#This is an interesting part of this interview

[bean-spring]

I just want to make clear for some people in the tags and comments that I don't entirely agree with the first animator's statement because the wording is plainly vile and disrespectful to Mel.

I think I get what he wanted to say but to use "cover" implies to do it consciously, and although I do believe Jayce's feelings for Viktor overlapped the ones for Mel at some points, his relationship with her was pretty much real and something outside Viktor. I'm not making a whole text on this because I could talk about this for hours, but "Jayce's relationship with Mel was real and something that had nothing to do with Viktor" can coexist in the same world as this hypothetical/headcanon of him being gay and/or projecting his feelings for Viktor onto her. Because if that's the case it'd be an unconscious decision and their relationships would still be individual things with their own depth. To erase Mel from the equation completely is not okay and you can acknowledge that at the same time as you say "well he was projecting feelings for Viktor onto her too".

At the same time, now that we're at it, the Sky thing I agree with but to not mention Viktor's obvious guilt and care for Sky individually (having nothing to do with Jayce here and only the dynamic he had with her) is also something I don't like. Bc it minimizes the importance and impact of her character for Viktor too.

This Arcane Animator talking about Jayvik and Jayce's dynamic with Mel will forever be my roman empire

"Man [Jayce] hooks up with her [Mel] and then just dips and goes to Viktor. I think if you ask me, it seems like Jayce has a preference, for sure"

"Do you think the whole time he was with her he was thinking about his boy? That's why it cut back to his boy?"

"I don't know if I can say anything but-- I think I know which one he's chosen. Jayce and Mel is just a cover. We all know Jayce really loves Viktor. Come on, it's love"

"I think it took him to having sex with her to know he really loved Viktor"

Not to mention this talk about Viktor's relationship with Sky

"It's a callback to what he used to have with Jayce at the beginning. That was sort of him putting that relationship he had with Jayce into the Sky character"

[acid-ixx]

mea culpa (again &. again mini chapter)

tw: allusions to self harm, depression and suicidal thoughts. sensitive content ahead. this happens in between the end of chapter 3 and start of chapter 4.

if you were to describe the first few years at the manor, the first word that comes to you would be...

well, regret.

at every attempt, at every woeful request, and the rejection that follows. their distant stares, as if looking elsewhere other than you, or the way some wouldn't even acknowledge your name, or presence; it would've devoured anyone else's hope, would've been an already telltale sign that they had no interest in the likes of you.

invitations to spend time with them, to hopefully gain insights about their interests— just for that sliver of desire that somehow, someday you wouldn't have to constantly be on your knees, asking pleases in the sweetest tone a six year old like you could muster to a butler who had more important duties to attend to other than a desperate child wanting to spend time with their family.

when you lose something dear, you begin to desire that very same treasure lost. your mother is no more, her kisses were no more, her lingering touches long since disappeared.

it's only after a few weeks did the grief register within you. only then did the desire to recreate all those soft moments with her manifested into the threshold of your mind; clawing, hungry appendages that disguise itself as innocent ambition ready to hurt you.

all you simply wanted was to meet your father, to see him outside of camera flashes, or in news channels and interviews that only capture one part of him. you wish to see the man idolized by hundreds of civilians for his charitable actions, admired by thousands; a man who you were lucky enough to have as a father.

the very same man who, after having to take you under his care after news about your appearance sparked traction in media— was never in the same room as you.

and if he was? he'd be gone as soon before you could quickly greet him with a hello.

you remember those days, though. the first time where you'd get to pass by your... dad.

a lonesome afternoon, with a storm transpiring outside, the thick gusts of air and heavy rain thumping against the expanse of windows. it was only a quarter to six, yet the scene outside portrayed a sky far darker the shade of blue, and looked almost as if it was midnight. only the dissonant patterns of beating rain guides you to wander around listlessly with nothing to do; bored and delirious after a day of simply being... alone.

but the erratic noises didn't stop you from ceasing in your steps upon the sight of the man, standing in a room and looking out. his silhouette casting against the chandelier's orange light.

