#unsupervised script

[cipheramnesia]

You would think something like "wow that must have been a terrible final season or a wild final season" but that was really around the middle of the series run - before things got truly unhinged.

RIP DC Legends of Tomorrow

You were the only tv show I know of that had a teenage Barack Obama attacked by a giant psychic time-travelling talking gorilla.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta bat-file="89_rewatch_glitch"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="BLACKSITE_VHS_CORRUPTION_001:BATMAN_SAID_MF" EFFECT: Mandela Effect escalation, memory bleedthrough, cinematic delirium </script>

🦇 THAT TIME BATMAN CALLED THE JOKER A MOTHERF*CKER

---

Let me take you back.

It’s 1989. You’ve just popped that Blockbuster rental copy of Batman into the VCR. Tim Burton. Michael Keaton. Jack F*cking Nicholson. You’re 7 years old, wide-eyed, unsupervised, and this isn’t just a movie — it’s a holy document. A rite of passage. A VHS scroll of Gotham scripture.

You’re deep into it. The museum scene just passed — Joker’s dancing to Prince, defacing priceless art, and trying to woo Vicki Vale with homicidal paint fumes.

Batman busts through the skylight, grabs the girl, batarangs a couple of goons into trauma therapy, and disappears into the night like a cryptid with a grappling hook addiction.

You’re hooked.

But nothing — nothing — prepares you for what happens next.

Bruce is in the Batcave.

He’s running files. Pulling receipts. Zoom-enhancing like a 1989 hacker-savant on high-octane vengeance. And then — he remembers it.

Remembers something Joker said as a homicidal bar off the dome.

> “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

That line. That cursed little nursery rhyme Joker drops before he shoots people in the face with Looney Tunes handguns.

And Bruce pauses.

The air gets thick. He flashes back to that alley. The pearls. The scream. The muzzle flash that turned him from boy to bat.

That line — it’s not just villain shtick. It’s the password to his origin trauma.

Fast forward.

Final act. Cathedral. Joker’s dragging Vicki Vale up what feels like 7,000 haunted stairs. Batman’s in pursuit, pissed, bleeding, emotionally cooked.

The belfry showdown begins.

And here it is.

The moment.

You swear it happened.

Batman grabs Joker by the collar, throws him into a pile of gothic architecture, and rasps out in his Michael Keaton bat-growl:

> “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker.”

Not “scum.” Not “joker.” Not “you killed my parents.”

Motherfucker.

You paused the tape.

You rewound it.

You called your cousin in from the hallway.

> “Did you hear that? He said motherfucker.”

Your cousin shrugs. Your mom yells at you for rewinding too much. Your sibling’s trying to fix the tracking on the VCR.

But deep in your soul?

You know what you heard.

Except…

That line?

Doesn’t exist.

Nowhere in the actual script. Not in deleted scenes. Not in director’s commentary. Not even in the weird foreign dub where Joker laughs in French.

But you remember it.

You remember it.

Clear as day.

That’s how powerful Batman (1989) was.

It didn’t just tell you a story. It installed a glitch in your cortex. A false memory so emotionally potent that it warped VHS playback and left you with cinematic PTSD.

And don’t even get me started on the Joker’s line about rhubarb.

> “Never rub another man’s rhubarb.”

What?

Why?

What does that mean?

We don’t know. We didn’t know then. We still don’t.

But it was iconic. It felt important. It felt like… prophecy.

Let’s be real.

Michael Keaton was unhinged Batman before Bale made it method. Before Pattinson made it depressive. Before Clooney added nipples.

This Batman said “You wanna get nuts? Let’s get nuts,” like a man who eats drywall and challenges demons to bare-knuckle therapy.

So yes.

You remember him saying “motherfucker.” Because it felt earned.

Batman had been holding it in for 90 minutes. For 30 years. For his entire goddamn inner child.

And when he said it? You felt seen.

Mandela Effect?

Maybe.

Or maybe you just had the unrated cut that played only in your head.

And maybe that’s the only cut that matters.

Sleep well.

And if you ever catch a rerun of Batman (1989), turn the volume up. Right at the belfry fight.

And listen closely.

> If you hear it… > If you hear that raspy growl say > “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker…”

You’re not crazy.

You’re just remembering the Bat-F-bomb Timeline that VHS tried to erase.

🦇 Reblog if you swear you heard Batman say “motherf*cker.” 🕰️ Reblog if your childhood memories came with static lines and tracking issues. 🃏 Reblog if Joker’s rhubarb line lives rent-free in your frontal lobe.

💥 Reblog if you’re 91% sure this happened… and 9% willing to fistfight over it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-GLITCH IN: 91% CERTAINTY] -->

[milkbobatyun]

oh cruel, heartless fate

pairing: jingyuan x reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: yanqing's curiosity gets the better of him, resulting in jingyuan to reveal a bit of his past

word count: 1.1k

a/n: father jingyuan occupies my thoughts like nothing else. fun fact! this was slightly inspired by this one hoyolab post that i saw, where they were pointing out that yanqing has a protection charm on his left shoulder !!

ever since he could remember, yanqing had followed behind jingyuan like a shadow, under his watchful gaze as he trained, ate, even when the general was writing his papers.

as a curious little boy aged ten, he did what any unsupervised child did, when they were left to their own devices for the first time ever.

yanqing’s eyes glowed as he imagined finding legendary sword scripts and long-lost manuals in the bookshelf of the famous dozing general. he started snooping through the vast collection of the general’s books, hoping that behind, or in one of them, he would find the answer to becoming the swordmaster of all of xianzhou.

instead, he found an old and frayed box, worn with age and nestled between two books, which clattered to the floor.

when jingyuan came back into the room, he had found yanqing, crouching on the floor, staring thoughtfully at a box lying on the floor. in his hands, he mercilessly tore at a flower, with every fall of the petal, some words from his mouth.

“i can open it.”

“i ask the general.”

“i can open it.”

“i ask the general.”

raising an eyebrow in amusement, jingyuan silently padded behind the boy, his presence staying unknown.

“yanqing,” his deep voice rumbled from behind, amusement colouring his tone. he crossed his arms against his chest, peering down with a knowing look. “what are you doing?” like a cat that had been startled, yanqing lept into the air, eyes wide with surprise and cheeks flushed with horror.

“general,” he stuttered, eyes dancing across the room, refusing to meet jingyuan’s, guilt painted on his face. “i just found a box…”

yanqing’s head drooped, his golden hair covering his face, making his expression unreadable.

“i was wondering what it was about.”

it had taken the young lieutenant 3 days of pleading, persuasion and promises of not spending his money carelessly on swords before the dozing general finally gave into yanqing’s puppy dog eyes.

gently picking out the delicate box, the general sauntered towards his seat, dropping into it with the lazy gait of a cat. across the table, yanqing sat perched on his designated armchair, eyes wide with curiosity and beaming with joy. if he had a tail, it would almost fall off with how excitedly he was wagging it.

jingyuan flipped open the box, taking out the contents with care. out of it fell a set of golden rings and a jiāsuǒ.

yanqing watched as his general, no, his father figure’s eyes softened with a far away look.

“yanqing,” jingyuan began, licking his lips tentatively. “today, i’ll introduce you to [name], or in other words, your other parent.”

he had been a young soldier then, fresh from the horrors of war. the sky was bright with the twinkle of stars, artificial light warming in interiors of houses.

as he was strolling down the arum alley, the calming scent of tea floated down with the wind. nearby, he spotted a newly opened teahouse. thankfully, there weren’t many customers inside, with the owner sitting by their counter, their nose buried in a book.

gently pushing open the door, jingyuan entered, sitting down at a nearby table. the owner started in their chair, surprised that a customer had come at such a time.

“what brings you here?” they questioned, tilting their head curiously, as they set down their book with care, picking up a menu and walking over to where jingyuan sat.

oh how funny fate could be, for it was there, when jingyuan crossed paths with the one he was destined to be with.

yanqing watched as jingyuan’s gaze seemed to look beyond him, thinking of warmer times, when his battle wounds were cafeully bandaged with loving hands and the flutter of kisses ghosting across his skin.

the corner of jingyuan’s lips twitched into a wry smile.

“it had taken me a good half a year of persuasion and courting before they finally agreed to go out with me.” jingyuan sighed, amusement evident in his voice.

