#mortality in calves

[divya1234]

NeoStart: Vital for Healthy Calves

In the realm of cattle farming, the health and well-being of newborn calves are fundamental to the success of any operation. NeoStart emerges as a pivotal solution in this regard, offering essential support to ensure the vitality and resilience of young calves. With its unique blend of probiotics, vitamins, minerals, and colostrum, NeoStart plays a vital role in promoting the health and development of calves from the moment they enter the world. This article delves into the significance of NeoStart in calf care and the benefits it brings to the farming community.

The Critical Role of Calf Health: Newborn calves face numerous challenges in their early days, including the risk of infections, digestive disorders, and inadequate nutrition. Addressing these challenges promptly is crucial to safeguarding the health and productivity of the herd. NeoStart serves as a cornerstone in calf health management, offering comprehensive support to address the diverse needs of young calves and ensure they thrive in their environment.

NeoStart: Essential Support for Calves: At the heart of NeoStart lies a carefully crafted blend of nutrients and bioactive compounds that are essential for calf health. Probiotics play a key role in establishing a healthy gut microbiome, promoting digestion, and boosting immunity. Vitamins and minerals provide the building blocks for growth and development, while colostrum delivers crucial antibodies that fortify the calf's immune system and protect against infections.

The Benefits of NeoStart:

Strengthened Immunity: NeoStart's colostrum component provides newborn calves with vital antibodies, enhancing their immune response and reducing susceptibility to diseases.

Improved Digestive Health: The probiotics and prebiotics in NeoStart support a balanced gut flora, aiding digestion and nutrient absorption, and reducing the risk of digestive disorders.

Enhanced Growth and Development: NeoStart's blend of vitamins and minerals ensures that calves receive the essential nutrients needed for optimal growth, resulting in stronger, healthier animals.

Reduced Health Risks: By bolstering calf immunity and digestive health, NeoStart helps minimize the risk of common health issues, leading to lower mortality rates and improved overall herd health.

Application of NeoStart: NeoStart is typically administered to newborn calves shortly after birth, either orally or mixed with milk replacer. The dosage may vary based on factors such as calf weight and health status, and it is important to follow the manufacturer's recommendations for optimal results. Regular supplementation with NeoStart can help maintain calf health and resilience, especially during periods of stress or environmental challenges.

NeoStart emerges as an indispensable tool in the quest for healthy, thriving calves on cattle farms. With its comprehensive blend of nutrients and immune-supporting compounds, NeoStart provides vital support to newborn calves, setting the stage for their long-term success and productivity. By incorporating NeoStart into their calf management practices, farmers can ensure the health and vitality of their herds, paving the way for a prosperous future in the livestock industry.

For more information visit us:

[skneees]

its his day off

[ataraxetta]

Was reminded of my bisexual awakening this past weekend.

[mariasont]

Tie a Tie - S.R

a/n: i'm a slut for a good tie

masterlist

₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader

summary: you ask spencer to teach you how to tie a tie

warnings: cuties being cute!

wc: 1.2k

"How do you tie a tie?" 

The question and the voice attached to it made Spencer do a double take, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. He directed he gaze upward, and there you were. Beside his desk. Looking angelic as ever.

Today, your hair was embellished with ribbons, pretty pink bows tied neatly above your two braids. It was cute.

You hardly visited at his desk, in fact, this might be the first time. He had always been the one to seek you out at your receptionist desk.

He realized the lapse in conversation had gone on longer than what social norms dictate. He cleared his throat and reached up to rub his neck, offering you sheepish yet attentive look. 

"Do I have something on my face?" The question came with an uncharacteristic frown that didn't suit you. A shimmering nail reached up, brushing your cheek as he fought the urge to replace your hand with his.

"No, no sorry," he assured quickly, a sense of equilibrium returning as your mouth flipped into a bright smile. "Just--, you want to know how to tie a tie?"

His intention wasn't to question you, but he was curious. What did you need to know how to tie a tie for? The answer seemed clear, yet unwelcome, as he begrudgingly considered the possibility of a significant other in your life, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"Yes," you affirmed, nodding like one of those dashboard bobbleheads, sending your ribbons dancing. "There's this outfit on Pinterest that I wanted to recreate, but it needs a tie, and well, I immediately thought of you, Dr. Reid. You're the tie expert, after all. I know you're super busy, so it's totally okay if now isn't a good time, but maybe you could text me? Or write it down, or--" 

The tension dissipated from his frame, and he interjected with a soft smile. "Yeah, no problem at all. I'll teach you," he said, rising to grab an empty chair. He placed it opposite his, motioning for you to take a seat. "And please, It's Spencer."

He doesn't know how many times he's told you that Dr. Reid sounded too formal coming from you. 

"Oh, right, Spencer." They way his name rolled off your tongue sent a wave of warmth through him. You bit your lip, crossing one leg over the other, the tip of your kitten heel brushing his calve in the process. "Thank you so much. I tried to watch YouTube tutorials, but it wasn't really working out."

"It's no problem," he said, trying to keep his cool as his surveyed the vacant office, immensely grateful the team was out on a case, and he was left behind to work on documents. 

It wasn't that he was embarrassed by you, he would be an idiot to feel that way. He was embarrassed by how utterly out of control he felt around you. "Uh, here--"

His hands moved with practiced ease, a brief hesitation passing before he placed it around your neck. Your smile was disarming, compelling him to avert his gaze to prevent any impulsive actions. Gently, he swept your hair aside at the nape of your neck, careful not to entangle it with the fabric.

Spencer's fingers stalled, suspended over the smooth silk encircling you. The awareness of your focused gaze was palpable, almost tangible.

"Okay," he started, his tone even despite the butterflies attacking at his stomach. "The first thing you need to do is cross the long end over the short end, like this."

He illustrated the motion, his hands lightly skimming over your collarbone, eliciting a soft giggle from the unexpected tickle.

"Like this?" you repeated, your tongue making a brief appearance against your pink stained lips, trying to follow his lead.

"Exactly," he confirmed with a nod, smile inching across his face. "Now you bring the long end up through the loop around your neck."

His touch was light on the fabric, his fingertips just grazing the skin below your ear, a reaction visible in the slight shiver that traveled over you, goosebumps taking over. 

You watched his every move, your head tilting to the side, a lock of hair falling into your face. "And then?"

"Now, you fold it down through the knot you've just made." Spencer's voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he focused on the task at hand. "Pull it all the way though, and then adjust the tightness by holding the short end and sliding the knot up."

With his guidance, you managed to complete the knot. "I did it!"

The excitement in your eyes was infectious, and he felt the rosy hue take over his face, a blush he couldn't contain at the sight of you. His laughter spilled out in response.

"You're a quick learner." His hands remained on the tie, a touch too long, maybe. 

The intrusive ring of his phone fractured the moment, like a glass dropping on hard ground. He glanced at the caller ID--Hotch, of course--and sighed.

"Sorry, I have to take this."

"It's okay. Thank you for the help, Spencer."

--

Spencer almost died the moment you entered the bullpen the next morning, almost toppling over and dying of asphyxiation because of how easily you took his breath away.

There you were, in what he could only deduce was the Pinterest inspired outfit, a pink tie neatly arranged around your neck, its tail slipped into the waistband of your skirt.

"Spencer, you forgot your tie yesterday," you called out, extending the forgotten piece of fabric with a smile.

A red akin to a ripe strawberry bloomed across Spencer's face as he watched Morgan and Prentiss freeze mid-step, exchanging knowing looks as they glanced between you two.

"Reid, what's this about a tie?" 

Of course, Morgan was butting in, because it just wouldn't be a normal day of work if he wasn't.

"It's not--We didn't--," he faltered, his eyes meeting yours, finding an innocent cluelessness to the implications around them. Opting to dismiss the others, he focused on you, taking the tie with hands that weren't quite steady. "I mean, thank you."

You simply beamed at him.

"Do you like my outfit?" you asked, doing a little twirl that made the hem of your skirt flare out. He had to avert his eyes, knowing that the way he was looking you over would certainly not be perceived as innocent. "I got your text with the instructions. It was so sweet because I definitely did not remember everything you said yesterday. It gets kind of confusing with all the steps."

He was momentarily lost for words. "It's... you look... amazing."

Spencer was still fumbling for words when you stepped closer, the soft scent of your perfume wrapping around him.

"Well, it's all thanks to you."

Before he could respond, your rose onto the balls of your feet and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. It was quick, innocent, but it left his knees feeling like they might buckle

As you pulled away, his skin tingled where your lips had been, and he stood there, utterly dumbstruck, his face a canvas painted with various shades of pink.

Morgan stared at him, his eyebrows raised in silent question, but Spencer didn't care. For a short moment, he didn't care about anything else--not the case files, not the teasing of his colleagues, not the world outside. There was only the warmth on his cheek and the sudden lightness in his chest. 

He decided this was his new lucky tie. 

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[educritter]

How to Make Cows Calve in the Morning and Improve Calf Survival

I can probably rightly assume not many of you are cattle, sheep, or coat producers. For those of you that are, and are currently in the spring flood of babies... Give this a read :)

Photo by Natalia Slastnikova on Unsplash I absolutely love management practices that make life easier for farmers, especially when they actively improve animal welfare while reducing vet bills. Honestly, who doesn’t love the sound of that? I recently remembered that there are ways to make calving much easier, and that calving season for most folks in the US is between February and May. So, with…

[flickering-nightfall]

Playing with some ideas mostly regarding gender/reproduction in RW, and slugcat colonies.

Full transcript under the cut!

Creatures in Rain World are typically simultaneous hermaphrodites but require partners to reproduce, with either individual capable of being a genetic donor or carrier. Alongside what we are familiar with, this has lead to interesting reproductive strategies such as rotating donor/carrier roles, or dual/simultaneous genetic swaps.

Rotating donor/carrier roles - A K-selection reproductive strategy. One partner carries the first child, the other partner carries the next child, and so forth. Allows each partner to recover from the demands of childbearing.

Rain Deer aren't quite monogamous, but they tend to choose the same breeding partner whenever mating season rolls around. They serve as a donor one season, then bear and raise a child the next. Calves are raised away from the rain and worm grass, in places that have less food but more safety. Calf wool is softer, not yet gunked up by the dirty rainfall. Their legs are sturdier as children, allowing them to run for cover while the parent wards off threats.

Dual/simultaneous genetic swap - An r-selection reproductive strategy. Parents fulfill the donor and carrier role for each other. The more children you make, the more likely some are to survive!

Multiple batflies lay thousands of eggs in a single "blue fruit." Several eggs congeal and become nutrient paste for the surviving eggs (and for hungry slugcats). Like some plant seeds, batfly eggs that are consumed before pupating can survive passing through the digestive system. Ew.

Ancients also fell under this umbrella. Their genders (and the genders of iterators by extension, who have no sex anyways) could have been determined by a variety of other factors, such as societal role, donor/carrier preference, or simply different categorizations of personal expression.

It's difficult to say how well their common pronouns would translate to ours, but it seems they can translate to an extent, given what Moon and Pebbles use canonically.

Slugcats, like real slugs, can have children with a partner or self-fertilize. Unlike real slugs, they are often known to adopt.

In the case of self-fertilization: children who are born from one parent may display a large amount of genetic diversity despite the circumstances. Maybe slugcats have some sort of... genetic reservoir independent of their own genetic code?

Slugcats live 20-30 years on average... if they manage to reach adulthood. Their mortality rate is sadly rather high, especially in pups. If they were to develop as a civilization, it's likely their lifespan would increase dramatically.

Slugcats in a colony are more likely to have more children, and to successfully rear those children to adulthood, than those who wander alone or in small groups. The safety and stability of a colony cannot be understated.

Colonies either have a set, cycling migration path, or wander continuously. Survivor and Monk's tree home was a nesting site that their colony frequents about once a year. So it's likely that they'll see their family again!

...also, the strength of large colonies are why scavengers are likely to become the dominant species. In the time of Saint's era, continuous migration has become more of a risk, and it has become more difficult to support large populations. Slugcat populations have shrunk back to the more forgiving equatorial zones.

Saint's tongue is pretty unusual and probably unique to them, or to a small population that they hail from. Fur (of varying thickness) is much more common.

Meanwhile, scavengers are bulkier and covered in thicker insulating fur. They:

have seemingly massive populations

have a burgeoning society (the existence of merchants, tolls, bartering, elites and leaders)

are adept at communicating (non-verbally)

manipulate their environment

can build structures (scavenger-made structures were a scrapped idea from Saint's campaign)

can create complex weapons and tools

may have agriculture behind the scenes (unsure if scout parties prioritize exploration or hunting)

I would wager on scavengers developing more quickly than slugcats, but it would be nice if there was a future where both could co-exist.

[revasserium]

18 and 28 from promp list 1 with zayne? :>

send me a number + a character and i'll write u a drabble

18. afterglow + 28. cliche of the morning after (take two)

zayne; 1,209 words; fluff, fem!reader, zayn!branded banter, very very vague allusions to top!zayne, whipped!zayne

summary: the morning after, with zayne.

a/n: zayne is not so secretly a simp. no further comments at this time.

