbered, and time permitting, maybe finish catching up the dot paper book too.

This process is so boring and repetitive, but I'm just so stupid excited about how this sketchbook is going to look in the end. It's going to be beautiful and colorful--it's going to be something that has interested me, as far as my sketchbooks go, for a while.

Spoiler alert, I'm not really positive how to handle making the four smaller sketchbooks based on dawn, day, dusk and night, so I'm leaning toward just pretending that all I have for each of those sketchbooks is the original two strips, and cutting out the transitions, like from day to dusk, and then those can be exclusive to the full collection.

Now I just have to get ahold of a bunch of watercolors and a bunch of paper and I'll be on my way to my second patterned paper sketchbook idea. I wonder what other kinds of patterned paper sketchbooks I could come up with, if only for my personal enjoyment. Those.....ah, whaddyacallums..... the arsenic wallpapers? Those could be fun to make into a sketchbook. A lot of them aren't too overpowering to draw over or write over.

[diamondsheep]

Werehog 🐺✨!!

Sketch

#this is my new halloween icon :D #me uploading drawings two days in a row ? this is a miracle 👀 #werehog #sonic the hedgehog #fanart #my art #my drawings #ramdraws #sonic unleashed #sonic the werehog #sonic #sth #halloween #i want to add that i changed my blog a little bit so it can look more .. spooky? well not spooky but u know what i mean haha

[el-im]

Inktober 2021 (Star Trek Themed), Day 4/31: “Knot”

Miles and Keiko “tying the knot”, from TNG, “Data’s Day” 4x11. 

#trek #inktober 2021 #star trek tng #tng!miles o'brien #keiko o'brien #keiko ishikawa #i think this is my first time drawing keiko?? hi girllll #i dislike how.... light this is #but i worked on it for ages 😬 #if you see this is an hour and sixteen minutes late... no you don't #my art #all art #also if you see me re-uploading this because i forgot to finish shading in the middle of the window border... no you didn't!!!! #what else... the first idea i had was drawing data in power play with all those cables coming out of his neural net but. idk. i did this #OH #wait actually. first idea was sisko and jake tying off the sails in 'explorers' but i didnt wanna do ds9 two days in a row #inktober

[the-lonelybarricade]

Could you do a feysand sex pollen/aphrodisiac fic? Like set before Feyre knew about the mating bond

You asked for smut and I said: what was that? Did you say angst? Here’s some angst. (With a side of smut). Also you know that I’m procrastinating because I wrote TWO prompt fics in a row and did 0 work for uni or the actual uploads I have scheduled this week. But at least the brain worms liked this one!!

Word Count: 5269

CW: Dub-con in the way all sex pollen is dub-con. There is (obviously) smut in this.

Deviates from canon in the middle of acomaf Chapter 39 <33

The days spent waiting for a response from the Mortal Queens had been a blessing just as much as they’d been a curse.

Rhys should still be reeling from the disaster in the Summer Court. In the past it’d taken significantly less to spiral him into a foul mood for weeks, and yet he knew his willingness to shoulder the failure had nothing to do with personal growth. Feyre had flirted with him—had been flirting with him. Less and less was he believing that her draw to him was merely the result of the bond. She’d begun to care for him. He could still feel the lingering kiss she’d placed on his cheek like it were a brand, offered for no other reason than for his own comfort.

He had to tell her. Cauldron forsake him, he had to do it before things went too far. But she was only just moving on from Tamlin, was only just starting to walk with more life in her stride. He’d nearly seen her smile the other day and he could have sworn the whole world had paused in anticipation at the tilt of her lips. They were playing an extremely delicate balancing act, and he was terrified of doing anything that might sabotage her progress.

Feyre needed more time to heal and navigate the world before she learned that she was saddled indefinitely with him. And he might be a selfish bastard for it, but Rhys wanted her to have more time to warm to him, to realize that it might not be such a bad thing to be his mate. Otherwise it might be too much too fast, and he worried she would run away and never look back.

That didn’t stop him from relishing every scrap of attention she paid him. Azriel shot him a disapproving look as Rhys scrawled a note to Feyre against a pillar of the Cesere temple. Rhysand knew his brother stood in firm agreement with Mor, as he did in most things, about keeping the mating bond a secret. But they hadn’t watched Feyre destroy herself for another male, or seen the hatred in her eyes when she’d stared at him in her cell Under the Mountain. It’d been deserved, and he’d been grateful she was feeling anything for him at all.

Tell me about the painting.

The note and pen vanished, sent to Velaris where he could imagine those bright eyes sweeping over the parchment. How fitting, that he’d taught her to read so he could flirt with her this way.

Rhys and Azriel had barely made it a few steps in to meet the priestesses before the note returned. There’s not much to say.

Az sent him a long suffering look when Rhys paused to scrawl his response. He could admit, the bond was driving him insane enough that he had trouble focusing when he was away from Feyre. And his politics might have suffered for it, were it not for the endless patience of his family. The grace period was sure to expire soon, but he knew for the time being they were grateful enough to have him back that they were willing to shoulder more than their share of the weight.

Azriel went ahead as Rhys wrote back, tell me about it anyway.