“you would’ve loved them, yanqing,” jingyuan continued, eyes pooling with sadness. “they’re just like you, the most stubborn yet admirable person i have ever met.”

yanqing remained silent, entrapped in this beautiful love story that jingyuan had begun to weave.

the years passed by slowly. often times, jingyuan wondered how you two became a couple. you were dedicated to your work, while he took the chance to slack off when possible. and yet, your relationship blossomed like a flower in spring.

he had popped the big question during your anniversary dinner, stunning the waiters and customers in the restaurant, while you were left gaping like a fish out of water.

with a flourish, he had knelt down on one knee, presenting beautifully decorated jewel box in front of you, sincerity in his voice as he asked to marry you.

oh how cruel and heartless fate could be.

it gave jingyuan his whole world, yet in a moment, it ripped it away from him, leaving jingyuan alone in this desolate world.

you died in his arms, too young to be taken away. even in your death, you didn’t forget about your work, requesting that he take care of your teahouse.

“when i die,” you smiled up at him, radiance beaming from your face. even in death, you looked like an angel sent from heaven. “i hope you can give everything i hold dear to the one the aeons send in my place.”

from within your hanfu, you produced a protection charm.

“give this to them, when you feel the time is right.”

then, jingyuan had furrowed his brows in confusion.

“àirén,” he whispered, voice cracking with sorrow. “no one would ever be able to replace you. i only need you, please, keep your eyes open, for me!”

looking at yanqing who sat opposite him, jingyuan finally knew the meaning behind your words.

the aeons had sent yanqing in your place, to bring light to his world again.

with a bitter smile, jingyuan gathered up one of the rings into his hand, slipping it onto a chain.

jingyuan beckoned yanqing to hold out his hand, placing both the heavy jiāsuǒ into his. yanqing cradled the valuable accessories like they were an egg, eyes wide with surprise.

“what-,” he stuttered, confusion painted on his face. “why are you giving me this?”

jingyuan’s deep chuckle echoed around the room. 

“well,” jingyuan lamented, chuckling into his hand in amusement. “they were great friends with lady fuxuan after all, so she must’ve given them a hint.”

yanqing looked at the precious jiāsuǒ with wide eyes of delight. a gift, from his other parent, specially prepared beforehand for him. even though he would never get the chance to meet them in this life, he could feel the love and comfort the item radiated.

“you really are just like them.” jingyuan laughed, voice filled with mirth. “they would’ve wanted you to have it.”

footnotes:

1. jiāsuǒ (家锁) also called 百家锁 (bǎijiāsuǒ)— a traditional chinese talismanic item that relatives or parents would give to their children, believing it can protect the wearer from harm, misfortune and evil spirits. it is also believed that it can bless them with good luck, longevity and a high ranking.

2. àirén (爱人) — a gender neutral term that can be translated to 'lover'. in this scenario, it is used as a term of endearment.

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

[ckret2]

Chapter 91 of Bill Cipher, still in drag as a Normal Human, getting an unusual amount of unsupervised time outside of the Mystery Shack: Agent Powers very seriously pursues the truth behind what happened last summer.

Meanwhile, the other agents very goofily pursue the truth behind what happened last summer.

Lookit'em go.

Meanwhile meanwhile, Bill faces down the metaphorical specter of his own dying legacy.

####

Ford paced across the ritual chamber, reading and re-reading the script Bill had handed him, stroking his chin in concentration.

Bill watched him from the Blind Eye's favorite brainwashing chair, one ankle hooked over the other knee in a figure 4, hands laced behind his head. "I know the script's a little hammy, but you saw those recordings! This is genuinely how these guys talk, I promise!"

"No no," Ford said. "The script's fine. It's just—I've never played a villain before. I need to get in character."

"Oh, you nerd!" Bill rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "This is a big DD & More D session to you, isn't it!"

"Of course not. DD & More D's RPG system is far better suited to swords & sorcery than cloak & dagger."

"You know what I mean."

Ford was fighting to prevent a giddy smile from breaking out across his face. "I assure you, I'm taking this completely seriously."

"Ha! Sure. You're lucky you're behind the camera, that face would ruin the performance," Bill said. "At least it's an improvement over that scowl you always give me." Slightly deflated, he said, "Yeah, that scowl."

"We shouldn't waste time. Should we...?" Ford gestured to the wrist straps on the chair.

"Ha! I don't trust you that much." Bill held his hands behind his back, wrists crossed. "Just pretend I'm tied up, it's fine."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"What's that supposed to mean."

"I'm not an actor. You're a liar but you're not an actor either. We're missing the chanting chorus the cult leader usually has when he does this. We need every tool we can get to make this look convincing."

"Pfff!" Bill waved off Ford's worries. "Re-lax, he won't suspect a thing. Guarantee it."

"Are you sure he's dumb enough to buy this?"

####

Powers sat on the floor, staring into space, as he reevaluated everything he knew about this town.

####

"It's like that goat can teleport," Trigger grunted, trying to get between a couple of trees. "How did it get all the way—?" He tripped over a fallen tree hidden beneath a blanket of ferns and crashed to the ground with a yelp.

Dale leaped over the log, offered Trigger a hand, and said, "Maybe the trees are messing with the radar?"

Trigger brushed some leaves out of his hair. "Where's it say it is now?"

"About twenty feet..." Dale pointed. "That way."

They looked.

Gompers was stood staring over a thick bush at them. Tauntingly.

"Ah-ha!" Trigger ran for him; Dale followed close behind, looking at his tablet. "Now we've got you!" Trigger fought through the bush forming a barrier between him and the goat. "Stay right there, you—"

He yelped as he stepped on air and lost his balance. Dale managed to stop just in time, the tips of his shoes over the edge, only for Trigger to grab his wrist and drag him down—straight into a ten foot deep crevasse that the bush had been hiding.

Gompers stood on the other side of the crevasse, looking down at them curiously.

Dale and Trigger were tangled at the bottom, stuck in a mud puddle that had been left over from the past weekend's rains. Dale groaned at the goat, "How'd you get over there?"

Trigger attempted to climb up the steep side, dislodged a sheet of dirt, and slid back down on top of Dale. "How do we get over there?"

Gompers bleated at them and took off deeper into the woods again.

####

While the agent was busy having what was no doubt a very exciting look into Gravity Falls' secret unauthorized mental health charity service, Bill decided to make a visit to that curtained-off wing of the museum he'd seen last night—the one with all the warnings against bringing a camera into the area.

It was a lot less exciting than Bill had expected. Just a display of a bunch of local Native art—hide clothes with elaborate quillwork and beadwork, jewelry made of shells and claws, stone carvings, baskets... Most of it was the kind of stuff that had been made in this area only long after the locals he'd befriended had so callously betrayed and banished him several thousand years back; only a couple of objects looked like things the people he'd known might have made, primarily the stone things. But even though most of the stuff in the room was "modern," he thought it looked too modern, not like the centuries-old works he'd expected.

The room was familiar—distantly, fuzzily familiar. As though he'd seen it in a dream.

A glance at a plaque on the wall explained why everything looked so new: most of the displayed items were replicas. This was a collection of objects that the Northwest family had stolen from tribes in the area over a hundred years ago. When the Northwest Manor had been sold to one Fiddleford H. McGucket, all objects left behind in it had conveyed, stolen artwork and crafts included—and an oil painting of the sleazy-looking Northwest who'd done a majority of the stealing, which was now hanging in the museum with a list of his known and suspected crimes and injustices displayed next to the painting. It was, Bill had to grudgingly admit, pretty funny. Kudos to whichever museum employee had thought that up.

According to the plaque, Fiddleford had contacted the nearest tribes to ask them whether they recognized anything in the Northwests' collection and to offer to return the pieces—which surprised Bill. He'd never seen Specs as the kind of guy to be particularly interested in repatriation. Most of the ill-gotten art had been gladly taken; anything that nobody had wanted, Fiddleford put in the museum; and a few artisans had even offered modern replicas of some of the items Fiddleford had returned, for public display with the artists credited.

He didn't see why this room was behind heavy curtains with half a dozen "no photography" warnings. It wasn't like these were priceless antiques at risk of degrading under flash photography; aside from the oil painting—which he doubted anyone was too precious about—everything in this room was under a decade old. So why...?

He had seen this little exhibit in a dream, he was sure of it. He tried to find the point of view he'd seen the room from. The room wasn't a perfect rectangle. It turned, L-shaped, into a little alcove. Bill wandered into the alcove—and froze when he saw his own face.