It is often in the moments after, in the liquid exhale of skin on skin, the dissipating heat of body against body — this is when Zayne thinks he sees you most clearly. Faintly, he wonders if he could count every single point of contact between you — your ankles hooked over his (one), your calves pressed together (two), the delicate softness of your hip beneath his palm (three), the weight of your cheek pillowed on his arm (four).

He watches the moth-wing flutter of your lashes as your eyes flicker open to meet his, the petal-sweet spread of your smile as you crinkle your nose and lean in to bury your face in his chest with a groan.

“You’re staring again.”

Your voice is muffled; he feels it vibrating through his skin.

Zayne drops a kiss into your hair as he loops his arms around you.

“Am I not allowed?”

You shake your head, pressing ever closer even as he chuckles, letting his fingers trail through your silken hair, amusing himself with tugging on the ends.

“Feels weird.”

“Does it?” he asks.

You pull back to peer up at him, and he feels himself falling into the galaxies caught behind your eyes, and yes, isn’t it a cliche to fall for a girl like this? To compare her eyes to the light of distant stars, to find her shadow and shade in every flower petal, her voice in every rustle of tree branches, and the chiming of silver bells.

Yes, he thinks — it is.

But he has long since given up trying to rationalize the way you make him feel, ever since you were both children, and he’d imagined what it might feel to someday hold more of you than your hand.

Here, now — with your body pressed to his, Zayne can’t help but wonder at all the parts of you he’s always had — not the bare skin of your waist or the heat caught behind the line of your teeth but other things. The tiny scar on your right elbow (five), the curve of your knee hard against his own (six), the baby’s breath of hair at the nape of your neck that always curled and would never stay in braids the way you liked (seven) —

“Zayne?” your voice is small.

“Hm?”

“What are you thinking about? You look so serious.”

Zayne blinks. He wonders if he should tell you about his thoughts, about how there’s not a moment in the day when he’s not thinking about you. About how he wonders if you’re eating, sleeping, if you’re safe. About how sometimes it keeps him up at night when he thinks about the mortality rates of Hunters, of the unknown, unnamed dangers that await you out there, all the things he can’t protect you from.

He wonders if he should tell you that he spends too long thinking of you — of your body and the way it fits so perfectly inside his arms. Of how the last time he held you in his arms, it took everything in him to let you go, set you down on his office sofa, and watch you as your breaths evened out.

So he says, “Nothing…” so he says, “just… thinking about what to make for breakfast.”

He doesn’t tell you that he’s kept your favorite brand of toothpaste in his bathroom for the past several years, or how he’s always got a drawer full of clothes that he knows you like to wear tucked into his closet.

“Oh! What about pancakes? Or… French Toast?”

Your smile is bright and happy and Zayne can’t help the way he leans down to brush his lips against yours. He savors in the way you gasp and soften against him. He lingers too long on how the smooth of your leg slots so perfectly between his.

“Whichever you feel like more,” he says, pulling back to smile down at you, taking note of the brilliant blush that has since settled across your cheeks.

“What if… I say I want both?”

Zayne lets out a sigh, chuckling as he fixes you with a look.

Want. He wonders if you truly know the depths and width of wanting the way he does — and if you’d still want to stay when you did find out.

Instead, he leans in to nuzzle his nose against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek in his palm.

“Then… I’ll make both.”

“Really?”

You sound too surprised, too pleased.

“But we’ll have to eat healthier for lunch and dinner.”

You crinkle your nose, “But we’ve been so healthy all week!”

Zayne watches you pout for a moment longer before he sighs and pulls back ever so slightly, casting his eyes at the ceiling, letting out a contemplative hum.

“Or, we can go to the gym.”

He knows exactly the face you’re making before he ever looks over to see you make it, and allows himself a small laugh.

“Ugh, you’re no fun.”

“No?” Zayne turns and you go still next to him, eyes wide as he pins you with a look. He watches with a muted satisfaction as color creeps into your cheeks and you blink, attempting to backtrack.

“That’s not — I mean —”

In a single move, he has you pinned beneath him, both your wrists caught in one of his hands, pinned above your head so that you’re stretched out beneath him. He watches as you tug weakly against his hold before going still, blinking up at him from beneath your thick lashes.

“Though…. I suppose there are other ways of burning calories that might be of more interest to you than going to the gym.”

He keeps his voice level, his expression blank. But he counts the quickening pace of your breath, and sees the darkening of your eyes as your pupils dilate.

“Z-Zayne…”

“Didn’t you say you wanted both pancakes and French Toast?” he leans down with a light smile, casually stroking a finger along the line of your cheek.

“Yes but —”

“But?”

You bite your lips, shifting beneath him. And like this, he can’t help the baser, more carnal parts of him as they threaten to take over his senses. Not with you spread out beneath him like this, so tantalizing in your willingness, so defiant and shy all at once.

“You’ll… really make both for me?”

Zayne almost laughs, nodding as he bends down to press a long kiss to your lips, groaning as your hips roll up into his at the sweep of his tongue along your teeth.

“If you’re good.”

You nod, eyes wide and already misted over, “I — I’ll be good.”

Zayne nods once before he tugs the rest of the blankets from you, letting the hunger crest up and through him as he coos by your ear —

“Good… that’s a good girl for me.”

He does end up making both pancakes and French Toast for you in the end. Though, by the time that happens, it’s much too far past noon for either of you to call it breakfast any longer.

[neo-nomatrix]

The Head of Aphrodite

Aphrodite!Gojo x Ares!reader

word count: 1072

summary: You, goddess of war, go into battle with your beloved, god of love.

banners by: @cafekitsune and @saradika

warnings: idk historical inaccuracies? i tried to follow some parts of the iliad. i was originally gonna do this with aphrodite!reader and ares!gojo (or toji) but this happened. coercion by gojo. uhh gods fight mortals??? idk i needed an excuse to put them into battle and realized that it doesn’t make sense in the middle of writing

You betrayed your own mother for your beloved.

Since the beginning your mother and you had sided with the Greeks during the Trojan war. Your mother despised the Trojans. After Paris, the prince of Troy, had said Gojo was more beautiful than her. Although you agreed, she was still your mother. Yet, you were only in love with one. Gojo Satoru, God of beauty and love, the most gorgeous being through the living and the dead.

“Please, my love,” Satoru begged from beneath you.

He often did this, groveling at your feet at any chance he could get. You’re sat on your throne, a beautiful creation made of leather, metal, and skulls. It’s a drastic difference from your dark demeanor to Satorus constant beam of light following him. Your skin is adorned in your armor, face resting on your hand in boredom. His white tunic slips off his shoulder as you look down at him, revealing a chest chiseled by Pygmalion. His skin glowing radiance. He caresses your bare legs in his arms, kissing up your calves and thighs. Whispering sweet nothings to you, in hopes of convincing you.

“My loyalty is supposed to lie with the Greeks, you know this, my love,” you say back.

“No. Your loyalty lies with me,” Satoru says back, his eyes turning suddenly dark before shifting back to his mesmerizing blue ones.

“My mother would-“ you begin before Satoru cuts you off.

“To hell with Hera! She only wants you on the side of the Greeks because the Trojans worship me instead of her. You really believe she is worth more than me? Your lover?” He begs, voice almost whimpering in despair.

“What do they have to offer me?” You ask.

“Brutality. The Trojans are men of war! They will not rest until the battle is done, they are true soldiers,” The God says, knowing you would take a liking to a barbaric nature.

“You’ll be fighting by my side, my goddess,” He continued.

“Joining the Trojans would be joining the losing side. I only win,” you argue with him.

“why must you be so difficult?” Satoru thinks to himself.

“You would rather fight against me? Is that how you see me, my dearest?” He says, knowing it will push your buttons.

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it,” you say, irritated by him.

“But you did! You would rather fight with me, your lover, the god who is the reason for all your pleasure, because it means you would win a war that doesn’t even matter to us!” He reasons.

“Satoru, you started the war! You are insufferable, i’m beginning to actually want to fight against you,” Your fuse is about to blow.

“Oh, sweet girl,” Satoru muses at you.

He begins to make his way up your body from his pathetic position. Slowly touching your body, from your ankles up to your face. He presses soft, pleasuring kisses, to every part of your body he can reach. He easily finds the sweet spots on your neck and teases at them.

“Join me, my goddess. My all powerful being, creator of destruction and war,” he whispers against your skin.

“Fine,” you mumble back.

It’s not your proudest moment. A goddess who has put men on their knees due to a simple look. A goddess who has won, and started, hundreds of wars. The goddess that has been broken down so easily. A small bit of begging and touching makes you crumble. Gojo knows he has won. He smiles against your lips.

“I knew I would win.”

You’re drenched in the blood of mortals. You know none of it is yours because no warrior has yet to even come close to you with their blade. You are the Goddess of the war. Subsequently, many did not take a liking to you. Most did not worship you, and you don’t mind. You relish in slaughter and bloodlust, why would a few (thousand) mortals hating you make a difference? If it really mattered to you, you could just kill them too.

Satoru looks ethereal on the battlefield. The god of beauty really doesn’t take a day off. When you spot him he’s wiping off blood from his face, bodies surrounding him. He pulls out his grand sword from the body of a soldier, face turning into disgust when he sees the gruesome scene around him.

In contrast to you, many worshiped Satoru Gojo. They adored him. He was charming, handsome, kind, handsome, funny, and was handsome on the list? Satoru Gojo is a sight even among Gods. The mere thought of him to mortals was enough to send someone into shock.

It was no surprise when you heard a soldier talk about taking his head as some sort of trophy. Even if not surprising it still enrages you. The thought of disgusting mortals even thinking of taking your lovers head made you want to wipe out every living being on the planet.

You create a path to these said men. The aura surrounding you smelling of death. Your sword gripped in your hand. You wish for them to suffer. Your steps hold so much power the ground shakes beneath you, causing the men to fall. You begin stabbing into their chests, piercing their stomachs through the armor. Until you take one by the hair, and in one swift stroke their head comes off their body. Face going limp, stuck in an expression of fear.

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo was watching you. He was taken aback by you. The sheer power you held with you. Your muscles gleaming in the smoky air, sweat and blood decorating them. He has never seen something so attractive in his life. If he were to describe true beauty, he would say you.

You turn to him with an angry smile on your face. The once living head turned into a skull at your command. Simply another death to add to your collection.

Still seething you approach Gojo. Looking him in the eye. A dark presence follows you while your lover is surrounded by a light one. His head pounds in adoration for you. He has never felt like this in his entire life. You throw your sword into the ground, eager to touch Satoru. You calloused hands wrap around his biceps. You stare at Satoru in the eyes, his hand wrapped around your waist.

“No one touches what’s mine.”

[daughterofyore]

George and the Pond.

King George x f!reader

[[Queen Charlotte (Netflix)]]

category; heavy smut, fluff, angst (lil bit)

wc; 2,249

music inspired;- apocalypse

a/n:: George has a manic episode by the pond, you manage to calm him and he’s so thankful for you he fucks you to show it :)

TW!: NSFW, George porphyria episode (Venus), heavy smut, breeding kink, Good ol fast sex

Venus begged George to find her. She pleaded with him to search, to save her. She was his one true love. She needed him! He ran through the palace grounds, in the distance behind him there was a cacophony of shouts, someone begging for him to turn around. It was Venus’ ex lovers, surely. They didn’t understand the love they shared, the adoration of their coupling. Her beautiful, pale skin and blemished face. Glowing like a fading star against the ebony blanket of the night sky. An infinite amount of white blazing stars surrounding her like a halo in all her glory. Oh, how he longed to be by her side. How he dared to get closer to her. He needed to feel her glow upon his skin, so without a moments hesitation he ripped his clothes from his skin. Silk pyjamas made of the finest lapis lazuli blue discarded into the mud of the pond. He raised his arms to her, crying for her to join him on this mortal plane. For the goddess of love to bless him with her prowess. He could feel her compassionate deposition seep into his very pores, touching his bare, sculpted body. Casting shadows along the dips and ridges of his muscles.

“George!” You cried out to him, watching as he bared his body to the entire garden. Reynolds raced ahead of you, reaching before you could. You were still adorned in your glittering evening gown. Made of a deep fiery scarlet, as if it was made of the last embers of a great fire. Silver lining cascaded down its centre and bodice, elaborate lace adorning the contrasting peachy cream underskirt. It flew around you as you gathered the skirt into your arms, heels clicking off the cobbles and then sinking into the finely kept lawns. You stumbled and struggled to reach your husband, you could see his eyes glistening as he stared at the planet Venus. He cried of his love to her, his devotion. How is it I don’t receive that love? You scoffed, a moment of clarity as you were still unsure as to why he acted this way. You had suspected it for some time now, his comings and goings from Kew. The secrecy surrounding him and the protectiveness of not only Reynolds but his mother too.