The response took long enough that he was able to rejoin Az and spearhead the discussion with the priestesses about rebuilding. The conversation was enough to snap Rhys back to reality, and though it was maddening to imagine what Feyre was doing in the pause between responses, he diligently blocked off the bond. He saw enough of a mirror in the surviving priestesses that he didn’t want any of those drudged up memories to seep through to Feyre.

He still hadn’t gotten a response when they’d readied to leave, and he didn’t dare open the bond until he had a chance to taste the skies. The reminder of what the priestesses had gone through—what he’d gone through—had clung to him the same way splatters of blood would dry to his skin and leathers in battle. It was the kind of stain that needed to be washed away, and he wouldn’t seek Feyre out until he’d had a chance to shower and brood.

Except when he and Azriel landed on the roof of the House of Wind, Rhys sensed immediately that something was wrong. Az stiffened as Mor came running up the stairs, brown eyes wild and urgent.

She didn’t need to say a word. Rhys was moving instantly, rushing blindly into the house. Pure instinct had him tugging on the bond to find Feyre, and relief struck through his panic that at least there was something to tug on.

What happened?  He demanded in an open channel to all of them, strung far too tightly to narrow his focus on one person.

They didn’t have a chance to answer before he’d thrown open Feyre’s door, finding her feverish and thrashing atop her bed. Madja was hovering over her, lips pressed into a straight line and brows furrowed. Cassian stood on the other side of the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress as he struggled to restrain Feyre.

“Rhys,” she gasped, and he was there immediately, pressing a shaky hand into the side of her head.

“I’m here, darling,” he said, urgently searching her face for any indication of what ailed her. Her face was flushed, gleaning with sweat, and she was panting as though her lungs were struggling to contain any air. Feyre whimpered as his hand made contact with her clammy skin, and she leaned into his touch with an openness that worried him.

No one had answered his question, so Rhys fixed his eyes desperately to Madja.

“Is she okay?”

He didn’t miss the glance that Cassian and Mor shared, and Rhysand’s heart sank into his stomach. There was something terribly, terribly wrong if his family was too frightened to tell him.

“A moment outside, High Lord?” Madja asked, and Rhys followed wordlessly. The healer shut the door behind them, leaving Cassian and Mor in the room.

Only Azriel stood beside his High Lord as Madja explained as calmly as possible, “Feyre has been exposed to a very powerful magical aphrodisiac.”

Rhys could have collapsed in relief. That was all? He’d thought she was dying.

“She’s in a great deal of pain,” Madja continued. “And I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to ease her symptoms, she will have to wait until the magic has run its course.”

An anguished shriek from the bedroom was effective in draining Rhys of all his color. His muscles sang with the reflex to go to his mate and ease her discomfort. He had a feeling that if he opened the bond, there was no force in existence that could have prevented him from going to her. 

Fortunately he’d kept it shut, so that he could at least pretend to be a rational male as he asked, “There’s nothing we can do to help her?”

“There’s nothing I can do to help,” Madja said carefully. “Her mate, however…”

His blood turned to ice.

“The only way to ease the symptoms of a magic like this is through—”

“No.”

Madja flinched. Azriel did, too.

To the healer’s credit, she was brave enough to add, “she has been begging for you.”

Rhys wished Madja had decided to slide a knife into his gut instead. Of course Feyre had been calling for him. She was delirious and he was her mate, instinctively her body knew what she needed even if Feyre did not.

He swallowed in an effort to put moisture back into his bone-dry throat. “Would it still help if it was with… someone else?”

It had been one thing to feel her having sex with Tamlin—before she’d learned to create mental shields—knowing that she loved him, and hated Rhysand. Now the thought of letting someone else take her, in his own home… Rhys would sooner prefer to swallow shattered glass.

But Feyre was howling in pain, and he would do it, for her. It was better to let her take someone else than to blur those lines that were already so precarious.

“It would help,” was Madja’s answer. “But it would not be nearly so effective.”

“Rhysand,” Feyre screamed, the latter half of his name dissolving into a sob. The beast beneath his skin raged at the sound, and a growl escaped his throat before he could stop it.

Azriel’s placed a hand on his shoulder, jerking Rhysand’s attention away from the bedroom door. The Shadowsinger’s eyes were softened in a way Rhys was unused to seeing, but it was his brother’s stern expression that steadied him.

“You should ask her what she wants,” Az said.

Rhys couldn’t. He knew what her answer would be, and he knew it wouldn’t be Feyre speaking, but the magic that was twisting her instinct and desire. The symptoms would pass, and then Feyre would regret what happened.

Worse, she would feel taken advantage of. There was so much Rhys endured in his mate’s regard for him. He could handle her hatred, her rage, her spite. But for Feyre to look upon him and feel the very same he did for Amarantha… Rhys was going to be sick. He dropped to his knees and ducked his head into a nearby flower pot, gagging over the soil until the bout of nausea passed.

The sound of a door clicking drew his head back up. He met his cousin’s tight face, the pain and sorrow in her eyes an echo to his own. 

“Rhys,” she said softly. “Feyre is asking for—”

“I know,” he snapped, more of a roar than he intended. That beast was breaking through, triggered by the sounds of his mate’s distress. “You think I can’t hear her screaming my name?”

