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meat--grindr · 4 years ago

Note

another trans man fixated on Martin here!! 💕

could i request some NSFW of an ftm S/O teasing Martin while hes on the phone trying to do another interview as The Count? not a lot of talking from the S/O while hes on the phone, mostly physical stuff & feeling him up thru his clothes. the rest is up to you >:)))

(def going to use as a drawing prompt im just so so embarrassed to request off anon 😔😔😔)

Alright, so, this prompt has been living in my head rent-free ever since I first read it and I am so freaking excited to finally get to it. I’m sorry it took so long. I will admit this was a bit of a challenge for me because I am notoriously bad at writing dialogue. But I feel like it was good practice. Sorry if it sounds a little stilted in spots, I’m still learning.

Please, please, please link me to that art if you ever get around to it! You knocked it out of the park with this prompt and I’d love to give the art some love if you’re comfortable with sharing!

The Count Didn’t Count on This – Martin Mathias (Trans-Masculine Reader) – NSFW.

· It’s late, and for once, you’re exactly where you feel you should be at this late hour—not sprawled across a chair reading, or gazing out of the window, watching the cars pass and counting the neighbours’ lights as they flick on and off in lieu of stargazing. And for the first time in at least a week, you’re not trapped at your desk, frantically typing the final draft of a paper, hindered by the slow keys of a typewriter that does not care a whit about the deadline steadily hurtling toward you. No, thankfully, this night has brought with it far more comfortable circumstances—you find yourself in bed, tired bones sinking into the plush mattress, consciousness caught in the bleary space between sleep and not.

· Even better, you aren’t alone.

· Tonight, your bed is warmed by another body, long and thin, curled tightly against your own, as though it were some sort of crime to leave even an inch of space between you. A bony hip digs into your thigh and you’re sure the press of your head and shoulder against his chest must make breathing difficult for him. But he’s made no attempt to shrug you off or shift your weight to a more comfortable spot, so you likewise let it be. In all honesty, you’re simply too comfortable to bother and you feel it’s safe to assume the same is true for Martin too.

· The slow, even beat of his heart pulses against your cheek, and his long fingers stroke absently over your bare shoulder. The rough texture of burgeoning callouses catches against your skin—the sensation, though not wholly unpleasant, makes you shudder. Sometimes, you forget Martin works with his hands. When you hold them, they seem so delicate—his long fingers better suited to playing the piano than tightening screws or hammering nails. But he’s good at repairs and more importantly, he seems to find enjoyment the work. It certainly keeps him busy enough on the few afternoons that Cuda isn’t running him ragged in the shop, much to your personal dismay. But his nights—the nights like this—belong to you and you alone.

· Your eyelids flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe even longer, you feel like you can rest. Really rest. Dimly, you find yourself wondering if it had more to do with finished papers and diminished responsibilities, or the reintroduction of the physical intimacy you’ve been missing so dearly. Though you can’t say for certain, you have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter.

· The longer you know Martin, the more you’re convinced that there is a preternatural bubble of calm that hangs around him. You can feel it in the way even the grouchiest old women in the store seem to soften toward him—hiding small smiles behind their sleeves, sometimes even calling him ‘dear,’ or in the way Cuda’s volatile temper deflates when his cruel words slide off Martin’s back as though he’s heard it all before from people who frightened him far greater. You’ve seen it at work on the feral cats that roam the neighbourhood—while they hiss and swipe at the children who chase them through the dusty streets, they sit willingly at Martin’s feet, rubbing against his legs with a familiarity that borders on friendly. And it’s in the way he looks at you—looks into you with those dark eyes that seem far too old for that handsome, youthful face—intense and all-seeing, but never judgemental. He is a point of unflappable calm in a world which never seems to slow for even a second. That calm has settled into you now, seeping into your bones as you lay there, listening to his heart thumping in the darkness.

· The low crackle of the radio hovers at the edge of your hearing, a burst of static cutting through the droning voices. You’d stopped listening properly ages ago—the third time the DJ had made an attempt to dismiss his latest caller. It was an old man who was seven shades of pissed about the ‘teen-age hooligans’ who were ‘tipping over his bins every night and eating his trash.’ Of course, everyone with half a brain, including the host himself, knows it’s an animal—probably a raccoon, or a family of raccoons, but this old geezer has somehow convinced himself it’s a gaggle of ‘Satan-worshipping teenagers who have been brainwashed by heavy metal music and Pepsi Cola.’

· Okay. Sure.

· It’s utterly ridiculous, and just the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from the people who live in Braddock. Or the ones who call in to a show like this anyhow.

· In a way, you feel bad for the poor DJ. Sure, he welcomes strange callers of all kinds, from alien abductees and bigfoot hunters to bereaved parents who teenagers are ‘just growing up too fast,’ or ‘a little too interested in the works of William Shakespeare.’ He even encourages them at times, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and in your mind, this, funny as it may be, is probably it. You’re sure whatever the station is paying the guy, it isn’t enough to suffer through being called a ‘brainless sack of human garbage’ by a crazy old man.

· “And that’s about all the time we have,” Despite his cheery tone, the poor guy sounds exhausted. “Thank you for calling!”

· Another burst of static drowns out the old man’s reply, but you’re sure that whatever he’d said, it was not ‘radio-friendly.’

· “…our next caller. You are on the air, Sir!”

· “Yeah, uh…hi, Barry.” The man sounds young—probably not much older than yourself—and very nervous. He must be a first-time caller. As he and the DJ share opening pleasantries—what’s your name, how old are you, where are you calling in from tonight, is that a cat I hear in the background? —your attention begins to drift again. You teeter for a moment on the edge of sleep, the clean scent of your linen sheets and Martin’s shampoo filling your nose.

· “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from the Count again since last time?”

· And just like that, you’re awake again, attention fully focused on your radio and the funny little show that whispers through it.

· The caller is asking about Martin. A cold shiver rumbles through your body. People ask about Martin on the show all the time—of course, they don’t know that’s who they’re asking about, but you do. It’s so strange, to hear a stranger talk about someone you know so well—even worse when they speak about him like they know him too. Sometimes, they make you laugh with their outlandish theories, but sometimes they make you sick—sick with worry: when he’s threatened with violence or exposure, sick with fear: when they make guesses that hit a little too close to home, and sick with jealousy: when they claim to have had an ‘encounter’ with him, or worse, try to set one up on air.

· You know about Martin, of course—that he is a vampire, or at least he thinks he’s a vampire. Whether or not you believe him is another question entirely. He certainly does not abide by the ‘vampire rules’ as you know them from stories and television—he doesn’t sleep in a coffin, filled with dirt from his homeland or otherwise, rather he sleeps in a bed (curled up beside you more often than not these days). He cuts a handsome figure in mirrors and the photographs that you have pinned up above your desk. He walks about in the sun most days without complaint despite his pale complexion, and though he may not be a sleek. Predatory creature that oozes confidence, grace, and sex appeal, he’s no slouch either—lithe and handsome in a boyish sort of way, all knees, elbows, and wide dark eyes.

· In fact, the only requirement he seems to meet on the proverbial ‘vampire checklist’ is his fixation with blood—and the need to consume it. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. You’ve come to the conclusion that what you think really doesn’t matter in the end—your opinion isn’t going to sway him on the subject one way or another. This is a truth about himself he believes perhaps more deeply than anything else. Who were you to try and change that?

· So, you do your best to take everything in stride, and when you can’t, you humour him. Still, every once in a while, something will trip you up—you still can’t quite decide if he’s joking about being over eighty years old or not. But you do your best. You had even let him feed on you once. Though only once. In the end, it was Martin who had decided the experience was not one he would like to repeat.

· He had laid you out on your bed, “I don’t want you to get hurt if you faint.” Though you’d told him nearly a hundred times that you’d be just fine, that you’d had blood taken before at the hospital, he had insisted.

· You had expected things to be different. For a start, you had expected him to climb into your lap, to press his lips against your neck, seeking your pulse the way it’s done in the movies. Instead, he’d taken out a little white kit from his bag. He had unzipped it and laid it out on the bed, revealing a little bottle of clear liquid, a row of sterile, hypodermic needles, and a pack of fresh razor blades.

· His long fingers fell upon the needles, caressing them lovingly one by one. Much to your relief, he did not pick one up. As if he could sense your apprehension, he’d said, “Don’t worry, I won’t need these.” He’d glanced up at you, measuring your reaction, “I won’t need them because you’re not going to fight me. Are you?” It wasn’t really a question. You shook your head, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a smile, “Good. It’s so much easier when they don’t fight me.” Those words had made you shudder. He really had done this before, then. Part of you hadn’t believed him—he seemed so…harmless

· He’d picked out a single blade from the package, meticulously removing the white paper wrapping, taking extra care not to tear it, or let the blade cut into it. When he was through, he folded the paper into a neat square and dropped it onto the comforter. He lay the blade flat on his palm for you to see. “I don’t have pointy teeth, you see.” He took your hand, opening his mouth and guiding your fingers along the edges of his flat, dull teeth. “They aren’t sharp, so they don’t cut deep enough. You understand?” You’d nodded and he had kissed your fingertips gently, one by one.

· “I’ll be careful, I promise,” He’d said, “I’ll only take a little. Just enough to take the edge off.” Despite the hungry glint in his eyes, you’d known he was telling the truth. He didn’t need to reassure you of that. You trusted him. Besides, you had asked for this. At least, he’d stopped asking if he still had your permission every five minutes. Of course he did.

· And yet. Your heartbeat had kicked up, jittering like a frightened bird when you’d seen the needles and the razor. It was as though actually seeing them had made the whole situation feel more real. There was no denying you were afraid, but you didn’t tell him to stop—you didn’t want to. You had made up your mind. You wanted this; wanted to help.

· He’d held your hand in his own like it was a thing made of glass. His fingers gripped the razor with a practiced grace as he held it just above your palm. Watching him, you were struck for the second time by just how rehearsed this seemed. How many times had he done this, with or without permission?

· “Take a deep breath for me, okay? There’s a good boy.” Did he talk to the others too? Even the ones who fought back? You could picture him, chattering softly against the skin of some poor soul, sprawled limp across the floor.

· Limp or lifeless?

· The thought unsettled you, but you did as you were told, filling your lungs nearly to capacity as the sharp edge of the blade bit into the meat of your palm just below your thumb. As promised, he had been quick, pressing only as hard as was necessary. Even so, the sting of it made your flinch, your hand jumping in his own. His fingers tensed around yours, the tightness of his grip reflected in the grimace that flashed across his face as he bent his head to seal his lips around the wound.

· You had expected to feel him pulling the blood from you, but he simply let it flow into his mouth, the coppery taste heavy on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, long and low—a pleased sound. Something about that set you more at ease. He hadn’t recoiled or wrinkled his nose at the taste of your blood. You hadn’t even realized you were worried about how you tasted until that moment.

· You had started to feel dizzy beneath him—dizzy not from a loss of blood, but the wet heat of his mouth against your skin. Your heart had stuttered in your chest as his tongue probed gently around the edges of the wound, soothing your sparking nerves, even as the blood continued to drip down his throat.

· When at last, he pulled away, his face was flushed, and his breath came hard; his chest heaving as though he’d just run a great distance. Immediately, his hand shot to his front pocket, fingers searching for the roll of gauze bandages he’s swiped from Cuda’s first-aid kit.

· He’d wrapped the clean white fabric around your hand with such care it made your heart ache almost as much as the wound itself. When he was finished, he’d flipped your hand over and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. Then, he spoke. His voice was small, barely more than a ragged whisper, “Thank you.”

· “Was that…was it okay?” Your skin felt feverish, as though the heat of his mouth had seeped into your flesh and was burning you from the inside out. And the dizzy feeling had only grown worse, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut for a long moment.

· Martin was still struggling to get his breathing under control, “Yes. I-It was good…better than good, actually. But…”

· “But?” Had you done something wrong? Had you tasted bad after all? You cracked open one eye, then the other. The spinning had mostly subsided, but you still felt unsteady. “What can I do better next time?”

· He’d gone stiff all over then, and his reply had come sudden and sharp, “No!” He cringed, the force behind his words clearly surprising himself as well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, “No ‘next time.’ I…I can’t stand hurting you like that. I won’t do it again.”

· You’d gazed up at him, blinking in confusion for a second. Then you realized what he’d meant—you had flinched when he’d cut you. Oh.

· You reached up, cupping his cheek, “Oh, Martin. You didn’t hurt me. Not really.” It wasn’t strictly true—it had hurt a little, but you had been prepared for it to. You brushed a stray droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth with a careful swipe of your thumb.

· “Yes, I did. I saw it.” You had tried to protest further, but he’d cut you off, much to your surprise. Martin almost never talked back like this, though perhaps you’d simply never given him a reason before. “I saw you flinch. I won’t put you through this again.”

· And he hadn’t. Though you’d brought the idea up more than once, he had dismissed it each time with the same stubborn shake of his head. If Martin was anything, he was true to his word.

· “…and it’s been such a long time since we heard from the guy.”

· The DJ hums in agreement, “It has indeed, my friend. Maybe we’ll hear from him later tonight. If you’re out there listening, Count, don’t be a stranger! Give us a call,” He begins rattling off the stations toll-free number. “We’re all dying to hear from you again!”

· You feel Martin stiffen up against you. You knew about the interviews he had done; you’d even heard one of them, back when Martin was little more to you than a silent, sullen face behind the counter at Cuda’s shop. And even when he’d started talking to you, he sounded different over the radio—his voice was deeper, and he sounded so confidant, so sure of himself when he talked about his ‘sickness.’ He almost never sounded like that in day-to-day life. You weren’t embarrassed to admit you found it attractive.

· Martin on the other hand, was mortified to know you had heard him. He had known that people were listened to him, obviously, but they were supposed to be strangers. You actually knew him, and he’d talked about sex. Of course, reminding him you’d done a lot more in your time together than simply listen to him talk about sex did little to lessen his horror.

· Of course, you also knew he’d been doing fewer and fewer interviews now that he had you to talk to and share his life with. But on occasion, when the pleading from the DJ gets too desperate, or he was simply that bored, Martin could be coaxed back onto the other end of the phoneline once again.

· You glance up at him, but in the darkness, his expression is unreadable, eyes cast down toward the end of the bed, long lashes throwing feathered shadows across his pale cheeks. From the very beginning, he’s been hard to read. As you’ve come to know him better, you’ve needed to get comfortable with the idea of asking when you want to know something you could easily intuit if speaking to anyone else. He’s very good at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral expression and placid silence, but he would tell you almost anything if you asked him directly; so long as he had the words to explain it to you.

· Do you want to make a call, Martin?”

· For a long moment, he’s silent, turning the idea over in his mind a few times. You had never actually been with him when he’d done an interview in the past. He’d usually wait until you were three days deep in an assignment with no quick end in sight, or out of town with family. Maybe he would be too embarrassed to do it with you here or maybe he’s just not in the mood tonight. But, after a minute, he tilts his head down toward you and says, “Why not?”

· The radio crackles out a jaunty tune—a commercial for some small business or another. “I’ll call in a few minutes. He doesn’t seem busy tonight.” Martin sits up, bracing his back against the headboard of your bed, and dislodging you from your perch. You grumble a little, irritated by the loss of your comfy spot, but you crawl into his lap anyway.

· You press soft kisses into his skin, beginning at his hairline, and trailing down over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks—the right then the left—the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He smiles against your mouth, leaning into the kiss with his whole body.

· When you pull away only a moment later, you can practically hear the pouty turn of his mouth. He whines softly, but you pay him no mind, trailing kisses down his chin. “Are you nervous, Martin?” The question comes out muffled by the soft curve of his jaw.

· “Not really, no…” He trails off, eyes cast to the ceiling, “I like the attention, I s’pose.”

· You pull back to look at him, barely stifling a snort of amusement, “Don’t I give you enough?”

· His eyes slide from the ceiling, falling upon you dark and wide. For a moment, you think he’s taken you seriously, but the pouty turn of his mouth breaks into a blinding grin, “You give me lots, sure, but I’m a creature of the night, remember? We always want more.”

· The two of you sit there for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, the silence stretching on into the night. Then, you collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. Martin buries his head into the crook of your neck, shaking with quiet laughter. Sure, when he’d said wasn’t untrue, but when he put it like that, it was hard not to laugh.

· “Welcome back, everybody. It’s almost the top of the hour at 01:57! I’m your host Barry…”

· You hadn’t even heard the ads end! Martin scrambles for the chunky landline phone that rests on the beside table, nimble fingers punching in the numbers at speed. Though his calls had become less and less frequent, he evidently kept the number somewhere in his memory.

· Martin’s voice is hushed as he speaks to whoever manned the phones down at the radio station, muttering something about ‘the Count.’ As he speaks, he winds the coiled phone cord around a delicate finger. It’s a simple, distracted habit of Martin’s but it makes your heart flutter whenever you catch him doing it.

· You stretch your arm as far as you can, reaching for the radio, unwilling to give up your perch in Martin’s lap for even a second. Your fingertips brush the cool metal—once, twice—then you manage to curl your fingers around it. Pulling it into your lap you turn the volume down low so only you can hear it.

· “I’m just getting word that we have a special guest on the line,” the DJ sounds positively elated, “Folks, it looks like the Count is back in town. Hello, Count! Where have ya’ been?”

· Martin hesitates for a moment, his jaw working as he searches for the words, “Around.”

· There is a definite lag between the words in his mouth, and those same words coming through the radio. The dissonance confounds your ears and makes your head ache in a dizzy sort of way, but you want to hear both halves of this conversation, not just Martin’s.

· “So, what trouble have you been getting into since we last spoke, Count? Murdered any pretty ladies recently?”

· There’s a smile in Martin’s voice, “Not ladies, no.”

· “Oh really? Any men then?”

Martin glances down at you, though he makes a non-committal noise. The DJ takes a breath, as though he’s going to say something, but Martin cuts him off, “I wouldn’t call what I do murder, anyhow.”

· “No? But you still need to drink blood, right?”

· “Oh, yes.”

· “How have you been getting your food, then? Don’t vampires uh…kill with every strike?”

· Martin laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shudder through you. “I’ve been managing.” His tone is damn near conversational. You gaze down at him, marvelling at how easy this seems to be for him. The Martin you’ve come to know and love rarely (if ever) speaks to strangers, and when he has no other choice, he’s never this talkative. It’s strange, but by no means an unwelcome change. You nuzzle against him, letting his voice thrum through your skull as it vibrates around in his chest.

· “Enough talk of blood and guts, Count. What about your other problems, huh? Tell me, are the streets of Braddock safe at last from the real terror stalking them? Have you…” He pauses conspiratorially, “Found yourself a girl yet?”

· Those words drive an icy spike of hurt deep into your guts. No, he had not found himself a girl. Martin must have felt your jaw clenching, as his free hand begins to card through your hair—soothing and soft.

· “I’ve found…someone.” The implications of that word settles you almost as much as his touch. ‘Someone.’ Not a woman, but someone of significance, nonetheless. He bends down to press a quick kiss into the crown of your head. “Someone special.”

· The DJ gasps, sounding scandalized. “Someone special! Well, I never. Good for you, Count.” You can’t say you’re a fan of the man’s tone—pleasant enough, but with a sharp edge that borders on condescending. But there’s little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it. “How long until you suck this one dry and move on?”

· Wow. Fuck this guy. On some level, you’d known he was an asshole—sure you felt bad for him when people were rude, but he could dish it out just as well as he could take it. Every once in a while, he’d push a caller too hard or make a snide comment the conversation could have done without. You didn’t like hearing it when strangers were involved, and now that you were the subject of such a comment, you like it even less. He makes it sound like you’re some random conquest, or worse, little more than a meal to Martin. How wrong he was.

· Suck this one dry and move on? Fat chance, Buddy. Though, his wording did give you an idea…maybe you could make this night just a little more interesting for the both of you.

You sit back, uncurling your legs and dropping your knees to either side of Martin’s hips, straddling his lap properly. Settling your weight back into his lap, you pull a face, pointing to the radio in your lap and mouthing, ‘What a jaggoff!’

· Martin’s lips press into a thin line as he tries to stifle his laughter. He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything about it to the DJ. He’s slow to anger, preferring to divert the conversation rather than cause a scene. You can’t help but admire him for that. You lean forward, stamping a kiss against his collarbone.

· “I…uh…try not to eat the things I love.”

· “Ooooh, so it’s love, huh?”

· You roll your eyes at the DJ, though you can’t deny hearing Martin say he loves you sends a little thrill through you—it was the same thrill you’d felt the first time he had said it to you, and the same thrill you hoped to feel for years to come. You trail little, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Martin’s throat, your mouth feverishly warm against his skin. A shudder jolts through him like an electric shock as your teeth scape across his Adam’s apple. You grin against his flesh, sliding up to nip along the underside of his jaw. There is a sensitive spot at the very corner that you love to exploit, and now seems like the perfect opportunity to do so.

· Your teeth graze over the spot and his body jitters beneath you. His voice catches in his throat, though if the DJ notices, he doesn’t comment. You nip gently at the spot, reddening the pale skin as you worry it with your teeth. You long to suck a bruise there—the purple-blue hue would doubtless look stunning against the pallor of his skin, but you knew Cuda would have a conniption if he saw it, and you didn’t want to put Martin through that again. Not after last time. The pair of you had agreed that perhaps in future, it would be better if any hickeys you left remained under your clothes.

· Pressing one final kiss against that spot, you pull back to look at him. You can tell he’s getting flustered—there’s a flush beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his t-shirt, deep pink and blotchy. You know, given time, it will reach his cheeks, the colour blooming high on his cheekbones. When you get him worked up enough, you could make Martin blush to the very tips of his ears. It was adorable.

· Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as you drag your nails down his chest. His teeth catch his lower lip. You can almost hear the whine trapped behind those pearly teeth.

· “Why don’t you tell us a little about this special someone, Count?”

· Martin hesitates, “I don’t know about that.”

· “Nonsense! You can tell your good ol’ pal Barry. Who am I gonna tell?”

· Martin isn’t that stupid. He knows Barry doesn’t need to tell anyone anything—he’s live on air, he’d be telling them himself. His eyes flick down to yours, searching for something, be it permission or resistance. He pulls the phone away from his ear, resting it against his shoulder as he waits for you to make up your mind. You know he’d hang up in an instant if you asked him to—he’d likely do you one better and never call in again if the DJ was just going to ask questions about you all night long. But you trusted Martin not to give too much information away—he’d managed to stay hidden all this time, after all.

· You nodded at him, smiling and thumbing gently over a nipple. Though your touch is light, and the sensation is dampened by the fabric of his shirt, Martin makes a sound as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He shifts beneath you, tucking the phone underneath his chin as he moves.

· You grip the striped fabric of his shirt, working it in your hands. You lift it a little, fingers slipping just beneath it to splay against the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is warm and soft beneath your hands. You look down at him, arching a brow and asking for permission with only your eyes.

· “Fine.” He says, and though the word is an answer for the DJ’s pleading, he’s talking to you, looking directly into your eyes—granting the permission you were so hoping for.

· “Great! So, how long have you been together?”

· You fall into him, hands pushing the soft cotton of his shirt up over his chest. Your lips are on his skin in a matter of seconds, trailing kisses across every inch of exposed skin—stomach, ribs, hips, and everything in between.

· “It’s been ahh—” His words are cut short by a tight little moan as you bite down hard just below his left nipple. However, he manages a solid recovery as your tongue laves over the spot soothing the sting, playing the whole thing off as though he had needed time to stop and think about it, “—bout a year, maybe a little longer.”

· Clever boy.

· You drag your tongue a little higher, flicking over the sensitive skin of his nipple. He arches into your touch, hips canting up against yours, threatening to buck you from your perch. He tilts his head, trapping the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, reaching for you with both hands.

· He takes your cheeks into his hands, pulling your head away from his chest. You grin up at him, taking in his expression—his pupils blown so wide with want they swallow all but the slimmest ring of brown iris, his lips parted and shining in the semi-darkness, flushed to the tips of his ears.

· You surge up to kiss him, remembering only at the last moment, he needs to keep his mouth free to carry on the conversation. With a huff, you divert your course, and fix your lips back against the skin of Martin’s neck.

· He swallows hard as you press your lips back against his pulse, pushing his hips back up into yours. You can’t keep the grin form your face as you feel him pressing up against you—the outline in his pants far more noticeable now.

· His hands tremble slightly as they search for yours, dragging them down to the front of his jeans. You grin widens as you press down. Even through the thick denim, you can feel his cock throb under your palm. Someone’s excited.

· You look down at him and he turns his head away, flushing a shade darker. He was so easy to wind up like this, it was almost unbelievable. A few kisses here, and gentle touch there, and he was a blushing, whining mess spread out on your sheets for you to enjoy however your pleased. You had chalked the over-sensitivity up to a lack of experience, and had expected it to fade after a few months, but it hadn’t. He was just that reactive, not that you were complaining.

· With deft fingers, you pop the button of his jeans, quietly dragging the zipper down. He lifts his hips, wriggling helpfully as you drag his pants and underwear down over his thighs.

· His cock bobs free, flushed and leaking already. You ghost the pads of your fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders, his whole body tensing. His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, and his jaw is tight with the struggle of keeping quiet.

· You wrap your hand around him, stroking gently from base to tip. His back arches off from the headboard, and he falls forward, burying his head in the crook of your neck. The phone receiver bumps against your collarbone, hard and hollow. The plastic is pleasantly cool against your feverish skin.

· “Is it different being with a…uh…forgive the expression, normal person?”

· “They’re a…” His laugh is breathy, almost a moan as he glances down at you, “a real handful.”

· You barely stifle a laugh. You glare down at him in mock disapproval, and he sticks his tongue out at you. Cheeky little bastard. Though the colour still sits high on his cheeks, and his breathing comes through parted lips in short puffs, he seems to have adjusted well to your pace.

· “Nothing you can’t handle though, I’m sure. Do they know about your…condition, shall we say?”

· “They are aware, yes.”

· The DJ laughs, “And how did that go? Can’t be an easy thing to hear—that your boyfriend might vamp out and eat you whole!”

· Martin sighs, “I already told you, I don’t eat people…” His voice is much steadier now, even as your fingers brush along the sensitive spots on the underside of his cock. That means its time to switch things up. You can’t have him getting too comfortable. Where would the fun be in that? You tighten your grip—something that usually makes Martin thrash against the sheets and sob into your pillows—and begin to swipe your thumb gently over the tip of his cock with every upward stroke. He almost drops the phone as he yanks it away from his mouth. He covers the receiver with a shaking hand just in time, as a soft whine slips through his teeth, “Oh, fuck…”

· You press a finger up against your lips, reminding him to be quiet. He presses up into your fist, his hips stuttering as your thumb traces a lazy circle around his head. His free hand flutters nervously about his mouth, as he tries desperately to keep quiet. His breath comes sharp and quick though his nose as he struggles to keep control. You shift your weight, pinning his hips back down with your thighs, and though he tries to buck back up against you, you hold him firmly in place. He whines high in his throat, shooting a pleading look up at you, but you just shake your head and point at the phone, ‘Keep going.’

· Slowly, Martin brings the receiver back up to his ear. His tongue flickers out over his lips and he lets out a shaky breath, “S-Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

· “I said, ‘let’s circle back to what you said before,’ about not eating what you love. Why not? If you don’t need to kill to feed, why not feed on this special someone? Surely if they love you back, they’d be willing.”

· You slow your hand, wanting to give Martin a fighting chance at answering. You were momentarily intrigued by the DJ’s line of questioning. You knew why Martin didn’t want to feed on you, but you were curious as to what sort of excuse he would give.

· “W-Well…it’s come up mo-ore than once but…” Martin goes silent as you squeeze down on him, his posture going rigid, his head thrown back against the headboard.

· The DJ lets the silence hang for a moment, but when Martin doesn’t finish his thought, he cuts in, “But…? You still there, Count?”

· You let up, and Martin takes a big gulp of air, as though he had only just remembered he needed to breathe. “Y-Yeah, I’m here. It’s…it’s complicated.”

· “Oh yeah? How?”

· “Well, it’s not about whether they’ll let me or not…” He takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he steadies himself. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “It’s that I want more.”

· He tries in vain to buck up into your fist, his hips rolling in shallow, abortive little thrusts. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip, his eyes boring deep into your own.

· ‘I want more.’ Those words were meant for you.

· You blink down at him, momentarily dumb founded. Then a grin spreads across your face, sharp and hungry. If he wants more, you’ll give it to him—you’d give it to him until he was begging you to stop.

· Sliding down his body, you know this is risky. Martin has never been good at keeping quiet, especially not when you’ve got your mouth on him. But the idea is simply too enticing to pass up on. When were you ever going to get the change to suck his cock live on air again? Besides, this might be good practice for him in the art of keeping his voice down—not that you didn’t love to hear him, it just might be nice to keep your…activities a secret from the whole neighbourhood for once.

· You wriggle down onto your stomach, bringing your face level with Martin’s cock. Settling yourself into a comfortable position between his knees, you bend your head, pressing a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

· He makes an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat. You look up at him, resting your chin on the tops of his thighs. You want to give him the time he needs to make up his mind. If he tells you ‘no,’ or pushes you away, you’d gladly go back to stroking his cock and kissing his neck. You would get just as much pleasure from the shivers and whimpers you could wring out of him that way.