Your voice was like an arrow through the fog, piercing the hazy clouds in his peripherals. Venus seemed to fade into the background as he spun to look at you. You weren’t Venus, you were you. Shining brighter than she ever could. As he watched you approach, the sparkles glittering from your dress enraptured him. He felt himself falling in your direction, before a voice called him to turn around. Venus, competitive as always. She challenged you for his attention. He laughed incredulously, how lucky was he to be fought over by the Goddess of Love and her rival? Reynolds stood at his side, begging helplessly for him to return to the castle. He gathered his clothes in his hand, looking at him with a pleading gaze. Continuously he requested for the King to go inside, tried to reason with him. You knew you had never seen this before but maybe, just maybe he would recognise you.

You reached his side, letting go of your dress. It fell on his feet and pressed into his calves. He turned to you, eyes wide, hyperventilating. “You won-“ He whispered looking at you, as if it was the first time he truly saw you. He turned towards the sky, laughing. “You lost Venus! Imagine that!” He returned to face you but upon seeing your worried expression, his celebrations halted. “How come you are not happy? You have won, have you not?”

“George, it’s time we go inside now.”

“What, why? The night is beautiful we-“

“George, Venus has lost this game but I would prefer to celebrate with you indoors.” He stood very still for a moment, dark brows scrunching together as he tried to concentrate and discern exactly what you were implying. His brain felt jumbled, mixed and confused. Like he wasn’t allowed to understand, as if there was a black alabaster wall separating from the here and there.

“I wish to stay here. Let’s celebrate here.” You paused and gazed at him, studying him carefully. You spun to Reynolds.

“Cover the windows and leave his clothes here. Ensure nobody enters these grounds or can see us.” Reynolds pressed his lips into a thin line before muttering a ‘Yes, your majesty.’ He left, grabbing Brimsley by the elbow and guiding him indoors. You turned back to George, your husband. Your king. You rested a gentle hand on his chest, and he stilled. He sucked in a devastating shaky breath before raising his arms to hold your shoulders.

“You, you saw- oh, wife I- oh I am so sorry.” His eyes began to water, a new clarity crossing them. His face slackened, now an evident frown replacing his once maniacal smile. You hushed him, gently guiding him to your chest as you snaked comforting arms around him. You held him in your embrace, rubbing soothing circles on his back as he let silent sobs escape him. He sniffled, clutching onto the fabric of your dress as he eventually sunk to his knees. “My dear I am so sorry, I am sorry I have avoided you. That I have tried to hide I-“ He couldn’t get his words out but you put a comforting hand on his head. Intertwining your fingers with his brown locks, you gently massaged his scalp.

“Do not apologise George. I understand you. I am here for you. Come, let us lie and look at the stars together.” You smiled at him, holding his hand and laying on the lawn. He tentatively lay beside you, he finally noticed his nakedness and his hands rushed to cover himself. You once again shushed him, grabbing the many layers of your skirts and draping them across his waist. “No need to worry about what I have seen before darling.” You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. He smiled, sucking in a breath after as he looked to the sky.

“I could be married to a pompous wench right now, who wouldn’t give a damn about me. Who would run in the opposite direction if she saw what I did tonight..” he turned his head, gazing at you. You met his eyes and smiled. “Yet you stay, you lie with me. Why?”

“I believe I see myself in you. Trapped, misunderstood.” You took a shivering breath. “Sometimes all we need is a little kindness and a show of stability. I wish to be that for you.” His eyes began to glaze, he sucked in his bottom lip as it began to quiver.

He turned on his side, a new light coming to his eyes. Slowly he raised a leg to bend at an angle across your thighs. Bracing himself on an elbow he gazed at you. His face inches from you. “I do not know what I have done to deserve a woman such as you.” Slowly he lowered his lips to yours, kissing you softly. You reciprocated it, lips merely mingling before he slipped his tongue across them, asking for entry. You obliged, parting your lips as his tongue slipped by. He licked the bottom of your teeth, before dancing around your tongue with his. He sucked on your lip, biting it gently and sucking the sting away. You gasped, a hand travelling up his side. You could feel his muscles shiver at your touch, he manoeuvred over you, straddling your hips. His cock pressed against your stomach, hardening. His hands travelled up your sides before reaching your breasts. They were secured behind the corset of your evening gown, yet he managed to push a hand down its front and grope one. He massaged it in his hand, loving the mass and softness of it. His kiss deepened, he peppered them along your jaw and to your collarbone. Reaching your cleavage he looked at you mischievously, recalling his hand and replacing its absence with long, sensuous licks across the top of your breasts. His tongue travelled over them, then between. He licked up from your cleavage to your throat, to your lips. Kissing you again before he backed down, grabbing your skirts.

“And I you, my queen.”

You were breathing heavy, barely able to control the growing heat intensifying between your legs. A steady throb as it begged for attention. Your core tightening in angst of what was to come. This was what your wedding night should’ve been, but you didn’t care. This, this was better. Laying on the cool grass beneath a bright moon and stars that reflected off of a still pond. This was bliss. George hiked your skirts up, laying them across your midriff. He bowed down again, grabbing your pantyhose and pulling them down to expose bare thighs. He looked at you over the mound of skirts, smirking. “Are you alright my love, may I continue?” You nod, breath escaping you. You peered up at the stars between the foliage of the cherry blossom tree. George dipped his head between your thighs, gently pushing them apart. He kissed and nipped at the sensitive skin, licking the sting away again once more.

Agonisingly slow he made his way to your centre, licking over the underwear covering you. He raised a hand, rubbing a finger between your folds and feeling the wetness seep the fabric. He grinned, pushing a finger into you and watching you arch your back. He kept the underwear on, watching you squirm as he teased you. Ever so slowly he retracted the finger, dragging it up and pressing it to your clit. Your juices soaked the fabric now, it clung to your very shape. You jolted at the contact, the pressure on your clit making you pull away. He grabbed your left leg, putting it over his shoulder and gripping your thigh to hold you in place. He spread you with a knee, continuously exploring you over the whimsy barrier of your panties. You moaned, trying to move but he held you firmly in place. “Are you ready wife? Ready for me to take you?” You nod feverishly, his ministrations have built a fiery ache in your core. Begging for his attention. Your cunt wept as it pleaded for him to enter it, to give it attention. George smirked, gently taking your hands and pulling you up. He stepped behind you and made short work of the lace up your back. He quickly pulled the dress off, then the undergarments until finally you were bare before him. He smiled, standing back and admiring you. “My beautiful wife, in all her glory.” His eyes were ravenous, without a moments hesitation he was back between your legs. He kneeled, grabbing your hips he hoisted you into an awkward position, your legs dangled above his shoulders while you lay only on your shoulders and head. He held you in his grip, his lips placing tender kisses across your cunt. He licked, slow as of tasting your every essence. His tongue slipped into you, to which he began to lick inside you. He left it begging for more and turned his attention to your clit again. It throbbed for him, and he knew it did. He wrapped an arm around your leg, balancing your ass against his chest as he spread you with two fingers. He began to taste you, sucking on your clit. He nipped it, sucking it better straight after. You squirmed in his grasp but he still held you firmly, refusing to let you move. He lapped at your pussy like a thirsty dog, drinking you up. He turned his attention back to your clit, sucking intensely on it. You moaned, cried out his name. He seemed to only grow more excited and you could feel his length pressing into the small of your back. He sucked, and sucked, and sucked until finally the growing tension ruptured. You screamed his name, yet he continued to suck and lick you through the orgasm. You were trembling at the end, and he lay you down, kissing your stomach. He looked up at you as you threaded fingers through his hair. “I’m going to put a baby in you, my queen.” He smirked and you swore it nearly undid you again. He sat back on his knees, his cock long and hard as it stood. He grabbed your hips, pulling you towards him. He grabbed his dick, rubbing it’s tip along your slit. He pressed a firm hand down on your stomach as he slowly pushed his way in without any warning. You stretched, moaning around him. His sheer size pushing you close to ecstasy.

Once he was in he let loose a shivering sigh, looking back to you. “Are you alright my love?” You nodded, placing a hand on his as it pressed into your stomach. He could feel the faint mass of his cock in you, it turned him on even more. Slowly, he pulled out and pushed back in again. Keeping a slow and steady rhythm till you had adjusted. Once he could feel you relax, he began to pound into you. Growing in intensity. Gasps of air escapes him each time he fucks you. You were a moaning mess, barely able to breathe. Your breasts bounced up and down at the ferocity he pounded into you. His balls clapped off your ass, sounding through the garden. You felt like you were in heaven. He looked up at you and grabbed one of your breasts, squeezing it. He pinched your nipple, pulling it slightly as he fucked you. You were in ecstasy. Every inch of your being burning, yearning for his touch. He grabbed your hips, spinning you around to be on all fours as he stayed inside you. He gripped your hips and continued his merciless fucking. “George! Oh fuck George-“ You screamed for him, moaning his name.

“I’m going to cum inside you pretty queen-“ He moaned your name, deep and guttural. “And watch you grow with our child, our heir.” You cried out for him again, and it was all he needed to slam himself into without mercy, he reached a hand around you, rubbing your clit with no remorse. It was so intense you couldn’t think straight.

“George I- George I’m going to cum!”

“Do it, do it for me my queen. Do it together.” He moaned above you, continuing his ministrations. The pair of you cried out, heads thrown back in ecstasy. You orgasmed, and he spilled his seed into you. It’s warmth spreading through your core. He stayed in you for a moment, breathing deeply. You were gasping for air below him. Eventually he slid out, pulling you down to lay beside him. He held you close, running a lazy hand up and down your side.

“My beautiful Queen, fucked by the garden pond.”

[itsphoenix0724]

Can You Kill A God? (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: No one will ever forget why you are Death's queen ever again.

Based on another fic I wrote which you can read here

Warnings: Gore, blood, the reader is a little sinister but I love it, SMUT (unprotected sex, breeding kink?, oral: m and f receiving)

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: I've been really missing Death!Az and Life!Reader recently. Also, I've had an obsession with Get In The Water from Epic the musical and this is what spawned. I did set in Ancient Greece so I did mention a Greek city. Happy New Year!!!

It started as a petty slight. Some stupid mortal king had said they feared Death more than War, so the god had raged a challenge. Your husband doesn’t normally involve himself in other matters, he had no need.

Eris was irrelevant to him.

Of all the other gods he is the only one who was inevitable, who would be permanent despite all odds. Azriel didn’t even feel the need to acknowledge the God of War, but he had started harming your creations, which was unacceptable in his eyes.

The souls had come into the underworld brutalized, they curled into your lap as you wiped their tears with the gossamer of your gown and told you that they had been sent as a message. You shed your own tears as you escorted them to eternal paradise and Death’s eyes went dark with promise as he cupped your jaw. 

Then he prepared for battle. 

You had to return to the overworld soon, the last phases of winter thawing into springtime greenery. He would sort this mess out before you leave his protection realm. Azriel gathered his allies and they outfitted themselves for combat. He took care to strap the armor to your chest, the gauntlets on your arms, and around your calves, kissing his devotion before securing every piece of metal. You did the same to him taking extra care to protect his heart.

The sight of you almost sent him to his knees.

There are still flowers wound through your hair, nightshade and belladonna make a deadly crown, and the golden glow that seems to permanently surround you bounces off the obsidian steel of your armor.

The battle had been bloody and long, it felt as if you’ve been here for days. Your dress was torn, the cloth shredded around your feet. Blood covered your entire front, caked and cracked into your skin. 

You cannot kill a god. 

But that doesn’t make the battle any less gruesome. 

Nothing would touch you thanks to Death looming over your shoulder. Every attack that may have hit you was deflected by your husband and vice-versa until the God of War catches onto this little tactic and baits Azriel by attacking you. Az had jumped in front of you, a wall of shadows blasting the God of War back a few feet at the risk of wounding him. 

But Death had fallen, red blood spilling sickly and sweet onto the fresh spring grass. It reminds you of a splitting pomegranate as the red seeps out and stains the dirt, every god in the field halts their battle and watches 

You fall to your knees in front of him, vines starting to curl around him as your magic begs to erupt from your chest to protect what’s yours. Eris gloats from his spot hovering in the air, laughing at Azriel struggling to breathe around the blood coming up his throat. The thorn vines wrap around Azriel to ward off any who might try to weaken him further as you rise to your feet. 

“Flower,” he wheezes around a cracked rattle in his throat, shaking his head and trying to sit up. You shush him gently pouring golden light into his chest that does nothing. You are not the Goddess of Healing, life will never stop death, so Az will have to heal on his own. War still mocks your shushing, your tears, calling your magic pathetic.

The earth beneath you starts to rumble. 

You are the Goddess of Life, the Goddess of the Earth, the World Shaker, and you will make every God here remember why you are Queen of the Underworld. 

Rising to your feet, the earth grumbles and shudders under the very force of your erratic heartbeat. War made a mistake waging this battle in Sparta, his arrogance will be his downfall. Your entire body shakes with rage as you stare at Eris from his spot in the air. 

“Get on the ground Eris.” Your voice rumbles in time with the splitting of the earth and War widens his eyes at the splintering ground. Yet, his overconfidence keeps him hovering out of your reach.

“Go home, Little Goddess” He drawls, “You’ve been beaten.” he spits at you with venom in his eyes—a dark, dark laugh bubbles out of your chest like molten lava. 