Mor’s face went pale. It was unfair to yell at her, though he was tempted to demand how Feyre had been exposed to the aphrodisiac in the first place.

“She’s been trying to… grind on Cassian,” Mor added awkwardly, only fueling that fury that crawled in his bones. “If you’re not going to—we should find a better way to restrain her.”

He’d be damned if he let his mate be tied up and tortured for hours by her own desire. Slowly, he clambered to his feet. “Go to the pleasure house and find someone that will suit her tastes,” he said, the order bitter and foul on his tongue. Mor left without a second word.

“Any amount of contact with you will help, High Lord,” Madja implored, eyes sympathetic. “It need not be sexual. Even being held by her mate could reduce her pain significantly.”

Rhys nodded his thanks to the healer, jaw clenched so tight he half worried his teeth would shatter. 

He walked back into the bedroom. Before he’d been too panicked to notice, but the scent of her arousal clung so heavily in the air that he nearly choked on it.

Cassian was on the bed, struggling to restrain Feyre while avoiding her attempts to kiss and nip at his skin. It was absurd, but Rhysand couldn’t help the snarl that escaped him at the sight. Both of them went still at the sound. Cassian snapped his head towards Rhys, expression a clear mixture between relief and concern.

Beneath him, Feyre was panting. “Rhys,” she pleaded.

Just like that, his defenses crumbled. Rhysand came to her side, and Cassian fled the second  the opportunity presented itself. A primal part of him relaxed once the two of them were left alone.

He reached out to her, like Madja suggested, intending only to comfort. But Feyre was no longer restrained, allowing her to seize his body and crush their lips together like she were drowning and thought to borrow the air from his lungs.

A groan escaped him, entirely against his volition. Her lips were just as sweet as he remembered, but a part of him wanted to scream at knowing that now both their first and second kiss had been taken without Feyre’s willingness.

Though she certainly seemed willing, with the way she was clawing at the strings of his tunic, mouth darting from his lips to taste the skin along his neck. He shuddered as her tongue darted over his pulse, nipping him there as though she knew that his lifeblood called to her. Gods, she was going to be his undoing.

“Feyre,” Rhys murmured, grasping her shoulders to firmly push her away. “Do you understand what’s happened?”

“I don’t care,” she answered, eyes wild and unfocused. She pushed his hands away in an attempt to get closer to him. “Just let me touch you—please.”

Was The Mother trying to test him in some way? Or did she just have a sick sense of humor, deciding to give him the everything he’s longed for since the moment he left the Mountain, yet twisting it in such a way that it would destroy him in the process?

“I know that’s what you want, darling. Cause it will make you feel better, yeah? But it doesn’t have to be with me. It could be…” she managed to yank the neckline of his tunic with enough strength that the fabric ripped, and for a moment the feeling of her warm skin against his bare chest made him forget what he was saying. She crawled into his lap, and Rhys hissed as her hips deliberately slid against his. “Fuck—it could be with anyone, darling. Mor is going to go find you a nice male from the pleasure house, or… or I could even go get—”

He was cut off by Feyre grabbing his face, nothing gentle in the way she yanked him forward until their lips crashed together again. Rhys wouldn’t have minded the ferocity, would have reveled in it, if not for the fact that those beautiful blue eyes lacked any sort of clarity. There was none of the sharp cunning he was used to seeing in Feyre’s expression—this was not his Feyre. Not that his body seemed to care, with the way his erection strained against his trousers and his desire thrummed red-hot in his veins.

“I want it to be you,” Feyre whined in between feverish kisses, her tongue stroking against his mouth with a wildness that could have consumed him. “I want you so badly,” she gasped, breaking apart from him with reluctance that yielded only to the necessity of breath. “I ache for you.”

“I know, darling,” he whispered, the admission small and filled with his own sorrow. He knew too well, how badly someone could ache for their mate. He also knew that the way she ached was not the same—because tomorrow, she would wake up with it sated, whereas his ache would likely wear on him until he was nothing but dust.

If Feyre didn’t consume him whole, first. She shredded the rest of his tunic until it was nothing but strips of fabric draped across his body. Rhys let her lick a strip across his abdomen, groaning, before his control snapped in.

He grabbed her wrist, attempting to restrain her the same way Cassian had.

“You’re not in your right mind, Feyre,” he reasoned. ”You wouldn’t want this if it wasn’t for the magic.” 

“Who wouldn’t want you!?” she snapped, and he could have laughed at the compliment if he wasn’t so focused on keeping her restrained. Unlike Cassian, he didn’t have an aversion to letting his body touch her. His hips straddled her own, and it was an immense effort to ignore the way she moaned at the contact. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to the air that rushed through his own clenched teeth.

It was supposed to be like this, he reminded himself. Touching your mate was supposed to be addictive. Feyre began undulating her hips under him, and it was a test of resolve to stay still as she began tracing sweet kisses along his collarbone.

“Plenty of people,” he grunted, pretending this was a perfectly normal conversation. “Yourself included. I distinctly remember you calling me disgusting.”

“I wanted you,” she whispered in a voice that was seductive enough to rival even the lightsingers. “Even then.”