· But he doesn’t tell you no, rather he pushes his hips up against you, pressing the tip hard against your lips. You flick your tongue out, ghosting for only a moment over his sensitive flesh, but it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You do it again, and his mouth falls open. Though no sound escapes the look on his face is just as glorious.

· This is going to be fun.

· You crane your neck, opening your mouth and gently taking the head inside. Martin’s free hand shoots to his mouth, and he bites down hard on the meat of his palm to stop himself from sobbing out loud. You press your tongue flat against him, dragging it slowly against his hot flesh. He thrashes beneath you, jostling the phone against his cheek.

· Carefully, you sink further down on him, taking him in inch by inch. He lets out a long sigh around a mouthful of palm.

· “What was that, Count?”

· “Oohh…nothing,” Martin grinds out, “Just…closing a window.”

· The lie was flimsy, but the DJ, despite his skeptical tone, didn’t seem interested in pressed him on it further, “…Right…so how is your control around this person, huh? Do you ever get the urge to just go to town on them?”

· Martin’s laugh comes out as a low purr, and he bucks into your mouth once, “Mmm, sometimes.” Ever so slowly, as you’ve sunk down onto his cock, he’s been curling in on himself. His head now rests atop your own, and you can feel the heat of his cheek radiating against your scalp. If that heat is anything to go by, he must be positively scarlet.

· “And what does that entail for you exactly?”

· With a little jolt, his cock brushes up against the back of your throat. You swallow down a little choking noise, breathing steadily through your nose in an attempt to calm your gag reflex.

· The warmth of Martin’s cheeks is suddenly gone as he straightens up again. His head hits the headboard with a thump. “I-I just wanna…” He swallows thickly, his breath coming hard, “Push into…p-push my teeth into their throat and just,” He bucks up into your throat, either unable, or simply unwilling to stay still any longer, “just take what I want.”

· “Their…blood?”

· You swallow around Martin and his back arches so far he practically lifts off the bed “Yes! Yes, everything they have to give!”

· “Right…for a moment there it sounded a bit more, uh, sexually motivated than that.”

· Again, your throat contracts around him, and a hiss of air escapes through his teeth, “No difference really…”

· The DJ is silent for a moment, “Now that’s an interesting tidbit about you, Count. I’m sure all the ladies out there would love to hear more about that.”

· Marin fucks up into your throat again with a soft groan, “I’m…I’m sure they would but,” His breath is coming harder now, “unfortunately, I’m taken.”

· The DJ laughs, “Hear that, Count? That’s the sound of hundreds of hearts all over Braddock breaking. Sorry, folks but it looks like you’re out of luck.”

· Oh. He’s taken alright. You can just imagine the anguished looks on their faces when you learn he gets taken almost every other night by another man.

· Though you’d love to keep him in this position, you’re struck by the sudden, possessive urge to have him on his back. You tap his thigh thrice in quick succession and Martin withdraws almost immediately. He’s always so respectful of your wishes, even if he whines a little when his cock slips from the wet heat of your mouth. The sudden chill of the air on his wet cock sends a shiver through him.

· You scoot back, grabbing Martin by the calves, and pulling him down into a more horizontal position. He fumbles with the phone, as it slips from his grasp, landing on the bed near his shoulder.

· “What’s going on, Count?”

· “S-Sorry, I just…I just dropped the phone is all. I’m…I’m feeling awful shaky these days.”

· “Oh, yeah? How long has it been?”

· Martin’s tone is distracted, “Ages.” He is far more focused on you, his dark eyes trained on yours as you loom over him.

· The DJ asks another question, but you’re not listening as you slip Martin’s slick cock into your mouth, wasting no time in taking him back into your throat where he belongs.

· Though you can’t make out his words so well over the rushing in your ears, Martin’s voice sounds strained, slightly higher than usual. He’s fighting the pleasure hard.

· His free hand fists itself in your hair, pushing you down tighter against his cock. You swallow hard, trying desperately not to gag as he rolls is hips into your mouth. He’s come such a long way since the first time you asked him to fuck your mouth. He’d been so nervous that you did most of the work, bobbing your head faster and faster until he’d spilled deep into your mouth. He had apologized for almost an hour after, thinking the rasp in your voice was all his fault. Now? He’s practically asphyxiating you, and you hadn’t needed to say a word.

· Martin is shaking—his thighs tremble on either side of your head, and the phone in his hands nearly slips from his grasp again with the force of the tremors passing through him.

· You hollow your cheeks and he’s forced to cover the receiver again as a series of whimpers tear free from his lips. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and he sobs, his hips canting up off the bed.

· “I-I’m close,” His frantic whisper comes tight through his teeth, an edge bordering on panic creeping into his voice. You grip his thigh and redouble your efforts, gaining a high whine in return.

· “Hey, Count? Count there’s a lot of interference on your end…I can’t really hear you. I think this is where this conversation has to end, but call back another night, huh?” Martin doesn’t even respond, he simply slams the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call.

· Almost as soon as the call has disconnected, he’s a whimpering mess. “Oh, fuck! Your mouth…I-I can’t! Is it okay? Is it okay if I…?”

· He can’t bring himself to say it, but you know what he means and hum a soft affirmation around his cock. He cries out as the sound vibrates around his over-sensitive flesh.

· With a whimper, he fucks up into your mouth, once, twice, then he shudders, his whole body going rigid as he cums. His knees clamp around your ears, squeezing your head as he shakes with the pleasure. His fingers pull at your hair, any tighter and you’re sure he’ll pull some out. But you press on, hollowing your cheeks, letting him ride the high for as long as he can.

· The sound he makes as you swallow around him is nothing short of wrecked. His fingers claw the sheets as though he’s trying to drag himself away from you, from your mouth, but his body remains locked in place beneath you.

· His cock twitches against your tongue as you slowly pull back, the wet drag of your tongue digging raw little whimpers from his throat, and a shudder passed through him when you pull of and his cock is again exposed to the chilly air of the room. His hips press forward, seeking the tight heat of your throat again. It would seem almost desperate if the motion wasn’t so sluggish, almost sleepy.

· He reaches for you then in the dark. His hands, hot and sweaty from exertion and gripping both the phone and the sheets for so long, grasp either side of your face as he pulls you up for a kiss.

· The salty taste of his cum still coats your tongue, but he doesn’t seem to care as he presses his lips against yours with a desperation you rarely see in him.

· Pulling back, you whisper against his lips, “Was that enough attention?”

· He smiles, “For me? Yes.” He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “But now it’s your turn.”

#martin x reader #slasher x reader #martin 1977 #slasher imagines #ripper fics #sorry for how late this is #enjoy!

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discotenny · 4 years ago

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!Bungo Stray Brothers!

Ranpo and Poe with a little sister

!requested by @maibeff!

This is long overdue sorry djfjdk. I accidentally posted this last night oopsie >.> trying something new w the banners

Okay so I know that everyone says Ranpo would be a really lazy brother, and he still is don’t get me wrong, butttt Ranpo would be a top-notch sibling

During the time of your parents’ deaths, you were barely a teenager. At the prior advice of your late parents, he dragged you to Yokohama, where the two of you now reside. Through the years, Ranpo filled the void left by your parents, guiding and teaching you as they once did. Well, trying his best to do so anyways

Despite his attitude aimed at many, Ranpo is quite caring towards you. He’s constantly checking up on your wellbeing, whether through texts or casual conversation. Sometimes, he’ll even do that thing where a person messes up someone's hair with their hand in passing

While not as athletic as his coworkers, Ranpo can still put up some of a fight. Thus, he will absolutely try to fight anyone that attempts to mess with his dear sister

He thinks the world of you, and you’re one of the few people he’ll give some of his oh so coveted praise to

Your relationship with Fukuzawa is very friendly. While he’s a father figure to Ranpo, he’s more of a grandfather character to you since you don’t see him as much

Ranpo insists you visit the ADA offices often, and so you also have friendly relations with the rest of the members. Though Ranpo warns you not to get deeply involved with Dazai for some reason 🤔

With any romantic partner you have, he wants to have a one on one talk with them to discern if they’re a good enough person for you. Though an issue he has is that he judges everyone to his standards, and his standards are high

Household chores are a big no-no when it comes to Ranpo, and often you’ll be forced to literally lay the vacuum on him if you want him to do shit

Your fridge is always empty due to both you and Ranpo’s negligence when it comes to grocery shopping. It becomes a daily occurrence for you two to text each other back and forth begging for the other to purchase some groceries on their way home

Y/n: Ranpoooo can you pls pick up some eggs after work? We also need [insert shopping list of items]

Five minutes later...

Ranpo: Hey y/n can you pick up [insert a screenshot of the shopping list from your message] on your way home

When the time comes for you to move out, Ranpo tries his best not to cry as he hugs you before you go. Being the only family he has left in the world, your departure affects him a lot. Afterward, Ranpo ends up learning how to manage the trains by himself just so he can visit you all by himself ~

A sibling who’s a student [around a high schooler, so let’s say 18]

He’s always making comments on your homework being ‘too easy,’ and will sometimes do some problems on your worksheets out of pure boredom

Ranpo would absolutely help you cheat with assignments

For a small fee of course... that fee coming in the form of snacks

As Ranpo serves as your legal guardian, he’s the one that has to sign all your school papers. Most of the time he leaves you stressed, messed, and upset as he always lets forms go unsigned until the very last minute

Despite being a student, you still end up cooking for the two of you most of the time

If you go to the convenience store after your school day, Ranpo always texts you. One, to check up on you. And two, to make sure you buy him a bag candy

When you don’t walk straight home from school, chances are you head your way towards the detective agency. When you do so, Ranpo is calling you over to his desk and tells you do work on your homework beside him. Even if you don’t have homework Ranpo will still tell you to sit at his desk just so he can keep some eye on you

When the ADA closes up for the day, you two end up eating out at a cafe somewhere. No exceptions, this happens every time

If it weren’t for his height, most would assume that Poe was the younger of you two

If anyone were to attempt to hurt this babby, you’d likely be the one sticking up for him. He felt awful and weak during any kind of occurrence like this, and often would hideaway for a bit after

While he’s not particularly strong, Poe is an amazing listener and will hear you out with any struggles you have at the moment. He would even tell Karl to curl up in your lap, a small sign of his trust towards you

In turn, when he becomes upset over his loss to Ranpo, you’re there right by his side after to cheer him up. Even when he shuts off all personal connections after his crushing defeat, you still check up on him to make sure he hasn’t withered away

You’re his biggest supporter and vise versa

Poe is r i c h. If your family didn’t come from wealth before, you bet your ass that he shares his coin with you. Though, you feel a bit bad for accepting the large amounts of money he sends you. But, your brother persists that its just pay back for all of your support

When Poe got Karl at the age of 10 [let’s just say he got him at 10 because raccoons live up to an average of 20 years domesticated], he would do everything in his power to make sure the two of you got along. Eventually, you warmed up to his new pet and Poe couldn’t be happier

Growing up, you were always by his side. Seeing as he’s quite sensitive and timid, you would cling to him in order to watch out for any possible detriments to your brother’s happiness. Sticking to his side most of your childhood, you grew a fondness for all the stories he would write

When he first discovered his ability, you and Poe would spend hours exploring the world of different books. While he may have not been into the kind of books you would read as a youngling, everything was worth it if he got to see you smile

You two would also have sleepovers in his room. Dragging a blanket and pillow to his door, you’d ask if you would be allowed to sleep in his bedroom for the night. Despite it surprising him each time, Poe would never deny your request

With blankets, Karl, and pillows strewn around the room, Poe would excuse himself to the kitchen to make the two of your some tea. You’d almost always fall asleep next to your brother as he drafted new stories

When Poe gets involved with The Guild, the first thing you worry about his his safety. Then he gets upset at the fact that he’s worried you and ends up calling you, frantically apologizing and hoping you won’t dislike him. The last thing he wants in life is your disapproval ;-;

While you hold no issue with The Guild’s ‘activities’ [more so you don’t know about their crimes], you make your brother promise you that he’d be careful

On his leave to Japan and subsequent announcement that he’d stay there indefinitely, you’re already making plans to visit him one day

His sister comes to Japan

Your visit is a surprise, even if you have been messaging him about it for weeks

Y/n: Edgar! I’m leaving for Japan tomorrow morning so I’m going to have to sleep early tonight.

Poe spits out his tea

Edgar: Yourecomingtojapanwhat?

Of course, he picks you up, what kind of brother would he be if he didn’t?

Seeing you at the airport, Poe can’t contain his smile. While you two don’t hug, Poe is ecstatic to see you and can’t wait to show you around. Karl is in the car and he immediately jumps onto you when you come in

When he introduces you to Ranpo, you can’t help but hold a little grudge. Cmon, this was the man that caused your dear brother to become a recluse for years! Though Poe sees your hesitation and encourages you that all blood is fine between the two. After seeing how happy your brother becomes at Ranpo’s company, you admit that he isn’t awful

Your time in Japan is spent talking with Poe and Ranpo most of the time. While it’s mostly chilling in the detective agency, your brother’s friend ends up dragging the two of you around to different cafe’s

Once, Ranpo asked if you knew of the chaos that The Guild caused in Japan. It’s the one time he’s ever seen and heard Poe so panicked as he screamed ‘I wasn’t involved’

Wouldn’t it be funny if you and Ranpo fell into a relationship

Hrjdksks apologies these are too long ;-; I liked writing these so there may be a bit of incoherence throughout... Also I haven’t posted in a week oops. Thank you for your kind words Mai ! All the love in the world for you 💕

I hope you enjoyed anyways, and apologies for any future disappointment

#bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bsd headcanons #bsd imagines #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs headcanons #bungou stray dogs imagines #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs headcanons #bungo stray dogs imagines #bsd poe x reader #bsd ranpo x reader #bsd ranpo #bsd poe #poe x reader #ranpo x reader

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the-voltage-diaries · 4 years ago

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“Just look at you. You’re beautiful.” - Eisuke Ichinomiya [Request]

I am so very late with these and I totally do not look like a wide eyed raccoon every time I come check my drafts. Oops.

It’s finally here...

I let out a deep exhale, opening my eyes to look at the mirror once again. Back at me stares my own reflection, decked up in white from head to toe, with occasional bursts of purple.

… our wedding day. It’s FINALLY here.

A smile naturally finds its way to my face at the thought of me finally marrying the man I have been in love with for the last seven years. After all we’ve been through, together, this day couldn’t resemble something more special.

My lips only tug upwards, an image of Eisuke floating through my mind, and I think back on the day I became his fiancée… the day he asked me to marry him.

“Marry me,” he whispers, sliding the ring down my finger, pulling me to him by the waist. “Marry me, (Y/N).”

The memory makes me chuckle, for that man couldn’t have proposed in any way other than that. Always so demanding, always doing everything in his power to get what, or in this case, who he wants. But then again, it’s the demanding nature of his that makes a part of who he is, and just like every other quality of his - good or bad - I adore that too. It makes him who he is. Who he has always been at his core.

I sigh fondly, looking down at the ring glinting on my ring finger, and I can’t help but tear up a little at the idea of becoming his wife. The road we’ve walked these last seven years… it’s filled with numerous milestones, and even more beautiful memories, and the idea of that road continuing on for the rest of our lives makes a sweet ache rise in my chest, and I quickly look up towards the ceiling to prevent any tears from falling.

I can’t be ruining my make-up now of all times, now can I?

“(Y/N), are you ready?” The door to the room opens, and my father steps in, stopping in his tracks once his eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You…” he begins and then trails off as his eyes slowly widen. He tries to hide his proud smile as he looks at me, and he breathes in a shaky breath. “You look… absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” I turn around, giving him a wide smile. I walk over to him and press a kiss to his cheeks before giving him my arm. I bite my lip as I feel a blush make its way to my cheeks, a little embarrassed at the thought of seeing my fiancé at last. “Well then, shall we?”

He turns his face away, and I catch a glimpse of his fingers coming up to wipe a tear before he looks back at me, taking my arm in his. He takes a deep breath, looking at me from head-to-toe one last time before giving me a firm nod, and we make our way to the entrance of the church.

The walk to the double doors feels both impossibly short and eternally long at the same time.

Once we’re in front of the closed entrance, waiting for it to open, I feel my body stiffen a little with nerves, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in.

Okay, so… Eisuke is on the other side of that door. Calm down, it’s going to be alright. It’s going to be just fine.

I slowly open my eyes, almost in tune with the gradually opening doors, and just as a soft melody fills my ears, I see him standing on the other side of the aisle.

He looks magnificent.

I notice as his head turns to look at me, and I feel my heart thrum in my chest in anticipation of his reaction. As much as he demanded to see the wedding dress and have a say in the final look of it, I kept the result of the months of preparation a secret. He knew about the shape of the dress, but he had no idea about the way the white bottom of the skirt, right from my knees, would gradually start to mix with a deeper purple. He didn’t know the flowers adorning my head wouldn’t just be white, they would have a hint of purple too.

It was his favourite colour, but I did everything in my power to make him believe the dress would be a complete white in order to surprise him. He was reluctant at first, but he eventually agreed. Just to see me smile. Just like he always did. I know, it might not mean a lot to the world, but having that twinge of purple mix with the white almost made me feel as if a part of him was around me. As if it was with me, even when he physically wasn’t.

My eyes never look away from him, and I see his own widen the second they see me. A small gasp leaves his lips, and he looks almost enchanted to see me as I begin to walk down the aisle. Although I thought he would cover up his reaction and put on that mask of indifference just how he usually did, today he doesn’t. He simply doesn’t.

And that makes me smile, once again.

Our gazes collide and it’s as if the only people we can look at is each other; the world slowly fades away and we’re the only two people remaining. With each step I take towards him, I catch his lips turning up bit by bit into a fond smile.

I love you.

As if on cue, his brows furrow and he gives me the fondest of looks before winking at me, shaking his head and then looking at me again. It’s like he is telling me, ‘You’re an open book, your emotions are quite literally on your face. But… I love you too.’

“Thank you,” I whisper to my father, turning to him and giving him a quick hug when I reach the end of the aisle. He’s tearing up again, and seeing that makes my eyes feel watery too. He smiles before looking at Eisuke, giving him a quick nod.

“Keep my daughter happy,” he mutters, patting the side of Eisuke’s arm before giving me a gentle push towards the altar. Eisuke nods back at him, and gives him a confident smile.

“You’re staring.” I giggle, glancing at Eisuke. His eyes haven’t left me, and a soft smile still graces his lips just like it did when I started walking towards him.

“What about it?”

I blush at that, looking down at my feet and biting my lip. I feel so happy I’m practically giddy, I realise with a shake of my head.

We turn to look at each other fully, and I take in the sight of the Eisuke Ichinomiya standing before me. He’s in a three piece suit, with his suit jacket, vest and tie being the same shade of purple as my gown, along with his trousers. He looks absolutely dashing, and for a moment, I lose myself in him.

“Hmm?” I hum, my shoulders jolting at the sudden contact. While I was lost in my own little world, filled with just him - yes, I know, it sounds incredibly sappy - I didn’t notice his fingers travel the distance from his side to my jaw. “What is it?” I ask as he caresses my cheek.

He sighs, tilting his head. My legs practically give out from beneath me when I catch the look he gives me. It’s so filled with love, longing, and it’s as if… as if he is looking at something ethereal.

“What?” I raise my head a little, curious to know what he’s thinking.

“Just…” He trails off, giving me a once over. His eyes come up to look into my own, and he smiles. “Just look at you. You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

The tears come rushing back to the front of my eyes, as if they were waiting for a sign.

“I love you.” He blinks, slowly, as he utters that phrase. Those words don’t hold a speck of doubt, or fear, or confusion. They are as clear as the shine in his eyes, as plain as day.

“I love you too,” I whisper right back, and I can’t fight the smile that makes its way to my face.

… and the world slowly comes back to focus when we turn to the officiant in unison, ready to walk the road to our future as husband and wife.

#eisuke ichinomiya #kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #kbtbb eisuke ichinomiya #kbtbb eisuke #kissed by the baddest bidder eisuke #fluff #romance #kbtbb fic #voltage inc #Love 365: Find Your Story #otome romance #love 365 #love 365 find your story #ok idk how it was #pls give honest feedback #tysm

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october31st1981 · 5 years ago

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Scenes from the Past Six Years

There are a number of fics in the drafts of this blog that I started a few years ago, and no longer feel the inclination to finish. But there are still some pretty fun bits and bobs, so I’m going to throw them all up in one post if anyone is interested in some disjointed excerpts.

Dueling - Jan 27, 2014

James has his hands on her shoulders, and she is calculating how best to catapult him off of her body when his lips descend to kiss her thoroughly.

“James,” she protests, as they pause for a breath, “we’re supposed to be fighting.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but the grin on his face contradicts his apology.

Later, when they are about to leave, Lily says, “I think we should compartmentalize our situations.” She does not meet his eyes, choosing instead to rub nonexistent grease off of her wand by running it against her jeans.

“How so?”

“Well… as much as I like snogging you, I think that we should have… snogging times, and dueling times. So we can be efficient with, er, both,” It sounds oddly formal and for reasons Lily is unsure about, a flush has risen in her cheeks. She still refuses to look him in the face.

James tilts her chin up, a gleeful look on his face. “Lily Evans, are you asking me out?”

She splutters out an indignant protest but James just grins all the wider. “You are asking me out,” he says, leaning closer to get her to look at him directly. Her cheeks are hot as his hands move to either side of her face. “Yes.”

And There Was Only One Bed - Feb 2, 2014

“One of you can come up and sleep with me.” As all four boys seem to prepare themselves for a smarmy comment, she adds, “Don’t start, gits. You know what I mean.”

“If someone’s joining you, Wormtail’s out,” Sirius says, his eyes flicking to the boy in question, “he’s a kicker.” From his tone, it seems that Sirius has experienced this very quality one too many times.

Peter huffs indignantly. “Padfoot’s a prat, I kicked him out of a hammock one time—” He cuts himself off as he sees the black-haired boy fingering his wand. “Fine, I’m out.”

“I’m out, too,” Remus says with a sigh. “I roll about too much, I’m afraid. I’d be falling out of the bed anyway."

James does not say anything, but instead he and Sirius seem to communicate something with a glance between them. James gives Sirius a warning look, but Sirius simply grins and pats the wooden arms of the chair, saying, "I’m comfortable where I am,”

“C'mere, then,” Lily says to James, gesturing to the spot next to her. Shooting a loaded glance at his best mate, he sits down.

Pecker Parody - April 22, 2014

James Potter had a problem. This particular dilemma was approximately five feet tall, freckled, and had a habit of popping up at inopportune times.

This problem was his diddly-doo. His magical wanking stick, if you will. You see, while having a dingler the size of a broomstick was all well and good when he was a boy, due to the fact he could ride it around like a pogo stick, at the age of eighteen, it was a bit more troublesome.

The truth of the matter was that he wanted to put his party popper inside Lily’s cash register, but he didn’t know how to tell her.

Birth - March 15, 2015

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he says in awe. “Did you know you could do that?”

Brushing some of her hair out of her sweaty face, Lily laughs. “I’d had some time to get used to the idea, yeah.”

James looks back at the bundle in his arms, and then again at his wife. “You just pushed an entire person out of you. Our person. He’s not tiny, either. I mean, he is tiny, but only because he’s a baby. Otherwise, he’s quite a large thing to be exiting any orifice.”

“If we ever do this again, you can do that part,” she says leaning back against the pillows.

Grease AU - June 25, 2015

(Also posted here.)

“This is… ridiculous,” she murmurs against his lips.

James laughs. “It’s a little late to denounce snogging on the beach, Evans, since we’ve been doing it for the past few weeks.” As he speaks, he drops his mouth to her neck, smiling as her eyes flutter.

Lily pulls his face up by the chin to meet his gaze. “I meant this whole thing.” She gestures around them. “After what happened after the Defence O.W.L. at the end of last term, how can you find any of this normal? Everything was such a mess after. Hell, if we hadn’t both come to the same place this holiday, I’d still be stewing in it by September.”

“But we did,” says James, brushing his nose against hers. “We talked and we yelled and we talked more and then you threw yourself at me.”

He dodges her swat at him much too easily to satisfy her, but at her raised brow he makes an amendment. “Alright, so I may have done some of the throwing. I’m a Chaser. I need to hone my reflexes.”

“My point is, it doesn’t feel like you’re Potter on this beach,” Lily says, ruffling his hair pointedly. She smiles. “You’re just James.”

“Just James,” he repeats, adjusting so he lies beside her instead of half atop her. “You make it sound like I’m two different people.”

It is Lily’s turn to laugh. “Aren’t you? I can’t imagine this version of you hoisting someone up by their ankles.”

“Of course not,” says James immediately. “I’m wearing trunks. Where would I keep my wand?”

Lily is already giggling by the time James begins suggesting locations on his body that he might be hiding his wand, and by the end of his lewd list, she is nearly having a fit on the sand. When she catches her breath, she looks at him. “I know I don’t get to keep Just James forever,” she says, leaning on his arm. “But at least try to preserve the illusion for me when we get back to school by avoiding me.”

James is quiet for a moment, but when he speaks his voice is soft. “You’re being silly, Lily,” he tells her, pulling her closer. “This is who I am. Caring about your feelings, about anyone’s feelings, isn’t exclusive to this beach.”

She kisses him, slowly and deeply. “Try to remember saying that.”

James grins. “If I’m going to be reliving a memory from this holiday, I reckon I have to choose the night under the pier—”

Lily laughs, cutting him off with her lips. “Be quiet, James.”

Masquerade - Dec 16, 2015

“So you’re Muggle-born, then?” he says thoughtfully. She stiffens, and he hasten to add, “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m just trying to figure how that narrows down the options for who you are.”

She smiles, but then looks a little put-out. “That’s hardly fair, I don’t know anything about you.”

“Pureblood,” he tells her, kissing her neck.

“A pureblood that doesn’t care that I’m Muggle-born? That does narrow down the options.” Her fingers tug at his robe. “N.E.W.T. classes?”

He shakes his head, kissing her lips quickly. “Too easy. Do you play Quidditch?”

“No. Do you?”

After a moment of hesitation, he says, “Yes,” so she is quick to follow with a suspicious, “On a team or for leisure?”

He laughs. “Both.”

Problematic.jpg - March 29, 2016

“James Potter,” Lily says to Mary suddenly, “is my problematic fave.”

“Receipts, please,” says Mary, not looking up from her copy of Witch Weekly.

“Plus, he’s like, a pureblood. So he’s got the whole legacy of all that fucked-up culture.”

“But like, a lowkey pureblood. He’s 12% Muggle-born.”

Junks the Trash King: The Sequel - April 18, 2016

“I’ve met the Rubbish Man,” announces Lily upon entering her flat.

“Good, tell him we need a new recycling bin,” says Mary absently. “There’s a family of raccoon living in ours.”

“Not him, Junks.”

The name catches Mary’s attention. “The soulmate?” she asks, straightening up. “How was he?”

Lily drags herself over to their kitchen table and collapses into a seat. “Not named Junks, for one.” Lily holds up her palm for Mary to inspect. “Apparently this is supposed to say ‘James.’”

“Shame. I’d rather hoped to one day receive a wedding invitation inviting me to the marriage of Lily and Junks. Though I’d have to bin it for the wordplay, you understand.” Lily turns her hand so she can flip Mary the bird, but from the look in her eyes, her friend has already spotted something new. “Got his number already, did you?”

Baby Brain - June 15, 2016

“I think I'm pregnant,” says Lily, so quietly that James almost doesn't hear it.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” she repeats, turning over in bed to face him. “I tell you I might be up the spout and all I get is, ‘Oh?’”

James grins at her in the dark. “Would you have preferred ‘Blimey?’” He expects the pillow that's aimed at his face.

“James.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Would you be okay with it? If I am?” It's hard to see her eyes clearly with such little light, but James can hear in her tone that she's nervous.

“I... Yeah, I would,” says James, seeking out her hand. “You know I want kids with you. I mean, I might not have seen this starting so soon, but I think we're pretty great at improvising. Remember our wedding reception?”

Lily laughs. “Somehow I don't think using Dumbledore's hat to catch projectile vomit is the same thing as raising a child.”

“I think you'll find they're remarkably similar.”

She laughs again. “I'm trying to work myself into a worry, James, and you're making it very difficult.”

He leans over to kiss her on the cheek. “Sorry, dear. Feel free to treat our child as a sign of impending doom.”

Lily leans her head onto his shoulder. “We're nineteen, James.”

“Old enough to be married,” he replies, poking her with his ring finger.

“We don't know anything about children.”

James smiles. “Children don’t know anything either, so we’ll be on a level playing field.”

(ʘ‿ʘ)ノ✿ Hold My Flower - August 17, 2016

“Lily, no.”

She scoffs. “What do you mean, ‘Lily, no?’ I didn’t say anything.”

“Lily,” he says cheerfully, throwing an arm around her shoulder, “We have been married for forty-five years now—”

“Dating for eight months,” she corrects, holding back a smile.

James waves a hand dismissively. “So, in that time, I am confident that I’ve grown to recognize what your faces mean. And that face said, ��I’m going to put frogspawn in his tea.’”

“I don’t carry around frogspawn, James.”

He looks at her dubiously. “But you’d find some, wouldn’t you?”

Countdown - October 31, 2016

“Padfoot gets back from his assignment tomorrow,” Lily tells him, eyes on their calendar.