He was eyes-to-eye with the apocalyptic tapestry through which he'd watched the Northwest Manor's great hall for decades: black sky, red inferno, dead trees, dead humans, dying survivors, and above it all Bill's eye shining blood red like the sun hidden behind wildfire smoke. Another: the odd spaceship-shaped gap in the mountains around the town, and Bill—bright yellow against a deep red sky—framed by the gap as though his eye were the setting sun. And another—a pattern consisting of nothing but triangles with eyes, the geometry unusual for art in this region—and another—Bill surrounded by blue lightning, probably a distorted remembering of the unsuccessful redwood portal—and another, another...

Six tapestries in all, of varying sizes. These weren't replicas. Each showed varying degrees of age—broken quills, frayed edges, fading dye, the grime of an article centuries old that had been poorly cared for—but they were all centuries old. The tributes to him made during his long absence: the echoes of a millennia-old generational trauma memory.

The tapestries weren't all that was contained in this little alcove. He forced himself to break eye contact with himself to look at the other items on display. Photographs of several cave paintings—the zodiac, the ritual to summon Bill, the prophecy of his defeat. A few small carvings of his face in stone and wood. Spear tips with his face carved in them, broken due to the way a hollowed-out eye compromised the structural integrity of the stone. And—one of Mabel's blankets, sitting innocently behind a glass case. He stared at it in amazement. Who would have imagined that he'd find a little shrine to himself, right in the middle of the Gravity Falls Museum nearly a year after his death?

On the blanket, his eye had been crossed out with an X of black electrical tape. Bill's blood ran cold.

He forced himself to look at the tapestries again. Some of the quills were broken with age, yes; but someone had also taken a sharp knife and sliced two neat, clean lines across his eye in each of the tapestries, almost invisible except for a few of the broken quills that now bent out of place. The geometric pattern of triangles had been so criss-crossed with slashes that it was amazing it hadn't disintegrated.

His eyes darted over the rest of the objects, studying them more closely. The stone and wood depictions of his face—all freshly re-carved into, X'es covering the eyes. Where he'd first assumed the spear tips had broken with age, he could now see how they'd all been snapped neatly, precisely in half. In the photographs from the cave, he could see his eyes had each been covered by a red spray-painted X. The summoning ritual had also been defaced: apparently not content with painting over it, someone had fully scraped the ritual off of the cave wall, leaving behind only a few missed marks.

None of these items had been defaced before. Bill had made sure that the people in the area passed on a "superstition" against damaging any images of the One-Eyed Beast. (Translation: after they'd figured out that Bill was bad news and decided to cut ties to him, he'd contacted them in their dreams—"If any of you humans even try to take out my eyes, I'll haunt you all so hard. I'll be in your nightmares, I'll be in your kids' nightmares, I'll be in your grandkids' grandkids' nightmares, do not test me!" That had been about the time the shaman locked Bill out of the valley and ensured he couldn't make good on his threat—but the superstition lingered.) He knew for a fact that some of these eyes had even been working as recently as last summer: he'd watched the Northwests' every move through those tapestries. All this damage had been done after his death.

The only item that hadn't been defaced was the blanket. The plaque: "Artist: Mabel Pines, great-niece of town heroes Stanley and Stanford Pines, age 13. Acrylic yarn, 2012. Recreation of a ritual symbol designed to defeat the Beast with One Eye. Donated by Fiddleford McGucket." He suspected this blanket got electrical tape instead of a brutal slashing as a courtesy not to the artwork's subject, but to its artist.

He read the informational plaque accompanying this anti-shrine.

These were the only items in this wing that weren't replicas—because no tribe with ancestry around Gravity Falls Valley wanted them back. (So Fiddleford had offered to return art in Northwest Manor, had he? Begged was more likely.) The plaque explained that neighboring tribes considered depictions of "the Beast with One Eye" to be cursed. "Cursed" wasn't quite the correct term, Bill knew well; but the plaque didn't leave room to expand. It kept its description as terse as possible. (After all, anybody in Gravity Falls already knew exactly why these particular items were cursed; and tourists didn't need to know.) The plaque ended, firmly, "They say they would rather forget about the Beast with One Eye."

Somebody else had scrawled underneath in red marker, "AND SO WOULD WE!"

Underneath the marker scrawl , someone had written in smaller, neat, black pen, "יִמַּח שְׁמוֹ". Yimakh shemo. May his name be erased. A death threat would have hurt less.

There were under ten humans in Gravity Falls that Bill knew had studied Hebrew. He forced himself to wrench his eyes away before he could be sure he recognized the cursive handwriting.

Behold: the legacy of the great, the godly, the All-Knowing and All-Seeing Bill Cipher. Relegated to old history, shoved disdainfully in the corner of a stupid hick town's stupid local museum, with people fighting over who has to put up with the last remnants of him. For thousands of years, the locals had been driven to preserve his memory, but it hadn't been preserved out of reverence; and from now on, it wouldn't even be preserved out of fear.

Without Bill around to pull the strings, the superstitions would fade, the myths would be forgotten, and humans would get bored with the All-Seeing Eye symbol and stop using it. Eventually, humanity's influence would wane, and another species whose culture he'd never influenced would take over; and within a few short millennia, his face would be forgotten on Earth. His face would be forgotten everywhere.

How could this have happened to him?

He glowered at the array of blind eyes staring at him from the walls.

Bill's pocket vibrated. He pulled out his phone. Ah, right, Powers. He'd almost forgotten about him completely. Ha.

Powers had texted to ask him to come downstairs. He said there was something Bill needed to see. Yeah, he bet there was.

It was certainly better than this.

####

"Hey there," Dale said, crouched on the sidewalk, voice high and soothing, "come on, this way."

Gompers stared at him distrustfully from just within the protective boundary of the forest's treeline.

Dale was holding out a slice of Greasy's cherry pie on a paper plate. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "We want to help you. You've got a little piece of plastic inside you that we need to get out... it'll probably be good for your health..."

Slowly, Gompers crept out of the forest, watching the agents warily as he approached the plate of pie.

Standing a safe distance behind Dale with his arms crossed, supervising, Trigger said, "You have quite a way with animals."

"I've always found that animals have a calming effect on me, so I've tried to cultivate a calming air in return." He looked up at Trigger. "You see, the key is respect. Mutual respect. From man to animal and from animal to man. One time I was meditating with this Tibetan monk in a dream, and—"

He turned back toward the goat. The pie was gone. Along with half the paper plate, and a chunk of his suit's sleeve.

Gompers was hightailing it down the street.

"Oh."

Trigger said, "I don't think he reciprocates your respect."

####

One of the files Powers had found was in code—he'd have to ask Goldie to take a look at it—but the other file, the one on the Memory Gun, was all in plain English; and for the past few minutes, he'd been reading through a list of adverse side-effects the Blind Eye had discovered from using the gun. Victims who had forgotten how to drive, forgotten their children, forgotten their own names... The aim of the document seemed to be to determine how to refine their wording when they programmed the gun in order to more accurately select their desired memories. 

But whoever had written it seemed more concerned with the victims who remembered more than they should have.

Powers was startled by a knock on the door. He slapped the file shut. "Hello?"

"It's me." That was Goldie's voice.

He heaved a sigh of relief. "Come in, it's safe."

There was a moment of silence. "It's stuck."

"What?"

"The door. It, ah—must be... heavy?"

Huh. He crossed the room to help open it. It was a pretty heavy door, but it didn't seem stuck to him; but Goldie just swept past him with a muttered thanks. "What's this room?"

"It's—memories, I think," Powers said. "As outrageous as it sounds, it appears that a secret society stores stolen memories in this room. I've only watched a few, so far I can't figure out the pattern to who's being targeted or why, but..."

He trailed off. Goldie had drifted past the piles of memory canisters with only quick glances, drawn to the odd-looking TV-like screen at the back of the room, as if mesmerized by its glow all the way from the door. He sighed quietly. "There's... something I think you should see."

He couldn't look at Goldie while the recording played. Instead, he watched it again, staring at the past Goldie's terror and rage.

When it was over, all she said was, "Wow." Her voice was strangely flat. It was another couple of seconds before she added, "That's—pretty bad, huh."

Her reaction was underwhelming. Powers turned to look at her, puzzled.

Her expression was terrifyingly blank. There was something hard and heavy and distant in her eyes. Exhausted. Like she was just holding it together under some sort of heartbreak. She was always so animated; the change was almost scary.