Every muscle in his body seemed to lock up, choosing a side in his internal battle of instinct versus reason. “Don’t say that,” he choked, mostly a plea. He pressed his hips into her, promising himself it was an attempt to still her movements.

Feyre whined, equal parts in protest and encouragement. “Why not?”

Rhysand was trembling as he ducked his head into her shoulder, trying to take a moment to breathe and reign himself back in. “Because—you’re trying to say anything you can to get me into bed.”

She wiggled her hips, causing him to gasp. “Is it working?”

Yes. “No.”

He raised his face so he could meet her eyes. She was still flushed, still panting, and tears were brimming beneath her lashes—with the way her eyes glimmered, he felt like he was staring at the Sidra on a cloudless day. She truly was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Do you not want me?” Feyre sniffed, shattering his heart. “Is that why you won’t help me?”

“I…” Rhys swallowed thickly, wishing for the wisdom to navigate this situation. Would Feyre even remember this conversation? “I want you so badly that I can’t concentrate half the time,” he admitted, the truth burning in his throat. “But you have been through enough, Feyre. The last thing I want to do is take advantage of you.”

Those tears were flowing freely now. “I want it to be you,” she whimpered, with enough conviction that he might have believed her.

Except when he released one of her wrists to wipe the tears away, Feyre seized the opportunity to roll him onto his back and pin him down with the strength of seven High Lords. Feeling desperate, Rhys opened the bond and reached his mental talons across the bridge between their minds.

There were no adamantite walls on Feyre’s side of the bond, no shields at all. Rhys was met instead with a dense fog. When he speared his talons through it, hoping to search for Feyre somewhere in the thick manifestation of desire, that fog chased him down the bond and flooded his own mind. His shields shot up quickly, but the damage had been done. Not only was he fighting against the mating bond, now he was fighting against the haze in his own mind. White hot static poured into his veins, circulating that scalding desire with every dreaded pump of his heart.

All this, while Feyre had him pinned to the mattress, grinding herself against his erection until he felt to the point of begging. Feyre seemed to sense something in him had tapered, because she let go of his wrists in favor of trailing her mouth down his body. He fisted his hands into the sheets as her lips traced the shape of his abdomen, uncertain if he was restraining himself from pushing her away or pulling her closer.

Rhys went rigid when she nuzzled his navel, her tongue following the thin wisps of hair until she came to the band of his trousers. His control was razor thin, and she knew it. Rhys could tell from the devilish smile she sent him, moments before her hands cupped the outline of his cock through the fabric.

His restraint snapped the same moment his hips did, bucking closer to her touch as a string of vulgarities fled his lips. Rhys used his last moment of clarity to muse how like Feyre it was, to satisfy his longing this way—she would never let things be easy for him, and he couldn’t begrudge her for it. Perhaps he deserved it.

Even those thoughts were lost the moment she untied his laces and he felt her soft hands touching him—skin to skin. It was like he was a fledgling Illyrian once more, shuddering at just the thought of a female’s touch. Rhys was convinced that Feyre could have continued holding him, motionless, and he still would have found completion.

Feyre had other ideas. This wasn’t for his benefit, he remembered helplessly, she was satisfying her own hunger. He clenched his teeth to stop himself from becoming a ridiculous, snarling mess once she began sliding her hand up and down his length. Yet nothing could have held back the roar that escaped him when Feyre leaned down to wrap her plush lips around the head of his cock.

The hands that found her hair were unintentional, and he couldn't even remember putting them there. Feyre paid him no mind at all as she licked at the glaze of precum, shutting her eyes contentedly at the taste. Primal, male satisfaction shocked his bones, and he could have died a happy male right then. He almost wanted to die right there, just so that he’d never live to see the end of this daydream come to life.

Rhys wanted to feel Feyre’s mouth around him—and he knew that’s very obviously what she was after—but he also selfishly wanted this to last. Feyre had a few hours to his months of craving her. 

Ignoring her sound of protest, Rhys sat up and flipped them over. If he were feeling self-serving, he would have taken the time to remove her shirt and worship those breasts that had been torturing him for weeks in the training ring. An aphrodisiac was lessened with orgasm—he knew that much. So Rhys yanked off her trousers, resolved to spend as long as it took between her legs. He’d render her a trembling mess beneath him until she had enough clarity to push him away. 

The sight of her naked sex, spread for him and glistening with arousal, was enough to bring him to his knees. His mouth watered, even as his entire body clenched at the enormity of what was about to happen. Condemned as he may be by the end of it, at least Rhys would spend these next hours in utter bliss.

Feyre shifted impatiently, fingers fisting into his hair to drag him forward. She was met with no amount of resistance. The mating bond shuddered the moment his tongue found her center, and the sound that came out of him was half feral as he lost himself to primal instinct entirely. This was his mate and she tasted like she’d been made for his tongue. Now it was Rhysand’s turn to shut his eyes and relish the flavor of her—musky and sweet, he could have drowned happily in it.

Paired with the soft moans above him, the way her nails scraped against his scalp in a silent begging of more, more, more, Rhys was certain he found his purpose in life. Not to rule, not to fight, just simply to bury his head between his mate’s thighs and bring her to an endless, shivering rapture.