James pauses in trying to convince his son of the merits of pureed beets. His eyes drift towards the day on the calendar circled in red. Lately, they’ve taken to marking their calendar with the events of their day, if only to make the days seem more distinct. August 27th: ‘At 3 o’clock, Harry said his first full sentence.’ September 12th: ‘At 6 in the morning, the cat brought James a present and left it in his mouth.’ Tomorrow, October 31st, is a rare date that marks the future.

“Good,” he says. “I was hoping he’d be back before his birthday.”

A small, hopeful smile blooms on her lips. “Perhaps we can finally give him a nice celebration. I know Moony is still underground, but Wormy said he’d stay close by. I could bake him a cake.”

“Cake!” says Harry, and James laughs. He takes advantage of his boy’s opened-mouth enthusiasm to give him a spoonful of beets. The look he receives is nothing short of betrayed.

Victorious and still chuckling, James turns back to his wife. “We can ask him to come by as soon as he’s home.”

Baby I’m Trying: The Sequel Pt. 1 - Jan 4, 2017

He wishes his mum were still around, but since she’s not, in his desperation, James consults his neighbour, Batty Bagshot. Though she’s had no children of her own, she’s looked after many of her nieces and nephews over the years, and James has never been more thankful to hear her drone on.

After his conversation with Bathilda, he comes home, arms laden with all the supplies she recommended he find. Sirius’s eyes are wide as James brings the load inside the flat. “Reckon you got enough?”

James slumps over to the floor and leans his head on the pram. “This stuff is only for the first six months,” he says, staring into space. “Do you know how many times a day a baby needs formula? D’you think McGonagall will let me take the baby to class?”

Sirius considers it. “McGonagall does let her cat into the lectures. Although,” he says, wrinkling his nose and holding the baby out to James, “she knows how to use a litter box.”

James wonders if it’s pathetic to google ‘How to change a nappy.’

Baby I’m Trying: The Sequel Pt. 2 - Jan 4, 2017

In three days, James has a paper documenting that the baby is one hundred percent, undeniably his. He hadn’t doubted that he was, but it’s something different to see it on paper. It makes the whole thing more real for him. He sets about telling the rest of his friends, and while they are as surprised as he is, they take it in stride and help him sort it out, as they’ve always done.

“What are you going to name him?” asks Remus.

“Wilberforce,” suggests Sirius, grinning.

James cracks a smile at that. “Maybe something unisex. Elvendork?”

“You’ll have no trouble calling out for him if you ever lose him,” says Peter fairly.

James laughs. The baby fusses a bit in his arms and he runs a hand over the dark mass of hair that is already on this boy’s head. “Could go with a family name,” James says thoughtfully.

“I’m going to take a moment to remind you that your father’s name was Fleamont,” says Remus.

He shakes his head. “My grandfather,” James says.

None of the boys know much about his grandfather, since he died while James was still in primary school, but Sirius lived with his parents for a time, and he knows James better than anyone else. So it is Sirius who asks, “Henry?”

“Harry,” corrects James. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but the baby stops squirming. “His name was Henry, but they called him Harry.”

“Harry Potter,” says Peter. “I like it.”

His son has a name. “Harry Potter,” James repeats quietly.

Ring Out - June 15, 2017

“Frank and Alice are engaged,” Sirius tells him as he slides a drink to James across the table.

James lifts the pint into the air. “Congratulations to them,” he says, and he means it. He knows many couples rushing to the altar these days, but Alice and Frank seem the best-suited for marriage of all of them. He takes a large swig of his firewhiskey.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. It takes no more than this movement for James to know what he will say next. Still, Sirius asks, “When are you going to ask her?”

“What, you reckon because everyone else we know is getting married, I ought to as well?” James asks, mirroring his friend's expression.

Sirius snorts. “No, I reckon that you're horrendously in love with Evans and want to ask her to be your wife.”

James takes another drink. “We're in the middle of a war, Padfoot.”

“Seems to be reason enough for everyone else,” Sirius counters, shrugging.

“Exactly," says James firmly. “I don't want Lily to marry me because she's afraid we're doing to die.”

Sirius pauses, reaching for his own firewhiskey. After a moment, he lowers his glass and shrugs once more. “We might.”

“We might not.” James retorts. He runs a hand through his hair. “I'd rather wait for her to be certain.”

“You're living together," Sirius says, and when James opens his mouth he shakes his head. “You say you live with me but you spend more time at Lily's than you do at ours.”

James chuckles. “So your concern is that we’re living in sin? Talk about glass houses, mate.”

#jily #james potter #lily evans #marauders #sirius black #fanfiction #these are just my favourite bits of thousands of words #to the rest of my drafts #a lovely viking funeral trip to valhalla #ayesha writes things #writing #exceprts #some of these may have been put up already idk #i am a packrat in all respects #long post #mine

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cantgetoutofmyheda · 5 years ago

Note

I love affair au but can you write a cute small town au. Best friends to lovers in the big city.

“Clarke, wake up,” Lexa shouted through the door leading to the blonde’s room, “I can’t find my neck pillow!”

“Ugh,” the blonde murmured from the nest of blankets she had burrowed herself into, “I’m sleeping, Lexa.”

The brunette took Clarke’s reply as a cue to open the door, “Have you seen it anywhere?”

“Lex!” Clarke huffed as she put a pillow over her head to block out the sound of her best friend’s voice.

Lexa pulled her lips into a smirk before plunging herself atop the blonde’s body, “Morning, Clarke.”

Clarke begrudgingly removed the pillow covering her face, “Why must you do this to me?”

Lexa stayed in her position, knowing Clarke wasn’t awake enough to have the strength to push her off, “Because it’s nearly 10am and there’s no reason for you to still be asleep. And because my flight is in two hours and can’t find my neck pillow and something tells me you’ve hidden it from me.”

“Well,” Clarke rubbed her sleepy eyes as she sat up, “maybe if you weren’t traveling so much, I wouldn’t have to start hiding things from you.”

Lexa rolled her eyes, “You hiding my things isn’t going to stop work from making me travel.”

“What if next time I hid your passport?” Clarke raised a brow.

Lexa snorted, “Then I’d tell you to have fun explaining that to Titus.”

It wasn’t that the blonde’s actions we’re just, but Lexa understood where she was coming from. After all, it had been Lexa’s idea that the pair moved from their small and quaint hometown to Polis. Lexa had a great job opportunity waiting and knew that Clarke would be able to still do her freelance graphic design work from wherever she pleased; she also knew a bigger city meant a better chance at getting more clients.

The thing is, Lexa and Clarke had been inseparable their entire lives. They grew up down the street from each other, they started daycare together, they went through middle school and high school together, they even roomed together in college. Unknowingly, they had become an extension of one another.

“It’s not fair,” Clarke let out, to which Lexa raised a questioning brow.

“What isn’t fair?”

At this point, Clarke was fully sitting up. Lexa had finally gotten off the top of her and was seated by her side. The blonde leaned her head on her best friend’s shoulder, “You made me move here with you, but you’re never actually here.”

“Clarke-”

Clarke shook her head as she cut the girl off, “No, it’s true. This was your idea and now it feels like I’m just stuck here while you’re off traveling the world. I only see you a few times a month now, Lex, and when I do, you’re running around the apartment like a crazy person, unpacking and repacking your suitcase for your next trip.”

Lexa closed her eyes in thought, “I know.”

“At this rate, we might as well get a one bedroom to save on rent since you’re never here,” Clarke let out.

“That’s not fair, Clarke.”

“It’s not fair that this was your idea and now I’m just stuck here.”

“After this trip, I don’t have to go anywhere for another three weeks,” Lexa offered, “Maybe I can take a few days off and we can go somewhere for a long weekend.”

Clarke shook her head, “The last time you said that, they put you on a last minute flight to London and we had to cancel our Airbnb. I’d rather not chance that again.”

Defeated, Lexa grounded her feet to the cold wooden floors to start her exit back to her own bedroom, “I’m sorry, Clarke. I’ll be better, I promise.”

“Lex,” Clarke called after the girl, “I’m proud of you. You worked so hard to get this job and I know all the travel is because you’re doing an amazing job. I just miss you. I miss you a lot.”

“Me too,” the brunette sighed as she leaned against the door frame.

Clarke clicked her tongue, “I hid it under the couch cushion. Have a safe trip, Lex.”

Lexa nodded as she gave the blonde a somber smile, “I’ll be home soon.”

Lexa looked down at her phone, her text to Clarke from the day prior saying she had landed safely was still unanswered.

“For someone who just sold in a solid plan, you don’t look so happy,” Lincoln said as he put their drinks down and reclaimed his seat at the table.

“Thanks, Linc,” she nodded her drink at her coworker before taking a sip, “I’m fine. Just some other things going on.”

The man nodded, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Clarke’s just annoyed with me because I’ve been gone so much, I don’t know what to do to make it better.”

“For two people who are just friends, you definitely have the problems of people that are in an actual relationship,” he laughed.

Lexa clenched her jaw as she stared at him.

“Sorry, not funny,” he conceded, “But did you ever stop to think about why she’s actually upset? Maybe she has feelings for you.”

“There’s no way,” Lexa rolled her eyes, “we’re best friends.”

Lincoln nodded, “Listen, I don’t want to meddle here, so I’m just going to give you my two cents and then we can move on, okay?” He waited for her to nod before he continued, “ Think about what’s most important to you and prioritize that. If it’s work, talk to Clarke to manage her expectations. If it’s Clarke’s feelings and your guys’ friendship, or whatever this is, all you have to do is tell Titus that the travel has been too much for you and that you need to cut it down a little so you can better balance your work and personal life. You just need to decide which one takes precedence.”

“Right,” Lexa sighed, “that’s the hard part.”

Lincoln raised a brow, “Choosing?”

“No,” she exhaled, “coming to terms with my choice.”

The man smiled, “I see.”

Lexa gulped the rest of her whiskey down and stared into the bottom of the glass, “I think I need another drink.”

---

It was a handy trick, she had to admit that. Taking a photo of her room number whenever she checked into a hotel had become an instinctual thing for Lexa. With the amount of traveling she did, and after confusing room numbers on her first few trips, it had become second nature to her.

She pulled out her phone in the elevator to double check that she was going to the correct floor when she realized she had a notification for an unread text.

The first thing that popped into her mind: Clarke.

The actuality of the situation: Titus.

He wrote to her asking if she could extend her trip by an additional day and instead of returning home after these string of meetings, fly direct to the Dallas office for three days.

“Fuck.”

The moment Lexa got into her room, she stripped down to ready herself for bed and took her phone back out. She drafted a response to Titus, edited it three times, and finally sent it. She toggled to her unanswered text to Clarke who she now had to write a message to: I’m sorry, I miss you and wish that I was home.

---

The flight back to Polis had Lexa in a bundle of nerves. It was comical that she had to travel as much as she did because she really did hate airplanes. She still hadn’t heard from Clarke. The cab ride to their apartment was no better, she was playing every possible scenario in her mind of how the conversation was going to go. She had zoned so far out that the cab driver had to call out to her three times that they had arrived at her destination.

It was noon on a Thursday, Clarke should be home—likely set up at the coffee table in the living room working on whatever project she had assigned to her this week. As she turned the key through the lock and slowly pushed the door open, in anticipation to meet eyes with the person that had been ignoring her, all she found was an empty apartment.

Lexa sighed as she looked around: no Clarke and no sign that Clarke had been working from the apartment that morning. She went straight to her room, leaving her suitcase in the corner—she would deal with that later. She found a pen and paper, wanting to write Clarke a note, when she realized her closet door was open. She walked over and saw that a few things had been moved, likely from her rushed packing job, closed it, and headed to the blonde’s room to drop the piece of paper off.

When she opened the door, she was caught off guard by the sight before her. Clarke seemed to still be asleep, but peeking out between her messy golden hair, sheets, and blankets, was Lexa’s childhood stuffed raccoon: a stuffed animal that had acted like a security blanket for the brunette throughout the years.

The scene in front of her tugged at her heart in a way she didn’t know was possible, a way she couldn’t even describe. She took one more look at Clarke before climbing next to her in bed and draping her arm around the blonde’s waist.

Clarke stirred and immediately turned around when she realized someone was laying next to her, “Lex?”

Lexa suddenly lost her words, “Hi.”

“You’re home? You weren’t supposed to come back until tomorrow,” the blonde pointed out.

Lexa sighed, “Actually, last night, Titus asked if I could stay until Saturday and then go directly to Dallas for a few days.”

Clare furrowed her brow, “But you’re home?”

“I am,” Lexa nodded, “I told him I had some things to take care of, Linc is covering the rest of the meetings for me and doing the Dallas trip.”

“Why?”

“You are the most important person in my life and I never wanted you to feel like I was abandoning you. I know it was my idea to come here and that I had to talk you into it,” Lexa sighed, “You were right with what you said before I left. It’s not fair that I did this to you. I needed to apologize to your face and it couldn’t wait until after Dallas.”

Clarke’s brow was still furrowed, “You cancelled two work trips to tell me all this, Lex?”

“I told you, it couldn’t wait. You weren’t talking to me, Clarke,” Lexa started, tears starting to well in her eyes, “We’ve never not talked before, you’ve never ignored me before. It made me realize some things.”

Clarke’s eyes met Lexa’s, “Like what?”

“That I missed you, that I never want you to feel that way again, that I love you.”

The blonde nodded, “I love you too, Lex-”

“No,” Lexa cut her off, “I don’t think you get it. I love you, Clarke. This fight? Realizing how I was making you feel? It brought perspective to things. I love you, I am in love with you.”

As Lexa made her proclamation, her eyes immediately darted away from Clarke’s, utterly afraid of how the blonde would take it.

In the silence of the moment, she felt arms snake around her side, pulling her closer towards the blonde and the stuffed raccoon.

“Me too,” Clarke whispered, “I’m in love with you, too.”

#clexa #clexa au #clexa modern au #clexa friends to lovers #clexa prompt #clexa one shot #clexa ficlet #clexa fic #friends to lovers #send me the asks #send me the headcanons #send me the prompts #modern au

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aka-willow · 5 years ago

Text

Darkness Goes

gif mine

Words: 1661

Characters: Willow Wren, Pingu, General Thaddeus Ross

Prompt/Tag: “There’s blood on your hands.” “So much for not getting involved.”

Summary: Willow and Pingu escape from the bank in D.C. and accidentally flex their powers to the public

Timeline: July 2015

Song: Paint It Black - Ciara

A/N: and i oop

—————————————————————————–

Pingu and I run back out of the vault and stopped right before the lobby while I carefully listened for our visitors. My heart was still pounding from our encounter with the Blue Lab reset machine and I was having a tough time holding on to myself. Everything around me seemed… separated… like I wasn’t really there. And the gallons of rootbeer and iced coffee I drank earlier in the day definitely wasn’t helping.

“What are you hearing?” Pingu asked.

“Cops,” I whispered, noting the walkie-talkie chatter. Red and blue lights bounced off the walls of the bank lobby. “Outside, actually. Lots of them.”

“Think this place was under surveillance?”

“Definitely.”

“What’s the plan?”

I peeked out from our hiding spot and try to get a better look outside. I couldn’t tell if we were surrounded, and even if I could fly, Pingu couldn’t. The worst part was, we were in D.C. Anything we pulled here would be 10x worse than, say, Utah. I tried to listen to the voices outside, get a handle on who exactly we were facing. No one was inside the bank yet.

“Okay, let’s—let’s just sit for a sec,” I said, trying to get a grip. “Think. They’re not inside yet.”

“If we use our powers here…” Pingu started. “…I don’t know. It wouldn’t be good.”

“We don’t have a lot of options,” I said.

The minutes crept by and my face became sticky with sweat. I turned and looked up at the upper corner of the lobby, where I saw a blinking red light. “Hey, Pingu,” I whispered. “I think they can see us. There’s a camera up there.”

“Can they hear us?”

“I don’t know.”

I opened my backpack, turning my face away from the camera and pulled out the face paint I always carried since my first fight, but this time, instead of the sunglasses, I had darker paint for the space around my eyes. Was it a raccoon look? Yes. Does it help? Absolutely. The white face paint was smeared on my cheeks and around my nose, aimed to throw off facial recognition technology. Pingu followed my lead and she tied a shirt around her face as a mask, leaving just enough space for her eyes. We made eye contact and her eyes smiled at me, even though now we were both in full panic mode.

“How many minutes has it been?” Pingu asked.

I checked my phone. “Fifteen. And they still haven’t done anything. Why?”

A loud voice suddenly cut through the chatter of the police outside, amplified by a speaker. “This is General Thaddeus Ross of the United States Military. Come out through the front door unarmed and with your palms out and hands above your head. We have artillery trained on this building and would advise against engaging.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Pingu said at full volume, and something clicked inside my head.

“That’s him,” I said. “Fanisimo told me. He was one of the people involved in the project when we were kids. Before HYDRA.” There was a new type of anger surging inside me and combined with my extreme fear, I wasn’t feeling so great. “Fuck this,” I said, standing up from our hiding spot.

“Heckergal—” Pingu said. “Don’t—”

“We need to get out of here,” I said. “Any means possible. I’m serious, Pingu. That’s—that’s the guy who ruined our lives. Fuck this, him trying to stop us from actually knowing our own pasts, it’s—”

Pingu shook her head, and her hands glowed red. “I want to go home.”

Already, the air in the bank started swirling around me, as I gathered wind from the drafts in the windows, from my own breath. “Let’s go, then.”

I felt out of my own body as we stepped through the bank doors, hands held above our heads, but the glow consuming our fingers, down to our wrists and up into our arms. I took another look at Pingu, and her irises burned red. When I looked back at the crowd outside, the police and military gathered in the street, all I could see was the General.

Outside, I gathered the wind between my fingers, pulling it into a shield around me and Pingu’s hands began to burn in a bright blaze.

“This is your last warning!” the voice called again, and we ignored it.

I stepped down from the bank steps and started walking towards the intersection, only focused on clearing a path so that Pingu and I could get away. I screamed and balled my hands into fists as windows shattered and a shockwave tore through the intersection. At this point, the police had started firing from behind their cars, and Pingu hurled streams of flame at the vehicles as I tossed them aside with a sharp gust of wind. More and more air surged around me, gathering around my body like a shield, and I opened up my wings to protect Pingu and I. When I looked down, my body was surrounded in a blue glow, a mass of wind and air swirling around me.

And the bullets. The bullets should have been hitting me, but they weren’t, instead just stopping at the air barrier. I stood with my arms out at let the police continue to fire—they couldn’t hurt me right now. For the first time in my life, I felt completely powerful, completely in control and in my own element, even as my mind seemed to take the backseat in this fight as if it was another Willow fighting for me.

Pingu and I stood back to back, each taking on a side of the intersection, pushing through the blockade. Even through our efforts, the military was closing in and Pingu and I were forced into close-quarters combat, trying to compensate for our low body mass with all the power we had behind it. Thaddeus Ross had stepped out of his SUV, yelling commands into a comm, and I got an idea.

“The SUVs,” I yelled at Pingu. “Are there any that we haven’t destroyed yet?”

“Just the one that guy was in,” she yelled back.

At the same time, we threw out one more burst of fire and wind and sprinted for the leftover car, the police and military in close pursuit. The General moved to block us from the SUV, but with one more powered punch, he was on the ground and Pingu had hopped into the driver’s seat, with me jumping into the back.

“Drive, drive, drive,” I screamed.

“I don’t know how!” Pingu exclaimed.

“Just step on the gas!”

The car lurched forward and within seconds, we were swerving through the streets of Washington D.C., mutants on the run and with a vengeance. I heard a helicopter in the distance.

“We have to leave the car,” I said. “As soon as we’re out of sight, escape on foot. That’s our only chance of getting out of this.”

“God, we’re so fucked,” Pingu said again, jerking the car left and causing the tires to squeal. “Is anyone behind us?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I think we need to go now.”

Pingu turned into a parking garage and we climbed out as I searched the area for cameras. None. Pingu pulled her mask down and we ran back to the entrance, smack into a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

“What the…” Pingu started and just then, someone yelled at us.

“Come on, let’s go! Time to get on the bus, folks.”

I looked at the bus parked next to the curb and saw other teens getting on, some in partial costumes and stage make up. A tired-looking teacher stood at the door, ushering people on. I looked at the building behind us and saw that we were standing in front of the backstage theater door. Theater kids.

Wordlessly, Pingu and I climbed onto the bus and walked to the back, keeping our heads down until we sat. The bus filled and pulled away from the curb. “Where are we going?” Pingu whispered.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just play along.”

We drove for a few miles, the other teenagers on the bus screaming about the production they had just finished. Among everyone else in costume, Pingu and I fit right in.

Finally, I saw a Denny’s up ahead, and everyone cheered as the bus turned into the parking lot. Well, this is a turn of events. When we get off, Pingu and I went straight for the bathroom before anyone could really get a good look at us.

Under the bathroom sink, Pingu and I hurriedly washed off the face paint and ash from our faces before stripping out of the clothes we had been wearing, stuffing them into our backpacks, and changing into clean clothes.

“There’s blood on your hands,” Pingu said quietly as we changed.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll see it on the news tomorrow.”

“No, I mean literally,” said Pingu. “Make sure you wash that off.”

We spot-checked in the bathroom mirror and when we were sure we looked like any other disheveled teenagers, we stepped back out. The others hardly noticed us as we sat down at a booth and the table next to us hyped up their friend to sing a song from the show.

From inside the restaurant, we saw police cars zip on by and the helicopter continued to circle. Finally, the door opened, and two policemen walked into the Denny’s, saw the kids doing a reenactment of Time Warp in the middle of the restaurant, and immediately walked back out, merely glancing over us.

I breathed a sigh of relief and shook my head. “So much for not getting involved.” I leaned back into the booth, completely exhausted and on the verge of falling asleep. I had never used my powers like that before, and I didn’t realize how draining it would be. “Yeah, I’m ready to go home now.”

#ww writing #willow wren #pingu #thaddeus ross

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bs-dogs · 5 years ago

Text

Reason Living

Summary

Nakahara Chuuya. Bold. Confident. Dramatic, with just the right amount of flare.

Behind the mask, there’s little Chuuya can do to keep the tremors, the lassitude— the void that threatens to consume his entire being— at bay.

And then suddenly he’s switching bodies and falling for a stranger who has dead eyes, a familiar face and a name that tastes like hope and regret on his tongue. There’s a shift in Chuuya’s chest that feels like it should’ve been there all this time, and breathing comes easily to him now.

So what do you think would happen if Chuuya stopped switching bodies? Find out why, of course!

(or the Kimi no Na Wa AU nobody asked for, but here it is. Complete with idiots!Skk pining for each other, fluff, angst, time travel and 2 people trying to find their place in this world.)

CH 1

As Melos lay with arms and legs flung out on the ground, sleep began to overcome him. But then, suddenly, a murmuring sound reached his ears. Raising his head slightly, he held his breath and listened. The sound came to somewhere nearby. Rising falteringly to his—

A knock on the door interrupts Chuuya’s stream of thought, cutting off the vivid imagery that was building up inside his mind. He jumps slightly at the sound, not even noticing how his hand is tired after gripping the pen too tightly, and that the playlist he had the mind to play before working has already stopped. Now, he sits disgruntled on his swivel chair, alone and surrounded by silence with a short manuscript in front of him.

Whiplash. That’s the word to describe what he’s feeling right now. There’s a sense of nausea after being pulled back with enough force to startle him, and then there’s the familiar feeling of apprehension that quickly reestablishes itself into the groves of his weary body.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to anchor his mind back to the real world. Reaching out, he grabs the small Sheep plushy besides his pen holder, grounding himself with the texture. It works, and he sets it down before looking out of the window. It’s dark out, something that doesn’t really shock him since he has the tendency to forget the passage of time whenever he’s focused on something.

Shooting a glance at the clock to his right, the hands point to ‘7:48’. He isn’t given the chance to think about who might be visiting him, of all people, this late into the evening for another knock makes itself known this time with a little bit more force behind it.

“Yes, wait up,” Chuuya says, voice lighter than he feels, and stands tiredly after pushing himself away from his desk. His feet gently pad across the room to reach his front door, not even bothering to look through the peephole to check who it is. Pausing before opening the door, Chuuya takes a couple of breaths to mentally ready and compose himself before opening the door.

‘It’s showtime.’

With his best smile in place, Chuuya greets the visitor, a close friend of his— really, his only friend at this point.

Opening the door wider, it takes a moment for Chuuya to get over his initial shock, “Poe! What brings you here?” He asks and gestures for the shy man to enter. The man ducks slightly under the doorframe, his impossibly tall build making it difficult for him to enter— his hand protecting the raccoon on his shoulder, Karl, from knocking into the frame. Being a smaller person than the foreigner, Chuuya can’t help but be a tad jealous of the man’s height. It’s an ugly feeling which he tries his best to dismiss.

“Oh, I just thought to check on you and stuff…” His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off at the end as if unsure.

They sit down on Chuuya’s couch, one of the few things of luxury in his apartment, and let a moment pass in silent as Karl titters downward and on his guest’s lap. Once Poe has situated the two of them comfortably, the man takes note of the singular light source and the disheveled desk before opening his mouth, “Did you get too engrossed in your work again that you forgot, Chuuya?” He asks in his soft voice, aware of how much of a workaholic Chuuya is.

All the man in question can do is laugh awkwardly, swiftly flicking the lights on, “Well, you know me…” Chuuya is a little bit blinded by the sudden brightness and laughs lightly to try and mask it, “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” He offers, already halfway to his small kitchen when Poe politely refuses, “No, I’m good. I already ate something.”

“Oh, okay then.” He sits down again, his brain scrambling to think about why Poe would visit him so late.

‘He already passed me his draft, and we had lunch the other day so…’

As if hearing his thoughts, Poe heaves a sigh and chuckles, “We were supposed to meet by the café, remember?” The brunet chuckles, “I invited you…”

Then it suddenly clicks for Chuuya and his chest tightens, “Oh!” He exclaims “The date with the cute guy! I’m so sorry I forgot.” He looks down, voice taking an apologetic tone, “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine. It looks like you have a lot of work to do, so I understand.” Poe kindly says, pausing his petting of Karl to pat Chuuya’s shoulder in reassurance before retreating to Karl’s fur once more. The smaller man smiles at his effort, appreciative especially since he knows of the author’s shyness and aversion to physical contact, “So, how’d it go?”

Poe’s face reddens at an alarming rate, sputtering as Chuuya leans forward and teasingly grins at him, “It was, uh, nice. We just talked and ate and…”

“And?”

It doesn’t take long before he caves in, “We agreed to meet again next week,” He pauses, biting his lips, but it’s obvious to Chuuya that he’s happy with the way the corners of his lips lift up, “Ah… And he… I think he flirted with me?”

“Hot damn, our precious boy bags himself a second date!” Chuuya laughs. At the sudden loud sound, Karl skittishly stands up in alertness before trying to sleep again. The next time Chuuya talks, it’s comparably quieter, “It’s a good thing I didn’t third-wheel, eh?”

“You wouldn’t be bothering us though, he likes debates.”

“Are you saying I like to argue?” Chuuya can’t help but tease, drawing in his eyebrows and pretending to frown. Poe doesn’t buy it though, choosing to simply smile at him, “Chuuya! I could never!”

They both share a laugh, a nice ambience settling around them. Talking to Poe really calms him down. It really is nice to have a friend or two, Chuuya supposes. He grew up as a very quiet child, rarely letting anyone in— his cold and closed off demeanor only intensifying after that incident a few years back. Over time, he did shake off the hard exterior and began to try the whole “friendship” thing again. Chuuya ponders that it paid off quite well, if his nice chat with Poe is anything to go by.

They met each other almost a year ago, when the man was looking for a new editor for his novel after his previous one, Lovecraft, suddenly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Luckily for him, Chuuya saw his online ad and the rest is history. The writer is quite skilled, his works mostly science fiction and mystery, and Chuuya admires his passion for literature and writing.

“It’s one of his works, isn’t it?” Poe’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence between them, eyes resting on the manuscript on Chuuya’s desk, “The one you’re working on right now?”

Speaking of skilled authors…

“Yeah,” He starts, “The style, the aura, the feel…” Chuuya struggles to find the correct word to explain how he just knows that it’s his work— the mysterious author Chuuya’s been handling for all of 4 months now. He uses different pseudonyms, affirmed by his boss when he once thought to ask, but the distinctive tone and presence of his writing stays the same. Something about the way the author uses word and symbolism is striking, almost alluring, and the literature-geek inside him just melts every time Mori hands him another manuscript.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t even really need to proofread anything; the grammar is absolutely impeccable, so he spends his time just absorbing the story, Chuuya doesn’t understand why his boss still sends them to him if everything is flawless already, but he’s not really one to complain.

“Well, what name is he using right now? What’s the manuscript about?” His guest’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Kuroki Shunpei. It’s a retelling of one of Schiller’s, about friendship and trials.” He starts, “It’s amazingly short, the shortest I’ve ever handled of our mystery person— but I’m sure it’s him.” There’s conviction in his tone, certainty clear in his eyes. Maybe it’s only a gut feeling, but Chuuya’s instinct and intuition have never failed him before.

Poe hums, “That’s new. Isn’t he more of a darkly personal introspection kind of person? Maybe it was, um, written experimentally?”

“Maybe,” Chuuya considers this, “But I haven’t really finished reading yet. I was actually hoping on doing everything today since it’s not as long.”