“If you don’t come down here I will collapse every wall in your city, and kill everyone in it.” You glare up at him, and he laughs shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t believe me?” You quirk a brow and the rise around the city starts to shake. “Tell me God, what happens when every last worshiper of yours is dead?” His eyes widen in fear then. 

Because that is how you kill a god, you force them into the darkness of being forgotten until they waste away like little more than salt in water. 

Faster than a breath thorn-covered vines shoot from the earth and surround War kicking and screaming, golden light begins to glow brightly from your eyes as your fury hauls him to the ground.

 People seem to forget that Death is the calm acceptance of something coming to an end. Life joins this realm wailing its existence to the stars, Life can be a very violent thing.

You will break him beyond repair, you can’t hear the sounds of Eris choking on his blood, the only noise in your head is the dull thumping of a war drum. He fights back with as much power as he can muster, but you’re barely trembling with the effort it takes to hold him there. The sinister in your smile reflects in his shining, terrified eyes. 

How pretty would it be if lilies sprouted from his lungs? 

Someone may be calling your name but you can’t hear anything, the tunnel vision threatening to collapse you entirely. You might not be able to kill him like this but regrowing all of his organs certainly would take some time. Feeling the golden power writhe and wrap around his heart, begging you to let it off its leash and crush, but it’s then that you feel the cooling darkness wrap around your shoulders. Death sweeps his chill gaze over War after rising to his feet. You still hold the line firm, one arm shooting out to block Azriel from any further advancement. The light in your eyes still refuses to dim, but Az wraps a hand around your jaw delicately turning your face toward him. 

“You’ve made your point My Love,” the steady weight of his hand calms the rising heat in your blood. “It’s time to let him go.” Azriel didn’t particularly care if you ripped Eris apart and scattered him to the seas, but he knew the guilt would threaten to drag you into the abyss entirely. The light dims, and you drop your hand. Eris falls to the ground like a puppet dropped from strings, coughing blood like shiny red rubies onto the grass. You’re only looking at Az, the wash of reassurance running over your body as you finally process that he’s whole–that he’s standing. 

He’s alright. 

Death doesn’t deign to even look at War as shadows come around you like dark silk, and you’re back in his realm. He finally sags into your arms as he lets the facade drop, the real pain and exhaustion catching up to him. Az thinks you might call for a medic, but it feels like someone is holding his head underwater. The silk of the sheets feels distant against his skin as your hand strokes his face, and he finally lets his eyes slip closed. 

Azriel sleeps for four days. 

He wakes in your bedroom, your presence absent, but a pitcher of water remains on the bedside table. The armor he’d donned for battle had been stripped from him, replaced by a black chiton that fell loosely around his chest and hips. He chugs half the water in one go as his power reaches out frantically for you, his heart settles when he feels like your golden aura, and he rises to set off looking. 

He finds you beneath an ever-blooming willow tree in Asphodel fields, reading animatedly to a group of children, the golden reeds bellowing in the fresh spring air. They scatter as he leans against the trunk, giggling and laughing as they chase each other into the meadow. You’re overjoyed when you see your husband, throwing his arms around him and crashing his lips to yours. 

“Are you all right?” You mutter, gently pushing back the curtain of black hair that had fallen into his eyes. You’re so delicate with him, Azriel feels his heart skip two beats in his chest. 

“I’m content,” He hums lazily dropping his nose into your hairline, the lingering smell of lilies floods his senses and calms his nerves as it always does. He nudges his nose to your pulse point before biting gently at your fluttering heartbeat. 

“Azriel,” your voice reverberates into his chest, twinning heartbeats thudding together. “You’re still injured.” he continues his exploration of your neck, nipping his displeasure at your attempt to coddle him. Your body shudders as he finds a sensitive point, and you can feel his smug smile at your jugular. 

“Let me worship my Goddess in peace,” he rumbles relishing in the feel of your skin and the golden warmth of the fresh sun. He drops to his knees in the dirt, pressing devotion into the curve of your knee as your back thumps against the bark of the willow. He smirks as flowers bloom around you in time with your bashfulness, red poppies matching the pretty flush on your cheeks. 

“The souls,” You whip your head from side to side as he runs his hands along the sensitive skin of your thighs. He tilts his head in contemplation, hazel eyes reflecting the warmth like molten gold.

You feel his power ripple around you and a blanket of silence covers the area. Everything goes quiet, no birds chirping or animals running through the surrounding forest, even the rustling of the grass in the wind falls silent under his command. 

“No one will bother us now,” Azriel muses, continuing his travels, you squirm under his attention as he climbs higher and higher. 

“You’ve been asleep for four days,” You barely get the words out as he runs his thumb delicately over the apex of your thighs, enjoying the feel of you under his hands. “You should really eat something,” He growls his frustration as he bites a dark mark on the sensitive skin. 

“I’m trying too, if you would stop interrupting me.” His eyes turn almost black as he focuses his attention on your core again, brushing aside the scrap of silk covering you. Az lets out a guttural moan as your scent floods his senses.  He dives in then, feasting on you like he needs it more than air.

He’s wasted precious time with you since he’s been asleep, winter is caving to the sweet spring, but it seems the cold is listening to his prayers and holding on just a little longer. He licks straight to your center, tasting the honeyed sweetness as it floods his mouth. No matter how many centuries you spend together you are always still so responsive to him, you’re twitching and squirming against the tree just about to tumble over that edge when you yank his head away to pull him to his feet. His eyes are glazed over and your slick is dripping down his chin, you haul his mouth to yours tasting yourself on his tongue. All of a sudden his back is against the tree and you sink to your knees before him, tearing at belt holding up the fabric around his waist.

It seems that you’ve missed him as well. 

You look up at him through batting lashes, and Azriel strokes his hand along your jaw in adoration. You take him in your mouth and Az feels like molten iron has been poured down his spine, white-hot pleasure blinding all of his senses. Death’s knees begin to buckle under Life’s ministrations, the smug look in her eyes adding to the crumbling of his resolve. He has always laid everything he is at your feet, intimacy is no different. You stroke the rest of won’t fit in your mouth in time with the bobbing of your head and he feels weightless. 

Your tongue strokes along a vein on the side of his cock and he explodes almost embarrassingly quickly. It appears that four days had taken more of a toll on him than anticipated. He scoops you into his arms and in a blink you’re in your bedroom. The absurdly large bed stretches across the expanse of the room, the open windows letting in the sun. Azriel tosses you on the cool silk sheets as he stalks on top of you. His lips collide with yours again as he slowly draws one hand up your thigh and draws your underwear down, throwing it somewhere behind him. He thrusts into you in one long motion, and the searing pleasure sends a rumble of power that shakes the very foundation of the palace. 

“Calm Flower,” he whispers as he hits the spot inside of you that threatens to launch you into oblivion. “You’ll bring the walls down around us.” You let out a laugh that bubbles into a moan as he continues his languid drive into you over and over. Eventually, Azriel starts to ram into you as his restraint falters like a splitting thread, toying his fingers over the apex of your thighs with musician’s grace as he bites at your neck. He flips you over at lightning speed, your ass in the air as he drives your further into the mattress, your moans muffling into the pillows as your try to keep up with the relentless tempo. You finally tip over the edge right before Az spills himself inside you, your combined release makes him let out a roar so loud the birds flee from their nests in the trees.

He watches himself spill out of you, thrusting it back inside with two of his fingers.

You whine in overstimulation as he crooks his fingers inside of you, he lets out an amused huff as he gently strokes your shaking thighs. Azriel waves a hand, and you hear the water in the bathtub start to run. You stroke a gentle path through his night-dark hair as he leans into your touch. 

Yes, spring may be coming soon. The time with your husband dwindles to sparse moments in a dying winter fire, but as Az scoops you into his arms to take you to the bath you enjoy every single moment you have left.

[filurig]

its been a while but new pareidolia creature!! ive been thinking of making these for a while. in case u don't know what an älgfrode is (a bit more of a niche nordic mythology creature), an älgfrode (or elgfróði in icelandic) was mentioned in hrólfs saga kraka, one of the old norse hero sagas. while the context for that was one specific character i just wanted to make moose people..

more info abt my creatures below the cut...

they wear more clothes than in the ref this is just to show their anatomy LOL. clothing is actually very important to them and textiles will almost always have a role in any tradition/significant social event. their textilework is very renowed and is one of the trades that cause some other vättar to want to trade with them as mentioned in the ref!

one potential reason for their high level of defensiveness is that their species suffers from a higher than average infant mortality rate - with time, this mortality rate has lowered from what it used to be, but when the species first appeared, it wasn't unusual for a mother to have to give birth to many calves before one even made it to adulthood. this rooted a deep set vigilance in them - even now that the rates have stabilised a bit. the high mortality rate was probably due to the affected "shift" gene sometimes activating improperly which could result in stillborns. with time and selective pressure new gene mutations would arise in the species that "counteracted" the instability of the first initial one and made the infant mortality decrease. it is, however, still a little higher than usual for similar species, and so it is traditionally encouraged to have many children.

gender roles for älgfroder are interesting - there is a strong sense of "equal strength", or "laorhgr" in älgfrode, which is important. while males are usually slightly larger than females, there is emphasis on the importance on a pair being able to stand their ground both physically and emotionally to the other and a relationship can only go ahead if a spar between two älgfroder is fair. this extends to an interesting dynamic that involves polyamory. älgfroder can be both monogamous and polyamorous, however polyamorous relationships often only arise when there is a big physical differential between two parties. the belief is that if one party is stronger than the other, that strength can be equalised if the other party is accompanied a second partner of similar strength - usually this happens between one strong male and two females on the smaller end. that way the resulting relationship has achieved "laorhgr". this ofc varies as everything does but ya. basically if you are a big strong älgfrode dating a small petite älgfrode it's seen as shameful and barbaric. there is also a bias to heterosexual relationships as it is seen as an important social duty to at least successfully raise one calf.

dhukohr are the more commonly occuring intersex condition in älgfrodar, but there is an equivalent to it for "males" where they fail to grow antlers and have very small dewlaps due to low testosterone levels - those are usually referred to as kvikohr. they are often recognised as their own gender respectively however there are many that identify as men/women too. some of these dhukohr/kvikohr are actually moreso trans than intersex - simply having utilized faerie dust in order to transition. this can be a bit of an ordeal though because usually this requires being administered it by a tomte which, depending on the settlment, can be a tense negotiation, although individuals usually have a less hard time with that.

älgfrodar and bäckahästar can hybridise and do sometimes produce fertile offspring! i would have to think more about this though erm. but i think it does and can happen. there is a sense of rare camraderie between the two species in many cases but especially so between älgfrodar and bäckahäst communities that choose to spend more time as their faun shift than their base shift - in fact a few of these bäckahästar choose to integrate into certain älgfrode settlements, but this is more of a rare occurance. most bäckahästar that possess "unishift" clothing have actually had them made by älgfrodar, or at least had the fabric sourced from them

[divya1234]

NeoStart: Boosting Newborn Calves' Health

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For more information visit us:

[jamiesfootball]

“Roy?”

“Hm?”

“I don't want you to die before me.”

“The fuck?” Roy jerks right out of his half-slumber. He tries to sit up, but Jamie flexes his calves and traps Roy back down against the sofa. With a pillow stuffed against his chest in a death grip he looks pathetic, like someone's just told him his favourite puppy needs to be put down.

Roy huffs. “I’m not dying.”

“I know,” Jamie says sincerely. “But you’d tell me if you were, right?”

Roy rolls his eyes.

“Roy,” Jamie insists, and God help them both, but there’s real stress in his voice.

Roy pats one of the calves holding him down. “Yes. I’d fucking tell you. You’d probably be the first to know beside my sister.”

The muppet nods, at least not arguing with his being placed behind Sarah. Roy has a brief moment of deluding himself that that’s it for Jamie’s tangent into mortality logistics, before the prick adds with all the subtly of a hammer, “You’re almost fifty.”

Fuck.

The sigh that escapes isn’t entirely free of weight. His age isn't something Roy can ignore these days, not with how his body has started to hold him back more and more. Sure, he’s still fit. He’s able to do 5ks for charities without much effort, but not without restraining himself down to a steady job. His heart's in fine shape, a history of strict nutrition guidelines has left him with a habit of eating well. As far as his doctors are concerned, he’s fit as a whistle, with no pressing concerns that should keep him up at night.

But he feels old now, in a way he didn’t even five short years ago. When he looks around, the signs of his age reflect back. His hair isn’t as thick as it used to be, still thicker than most but he can feel the difference when he washes up at night. His skin’s lost some of its elasticity, a paper-like consistency creeping in around his joints. Strangers have started to hold doors open for him when he's out on his own. More than a few times now, he’s been asked by a fresh-faced juvenile if he qualifies for a senior discount.

It's not just him either. His niece is almost an adult, long weedy limbs beginning to steady into a permanent shape. She's looking at universities, her exacting list of demands narrowed down to an aggressive handful of final round picks. His little sister’s hair has gone grey, streaked and wild. It's been years since Roy's needed to step in to cover a last minute emergency. Sarah's become a hit on the lecture circuit, and years of extra shifts have given her a cushion of stability that she can rely on outside of her brother.