“Rhys,” she panted sweetly. It was almost cruel, knowing he would never be able to forget the sound of Feyre moaning his name. And he was grateful that his mouth was occupied, lest he blurt out something he could never take back. That didn’t stop his mind from thinking it, with every lap of his tongue: I love you, I love you, I love you…

Rhys moved his attention to her clit, sucking it into his mouth in a way that earned him a delicious little mewl that he wanted to hear over and over again. He devoured her until those fingers in his hair clenched so tightly it was painful, and he groaned as he dipped his tongue into her and felt those muscles clench and release around him. His name was a chanted prayer on Feyre’s lips as he continued stroking his tongue until her breathing evened.

The grip of her fingers loosened, but Rhys didn’t stop.

“Rhys,” she complained, pushing lightly at his head. He spared a glance towards her face, measuring the glaze in her eyes.

“Again,” he rasped, unyielding. Her eyes were still ravaged with desire, and when his lips closed around that sensitive bundle of nerves she fell back onto the bed with a generous moan. It was music to his ears.

Feyre was less passive this time, undulating her hips indelicately against his mouth. Rhys was so enthralled that he nearly regretted how quickly her second orgasm came, though it was worth it for the scream that tore past her lips.

The entire house would know what he was doing. An absent, very distant, part of his mind wondered if Mor ever found a male at the pleasure house, or if they’d known all along that Rhysand would cave to his mate’s need.

Perhaps they knew him better than himself. There was not a single thing he could ever deny Feyre, even if it was at the expense of his own health and sanity.

By her third orgasm, Rhys could sense some of her desperation had lost its edge. She was shaking beneath him, pawing at his hair with less severity but still grinding her hips to meet his tongue stroke for stroke.

He lost track of time, measuring it only by the number of times he could bring her to release. It was the sixth orgasm that finally broke the spell. He could hear it in the way Feyre gasped instead of moaning his name. Rhysand broke away from her before she had a chance to do it herself, scrambling to sit up so that he could peer at her wide eyes, finally clean and clear.

“Rhys?” she asked, eyes roving over his very naked body and the erection that stood proudly between his legs.

He wondered what Feyre remembered—if she even understood how she’d come to be spread half naked before him on the bed. The evidence of it was certainly all over his face, likely gleaming in the dim faelight.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, after she’d spent a long moment without saying anything, merely staring at the space between his legs. “Do you… want me to go?”

Eventually those beautiful eyes flicked to his face, and stayed. He stared back, admiring the pink tinge of her cheeks that spread all the way to the collar of her shirt, the way her hair had loosened in her braid so that it looked as wild as he felt.

Mate, he thought, her taste still lingering on his tongue and he knew that even if she decided to kick him out, it would continue to linger for days, months. The sweetest, most exquisite torture.

The seconds that ticked by were painful, but eventually Feyre shook her head. “Stay,” she said, so quietly that he had to strain to hear it. Then, “did you mean what you said? About… how much you want me?”

He supposed she remembered perfectly well, then. Slowly, Rhys nodded, looking pointedly down so that she could see the evidence of just how much. He stood frozen where he kneeled before her, not daring to move until she gave him the go-ahead. His throat was dry, but he forced words through it anyway. “A thought for a thought, darling?”

Tears began brimming in her eyes, and this time Rhys knew sexual frustration was not the cause of them. His stomach twisted and he willed his nausea to stay down. Surely it wouldn’t do him any favors to hurl his guts onto the sheets.

“I’m thinking,” Feyre began, her voice cracking, “that you endured 50 years of being touched against your will, and because of my own stupidity, I’ve just done the very same by forcing myself on you.”

Rhys blew out a long breath. “I’m thinking that I was afraid you would think the same of me. I’m thinking that this was my every desire twisted, because I want you so badly I can’t breathe when I look at you and yet you only wanted me because of a spell.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, tears spilling onto her flushed cheeks. “It wasn’t just the spell… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Rhysand. Not for a long while. Even before…”

She trailed off with a wince, but Rhys knew what she was going to say. Even before she left the Spring Court. How much of her guilt could he relieve, by assuring her it was natural to feel that draw towards a mate? Could it counteract the dread that would surely follow? Today had been overwhelming enough, but maybe he would tell her tomorrow.

“Can I—is it okay if I touch you?”

Feyre thought for a long moment, once more taking stock of his fully exposed body, before she nodded. Rhys approached her slowly, with none of the consideration he’d ever been afforded Under the Mountain, and when he came to his mate he simply folded her into his arms.

“This wasn’t exactly what I envisioned.” Rhys arranged them so that they were both lying down, with Feyre tucked tightly against him. “When I thought about bedding you for the first time, it included a wall, or a table. Though I can’t say I didn’t enjoy myself.”

Perhaps it was too honest a thing to admit, but Feyre shuddered in a way that he deemed encouraging.

“How were you exposed to the magic, anyway?” he asked, the anger of the situation having now faded into gentle curiosity.

Feyre hid her face in his chest, in what he presumed to be shame. “Mor and I went into Velaris today, and there was a little potion shop.”