it was enough to stumble over, and do a double take at the man in front of you, only a few feet away, before coming closer to his distracted form to further take in his features.

how tall he actually was, towering over your impish, malnutritioned body like a wall. slicked, black hair, some strands loose and freed. his was more intimidating in person. gruff voice you've never once heard on tv, demanding control and respect. thick arms that contrast your sinewy ones, with veins that protruding from jagged skin; all hidded with fancy business suits and a charismatic smile that beckons your eyes to look upon his face instead.

he was handsome in person, more regal than the street thugs you've seen out the windows of your apartment windows. and, for a second, you couldn't believe that this was your father, standing in a room looking as if he could be painted then and there; your fingers buzzing to catch your hands on your sketchbook to draw every detail of the man in question.

your father, your dad, your papa that you've always marveled upon. now standing right before you like a statue concocted by a renaissance artist.

though the most important aspect of your father is his piercing blue eyes. brighter than anything you've seen before, yet duller than the bleak colors of the manor's wallpaper; gazing endlessly outside with no acknowledgement of the way you shake, or how the thumping in your

after one year of begging alfred to see him in person, you get to see him now on such an unannounced day.

yet you're happy all throughout. because he's here now and that's all that matters to the mind of tiny you, gasping and exhilarated to near tears.

fingers shaking, eyes never ripping itself from the man who's stripped you away of all words you wished to say.

it's as if he fits within the gothic setting perfectly. hell, even annunciating its splendor; the sharp edges on his face that are perfectly shadowed by the lack of illuminated, yellowish light, his stiff posture surveying the room, and muscled form speaking volumes of how much he truly acts as a pillar of support for the city.

safe to say his beauty was ethereal.

seeing him up close was far ever a better spectacle. you weren't just enamored; you were in every bit frozen in your stance, burning the memories of your first union with him into every crevice of your mind. dumbfounded, breathless, and buzzing with ecstasy of being face to face with a man your mother must've loved.

after all, he wasn't just one of the kindest souls to bless all of gotham, he was more than that. he was, in most important of details, your father.

a father you haven't seen, nor met, in the first years of your life.

yet those same eyes squint at something, anything else, and never once looked down at you, who modestly tries to pull at his loose house wear to capture his attention after moments you were locked in place. too small, too stubborn and young to understand why his gaze never wandered below and kept to his thoughts instead.

"papa!" you call out to him in a high pitched voice with a wide smile, trying your best to overpower the sound of the raging storm outside. your actions prove fruitless, yet you still attempt to make him snap out of his trance, jumping and shivering in near childish excitement.

and this was all you needed: a single grunt in response was enough to make you all the more feel ecstatic. it washed away your prior somberness at the weather since you're unable to play in the garden, and was replaced with overpowering fulfillment to a single noise he produced.

it never once crossed your mind that the grunt you thought he reciprocated wasn't acknowledgement of your actions.

no, it was merely him seemingly too preoccupied at the thought of his dead son; mind lost, and with no direction to take other than the grief that's still instilled into the pools of his deep, blue eyes.

it never once occurred to you how he hasn't looked down at all, or heard the wispy intonations of your voice blending into the faint, whimsical tune of jazz music that does the least to ease the pain eating away at his chest every time he's given a moment alone to ponder ever-so deeper into his current world of worries.

a world where you don't exist, and you've never once come to realize that until it was too late.

whilst you were busy admiring every side of your father, the good and the bad, you were ignorant to the unforeseen implications of how he never reciprocated the love you've shown him that faithful day; forgotten and buried under lonely silent walls and echoing halls that could only echo a figment of your voice.

when he had left the room and you to find tim, you were left to your own devices once again. yet at that time, you simply bounced with joy and jumped to the nearest couch, allowing the delusions of an improving life shackle you to the deepest of regrets after.

and despite everything, the manor was colder still. and it is cruel and unforgiving to a child like you.

others would've given up, others wouldn't even try so hard after the first failed attempts.

but you? you just weren't them, and you continued trying, one after the other attempt all failing miserably; your first mistake, yet never the last.

it went on like that for 13 and a half years.