And Jamie, sulking at the other end of the couch, has crows feet the flutter from the corners of his eyes whenever he smiles. He’s not smiling now, but Roy can still make out the faint outline of them below the skin. The sight of them has become a familiar ache; when they first met, Roy already had those.

Somehow, Jamie’s still not the age that Roy was when they first met.

At some point he’s gone from patting the calf under his hand to holding it close, warm and heavy and familiar from hundreds of evenings spent watching the highlight reels on Sky Sports.

He gives it a quick squeeze. “Let me up.”

Jamie swings his legs off of his chest. Then he shimmies around, and before Roy can complain, he crawls over to collapse against Roy’s side. Roy lets his arm drop around his shoulder, holding him close with an ease that’s taken years to weave under his skin.

He wouldn’t trade it, not even for youth. Not even for more time.

“You realise it’s not fair the other way around, right? Me watching you die before me.” Awful, the way his throat goes thick at the mere thought. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere any time soon. Short of being hit by a bus, you’re stuck with me.”

Jamie exhales. He’s tense, and without thinking Roy rubs his arm.

“Not saying I wanna die any time soon either. I’m just saying, it’s shit you’re likely to kick the bucket first.” His forehead digs into the bone of Roy’s shoulder. “Don’t know what I’d-“

He cuts himself off, sucking in a breath.

While he tries to compose himself, Roy does the same. Still sounds rough to his own ears when he points out, “This conversation sucks.”

Jamie snorts, a little wet and more than a bit thick. “Your fault, you grumpy old bastard. What were you thinking, being born fifteen years sooner than me like that?”

“Probably that someone had to be ready to look out for your sorry arse when you showed up.”

Jamie wriggles, his arms snaking their way around- one between Roy’s back and the cushions, the other curled over his front like a safety belt, until they meet around the other side, one lapped over the other.

“Yeah,” says Jamie softly. He hugs Roy like if he holds on tight enough, he can give a few years back. “Thanks for that by the way.”

Fifty years pin Roy down against the weight of the living; mentally, he vows to do everything in his power to hang on for another fifty more.

“You’re welcome.”

[is-the-owl-video-cute]

So.... Is scout still good in your book?

Like. Have you seen the pasture with the trash visibly in it? The 4 calf on the too thin cow? The 3 freak deadly accidents in two weeks? The newborn in literal mud? The shelters that keep falling, and the tongue stress behavior? The fact that the MAJORITY of the cows don't have shelter, at all, during a rainy winter?When people were saying that Scout was the Ramsey loft of the cow world, they were serious. Scout should not have cows. Animal control need to get their ass there asap, and I hope they get called again soon.

”pasture with trash visibly in it” hey have you ever been outside.

“Too thin cow” hey have you ever seen a cow.

“Three freak accidents” hey have you ever had animals that live outside and have three beans where the brain should be?

“The newborn in literal mud” hey have you ever been outside. Also the one you’re referring to was on dry dirt so hey do you even have eyes.

“The shelters keep falling” hey have you ever tried to keep an up to 1700lb animal from breaking something.

“The tongue stress behavior” hey have you ever seen a cow before.

“The cows don’t have shelter” hey have you ever heard lying is bad.

Animal control isn’t going to do anything because Scout isn’t doing anything wrong. When you take in primarily sickly calves as rescues you try to save, you will have a higher mortality rate than a professional farm only buying proven healthy and well-bred cattle.

[ckret2]

Chapter 31 of human Bill grudgingly enduring being the Pines' prisoner because the Henchmaniacs won't take his call: Summerween night! Everyone gets ridiculous costumes!

The Summerween Trickster's buddies are attempting to resurrect him. Robbie's making a music video. Bill's attempting to woo Ford back into friendship, to terrify Dipper with cursed knowledge, and to recover his dignity from THE most gentle chastising imaginable, and he only succeeds in 1 out of 3 of these endeavors:

It's not this one. He's just gotta process these emotions while wearing that stupid wig.

####

Soos was putting the final touches on his cosplay (the suave and mysterious Masked Guy In A Suit, love interest of the heroine from the classic anime Teenage Planetary Soldier Girls) when he heard the phone ring in the office. "Hold on, I'll get it!" He hurried downstairs, ducked under a construction paper chain Mabel had strung over the door, picked up the phone, and said, "Hello?"

A mysterious voice droned, "The sun sets a deep blood red."

"Oh, no thanks, we don't want any." Soos hung up, sighed happily, and said, "Ah, Summerween. Always brings out the weirdos."

"Hey Soos!" Mabel ducked into the doorway. "Where's the candy bowl?"

"Oh, hey Hambone. It's in my bedroom." He put on a stage whisper. "I put it in there so Bill couldn't steal it."

"Thanks Soos!" She ran upstairs.

Dipper and Bill waited downstairs, the tension thick between them (on Dipper's side, anyway; Bill—watching a black-and-white horror movie, sipping at a can of cider, and brooding over going to voicemail—didn't notice). Dipper was waiting by the door in a folding chair; but he kept glancing toward Bill in the living room. When the silence got too much to bear, he asked, "Okay, what are you dressed as?"

Bill was wearing a brown bedsheet toga (the most historically-accurate part of his costume); a cheap wig of a teased mullet that had ended up mostly red with yellow streaks, forming a plume of hair right over his head and then a long straight tail he'd draped over his shoulder; and a bunch of paper faux-Greek homes taped all around the hem of his toga, forming a ring around his calves.

"And are those my sandals?" Dipper asked.

"Take it up with Mabel, she loaned them on your behalf," Bill said. "I'm not telling my costume. You have to guess it."

"Seriously?" Dipper sighed. It had to be a god, gods towered over their mortals' temples. What god would wear brown? "I don't know—Demeter?"

"What? No. Do I seem like the Demeter type? Pathetic." Bill waved off his guess. As Mabel ran downstairs, Bill said, "Hey, Shooting Star, you haven't made your official guess yet."

Without hesitation, Mabel said, "A time-traveling hair metal singer touring the Roman Empire and trying to find a way home before his hair dye runs out."

"Wrong, but I would love to live in the world you've dreamed up." He meandered into the entryway to join Mabel as she plopped down in the second chair by the door.

Dipper screwed up his face. "Are you helping us answer the door?"

"No, you're helping me answer the door. I'm cursed, remember?" Bill leaned over Mabel's shoulder, dug into the candy bowl, and popped a lollipop in his mouth. "But you're not getting rid of me, if that's what you're asking."

Soos headed to the door, cape billowing dramatically behind him. "Hey dudes. Hey Bill." He paused in the door, studying Bill. "Hey! Is that a Bobo the Uncouth Berserker cosplay?"

Bill blinked. "Who?"

"Bobo the Uncouth Berserker! You've gotta read Bobo. He's this primitive hero descended from lost Lemuria who goes on daring adventures through the lush impenetrable jungles of Central Europe. He's got this comic that was so popular it spawned an anime, which got an American movie adaptation, which formed the basis of a second comic continuity that isn't as critically acclaimed as the original but has drawn in a lot of new fans... and..." Soos petered out. "You're not Bobo, are you."

Bill shook his head. "Thanks for playing."

"Aw." Soos's shoulders slumped. "Anyway—me and Melody are gonna be at the cosplay contest at the theater. I'll keep my phone on in case of monsters."

"We'll be fine!" Mabel said. "Go have fun!"

"You too!" With a dramatic flourish of his cape, Soos disappeared into the night.

Bill watched Soos go enviously. He could have been given a human body that looked that good in a suit and top hat, but was he? No. It wasn't fair. And Soos didn't even wear the right hat size.

Dipper glanced sideways at Bill. "Hey. Is... Lemuria real?"

"Not anymore." Bill perked up as Stan passed by, dressed like Frankenstein's monster. "Hey, Stanley! You haven't guessed yet. What am I?"

Stan surveyed him. "White columned buildings, Statue of Liberty dress, and a red clown wig. I dunno, the American government?"

Bill squawked in laughter. "That's my favorite wrong answer so far. I like you, Stanley." He fished a chocolate bar out of the bowl and held it out.

Stan grunted in disapproval, but accepted the candy. "If any of you need me, I'm gonna be up on the roof, terrifying kids." He held up a boombox and a cassette that said "Spooky Sound Effects of Halloween". "If you hear screaming children, don't worry: that means I'm winning."

"Where's your brother?" Bill asked.

"Avoiding you." Stan passed through the living room and left.

Bill's shoulders slumped; but he just dug into the candy bowl for more chocolate. Then the first trick-or-treater knocked on the door, and Dipper jumped up in relief to answer it.

The shack didn't attract quite as many trick-or-treaters as the houses closer to the center of town, but they got a steady stream of children, and more than they'd gotten the year before. Between visitors, Bill dug into their candy stock, gleefully ignoring Dipper's complaints. After the fourth or fifth visitor, Dipper and Mabel realized that Bill was covering up the amount of candy he'd pilfered by meticulously re-folding the empty wrappers and putting them back in the bowl.

"It's fair play," Bill said. He untwisted one end of a Twisty Roll tube, squeezed out the candy, blew into the wrapper to re-inflate it, and twisted the end shut again. "The kids are trick-or-treating, right? Sometimes they get treats and sometimes they get tricks."

"Come on, seriously?" Dipper said. "Even for you this is low. You're literally taking candy from babies."

"The babies are trying to take candy from us. I have no sympathy." With the precision of an origami master, Bill refolded a paper fruit chew wrapper into a box and dropped it back into the bowl.

"They're supposed to take candy from us, that's how the holiday works." Dipper looked at Mabel for support.

But she was holding up an empty 3 Fencers wrapper and squeezing it lightly between her fingers. "Wow. How did you make the wrapper puffy again? It's so convincing."

Bill shot Dipper a nasty smile, then turned to Mabel and said magnanimously, "I'll teach you everything I know." He twirled a glue stick between his fingers.

Another trick-or-treater knocked, and Dipper answered.

"Trick or treat! Please give us the worst candy you have."

Mabel blinked, leaning around Dipper to see who was outside. "Wait, what?"

Outside stood a purple-furred monster with a dozen limbs from a dozen different creatures. He gasped in surprise. "Ohhh, twin costumes! That's so cute! What are you two, haunted dolls?"

Dipper took a surprised step back. "Limby Jimmy?"

The monster was silent a moment, taken aback. He took off a bear mask he'd made out of a paper plate. "Is it that obvious?"

Mabel asked, "Have we...?"

Dipper said, "Oh! Sorry—Mabel, this is Limby Jimmy, I ran into him last year in the Crawlspace under town when I was trying to get your face back—"

Helpfully, Bill threw in, "He's Gravity Falls' most accomplished arms dealer. And legs dealer, and tails dealer, and ears dealer..."

"Limby, this is my sister Mabel. Actually, I don't know if I ever introduced myself—"

Limby Jimmy cut in, "Ohhh, yeah, I remember you! You're Troll Boy, right?"

Dipper winced. "It's—it's Dipper, actually." He paused. "Wow. We meet a lot of weird people."

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy!" Mabel held out a hand. After a moment of thought, Jimmy elected to shake it with a tentacle and a dog's paw.

"What are you doing up here?" Dipper asked. "Is Summerween the one night of the year that Gravity Falls' monsters can walk among humans without fear?"

"Oh no, I'm terrified. I wouldn't be out here if I wasn't collecting donations," Jimmy said.

"Donations?"

Jimmy hesitated, then lowered his voice. "You've been in the Crawlspace, so, you and your sister are cool, but is the lady...?" He wiggled a hoof toward Bill.

Coolly, Bill said, "I'm actually an ancient interdimensional energy being cursed to wear a human form."

Dipper and Mabel flinched in alarm and rounded on Bill, hissing, "Bill!" "Shhh!"

Ignoring them, Bill said, "So, continue."

"Oh," Jimmy said brightly. "That's all right then, yuk yuk." He wiggled his multitude of right arms. "I don't know if you humans have heard yet, but the Summerween Trickster got eaten to death last summer! It's really sad!"

Dipper and Mabel, who had watched as he was eaten to death, stayed quiet.

"But probably happy for him?" Jimmy mused. "Since I think that's what he wanted? But it's sad for the rest of his poker group, we all miss him! So I'm out here with Doug—"

"Who?" Dipper asked, looking around the porch for a second monster.

"Oh, he's back there." Jimmy pointed toward a tree at the edge of the clearing around the Mystery Shack. The tree chittered unnervingly. "We're going around collecting donations to resurrect the Trickster! Or... re-summon him? Or however this works. We never really asked him how he came to exist, it seemed rude."

"Naturally," Bill said. "You can't just ask a freak what made him so freaky. It's a sensitive topic."

"Right! You understand," Jimmy said. "Anyway, we need a lot of crappy candy!" He looked at their bowl. "Which pieces have the kids been ignoring this year?"

Mabel had started bouncing on the balls of her dusty Victorian ghost shoes; and the moment she had a turn to speak, she squealed in excitement. "You're the Summerween Trickster's friend! That's perfect! Stay here, I'll be right back!" She shoved the candy bowl into Bill's arms and zoomed up the stairs. "I've got some stuff for him!"