He said, "I'm sorry, I should have warned you. It must be a terrible shock." He'd been too shocked to think of warning her.

The comment seemed to shake her out of some sort of trance. "It's—fine. Just gimme a sec, I..." She rubbed her eyelids with one hand. "Wow! Okay. I can handle this. It's just..." She gestured vaguely at the screen. "It's a lot to process."

He could only imagine. "Do you remember this happening at all?"

She took a long moment to answer, fingers still pressing her eyes shut. "No," she finally said. "I think I remember being here before. The room looks familiar." That explained how she'd navigated it so confidently. "But—not that. I don't know when that happened. When did that happen?"

"I think it must have been last summer."

Powers explained everything he'd found so far—the contents of the other canisters, the blueprints for the Memory Gun. Goldie had to sit on a nearby table as she processed this—elbows on her knees, knuckles pressed against each other, index fingers tapping together as she listened.

"It looks as though this 'Society of the Blind Eye' has been erasing the memories of people in town—and people who know too much about them. But I don't know why they're here or why they're doing this," Powers said. "In one of the memories, Preston Northwest mentioned a secret town founder. It might be irrelevant to whatever's happening here, but it does sound like the most important thing on any of the recordings I watched. Aside from—yours."

He sat beside Goldie. "I suspect you were a part of the bureau." It was horrifying to think—that they might have worked together and both forgotten—but...

"Yeah. It's possible," Goldie said. 

"Do you remember anything that might have suggested you were part of the bureau? Something we could look up and verify?" Powers asked. "Somewhere you lived in Washington, or maybe part of your training...?"

She winced and broke eye contact with him. "Uh... no. I—I don't."

How much had she lost? Far more than just the details of the investigation she'd come to town for. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders reassuringly. She tensed, then relaxed, then leaned against him—but hardly seemed to notice he was there.

"I think something's coming back," she said, gaze faraway. "Now that I'm here... I remember being in the museum. I think I was caught by somebody wearing a hooded robe."

(Powers glanced at the carving of a robed man in front of the altar.)

"They were angry that I'd taken... some kind of map? It was square, looked really old..."

"A map!" Powers jumped up to grab the file on the Memory Gun and pulled out an odd paper he'd found sticking out of it. "Is this it?"

"That's it!" Goldie favored him with a smile, her first since he'd shown her that memory.

"It looks like gibberish, though," Powers said. "There's several partial images, but nothing clear. I don't know what to make of it."

Goldie glanced over it. "Have you tried folding it?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "Folding it how?"

She raised her hands in a shrug. "It's got creases on it. Looks like somebody's folded it before."

He'd assumed that someone had just folded it to stuff in their pocket at some point—but the creases formed an odd, precise geometric pattern of triangles and diagonal squares. Now that she mentioned it, it didn't look the way anyone would normally fold a paper. He studied the directions of the creases, folded the four corners in to meet in the middle—and a drawing of a pointing hand emerged from what had once been unintelligible lines and curves on the corners of the page. Look at that.

But now the four new corners of the image were covered in inscrutable lines of their own; maybe...? He turned the map over and repeated the process, folding the four corners into the center; and there was a new image, but it looked like a couple of different images jumbled together. "Hmm..." He stroked his chin, staring perplexed at the image.

(Next to him, Bill pressed his lips flat together to keep himself from telling Powers to unfold two opposite flaps and see what happened, come on, do a little experimenting, man. Schoolchildren made these things when they were bored in class and pretended to tell each other's fortune with them, this wasn't that complicated. But no, be patient, it was fine, it was fine, Bill had shown more tolerance for denser humans solving simpler problems than this. What kind of a muse and mentor would he be if he couldn't show a little patience with ignorant mortals? Heck, it was a tribute to Bill's personal patience and strength of character that he hadn't spontaneously combusted the entire Nightmare Realm in the process of trying to get a portal built.)

Eventually, Powers figured it out himself, unfolding the top and bottom flaps to reveal a hidden diagram: a crude graveyard with a tunnel weaving underneath, the tunnel marked with arrows pointing at it. Closing the top and bottom flaps and unfolding the left and right flaps revealed another diagram: it looked like a building floor plan, with a dotted line that led to an equilateral triangle pointed downward. He recognized the floor plan. Aside from the triangle, he'd seen the same map upstairs less than an hour ago. "This is the museum."

"Looks like it. Think it's something important?" Goldie smiled wanly. "You don't typically think of important things being left to rot in some dusty corner of a small-town museum."

"Don't you? If a small town has a museum, I'd think that's where they'd preserve the most important objects they have."

Goldie processed that silently. "Yeah," she said, voice hollow. "Maybe."

"At any rate, it was important enough to erase your mind over. Let's go."

At the door to the pneumatic tube room, Powers said, "I'll follow this map; you watch the exits and alert me if anyone's coming. We don't know who at the museum might be working for..." He turned to look at Goldie, and found she was no longer at his side. "Goldie?" He turned around.

She was storming back across the room, finger pointed like the tip of a saber at the wooden cultist sculpture. "You think you can erase me?! You think you can make the whole world forget I ever existed?!" She clawed at the wooden hood like she was trying to get her fingers into the fabric and strangle the placid-looking figure. "I bet you think you're such a hero! Defending your precious little town from the big scary monster who came here to help you! But you'll never destroy me! I'll make your skin into shower curtains! I'll—let go of me—I'll flip your electrons into positrons, I'll—"

Powers managed to get an arm around Goldie's shoulder and lead her back to the door. She spat in its blinded eye as she left.

####

While Goldie stared at a display on the town's lumber industry (Powers suspected she wasn't actually reading it), he followed the map to find a painting—an odd inclusion in a history museum. It took him a few minutes to realize it should be turned upside-down to match the shape in the map, snapped a picture, and turned his phone over to find an image of an angel.

He didn't know what to make of that; and when he asked Goldie if she could see any sort of codes or disguised messages in it, she said she couldn't. The angel appeared to be a dead end; their only other lead was the town graveyard drawn on the map.

Goldie was uncharacteristically forlorn as they returned to Powers's car and he opened the passenger door for her. As they got on the road, Powers asked, "Are... you alright?" Stupid question. "If there's anything you need..."

"Promise you'll never forget me." He could feel her eyes blazing against the side of his face, staring at him, commandingly.

He nodded. "I promise." Traffic was light; he took one hand off the steering wheel to offer to her.

She seized it firmly, like they were sealing a pact.

####

Gompers ran across the roofs of the businesses lining Main Street, jumping from rooftop to rooftop and bleating in fear as he was chased. And Trigger chased after him, just a building behind Gompers.

But Main Street wasn't very long. Gompers scrabbled over the sloped shingles of a small salon, jumped down to the flat roof of the rival barber shop next door, and found himself out of buildings. He turned around to nervously watch his pursuer.

"I've got you cornered now," Trigger said. "Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. Just come along quietly, and..." The roof creaked under him. "Uh oh." It collapsed under him.

He landed flat on his back in the middle of a salon. A couple of hairdressers and their customers stared at him. He sat up, looked around at them sheepishly, and said, "Afternoon, ladies."

####

The angel statue was visible through the trees even before the rest of Gravity Falls Cemetery. When they were close enough to inspect it, it was clear the angel's left hand matched the hand drawn on the map; as Powers was inspecting the hand, he accidentally bent its index finger, and the ground opened up.

Goldie elected to stand guard near the entrance, sitting on the steps, as Powers explored deeper; which was just as well, because the tunnel was apparently boobytrapped. (What in the world was the Blind Eye's budget? Hidden subterranean chambers in the museum, hidden underground tunnel in the cemetery, a memory-erasing ray gun, a poison dart trap...)

At the bottom of a steep incline, the tunnel opened up into a chamber. He expected maybe money, or stolen and forged property deeds, or even bootleg maple syrup... you never knew in this town. He didn't expect piles upon piles of crates and files with the Official United States Government Cover-Up Seal—the seal of the Bureau of Covert Investigations' parent department.

He didn't like this.

He steeled himself and began exploring the room.

####

Goldie lifted her head as she saw Powers coming up the tunnel. "Hey!" She held up one of the files they'd taken from the Blind Eye's filing cabinet. "I decoded that ciphered document you found. It wasn't even a good cipher. I think we've got the Blind Eye's address book! Names, addresses, officer titles—say, what do you think a 'secretary' does in a society that tries to erase memories? He's probably not recording meeting notes..."