“Go on…”

“I thought I could get you back,” she admitted, “for the illusion the other day.” His lips twitched at the memory of Feyre so distracted by the vision of Rhys kissing her stomach that she walked straight into a pole. “The lady at the shop only said it would give a male an erection. She said to only use a few drops, so it wasn’t supposed to be so… potent. But then I spilled it all over myself opening the bottle, and here we are.”

To think this was all a prank gone awry. Rhys shook his head, thinking that Feyre truly would be the death of him. 

“Here we are,” he repeated with a mild laugh. “Considering I just spent hours going down on you, I would wager you’ve been adequately compensated.”

“I think I’m the only one who should be the judge of that,” she whispered in a throaty voice that caused all of his blood to pool downward.

Rhys shifted so that he could see her face, gauging her sincerity as he asked, “are you saying you aren’t satisfied with my level of compensation?”

Her answering grin was exquisite. “Why don’t you go back down, and I’ll tell you when to stop?”

“Beautiful, wicked creature,” he responded, sinking back down her body with an obedience that felt liberating.

This time, when he dived back between her thighs, there was no doubt in his mind that Feyre was a willing recipient. And Rhys would have died right then an extraordinarily happy male.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Taglist: @arrowmusings @cretaceous-therapod @live-the-fangirl-life @imsecretlyaherondale-blog @thenightgodess-feyrearcheron @story-scribbler @achernarlight @thebonecarver @swankii-art-teacher @themoonthestarsthesuriel @darling-archeron @loosesimplicity

#I don't know what's gotten into me #but here take this #feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #feysand smut #rhys x feyre #feyre x rhys #feyre x rhysand #acotar fic #sjm fic #sex pollen #angsty pwp

[junicai]

Aria at Award Shows

Iconic Outfits

2020 AAAs NCT Daesang Award  

Peoples’ jaws dropped when they saw Aria sidle up alongside the other 23 boys, strolling out like she owned the building. The heels gave her enough height to be nearly level with Renjun - something she wouldn’t let the boy forget - her hair dyed back to a natural black like it had been during NCT2020 promotions. It was rare that Aria didn’t look slightly apprehensive about stepping out onto a red carpet, but the confidence was rolling off her in waves. As she walked, the slit in the dress seemed to keep on going, trailing up her leg and changing the otherwise classy dress into something that left the innocent bystanders in the first row suffering from a high chance of a heart attack.

tldr; Aria’s hot and people are Noticing.

2019 Show Champion NCT 127 ‘Superhuman’ 

NCT’s second win with Superhuman left a huge divide in nctzens; a rift between those who were ot21 stans and ot22 stans (sans and plus Aria). Up until then, there had been rumors around whether Aria was to leave NCT now that there was a new girl group supposedly debuting under SM. Their management team had refrained from publishing a response - but that only lead fans to create their own speculations and theories. This outfit played perfectly into the growing rumor; with the large circular pendant on Aria’s bracelet having two chrysanthemums etched into the gold. The flower symbolized happy endings and goodbyes, with nctzens taking this as the proof that Aria was truly set to leave NCT in the coming months. 

tldr; nctzens need to learn how to Chill.

2017 M! Countdown NCT 127 ‘Cherry Bomb’

Unfortunately, this era was the cause of a lot of strife for Arizens; the stylists either hit it out of the park and Aria was drop dead stunning - or she ended up looking a little like a bratz doll a toddler had gotten their hands on. Unfortunately for Aria, their first win with ‘Cherry Bomb’ left pictures of her in a plastic, obviously dyed blue skirt and cherry pink hair to match immortalized on the internet forever. 

tldr; arizens hoped that her stylist got fired after this era. the plastic skirt wasn't the worst thing they'd done.

Other Iconic Outfits

Seating Arrangements

Depending on the venue, idols are normally sat on straight rows of chairs and benches, or at round tables. Given the choice, Aria would always prefer to sit at one of the tables, as not only does it give her a chance to not have to worry about her legs being seen while being covered by the tablecloth - if there is one - but it lets her keep everyone sitting near her in her direct line of vision. 

However, should she have to sit in one of the main rows, she’ll normally end up squished beside one of three boys - Donghyuck, Yuta and/or Renjun. Should one of those three be unaviliable, Doyoung and Jeno are usually quick enough to fill in the empty space. 

Donghyuck would always be her first choice, was it not for the boy’s incessant energy that sometimes left her nerves fried before their performance. Most days she adored the company - adored him and his efforts to get her mind off their impending songs with various games and ways to pass the time (they're not allowed play footsie anymore though, because Aria stomped on his foot with her heel once) - but other days she just needed someone to hold her hand and say nothing. That’s where Yuta and Renjun come in.

As Aria’s found out over the years, for all the man’s tactile affection and loud displays of love, Yuta’s highly perceptive to when she needs some silent comfort. Now, she’s not sure if he’s that perceptive to everyone or just her - but either way she’s not complaining. 

With Dream, Renjun is the one she’ll sit with and doodle on the white napkins that are laid out on the table for lord knows what reason. After being bored out of their minds for their first few award shows, Renjun had snuck two black ballpoint pens into the venue in the inside of his red suit jacket. The drawings had become somewhat a tradition, and the best doodle normally is uploaded to bubble shortly after the show has ended. 