“So that’s why you were so invested, you were pining away at your mystery guy.” Poe says, tone flat and eyes twinkling. Chuuya thinks he sees smugness in there somewhere.

“Pining? I was just reading, you moron.” To which Poe replies, “Oh, I know you. If anyone had to court you, they’d make sure to send you disgustingly purple prose because of your disease.”

“Say that one more time, I dare you.” Chuuya says, trying to exact the respect he deserved because he is the host here, damn it!

Poe just languidly stares at him, “Chuu-nii, think about it. Maybe he’s your, uh, soulmate or something? Why would Mori even give you the manuscripts if they’re already perfect as is? Maybe there’s a hidden message or a code…”

“First of all, you are older than me, and I don’t have some stupid high schooler disease. Second, there are no hidden messages. And what if he’s an old guy?” Chuuya almost shrieks at Poe, words starting to jumble together the faster he speaks, “And, you know, you’re a mystery writer, not a romance writer for fuck’s sake!”

“So, you checked for secret messages, huh?” Poe raises an eyebrow questioningly, his amusement radiating off him in waves. Chuuya ratters on, sharp sounds and indignant noises as he tries to save himself from the slip-up, “That’s not it at all! I was just— How— What?” His brain short circuits, regretting all of his past choices that’s led to this bout of teasing.

Karl skitters off of Poe’s lap and onto the floor before being scooped back up again, this time being settled against Poe’s chest, “Relax,” He says, lips twisting up, “I was joking anyway. But I do hope we find out who it is.”

‘We’, Chuuya thinks. It’s the first time someone he’s only known for so long used that word in conjunction with him, and it’s a nice feeling— like someone is on your side for once. He warms at the thought and inwardly promises to himself to make it up to the man.

“Yeah, I do too.”

He closes the door behind him, slowly making his way to the kitchen and grabbing himself a glass of water. The cool liquid is a welcome feeling as it slides down his parched throat, drinking greedily after talking for a long while. He glances at the clock again, idly wondering how he survived interacting with a human for 2 hours straight. Chuuya sets the now empty glass on the counter with a loud clunk, the harsh sound cutting through the heavy air like a butter knife, and contemplates whether he’s hungry enough to want to eat. It takes him a few minutes before ultimately deciding that no, he’d rather sleep because talking really does take a lot more energy out of him than most people. Besides, it’s not really the first time he’s skipping so he’s quite sure that his stomach wouldn’t protest that much after all this time.

Sighing, he closes the lights and feels the tension from his shoulder lift slightly. The cover the shadows provide him is a much needed comfort— Chuuya’s always preferred the dark over brightly lit rooms. There’s something about people not seeing him and feeling invisible enough to let the cracks through that makes him feel more human than when he stands under the spotlight. Or maybe because it’s the familiarity of having your environment match how you feel that puts his mind at ease? Whatever it is, all Chuuya knows is that he feels safer now.

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to acclimate to the dark; his body already accustomed to the way his apartment is laid out to the point where he could live comfortably even with his eyes closed. He doesn’t trip over wires or stray papers or the books haphazardly strewn about, doesn’t bump into the corners of his desk and bookcase as he goes into his room. Chuuya hasn’t cleaned in a while because of work, but even then he still knows where everything should be in the organized chaos.

He doesn’t change clothes since he didn’t really go out earlier today, and barely goes through his nighttime skincare routine. Chuuya doesn’t really see the point of taking care of himself if no one is going to see him on a daily basis anyway, but he was brought up to at least maintain his cleanliness and appearance.

His adoptive mother— Kouyou, or Ane-san as he likes to call her— beat the need to look presentable into him the moment he stepped foot in her teahouse. And even after years of moving out, he still can’t shake the need to stay clean and hygienic as much as possible. He supposes that he should thank her for that, since he would be akin to a hobo by now if she didn’t raise him to be so prim and proper.

He pats his face dry and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes trail after the dark bags and tired expression and thinks he looks miserable. He does feel miserable, so he gives himself that, and proceeds to brush his hair. The split ends are troublesome, but he makes it through with only a few red strands sticking to the brush before his arm tires and the giant need to just lay down and rest consumes him. Sluggishly, he drags himself to bed and just stares at the ceiling.

Despite the fatigue that uncomfortably settles in his body, he can’t sleep— and Chuuya’s just so tired of everything but of course he can’t sleep. He thinks about what’s wrong, as if he can list down all the things that’s wrong with him before the sun rises up in a few hours, before he finally gets up and turns the fan on. The sound of the machine whirring does little to calm him down, but it’s better than wallowing in silence. He never could sleep in the quiet, the static blaring in his ears somehow louder than the occasional loud shouts coming from the unit next to him, so he does his best to get comfortable. Chuuya readies himself for another night of terrors, already anticipating the way smoke clogs up his nose and the way heat tickles his skin.

He hopes the empty feeling that continues to persist inside is gone the next day before he surrenders himself to unconsciousness.

The next time he meets Poe again, it’s in their favourite café. It’s two days after they last saw each other, but Chuuya can’t really remember what happened yesterday. Maybe he got drunk. Remembering how tired he felt the other day, he wouldn’t put it past himself to try and drown himself with wine. The fact that he woke up with an unsettling feeling in his stomach just cements his theory. Must be a weird hangover.

Poe is waiting for him at their corner, a milkshake already in front of him, “Chuuya! Are you really sure you’re okay enough to go out? We could always reschedule.” The concern is palpable in the man’s tone, his soft voice hurried and fretful.

Chuuya thinks it’s because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

“I’m fine,” he says, “And I wanted to make it up to you anyway.”

“For what?” Poe asks, hands stilling from scratching behind Karl’s ears, his head tilting slightly in question.

After sneaking a glance at the counter and noting that the line is, in fact, longer than usual, he answers, “For ditching you the other day?” Maybe Chuuya should wait until the queue is shorter?

“But you already did?”

This makes Chuuya halt, confusion tearing its way through his mouth, “What?”. The question slips from his tongue, his mind automatically forcing himself to Think, damn it! What did you do yesterday?

Poe stares at him, trying to find a hint of whatever it is he’s looking for before carefully responding, “You did— yesterday, remember?” He says, “You suddenly called me and we ate in your apartment and talked about your mystery author.”

It takes a few minutes for Chuuya to recover from his brain short-circuiting. Distantly, he notices how his breath is getting a little bit labored and shallow and how he’s shaking. He doesn’t feel like himself right now— doesn’t feel like it’s his body and feels more like an outsider privy to his thoughts.

“Oh… Maybe I got too drunk to remember.” He tries to laugh it off, sounding like he’s convincing himself rather than Poe, “I don’t really remember much. Did I do anything stupid?”

The man takes another sip from his milkshake, already halfway through and it reminds Chuuya that he still needs to order, “You did say a lot of, uh, dark things…”

Warning bells sound through his mind.

“Like, you know— Chuuya, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know how it feels like and I care about you, okay?” Poe continues to worry, eyes strong and vulnerable. His hands fidget, like he wants to reach out and touch Chuuya and reassure that he’s okay, “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything…”

Chuuya now knows it’s not because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

Thoughts of hot chocolates and banana bread fly out of his mind. Faintly, he feels the back of his eyes warm and thinks that there’s a slight possibility that he might cry. He takes a deep breath in, counts from ten just like his therapist told him and tries to relax. It’s hard— harder than usual, like he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the ground and right now he feels like he doesn’t want to breathe anymore.

He tries anyway.

“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “ I— Fuck…” The words are like broken glass, slicing at his lips the moment they try to break free from his mouths and it stings, “I’m not…”

Chuuya came here today with a slight bounce in his steps because he missed feeling okay when talking with Poe, so he surely didn’t expect to be talking about this. It’s like a slap to the face— like a cold bucket of water being dumped on him because he sure as hell wasn’t ready for his only friend to learn about this.

It’s like a breach of privacy. He was trying so hard to seem fine and okay— he should be fine and okay, damn it— so the fact that Poe thinks he’s not is throwing Chuuya off right now. In retrospect, it was a bit outlandish to think he could take this dirty, dark little secret with him to grave. Soon, preferably. But now the cat’s out of the bag, and he really wishes he didn’t wake up today.

How funny and coincidental is it that someone probably borrowed his body for a day and they’re just as, if not more so, miserable as Chuuya? Because if it were Chuuya, he’d keep up the façade as the workaholic, the outgoing and headstrong and stubborn person until the day he finally died. But he wasn’t Chuuya. He wasn’t Chuuya yesterday, and he slipped and now the first friend he’s had the pleasure to have in years knows how ugly and pitiful he is.

Something warm presses against his shoulder and he looks and sees Poe looking at him with his arm outstretched. There’s no pity, no disgust, just resolve and worry and a promise.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Oh fuck, Poe is going to realize that meeting Chuuya was a mistake sooner or later. He’s going to finally figure out that Chuuya isn’t really who Poe thinks he is and that he’s a fake. Oh fu—

“It’s okay to not be fine.”

Chuuya tries to remember if anyone ever told him that. He’s not sure.

The man— Poe, his name is Poe— stares at him worriedly. It finally occurs to him, in order, that:

a.) He probably shouldn’t have said that.

b.) He’s not himself right now.

“Chuuya, are you okay?”

c.) He definitely shouldn’t have said that.

He laughs it off, waving his hands. The lower-pitched tone scratches against his voice box and he feels like a stranger and an intruder and that he shouldn’t be here. He feels like this is a fever dream, like something from a movie or a novel. He thinks, ‘If this is a fever dream then why couldn’t I have just dreamed about Odasaku?’ and promptly shuts that thought down because does he really want to wake up crying and shaking inconsolably again?

He smiles, “I’m fine.”

Hi everyone! I’m vvv late but here’s my work for the bigbang! I’ll be queueing my work over the next few hours. Thanks for reading and see y’all in the next one!

Links will be provided at the last post, thanks!

#skkbigbang2019 #soukokubigbang2019 #bungou stray dogs #nakahara chuuya #osamu dazai #adelie writes stuff

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moonraccoon-exe · 6 years ago

Note

Hopefully tumblr doesnt eat this p.1 again! Its been so long since Ive dropped by and said hello to one of my favorite people so hello Coon! I feel like Ive been so busy I dont have time to drop bye and say hello these days How are you? Are you doing well? I hope you are bc you deserve so much happiness. I also wanted to do a status update on the fact that Im now writing again! I took a longer break than I thought I would but hey Im now more motivated than ever so I guess it all worked out ^^

I AM

A HORRIBLE, ULTIMATELY TERRIBLE RACCOON.

JAZ.

IT’S BEEN SO LONG SINCE YOU LAST DROPPED THIS IN MY INBOX AND I’M JUST REPLYING NOW.

AND YOU WANNA KNOW WHY? IT’S NOT EVEN THAT I DIDN’T HAVE TIME.

I JUST. I PUT THIS IN MY DRAFTS SO THAT THE SECOND ASK, THE BIT IN THE IMAGE, WOULD BE SAFE EVEN IF DELETED FROM THE COMPUTER (LIKE IT HAPPENED TO MY OTHER ASKS)

AND SINCE THEN I DIDN’T BOTHER GOING TO MY DRAFTS.

AND I FORGOT THIS WAS HERE.

JAZ.

JAZ OMG

JAZ PLEASE HIT ME WITH A NEWSPAPER I’M A HORRIBLE CREATURE HOW IN THE W O R L D COULD I FORGET TO REPLY TO YOU!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

*PUNCHES THROUGH THE WALL*

*SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKK*

*EXPLODES*

ALKSJDALKFJGADLKGJAGLKAGJAD

Okay you let me add a keep reading right here aaah ;A;

Oh my god, Jaz….Jaz I’m so sorry, I don’t even know where to start apologizing, I’m so sorry. I honestly forgot and that’s the worst part. If I had been busy for real I would have had an excuse at least, but the truth was just that; I put this in my drafts and then forgot it was there. I rarely check my drafts because that’s where I put stuff that I want to reblog at some point but don’t know when because it’s not FFXV related so I just wait until I’m done with the XV reblogs but I never am, and I just assumed everything in drafts was stuff to reblog, I totally forgot there was an ask here that I hadn’t replied to and that it was yours, I’m so sorry, so, so, so sorry, Jaz… :(

I don’t offer an excuse and if you’re upset you have all the rights to be, I understand. Jesus, it’s been a while since Ir eplied this and I mean, there are asks in my inbox that are like a year old but those are prompts or requests and it��s fine, but yours was a personal and it’s been so long for me to answer to it aklsdjalkgjadklgja omg Jaz I’m so sorry….

I’m sorry, Jaz, very sincerely. Zomg…I’m sorry OTL

Well. Still answering ahah ;w;

HEWWO JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Akjdlsafdgalkfjaklhj hhhnnnngnggg. HEWWO JAZ!!! ;w; I’m sorry OTL

Don’t worry about being busy. Real life is already super busy as it is and then we get here and it can get sort of ‘busy’ in its own non-serious way too! I hope that whatever’s been keeping you /kept you busy has given you a break from time to time and that it’s something you enjoy.

I’m doing well! A little ‘busy’ in the non-serious way trying to nail down all my PMs and asks (I’ve lately had a quite excited anon flooding me ahahahah! It’s lovely but keeps me super busy because each I answer gets drowned by another incoming 5 ;w;) and the reblogs and the fics. I’m having funa nd take my breaks to make it enjoyable and not turn it into something I dislike, but hence it goes slower. And out of Tumblr I’m doing okay too!

How have you been, dear Jaz? Besides WAITING FOR MY ASK OTLHave yuo been alright? And happy? I wonder what else you’ve been up to since you last wrote to me!! Hoping sincerely that it’s been okay with you too because you too deserve SO MUCH HAPPINES LIKE LOADS OF IT!!!!!!! You’re such a nice and good person that does no harm to others, you deserve all em happy things and events. U HAVE ALL IT GOOD KARMA, MY FRIEND!!!

GASPS

YOU’VE BEEN WRITING AGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! JAZ, THAT’S PHENOMENAL! THAT’S ABOSLUTELY WONDERFUL, AMAZING, BEAUTIFUL NEWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, JAZ, I’M SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SOOOOOOOOOOO HAPPY FOR YOU AND ABOUT IT, I’M SO HAPPY AND SO PROUD TO KNOW THAT YOU’VE TAKEN UP ON SOMETHING SO BEAUTIFUL LIKE WRITING, AND MORE THAN TAKING UP, RETAKING BECAUSE IT MEANS YOU USED TO ENJOY IT, LEFT IT FOR SOME REASON, AND YOU RETOOK IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ

*SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM*

*EXPLODES*

Jaz, that’s WONDERFUL NEWS!!!! Omg buddy that’s fantastic, you have no idea how happy it makes me when someone says they’ve taken up/retaking a form of art. It’s so beautiful and so exciting, and you’re a friend so that adds a lot to the hype!! Jaz, that’s AMAZING! CONGRATS, BUDDY, I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!! ( ˙꒳˙ )

It’s okay that you took a longer break than you had first expected. Be it because you were busy or just lacking the motivation, it’s okay! What matters is that you went back to it and you must have felt so refreshed and welcomed back. The warmest welcoming is the one given after a long wait (but thankfully it wasn’t THAT long either!!). Plus, you took all the time that you needed to get back to it so it means you’re not forcing a single bit of it and that’s PHENOMENAL!!

I’m so happy to know that you’re motivated now, Jaz, all of this is honestly SO GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY :’3 AKLSJDLAKDGJADLKGJAGLKAJGA AAAAAAAHHHHHH, I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!

I guess the first time you sent the first part you were telling me what you were writing, so I don’t know for sure what you meant with hoping that one day I can read ‘it’, but I’d love to! I’m very slow at reading things because of the massive updates I do to my fics, but I think that I’d love to. Is it XV related? Original content? I’d get lost if it’s from something that I don’t know, but I can still try if you want me to

Aaah, thank you for asking about the laptop! Lamentably I’m nowhere close to getting a new one. They’re pretty expensive. I’m fine with one of the cheapest because all I want is basic internet access and MS Word lmao, but they’re still quite a price number and I have no job >

I thought about using the money that I’ve saved up from my kofis, but…to be honest, I’m being consciously selfish there, because I don’t want to waste my kofi money in ¼ of the price of the laptop… ;n; I want the kofi money to be mine for games or books, it’s money I’ve earned from doing what I love and I wanted it to go to selfish things, but I’m still debating with myself as to maybe having to put it for the laptop ahaha ;w;

Again, don’t feel bad for being busy!! Real life stuff is more important, and Tumblr isn’t going anywhere (not without a long time warning that we’ve never had, thankfully!), so don’t you stress. I for sure am going nowhere, so you take the time that you need and want :3

And don’t say you’re ‘not keeping me for longer’, because it’s not like you’re taking my time by force, dear Jaz!! You texting to me is a kind gift to me so you’re not taking any time off me, you’re taking YOUR time!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, JAZ, I’VE MISSED YOU TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

*sQUEEZES U*

Sweet precious wonderful dear Jaz, thank you soooooooooooooooo LIKE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SO SO SO SOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH FOR DROPPING BY TO SAY HELLO AND SHARE ALL OF THIS WITH ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh, I don’t even know where to start, I’m sorry for taking so long, and thank you immensely for dropping by, my friend!! ;A;

Thank you for the time you dedicated to writing to me and the one to read me. It sounds like you’ve been very busy and I really appreciate that you’ve taken some time to write to me, you have no idea :’(

Thank you for updating me on what you’ve been up to, and thank you for sharing with me that you’ve retaken your writing!! Those news made me so happy, and re reading still makes me feel shivers out of the joy askldjfdaklgjaklgjadglkj

Thank you for being as kind and as gentle as you always are with me. You’re so precious and I hope you know that. You’re always so nice and patient and so good with me, I don’t know how to express it enough or how to let you know or how to thank you properly :’3 Thank you so much for being the sweet and warm creature that you are, Jaz. You’re truly phenomenal and I’m very happy that you exist. The world can very easily wear me out, and it’s creatures like you that relieve it off my shoulders. Thank you

I’ve missed you SO MUCH TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Every time I re fave both your artworks I think about you and I was wondering what you were doing and if you were okay. And there I was, forgetting that it was me who never replied... :’D Really, seriously, I’m so sorry, Jaz, I didn’t mean to take this long... OTL

I hope that you’ve been okay, Jaz! Have you been okay and doing better? How’s the writing going? I’m eager to hear about you again, buddy!! :3

I WUV U TOO, JAAAAAAAAAAZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALKSDJAKLGDJDAKLGJDAGLKDAJ AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH, LOTS OF HUGS FOR MAH BUDDY JAZ!! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ

Dear Jaz, I hope you’re having a FANTASTIC weekend, and do receive lots of raccoonie hugs and sparkles!! HUGZ

#sashinia2000 #coonreplies

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icanhearyouglaring · 7 years ago

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you, me, and the sun

a long overdue companion piece to when i’m with you i have fun

summary: Let the sun peek through the cracks in the blinds and wake him up every single day for the rest of time, so long as this is what he gets to wake up to. [more cuddles, Wally/Artemis, Wally POV] a/n: cleaning out my drafts is going great! (she says 10 months after starting this)

Wally loves their apartment. He really does. The neighbors are quiet, there are no plumbing issues, the dog is welcome, the pure amount of space they have for what they’re paying is amazing, and the best part is: it’s theirs.

Still, there are a few things he’d change about it.

He wouldn’t mind having a garbage disposal in the kitchen sink. It makes no sense to him why their landlord, Janice, would renovate the kitchen and not add one. The little window in the shower is just high enough for him to peek out of it, and every time he does look, he feels exposed. Artemis makes fun of him for it. She wouldn’t find it so amusing if she was the one making awkward shower-eye-contact with every passersby who happen to look up at the exact moment she looked down. Janice could definitely��stop dropping by at random hours asking if everything is alright. They’re fine, thanks. They’re always fine.

So, yeah, there are lots of little quirks yet to be unquirked. They’re figuring it out.

But in these kinds of moments –the ones where the morning sunlight streams straight into Wally’s eyes through the cracks in the old blinds, waking him up far earlier than he’d like, only for him to be greeted by the sight of Artemis sleeping beside him– he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t change a thing. Not the sink, not the window, not Janice (okay, no, the Janice problem needs to stay on the to-fix list).

Let the sun peek through the cracks in the blinds and wake him up every single day for the rest of time, so long as this is what he gets to wake up to.

Artemis is usually halfway through her morning cup of coffee by the time Wally stumbles out of bed, but this morning he gets to revel in the quiet comfort that is having her arm strewn over him while she snores with her face half-buried in her pillow. It’s a gift, really, to see her so relaxed and unburdened. He’d take a picture if he could move without waking her up, but he can’t, so he settles for trying to brand the image into his mind.

It’s taken them a long time to get here. Sometimes he forgets that and he probably shouldn’t. Forgetting is a gateway to not appreciating, and he’d never want to think that this wasn’t the product of every high and low they’d ever gone through together. So he’ll get better at remembering the little moments.

He’s only halfway through embedding the sight in his head when she opens her eyes.

“Hey,” Artemis whispers.

“You were awake,” Wally says, and he sounds more surprised than he actually is. Should’ve known.

“I was,” she says, closing her eyes as she continues to whisper. “I woke up awhile ago.”

Artemis turns around, pulls the comforter up over her shoulders, and scoots back until she’s flush against him. Wally turns and puts his arm over hers, lacing their fingers together comfortably.

“It’s still too early for you,” she notes, as she guides his hand to rest closer to her chin. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t,” he says, and it’s true. There’s no going back to sleep now. “What were you doing while you were faking it?”

Artemis yawns through her answer. “Thinking of reasons why you’d be watching me sleep.”

“Oh,” Wally says, interested, “and what reasons were those?”

“Mmm, the usual ones,” she starts. “My hair looks like it has a mind of its own, or maybe I forgot to take my mascara off last night and now I look like a raccoon. Or maybe you’re feeling extra sappy this morning. The reasons don’t matter. What I couldn’t figure out was why you were awake so early.”

“Sun in my eyes.”

“Oh?” Artemis extracts herself from his hold, peers over at the window, and narrows her eyes at the cracked blinds on his behalf, “I’ll fix that.”

She starts to drag herself out of bed, but Wally pulls her back.

“It’s alright,” Wally says, returning them both to their original position, “Stay.”

Artemis chuckles. “Ah, so you are feeling extra sappy this morning.”

“Deal with it,” Wally says, holding her tighter.

She laughs and pretends to try and wiggle out of his hold, but only succeeds in bringing them both lower on the bed. It’s all fun and games until she places her freezing feet against his shins.

“Not cool,” Wally whines, wincing away.

“I’m cold,” Artemis says, pushing her feet further back to find solace against his warm legs.

“Keep your socks on for once?” Wally suggests, deftly avoiding her feet by using one leg to move the bed covers between their legs.

“Absolutely not,” Artemis scoffs, trying to force her feet through the blanket-wall. “Stay still. I’m cold. Not everyone is blessed with the power to be a human space heater.”

Wally pauses before he begins leaning over her.

“How cold are you?” He asks, unable to keep the smile on his face out of his question.

Artemis locks eyes with him as she turns to lie back flat on the bed. “Oh, do not–”

“How cold are you?” Wally repeats. He places one hand on each side of her pillow and props himself up above her.

Artemis places her hands on his chest in warning. “You will not–”

“Still cold?” Wally asks, descending upon her with his full weight, trapping her arms between them.

“No,” Artemis laughs, trying to get out from underneath him to no avail, “you’re crushing me.”

“Better to be crushed than cold, says I, the human space heater.”

“Dork.”

Their combined laughter draws the attention of the only other occupant of the apartment and they only get a moment’s notice (the tell tale sound of claws tapping against wooden floors) before the slightly-ajar bedroom door gets thrown open by their needy, lovable dog-child.

Wally, still snickering, props himself up, makes sure Brucely isn’t about to jump on the bed, looks down at Artemis, and immediately takes back what he said earlier.

This is what he wants to have etched into his memory. Her face full of mirth, her hair spread in every direction, an open-mouthed smile, and her eyes, filled with a million things only she can say with a look, fixed on him. Maybe he can hang onto both moments.

“Wait-wait, come back here,” Artemis laughs breathily, coming down from the high. “I’m cold again.”

She reaches up and holds Wally’s face in her hands.

“Come back here,” Artemis repeats lowly, and Wally obliges by letting her guide him all the way down into a slow kiss.

Brucely, having no patience for such things and a pathological desire for attention, protests by barking loudly and knocking his head against side of the bed.

Wally groans into the kiss before he pulls away.

“What a character,” Wally says, rolling over to lie between Artemis and the edge of the bed where Brucely whines.

Wally sticks one hand behind him and the dog places his head in prime petting space. “He’ll sleep all day, unless he thinks we’re having too much fun. Then he’s wide awake.”

“We should get up. He needs to go out,” Artemis says, turning to place her palm against Wally’s cheek, “and you need to shave.”

“Yeah,” Wally sighs, using his free hand to brush a lock of her hair away from his eyes, “and you need to brush your hair. I was being half-a-sap earlier. The other half was waiting for your hair to come to life and strangle me.”

“Sure,” Artemis says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lip. “Good morning, by the way.”

“It has been a good morning, hasn’t it?”

Neither of them make a move to do anything but stay in bed. They stay there for as long as they can (as long as Brucely lets them), tangled in the blankets, soaking in each other as the strips of sunlight that peek through the blinds drift over them.

That morning in its totality makes a hell of a picture. It’s one Wally hangs onto when things change. It stays at the forefront of his mind, long after Janice hires a plumber to install a garbage disposal in the sink, after he puts a shade over the little window in the shower to get some privacy, and after the blinds are fixed and the sun doesn’t shine into his eyes at the break of dawn anymore.

It’s a much prettier picture to look at (laughter, her, the sun) than taking in the dark, breathtakingly empty space left in their bed by a plan that can’t guarantee the space will ever be filled again. Remembering that morning makes the whole thing feel a little less like she’s actually, truly gone, and more like this is just another low they’ll get through. And while that thought gives him hope, Wally can’t help but wish for one more morning like that, every day she’s gone.

#young justice #artemis crock #wally west #spitfire #otp: ninja couple #my writing #oh what's this #icanhearyouglaring posting a fic??????#is this 2015????#if u wanna avoid sad #don't read the last two paragraphs #otherwise this is extreme happy

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trashpandaorigins · 7 years ago

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**Newly Updated** And If You Don’t Love Me Now Ch. 4

While writing “Heaven Can Wait,” I realized that each story in this trilogy contains the song after which it’s been named! “Sweet Child of Mine,” ends with Rocket singing the song to Baby Groot and in the latest chapter of “Heaven Can Wait,” Groot, Rocket and Peter all listen to the song on Pete’s new tape. I realized however the “And If You Don’t Love Me Now,” didn’t actually have the song “The Chain,” in it! So I edited chapter 4 of the fic to include the song, along with some important connections to Groot’s own crisis he’s working though in the story to give the title new meaning. I hope you enjoy and check out the entire series on my A03 now titled If I Ever Loose My Faith In You

——

Being on Contraxia again was like being in his old middle school on Terra, except of course there were sex bots and booze. Peter wasn’t sure which he’d rather face at the moment, his old school or this planet.

“You spoke with her?” Gamora asked, sheathing her sword. Peter nodded, affixing his mini-blaster to his boots.

“Her name is Lady Qula, her assistant told me the location of the headquarters, not far from here. Rocket,” the raccoonoid entered, gun slung onto his shoulder with Groot walking beside him. Peter grinned to himself, it was good to see the two of them side by side; the site of it was getting less frequent and further apart these past few months.

“We ready?” Rocket asked, sounding rather bored. Peter nodded, taking a deep breath to himself as he opened the doors of the Milano. Snow flew into their faces as they walked off the ramp into the crowded multi-colored streets. Beside him Mantis looked around bewildered,

“There are so many people,” she whispered, “so many emotions.” He looked at her wrought face, it suddenly struck him that the empath might be overwhelmed by so many different people pressed together in the streets.

“You gonna be okay?” Mantis glanced at him, looking unsure for a moment before nodding.

“I am Groot,” the adolescent tree appeared to be mesmerized, his game hanging limply in his hands while he stared at the neon lights all around. Peter recalled his first time on the planet, he had much the same look in his eyes. “I think we got time to explore,” he teased, “if you want.” He spotted Gamora’s warning look but shrugged it off. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“Every time you say that, it never ends up fun,” she observed. He shrugged, knowing she was right and ignoring Groot’s agreeable nod.

“Very well,” Gamora decided as she went off to find more sharpeners and cleaning supplies for her knives. Mantis and Drax decided to tag along with her, Drax promising to take Mantis to a less populated market.

“And then there were three,” Peter turned to Rocket and Groot. “We got time, what would you guys want to do?”

“I am Groot?” The flora colossus asked, pointing inquisitively?

“No!” Rocket snapped, “we are NOT seeing what is in there, let’s find a bar.” He grumbled, and Peter watched the teen role his eyes as they made their way down the streets.

“I am Groot,” he said softly, looking from one alien to another as their stares gloated at him.

“Just ignore them man,” Peter gave him a pat on the back, remembering how it felt to have everyone in the crowd train their eyes on you. Out here in the remote quadrants Terrans were rarely seen. Rocket eventually found a dive bar and they slid into the darkened room, finding a table removed from the others. Rocket ordered an Asguardian draft with a shot of fire rippor, Peter his usual Yagger Lager.