She fell silent as Powers flung down a file on the step beside her. "What's that?" She picked it up. The file was titled "THE NORTHWEST COVER-UP" and stamped TOP SECRET. The cover-up seal took up most of the cover; beneath it was an X'ed out eye and the typewritten letters, "in collaboration with the Society of the Blind Eye".

"Everything about this town is a lie," Powers said. 

"Everything? What do you mean?" Goldie flipped open the file, skimmed it, and frowned. "Who founded the town?"

"President. Sir. Quentin Trembley. The third. Esquire." Powers pronounced each title separately. He sat down next to Goldie; his hands were trembling. "He was a secret United States president. When he was evicted from office—he wasn't even impeached, they just kicked him out!—he fled across the country and founded This. Town." He shook his head in disbelief. If he hadn't read it himself... "This—this Trembley was an utter madman. He declared war against pancakes, appointed infants to the Supreme Court, banned pants, raved publicly about giant spiders... I'm not surprised he was ousted, he sounds like a complete lunatic."

As he spoke, Goldie's expression darkened. "Huh." But she didn't say anything else. She just stared at the cover-up file.

"Somebody decided to erase his entire existence from history. Nathaniel Northwest was named the founder of Gravity Falls in his place. He sounds like he was just as mad as Trembley was, but—he was just the village idiot, I suppose he must have been easier to control than this Trembley." Powers shook his head.

"So... what does all this have to do with the Blind Eye?" Goldie asked.

"In one of the memory canisters, I saw them discussing this cover-up with Preston Northwest—Nathaniel's descendant. He knew about the cover-up—of course he would, his family's fortune rests upon it!—but... they erased Preston's knowledge of it, too. Not only is this town the center of a cover-up to hide the fact that we once had a lunatic for a president, but also the government set up an entire secret cult to erase the memories of anyone who finds out about it... or, by the looks of things, about anything else happening in Gravity Falls that the government doesn't want civilians looking at too closely."

Powers took a shaky breath. "And that's not the worst of it."

"Oh-oh." Goldie closed the cover-up file and looked at him warily. "What's the worst?"

Powers held out a business card—bent, dusty, worn around the edges from age—that he'd found sitting next to the projector. It was his own business card. "The worst part is, I already knew about it."

####

Dale waited outside the salon, hands in his pockets. He checked his watch, then rocked back on his heels.

Trigger stepped out of the salon with frosted tips. Dale stared at him. Awkwardly, Trigger said, "Well?"

Dale nodded. "Yeah, you look nice, it's nice."

"Thanks. I've always wanted to try the look but never had an excuse," Trigger said. "Anyway—what do we do about the goat."

They started walking back to where they'd parked their car. Dale said, "In my opinion, it's time we call in the big guns."

"You mean...?"

"That's right. Animal control," Dale said. "We can set up a perimeter around town, then slowly close in. We'll tighten the net around it, and—"

Trigger clapped a hand on Dale's shoulder. He pointed down the alley they were passing.

Gompers was eating out of a spilled trash can. He looked up like a kid who'd just been caught shoplifting by two cops.

The agents exchanged a look, then lunged at Gompers.

####

When Bill got back to the shack, he owed the Pines a round of congratulations. Stan for stealing back the file on the Northwest cover-up from the police department, and for planting the papers from the case file and the threatening letter in Powers's motel room without getting caught; Mabel for the terrific forgery work on the fake map, the modifications to the cover-up file's cover, and the threatening letter itself; Ford for—well, he hadn't done a lot, but he'd been a decent actor—but on the other hand that yimakh shemo had burned up nearly all the goodwill Ford had earned last night, maybe Bill would skip thanking him; and Dipper had barely done anything, he'd just helped plant the file and the old business card in the chamber beneath the graveyard, Bill could skip thanking him too. Maybe he'd make a point of praising Soos for his chauffeuring just to rub in the fact that he was leaving Ford and Dipper out in the cold.

Thinking over his plans gave Bill something to entertain himself with while Powers clung to Bill's hand and reevaluated his entire life and career.

"I just don't... What else did I forget?" Powers asked. "I apparently forgot about the first time I learned all this... I must have forgotten you..."

"Hold on. Did we know each other before?" asked Bill, as if he hadn't planted all the clues to ensure Powers would come to that exact conclusion.

"We must have," Powers said. "You were investigating in this town, and yet I don't know you; the letter I received threatened that I might lose 'another' team member; and in your stolen memory, the Blind Eye told you that your team wouldn't remember you. I don't have a cryptologist on my team, and you're a cryptology expert. It all fits together."

Bill nodded encouragingly—yes, that was exactly what he'd wanted him to conclude.

"And there's all the other little clues that fit into place. The way you were so interested in this investigation, right from the outset. It makes sense if it was subconsciously familiar. And you think you're a visitor to town but the people here talk about you like you're a resident. They even seem to know you by two different genders... and when you told me to buy a car, you said to say that a 'Mr. Locke' sent me. You must have been communicating with people in town under two identities."

Hold on. That was dangerously close to information Powers shouldn't have. How had he found that out?

"And you know my first name," Powers went on. "Most of the BCI's field agents use code names even in the office. I've been working with Trigger since he joined, and he still doesn't know my first name. If you do..."

Bill was relieved they were back on track. He'd planted that clue on purpose. "Then we must have been close. No wonder I can't keep away from you."

Powers glanced away bashfully. (Ha! Too easy.) "And yet... I don't even know your name."

Alarm shot up Bill's spine. "What?"

"I thought 'Goldie Locke was an improbable name the first time I heard it. But, it's the exact kind of name the bureau would give a field agent. It has to be a code name."

Bill mentally kicked himself for the hundredth time for not choosing a subtler fake name. At least Powers had drawn the wrong conclusion. "Oh. Well. When you put it that way."

"Do you remember your real name?"

He hadn't prepared a backup fake name. He scrambled for another name that wasn't too masculine, too exotic, or even more fake sounding, and came up blank. "Uhhh, yyy—no."

"I wish I could help you remember it," Powers grumbled. "How much do you remember about your life?"

Bill had been deciding that since Powers asked at the museum if he remembered any verifiable biographical details (a question he should have anticipated sooner). He didn't want to say nothing, that might look too suspicious; but he didn't want to give any leads Powers could follow up on. "Not much. Faces without names, flashes of different cities I must've visited... I thought I just... had some kind of amnesia. The people in town have been nice enough to let me bum around here while I figure things out."

"At the Mystery Shack?" Powers asked. "You've been working with Stanford Pines."

Bill flinched. "I—yeah. I have." Sheesh, how did he know that?

"You didn't mention you were staying there," Powers said wryly.

Bill laughed. It came out more nervous than he'd have liked. "Yeah, well. I'm gonna come clean with you: I didn't want you to find out when I was trying to charm you into charming me out of my dress." (He was gratified to see Powers flush pink and turn away to loudly clear his throat. Bill had lost control of this conversation so fast, it was nice to know humans were still predictable in some ways.) "I mean, who wants to tell the handsome federal agent in the nice suit that you're a brain damaged bum couch-surfing in Oregon's most rickety tourist trap?"

"With all due respect, the brain damage wasn't as well-hidden as you think."

"Wh—hey! What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Your trouble with your eyes. Issues with binocular vision are a common consequence of brain damage." (For the first time that day, Bill was suddenly hyperconscious of the way one of his overtaxed eyes was twitching as he struggled not to let it squint shut.) "And I skimmed the file on the Memory Gun. It mentioned cases of victims forgetting how to safely cross a street, how to ride a bike, how to throw a ball... I figure forgetting how to open doors falls under the same umbrella."

A chill settled over Bill. "Oh," he croaked. "Noticed that, did you. You've... been paying pretty close attention to me." Not to mention talking to someone about him.

"Of course. You're a mysterious woman. I want to learn more about you," Powers said. "We spent all day talking yesterday, and I don't think I learned anything about you except that you've been in town for a month, you have an uncanny knack for cracking ciphers, and you make very interesting culinary choices. You kept the conversation off yourself." 

Bill hadn't realized he'd noticed that. Powers wasn't supposed to have noticed any of this. This was what Bill got for trying to dupe a professional investigator. Thank goodness he'd gotten him set him up on this wild goose chase before he'd really dug up too much about Bill's history. Sometimes it was easy to forget that some of this planet's idiots were smart. "Well," he said awkwardly, "now you know why. At the moment, I don't have much I can tell you about myself."