these occurrences where you thug at the fabric of the adults roaming around the hallways, only to be ignored or downright rejected. dick broke his promise about visiting your room a second time, but you still chose to bother him every time he comes to visit for anybody but you, tim was no better and preferred to keep his space all for himself; accustomed to the life of a being a single child and preferring it that way, alfred had butler duties, and secret identites he had to tend to every night, and your father was... just that.

thirteen.

an unlucky number in some cultures, a number that was too long when translated in the language of time.

a decade, and nearly a half spent trying and failing. even then, everything you do amounted to nothing. every sweet smile, every baked treats long discarded in the bin, every longing gaze, and effort to set about physical affections for people who were more like strangers to you than family.

strangers under the same roof, living and thriving whilst you wait for admission to be accepted into their comfortable circles and inside joke that raptures from their luminous eyes.

you remember every single moment you had when you were in close proximity with your siblings, and the moments they exactly leave and forget you were even besides them in the first place— quietly humming as if understood that you didn't wish to disturb their presence with yours, but happy enough that they could at least tolerate you.

even if that tolerance stems from the mere fact that you were akin to a ghost in their ever-so busy eyes.

even so, you still remember. young and forgiving, spite a foreign emotion on your tongue, not until you've met the youngest of your lot which would only be after a few years, when you were too late.

you remember the faint elation that courses off through your veins every time alfred promises to get you at least a sliver of meeting bruce again— but even that has barely any updates, you've long since given up the hope that you would see him beyond his busy days.

and you remember it very clearly when dick first introduced you to your room, the sheer brightness that emanates off of your idol, the curls of his hair that flow like ocean waves framing his chiseled face; and his smile, a grin that sports the brightest of teeth, which brings warmth that makes you forget why you were even taken in the first place, replaced with whimsy and giddiness that you get to meet your favorite person in the world, second to your mother.

the way his bright blue eyes contrast with bruce's, seemingly sunnier, more kinder in its approach that makes you drown deeper into the same gaze that forgets you a day after.

and those memories were stored in your heart, both good and bad, kept under lock and key to both haunt and tempt you throughout the entire months you had to deal with the loneliness clawing in your heart.

the pain was surreal every time you reminisce upon the windowsill, watching distantly in the garden that stretches far beyond thick fields of trees, flora and fauna; as tim spends his waking moments with his new group of friends who all praise the colorful array of bloom planted root-deep with love, and care and perseverance— all with soft, vibrant petals and sturdy stems that were a product of your hard-earned labor.

nobody truly acknowledged it was you who planted all those colorful arrays of flowers.

yet you remember everything, or at least recollections of when and how you came to realize just how truly invisible you are to the world.

the hope that flickers within once someone sets their eyes on you, family or friends. the heartbreak that settles within every fiber of pallid skin and sinewy bones every time those eyes leave your form after the slightest of seconds; you remember them all in record time and run to lock yourself in your room to write all these instances in an endless supply of diaries documenting just how miserable you truly are.

no matter if it pains you, and rips at the edges of thinly lined paper stained with black-inked pen writing down your harrowing rants; bleeding into the pages just like how your emotions run deeper than depression and ebbing anxiety.

dates were plastered as both a reminder and punishment for you to reflect upon— on all your wrongs, and ways on how to better yourself so someone, other than alfred, could finally acknowledge you for more than a few seconds.

you remember everything, you were sure of it, but not the first time you purposely drew blood from your skin, or when you contemplated ending it all.

maybe it was all stemming from pressure, or the constant subjection to emotional neglect paired with no support system helping you handle your instability to control your emotions.

or it came after you had first met damian, with your youngest brother threatening you with a damn sword that nicked your skin; making it his mission to torment you consistently your entire life. pushing you down the stairs, calling you and your mother names; a disgrace, mere baggage to the wayne's reputation— even if you glare at him with the slightest bit of bite does he retaliate with an even stronger approach. until you give up, until the fire in your eyes are washed away by the current of dizzying turmoil. until you couldn't even look at him eye-to-eye anymore, ignoring the wide stares he gives you and the way his hands reaches out to you after you run to a different room from his presence alone.