“I am Groot?” The trees question warmed the humies heart,

“Of course you can pick the music!” Peter slid him several units, excited to see what he would choose. Whenever Rocket got fed up with coaxing or Gamroa and Drax couldn’t calm him, Peter would lie with Groot when he was little and listen to music with him until he fell asleep. The effect was rubbing off, much to his delight. Taking a sip of his drink, he watched the raccooniod who watched the Flora colossus. The enchanting words of Fleetwood Mac lifted through the bar, “Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise, running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies and if, you don't love me now, you will never love me again. I can still hear you saying, you would never break the chain (Never break the chain)”

“Damn my own lies,” Rocket muttered starring into his drink.

“You’re doing good man. He’s gonna be fine.” The raccoonoid glared, Peter readied himself for a cutting remark, but it didn’t come. Rocket only shook his head, looking forlorn down at his drink. Peter swallowed. “You’re doing a heck of a lot better than…then Yondu did.” The raccoonoid’s bright red eyes looked up, ears pinned back.

“That’s not sayin’ much.” The humie had no choice but to agree.

“He’s just a kid, I was like that too when I was his age.”

“Yeah, remind you why Yondu didn’t let you get killed by that phsyco planet?” Peter shook his head, laughing as he took another swig of drink.

“Fair enough.” They sat together silently but it was not as uncomfortable as it once was. It had taken a while for Peter to realize that the only good thing to come of Yondu’s death was that it had made Rocket change, for the better. Instead of being a grumpy, emotionally unpredictable drunkard every day, the enhanced raccoon was now a grumpy, emotionally unpredictable drunkard most days. Whatever time Rocket had spent with Yondu, it had been formative.

“And if you don't love me now, you will never love me again. I can still hear you saying, you would never break the chain (Never break the chain), listen to the wind blow, down comes the night. Running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies, break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light.” The sultry voice of Stevie Nicks echoed through the juke box,

“Never break the chain!!” Peter pumped his fist at the tune, singing along. Rocket only shook his head, going up to the counter once more.

“I am Groot?” Groot slid into the booth next to Peter. The humie nodded to Rocket who now sat at the bar with said drink alone. Groot listened to the music he’d selected, working through the multiple versions of the question he was so frightened to ask. “And if you don't love me now, you will never love me again, I can still hear you saying. You would never break the chain (Never break the chain.)” The guitar ripped through the air as Fleetwood Mac sang. Rocket’s love is a chain, damn him and damn whatever lie he’s telling, Groot thought vehemently. And if his family did not love him now, when he wanted to badly, so angrily to know the truth, they would never love him again. It’s now or never, Groot decided as the last sounds of “Never break the chain,” evaporated. I will break this chain. He looked up at the human before him.

“I am Groot,” Peter nodded,

“Go for it.” He watched Groot look down at the table, then at where Rocket sat, then back to Peter, those large eyes full of urgency and wonder, and, Peter thought, taking another drink-some desperate need.

“I am Groot.” The question shocked him. He finished swallowing his drink and cleared his throat.

“I…I don’t think I’m the best person to answer that dude…” but the adolescents face was full of longing, something Peter knew all to well. That need to know who you are, where you came from. Peter had once joked with Rocket, over an empty keg, about the inevitable identity crisis Groot would face. He never actually expected to be a part of it.

“I am Groot?!”

“What happened before Xandar….well there was this infinity stone,” Peter stalled, looking over had praying Rocket would come back any minute.

“I am Groot!” The teen snapped.

“Okay, so Rocket told you about that, and so yeah, that was pretty much it.” But one look at Groot’s face told Peter he’d better shut up and answer truthfully.

“Listen Groot…there’s a lot of stuff that happened, before, during and after Xandar. None of it pretty. And I love you man but…I’m not the one that’s got those answers.” Why couldn’t Groot have asked ANYONE but him? He ran his hand over his face.

“I am Groot,” Groot whispered vehemently. He rose to stand, refusing to look at Peter who’s heart sank. Did Yondu feel like this every day?

He forced himself to stand, swishing the last of his drink around at the bottom of the glass before drinking it.

“Call me a rodent one more time!” Oh no. Peter and Groot exchanged horrified glances as the large purple alien creature loomed over Rocket and his fifth shot of Asgardian whisky.

“You heard me,” the plump alien sneered, he spat at Rocket’s bar stool, “rodent.” Everything happened all at once, Rocket reached for his gun, Peter dove to intercept and Groot let loose his left arm, hitting the alien squarely in the jaw, knocking him down on to the bar table.

“Groot!” Peter called, but even as he shouted he knew it was too late.

“What in the name of Quendlin’s stars….” the alien man wiped his tender cheek with a single tentacle like arm, staring at Groot for a moment before standing and barreling into the flora colossus.

“Dammnit Groot!” Rocket shouted, watching as the tree slammed into a table, sending the patrons scattering. Peter slapped his hand to his face, checking the time. They were supposed to be meeting Lady Qula in a half hour. Gamora was right, as usual Peter thought, wishing she was here now.

“I am Groot!” Groot cried out, wrapping his vines around the large alien who pummeled him.

“Rocket,” Peter half warned, half begged, watching the raccoonoid cock his gun, that trigger-happy look on his face all too familiar. “Rocket, Rocket don’t…” Shhhcrraaakkk!! Peter growled to himself, running for where Groot now looked down at himself in shock. The alien man’s yellow teeth twisted into a grin, a knife in his hand.

“Freak!” He hissed, advancing on Groot. If it had been a less dire situation, Peter might have laughed at that same look he’d warn himself many times before. The flora colossus’s mouth hung open in shock and panic. Peter flung himself ontop of the squishy alien,

“Rocket, get Groot!” But Rocket was already at the tree’s side, ears pinned back, gun ready. “What are you doing don’t shoot!” He screamed, struggling to hold the thug down.

“I’m gonna shoot him in his kurtuckan head Quill, move!” The alien wiggled in the humie’s hold and Peter let out muffled “Ummph,” as a burly fist knocked him in the side.

“I am Groot!” Groot righted himself, sending his vines flying and constricting around the alien who screamed.

“No! Groot! Just let Quill and I handle this!” Peter managed to roll out of the way as one of Groot’s thorn ridden vines struck out, missing the purple goon by an inch.Said goon clutched his knife and slammed the butt of it into Groot’s eye. Scrambling to his feet Peter watched Rocket attempting to pull Groot away from his advisory but to no avail. It was easy to forget sometimes, how larger the flora colossus was compared to the raccoon like creature.

“A flarking animal and a flarking tree, I’m gonna tear you limb from limb and roast your friend over a fire!” The alien growled, spitting out bloody fangs. Peter reached for his gun as he lay on the floor on his belly. Quickly he switched the weapon from kill to stun and took aim,

“Groot move!” He shouted at the teen who had moved easily out of Rocket’s hold and now was suffering for it. The heafty thug clobbered at him, swinging his fist which Groot tried with increasing failure to block. The small cuts of thorns doing little to hinder him.

“Groot!” Peter shouted, struggling to aim, “move it!” Flarking listen to me for once, he begged. Groot looked up, his left eye closed over with cracked bark. He pivoted just in time for Peter to shoot, striking the alien in the shoulder. He stopped, eyes large, went to raise his arm for a final swing at Groot but only shook all over before collapsing. Without wasting time, Peter ran forward, grabbing Groot’s arm and Rocket’s tail, hurrying out of the bar.

“You fucking dumbass, let go of me!” Rocket’s sharp claws smacked at Peter’s hand. Groot stood, slouching, one arm holding his torso. The humie himself panted, examining his own wounds as the three of them panted in the ally way.

“Let me see,” Rocket instructed. Struggling to look up at Groot’s side.

“I am Groot!”

“Yeah I’m sure it’s fine, I just wanna look.” Peter watched him reluctantly move his arm away and his stomach dropped at what he saw. The outer layer of brown bark and leaves on Groot’s left side had been stripped bar, leaving exposed whiteish yellow wood in place, shorn and splintering from just under his armpit to his waist.

“Dammnit Groot you can’t pick fights with people who are stronger then you.”

“Rocket you do that all the time,” Peter put in, hoping to win Groot over. The raccoonoid only hissed,

“Shut up Quill.”

“Guys, we gotta meet our contact,” Peter mumbled, glancing at the time. Rocket cursed but started walking with a slight limp. “C’mon Groot,” the humie tried, patting Groot on the back. The flora colossus shoved him off,

“I am Groot,” he whispered nastily. Peter watched him go. Sure Groot had every right to be mad at him for not telling him anything about what happened before. But Peter knew that duty didn’t belong to him. Like so many other things, that was Rocket’s burden to bare.

#rocket raccoon #my writing #groot #teen groot #and if you don't love me now

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lady-bertrams-pug · 7 years ago

Note

"You love me and you know it" and ererijean? :)

Oh man this took me so long I’m sorry oTLMy only excuse is I got more than a little carried away :D

Read under the cut or on AO3

A vacation to bumfuck nowhere in the middle of New Hampshire was about the last thing Levi ever would have expected of Eren to suggest.

Miami, yes. New Orleans. Anywhere that was queer and loud, where you could chill at the pool and go sightseeing, buy cheesy souvenirs and party all night.

But not - what was it again? - Lake Winnipesaukee. Which, frankly, sounded like mosquitos the size of your hand, bears in your yard and eerie forests to get lost in (Levi was a person who had a deep and profound distrust in anything that had a population under a hundred thousand and “rural”, to him, meant bear, cougar and raccoon infested.).

But then, when Eren, Jean and Levi all had managed the rarity of all getting vacation at the same time, Eren had mentioned his father’s cabin somewhere in the woods of New Hampshire, and Jean surprisingly had seconded it.

So now here they were, three city slickers with all the survival skills of a three legged pug.

To Levi’s immense relief, the cabin proved to have electricity and water, in addition to a beautiful view from the large windows, and an open fireplace.

It wasn’t warm enough to go swimming in the lake, but they had a canoe and managed to only sink it twice before they got the hang of it. They went hiking and neither got lost nor eaten by wolves, and even the mosquitos had average size.

There was a small town / village / hamlet (they couldn’t agree on the term) nearby with a gas station, a store and a bar & grill. That bar was where they bent their steps every night. The cabin had neither internet nor television, and although they were content to spend the evenings reading, playing with the large variety of boardgames or huddling up on the porch with hot cocoa, a telescope and a glow-in-the-dark star atlas, the siren song of good food and draft beers at reasonable prices was irresistible.

Tonight, however, Levi recoiled as he saw a new board placed on the sidewalk. ‘KARAOKE 2NITE!’ it boasted, and he groaned. All his plans for a relaxed evening over a mushroom burger and Stoneface beer, then a refreshing walk home and maybe some fireplace snuggling dissolved in the chilly evening air.

He turned on his heel when strong hands gripped his arms from both sides. “Oh no. No, no, no, no.”

“Levi. It’s only karaoke.” Eren managed to sound amused and mildly chiding.

“Look, if you guys want to have your brains dripping out the bottom of your skulls from butchered versions of ‘I will survive’ and ‘can’t stop falling in love’ and then ‘I will survive’ again, that’s your choice. I’ll go home and just eat a granola bar and an apple.”

“It can’t be that bad. And if you don’t like it, we’ll just quickly eat our grub and be on our merry way home, okay?” Jean, always the solicitor.

Eren rounded him so there was no escaping his puppy eyes. “Please? It will be so much more fun if you are there to poke fun at the locals.”

Jean placed a soft kiss behind his ear. “And we would be worried if you didn’t get to eat a decent meal.”

Oh, screw him. The two menaces that he named his boyfriends knew exactly how to pull his levers.

“Okay,” Levi grudged. “But one note of ‘Okie from Muskogee’ and I’m outta that door quicker than you can say ‘me and Bobby McGee’.”

The bar was more crowded than usual, but they were still early enough that they could be seated, and even got their by now customary booth with a view over the woods.

Sure enough, the small stage that had always been dark during their earlier visits was lit now, and a disco ball let specks of red, green and purple flitter silently through the room.

Christa, the tiny blond waitress, came to take their orders with swaying hips and a smile that was as genuine as ever but more heavily enhanced by bubblegum pink lipstick. Her customary careless ponytail had been replaced by a carefully wrapped bun.

Jean, hopeless bi that he was, was smitten. In an attempt to keep her as long at the table as possible he asked for the specials, played indecisive about the choice of beverages and finally inquired after the karaoke night. Eren and Levi rolled their eyes and bit their knuckles - Can you believe we both fell for him? Me neither - and snickered when Jean finally became aware of the death glare he received across the room from a tall brunet waitress.

“Dude, what’s her deal with me? Always giving me the stinkeye when we’re here,” Jean muttered to his companions after Christa left with their orders.

Eren shook in helpless laughter, but Levi took mery in Jean. “Don’t tell me you never noticed that she and blondie wear matching necklaces? With half a heart each?”

Eyes whipping from Christa to the intimidating girl and back again, Jean made a choked little sound that set Eren off again. When their drinks arrived, he couldn’t meet Christa’s eyes and buried his face in his root beer.

“No wonder you’re so terrible with women,” Levi remarked. “You always try to hit on the ones that have ‘gay’ written over their heads in mile high neon letters.”

Jean pouted, but Eren tapped his hand with a smile.

“Hey. But it’s good, isn’t it? Otherwise we wouldn’t have met. If you hadn’t tried to chat up my sister…”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.” The night he and Levi had met Eren was one simultaneously one of the best and worst nights of Jean’s life. Eren had stopped Mikasa from ripping him a new one and steered him back into Levi’s arms. He would have been angry at being bossed through the club by a guy who was nearly a head shorter than him, but fuck those eyes had been a goddamn distraction. Levi had, in impeccable manners, apologised for his douchebag boyfriend being such a nuisance, and neither of couple had missed how Eren’s face had sagged at the mention of boyfriend.

Still, for whatever self loathing reason that he kept to himself even to this day, Eren had swapped phone numbers with them, and after weeks of probing and pondering over the concept of polyamory, and exploring his feelings, cautiously asked to date them. Asked them, totally unaware that they were near tearing their own hair out over wanting him so much in their lives.

It warmed Levi’s heart to see him so much more at ease now with them, most doubts and fears about butting in on an established couple or of being a third wheel long drowned in the secure knowledge of being loved and cherished, of being an equal. Sometimes, Eren’s insecurities still flared up, and his boyfriends did their best to ease him through it with all the understanding and loving attention they could muster. Levi understood it wasn’t easy to come into an already existing relationship that had its own character and history, and it wasn’t like he or Jean hadn’t been plagued by insecurity or occasional stabs of jealousy too.

Relationships meant work, and poly relationships even more so, but when Levi thought of the happiness he found he would retrace every step, bear any ache again. He chewed his - delicious - burger with a smile, only paying partial attention to Jean’s and Eren’s playful banter.

A couple of people had performed a song by now, and he had to admit it really wasn’t as bad as anticipated. For the most part he could blend it out, although the version of ‘wrecking ball’ by a bespectacled brunette with gratuitous leering and lewd gestures was mildly scarring.

A lull in orders allowed Christa to climb the stage, and as she started singing ‘Royals’ she was accompanied by her girlfriend and another waitress, a pretty girl with a chestnut ponytail and a bright smile. They were good, really good, and the way Christa performed the chorus lines was no less than captivating. The first real applause of the evening was theirs. The ponytail girl took it in stride, the brunette looked indifferent, but Christa changed back from the stage act to her more timid self, smiling nervously and blushing at the praise and good-natured whistles.

She tucked a strand behind her ear, took a deep breath and rushed to remove the dishes from their table with a muttered apology. “Would you like another round of drinks?” she asked, and Levi opened his mouth to decline and ask for the tab, but Eren was quicker.

“Yes, please!” He beamed, and when he had smiled her to the bar and turned back to face his boyfriends he chose to ignore Levi’s glare. A kick in the shin effectively got his attention.

“Ow! What?”

“Didn’t we say we’d leave right after dinner?”

“But we always get a second drink,” Jean interjected. “And besides, I noticed you tapping your foot. Why not hang out a little more?” He placed a discreet hand on Levi’s knee and squeezed lightly.

Their insistence should have made him wonder, but he let it pass with a huff. The patrons were remarkably well behaved, and no truly cringeworthy acts had been performed, and if it meant so much for Jean and Eren… Lord knew they always put up with his antisocial tendencies without much complaint, and he couldn’t honestly expect them to be as content over evenings of Scrabble and Backgammon as him.

He settled back and sipped his second beer, smiling as they softly sang along with the next songs, the atmosphere in the bar slowly becoming more boisterous. Then someone started singing ‘Say a little prayer’ and okay - this was maybe his cue to take a leak because the whole bar chanting reminded him too much of a damn movie scene.

When he returned, Eren was gone.

Or rather, he was consulting with the guy at the karaoke machine. Apparently he was given a positive answer to his request, for he grinned like an idiot and grabbed the microphone. Levi sat down at their table and shot Jean a quizzical look, but only got a helpless shrug and a quietly panicked expression in return.

“I don’t know what he’s up to,” Jean stage whispered. “He shot over to the stage as soon as you were gone and I couldn’t stop him.”

A couple of soft guitar chords, then the lyrics started.

You know just what to sayShit, that scares me, I should just walk awayBut I can’t move my feet…

Eren sang softly, obviously nervous, eyes glued to the screen. There was a couple of murmurs and giggles among the audience, and Jean and Levi glared daggers.

With the chorus, Eren finally gained his confidence, his voice came out stronger, and he started to move. The giggles gave way to cheers and whistles as he swung his hips and looked up through his eyelashes.

I didn’t know that I was starving till I tasted youDon’t need no butterflies when you give me the whole damn zooBy the way, by the way, you do things to my bodyI didn’t know that I was starving till I tasted you…

Encouraged by the reactions, Eren danced more sensually, ran a hand over his neck, down his torso and thigh only to let it travel back up the same way. Levi’s and Jean’s breath caught when long fingers danced inches away from his crotch, hitched the t-shirt up ever so slightly, teasingly revealing a sliver of skin. By now Eren was really into it, moved his lithe, graceful body in ways that were simply heartstopping. Sang the lyrics with a voice that shifted from playfully flirtatious to seductive and promising.

Levi swore he could feel his soul leaving his body, and next to him, Jean let out a ragged whine. Warmth spread in his lower belly, and he desperately tried to conjure up unpaid bills, tax declarations, the broken lawnmower, but every thought flew right out the window at the sight of Eren circling his butt and shooting a sly smile over his shoulder.

Jean clawed at his thigh. “Make him stop,” he whimpered. “I’m popping a fucking boner here, Jesus, this is so embarrassing.”

“Too late,” Levi hissed back, nodding down at the tent in his own pants.

Finally, the song ended, and Eren bowed and smiled at the applause before sauntering over to their table and slipping into the booth. Jean had his head on the table and refused to look up.

“Christ, Eren, were you attempting to kill us? Because you fucking nearly succeeded.” Levi was hyper aware of the heat blossoming on his cheeks.

“So, did you like it?” Eren asked with a filthy grin.

“Yeah well, we both can’t get up right now, which is frankly a little mortifying, and as soon as I can I’m going to strangle you.”

“Nonsense.” Eren looked far too pleased with himself. “You love me and you know it.”

Jean finally raised his head to join in on the conversation, and caressed Eren’s fingers lightly, treacherously gently. “Oh no, we are doing something much more fun than strangling him,” he purred. “We can’t have him starving, can we? Gotta feed him all our love. Feed him good.”

#ererijean #ererijean fanfic #frauwrites

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tumblrwrites · 7 years ago

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The Crack in the Ceiling

Sylvia Sickle knew everything about everything. She knew how to catch and pin a butterfly for the collection in her father’s study. She knew how to calculate the square root of 793, the answer to which is obviously 28.1602557. She even knew that the Hundred Years War was actually 116 years long. In fact, there was nothing of a scientific, historic or mathematical nature that she didn’t know, or couldn’t calculate the answer to.

One day that while she was doing a field study on the combustibility of mushrooms, she came upon something wholly extraordinary, though at the time it may not have seemed so to her. In fact, it was merely a man. A rather small man, it must be admitted, but, quite simply, a man nonetheless.

Sylvia held the magnifying glass up to the miniature person to get a better look. He was lying asleep, head bent, against the stem of a fern. His legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles and a hat rested comfortably down to his nose, blocking the sun from his eyes. His clothes were old and worn but there was a smile on his face as he slept.

Sylvia picked him up between her forefinger and thumb and threw him into her specimen sack. The little man must have woken when she put him in there; he began to push the bag here and then there in an attempt to find a way out. Finally he made his way to the top and pushed at the heavy leather flap until it flopped up in one corner.

Sylvia quickly flicked him back inside with her index finger and then closed the flap again, this time tying it shut. She hurried home to begin a detailed analysis and dissection of the new specimen.

When she pulled him out at home, with tongs, ready to place him in a Petri dish, she was surprised to find him complacently hanging with his arms crossed, winking up at her. After she dropped him down, he put his hands up to his mouth and called, “You’re a rather stupid little girl, aren’t you?”

Sylvia was taken aback more by what he said than by the fact that he said it. “I am not stupid! I’ll have you know I can count in prime numbers all the way up to 56989 and I can list all the battles in the French and Indian War and I can recite Shakespeare’s sonnets and–”

The man interrupted, raising one finger as he leaned against the edge of the Petri dish. “Ah! You can recite them, but do you know what they mean?”

Sylvia frowned. “Of course I know what they mean. They’re only words.”

“Words are the voice of dreams, my dear girl.” The little man, wide-eyed, nodded his head as he spoke and Sylvia couldn’t help but think of those bobble-toys that all of the other children at school liked so much. Sylvia couldn’t think why they would want them; it was just a spring inside the neck, after all.

“You’re not making sense.” she said.

“Everything begins as a dream or a wish. No dream or wish ever felt half so tangible as when a person says it out loud for the first time.”

“You’re wrong. Just because I say, ‘I wish for the sky to be green!’ won’t make it actually green.” This creature clearly was not a creature of logic.

“Ah, but it has to be something you actually want; that’s the trick of it. Believing in it, that makes a thing real.” He paused, thinking, with his finger to his chin. “Here, I’ll show you. I wish I could have a horse my size.” He stuck his hand straight out in front of him and began stroking the air. “Stupid Little Girl, meet George. George, Stupid Little Girl.” He gestured from Sylvia to the empty air in front of him and back again.

Sylvia knitted her eyebrows together and squinted, wrinkling her nose. “My name is Sylvia, not Stupid Little Girl, and I don’t see anything.”

The little man shrugged his shoulders and walked to the other side of the dish. “Well, you wouldn’t now would you? You didn’t wish for a horse, I did and now that’s what I have, a horse. His name is George.” He crossed his arms and turned his back to her, looking out the window across the desk. “You know? I bet you don’t even know how to wish.”

Sylvia stood up straight. For a while, she’d been bent low over the little man trying to intimidate him with her enormity and thinking very seriously of poking him with a tongue depressor to see what would happen. “What do you mean? I can do anything! I am so smart! I could wish if I wanted to.”

The little man quickly ran across the dish and sprung up on the edge of it with one light jump. He stuck his tongue out at her and made a whining noise. “Then do it.” he said. “Let’s see you make a wish, little miss know-it-all!”

Sylvia had decided she did not very much like this specimen. She would prove to him that she could do anything and then she would make a good study of him and pin him up with her father’s butterflies when she was all done.

“Okay, I will.” Sylvia thought hard for a moment. It had to be a really good wish and then maybe he would be quiet. “I wish dinner would be ready in an hour!”

She was triumphant! The beastly little thing was silent for a moment. There was no wish to better hers, no counterattack to be had. She smiled smugly and turned her back to him with her arms crossed.

Then she heard a choppy, high-pitched little sound and turned to see that gross creature, that foul little man, howling with laughter, rolling around on his back. He slapped the surface of the dish with the palm of his hand as if he were calling “uncle!”

Sylvia raised the flat of her hand to squash him, but thought better of it. His internal organs would have been flattened and she hadn’t much use for flat organs. Instead, she clenched her hand in a tight fist and bit the inside of her lip. “Well, what do you know about it?” she asked, tapping her finger on her arm.

The little man leaned back after his fit of laughter, taking in a deep sigh and sitting back on his heals. He wiped a tear from his eye and let out a last little chuckle. “I know that that’s not wishing. Not really.” A little titter broke from between his lips. “You can’t ask for something ordinary or something you’ve had a million times before.”

Sylvia tapped her foot. Her eyes darted over to her microscope. She wondered for a moment what made him so small. Then it occurred to her that some people are just genetically predisposed to being smaller than others. He must have had very small parents. “Well, what should I wish for, then?”

The little man shrugged. “Anything you like.” He winked again.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “I would like dinner in an hour.”

The little man waved his hands wildly in the air. “No, no, no, no! Something you can’t have everyday. Something you like, but you can’t explain why you like it. I wish I could fly! I wish I could be invisible! I wish I could breathe under water. I wish I wish I wish! Try again.”

Sylvia thought for a moment. Her eyes wandered up to her ceiling. There was a crack there that she’d always wondered about. Her mother had explained to her that it was just the drywall getting old and breaking down in composition, but Sylvia couldn’t help wanting to see inside it. She knew there were boards and plaster and probably some nails and screws, too, and maybe a few decomposing termites or rats, but she wanted to see it. Keeping her eyes fixed above her, she whispered quietly, “I wish I could see into that old crack.”

It was a funny feeling that she’d never had before, after she said it out loud. All at once, she felt a shiver run up and down her spine and across the hairs on her arms. She looked at her window, but it was closed and she couldn’t think how to explain away the chills.

She looked back up to the ceiling and suddenly the crack seemed much larger than it had before, and much closer. It seemed as if it was going to suck her right into it and it seemed to be getting closer. She shielded her face with her arms and hunched down to the ground.

’ When she peeked out through a crack between her arms, she found she could see nothing. She lifted her head and could still see no better. She could feel the soft sprinkling of wood dust over her head and the scurrying of something at her feet. There were no microscopes or Petri dishes anywhere. Her stomach felt empty and there was something stuck at the back of her throat. Her voice maybe?

She could feel the grittiness all around her as a light draft blew dust across her fingertips. She knew, instinctively, that she was now inside the crack. She also knew, through all her studies, that this was physically impossible.

Something furry brushed up against her knee and she jumped, letting a tiny squeal sneak past her lips. She couldn’t see anything. A creature that could brush her knee might be the size of a dog or what she felt might only be an arm or a leg of a much larger creature. It could be a raccoon that might reasonably have made a home in the attic, but she couldn’t keep the idea of a giant rat out of her mind. For the first time in her life, she was frightened, and she almost enjoyed it.

Something brushed against her again, this time, something that felt much larger. She jumped and squeaked again and all the thrill of a new experience faded and fear was all that was left.

Then, near where she assumed her foot to be, she heard the little man calling up to her. “Now what do you wish for?”

Terrified of this new dark, she answered, “I wish I was back in my room!”

And without moving, light began to sneak in and Sylvia found herself in her room again, with the microscope on the table behind her, the Petri dish and the little man on the desk in front of her.

The little man stood up straight, took a bow and then began applauding Sylvia and Sylvia, for the first time in her life, felt the satisfaction of a job well done without even having picked up a scalpel. “Is that how it always is?” she asked, taking a breath.

“Sometimes.” The little man answered. “Sometimes it’s better.”

Sylvia looked over to the microscope once more and then back at the little man. There would be time for any number of experiments later. She rubbed her hand across her arm. “What should I wish for next?”

“Might I recommend something a little less frightening?” He pulled his hat back, revealing bright orange hair, and scratched his head a little.

Sylvia cast her eyes about her room and found it more boring than she remembered it. There were posters labeling the different parts of ants and volcanoes. There were shelves of books with numbers written on the sides of them. Her bedspread was plain gray with an itchy wool blanket underneath. Everything in her room was off white or gray; she’d never had much use for color. She knew it was just the spectrum of light interacting in the eye with the spectral sensitivities of the light receptors. But now, without understanding why, she wanted more of it. And then she saw the butterfly she’d been studying earlier that day.

It was a Monarch butterfly, bright orange with black lines and white dots. It was beautiful. And she felt a little sad when she saw how the butterfly lay, pasted against glass plates, no longer moving. She had done that. She had been planning to pin it up on the wall in her father’s study with all the others.

“I wish the butterfly was free.” She didn’t feel a shiver with this wish, as she had with the other one. Instead, she felt her heart stop as she watched a tiny twitch in the antennae. “I wish all the butterflies were free!”

The butterfly began flapping its winds, shaking the dried glue off, and soon it raised itself into the air. It fluttered around the room, passing close to Sylvia’s eyelash once. It flew up and then down, over and under, around and through her room. “The window! The window!” cried the little man and Sylvia ran to it and threw it open. A warm breeze flowed into the room and the butterfly caught the current. Sylvia watched as it disappeared into the day, that bright orange butterfly.

She turned around, letting out a long, satisfied breath, and leaned against her desk, next to the little man standing on it. They looked at each other and smiled and then were suddenly engulfed in the flutter of a hundred rainbow colored wings. Butterflies poured through Sylvia’s bedroom door, escaping from the study. One still had a pin in its wing and the little man leapt up and tugged at it until it came free.