Powers gave Bill a wan, sad smile. "It'll be alright," he said, sliding a reassuring arm around Bill's shoulders, and Bill realized more of his panic must be showing on his face than he'd wanted. "We'll fill in the gaps."

That was just what he was afraid of.

For the first time, the arm around Bill's shoulder felt less like a piece of a puzzle slotted into the proper place—all according to plan—and more like the kill bar of a mousetrap that hadn't yet realized a rodent was standing on the trigger.

Powers's phone rang. He picked it up, and Bill quietly sighed in relief. "Hello?"

"Sir!" That was Dale's excited voice on the line. "We got it! We've captured, extracted, and sterilized the flash drive!"

"Didn't you say it was in a goat? How did you get it out?"

"The, uhh... old fashioned way. Apparently cherry pie didn't agree with his digestive tract."

His voice a little more distant, Trigger emphasized, "Thoroughly sterilized."

"Excellent work," Powers said. "Where are you now?"

"En route to the motel."

"Very well. We'll meet you there."

Perfect, thought Bill. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he'd never have to worry about the agents learning too much again.

####

(Post-TBOB edits! Had to change the age of the items on display in the museum, since TBOB changed Bill's interactions with the shaman from being about 1000 years ago to about 4000 years ago; and since a tapestry like we saw in the Northwest Manor is unlikely to have lasted 4000 years and is made in an art style that seems to be about 1500 years old, had to make up an excuse for it to exist; in the tapestry description, added in the tapestry in Pacifica's room mentioned on TINAWDC; and I think that's it? Just minor details.

And now y'all know why a few chapters ago I had to very clearly establish the distance between Powers's team and the guys who actually know about Trembley lol.

Anyway we are MOST OF THE WAY through the exciting action! Looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts on this week's chapter! And I mentioned it on my blog but for those of y'all that only show up for the chapters: we're switching to every other week posts for a while because working on another flashback arc ate up more of my chapter buffer than I'd like. In between weeks with new chapters, I'll be editing and posting old chapters to AO3.)

[pascalluvur]

Ten Minutes:

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Female Reader

Summary: Pedro only has ten minutes to fuck you.

Warnings: riding, p in v sex, mutual orgasms, quickie, dirty talk and trailer sex.

POV: 2nd Person

Setting: On set of a film Pedro is making.

WC:

꧁✰ꨄミ★꧂

Pedro’s trailer is small, quiet, and a little too warm.

You slip inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click — the sound oddly loud compared to the chaos outside. There’s a whole crew buzzing around on set, radios crackling, someone yelling for second team — but in here, everything’s still.

Pedro’s sprawled on the couch, still half in costume. His shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, tie hanging loose, sleeves rolled up like he’s given up pretending he’s not overheating. He looks up from the script in his lap and grins as soon as he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, voice honey-thick with affection. “Didn’t expect you ‘til lunch.”

You smile, dropping your bag near the door and walking toward him. “Got bored watching the extras flirt with the PAs. Thought I’d come see my real reason for being here.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back with that familiar, bashful charm. “M’surprised they let you past security. You’re way too hot to be roaming unsupervised.”

Your brows lift. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He sets the script aside, arms opening lazily. “C’mere. Let me supervise you properly.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation.

His thighs are warm beneath you, hands immediately finding your waist like he’s been waiting all day just to touch you. The moment you settle against him — hips grinding down just enough to feel how ready he already is — he exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing special.”

“Bullshit.” His eyes flick down to the soft stretch of your dress bunched at your thighs, to the hint of lace peeking out when you shift your hips. “You knew what you were doing.”

You smile against his mouth as he pulls you in for a kiss — warm, slow, lingering. It starts soft, playful, all heat and parted lips and lazy fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress. But Pedro’s kisses never stay innocent for long.

Especially not when he has ten minutes and you’re straddling him like that.

“You’re dangerous,” he mutters, breaking away just long enough to breathe you in. “You know that?”

“You’ve got a whole crew waiting,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “You really want to start something you can’t finish?”

Pedro’s eyes flick toward the clock on the wall. His jaw clenches — and then he smiles.

“I can do a lot in ten minutes.”

And then his hands are sliding down to your ass, pulling you closer, grinding you against the bulge in his slacks. You gasp, clutching his shoulders. He watches your face like it’s art.

“That’s it, baby. Ride me.”

Your body obeys before your mind catches up — hips shifting, rolling over the hard heat of him through layers of fabric. It’s filthy and hot and not nearly enough. He groans, low in his throat, fingers digging into your thighs like he’s barely holding on.

“God, I missed this,” he whispers. “You — fuck — you kill me. Look at you.”

“You’re the one letting me ride you when you’ve got a scene in ten minutes,” you pant.

He grins, breathless. “And I’d let you do it in front of the whole crew if I could.”

“Pedro.”

“What?” He laughs, then leans up to kiss you again — this time hungrier, all tongue and teeth and want. “You think I haven’t been hard all morning thinking about you walking around my set in this little thing?”

You moan when he rucks your dress higher, pushes your panties to the side with one hand. His fingers slide through your folds, already wet for him, and he groans at the feel.

“Shit, baby. You’re soaked.”

He rubs slow, firm circles into your clit, watching your eyes flutter. “You want my cock that bad? Couldn’t wait for me to wrap for the day?”

You nod, breath hitching. “Pedro, please—”

“Oh, I love when you beg,” he growls.

He unbuckles his belt one-handed, and you help him shove his pants low enough to free his cock. Hard, thick, flushed. Your mouth waters, but you don’t have time — and he knows it.

“Come here,” he says, voice rough. “Sit on it, sweetheart. Come take what you want.”

You sink down slowly — inch by inch — until he’s buried in you. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as he fills you completely, the stretch perfect and just a little overwhelming.

Pedro’s head thumps back against the couch with a groan. “Jesus.”

You both go still for a beat, catching your breath.

Then you start to move.

Your hips roll slow at first, testing, savoring the drag of him inside you. His hands settle on your waist, guiding you, helping you set a rhythm that makes your thighs shake and your stomach tighten.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice full of awe. “So pretty like this. Riding me so slow, like you own me.”

“I do,” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders.

He moans, bucking up into you. “Yeah, baby. You fucking do.”

Your movements get faster, messier, needier. The trailer fills with the wet sound of you riding him, your soft moans, his filthy praise.

“Taking me so good… So fucking tight…”

“Yours,” you whisper, breaking apart. “Pedro, I’m—oh—”

“You gonna come?” he growls. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

You do — hips stuttering, body trembling, crying out softly into the crook of his neck as your orgasm crashes over you. Pedro holds you through it, keeps fucking up into you, chasing his own high.

“Shit, I’m gonna—fuck—can I come inside you?”

“Yes—yes—please—”

He slams up into you one more time, burying himself deep, and comes with a rough moan against your mouth. You feel it — hot, thick, flooding you. He shudders under you, breath hitching, arms wrapping around your back.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then Pedro exhales a ragged breath, kisses your cheek, and murmurs:

“…You know they’re gonna knock any second, right?”

You groan, burying your face in his shoulder. “Let them. I’m not moving.”

Pedro chuckles, arms still around you. “Well. If this gets me fired, at least I went out the best possible way.”

[unsuperingyournatural]

it's the beskar, isn't it?

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

masterlist

You were almost at the end of the press day, and it showed. Hours of cameras, handshakes, soundbites, and smiling just a little wider than you felt. But this last interview felt looser, more relaxed. It was just the three of you—you, Pedro, and the journalist—in a small studio space with two chairs and a crew that had clearly been at it all day too.

Pedro sat beside you, half-sunken into his seat, one leg stretched out comfortably, the other lightly bouncing in place. He looked like he belonged there, like the chair had formed around his body. He was relaxed in that Pedro kind of way—composed but never stiff, warm but not performative. His energy had mellowed, his eyes still bright but softer now, especially whenever he glanced over at you.

The interviewer smiled brightly as she held up a cue card. “Okay, final segment. This is the fun one. Ninety seconds of random questions, no time to overthink, just say whatever comes to mind. You ready?”

You nodded, adjusting slightly in your seat. Pedro gave a mock salute, his grin crooked.

“Alright,” she said. “Who goes first?”

“Ladies first,” Pedro said immediately, turning toward you with a flourish of his hand. “Always.”

You gave him a playful side-eye. “How generous.”

The interviewer glanced at her timer and smiled. “Here we go. What’s your go-to comfort food?”

“French fries,” you said without hesitation.