All in all, Aria’s normally quite content to sit in the centre of the large group of boys - split over several rows or tables, boisterous and bubbly with energy. The only real downside to it all is the lack of blankets available to protect her modesty once she is seated. 

Most venues split the idols fairly evenly between the boy and girl groups - with blankets being allocated especially for the seating of girl groups. This meant, unfortunately, that when NCT files into their seats and sits down, there is rarely something in the close vicinity that Aria can borrow quickly without causing a fuss.

Sometimes she gets lucky - other female idols might spot her and are normally kind enough to hand over one of their cushions or blankets, content to share with their neighboring member. Occasionally though, Aria has no such luck and is left to either pull down her dress multiple times per minute to cover the prickly feeling over the tops of her legs when she felt like eyes were boring into her, or wait for some kind of break so she could go find a spare covering.

Aria supposed after the third time something like that had happened, her members were getting fed up with it all. 

At first it was their plan B: should some type of cover-up not be available in their immediate vicinity, Johnny or Lucas or Jaehyun - once, even Dejun - or another member who ran hot near-constantly would shrug off their jacket and fold it over Aria’s legs, pulling it up and then lifting her hands to place them in her lap to hold their jacket there. 

Eventually it became their plan A however, now commonplace for Aria to go looking for the member who was wearing multiple layers and who wouldn’t suffer from the loss of their outermost one.  

Iconic Moments 

Twitter: [180821] and people rly say nct doesn’t care abt aria :/

Red carpets were always something to dread, in Aria’s eyes.

The cameras flashing bright enough to blind you, and the knowledge that if she stumbled or - god forbid - fell it would be immortalized forever on Koreaboo’s newest blog post. 

However the worst bit, was always the footwear. High, stiletto heels that left her teetering around on nothing more than her tippy-toes, precariously balanced as she made her way up and down stairs, over carpet and tiled flooring alike. 

Aria was used to wearing heels, but the one’s she performed in were usually fitted with various types of ankle support and a thick heel to give her balance. Wobbling around on a heel the same width of a piece of uncooked spaghetti was not something she’d willingly choose. 

Not to mention the blisters. 

Designer shoes were gifted to the company on a regular basis - shipped over just in time for Aria to slip into the pair before stepping out of the van into the sea of bright flashes and reporters. It always seemed like designers were too pre-occupied with making a shoe look good rather than making them actually wearable. 

The first time Aria had been gifted a set of heels - early 2018 - she made the mistake of assuming that they would be in similar comfort as her performance heels. 

Two hours later and with a wad of bloody tissue stuffed into the back of them, Aria had learnt her lesson. 

From then on, it was commonplace for Aria to bandage her heels before she went out to shows - not quite as heavily as she normally would for a performance, but just enough to stop the skin splitting under the constant abrasion. 

She’d only been caught out badly once - but it was all caught on camera by a fan sitting close by, and spread over twitter like wildfire. 

Aria had limped her way back over to where NCT 127 was sitting, lips pressed together in a tight line and hands clenched in the tight material of the leather trousers she had been given to wear. The trousers stopped a few inches above her ankles, so the red mess of her heels was clearly visible as she hobbled over and sat down with a thud onto the seat. 

Donghyuck placed a hand on Aria’s shoulder, leaning in so that he could see her face behind the curtain of hair that she had let fall to hide her tear-filled eyes from him. 

“Riri?” Donghyuck whispered to her, thumb beginning to rub soothing circles into her arm. “Hey, Riri? What’s going on?” 

Aria only shook her head, gesturing to the pair of torturous heels on her feet.

Donghyuck inhaled sharply when he saw the blood trailing up her leg and soaking into the back of the heel. He turned to his side to elbow Doyoung, grabbing his attention.

“Hyung. Hyung.” He hissed, Doyoung turning around with an over-exaggerated sigh. 

“No, Hyuck, I told you I’m not going to-” Doyoung cut himself off upon seeing Aria’s pain-filled face. “Aria? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” 

Donghyuck slid off his seat onto the ground despite Aria’s protests that the floor wasn’t clean, get up, and explained what had happened to his hyung. Sliding her heel off as slowly as he could to not pull at the skin more, he muttered apologizes to Aria as she inhaled a shaky breath before exhaling it on a small, wet cry. 

“Hyung, did you bring anything for Taeyong-hyung’s shoulder that we could use?” 

“Yeah, yeah I did give me two seconds.” Doyoung bent into the small bag that he had tucked underneath the seat, pulling out a length of bandage that was stowed away in the outermost pocket. 

Donghyuck took it from Doyoung’s hands with a small ‘thank you’, moving to kneel back down in front of Aria and taking her ankle back into his lap.

“Hyuck, no I got it, c’mon the ground isn’t clean-” 

He silenced her with a look. Aria settled back into her chair - defeated - and Donghyuck wrapped the bandage around her heel as quickly but as painlessly as he could manage. 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Twitter: [190323] HSHS ARIA IS A CARAT WE’VE WON LADIES N GENTS

Maybe Aria should have been paying more attention to the camera that was slowly panning around the idols, projecting their faces up onto a large screen beside the stage, but she was too engrossed in the current group’s performance. 