It was a scattering of blues and greens and oranges and yellows and purples and reds all around them. The wings made soft thwap thwap sounds and Sylvia watched as they circled around her and the little man before they flew through the window, following that first butterfly.

Sylvia leaned her elbows on her desk and kept her eyes on the very last of the butterflies until she couldn’t see them anymore. She was silent for a while, with her eyes fixed on the outside world.

“That was a good wish.” The little man said, after a bit.

Sylvia turned to him. “Is it magic?”

“A kind of magic.” He pulled himself back onto the rim of the Petri dish and sat with his little legs dangling, as he looked up at her.

She kicked her shoes off and pulled herself up onto the desk next to him. She wiggled her toes, trying to shake the lint out. “Where does it come from?”

There was a sharp knock in the hallway, just outside her door. “Sylvia?” Her mother was calling for her. She jumped down and told the little man she’d be right back.

As it happened, her first wish, the one about dinner being in an hour, came true as well and so Sylvia sat, fidgeting in her seat, playing with her food, wanting nothing more than to get back to her room and her new friend. Indeed, he was certainly her friend now; all thoughts of dissection and analysis had vanished from her mind. Instead, she was wondering what wind might feel like against her fingertips as she flew and whether or not the little man might know. Of course, she didn’t tell her parents this, nor did she tell her father where all his butterflies had suddenly gone or her mother that there were real monsters in the crack in her ceiling.

When she had grudgingly finished her lima beans and spinach, foods she had previously worshiped for all their nutrients, she ran back to her room. The dusk had cast itself around her room and she found it a little difficult to see, so she did the only logical thing she could think of. She turned on a light.

The Petri dish was empty, except for a very small horse named George. She reached out and stroked him gently with her index finger and then began to look about the room. “Little man! Little man, where are you?” But there was no answer. She glanced at her desk again and noticed something she hadn’t seen before.

There was a tiny slip of paper tucked under the dish with writing on it. Sylvia moved closer. She picked it up and read the tiny scribbles. “It comes from inside you.”

#footstepsontheair #OatmealandHoney

#Literature #Submission #Writing #submission

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officialaemondtargaryen · 8 years ago

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Dog Days Are Over

Summary: You were already having a bad day, and then in walks Mr. Perfect and his best friend’s puppy. Oh, and he needs you to hurry because he’s got a blind date tonight, and he’s really nervous.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2,993

Author’s Note: Do you know how long this has been in my drafts? Anyways, here’s more fluff. Sorry I’ve been the Ebeneezer Scrooge of fluff, but I can’t help it that I’m a cynical, angsty bitch who likes to make people suffer.

There were certain rules to being a veterinary technician.

Number one, waterproof mascara and eyeliner always! When the customer cries, you cry. Number two, carry a lint roller on you at all times; it’s best to get the pocket-sized one, because Mr. Twinkles sheds a lot! Number three, iron your scrubs! And it’s probably best to keep an extra pair in your car, because Mrs. Comier’s Jack Russell likes to pee on people.

Even though you knew these rules by heart, and you followed them every single day of your work-life, today was an exception. It was just one of those days that absolutely nothing- no matter how hard you tried- was going right. You were covered in fluffy cat hairs, Mrs. Comier’s Jack Russell peed on your leg twice, and you had run out of waterproof mascara; so when Mr. Langley brought in his thirteen year old Labrador to put her down, he cried, and so you cried, and in the end you looked like the raccoon that liked to sneak into the office dumpsters at closing.

Today just wasn’t your day.

It was fifteen minutes until closing time, and you could feel the excitement in your bones. You needed to rest, go home, take a shower, crawl in bed and watch B-rated romantic comedies on Netflix until you passed out. If only you could snap your fingers and make those last few minutes fly by. But that was impossible, and manipulating time wasn’t in your skill set, so instead you swept the floors for the sixth time that day.

And that was when you heard it.

The tiny bell over the door chimed, signaling that a customer had just walked in, and you could hear the pitter-patter of doggie feet on the linoleum floors. As far as you knew, there weren’t anymore customers scheduled for the day. The last appointment was over thirty minutes ago, and it was a no-show. From your spot in the back hallway, you could hear your coworker talking to the patient, and then before you knew it, she was charging through the back door. Before she even opened her mouth, you knew what the question would be.

“No,” you said as you swept the dirt into the dustpan.

“Come on, Y/N!” She whined. “I really need to get out of here on time tonight! It’s just a simple check-up, and he’s really cute, and will you please just take him?”

You sighed, exhaling every ounce of oxygen in your lungs before finally giving in; slumping your shoulders and rolling your eyes as you put the broom down.

“Oh my God! Thank you so much! I owe you, big time.” She went to hug you but you stepped to the side, avoiding her embrace at all costs.

You simply nodded at your coworker as you tried to dust some of the cat hairs from your scrubs. It was no use, and you knew that, but still, you at least tried to look more professional. You should have known that clocking out on time was just too good to be true, but you still put a smile on your face as you walked up to the front desk.

The customer was on one knee as he played with the tiny puppy; rubbing it’s belly and tickling it’s sides. “How can I help you?” You asked, and the man turned around and looked up at you, flashing one of the most brilliant smiles you had ever seen, and you could have sworn that a chorus of angels were singing in the background. Or maybe it was just the classical music that your boss liked to play, who knows. When your coworker said he was cute, you figured she was talking about the dog. Not the man.

“Hey, uh- I had an appointment for this little guy.” He said, moving to stand.

“Okay,” you replied. “What’s this little guy’s name?”

“His name is Brooklyn.” The man replied.

“Oh.” You realized that this was that no-show appointment that should have been here thirty minutes ago. It was then that you looked right past his good looks, and let the irritation settle back in. “You’re Mr. Rogers? You had an appointment with us at 5:00.”

The man rubbed a hand on the back of his neck and gave you a half smile.

“Uh, not exactly. I mean, I did have an appointment. But Steve- uh, Mr. Rogers, couldn’t make it so that’s why I’m here. I’m his friend, Bucky, and I’m really sorry that I’m late. I hope I can still get him in, if it’s okay. If it’s a problem then I can just make another appointment.”

Your eyes widened as he rambled on and then you smiled at him. If it were anyone else, you probably would have told them to make another appointment. But this guy was just so handsome, and your hopes of getting home on time were already sacked, so you led him back to the exam room and told him that it was no problem.

“Hopefully this doesn't take too long,” he mentioned as he picked Brooklyn up and sat him on the table.

Was he really rushing you?

“I've got this stupid thing I'm supposed to go to tonight,” he continued as you checked the puppy’s weight.

He really was rushing you.

“It's a blind date that Steve, uh-”

Before he could say ‘Mr. Rogers’, you nodded your head to let him know that you understood who he was talking about.

“Yeah,” Bucky kept on, not really caring that you weren't really listening. “He set it up and I'm just nervous. I've never really been on a date- well, I've been on dates, but never a blind one. With the way this day has been going, she'll probably end up being an alien with six eyes.”

“I know how you feel,” you mumbled under your breath.

“What's that?” He asked.

“Oh, I just agreed with you-” You replied, not really wanting to go into details about your day with a guy who was about to go on a blind date, and probably fall in love with someone that wasn't the vet tech with a piss stain on her leg. “About the way this day has been going.”

“You've had a bad day, too?”

“I'm going to let Dr. Banner know you're ready, and we’ll try get you out of here as soon as possible.” You said, ignoring his question.

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” Bucky replied as you shuffled out of the exam room.

Your boss looked up at you from his desk and raised his eyebrows underneath his glasses. You said nothing and only dropped the puppy’s chart on his desk with a thud, before turning back around and heading into the back hallway. You could hear that Bucky guy sweet talking the pup from behind the door and your expression softened for a moment.

But that was only until you glanced at the clock and saw that it was well passed closing time, and you should’ve been walking through your front door right now; maneuvering out of your bra and kicking off your non-slip, worn out tennis shoes. Your frown came right back and you looked over the front desk, making sure everything was in order before your boss eventually called you in for an extra hand.

You sighed as you saw that your coworker had bailed on stamping the outgoing bill statements, a job which was tedious and tiring, and usually ended in cramped hands and sticky fingertips. With a soft groan, you sat down, flexing your toes in your shoes and tried to quickly stamp as many envelopes as you could.

“Hey, Y/N,” Dr. Banner called from somewhere within the office. “Can you lend me a hand for a moment?”

You stood up, tossing the four envelopes in the mailing bin, and headed towards the back hallway. “What’s up, doc?” You asked with a forced grin as you tried to lighten the mood. Your boss, Bruce, was under constant stress ever since his partner veterinarian, Dr. Stark, quit the practice to focus on his family.

“Can you draw me up 1cc of Nobivac?” He asked as he scribbled something down in the chart in front of him. “And I’m going to need you in the room when I administer it, there’s a note in the little guy’s chart that says he’s not very good with shots.”

“Yes, sir.” You replied as you pulled the keys to the medical cabinet out of the front pocket of your scrubs.

Bucky smiled at your when you entered the exam room. The puppy in his hands jumped in your direction, tail wagging from side to side as he whined for attention. “I think he likes you,” the man commented as he tried to hold the puppy back.

“That’s nice,” you replied, not really wanting to make small talk with Mr. I-Have-A-Blind-Date-Can-You-Hurry-Up. “But he’s probably not going to like me very much after getting poked.”

“Probably not,” Bucky laughed. You couldn’t help but feel a little light-headed at the sight of his smile. The sound of his laugh was just as attractive, if not more so. “But who knows, maybe he’ll forgive you.”

Dr. Banner stepped into the room, cutting your conversation short to begin his own spiel; informing Brooklyn’s short term owner of the possible side effects of the rabies vaccine, and also why is it important to have one. Information that, hopefully, Bucky would pass on to the absent Mr. Rogers.

While your boss prepped the puppy for his first rabies shot, your job was to try and distract the little guy as much as possible and to keep him comfortable, of course. Bucky stood off to the side, letting the two of you work your magic, and within seconds- without even so much as a yelp- the procedure was finished and Brooklyn’s tail was still wagging.

“All done,” you cooed, placing a kiss on the puppy’s wet nose.

“Looks like he still likes you,” Bucky said as he hooked Brooklyn’s leash back to his collar. “I had a feeling he would.”

You went to say something, but Dr. Banner got there first, sticking his hand out to Bucky for a handshake and saying, “It was nice to meet you. Please tell Mr. Rogers that we look forward to seeing him at the next visit, which you can coordinate with Y/N at the front desk.”

“Thank you,” Bucky replied. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“You can follow me, this way.” You told him, ushering him and Brooklyn out of the exam room and into the hallway. Bucky stepped into the lobby while you slid behind the front desk and grabbed for his wallet. “That’ll be $115,” you told him after tallying up the total sum of the visit.

He let out a low whistle and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Is there any way to leave a tip for your excellent customer service?” He asked with a sly grin, obviously trying to be charming.

You let out a dry laugh, and bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something that would get you in trouble. “While I appreciate the offer, you should probably save it for your date tonight.”

“Date?” He asked as he signed the credit card receipt. “Shit, right, my date!” He exclaimed, thrusting the tiny piece of paper your way. “I gotta go!”

You made a face and hurriedly handed him a copy of the bill. “Good luck,” you told him as he rushed out the front door. “And your welcome,” you said with a frown after he didn’t even say ‘thank you’.

Happy that your day was finally over, you couldn’t help but feel like you had just been kicked in the gut. As you finished stamping the monthly statements, your mind was stuck on what Bucky and his blind date- who may or may not be an alien with six eyes- were doing right now. Was she beautiful? Did he see her and immediately know that she was the one he had been searching for? Did time stop?

“Y/N?” You heard Dr. Banner’s voice from behind you and realized that you had been standing in the same spot for minutes now, holding a stack of envelopes that you had meant to drop into the bin. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” You replied, a little too enthusiastically, as you came back to reality.

“Don’t forget you’re fostering Nugget tonight to make sure that he doesn’t pull out his stitches.” He told you before disappearing back into the hallway.

“Ah, yes, Nugget.” You replied, mostly to yourself, as you were sure Bruce was out of earshot. “The overweight Chihuahua who looks like he ate one, too many nuggets. I couldn’t be more excited.”

After you locked up, and had Nugget on a leash, you said your goodbyes to your boss; happy as ever that- even thought it was well after dark- you were finally going home. you picked the chunky Chihuahua up, making sure not to touch his freshly removed man-parts and placed him in the backseat, where he quickly made a home.

Before you even pulled your seat belt on, you pulled your hair out of it’s ponytail and ran your fingers over your tender scalp. It was the first step to comfort after what you were sure was the worst work-day you might have ever had. If you could take your shoes off, you would. But, you were sure there was some crazy law about driving barefoot, so you left them on.

Nugget stayed quiet for most of the way, until he unexpectedly started to whine. Thinking that he might need to go potty, you pulled over into the parking lot of the local year-round ice cream parlor. He hopped out of your backseat gingerly, and lead you over to the grassy area where he proceeded to squat and relieve himself.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you heard from across the parking lot and turned to see none other than Mr. Blind Date himself, Bucky. Just when you thought this day was starting to get better, he begin walking toward you, Brooklyn in tow.

“Oh, hi.” You replied, cautiously looking around for the bombshell that would inevitably be introduced as his date. You didn’t want to ask, but curiosity got the best of you and, “How was your date?”

“Well, I was supposed to meet her here and she never showed.” He replied, looking a bit dejected. “I was just about to leave, but then I saw you, figured I say hello.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, unable to help yourself when you heard that there was no other woman, and that this extremely attractive stranger was somehow still single. “Well, hello.”

Bucky smiled brightly before taking notice of Nugget, who was shaking at the thought of being petted by someone new, and dropped down to a knee so that he could reach him. “Who’s this little chunker?”

“This is Nugget,” you replied. “I’m fostering him for the night.”

“Fitting name,” he laughed, standing back to his regular height. “So, can I buy you an ice cream? I don’t think I said thanks before I ran out of your office earlier, and I’d like to make it up to you.”

“Sure,” you replied quickly before you gave yourself a chance to say no. “I mean, yeah, that would be nice.”

Bucky smiled as you fell in step with each other, making your way to the front of the booth. Brooklyn and Nugget were playing with each other; romping around and play fighting; putting you and Bucky into a few awkward positions as you had to unwrap their leashes from around each other’s legs.

You learned that he was a mechanic, who worked mostly on vintage motorcycles and cafe racers, who lived on the quiet side of the city with Steve, his best friend and roommate. And you told him all about your bad day, and what it was like working in a veterinary office, and some of your funny stories from college.

Before you could even eat three bites of your ice cream, Nugget had coerced you into giving him most of it; which probably wasn’t what his actual owners intended for him to eat after his surgery. Bucky didn’t mind that the ice cream he had bought for you went to satisfying a fat Chihuahua’s sweet tooth, especially not when most of his own ice cream was being lapped up by little Brooklyn.

“Well, I should get home.” You told him after seeing the neon ‘open’ sign of the parlor clock off. “It’s getting late.”

He nodded, standing up from the bench that you had been sitting on. “It was really nice running into you.” He said softly, almost as if he had suddenly become shy.

“I agree,” you replied with a smile.

“If you’d like to, maybe I can take you to dinner next?” He asked as he nervously ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to.”

“I’d like to go to dinner with you,” you told him honestly.

“Really?” He asked excitedly. “I mean, that’s cool. I should get your number, then.” He said, taking out his phone.

You repeated the numbers twice to make sure he typed in the right ones, and with an awkward hug that was almost a kiss on the cheek, you and Nugget happily walked back to your car. As soon as the driver’s side door was shut, you let out a joyous squeal and did a small dance in your seat.

Before you could even pull off, your phone vibrated from the cup holder. You picked it up quickly and swiped at the screen until an unsaved number popped up on your screen. Your heart soared at the message that could only have been from one person.

212-555-6789

Best blind date ever ;)

tagging:

@poe-also-bucky @asirenscalling @holydeanmon @brandybucky @unpredictable-firecracker @capbuckthor @flowercrownsandmetallicarms @angryschnauzer @darkchocolaterey @hellomissmabel @john-benderr @kinqshley @iwillendyourlifeslut @malfoy-milkovich-royalty @mellifluous-melodramas, @hardcorehippos @ballerinafairyprincess @bovaria @jarnesbrnes

617 notes · View notes

marypsue · 8 years ago

Text

Hive [1 / 2]

Warnings for mind control (sort...of), slight body horror, and slight gore/animal death (don't worry, the pig is safe).

Suggested listening for this chapter: “Hold No Guns” by Death Cab for Cutie.

Part One // Part Two

on AO3

...

Dipper, unsurprisingly, notices it first.

"Is it just me, or have people been acting...weirder than usual lately?" he asks, from flat on his back on the porch, basking in the heat of the sinking sun and the chill of the water evaporating off of him and the dull, slow ache in all his muscles from running around with Soos ambushing (okay, being ambushed by) Wendy and Mabel with water guns all afternoon. The wood underneath his back is rough and sun-warmed, both splinters and heat slowly working their way into his skin, and from where he lies he can just see a sliver of glaring blue out of the corner of his right eye, past the edge of the sagging porch roof.

"Define 'weirder than usual'," Wendy says, from the couch somewhere to Dipper's left, her voice lazy and languid as the quiet buzz from the trees out ringing the yard. Dipper can't muster the energy to turn and look at her; he remembers her falling sprawled across the cushions, one arm up over the back. As far as he knows, she hasn't moved.

"Yeah, Dipper, this is Gravity Falls -" Mabel starts, and Dipper groans.

"That's why I said 'weirder than usual', Mabel. Weirder than usual."

"I dunno, dawgs, Dipper's got a point," Soos, ever the lifesaver, says, and Dipper flops an arm weakly up into the air for Soos to slap palms with. "Like, Abuelita's bridge club's been meeting here while Melody’s up in Portland visiting her sister? And I'm pretty sure when they came over last week two of them were, like, talking to each other. But without talking, doods."

"Wait, really?" Dipper asks, almost interested enough to sit up and look Soos in the eye. Almost, but not quite. "Soos, your abuelita's got a couple of telepaths in her bridge club?"

He hears, rather than sees, Soos shrug. "Dunno. Abuelita threw 'em out for cheating, I didn't have time to ask 'em where they're from."

Before Dipper gets a chance to introduce Soos to the definition of the word 'telepathy', though, the door leading into the Shack creaks open and Stan's heavy footsteps thud out onto the porch, shaking up through Dipper's back until he can feel each one in his chest. "Who wants popsicles?" Stan waits a moment for the chorus of 'me!'s to die down, and then adds, "Well, you better get your wallets ready, then, 'cause these suckers're two - no, five dollars apiece!"

Dipper doesn't see what happens next, but he's pretty sure it involves Wendy and Mabel, a couple of water guns, and grand theft popsicle.

...

Ford, once Dipper gets a chance to talk to him, is a little more receptive.

"Unusual behaviour, you say?" he asks, putting down the soldering iron and raising his mask to look Dipper in the eye. There's a frown creasing his forehead, the kind of distant look that Grunkle Stan gets sometimes when he’s overwhelmed by a returning memory, and Dipper feels a twinge of guilt constrict his chest. "I ought to look into this. It might be nothing, but - better safe than devoured by a being of pure horror from the nightmare realm!" He flashes a bright smile in Dipper's direction, one that doesn't make the guilt squeezing Dipper's ribs together ease at all.

"It's...probably nothing," Dipper says. "Or - if it is, it's definitely not Bill's style. I don't know, it's not like people are really acting any different, they just..." He ends up squeezing two fistfuls of empty air and shrugging, trying to convey something he can't quite put into words.

There's a chill in the basement, even with the portal in a thousand weirdly-shimmering pieces on the floor, a draft that smells of damp and concrete and cold earth that snakes down the back of Dipper's neck and under his vest, making all the hairs stand up in a long line down his spine. The crease in Ford's brow doesn't change.

"Even so," he says, gruff and short, and Dipper waits for the rest of the sentence, a little unsurprised when nothing more is forthcoming. The draft trails like insubstantial fingers down his back. Even so.

...

Dipper's pretty sure that he's been invited along to the graveyard with Wendy and her friends at least partly out of pity, since Mabel's left him behind to go down to Bend for the day with Candy and Grenda to find Grenda a dress for this fundraiser gala Marius invited her to, but he's not complaining. Wendy's friends are cool, Wendy herself is especially cool, and Dipper's not about to turn up his nose at an opportunity to hang out with them. Especially not now that he is, actually, technically a teen himself.

It's a perfect day for it, too - not too hot, a slight breeze ruffling the tops of the trees that ring the graveyard and whipping the tall pillars of cloud overhead into weird and fantastic shapes. Dipper is distracted enough - by the clouds and their enormous shadows racing over the grass, and the birdsong off in the trees somewhere that almost sounds like human voices, and the smell on the wind that promises thunder later, and definitely not by Wendy's hair in the sunlight - that he trips over the handle of a discarded spade and nearly falls face-first into a freshly-dug grave.

Lee catches him while he's still pinwheeling his arms on the edge, reaching out and scooping him up around the waist. "Whoa, careful there, little dude!"

"I'm not little," Dipper grumbles, as Lee balances him back on his feet. He's not. He's grown a full two inches this year. (Never mind that Mabel's grown three, and packed on nearly twenty pounds of pure muscle just from hauling Waddles around. Dipper's gonna catch up one of these days.)

Lee isn't listening. He's peering down into the open pit with an expression halfway between fascination and disgust. "Oh, dude, what is that?"

"Ugh, tell me it's not zombies again," Wendy says, rolling her eyes, but Nate's joined them at the edge of the grave, leaning precariously out over the mouth to get a better look at whatever Lee's seen. Now that he's thinking about it, Dipper thinks he can detect a note of rot in the smell of fresh, wet earth.

He leans cautiously over the lip of the grave, and looks down.

There's something shining in the dirt right at the very bottom of the grave, something yellow-white and gently curved. It looks like a rib.

Robbie cracks his knuckles, stretching with the grin that means he's about to do something phenomenally stupid for attention. "Stand back, ladies, let the professional handle this." He looks around, and then asks, "Hey, where's Tambry? Wasn't she supposed to meet us here?"

"She's your girlfriend, aren't you supposed to be keeping track of stuff like that?" Nate asks. Robbie's ears turn red, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Whatever," he mutters, succinctly.

Wendy nudges him with her shoulder. "Weren't you gonna fight the big bad zombie for us?" she asks, and the blush drains out of Robbie's face so fast Dipper would almost think he's been attacked by a vampire or a giant leech or something. Dipper doesn't think the rib has moved at all; he kind of doubts it's an active zombie, but he's not telling Robbie that.

"A-actually, my knee's been kind of acting up," Robbie stutters, his gaze darting around the group and finding no sympathy. "Otherwise I would totally -"

"Fine, you big baby," Wendy interrupts, unholstering her axe from its usual place at her hip and leaping effortlessly down into the pit. After a moment, her voice floats up from six feet underground. "There's no zombies down here, guys."

"Wait, really?" Robbie asks, and then, defensive, "I mean, I knew that all along, I'd never have let you go down there if -"

"Man, shut up," Lee says, and Robbie's mouth snaps shut, his shoulders curling up around his ears as he shoots a dirty look in Lee's direction.

"What is it?" Dipper calls down to Wendy, who pokes at the rib with the toe of her boot. It falls over, with a small shower of dirt, revealing several pale vertebrae and what looks like half a shattered pelvis.

"Think maybe you should ask what it was," Wendy calls back up. "Looks like...half a raccoon, maybe?" She pauses a moment, turning over more earth with her toe. The smell of rotting that Dipper had noticed earlier rushes up, smacks him full across the face, and he has to swallow down a sudden surge of bile. "I dunno. It's pretty fresh, but it's also pretty stripped. Looks like somebody chewed the bones to get the marrow out."

"Dude," Lee says, halfway between disgust and awe.

"Somebody?" Robbie asks, a slight quaver in his voice. Wendy shrugs.

"Yeah dude, these look like human teeth marks."

“Wait, how do you know what human teeth -”

“Apocalypse training every year ring a bell, dude?” Wendy shrugs. “And you were all here for the zombie uprising too, you can’t tell me you don’t know what human teeth marks on bone look like.” She looks around at the boys gathered around the top of the grave. “Seriously, just me?”

"Oh man, does that mean one of the zombies is loose around here somewhere?" Nate complains.

Robbie mutters a bitter, "It better not be," before giving a resigned sigh and walking over to grab the abandoned spade Dipper'd tripped over. "All right, I'm gonna go tell my parents we got another walker."

"Cool. I'm gonna not hang out in the spooky deserted graveyard with a zombie on the loose," Nate says, and Lee reaches up for a high five.

"Buddy system, bro?"

"You know it."

"Guess that leaves you and me," Wendy calls up to Dipper, who casually steps back from the edge of the pit so she can't see his face. "Is there, like, a ladder up there or something?"

By the time Wendy gets out of the grave, she and Dipper are the only ones left in the graveyard. The clouds overhead have stacked up close against each other, and the patches of shadow that sweep over last longer each time, the warm summer air cut by the chill of the wind. That promised thunderstorm feels a lot closer now.

"It's weird that Tambry ditched," Wendy says, as she vaults over a gravestone, Dipper walking around it beside her. He notices that she hasn't put away her axe. "But you know what's weirder? I haven't had a single notification from her since, like, this morning. And none of the guys said anything about it, but I haven't seen Thompson around for a day or so either."

"Tambry hasn't liked any of your posts since this morning?" Dipper asks, horrified, and Wendy makes a face that's almost a smile but really more of a grimace.

"And not one single status update."

"Wow. That's even worse than the time we almost all got eaten by convenience store ghosts," Dipper remarks, and Wendy nods.

"If this were a horror movie, Robbie'd be stumbling across her strategically-placed body right about...now." She glances back over her shoulder, and when no screams echo out from behind the hill separating them from the funeral home, shrugs. "Guess we're still safely in weird fiction," she cracks, with an elbow-nudge to Dipper's ribs that tells him she means it as a joke.

"Hey, that reminds me - have you tried that book I loaned you yet?" Dipper asks, rather than trying to eke out a nervous chuckle, and Wendy grins.

"Eat, Pray, Lovecraft? Heck yeah I have." She stuffs her axe back into its holster, her smile shrinking. "I gotta admit, though, I think some of it went over my head. And after last summer - I mean, horrifying demonic entities from outside of our dimension just lose some of their terror when you've seen one do a kegstand."

Dipper kind of disagrees, but he doesn't tell Wendy that.

...

The trees are dripping the next morning, needles glittering with leftover droplets of rain. The gravel delta that serves as a parking lot is transformed into a mass of tiny rivers, water rippling into little 'v's as it races over the pebbles. The porch roof drips morosely, the soft hiss and shush of rainwater through the overflowing gutters underlying the quiet dimness of the morning.

Dipper lies snugged down in his bed, watching the pale, greyish-pink triangle of light sink slowly down the wall across from him as the sun rises. The lingering smell of attic, must and dust and something thick and vaguely medicinal that he thinks might be mothballs but also bears a weird resemblance to Stan's cologne, tickles his nose, and Mabel's soft snores from the bed against the other wall mingle with the rush of water down the roof into a soothing white noise. In the quiet, the attic seems vast and full of air and light. The bed is so warm and deep that Dipper doesn't want to move, and each time he blinks, the triangle of light slides a little further down the wall than it did during the last blink.

He only knows for sure he's awake when Stan's heavy fist pounds on the attic door, his voice rattling the thin wood from outside. "Rise and shine, lazybones! We're goin' to the diner for breakfast as a family! This's got everything to do with my love and generosity and nothing to do with the fact I got banned from the grocery store!"

Mabel stretches, yawning, and groans as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. She makes some sleepy noise as Dipper rolls over onto his side, pulling the covers tighter around his shoulders, trying to hold in the warmth. "Mmmmnnnnnnn 'snot morning yet."

"C'mon, Dippingsauce," Mabel yawns at Dipper with about half of her usual enthusiasm. The pink light that floods the attic makes her look, unfairly, much more awake than Dipper feels.

"Sssssummer," Dipper protests, but the soft, dreamy feeling is already draining out of him, wakefulness seeping in to take its place. He scrubs the heel of his right hand against his eyes, pushing back the covers with a yawn of his own. "Somebody tell Grunkle Stan the whole point of summer vacation is staying up late, then sleeping in."

Stan's voice echoes from the hall again. "Kids! C'mon, you're the only ones holding us up!" His voice drops in volume as he continues, "I asked Soos if he wanted to come but he said he had to open the Shack. Told 'im he could just blow it off but he said he had 'integrity', whatever that is. Hope it ain't catching."

Mabel and Dipper share a look, both trying not to laugh out loud.

They both fail.

...

It's a full hour before the Pines family piles out of the Stanleymobile and into Greasy's Diner. The whole world smells fresh, like it's been washed clean by the rain, and there's a chill in the air that makes Dipper glad he decided to wear his puffy vest over his thick flannel, despite Mabel's opinion.

Normally, after a storm like the one last night, the woods would be absolutely alive with birdsong, which is why it doesn't take Dipper longer than the short walk from the diner's parking lot to the door to figure out what's wrong. He nudges Mabel in the shoulder as they crunch across the patch of gravel that might once have held an attempt at a flowerbed but now only sprouts weeds and cigarette butts. "Mabel! Hey, did you notice how quiet it is out here?"