“Favorite city you’ve ever worked in?”

“Florence.”

“Last song you sang out loud?”

“‘Espresso,’” you said, already cringing with a laugh.

Pedro choked on a breath, visibly trying not to laugh out loud. “You are so real for that.”

The interviewer chuckled, but didn’t slow down. “Alright,” she said, flipping her card, “one a little more playful. If you were into roleplay, which one of Pedro’s characters would you want him to dress up as?”

Without thinking, you blurted, “Din Djarin.”

There was a beat of silence. A pause so perfectly timed it could’ve been scripted.

Pedro turned toward you slowly, brows high and eyes wide. His mouth parted slightly, caught between amusement and disbelief. The interviewer gave a nod of impressed approval, her expression somewhere between amused and intrigued.

Your heart dropped. You blinked, cheeks starting to warm. “Wait. You said cosplay, right?”

The interviewer gave a grin that was all teeth. “Roleplay.”

You groaned softly, your hand flying to cover your face. “Same thing,” you mumbled through your fingers.

Pedro broke into a full, unrestrained laugh beside you, doubling forward in his seat. “Oh my God,” he said between chuckles. “I wasn’t ready.”

You peeked at the interviewer, who was clearly enjoying every second of it. “Great. That’s gonna go viral,” you muttered.

“There are probably at least three different fanfictions being written as we speak,” she teased.

Pedro sat up, still grinning, and reached over to lightly brush his fingers down the center of your back, his touch brief but warm as he shifted in his chair. He leaned toward you just enough to be heard without the mic catching it all.

“Guess I’ll be asking Jon and Dave if I can take the helmet for a weekend,” he said under his breath.

You gave him a warning look and lightly swatted his arm. “Stop.”

He threw his hands up. “Just kidding. That thing is on lockdown. You think they trust me with it unsupervised?”

He was clearly enjoying himself now. The grin on his face was pure trouble. “But good to know. The Mandalorian, huh? So what is it? The beskar? The cape? The mystery? No, wait,” he said, eyes lighting up, “it’s the Vibroblade.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands again. “Oh my God. Would you stop?”

Pedro laughed again, one hand patting your shoulder with mock sympathy. “You brought this on yourself. You could have said Oberyn. But no. You said the guy who never takes his helmet off.”

“Because I thought she said cosplay!” you said, muffled behind your hands.

The interviewer was nearly crying with laughter now. “Honestly, this might be my favorite interview of the entire tour.”

You finally looked up, still flushed, your eyes narrowing at Pedro’s smug, delighted expression. He caught your gaze and only grinned wider.

“I’m never living this down, am I?” you said.

“Absolutely not,” he replied cheerfully. “But I will be respectfully obnoxious about it.”

There was nothing left to do but laugh, your cheeks still burning as Pedro leaned back in his chair, practically glowing with amusement. He looked over at you again, a soft warmth behind the teasing.

You knew, deep down, this story would never die.

And somehow, despite everything, you were okay with that.

Even if he brought it up for the rest of your life.

[andy-wm]

"You'll see us as we are..."

Are you sure??

This announcement is a gold mine.

I can't do a full scale dissection (its 2am and I am gonna hate myself in a few hours when i need to be up for work) but i think i counted 15 times, they turned to look at each other. In a 1 minute 30 second clip, that's every 6 seconds.

EVERY 6 SECONDS

Little nods of agreement passing between them, perhaps reassurances for the obvious nervous excitement of all this? Because this IS a big deal.

And honestly, this is possibly the least relaxed i have ever seen them 🐥🐰

This is huge, lets be real.

What a cute moment this was...

You can see JK losing focus as he starts rambling - his eyelids drop a little and as a spicy brained ADHD person i know exactly what's happening here: he's starting to speak his thoughts out loud. If he'd HAD eye contact, that would be the point at which he lost it.

My fellow ND peeps, can you see it? 🫢

...and the way Jimin pulled JK back into position and then held him by his bicep?

They are so domestic

"Stay here, baby"

physically and mentally please JK!

A few moments later (or earlier??)

JK tells us we will see them "...in various and truly unfiltered moments".

Look at Jimin's face. There's a look of concern creeping in there as he turns to JK. Usually just looking at him gets JK's attention, but not this time. JK has dissapeared into his head and his mouth is about to be left unsupervised... uh-oh.

Now watch as Jimin moves his hand up onto JK's neck. He applies a subtle pressure, pulling JK closer, physically reeling him back in as he says "I'm not even sure it's okay to release this..."

He laughs, and JK smiles, and you KNOW the silent conversation happening between them.

Jimin licks his lips and touches his hair, clear signs of self consciousness.

I think he was concerned about JK going off script and saying something too compromising.

If they couldn't even get through the announcement without giving themselves away, the series itself will be hilarious and very revealing.

I cannot wait!!

[lover-of-mine]

https://www.tumblr.com/lover-of-mine/785383197272883200/i-very-very-highly-doubt-that-this-was-all-tims?source=share

I agree with your anon and you here. Not to sound too sympathetic to Tim 😂 But like...realistically, what could have happened, that was that significant, to result in this? Did Peter somehow cross horns with the wrong executive?! Idk but it's all SO strange to me in terms of how the network handled his exit. Let us not forget social media DELETING his goodbye post.

Then someone wrote in to DeuxMoi (which I know is not super credible) saying that Peter wanted to leave actually. I thought it was a strange message for someone to send to her but the reasoning kind of sounded like it could have been true (emphasizing no bad blood but admitting to being over the show creatively).

Yeah, no, because like the whole thing is so odd. The half fake leaked script, the oddly vague goodbyes, deleting the goodbye video, the very sharp turn the show took to kill Bobby, the way the actors are all being very weird about it. The sendoff episode wasn't about Bobby, no one posted a big emotional goodbye, Aisha edited hers so it would be more vague, they were goofying around the casket filming the funeral. Like, the whole thing makes zero sense. Tim being all powerful and unsupervised with the amount of money that show costs is an insane concept. Everything about it is rushed and poorly executed. There has to be a bigger reason. Not that we will ever know. I don't know if I trust deuxmoi, but like, there has been rumors that Peter wanted to reduce the physical part of the role, he's almost 60, it has to be taxiing, but the whole thing was handled so badly. Especially considering they set up a very good death for Bobby last season and backed out of it. If you're gonna kill Bobby, let him die saving Athena or something, not alone praying in a lab from ebola's cousin with 30% mortality rate that's not even airborne. Nothing about the situation makes sense and God I want answerssssss

[shiftingmegs]

First Wake Up Scene in my Socialite DR

Okay I'm in a roll so get ready to have a bunch of posts about this DR, probaly mostly useless and completely random posts. I think we all have been around enough to know my posting style is complete chaos and not aesthetic at all.

So I do like to script at least the "scene" where I wake up when I shift for the first time in my DRs, and here it's no different. So it is January 1st 2025 so I wake up from having a big New Year's party with my friends (still to be decided if it's going to be in NYC or if we travel somewhere else)

○ Dress

I don't normally have the habit of sleeping in my going out clothes (Mi nigths are filled of silk on silk) but c'mom it was a new years party, we were unsupervised and alchool was probably involved.

○ Shoes

No, I did not sleep with the shoes on but I think you guys should get to see the whole look, and yes I did script that my feet never hurt when I'm using heels (specially because most of my shoes are high heels)

○ Ring

Who doesn’t love a little Van Cleef & Arpels moment? And even if it's not the most popular collection I think this one is way cuter than the other

○ Bracelet

(Okay so I have one idea that I'm not sure if I will be using for this moment or not but either way I do have a backstory for this piece) but either way this is my pop of colour for this outfit.

○ Necklace

Okay another Van Cleef & Arpels just to match with the ring

○ Earrings

Everyone has their idea/specific statement piece in jewelry. Mine is never gonne be the Earrings (again big ones are only used when the hair will be up the whole event) instead we have a very classic/basic hoop

○ Nails

This was my first time looking for nails on Pinterest and tell me why is so hard to find really cute ones. Anyway I decided to go to a more, I don't know if basic is the right word for it but a less detailed look.

(And yes, my theme for the new years was flowers)

[cienie-isengardu]

Mortal Kombat 1 Behind the Scenes AU: Would you join Shang Tsung?