Bill looked at the bowl, looked at the stairs, shoved the candy in Dipper's arms, and followed Mabel. "Hey, Shooting Star? What are you doing?"

Her voice drifted down the stairs: "Getting a donation! I'll be just a minute!"

"Hold on, you're actually helping that guy?" Bill laughed. "Why?" He climbed high enough to poke his head above the attic floor  and lowered his voice so Jimmy couldn't hear. "I wasn't paying that much attention last Summerween, but I got the impression from your little costume store brawl that the Trickster was trying to kill you kids. Am I missing something?"

"I mean, yeah, he was—but he was in a really bad place back then, that doesn't mean he deserves to be dead for it. And now he knows someone out there wants to eat him, so maybe he'll be less insecure and evil." Mabel laughed, "Anyway, the Trickster isn't that bad! He didn't try to kill me half as hard as you did!"

Bill froze a couple of steps from the top of the stairs. He didn't move for a few seconds; and then wordlessly, he slunk back downstairs.

Dipper watched as Bill, face beet red, trudged into the living room. "Hey. What's Mabel...?"

"How should I know." Bill curled up on the couch, picked up the can of cider he'd been drinking earlier, shotgunned it, and glowered at the horror movie on TV.

Dipper considered Bill—all alone in the living room and not doing anything important—and considered Mabel, upstairs; and said, "Hey, Jimmy. Do you mind waiting out here until Mabel gets back."

"Sure! I don't have any plans." Jimmy rocked back on his many heels.

"Cool. Thanks." Dipper shut the door.

He sidled oh so very casually into the living room and leaned against the TV. "Guess it's just the two of us right now."

Bill's gaze didn't waver from the TV. "Terrific counting skills, Troll Boy." He popped open another cider can.

Dipper grit his teeth. Let it go. "Sooo! You're from the second dimension, huh? What's that like?" (His voice cracked embarrassingly on "that.") "Just—just curious. Making friendly conversation. Caaasual conversation." He flashed a pair of finger guns at Bill, to underscore just how casual he was. "Yyyep." Witness the junior paranormal investigator in action.

Bill turned the cold, empty eyes of a killer on Dipper. He took a long, slow sip from his cider. And he asked himself: what can I say that will make this stupid boy regret ever daring to speak to me?

Bill smiled. "Yeah. Sure. Okay," he said. "You wanna know what it's like? Have you ever read the Allegory of the Cave?"

Dipper hesitated. "By... Plato?"

"That one. You know—ignorance is like being a prisoner chained in a cave, watching shadow puppets being cast on a wall, and thinking they're reality; and having knowledge is like being outside the cave in the sunlight, seeing the real shapes that are casting the shadows—"

"I have read it, actually," Dipper said, a tad defensively. "It was for extra credit in—"

"English class, I know."

Dipper frowned; but he soldiered on. "So... living in the second dimension is like being chained in a cave, staring at the shadows on the wall, and thinking that's reality? Bleak."

Bill laughed so loudly that Dipper started. "Wow, you're so dumb! Use your brain, kid: it's the second dimension. You're not the prisoner: you're the shadow on the wall." Bill's lip curled in a sneer, "An illusion in somebody else's allegory. And the only one who can see the cave's exit... is you. That's what the second dimension is like!" He laughed again. It sounded forced.

"Oh," Dipper mumbled. He tried to wrap his head around the idea of being a living metaphor for ignorance. "Sounds... pretty bad?"

"Awful," Bill agreed. "Doesn't hold a candle to what your dimension has going on, though."

"Wh... why, what's going on in the third dimension?"

Bill gave him a malicious smile, and Dipper had the sinking feeling he'd just walked into an obvious trap. "You idiot, you still think you're in the third dimension? Really?"

Was that a trick question? What answer was Bill looking for? What could this be if not the third dimension? "Nnooo?"

"Wow. I can really see why you're a straight-A's honors student," Bill said. "You're so good at figuring out what answer the test wants and regurgitating it—even if you don't actually understand it at all." He heaved himself back to his feet; and Dipper was sure there was something threatening in the movement—something that reminded Dipper that he was talking to a dangerously unstable extinction level event precariously packed into an unsteady human body. "Although copying the year of the Louisiana Purchase off of Brandon's test in fifth grade  probably didn't hurt, did it."

Dipper's stomach dropped. The secret shame buried beneath the foundation of his honors roll-worthy record. Pull that out and his entire academic career came toppling down. He'd get kicked out of the honors classes. He'd go to jail. Was cheating against the law? "H... how did—?"

"What year was the Louisiana Purchase?"

Dipper's brain immediately went blank. He was silent, trapped in the paralyzing intensity of Bill's gaze. After several terrifying seconds, he croaked, "1803?" and hoped he was right.

"Attaboy. Too bad you couldn't have learned that a little sooner, isn't it?" As he spoke, Bill had closed in on Dipper until he'd backed him into the corner behind the TV set, filling Dipper's exit route with one hand on the TV and the other on the wall. "But we were talking about dimensions, weren't we! Whaddaya like to read, kid," Bill asked too casually, "do you like cosmic horror? Do you know what real 'cosmic horror' is?"

Dipper regretted this conversation completely.

"It's having an eyeball on the inside of your body, and seeing another dimension through it. And ohoho, I think you'd be amazed at the things I can see from here—"

Dipper got the distinct impression that if he didn't get out of this conversation, he would only hear things he'd be telling his therapist about for months. "Cool! Good talk, man. Hey Mabel?" (That was an absolutely humiliating voice crack.) "How's it going?"

A pause. "I think I need help!"

"Coming!" Dipper ran behind the TV to escape Bill and gratefully bolted upstairs.

The kid had caved so fast. And Bill had only just been getting started. He smirked, sat, and turned back to the movie.

A moment later, Mabel and Dipper came back downstairs, carrying four bulging plastic grocery bags. Mabel set one by her feet, opened the door, and shoved the first bag into Jimmy's arms. "Here! You can give these to the Trickster!" She shoved over the second bag.

Jimmy stumbled back under the weight. "Whoa there! What is this?"

"Candy chalk-hearts! I completely bought out the leftovers after Valentine's Day," Mabel said. "I wanted to make sure that if we met the Trickster again, I could let him know he's loved and appreciated as the terrifying avatar of spooky holiday spirit that he is! And that I also respect that he's made out of gross candy nobody likes to eat." She picked up a chalk-heart box and waved it in Jimmy's face. "So here's a gross candy that expresses love! See, the little hearts say things like 'You smell nice' and 'I heart ur face,' but they taste like if dehydration was a flavor."

Dipper handed his bags to Jimmy. "Wait—Mabel, that's why you got all these? You've been planning to help the Trickster since February? I thought you were gonna build a chalk-heart house or something."

"Oooh, that's such a good idea. I should do that next year!" To Jimmy, she said, "I was gonna give these to him personally, but if he's still dead, I guess you can add it to his candy sacrifice pile or whatever? And make sure he gets this!" She handed Jimmy a store bought Shimmery Twinkleheart Valentine's card. It read, "I BELIEVE in our friendship! Happy Valentine's Day!" Mabel had scratched out "Valentine's" and written "Summerween".

Choked up, Jimmy said, "Oh—wow. That's the nicest thing anyone's done for us all night. I'm sure the Trickster will really appreciate it when he's not dead anymore."

Dipper was a little more vengeful. Dipper didn't want to do anything for one of the many guys that had tried to kill them last year. But, on the other hand, Mabel had just gone all in on this, and Jimmy seemed nice enough, so... Dipper sighed. Whatever, it was Summerween and this was a trick-or-treater. "Hey," he picked up the candy bowl. "There's really only one bag of good candy in here. The bottom of the bowl is filled with after-dinner mints our great uncle's been stealing from restaurants for the last six months. The Trickster would probably love that, right?"

"Aww—thanks so much, you guys! We'll have the poker group back together in no time!" Jimmy dug past the good candy and started scooping mints into his bag. "Oh—since I'm here, can I ask about our other poker buddy? Do either of you know Mr. What's-His-Face? He disappeared around the time you were visiting the Crawlspace, maybe one of you saw something? Any information would be helpful." Jimmy looked at them with weird, plus-shaped, but very hopeful eyes. "Between the Trickster's death and Whatsis disappearing, the local paranormal community's been hit hard. Especially us guys in their friend group. I'm—I'm not gonna lie," Jimmy heaved a sigh, "It's been a really hard year."

Dipper and Mabel, who were directly and personally at fault for Mr. What's-His-Face's disappearance and knew he was frozen in stasis in Ford's bunker at that very moment, exchanged a look and came to a silent agreement.

"Nope, don't know anything," Mabel said.

"Sorry, buddy," Dipper said.

Like the Summerween Trickster, Mr. What's-His-Face was a weird faceless shapeshifty monster that had tried to kill them. But they felt like that was where the similarities ended.

By the time of the Trickster's death, Mabel and Dipper had realized that his deepest inner longing was to be called good enough to eat. Mr. What's-His-Face's deepest inner longing was to steal innocent people's faces. If Mabel and Dipper helped resurrect the Trickster, he'd probably go back to ensuring everyone displayed sufficient holiday spirit, while hopefully mellowing out about eating people now that he'd been consumed once. On the other hand, if Mabel and Dipper helped free Mr. What's-His-Face, he'd probably just keep stealing faces.

And on top of all that, they could help resurrect the Trickster without admitting they knew the guy who ate him. They couldn't really lead Jimmy to Mr. What's-His-Face without admitting their great uncle was keeping him captive. And that would be a problem for the whole family.

"Oh," Jimmy said. "Okay, that's fine. Thanks for all your help. You know where to reach us if you hear anything."

Mabel shook her head. Dipper nodded. "Yeah, we'll let you know."

Jimmy hopped off the porch, shouted, "Hey Doug, can you help me carry these?" and chucked a couple of bags of chalk-hearts toward the tree line. Dipper and Mabel stared. Nothing emerged to pick the bags up.

They shut the door.

"Man," Dipper said. "We kinda devastated the paranormal poker group last summer, didn't we?"

"Yeah." Mabel sucked in a breath between her teeth. "Wow. Feels... kinda bad."

Dipper offered her the candy bowl. "Drown our feelings in chocolate?"

"Please."

They grabbed a piece of candy each, tore open the wrappers—and frowned. Mabel stomped a foot. "Dang it—Bill!"

"Hm?"

"How many of these wrappers are empty?!"

Bill poked his head out of the living room and said, smugly, "Like candy from a baby!"

####

A knock, and Dipper opened the door. "Wendy! Hey! Good timing—"

"Hey." Wendy lowered her voice. "Quick question—this is super important—is Goldie here?"

"Uh—yeah, why—?"

"Yello?" Bill carefully wove his way out of the living room, already less steady on his feet than when he'd sat down. "I heard my name, who's summoning me?"

Wendy pointed over the twins at Bill and turned to shout into the dark, "Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you! Live and in person... Toga Lady!"

A half dozen teenagers immediately went bananas. Hooting and hollering and cheering and whistling: "To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!"

Bill's entire face lit up. Without missing a beat, he pushed past the baffled twins out onto the porch and spread his arms wide, basking in the cheering. "That's right, keep it coming! Worship me! I'm the greatest!"

"Yes!" Robbie pumped a fist in the air. "The legends were true!" Nate immediately added, "The prophecy! The prophecy!" Tambry snapped photos of Toga Lady's fresh look as fast as her phone could save them, muttering, "Everyone's gonna flip when they find out you're still in town."

Wendy waited, grinning, until her friends' faux hysterics had died down. "Okay—okay, after getting you hyped up, I should probably say that Toga Lady is actually Toga Guy." She glanced questioningly at Bill. "I think?"

"Eh, I'm not picky."

"Anyway this is Goldie, he was stuck in another dimension for thirty years, it's crazy, and now he's like my illegal backup cashier. He actually... doesn't usually wear togas?"

Bill laughed. "If you can't wear a bedsheet on Summerween, when can you?"

Lee said, "Thompson wore a bedsheet to homecoming."

"Hey."

Bill pointed at Thompson. "A man of impeccable fashion! I like it!" Thompson gave him a look of eternal gratitude.

"And Goldie, this is the gang! That's Thompson, he's the guy with the van; Robbie and Tambry, they're like, gender-swapped versions of each other, they even share their hair dye..."

As Wendy did introductions, Mabel whispered to Dipper, "Did you know she was gonna introduce Goldie to everyone?"

"No! This is bad, I told her not to trust him..."

Bill was responding to a question, "No, no, you've gotta guess, I'm making everyone guess!"

The teens considered the question. Robbie offered first, "Punk caveman?"

"Nope!"

Hesitantly, Thompson tried, "Nero fiddling over the burning of Rome?" He winced when Lee laughed.

"I like where your head's at, but no! I can't fiddle."

"The gremlin king from Huge Maze?" Tambry said.

Mabel piped up, "No, but the wig came from a gremlin king costume and I appreciate you for recognizing that!" Tambry nodded in cool approval.