Mabel looks around, at the still-dripping trees, a thoughtful look on her face. "Huh. That's kinda weird. But not Gravity Falls weird," she adds, sternly, as Stan shoulders the door to the diner open, setting the bell over the door jangling and drowning out any odd noises Dipper might have listened for.

After the chill in the morning air, Greasy's even smells warm. Stan leads the way to their usual booth in the back, with a wink in Lazy Susan's direction. Dipper brings up the end of the little train, only to stop short only a few feet in.

Tambry's sitting in the booth nearest the door, and she's with Thompson. Just the two of them.

They both look up when Dipper leans against their table, like he's just interrupted a private conversation. But they definitely hadn't been talking when Dipper had stopped at the booth.

Weird.

"H-hey," Dipper stammers, into the teeth of Tambry's flat, unimpressed stare. "We missed you at the graveyard yesterday." Absently, he realises that her eyes are the exact same shade of green as Thompson's. He's never noticed before. Probably because they're always aimed down at her phone.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," Tambry says, half-turning like she's done with the conversation. Dipper takes a deep breath, raising his voice slightly.

"Wendy was worried about you guys, she said she hadn't seen any status updates from you all morning," he challenges Tambry, who glances briefly back at him.

"Yeah, I guess I took like a monster nap." For the first time, a flicker of concern crosses her face, and she says, "Wait, was Robbie worried about me too?"

"Sure, why not," Dipper says. "Why aren't you with him, anyway? You two are still dating, right?"

Concern turns into confusion on Tambry's face, and then clears. She stares at Dipper, eyes narrowed. "Mabel put you up to this, didn't she."

"She...may have," Dipper says. It's not, technically, a lie.

"Well, you can tell her her matchmaking still holds up. Me and Thompson? Never gonna happen." Tambry rolls her eyes, apparently oblivious to the faint 'awwww' from Thompson, deflating slightly in the booth across from her.

"And Thompson! Where were you yesterday, man?" Dipper asks, turning to Thompson, who turns red. "You missed a zombie scare and Wendy finding half a dead raccoon."

"Oh, wow, I'm really sorry I missed out on that," Thompson warbles, sarcastically. Dipper has to cede that one to him.

Before he can ask any more questions, Lazy Susan's voice interrupts from behind Dipper. " 'Scuse me, hon. Soup's on!"

Dipper steps out of the way, and Susan takes his place, setting an enormous platter of eggs and bacon in front of each of the people at the table. Tambry actually groans, her face showing the most emotion Dipper thinks he's ever seen on her. "Finally! Oh my god, I'm so hungry I could eat the entire continent of Australia."

Thompson doesn't say anything, too busy shoveling forkfuls of fried egg into his mouth.

"Okay, well...good to know you're both okay," Dipper says, as Tambry tucks into her own food. He looks over at the table where his family are sitting, meets Ford's questioning gaze over the top of the booth. "I'm gonna...go get my own breakfast."

Thompson manages to swallow his mouthful of bacon for long enough to raise a hand and say, "See you round!" as Dipper walks away from their booth.

"Friends of yours?" Ford asks, as Dipper slides into the booth beside him. Mabel lets out an enormous bark of laughter, leaning across the table to smack Dipper on the arm.

"Friends of Wendy's." Her grin is both knowing and smug.

"Mabel," Dipper complains, and Mabel presses a hand over her mouth to cover her knowing giggles. Stan laughs, holding up a hand, and Mabel high-fives it, hard. "Seriously, it's not like that."

"I know that!" Mabel chirps. "You're just really easy to tease. Oh, and we ordered you pancakes because you were busy making goo-goo eyes at Tambry." She crosses her arms and leans her elbows against the table, looking intently at Dipper with that same knowing smile. "Or was it Thompson you had your eye on?"

"Oh my god, Mabel," Dipper sputters, unable to completely squash a laugh of his own at the face his sister makes. "Take off your matchmaker hat for five seconds, I'm not looking for an 'epic summer romance'. Neither of them showed up to hang out yesterday and Wendy was worried."

"Just those two?" Ford asks, quiet and serious. Dipper nods, and Ford frowns in thought. "Did you notice anything unusual about either of them during your conversation?"

"Seriously, poindexter? You wanna take a flashlight over there and shine it in their eyes?" Stan complains, then shrugs. " 'Cause if it'll make ya feel better, I'll hold 'em down for ya."

"Stanley, you're just saying that because you'll take any excuse to torment teenagers."

"Hey, I look at that as an unexpected bonus."

Dipper glances out around the side of the booth, but he can't see either Tambry or Thompson from where he's sitting. "I didn't notice anything," he says, at last, when he's sure he's not going to catch another glimpse and there's a break in Stan and Ford's good-natured bickering. "I mean, they both ordered huge breakfasts, but they're also both fifteen, sooo..."

This time, it's Ford who shoots Dipper a knowing smile, though it's far less smug than Mabel's. "Don't worry, my boy, you have more than enough time to hit a growth spurt."

"No way, José!" Mabel shouts, pumping a fist in the air. "Alpha twin for life!"

"Haha. Right. Keep gloating. While you still can," Dipper says, and Mabel sticks out her tongue.

Any further competition is cut short by the tantalising smell of fresh, hot pancakes wafting over the table. All four Pines look up to see Lazy Susan, loaded down with plates piled high with pancake stacks and a bottle of syrup.

A huge smile settles across Stan's face as his eyes land on her, and he reaches up to take the nearest two plates, passing one to Mabel. "Ahhh, a vision of loveliness. And you don't look half bad today either, Susan," he adds, his gaze shifting slightly from, Dipper realises, the pancakes to Susan's face.

"Oh, you old scoundrel," Susan titters, leaning over the table to set a plate of pancakes down in front of Dipper. Steam, barely visible, rises off the stack in little undulating waves, and Dipper's mouth waters.

"Oh, and this must be the mysterious handsome brother I've been hearing so much about!" Susan goes on, putting a platter of French toast and hashbrowns down in front of Ford with a smile and a flutter of her false eyelashes.

Ford's ears turn red. Stan clears his throat.

"We're identical twins," he mutters, and then, "Susan, doll, wouldja grab us some fresh coffee?"

"Coming right up!" Susan says. She pauses a moment before she turns to leave, though, and Dipper can see the thought drifting across her face. "Say, none of you all seen a white and grey tomcat around, have you? Mister Whiskers got out the other night, the little rascal, and I haven't seen him since."

Mabel and Dipper meet each other's eyes across the table, and Mabel shrugs.

"We will definitely keep an eye out for your cat, Susan!" she says, brightly. "Does he come when you call his name?"

"If he feels like it!" Susan laughs at her own joke - at least, she obviously thinks it's a joke. "Thanks, you folks."

She bustles off towards the kitchen. Stan's got half a pancake stuffed into his mouth almost before she turns her back.

"Slow down, no one's going to try to take it from you," Ford says, fond exasperation colouring his words as he pops open the cap on the bottle of syrup and pours a small lake into the middle of his plate.

It isn't until they're leaving the diner and Dipper glances over at the now-empty booth where Thompson and Tambry had been sitting that he figures out what had rubbed him wrong about their conversation earlier.

The whole time they'd been talking, he hadn't seen Tambry check her phone once.

...

Dipper starts taking notes. It's always been the best way to organise his thoughts, after all, and if he's going to figure out what's going on in Gravity Falls this summer, he's going to need to keep track of every detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. He digs out the scuffed blue notebook he's been using as a sort of journal, sort of place to record good ideas or locations for episodes of that ghost hunting show that he's really looking at making now that he has access to the photography lab and the school's A/V equipment, opens to a new page, and scrawls the date and time at the top in blue ink.

He's still slouched on his bed, gnawing absently at the cap of the ballpoint he's using to write with and drumming his fingers against the page, when Mabel comes barrelling in, followed closely by Waddles. Mabel starts yanking open drawers in the dresser and flinging clothes out onto the floor behind her, while her pig trots over to bump his head against Dipper's arm and grunt hopefully up at him. Dipper smiles, and interrupts his pen-chewing to give Waddles a scratch under the chin. He's never seen a pig look quite so blissful.

"Dipper, have you seen my disco ball sweater?" Mabel asks, over her shoulder, and Dipper shrugs, shifting to get both hands free so he can give Waddles a scritch behind both ears at once.

"Thought you left it in Piedmont with the unicorn sweater."

Mabel turns, her eyes wide and her gaze flat and dead, like she's looking through a thousand miles of space. "I would never," she says, her voice heavy with quiet horror.

Dipper shrugs one shoulder. "You can look through your sweaters again, but I'm pretty sure you decided you only had room for one more and brought the one with the tinsel sleeves instead."

Mabel looks like she's about to burst into a wail of despair, but stops, snapping her fingers instead. "The tinsel sweater! That'll work." She slams the dresser drawer shut and launches herself at her bed instead, dragging a straining suitcase out from behind the head of the bed with some difficulty. The lid bursts open when she hoists it up into the bed, and a riot of colourful knitwear explodes out.

"Mabel?" Dipper asks, giving Waddles one last scratch before picking his pen back up.

"Yeah?"

"You...you really haven't noticed anything weird about town this visit?" He gnaws on his bottom lip.

Mabel must hear something in his voice, because she drops the handful of sweater she's holding and turns to face Dipper, sitting down on the floor with her back leaning against the box spring and mattress that make up her bed. "Look, we all know you're a paranoid panda. We love you anyway. You wouldn't be Dipper without the occasional wild goose chase after something spooky and supernatural."

Dipper feels himself deflate. He looks down at the chicken scratch of a list scrawled in his notebook, chomps down on the end of his pen and just holds it between his teeth.

"Yeah," he agrees, hollowly.

"But!" Mabel says brightly, and Dipper looks back up, to see her holding up a sweater with a cartoon alien holding a bottle of soda on the front, emblazoned with the slogan 'Take Me To Your Liter'. "That doesn't mean I don't want to go chasing wild geese with you!" She frowns. "Hey, you've got a big nerd-brain, does that expression make any sense to you?"

"I've never really understood it either," Dipper admits, cracking a smile when Mabel bursts out laughing. She gives a little sigh as her laughter dies down, smiling up at Dipper.

"So, let's go chase a wild goose! Who knows, we might even catch one."

...

With Mabel on the case with him, Dipper finally starts to feel like he's making some progress. All they really do is hang out, bum around the Shack with Wendy and tease Soos about his new exhibits or go to the pool or the arcade like they always do or tromp around in the woods, but having someone to talk through all his thoughts with (or...at, Mabel's input isn't always helpful or on-topic, though she does bring him back down to earth when his theories start getting away from him) helps Dipper get a better grasp of what he's seeing, what he's looking for. And Mabel notices stuff that Dipper never would've, or wouldn't have thought was important, like how Nate and Lee haven't had one single run-in with Blubs and Durland since the twins got to town, or how Gompers the goat hasn't been around lately, or how Tambry's mom has started wearing really bold red lipstick. (Dipper's not so sure that last one's really relevant, but he dutifully notes it down anyway. When he looks closer, trying to figure out if he's ever seen her wearing lipstick before, he realises he's never really noticed how much alike Tambry and her mom look. Maybe it's something to do with the striking green of both their eyes.) His little blue notebook fills up in no time.

Unfortunately, what it fills up with doesn't seem to add up to anything. When it was just Tambry and Thompson vanishing and then turning up hungry, and a stripped skeleton in the graveyard, it was pretty easy to point to zombies. But when Dipper and Mabel tag along to the pool with the teens - the older teens - Robbie mentions that his parents never did find an escaped zombie. He vanishes with Tambry behind the storage shed after that, with a grin that says they're definitely going to make out.

Dipper doesn't get a chance to ask Robbie any more questions for a couple of days - he's a no-show for paintball the next afternoon, which Dipper tries very hard to pretend to be disappointed about. Robbie's a sore loser and an even worse winner. Tambry and Thompson team up against the rest of the group, their surprisingly flawless teamwork taking everyone down but Wendy, who emerges paint-spattered but victorious. Then the whole group haul their battered selves downtown for ice cream, where the cashier smiles and gives them a ten percent discount. She nods at Tambry and Thompson as they leave, like she knows them from somewhere, and they nod back.

"Okay, did that just happen?" Wendy asks, as they leave the shop, and Nate nods.

"She's usually such a grouch. Just because one time we thought it'd be funny to order all forty-two flavours in one cone."

Dipper pulls out his notebook.

...

The Shack is dead at ten o'clock in the morning, the early morning rush of people who plan their trips down to the minute having come and gone, the more sane population who sleep in on vacation not yet starting to trickle in. Dipper has set up camp on a stool by the cash register with a crossword puzzle book, facing the door so he's ready for anyone who might come in. Wendy slumps over the counter by the register, her face in her arms, and lets out the occasional groan. Mabel, sitting on the counter beside her, is busily braiding and unbraiding Wendy's long hair.

"Why are we even open at this hour," Wendy complains, and Soos, leaning against the counter in his full Mr. Mystery regalia, frowns.

"What if some, like, little orphan kids came from like, deepest darkest Canada and the only thing they wanted to see was the Mystery Shack and it was closed, dood? Do you want to be the one to crush the dreams of little orphan children?"

"Uuuuuuugh," Wendy growls. "Stan was a horrible boss, but at least he never tried to make me actually care about this stupid job."

"Why are you so tired, anyway?" Mabel asks, and Soos nods.

"Yeah, dawg, what's the dilly? Yo."

Wendy doesn't raise her head from her arms this time, her voice muffled against the wood of the counter as she says, "Stupid Robbie's been bugging me to come to one of his stupid shows for, like, ever, so I actually went last night and that jerk didn't even show up. We waited for like an hour, then the band came on and did two songs without him, and then they just left."

"Sounds like you kind of dodged a bullet there," Dipper says, and Wendy groans again before pushing herself up to lean heavily on the counter on one elbow, her face in her hand. Mabel's braid creations slowly unravel around her head, giving her a little halo of stray red hairs.

"Look, I know you two have your, like, blood feud or whatever going on, but Robbie's still my friend. I guess. And that band is, like, the most important thing in the world to him." She frowns. "He wouldn't just flake out like that unless something was wrong. And I've tried texting and calling him, but he won't pick up his phone."

"Did you ask Tambry?" Mabel suggests, shrugging at the state of Wendy's hair and starting to pick apart the braids she'd put in.

"Tried that. She keeps saying he's 'fine, but sleeping'. Like, is he sick? Were they out together last night? Where the heck would they have even gone? And if he's been asleep all this time she should maybe take him to a hospital -"

The bell over the door jangles, and all four people around the counter look up.

"...hi," Pacifica Northwest says, and coughs into one hand. "I wanted to see whether Mabel was up for a rematch of last year's minigolf game." She tugs at the hem of her sweater, a shaggy yellow monstrosity with a llama on the front that Dipper vaguely remembers Mabel having given to Pacifica sometime during Weirdmageddon. "Just for...fff...un. Fun. That's that thing where there aren't any prizes or trophies and nobody really cares who wins, right?"

"Absolutely!" Mabel shouts, leaping down off the counter. She charges up to Pacifica and slings an arm around Pacifica's fuzzy-sweatered shoulders. Dipper's seen boiled lobsters less red than the shade Pacifica turns. "Wait, didn't the Lilliputtians swear eternal vengeance against us after last time?"

“Oh, you didn’t hear,” Pacifica says, still red, trying very hard to sound indifferent. “When the minigolf course opened up again this summer, none of the mechanisms were working. The Lilliputtians were gone. The minigolf course had to buy all new machinery from out of state.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Dipper says, putting down his crossword. “The Lilliputtians are gone? Where’d they go? Why’d they go?”

Pacifica shrugs. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Those little golf-ball-shaped weirdos can stay far, far away from me forever if they want to.”

Mabel’s giving Dipper a weird look, a ‘don’t make this into a monster hunt’ look, but Dipper ignores it.

“Can I come with you?” he asks.

...

There are no Lilliputtians at the minigolf course.

There are no tiny alien creatures piloting half a man-suit in the bowling alley.

There’s someone different delivering the mail, a reedy person Dipper doesn’t recognise. They don’t have anywhere near as much body hair as the previous mailman. (Or body odor.)

There are a few gaping holes in the sap under the abandoned church, but no mysterious shadows swooping overhead, no terrifying screeches in the distance. No sign of dinosaurs.

The lake is still and silent.

...

After hours of looking for something, anything, to prove he hadn’t just dreamed the entirety of last summer, Dipper finally finds the Multibear crouched at the back of his cave, deep in conversation with his many heads as he tosses things - mostly rocks, from what Dipper can see, but then again, it’s not like the Multibear has a lot other than rocks - into a sack the size of a compact car.

“Multibear,” Dipper says, and the Multibear starts, banging his top head on a low overhang.

“Dipper!” he says, but takes a step backwards. Dipper freezes in the mouth of the cave. Some of the heads around the Multibear’s waist are baring or snapping their teeth in his direction, and his friend has crouched down, into a position that would be easy to spring from. It’s hard to tell - bear faces don’t exactly show emotion the same way human faces do - but Dipper’s pretty sure the expression the Multibear’s wearing right now isn’t one of unfettered delight. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“I wanted to say hi, I haven’t seen you yet this summer,” Dipper says, looking around. The cave looks, if possible, even barer than the last time he saw it. “Dude, are you packing up? Are you leaving Gravity Falls?”

The Multibear fidgets. “Not...as such,” he says, his rich, deep voice taking on a note of disappointment.��

“Seriously? Come on, tell me. What’s going on?” Dipper asks, wishing he sounded more like a cool action hero demanding information and less like an upset kid whining about something he doesn’t understand. “I can’t find any sign of any supernatural creatures around Gravity Falls this summer, it’s like you guys all just disappeared. And everybody in town is acting -” He struggles for words, and ends up just going with, “weirder than usual. And I can’t figure out why.”

Dipper’s not expecting the Multibear to heave a sigh of relief, and pad gently down the hall to drape one enormous paw over his shoulder. The paw swallows Dipper’s shoulder and nearly covers his arm down to the elbow, heat radiating out from it like a blast furnace. This close, Dipper can smell the gamey, musty scent of bear, strong enough to make his eyes water.

“Dipper,” the Multibear says gravely, “I am sorry to hear that the recent happenings in Gravity Falls have given you cause for concern, but I must confess I am glad to hear you questioning what is taking place. I must admit that for a moment, I feared -” He bites off the end of his sentence.

“Is that why you’re leaving?” Dipper asks. He’s not entirely sure what the Multibear’s talking about, but he has a strong feeling that he’s going to want to keep listening.

“I hope I am not leaving,” the Multibear says, “only retreating for a time. Something has emerged in Gravity Falls which has made it exceedingly dangerous for my kind.”

Dipper sucks in a breath between his teeth. There’s a chill in the cave, a damp breath from its depths that makes a shiver walk its way slowly down his spine. “What?”

The Multibear shakes one head, the brow of his main head furrowing. “I myself am not certain what, exactly, has occurred - or is occurring - in your town, but there are whispers throughout the forest, between those of us who know the ways of weirdness. I must warn you. Something very dangerous walks among you. It is a very old, very canny enemy, and it may wear the face of one you trust the most.”

“I thought we beat Bill,” Dipper mutters, and the Multibear gives his shoulder a short squeeze.

“Unfortunately, Bill Cipher is not the only evil in this world.”

...

“Whatsa matter?” Mabel asks, as she slides into the backseat of the Stanleymobile to nestle beside Dipper, motioning for Pacifica to follow. “You look like somebody just pointed out the ghost behind you.”

Dipper spins to look behind him so fast that his head throbs, and Mabel laughs, giving him a shove in the arm.

“I’m joking!” Her laughter dies away, though, when Dipper doesn’t join in. Pacifica pushes her golf clubs along the floor of the Stanleymobile, and Mabel unthinkingly lifts her feet to make room, not taking her eyes off Dipper’s face. “Seriously, bro, you look super spooked. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Dipper admits.

Pacifica slides into the seat beside Mabel, and pulls the door closed behind her with a solid, final-sounding slam.

“You don’t know?” Mabel asks, as she buckles herself into her seat, and Dipper shrugs.

“I mean, I know what happened. I’m not sure what it means, though.” Dipper tugs on his own seatbelt, before remembering he hadn’t taken it off when the Stanleymobile had pulled to a stop.

“Oh, well, that’s different,” Mabel says. “Grunkle Stan? Can Pacifica stay over?”

“Hey, it ain’t my house,” Stan calls back from the driver’s seat, with a shrug. Mabel takes this as a ‘yes’, evidently, judging by her squeal of delight.

“Thanks,” Pacifica says, trying to buckle her own seatbelt and fumbling it, painfully. Even though her face is pointed down, all her concentration apparently on the buckle, what Dipper can see past her probably-bottle-blonde bangs is bright crimson again. “I know you’re poor and everything so having an extra mouth to feed is probably a big strain on your resources -”

“Friendly advice? You should’ve stuck with just ‘thanks’,” Dipper interrupts. Pacifica shrugs, finally clicking her seatbelt into place and burrowing her face down into the collar of her fuzzy llama sweater.

“You kids all properly restrained and not likely to go flying through the windshield?” Stan asks, meeting Dipper’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Dipper nods. “Great! Now nobody’s rich parents can sue me if I crash their kid into a tree.”

The Stanleymobile peels out of the minigolf course parking lot at speeds that are probably unsafe even for drivers who can actually see the road.

Stan asks, with practiced casualness, about the game after about five minutes of driving, and Dipper lets Mabel’s excited - and, like everything else ever to come from Mabel, wildly embellished - blow-by-blow recap of the game, with colour commentary from Pacifica, wash over him, gently eroding the tight knot of panic still pulsing in his chest.

He digs in his backpack and pulls out his notebook, trying to take advantage of the dying orange glow of sunset to scribble down notes on everything he’s discovered so far today.

The Multibear’s warning still unsettles him. Dipper looks around, at Pacifica’s look of indignant embarrassment, Stan’s fond smile in the rearview mirror as he stares at the road, his sister’s happy, laughing face.

...it may wear the face of one you trust the most.

Feeling slightly sick, Dipper closes his notebook, and tucks it back inside his backpack.

...

He’s woken bright and early the next morning by Pacifica’s shriek.

Dipper tumbles out of bed half-blinded by sleep, and promptly trips on the blankets he’s somehow entangled himself with, slamming face-first to the floor. His jaw cracks against the bare wood, and Dipper smells copper, tastes it in the back of his mouth.

The pain hits him a moment later, when he’s unwound his legs from the blankets and pushed himself to his feet. He clutches his chin as he tears down the stairs, towards the source of the scream. If Pacifica’s freaking out because she saw a spider or a box of store-brand cereal or something, he’s going to be so mad.

But it’s not any of the above. Pacifica’s standing in her bare feet and one of the grunkles’ old t-shirts, which is obviously serving her as a nightshirt, in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes brimming with horror and one shaking finger pointing at the abomination that dominates the kitchen table. “What - what is that?” she demands, as Dipper skids on sock feet around the doorframe and into the kitchen.

Dipper takes one look at the half-formed thing on the table and breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s just one of Grunkle Stan’s taxidermy monsters. Soos was getting him to make a bunch while the Stans are inland, he’s tried to pick it up himself but Stan has more practice. And more ideas that don’t involve tentacles.”

“Taxidermy monsters?” Pacifica demands. She hugs her own arms as Dipper steps forward to inspect the thing a little closer.

“Yeah, Grunkle Stan puts them together out of bits of a bunch of different dead animals and then passes them off as nonexistent ones. They’re a big hit at the Shack.” There’s glue spread out across the table, glue and wire and foam and clay, little chisels and brushes and scalpels and needles and other tools of the taxidermy trade that Dipper is surprised to see surrounding the thing in the middle of the table. “I’m honestly surprised he actually knows how to use all this junk. I saw him staple the head onto one once. Not with a special stapler or anything, just an office stapler.”

“Where...does he get the...bits of dead animals?” Pacifica asks, her discomfort clear even as she takes a slow, careful step forward. Dipper notices that she keeps a wary eye on the thing on the table, especially the places where the fur peels back to reveal shining bone.

“Usually it’s roadkill,” Dipper admits, leaning in closer. The armature Stan’s put together has the thing standing a little like a velociraptor, and he’s pretty sure the hind legs are stolen from a chicken, but he’s having a little trouble identifying the animal that makes up the foundation of the made-up monster.

It takes him a moment to realise that the marks he’s seeing on the bones weren’t made by a clumsy taxidermist, but by teeth. Blunt, flat teeth.

“Usually?” Pacifica says.

“Sometimes it’s the carcass from last night’s chicken dinner,” Dipper admits. He gently tugs the fur down over the thing’s skull, noticing as he does how soft it is.

The animal’s pelt, once properly spread out, is tabby-patterned, in a soft grey and white.

“Think we found Mister Whiskers,” he mutters, under his breath.

...

Pacifica leaves around lunchtime, thanking Mabel and Soos in her awkward, halting way. Honestly, it’s nice that she’s trying, but it’s painful to listen to sometimes, especially when Pacifica starts offering to buy things for people ‘so you don’t have to live such sad, miserable, deprived little lives anymore’. Dipper retreats to the attic, to write in his notebook and to read over what he’s already written and to think.

He finds Stan in the kitchen, shortly after Pacifica’s left and Dipper dares descend onto the main floor again. Dipper was really looking for Ford, to hand over his notebook and talk about his observations, but this is a golden opportunity. Stan’s carefully and painstakingly reapplying the fur to the skeleton along the spine with glue, obviously deep in concentration. He doesn’t look up when Dipper walks in, just says, “Bump this table and I’ll stuff you instead.”

Dipper holds up both hands, palms out, taking a respectful step back. The smell of the glue that Stan’s using is foul and inescapable, and Dipper’s pretty sure he can feel it killing his brain cells. “Where’d you get the cat carcass from?”

Stan grunts, and then doesn’t make another sound. Just when Dipper’s starting to think he’s not going to get an answer, Stan says, “Found it. Dumpster by the minigolf.” He paints another line of glue, carefully sticks the very centre of the tabby stripe directly onto the bones. Dipper’s pretty sure that’s not how you do taxidermy, but then again, he’s never tried. “Seemed a shame to let good bones go to waste.”

“Was it just bones?” Dipper asks, watching as the skeleton slowly disappears behind its fur coat. He hadn’t noticed before, while Pacifica was still here, but there are large, roughly oval chunks missing from its pelt.

Stan takes a step back from his handiwork, surveying it thoughtfully with one hand curled around his chin. “Yeah, yeah. Bones and the pelt. Figured some amateur’d tried to stuff it proper, realised they had no idea what they were doing, and ditched it.”

“Did it occur to you that that might be the cat Susan was missing?” Dipper asks, and Stan finally turns that thoughtful gaze on him instead of the taxidermy creature. Dipper can't - doesn't want to - examine the rush of relief that floods through him when he sees Stan's eyes, the same old brown as always, no slitted pupils or eerie yellow glow.

“D’you wanna be the one to tell her?”

“No, I just -” Dipper’s tongue seems to shrivel up. “Wouldn’t it be rough on her if she came up here one day and -”

“Kid, none of the locals visit this tourist trap,” Stan scoffs, and then pauses, thinking. “Except the mayor. Really loves his pumanthers. Anyway. What’s with the sudden interest in taxidermy?”

“It’s...interesting?” Dipper tries. Stan snorts.

“Interesting, my Aunt Fanny. You chasing a monster, kid?”

Dipper rubs his upper arm with one hand. “I think so.”

“Well, don’t use this guy as bait.” Stan turns back to the taxidermy creation, sucks in a short breath, and then leans down to paint glue across a rib.

...

The last tour runs at six-thirty. The Mystery Shack closes at seven.

Grenda and Candy show up at seven-oh-one, with a large bag full to bursting with brightly-coloured snack foods, various cosmetics, DVDs featuring a generically-nonthreatening-looking forty-year-old actor wearing an overstuffed pirate costume, and something that looks suspiciously like hair dye lurking at the bottom. Mabel greets them at the door with excited shrieks and giggles, and then they all vanish upstairs with a lot of conspiratorial whispers and more giggles. Dipper would put ten-to-one odds that the next time he goes to use the bathroom up there, the sink will be stained neon pink and blue.

The attic will probably be occupied for the near foreseeable future, so Dipper takes the book he’s reading (by a former ghostwriter for the Siblings Brothers and Francy Clue, technically aimed at adults, but then, Dipper is pretty mature for his age, if he does say so himself) and heads down to the living room, to see what his grunkles and Soos are up to. As it turns out, they're sprawled in front of the TV, Stan slouched on the couch Soos had added after he'd taken over the Shack, grousing about a dropped stitch in the bundle of half-finished knitting that lies in his lap. Ford sits next to him, nodding along and holding the ball of yarn that feeds into to the thing taking shape under Stan's knitting needles with one hand while he thumbs through a well-read book with the other.

"Wow, Grunkle Stan, I didn't know you knit," Dipper says, pausing by the armchair Soos himself has settled down in, facing the TV set.

"Yeah, your sister gave me some lessons over the internet while we were at sea," Stan grumbles, not looking up from the...garment?...he's picking at. "Not a lot to do between monster attacks."

"It's 'over video chat', Stanley, the video chat merely uses the internet as a method of transmission," Ford corrects him, turning a page in his book, and Stan huffs.

"That's what I said, isn't it? Over the internet."

"You can just say 'on Skope', Mr. Pines," Soos says, and Stan drops his knitting in his lap, throwing both hands up in the air.