“그렇다고 네 맘이 작다는 게 아냐,” Swaying gently side to side and mouthing along to the lyrics, Aria was happy enough to smile along to the song and move her hands in a small mimickery of the choreography she’d taught herself off the group’s dance practice video she’d watched only a few dozen times. 

It wasn’t until Mark poked her in the side that Aria broke out from her own little bubble, twisting her head to look back at him and then up at the screen when he pointed. 

There, her face, staring back at her from the big screen was enough to make her mouth drop open a little bit and her eyes widen. She clapped a hand to her mouth before turning to hide her face in Jaehyun’s shoulder, shaking with embarassed laughter. 

Aria could hear Taeyong’s teasing laugh in return, before a hand came and ruffled the hair on top of her head, that she swatted away.

--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Twitter: [170911] lmao same aria

Aria knew she was there. 

She knew that she was sitting right there and that she was in one of those really skimpy dresses stylists loved to put girls in because apparently female idols don’t deserve modesty and Aria knew that she had a blanket for once and she should share it but oh my god.

It was Chungha.

Aria was going to pass out. 

Taking side glances every few seconds only confirmed the fact that Chungha was pulling down her dress to cover as much of her legs as possible, tucking her ankles together and underneath the seat.

Ok.

Ok, she could do this. 

Aria took a steeling breath, before shifting on her seat to face Chungha on more of a diagonal. She lifted her hand before lowering it slighly, looking away. 

Should she- no ok she’s doing this. 

Without giving herself time to talk herself out of it, Aria moved to rest her hand on Chungha’s arm. The older woman jerked slightly - startled - and Aria was quick to apologize. 

There was no audio in the video uploaded - the original poster having been too far away to capture much - but the two women talked for a moment before Chungha pointed to the blanket and then herself.

Aria nodded emphatically, and Chungha’s face crumpled into something fond, bowing her head in thanks before they unfolded the blanket another time and Chungha scooted an inch closer to Aria so they’d both fit. 

Chungha sent Aria another grateful smile before refocusing on the performances - apparently not noticing, or perhaps choosing not to comment on the rather obvious red tinge that the younger idol’s cheeks had taken on.

#*aria.misc #ew shes so rushed #ill fix her later promise #nct 22nd member #nct 24th member #nct dream 8th member #nct additional member #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #superm #nct extra member #nct addition #nct additions #kpop additions #ad #nct female oc #nct female member au #nct female member #kpop!oc #kpop #kpop addition

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

 “See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

 “That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

#no time to die #madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #several ocs #crime drama #fanfic #fanfiction #multichapter #canon is gonna joss this into the sun probably #haha... unless? #slow build

[ir0n-angel]

💙Back again for the third year in a row, with new prompts!💙

FLUFF-uary is a creation celebration designed to display all your sweetness and light for the whole month of February. There will be a prompt for each day and you can do as many as you like, in any combination or order.

Feel free to write, draw, edit photos/videos...whatever you're inspired to create. Have fun, it's not a contest. You can join in for the whole month, do one or two, or even come up with your own. Do it at your own pace, even after February is over. There's no word or size limits or restrictions other than to keep it sweet (no whump, please – we're all about the comfort zone here).

When uploading your fluffs, please tag properly with the prompt, the tag fluffuary2022, and any other applicable tags (like genre, characters, any content warnings if you decide to go NSFW etc.) Any questions can be directed @ir0n-angel​ and @crackinglamb.   As always, we hope everyone has a good time.

(reader-friendly plain text under the cut)

1. Holding Hands

2. Long Conversations

3. Trust

4. Being Silly

5. Moral Support

6. Shopping Together

7. Love Letters

8. Taking a nap together

9. Caretaking

10. Cooking Together

11. Compliments

12. First 'I love you'

13. Night Out

14. Mutual Pining

15. Love Bites

16. Flower Crowns/Putting Flowers In Their Hair

17. 'This Made Me Think of You'

18. Domestic Intimacy

19. Spooning

20. Acts of Devotion

21. Trying Something New

22. Bearhugs

23. Reminiscing

24. Wearing/Stealing Each Other's Clothes

25. Adopting a plant/pet

26. Soothing Touch

27. Established 'I love you'

28. Sweet Fluff (writer's choice)

#FLUFF-uary 2022 #Fluffuary #prompts #creation celebration #writing prompts

[belowourfeet]

Day late because I uploaded a day late on patreon. But here it is!

Last week was rough, I’ll be honest, page is a bit sub par, but I’m taking time this week to really make the next page shine!

Also! I should say, occasionally I will be skipping updates whenever the need arises for mental health reasons. I’m doing this to hopefully avoid going on another hiatus and to take time to breathe once in awhile. I’ll be aware when my brain won’t be up for drawing at all, and I’ll post here about it. And I won’t be missing an update two weeks in a row!

Thank you all very kindly for your patience! Enjoy these two trying their best to flirt

art blog @lozeyart

Support me on Patreon for early updates and a ton of extra art! https://www.patreon.com/Lozey

Reminder that Below Our Feet has a playlist on spotify!

#bof #below our feet #comic #webcomic #webcomic update #update #comic update