Author’s note: Tomas is asking out of curiosity how Bi-Han would proceed if the Lin Kuei mission went according to Johnny’s movie script. Sub-Zero’s cold pragmatism though may be more than Tomas or Kuai Liang liked to hear 🤣 And yes, I believe there is a wasted opportunity with making Sub-Zero/Lin Kuei a double agents and putting some twist on story mode. Anyway, Bi-Han would join Shang Tsung, only to continue his mission and maybe steal a secret or two from the sorcerers along the way.

[Earlier posts, from #1 to #137] [Picking up the right horror movie] [Noob Saibot] [Will anyone mind if I kick his ass?] [Will anyone mind if I kick his ass?, p. 2] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 1] [I really can’t leave you and him unsupervised…?] [Deep trouble] [Lin Kuei Shang Tsung] [But are you sure it was me, Bi-Han?] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 2 (Shao, I)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 3 (Shao, II)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 4 (Sindel, I)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 5 (Li Mei)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 6 (Li Mei & Sindel)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 7 (Li Mei and Tanya)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 8 (General Shao & Li Mei, I)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 9 (General Shao & Li Mei, II)] [Brothers between filming (6)] [Dark Sub-Zero, p. 3] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 10 (General Shao & Sindel, I)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 11 (General Shao & Sindel, II)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 12 (General Shao & Sindel, III)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 13 (General Shao & Sindel, IV)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 14 (General Shao & Sindel, V)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 15 (General Shao & Sindel, VI)] [Enlisting Outworld friends, p. 16 (General Shao & Sindel, VII)] [No break up then still dating + BONUS] [No break up then still dating, p. 2] [No break up then still dating, p. 3] [No break up then still dating, p. 4] [The Distraction] [...if you ask nicely] [ Just talking] [Shang Tsung’s spell] [Written down direction] [Let’s steal Christmas!] [Not every Titan] [Brothers between filming (7)] [Sektor joins the film crew] [Happy New Year] [Happy New Year, p. 2] [Cultural Differences] [I’m not a baby!]

[ava-morgannn]

sometimes I feel bad for my characters because even though they go off-script half of the time, during the other half, I appear after hours of procrastinating-writing-by-making-up-random-backstories-and-lore out of nowhere and just go:

"surprise! as of now your parents died in cold blood when you were six and you witnessed it with your little sister" and such is the start of a villain arc that will cause me to re-write the ENTIRE book because why am I even giving my main character a villain arc if they're literally the hero?

who left me unsupervised?

[chocobochaserstories]

Definitely more on the inappropriate side but funny HC: Genesis introduced Sephiroth to porn. Like let’s be honest here- Hojo monitored EVERYTHING Sephiroth consumed for the longest time, so you can’t tell me he actually let teenage Seph look up whatever unsupervised on his PHS. Genesis meanwhile, upon realizing Seph had never seen adult content, decided to introduce him to the “Adult Cinema”, though it was 100% a cringy script, more than likely Loveless inspired or similar in nature. Gen definitely strikes me as someone who’s into roleplay in the bedroom (dress up threesome between the goddess and the hero and the abhorred? Sign him up!). Angeal, upon hearing about this, demanded he turned in the obscene material to Lazard before they all got into trouble.

— Bonus—

Hojo: *Told Sephiroth if he ever viewed adult content, he’d turn to stone*

Sephiroth: (He was like 14-15)*upon his first time getting hard watching porn* panicking because he thinks he’s starting to turn to stone*

Genesis: No, no, don’t fight it! It’s natural and *insert him trying to encourage Seph*

Angeal: Quit that and turn in that pornographic cinematography to Director Deusericus immediately!

Zack: *trying to give Sephiroth better recommendations*

Angeal: *Scolding Zack*

[something-in-blue]

Unsupervised update finally released! Just finished playing heroic timemancer playthrough so here so of my thoughts:

● Shimmer is finally dealt with. I am so glad we couldn't do much about them in the original script but now you've got options.

● Deviants are integrated into the Adversary's plan. They're well written and given way more dialogs.

● Nora! You can have a duel with her and you can even set her on a redemption arc with the team.

● the Adversary is defeatable this time and Im happy about it.

I will try the villain route after I played with the other powers but so far Im liking it a lot.

[notreyi]

childhood headcanons + art of nick and alicia as kids bc why not

୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧

in my mind they spent summer afternoons in the backyard pool, playing mermaids or just whatever they came up with. nick was super dramatic and loud, he'd throw himself into the water like he was in an action movie or something. alicia would yell at him for splashing her... even though she was secretly having a great time

i also love thinking they used to play with Ips and filmed full movies on the ipad. alicia was a serious director, organizing the script and casting each character. nick ignored every single instruction and just made up ridiculous, sometimes unnecessarily violent scenes. in the credits he'd be listed as "nick clark: all the special effects"

they had an old ipad they shared and used to compete on subway surfers to see who got the highest score. nick always lost bc he got distracted halfway through. alicia, naturally competitive, took it SOOOO seriously

even though she was younger, alicia always felt like she had to look after nick. sometimes it made her feel like her childhood was moving faster than it should, but it also gave her a weird sense of purpose :/

they'd play all kinds of games in the garden (mermaids, vampires, detectives, etc) and like most kids, they had insane imagination. they created whole worlds in the backyard. nick would improvise everything, while alicia was way more structured, she'd plan the whole setting and make the rules. most games ended in arguments be nick would change the rules halfway through

nick was sensitive and alicia protected that he always had this emotional softness, even as a kid. things hit him harder. alicia didn't always understand it, but she developed this radar for when to comfort him or when to just sit next to him and say nothing at all

also yeah i 100% believe they played a lot of club penguin and had unsupervised internet access way too early

and tbh alicia used to get mad at nick a lot. like, genuinely mad. but it was never because she didn't care, if anything, it was the opposite. she worried about him constantly, even when she was yelling at him for being dumb or making a mess. she always thought that he was her responsibility and she took that personally

୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧

[ckret2]

Sending this in two separate asks in case you're avoiding answering spoiler questions: I'm not making assumptions, but the obvious answer to "what does the Morse code say" is "Bill comes from a society that writes in a straight line." Like, maybe the script is NOT Flatlander script, but that seems like the obvious answer to me, so obvious that I'd make fun of Ford for thinking otherwise.

Anonymous asked: Which leads me to part two: How many people have made that guess? Is EVERYONE hung up on Morse code? Am I the odd one out here?

There's one person who's explicitly guessed it's the language from his home dimension.

This is, in fact, not meant to be a spoiler at all.

Chapter 24:

After a moment of thought, he wrote, "Don't remember if I was a human or a shape. My organs were doing things a shape's shouldn't." (He wrote "human" as 人; there was no translation for the word in the language Bill wrote in. The two angled strokes stood out in Bill's rows of Morse-like dots and dashes.)

Chapter 39:

Bill slid his stolen journal from its window hiding spot and copied the number down in two-tone dots and dashes. Plaintext transcriptions were usually tricky, given the vast difference between the language Bill wrote in and the languages humans used

Chapter 51:

He started writing down his dream, pausing only briefly as he tried to figure out how to translate "Sev'ral Timez" before settling on a sufficiently goofy way to misspell "several times" in Plaintext. [...] "What was that," Dipper asked, "some kind of Morse code?"

And a few indirect references:

Chapter 23, first mention of him grabbing two colors to write in:

It had taken some careful timing and preparation, but a few days ago he'd grabbed the unloved grey and greenish-yellow crayons—the sharpest in her collection—during a moment she'd left him unsupervised.

Chapter 24, mention of him using both those colors in the journal:

He drew a portal—gray inverted triangle with a center circle, four circles around the triangle, all five circles filled in yellow green—and then a yellow green line trailing out of the portal's side that grew progressively wigglier like a seismogram.

Chapter 30, description of how he uses two colors simultaneously:

He picked up a yellow and a black crayon and added on to the drawing, dexterously turning the crayons in his hand to switch between colors without setting either one down.

Chapter 55, Mabel not realizing what he's doing:

Bill picked up yellow and black markers out of Mabel's supplies, leaned over to her drawing in progress, and started adding a decorative border around the nearest edge of the paper in dots and dashes.

Also... I've written a whole post about Bill's home dimension's writing system.

I'd expected people not to know what it says, but I hadn't expected so many people not to know what it is. Ford just sounds really authoritative I guess.

[bignattybear]

i can’t be left unsupervised :p

the way this wasn’t even scripted, i was told to touch myself just for myself WITHOUT recording and i was fucking around with the camera on and realized wait lmao

obviously i did not listen to instructions