Bill dispensed of Lee, Nate, and Wendy's guesses—Greek Christmas tree, that one guy who keeps painting burning banks, and hair metal Hades—before Robbie loudly cleared his throat to cut in. "Anyway, would love to stay and chat, but we've gotta move if we wanna be in position before sunset. Dipper, Mabel, you ready?"

"Ready to ghost it up!" Mabel said, squeezing around Bill with Dipper onto the porch.

Robbie surveyed their makeup—deathly white skin, ashen grey lips, and dark circles around their eye sockets. "Yeah, that's pretty good. Could use a little color, maybe. Like bloody tears?" He turned toward Tambry.

She said, "I think I've got some red eyeliner."

"'In position'?" Bill asked, giving Dipper and Mabel a questioning look.

Wendy said, "We're helping Robbie film this music video tonight."

"We're the creepy ghost twins!" Mabel announced proudly. "We get to sing the chorus."

Robbie said, "Yeah, the song's about childhood and growing up, but like, with ghosts? Because once you've grown up, your childhood is all dead? It's metal, but introspective. I'm calling the genre 'intrometal.'" He flipped his bangs dramatically. "It's a super deep song. Metaphorical layers."

"Oh yeah?" Bill stared Robbie down. "Sing some of it."

Robbie blinked. "Oh. Yeah, okay uh, I haven't warmed up my voice but, the hook is like—" He pantomimed playing a guitar and whisper-screamed, "'BABY DOLLS! BASKET BALLS! BASKET CASE! HUMAN RACE!' Like that."

Bill nodded slowly, face expressionless. "Ah, yeah, I see. Really deep stuff. Makes you think."

"Thanks." Robbie looked at Dipper and Mabel. "Anyway, if we're gonna get any footage in the graveyard before the jack-o'-melons start burning out, we've gotta move. Let's go, Creepy Ghost Twins."

"Wait, you're going out?" Bill asked Mabel. "Like out-out? Leaving me here? By myself? On Summerween?"

"Wh—yeah, we're only handing out candy for half the night," Mabel said. "I told you that."

"No you didn't!"

"Yes I did!"

"When?"

Mabel thought. "No I didn't," she admitted. "Sorry!"

Wendy punched Bill's arm. "Sorry to steal them. We'll be back in a couple of hours," she said. "Or you could come help—?"

"No!" Dipper and Mabel both shoved Bill back into the house before he could accept. Dipper said, "You've gotta—guard the house." Mabel added, "And hand out candy!"

"Right," Bill said flatly. "Yes. That. Ha."

"See you later!" Mabel said, and then shut the door in his face.

The last thing he heard was Wendy explaining to her friends, "He's on house arrest for, like, academic plagiarism and war crimes or something..." and then they were gone.

Bill's shoulders slumped. Well, now what? He couldn't celebrate a holiday by himself. What was the point of wearing a costume if no one sees you in it. He picked up a piece of candy, discovered it was one of his decoys, and picked up another. 

Someone knocked on the door.

"Yeah, yeah," Bill sighed. He picked up the candy bowl, turned toward the door, and paused. Ah. Right. What was he supposed to do with this impenetrable portal-blocking slab of wood.

Who was left in the house? Stan on the roof, Ford in the basement, Abuelita probably already in bed... were any of them worth harassing to help him answer the door? Maybe Stan, he'd gotten all dressed up, he liked the holiday even if he didn't like Bill—

The trick-or-treater knocked more insistently.

Or. Or.

He could pick up the bowl, peer out the small window in the door, and make direct eye contact with the children outside while he ate candy.

As a piece of mid-tier chocolate melted on his tongue, he saw three trick-or-treaters' faces fall as their faith in a kind, caring universe died. He grinned at them and ate another chocolate.

Oh yeah. He grabbed the rest of his cider from the living room and set up post next to the door. This would keep him entertained the rest of the night.

####

He made seven small children cry.

####

Stan watched from his post on the roof as yet another sobbing kid ran away from the shack. "HA! Gottem! Sucker!" He affectionately patted his boombox. "Creepy ghoulish laughter, you never disappoint! Terrifying moochers since 1989!" He paused the cassette and rewound it a few seconds to replay the best part.

He heard a scraping sound above him, and looked up just in time to see Ford sliding down the roof to join him. "Oh, hey! I didn't think we'd see you again tonight."

"Mabel made me promise to celebrate Summerween a little."

"Good for her!"

Stan had already claimed the sun lounger, so Ford brushed some dust and leaves off the roof's cooler and sat. "So, what are we doing? Scaring trick-or-treaters?"

"Yep. This year I'm taking a more atmospheric approach." He gestured at his boombox, which by now was playing haunting organ music. "Nothing like screaming zombies and rattling chains from nowhere to freak out the kids."

Ford nodded. "Psychological torment. I approve."

"Not quite as good as getting to see the terror in their eyes, but." Stan shrugged. "Bill was hanging out with the kids. I didn't want to put up with him."

"Mm. There's a reason I was spending the holiday in the basement."

"Heh. Well, there's always Halloween."

They were silent for a moment, listening as the cassette moved on from organ music to werewolf howls. Stan asked, "Think we'll be rid of him by then? I know we were hoping to be done with him before the Fourth of July—but since I haven't heard anything lately, I figure you hit a roadblock."

Ford winced. "Guilty as charged." He was still relearning how to keep other people in the loop. Even Stan. "You're right. I have a weapon that can destroy him, but I can't find a fuel source without restarting the portal. I'm hoping Fiddleford will come up with a solution I haven't."

Stan nodded. Ford had told him he was getting Fiddleford involved; even as reluctant as Ford was to admit how little progress he'd made, he wasn't going to tell someone outside the family about Bill without letting Stan know. "Any breakthroughs on his end?"

####

During the credits between episodes of the retired samurai period drama (most recently, the samurai had been asked to use his sword to help cut flowers for a bouquet), Fiddleford leaned over and whispered to Ford, "So I've been a-lookin' at those blueprints you left me."

"And...?"

"And I've constructicated a power adaptor. Just jimmy out the fuel tank, swap it for the adaptor's cord, and you can power that weapon by pluggin' it into the wall! It'll just drain all the power from the town for a few seconds, that's all."

"Fiddleford, that's amazing—"

"Now, hold on. There's bad news," Fiddleford said. "Try as I might, I can't quite get it to draw enough power to activate those energy-destroying features what you'd need to disintegrate Bill. It'll work like a powerful laser, but nothin' else."

Ford sighed. "It's a starting point, I suppose."

"I'll send you home with the adaptor anyway. Never know when you'll need a big laser."

"Very true. Do you have any promising leads on other alternative fuels?"

Fiddleford shook his head. "It's the NowUSeeitNowUDontium or nothing. But I've got a hunch we could synthesize it under lab conditions. I'll letcha know in a few days."

And then the next episode started, and they dropped the conversation.

####

Ford let out a heavy sigh. "He's only had a partial success so far. But I'm hopeful he's on the right track."

"So, if he's working on this weapon, what are you doing?"

"Waiting, mostly. I don't know what else I can do."

Stan frowned. "What—that's it? You've been downstairs all day every day—if you're not figuring out how to destroy him, what are you doing?"

"Passing time somewhere I can be on call if he gets up to something—but I don't have to look at him," Ford said wryly. "And—as long as I'm waiting to hear back from Fiddleford, I've been... picking apart that list of spells Bill gave me. To see if any of them are tricks or traps."

Stan couldn't say he was surprised. That was his workaholic brother. A pamphlet of demon magic was like catnip to him. If anything, Stan was almost glad Ford had that letter to distract him. Over the past year...

Well, Ford was fine on land—when he temporarily had a mystery to solve, an adventure to pursue, an anomaly to study, a distraction to fill his time—but at sea, when his mind was unoccupied, he was listless. He had books he didn't read, field notes he didn't enter into his journal, games he didn't play. He fed himself and exercised and did chores around the ship like a robot programmed to take care of itself, and he stared out at the sea.

Last summer, Ford hadn't seemed happy but he'd seemed alive. Tired and angry, but alive. But after Weirdmageddon, a light in his eyes went out. Stan didn't know if it was the end of summer, or guilt over the memory gun, or the gap between finishing a thirty-year-long quest and discovering the next one. All Stan knew was the light hadn't come back on until the moment Bill Cipher, clad in a new body and a purple cartoon bedsheet, tried to cave Ford's skull in.

Ever since they were children, Ford had had a tendency to develop obsessions. It was somehow simultaneously both what made him most interesting and what made him boring. Depended on the obsession. But these all-consuming interests had always tended to last a few months, at most a year; and he'd never seemed to be without one, much less for nine months. Stan had no idea what carrying a single obsession for three decades might have done to Ford's mind.

Stan was glad something had woken Ford back up, and he worried that losing that focal point again might leave Ford permanently adrift. But another part of him worried that, this time, Ford wouldn't let the object of his obsession go. He tended to collect things related to his obsessions.

But then, he usually tended to like his obsessions. He hadn't seemed bothered to burn the contents of his creepy Bill shrine last summer. Ford wouldn't do anything stupid, Stan told himself. Ford hated Bill. "So? Were any of the spells traps?"

"Not... so far, no." Ford sounded irritated by this.

Stan shrugged. "Makes sense. He's trying to butter us up. If that idiot thinks being nice to us for a week or two is gonna make up for the years of grief he's given us—"

A loud rattle-clattering below made them both start. Stan sat bolt upright. "What the—?"

Ford inched to the edge of the dormer roof, knelt down, and leaned over the edge just far enough to see the window.

Bill's face was pressed to the glass, eye rolled up toward the roofline. He grinned in surprised delight and shouted through the glass, "HEY, STANFORD! What are you doing up here?! I thought you were downstairs!"

"Ugh." Ford turned to grimace at Stan. "Speak of the devil."

Bill pounded on the glass again. "Hey, Sixer! SIXER! Open the window!"

"Why?"

"I wanna talk!"

"No."

"Come ooon, the kids ditched me and I'm bored! There's no one in the house to talk to! The old lady's asleep and Stanley's on the roof, so—" He abruptly fell silent, squinting with deep suspicion at Ford-who-should-be-in-the-basement kneeling on the-roof-where-Stan-should-be, and said, "Wait. Are you Stanley right now? Show me your hand."

Ford did not. "Go away, Bill." He left the edge of the roof for his cooler seat.

"Get back here!" The pounding redoubled. "I don't care which Stan you are! If you don't wanna talk, I can always go wake up Dolores!"

Ford looked at Stan. "Mrs. Ramirez's name is Dolores?" He had gotten used to everyone calling her Abuelita.

Stan stomped on the roof, "Shaddup!"

Bill did not shaddup. "Come ooon!"

Stan sighed in defeat and heaved himself to his feet. "If he keeps that racket up he's gonna break that window, never mind that hex you put on him." When they'd taken out the original Bill-shaped window, Stan had replaced it with the cheapest window he could find. He didn't think it was very durable. "How much trouble can he get in with one open window twenty feet above the ground and both of us watching him?"

Ford Frowned.

"Don't gimme that look. Do you want to pay for a broken window?" Stan flipped through his keys for his key-shaped emergency lock pick, leaned over the edge of the roof, and wedged the pick into the window frame. The latch popped open. Lucky this window was so cheap, that wouldn't have worked on one with deluxe features like "airtight weatherstripping" or "a properly-fitting frame." Stan swung open the window. "Okay, you have our attention. Now what's the fastest way we can get rid of you?"

Bill clumsily climbed out to sit on the windowsill with his legs in the shack, and leaned back so he could see up onto the roof. "Hiya Fo—" He lost his balance, flailed, and yelped as he toppled backwards.

Stan and Ford lunged forward to seize an arm each. Stan snapped, "What are you doing, you maniac?!"

Bill stared up at them both in wide-eyed amazement. "You do like me."

Stan made a noise of disgust, let go, and wiped his hands on his pants like Bill had cooties.

Ford said, "We like you trapped in that body and not free to cause the apocalypse."

"I heard 'we like you'!"

"Shut up." Ford managed to haul Bill back upright. (Touching Bill felt wrong—all soft flesh and skin and the suggestion of bones underneath. Even when looking right at Bill's human body, Ford still expected him to feel like heavy shadows and heatless flames.) From this close, Bill reeked of cider. "Just how much have you had to drink?"

"Not so much I won't remember whatever you say in the morning, so be nice to me!" Bill laughed. He leaned back, this time hanging by one hand off the window frame to precariously maintain his balance, and grinned up at Ford. "So! The least fun person in the house has finally emerged from his lair? And you didn't even come into the house to join in the Summerween festivities! 'All work and no play'..."

Ford had to crouch at the edge of the roof, hovering nearby in case Bill lost his balance again. "I wanted to participate in Summerween, actually. It just so happens that the last person I'd ever spend a holiday with is in the house."

"Listen, Stanford. I know you're holing up in your study for days on end just to hurt me. But let's be honest, you're hurting yourself more! When's the last time you saw the sunlight! Look at how pale you're getting, you look like a vampire."

Stiffly, Ford said, "It's costume makeup. That's my vampire costume." Stan laughed.

"It what." Bill flipped up his eyepatch and squinted blearily at Ford's face.