"Your sister showed me through the magic talking picture box, kid," he says to Dipper.

Ford and Soos share a long-suffering look, which Stan ignores.

"What're she and those friends of hers up to, anyway?" he continues, and then shakes his head. "Wait, scratch that, I don't think I wanna know. Just tell me if they're gonna want the TV and whether they got any good snacks."

"I think they're definitely going to want the TV," Dipper says. "What're you guys watching, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh." Stan glances briefly at the set. "I have no idea, kid, I've been fighting with this row for half an hour."

"The news ends in five minutes and then 'Resignation Street' comes on," Soos supplies helpfully. "Louise's ex-husband came back from Guernsey and now he's trying to get the pub closed down, and Geoff's stepdaughter ran away from rehab for her online shopping addiction on the night of Ted and Twyla's wedding. High drama, dood."

"...Think I'll pass," Dipper says, holding up his book.

"Actually, Dipper, I'd like to speak with you," Ford says, and then looks up from his own book and beams. "Oh! Catherine Sharp! She ghost-wrote 'The Table-Turning Turntable', didn't she?"

"Yeah! It's probably my, uh, second-favourite of the Siblings Brothers books?" Dipper agrees, flopping down to sit beside his great-uncle on the couch.

"Really? My favourite was always -" Ford starts, and Dipper joins him as he says, " 'The Puzzle of the Purloined Puzzle-box'!"

"Geez, you two, don't get nerd all over the couch," Stan grumbles, but he's smiling.

"The twist ending just gets me every time!" Dipper says, too excited to let Stan's teasing slow him down. "I mean, I never would've guessed that -"

"Hey!" Stan interrupts, suddenly gruff. "No spoilers, I'm only halfway through it."

"Stanley, you're reading the Siblings Brothers mysteries?" Ford asks, turning to face his twin.

"Yeah, and not a word outta you about it, Mister Smarty-pants," Stan snaps.

"I didn't mean to - I'm merely surprised. You always said you hated them." Ford raises an eyebrow. "And books in general."

Stan glares down at his knitting. "Yeah, well, I always said I didn't need glasses, neither, and look at me now."

"Hey, Mr. Pineses? They're signing off, Reggie'll be starting any minute now," Soos interrupts, drawing Dipper's attention back to the TV.

"Soos, how many times do I gotta tell you," Stan says, as the news anchor finishes his signoff. "I'm not your boss anymore, you can just call me Stan."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pines! It just feels...wrong."

"Was - was that Toby Determined announcing?" Dipper asks. "Wow, can't believe he stuck with that...Bodacious T thing."

Stan glances over. "Yeah, it's obnoxious and ugly, perfect for him." He squints at the screen as the first morose notes of the Resignation Street theme start to play. "Wonder what happened to that Shandra Jimenez, she sure was a lot easier on the eyes."

"Me too," Dipper mutters. "Grunkle Ford, are you really invested in this soap opera, or can we talk now?"

"Hm? Oh, yes!" Ford says, looking up from the screen. "Yes, I have some theories about the unusual behaviour you've noticed amongst the townsfolk -"

"You two are still on that?" Stan asks, and though he sounds impatient, sarcastic, Dipper thinks he hears a note of unease underneath it.

Ford ignores him. "But, first, I would like to know whether Cecil will be able to recapture Vicky's escaped alpaca."

"After the show, then," Dipper says, with a smile, and cracks open his book.

...

Cecil doesn't, as it turns out, recapture Vicky's escaped alpaca - instead, the alpaca turns up at Ted and Twyla's wedding, interrupting the vows to take a bite out of the bouquet. Mabel, Candy, and Grenda come stampeding downstairs shortly after that, shouting something that sounds vaguely like a sea shanty run through autotune. They enter into pitched negotiations with Stan and Soos over control of the TV set, and Ford motions towards the kitchen. He pushes himself up off the couch, leaving Stan's yarn in his abandoned seat, and Dipper follows.

The wall between the kitchen and the living room muffles the din somewhat, Grenda's impressive bass occasionally rumbling over the tinny music from the TV. The sun has just started to dip into the treeline, and the light pours low and thick across the table. With a little distance, in the reaching shadows and orangey light cast by early sunset, the cheerful noise of Dipper's family in the other room takes on an eerie quality. He catches himself thinking that, if he were directing a horror movie, right about now is when he'd start to fade out the voices from the living room and start to introduce some quiet, creepy strings to the score.

Ford’s face is solemn, his voice low as he lays the book he’d been thumbing through earlier out across the kitchen table. “Based on both the information you’ve provided and my own research and investigations, I have a theory about the cause of this unusual behaviour you’ve observed.” He presses a finger against one of the open pages of the book, right beside where Dipper notices Ford’s own handwriting filling the margin. “People disappearing, those who reappear coming back ravenous - for protein-rich foods, if your observations can be extrapolated - the appearance of carcasses with human bite-marks - the casual observer could be forgiven for mistaking this for an epidemic of zombification, but I believe it’s something more like - this!”

Dipper looks down at the page in front of him, his eyes widening as he reads. “You think there’s a wendigo in Gravity Falls?” He kind of wishes he had a pen to click. Or gnaw on. “Actually, that makes a lot of sense, they’re native to the area, aren’t they?”

“Yes, which would explain the warning you received from -”

“The Multibear!" Dipper slams both hands down on the table. “Okay, so if it’s a wendigo, how do we get rid of it?”

“Well,” Ford starts, bending over the book, and it’s then that Mabel’s voice rings from the doorway.

“And here you see two nerds in their natural habitat.” She grins at Dipper when he looks up, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the living room. “You guys wanna watch Pirates of the Theme Park with us? This’s the eighth and a half one, where Captain Jim gets kidnapped by mermaids!” She leans in closer, swinging from one hand that she’s hooked around the doorframe. “Mermando told me his cousin was an extra! She’s in it for about five seconds in the drowning scene!”

“Really? They hire actual mermaids as extras in Hollywood?” Dipper asks, and Mabel laughs.

“No, silly, she’s a porpoise!”

“Oh. Of course. That makes perfect sense. Of course a mermaid’s cousin is a porpoise.” Dipper shakes his head. “Gotta say, that makes a whole lot more sense though. Especially when you consider how terrible most movie mermaids look. CGI is not kind.”

“Yeah, they’re waaaayyy hotter in real life,” Mabel says. “So, you two coming or not?”

Dipper looks over, meets Ford’s eyes.

“We won’t be able to do much more tonight,” Ford says. “Research, perhaps. We’ll have to determine who the wendigo is, and whether they’ve passed the curse along to anyone else, and I need to refresh my memory on how to detect and properly destroy them. Until we know who we’re looking for, we can’t act.”

“I’m gonna pretend I understood any of that,” Mabel says, swinging back and forth from the doorframe.

“Grunkle Ford’s pretty sure that there’s a wendigo on the loose somewhere in town and that’s why we keep noticing weird - weirder than usual things going on,” Dipper says. “Do you have any idea who it might be? Seen anybody, I don’t know, handing out self-help books called ‘How To Taste Delicious’?”

Mabel laughs, and shakes her head. “You could start with Lazy Susan, her secret recipes are sure good at fattening people up,” she suggests. Dipper glances in Fords direction, shrugs.

“It’s as good a starting point as any.” Ford slams the book on the table closed, scooping it up. “I’m going to go retrieve my old research notes, I’m certain I have information about the established cryptids and monsters of the area from when I was writing my grant proposal.”

“I’ll look online,” Dipper starts, and Ford shakes his head, smiling.

“Unless Stanley or Soos have taken a notion to clean out the attic lately, I know exactly where my old notes are. And I think it might be a good idea to bring them down to review - in the living room, while we watch Captain Jim get kidnapped by mermaids.”

Mabel beams like a small sun. “Awesome!”

...

Wendy hasn’t arrived for work by the time Dipper’s ready to leave in the morning.

He tries not to dwell on it, but his eye keeps drifting back to the empty space behind the register the longer he stands in the doorway of the gift shop waiting for his great uncle, like it’s a black hole that’s swallowed Wendy up and is now trying to suck Dipper in too. It’s a relief when Ford finally pushes aside the vending machine, a big black case slung across his back by a strap that crosses his chest. He doesn’t say what’s in it, and Dipper doesn’t ask.

“I have a theory,” Ford says, as he crosses the gift shop. “About where the wendigo is hiding during daylight hours. But it will require one of us to go into the den of the creature itself to prove. I - I’m not going to bring you with me, this time.” Something like fear flickers across his face, so fast that it’s gone before Dipper can really be sure he’s even seen it in the first place. It’s replaced by a huge, cheerful, reassuring smile, one that even to Dipper looks unconvincing. “So I’m going to drop you off in town. If I’m not back to pick you up by sunset, assume the worst and avenge my death.”

“That’s...not exactly reassuring,” Dipper says, as Ford strides to the door and yanks it open, the chimes hanging over the door jingling merrily. Ford stops and looks over his shoulder, with another broad, sunny grin.

“Oh! And if I come back after sunset, I might be one of them. You might be able to tell by sprinkling me with wolfsbane and holy water, but that’s mostly for werewolves.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “Though if you’re that close and I am one of them, I will almost certainly try to eat you, which should remove all doubt.”

“Again, not super reassuring,” Dipper says, as he follows his great-uncle out the door.

He glances back one last time at the cash register, as though Wendy will have magically appeared there in the five seconds since he last looked, but the blonde wood of the Shack’s walls is the only thing that looks back.

...

They only make it away with the Stanleymobile because Soos shows up with a tour group just as Stan's starting to tear into Ford for trying to take his baby without asking. Dipper slips into the passenger seat and shuts the door as Stan's trying to argue that there's no way Soos can make him work register while Wendy’s away, he doesn’t even work here, also he is the one, the only, the original Mr. Mystery, he built this place from nothing, Soos -

Ford drops Dipper off at the diner, with another admonition to be careful, to watch his back. The sky is a perfect, crisp blue, the sunlight clear as crystal, but there’s a glacial bite on the breeze that makes Dipper shiver as he steps out of the musty, stuffy warmth of the car.

Lazy Susan looks up and smiles as Dipper steps through the door into the comforting smell of pancakes and bacon and maple syrup, setting the chimes jangling a cheerful discord. She’s not the only one. Half the diner’s clientele all look up with her, both familiar and unfamiliar faces smiling at Dipper with oddly placid expressions. He feels uncomfortably like he just stepped into a spotlight.

Thankfully, everyone but Susan turns back to their food and their quiet conversations as soon as the door slams behind Dipper. Susan waves, beaming, as Dipper cautiously crosses the diner to the counter, watching warily around him in case any of the unusually-interested diner folk spring out at him. There’s something different about Lazy Susan, about her smile, but Dipper can’t quite put his finger on what.

“Well, hey there! What can I getcha?” Susan glances back over her shoulder at the kitchen, smile dimming a little as she turns back to Dipper. “ ‘Fraid we’re running short on sausage and bacon, but I can do you a stack of pancakes - or maybe my special secret ingredient omelette?”

“Is the secret ingredient coffee?” Dipper asks, and Susan belly-laughs, before turning a mock glare in his direction.

“Now, who’s the snitch who told you?”

Dipper tries to laugh, but it comes out nervous and croaky. A couple of the people who’d looked up when he’d walked in are echoing Susan’s glare, and the back of his neck is prickling. “Lucky guess?”

Susan’s smile comes back bright as ever. The other eyes on Dipper don’t turn away, though, and the weird prickling on the back of his neck doesn’t go away. “Well, aren’t you Mister Smartypants! So! You want one?”

“Um, I’m good, thanks,” Dipper says. “Did - did you ever find out what happened to your missing cat?”

“You know, it’s the funniest thing,” Susan says, thoughtfully. “Mister Whiskers never did come back, and now all my other fur babies are missing.”

“I’m...really sorry to hear that,” Dipper says. “You seemed really upset about losing Mister Whiskers, this must be a huge deal.”

Susan shrugs. “What’s that thing they say about letting go of things you love, again?”

“I think they usually say ‘don’t’,” Dipper says. “You haven’t noticed anything...weird about anybody who’s come by the diner lately, have you?”

“This is Gravity Falls, hon,” Susan says, almost pityingly, then claps both hands together. “Are you making another internet television video?”

“Not...this time,” Dipper answers. He’s pretty sure it’s not just his imagination that more heads have turned in his direction, more pairs of unusually piercing eyes fixed on his face. “You’re sure you haven’t - you said you were running low on bacon. Who’s been eating all of it?”

“Everybody!” Susan says, delightedly, like it should be obvious. There’s something a little too earnest about her smile, a little impatient, strained at the edges. Dipper can’t remember if her visible eye was always that green. “Don’t you know, everybody wakes up hungry!”

Dipper takes a half-step back, bumps up against one of the stools along the counter. “Wakes up from what?”

“From sleeping, silly!” Susan laughs. She hasn’t moved, and, as far as Dipper can tell, neither has anyone else, but he still has the uneasy feeling that they’re closing in around him. “It’s actually very refreshing, you should give it a try!”

“Thanks, but, uh, I’m good,” Dipper says, trying to casually ease his way around the stool to back away across the diner. He’s not sure what, exactly, Susan’s referring to, but somehow he gets the feeling it’s not going to bed before ten.

He turns to go out the door and slams straight into a wall of pure muscle. Dipper looks up, and farther up, to the pair of sharp green eyes staring down at him over a bush of red beard topping a mountain of flannel. Dipper’s heart stutters in his chest for the skin of a second, before Manly Dan Corduroy gives a rumbly chuckle unlike anything Dipper’s ever heard from him before and steps out of the way, holding the diner door open for Dipper as he does.

“Come back soon, hon,” Susan calls, and, when Dipper turns, lifts her drooping eyelid with two fingers and lets it drop again. “Wink!”

Dipper’s halfway across the parking lot before he slows down, before he really even registers that he’s running full-tilt across the cracked asphalt.

He could swear that, when he’d looked back, something under the skin of Susan’s face had shifted.

...

Going back through town is strange, now.

Dipper feels jittery and jumpy, like he’s had too much caffeine or too little sleep or a combination of both. The light is bright and stark through the scraps of cloud that hang around the horizon like they’ve snagged on the tops of the trees, and shadows hug the sides and corners of buildings, dark and sharp, like they’re waiting to pounce. The afternoon heat is starting to build, but a shiver works its way down his back anyway. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, feeling eyes fixed on him. He never actually catches anyone looking, but - but.

Dipper’s looking back, trying to work out if the man he can see in the window of the mattress store is really watching him. He’s not looking where he’s going.

The collision takes him by surprise, knocking him back off his feet. He hits the sidewalk hard, hissing as his elbow scrapes against the sidewalk, the rough grit stinging as it tears his skin.

“Hey, watch it, kid,” a familiar voice snaps, and Dipper looks up to see Robbie frowning down at him. Beside him, Tambry turns to glance down at Dipper as well. Her green eyes are almost luminous under the shadow of her bangs.

“Oh hey, you’re bleeding,” Tambry says, her gaze locking onto Dipper’s elbow.

Robbie’s eyes follow, like mirror images of Tambry’s, and linger hungrily on the trickle of blood working its way down Dipper’s arm, flashing an eerie green in his sallow face.

Dipper claps a hand over the scrape, backing away as he scrambles to his feet. “It’s fine, it’s just a scrape!”

Tambry looks questioningly at Dipper, but when he takes another step back, she shrugs and flops an arm loosely across to hit her boyfriend in the chest with the back of her hand. “Well, at least apologise, loser.”

Robbie rolls his eyes, but he says, “Sorry I ran into you or whatever.” They step around Dipper, starting to walk away, but Robbie looks back over his shoulder, pointing one finger straight at Dipper’s nose. “But seriously, watch where you’re going, you little -”

“Robbie.” Tambry hooks a hand into Robbie’s hoodie strings and hauls him around to walk beside her. A moment later, her hand drops to interlace her fingers with his.

Dipper keeps backing away from them, before he realises he’s one hundred percent more likely to bump into someone else that way. He spins, just in time to see the Stanleymobile pull up to the curb alongside him. Dipper hurries over, heaving a sigh of relief as he throws open the passenger-side door. “Great-uncle Ford?”

Ford’s face is grim, and he waves Dipper into the car with a motion that’s almost frantic. “Dipper, get inside. Quickly!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Dipper says, sliding into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him. Ford doesn’t wait for him to finish buckling his seatbelt, but peels away from the curb with a squeal of tires, his mouth set in a grim line and his eyes fixed on the road. “Whoa, have you been taking driving lessons from Grunkle Stan?”

Ford, if he even hears Dipper, ignores the question. “I need to get back to my lab as soon as possible. It appears that I have...gravely misinterpreted the nature of the threat.”

“I was sort of starting to think our wendigo theory might be a little off-base,” Dipper agrees, finally clicking his seatbelt into place as they take a corner on what Dipper’s pretty sure are only two wheels. “What’s the rush?”

Ford turns to look at Dipper for the first time since Dipper got into the car, staring intently at Dipper’s eyes. He turns back to the road, apparently satisfied, just in time to swerve around a deer that darts across the road.

“Our explorations in the alien spaceship last summer appear to have disturbed more than just the security drones,” he says, at last. “I can’t be certain just what we’re dealing with until I run further tests, but - I believe I have the source contained in the trunk of this car.”

“Seriously? Oh man, Grunkle Stan’s really gonna kill us,” Dipper says.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the stains will come out of the upholstery - and even if they don’t, I’m not certain they’ll make any noticeable difference to the relative cleanliness of that trunk,” Ford says, leaning forward over the steering wheel to peer out the windshield at the trees lining the road. Dipper looks out the passenger window himself, thinks he sees figures flicker past between the trees as they drive past.

“What’re you planning to do with it when you get it back to the Shack?” he asks, watching as the trees flash by.

“With any luck, I should be able to determine just what the creature has done to the residents of Gravity Falls who’ve been affected,” Ford says. Dipper glances over, notices the needle on the speedometer edging up towards eighty as they fly around one of the road’s many curves. “And with that information, I hope to be able to develop a cure.”

“A cure? What do you think -”

“I don’t know.” The words seem to drag their way out of Ford like they’re anchored somewhere in his lungs. “But I intend to find out.”

...

Ford goes straight to the basement as soon as they arrive, carrying something that looks like a cross between a proton pack and a vacuum cleaner under one arm and striding like a man on a mission. Stan, slouched on the stool behind the register, watches the vending machine door slam behind Ford before turning to Dipper. “No luck with that...wendigo problem you two were nerding out about last night, huh?”

“It wasn’t an wendigo, it was aliens,” Dipper says, unable to look away from the flickering fluorescent glow that illuminates the brightly-coloured foil wrappings of the vending machine’s contents.

“Ah,” Stan grunts, sounding uncomfortable. “Well, whatever it is, hope he fixes it fast. This place needs its real cashier back.” He grumbles, in an undertone he almost definitely doesn’t think Dipper can hear, “Bein’ on till again’s bringing back memories, sure, but I’m not so sure I want ’em.”

Dipper walks over to the vending machine, feeling a little like he’s walking up to the guillotine, and punches in the code to open the hidden door. “I’m gonna go see if I can help Great-uncle Ford,” he starts, and then pauses when the door doesn’t open. “Um, did anybody change the code on this thing?”

“Not that I know of, kid,” Grunkle Stan says.

Dipper gives the vending machine door a tug, but it stays stubbornly stuck in place, like it’s - “Grunkle Stan, does this door lock from the inside?”

“If it does, only my nerd brother’d know about it,” Stan says, and then meets Dipper’s eyes. “Look, kid. Dipper. It ain’t anything against you.”

“Isn’t - Grunkle Stan, he just locked me out of my own investigation!”

Stan shifts uncomfortably on the small stool, scratching at his back with one arm. “Look, I might still not remember much about - about the end of last summer, but I know it got pretty bad for a while there.” He breaks eye contact, clasping both hands in front of him and looking down at them. “I know I never wanna see you kids in a situation like that ever again, and I don’t even remember the half of it.”

“I can handle myself!” Dipper argues. “I did handle myself -”

“I know that,” Stan says. “Hell, I’d be surprised if anyone in this town didn’t know that. Just -” His speech trails off into frustrated silence, before he finally says, “Just don’t go borrowin’ trouble.”

Dipper glares up at the glare of the afternoon sun across the glass face of the vending machine.

He still tries the code one more time before he gives up and heads for the attic, just in case.

...

Ford doesn’t come up for dinner.

He doesn’t come up for Resignation Street, either. When Soos finally suggests that maybe Dipper and Mabel should think about pyjamas, dawgs, and Stan shoos them both upstairs to brush their teeth, Ford still hasn’t emerged from the basement.

Dipper can’t sleep that night.

He lies wide awake, his eyes open, staring at the beams that stretch over his head on the way to the peak of the roof, listening to the sough of the wind through the branches and smelling the faint scent of pine and clear water on the cool night air that seeps through the open window. Sometimes, if he’s very still, he thinks he can hear the occasional faint hint of a crash or thump, but it’s impossible to tell from the attic whether the sound is coming from the basement or somewhere outside.

No matter how deep and slow he breathes or how many prime numbers he counts, sleep still seems to hover just out of Dipper’s grasp. When he does manage to snatch handfuls of oblivion, they’re full of green eyes peering at him from the dark line of trees surrounding the Shack, and he always wakes startled and disoriented and more tired than before.

The room sinks slowly from blue dark into the silvery shadows of midnight, and then into the velvet-soft blackness of early morning.

Wendy comes in to work that morning, after pale lavender dawn has spilled across the sky and the whole family (minus Ford) have eaten their way through a foot-tall stack of Stancakes and Mabel has asked Dipper ten times or more whether he’s all right. She shows up exactly on time, for once, her thick red hair pulled back in a fat braid and a broad, genuine smile on her face.

“Hey, dude,” she says to Dipper, who’s just settling down by the register with his crossword puzzle and definitely not staring expectantly at the vending machine. “What’s up? Soos in yet?”

“He’s just suiting up, he should be right -” Dipper looks up from his crossword puzzle (which he was definitely looking at, and not the vending machine, by the way), and his words shrivel and die in his throat.

Wendy looks back at him with acid green eyes, her smile slowly fading into confusion. “Dipper? You planning to, I dunno, finish that sentence?”

“You,” Dipper croaks. He swallows, hard. It drags down his throat, suddenly dry, like sandpaper. “You’re - you’re one of them.”

Wendy blinks. And then she smiles.

“Yeesh, dude, chill out,” she says, walking over to drop her bag on the counter beside the register and vaulting over it herself. “You sound like you’re in some kinda cheesy B-rated alien invasion movie.”

“Because I kind of am!” Dipper protests. Wendy leans down, rummaging under the counter, and straightens up with her name badge in one hand, carefully pinning it to the front of her flannel shirt. She lets out a long sigh, leaning her chin in one hand as she stares at Dipper.

“Dipper, seriously, stop freaking out. The hive’s not gonna hurt you.” Wendy glances upwards, towards the ceiling. “Where’s Mabel, anyway? I’ll show you guys -”

“You’re not touching my sister,” Dipper blurts, before he can think that it might be a bad idea to challenge Wendy, before he can think at all. It just feels like a volcano erupted in his chest at the same time as someone dumped a bucket of ice water over him, and he doesn’t know what to do with the resulting reaction. He reaches out and grabs the broom that Soos keeps asking Wendy to put away instead of just leaning behind the register, nearly smacking Wendy in the head as he pulls it free. “Get out of my house.”

Wendy’s brow furrows in apparent exasperation. “Okay. Well, in case you’re having, like, a Stan moment, I do still work here.”

“I don’t care,” Dipper says. His heart is jackhammering in his chest, and everything feels strangely light and far too heavy all at the same time.

“And Soos is a lot nicer than Stan ever was, but I don’t think even he’d be thrilled if I just don’t show up for work two days in a row,” Wendy says, still in that calm, totally reasonable tone of voice, like Dipper’s the one who’s acting weird here.

“Just get out,” Dipper demands, brandishing the broom. The corners of his eyes feel threateningly hot, and he squeezes the broom handle in both hands until he’s pretty sure he’s in danger of giving himself splinters. “Get away from my family.”

Wendy just looks at him, that poisonous green stare blank and impassive.

“Fine,” she says, at last, just when Dipper’s starting to think that he’s actually going to have to fight her, trying to psych himself up for the fact that he’s almost certainly going to lose. “Okay, man. If it’s such a big deal to you then I’ll go.” She pushes herself to her feet, points a finger in Dipper’s direction. “But you’re covering my shift.”

“Fine,” Dipper agrees. Relief crashes over him, threatens to sweep him away. “Just - go.”

Wendy holds up both hands, palms out, like Dipper’s brandishing a gun instead of a broom. She gathers her bag back up, and turns and walks out the door.

Dipper runs over and slams the gift shop door behind her, shooting the deadbolt with shaking hands. He sags against it as soon as it’s locked, and rests there for a moment, just trying to catch his breath.

...

He tries the vending machine again.

It still won’t open.

...

Dipper runs into Stan before he finds Soos, still suiting up for the first of the morning’s tours. He’s pretty sure he just confused Stan with his incoherent babble, but he doesn’t have time to go back.

“We can’t open the Shack today,” Dipper yells, skidding around the corner into Soos’ room. Soos turns away from the mirror he’s using to straighten his bow tie, and Dipper can’t put into words the rush of relief that floods him at the sight of Soos’ familiar, warm brown eyes. “We can’t let anybody in - we have to lock down the Shack, it’s the only way.”

“What’s going on, dawg?” Soos asks, and Dipper babbles again, spilling out the story of the strange green eyes and the weird ways people have been acting and Ford and the alien and Wendy and -

“Okay, dood, I believe you,” Soos says, and his expression is so thankfully serious that Dipper believes he means it. “You should go tell Mabel about this, I think she was gonna go to the pool with her friends today -”

Dipper’s off before Soos finishes speaking.

He’s running out of steam, just a little, by the time he makes it up to the top of the attic stairs. The bedroom door is closed, and Dipper throws it open, ignoring the way it bangs against the far wall. “Mabel! We have to -”

He stops.

Mabel’s sprawled out across her bed, face-down. It’d almost look like she was just sleeping in, if it weren’t for the fact that Waddles isn’t curled up next to her, and the fact that she’s already dressed in a skirt and purple sweater, and the fact that she’d been at breakfast with the rest of them, and the fact that the one of her feet that’s not dangling off the side of the bed still has a shoe on it, and the fact that her face is in her pillow and Dipper can’t tell if her chest is moving.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t have enough air left in his lungs to scream.

“Dipper,” Ford says, sounding surprised, straightening up from where he was bent down removing Mabel’s other shoe. He smiles fondly down at her, reaching down to brush a lock of her long brown hair away from her face, and Dipper sees with a firework-burst of relief that her hair flutters in front of her open mouth in regular time with each breath.

Dipper drags in one huge breath of his own, lets it out, takes another.

He wants to tell Ford all about Wendy, about how far the - whatever this alien creature’s doing - has spread, how much danger they’re all in, wants to ask about how Ford’s research has been going and what he’s learned and whether there’s any hope of saving Wendy and the rest of the town and themselves. But something holds him back.

“What are you doing?” he asks, instead.

“If you’re worried about your sister, don’t be. She’s perfectly fine,” Ford says, still not turning to face Dipper. “This exhaustion is completely natural and expected in the early stages.”

Dipper feels like his feet are growing slowly into the floor. It takes a gargantuan effort to take one slow, shuffling step backwards. “Early - what did you do to Mabel?”

“Exactly what I said I meant to, my boy,” Ford says, like he’s talking about a particularly interesting extradimensional phenomenon he thinks would interest Dipper or about how he thinks he’s finally made all the necessary modifications to the television set to keep it from dropping the signal every single time it snows.

Dipper manages another shuffled half-step backwards, and then can’t move any more. He can’t look away from Mabel, peacefully passed out across her bed, from her shoe discarded on the floor from when Ford had stood up. For that split second when Dipper had walked in, before he’d noticed everything that was wrong with the picture, it had almost looked like their great-uncle was tucking her in.

Ford finally looks up at Dipper, his smile broad and proud and innocent, his eyes blazing unnatural green. “I cured her,” he says, matter-of-fact, and then, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit. It might itch a little, though.”

Finally, finally, Dipper’s feet seem to dislodge from the floor. He turns to run, but a six-fingered hand wraps around his upper arm, pulling him up short. Dipper spins, lashing out with his free hand, but even though the punch connects with Ford’s chest, it barely seems to faze him. Ford just looks pleased and proud and a little wistful. “Did Stanley teach you how to throw a punch?” he asks, grabbing Dipper’s other wrist. His grip is like steel. “Looks like his style.”

“Let - let go of me!” Dipper yells, kicking frantically out.

It doesn’t make any difference. A cloud of something silvery-green drifts down to settle around his head, something that stings the insides of his nostrils and burns the back of his throat when he takes a sharp breath in. Dipper coughs, trying to hold his breath, but the stinging only spreads.

His limbs are all starting to turn to water. From what seems like an impossible distance, he thinks he hears Ford say, kindly, “Don’t worry. Everything will look better when you wake up.”

Then everything goes black.

#this is mary's fic tag #gravity falls #honestly my every attempt at making straight horror has failed so I'm saying this is Weird Fluff #body horror+family bonding!#so uh this one got a little wildly out of hand #to the tune of 15k #and this is only the first part

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