Wordlessly, Ford bared his teeth to show off his plastic vampire teeth.

"Oh." Somewhat deflated, Bill said, "Nice work, it's convincing."

"Thanks," Ford said grudgingly. Giving in to his curiosity, he gestured toward Bill's (somewhat disheveled) reddish-yellow wig. "What are you."

"Oh!" Bill perked back up. "You've got to see the whole thing. Hold on—" He turned around in the window, ignoring how Ford half reached for him in case he needed steadying, until he got his legs outside to dangle on the roof. "What do you think!"

Ford looked over the brown toga flared out like a cone, the eruption of red hair, the small paper city below, and said, "Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii? Very clever."

Bill's face lit up. "Finally! You're the first person all day to get it!" He smoothed out the skirt proudly, his jerky gestures just a bit more exaggerated than usual. "Do you know how long I've wanted to go to a costume party as Vesuvius? But nobody off Earth would get it! And now that I'm finally here, I can't go to parties and I'm shaped more like a mandrake than a volcano." He flung up his hands, wobbled, and caught himself before Ford had to intervene. "But at least you got it. I knew I could count on you, IQ."

He sounded so sincerely grateful. Ford regretted calling the costume clever. It was, but Bill didn't need the ego boost.

"Oh! By the by—I didn't think you'd emerge before the day was over, so I saved this." Bill fished around in his toga until he retrieved a mini pack of jelly beans. "Here!"

Ford eyed the pack. "Why is it open?"

"Because you only like the weird-shaped jelly beans, so I ate all the normal beans and saved the weird ones in one bag."

"I don't want this. You touched every one of the beans, that would be disgusting even if they weren't coming from you," Ford said. "Anyway, this is a patently transparent attempt to buy your way into my good favor—"

"It sure is, Ford, and if you don't accept it I'll get to be annoying about your ingratitude for weeks! Is that what you want? You know I'll do it. Everyone will be on my side—"

Ford sighed, but snatched the bag from Bill's hand. "Fine. Now drop it."

"That's more like it!" Bill favored Ford with an approving smile. "Anyway, it's just about the only candy left in the house, I ate everything else—hey, have you ever been cross faded on cider and a sugar rush?"

Ford was still trying to decide whether he wanted to engage in this one-sided conversation enough to ask Bill what "cross faded" meant when Bill moved on without him: "It's—not that interesting, actually. 6 out of 10. Anyway, all that's left in the bowl is mints and wrappers. And Mabel even managed to give most of the mints away—hey, she's so nice, did you know she's helping to resurrect the Summerween Trickster?"

She was doing what? "No. Why?"

"She's so nice."

"You just said that."

"What is she so nice for. What's she getting out of it," Bill asked, more to the universe at large than to Ford. "If more humans were half as nice to freaks as she is, your rotten planet wouldn't need people like you and me to save it."

Ford didn't even know where to begin with that. He looked to Stan for help.

Stan was sitting straddling his lounger, elbow on one knee and chin in his hand, watching this exchange like he was watching a weird bug on the wall try to navigate around a picture frame. At Ford's glance, he rolled his eyes and pantomimed sipping from a drink.

He could say that again. Ford cleared his throat. "Bill, maybe you should..."

"Hey," Bill said. "Great talk, we really should catch up more sometime. And pull your weight next time, I always have to do all the talking. But right now, I'm..." He gestured vaguely off to the side. "I'm gonna lie down and try not to throw up. Ciao!" He swayed as he tried to get back in the window, tumbled backward into the shack, and thudded heavily on the floor. "Ow."

Ford gingerly shut the window.

Stan turned up the boombox. "Chatty drunk, isn't he."

"He's chatty sober, too." But in front of the kids? Neither of them saw Bill as a role model, but they still didn't need to be exposed to that kind of behavior. Especially when the responsible adults were outside or asleep... "Did we really leave Bill alone in the house with the kids?"

"W—I—" Stan shrugged defensively. "They were all right! They can take him! They're doing karate or whatever! You didn't see how Mabel flipped him at the mall! It was like David wrestling Goliath."

"David and Goliath didn't wrestle."

"You know what I mean."

Ford supposed he didn't think Bill was any threat to the children. At least, not right now, and not physically. He felt like he'd know if Bill was about to try anything.

He looked at his open bag of gross felt-up jelly beans. Speaking of trying to butter them up... Ford wound up and chucked the bag as hard as he could.

He stared into the dark after it.

A small part of him was beginning to wonder whether this wasn't all just an attempt to get Ford's guard down. The gifts, sure, that was as clear-cut a case of bribery as you could get. Nothing ambiguous there.

But the endless chatter... Back when Ford had called Bill his Muse, this was exactly how he'd wanted Bill to talk to him. Not in the flighty half-distracted way of a friendly businessman catching up on a work project's progress before hurrying on to the next meeting; but just talking for talking's sake, talking for the company.

Getting what he once had longed for made his skin crawl. And he couldn't even tell if Bill was acting.

The boombox let out a ghastly banshee shriek. Ford and Stan both jumped, then laughed awkwardly.

Ford sat on the cooler again. "Is it just me, or... did Bill completely ignore you as soon as he realized I was up here."

"Well. I wasn't gonna mention it. I didn't wanna sound jealous of the attention. But yeah—he's been doing that since he got here. If you're in the room, he tunes everyone else out."

"I thought it was in my head." And he hadn't wanted to sound like he wanted to imagine Bill was favoring him.

"And you do the same thing around him," Stan said, and laughed at Ford's flinch of alarm. "It's—it's fine, I get it. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? You've got some kind of superhero-supervillain nemesis thing."

Ford got the distinct impression that Stan was offering him a convenient excuse for the tunnel vision. He took it. "I suppose that's true." The way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed around Bill certainly felt like a "nemesis" reaction.

But if Stan thought Ford was a bit too preoccupied by Bill... well, maybe he was right. Once Ford had gotten over his initial wave of fear, of despair, of outrage at the injustice, at finding Bill was still alive—there was a part of him that was almost relieved. A part of him that had been on guard against nothing for the past year, twisting around looking for an absent threat. Now that it knew where the threat was, that part of him could finally settle down and watch Bill with steady, certain eyes. Having nothing to worry about made him more anxious than having one thing to always worry about.

(Maybe Shermie's kid had been on to something when he suggested Ford might benefit from therapy.)

Knowing Bill was back didn't put the old starlight and awe back in that hole Bill had left in Ford's chest. But dread could fill a hole all the same.

Ford tried to push Bill out of his mind and the conversation. "You think I'm like a superhero?"

"You run around fighting monsters with a space laser. What else would you be?"

"Huh." Well. That made his night.

"Just as long as you don't pull that 'hero spares the villain to show how good he is' shtick."

"Never." Ford laughed ruefully. "I think I left 'good' behind a few felonies back." He'd probably left "good" behind the night he accepted the portal blueprints.

"Couple stragglers," Stan said, nodding out into the dark. It took Ford a moment to spot the costumed kids and remember it was Summerween. "I recognize those costumes, I scared them off an hour ago. What are they doing back?"

Ford squinted at them. "Are those toilet paper rolls?"

"Wh—Hey! What are you little runts— Hey!" Stan leaped to his feet, shaking his fist at the kids below. "Get away from my car! Stop that! I'll have you know that's a classic— No, not the eggs!"

Ford slid out his freeze ray, turned down the power, and offered it to Stan. "Here. At this power and distance, it'll feel like getting pelted with invisible snowballs."

Stan snatched up the weapon. "Eat this, twerps!"

The Summerween night air was filled with the screams of terrified children and the evil laughter of an old man.

####

Wow. It sure sounded like everybody was having fun. Outside. Without him.

Bill was nauseous.

He stared at the spinning ceiling, flat on his back, one leg on a cushion and the rest of him on the floor. 

Bill was nauseous and alone. The loneliness tore at his throat. Even Mabel had ditched him. Of course she did—he'd tried to kill her. He'd barely even remembered he'd tried to kill her until she brought it up. Had he tried to kill her? No, surely not—he liked the kid, he'd always liked her—he'd been faking to force Ford's hand, he never would have gone through with it. He would've teleported her into another room and pretended he'd disintegrated her. She didn't know he hadn't meant it. She was just mad he'd scared her. She couldn't take a joke.

But, Ford talked to him. Ford even liked his costume. It wasn't much, but it would get Bill through the night.

When he saw Kryptos again—when, not if—he was slicing him into a jigsaw puzzle for not taking Bill's call. The nerve of that guy, hanging up on a human without even waiting a few words to see if they had anything interesting to say. 

(What if it hadn't been an accident, he wondered? What if Kryptos had realized it was Bill and still hung up?)

(No. Of course it was an accident.)

He shut his eyes. He was probably too drunk to dream tonight. Well, he could try again tomorrow. His little lucid dreaming guide was currently teaching him to influence the next night's dream by focusing on a topic before sleep. Maybe tomorrow he could dream about the Nightmare Realm.

He missed home.

####

(Congratulations to the approximately 50% of respondents who correctly figured out Bill's costume when I posted the art on Halloween, you're officially smarter than everybody in Gravity Falls except Ford. This is one of those chapters with a whole lot going on so if you enjoyed, I'd love to hear your comments!!)

[nalyra-dreaming]

I have a question because I don't remember what actually happened in the books, just what impression it left on me. But I keep seeing people talking about Armand and Lestat like it was this grand passionate MUTUAL love affair and I always saw it as pretty one-sided on Armand's side. Lestat came to love him eventually, but to me it was never passionate or romantic. More like the way you have love for someone who has been around most of your big life moments so that history creates connection and love. More of a platonic, familial type of thing. But then I just saw someone describe them as "feral for each other" and I'm confused. Am I remembering wrong? Or are people creating headcanons?

Wellllllllll.... It depends a bit on how you want to see it I guess.

I do think that Lestat is mightily attracted to Armand. And Armand to him. And in the "Cinderella scene" (I'll post it below), there is a lot of talk about love and desire.

But it also becomes clear through the scene that Armand is spell-binding Lestat, in order to (force-) feed on him. And thereby blows it - ultimately forever.

And against the far wall, a backdrop of satin and filigree, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, like something imagined, Armand. Armand. If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp. Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along. I think I sensed even then, as I stood unable to look away, that never in my years of wandering this earth would I ever have such a rich revelation of the true horror that we are. Heartbreakingly innocent he seemed in the midst of the crowd.

Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of the kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own. Yet never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall. Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this. And it seemed in a murmuring pulse of thought he gave me to know that I had been very foolish to think it would not be so. Who can love us, you and I, as we can love each other, he whispered and it seemed his lips actually moved. Others looked at him. I saw them drifting with a ludicrous slowness; I saw their eyes pass over him, I saw the light fall on him at a rich new angle as he lowered his head. I was moving towards him. It seemed he raised his right hand and beckoned and then he didn't, and he had turned and I saw the figure of a young boy ahead of me, with narrow waist and straight shoulders and high firm calves under silk stockings, a boy who turned as he opened a door and beckoned again. A mad thought came to me. I was moving after him, and it seemed that none of the other things had happened. There was no crypt under les Innocents, and he had not been that ancient fearful fiend. We were somehow safe. We were the sum of our desires and this was saving us, and the vast untasted horror of my own immortality did not lie before me, and we were navigating calm seas with familiar beacons, and it was time to be in each other's arms. A dark room surrounded us, private, cold. The noise of the ball was far away. He was heated with the blood he'd drunk and I could hear the strong force of his heart.

He drew me closer to him, and beyond the high windows there flashed the passing lights of the carriages, with dim incessant sounds that spoke of safety and comfort, and all the things that Paris was. I had never died. The world was beginning again. I put out my arms and felt his heart against me, and calling out to my Nicolas, I tried to warn him, to tell him we were all of us doomed. Our life was slipping inch by inch from us, and seeing the apple trees in the orchard, drenched in green sunlight, I felt I would go mad. "No, no, my dearest one, " he was whispering, "nothing but peace and sweetness and your arms in mine. "

"You know it was the damnedest luck! " I whispered suddenly. "I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want to go home. " Yes, yes, his lips tasted like blood, but it was not human blood. It was that elixir that Magnus had given me, and I felt myself recoil. I could get away this time. I had another chance. The wheel had turned full round. I was crying out that I wouldn't drink; I wouldn't, and then I felt the two hot shafts driven hard through my neck and down to my soul. I couldn't move. It was coming as it had come that night, the rapture, a thousandfold what it was when I held mortals in my arms. And I knew what he was doing! He was feeding upon me! He was draining me. And going down on my knees, I felt myself held by him, the blood pouring out of me with a monstrous volition I couldn't stop.

"Devil! " I tried to scream. I forced the word up and up until it broke from my lips and the paralysis broke from my limbs. "Devil! " I roared again and I caught him in his swoon and hurled him backwards to the floor.

Now, Lestat fights Armand off after this, but I think this is what a lot of the passion stems from - and also the reason why it will never come to pass.

Because Lestat does desire Armand. But Armand forced him, just after Magnus forced him. And that ended it, before it could really start, until time changed it into a more gentle love.