or it all probably fucking started when the lump in your throat had refused to go away, when the heavy boulder you call your heart weighs you down to watch in a corner as yet another member gets introduced into the family, when jealousy raptures and seers into your veins at just how easy...

how easy it is to actually integrate your presence into the wayne family, so why couldn't you?!

a week after you were integrated, it was tim who was welcomed warmly, who fits in so perfectly like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle whilst you were considered an exclusion, an extra who doesn't don a fucking cowl every night, who couldn't in your damn life break every bone and return in one piece, serving as a symbol inspiration for the media to set its eyes upon, and your smile most definitely doesn't brighten the entire room.

you're nothing compared to them.

to try so hard, to fail all the same— as your achievements, your successes and milestones all amount to nothing but heartbroken expectations and a pat of pity from your butler.

the hurt piles, and piles, and piles itself until the colossal infrastructure falls and obliterates around you in its torrid pits of flames and carnage, until glass shards erupt and pierce at your skin until it reaches bones— much like the blades you store and use to butcher skin until it turns into an unintelligible mess of bloodied lines flimsily slashed across the expanse of your body.

like an artwork, a canvas that pictures slaughter in the wake of tragedy. with blood that seeps and stains into the crevices of everything it touches, with you as both the painter and the muse of the chaos you chose to wreck upon yourself.

thick ropes, pill bottles, bottomless water, and sharp blades; they all became topics of interest within the pages of your flabbily designed sketchbook. there was a period of time where all you could do was subjecting each blank slate of ivory sheets with stabs of pencil lead and ruined brushes every time you handle things too roughly. you'd clench into whatever you're holding, and bite at your teeth until it draws blood that drips on grayscale sketches portraying you meeting brutal fates.

and it always ends in your ripping those sketches apart whilst curling in on yourself, pulling at unkempt hair and scratching at hollow, sunken cheeks.

with screams unheard, silent and voiceless through the halls of the manor you once considered a home— like a ghost with no words that come out its mouth, a robot with no voicebox, a doll whose mouth is stitched shut.

it was always silent every night, but the voice of doubt was always louder, and it beckons you to hang yourself, to end your life and to never look back at their wide grins as they spend yet another night together.

it convinces you to write a note for each and every member of the family, to bid them farewell and pass to the world; even if those letters would forego the same fate as you— neglected, stored at the dustiest corners of the room.

you're hurt, both inside and out, alone and deserted with only your thoughts; loud and unforgiving, terrible yet comforting. you feel hurt, at dick's broken promises and sideward glances, jealousy at jason's hold over bruce even after years of his death, spite at tim's brilliance and all the friends who come over at the manor, as if taunting you of his social privileges, and fear for damian to spring up against you, to kill you with his blades and serve your cold body upfront on top of the dinner table.

and you were hurting all the damn time. if not physically, then mentally and emotionally. you allowed the invisible shackles to scar you, trapping you with spikes constantly piercing through your organs. you let yourself be a victim to the past, subjecting yourself to punishment by remembering your mother, sprawled all across the floor in crimson carnage— as you're taken away from her by policemen scouring the area before you could even run to her limp body. it was enough to tempt you to draw sharp object on your skin, condemnation for a life that shouldn't be saved— you would've preferred if your mother lived, rather than you. she had so much more to do with her youthful life, you had nothing.

life was unbearable, you were always teethering on the edge of a cliff suspending in thin air; choosing to run for either hill, holding a string ready to break, for safety always required great risk. one you'd rather jump off of than expend anymore energy of your already weary life altogether—

until you had decided to change the course of your life. until, one day, through gradual thinking and contemplation, that they were the main source of your torment. that you needed to say goodbye, you need to live to honor your mother.

that was the only ideal part of your twisted world. all for your mother, who had sacrificed herself, her kind heart, all to keep you safe and contented.

when you had made the ultimate decision to move out of the manor, throwing away your past life and moving on with a different chapter, you thought your habits would've ceased. that you're cured, that nothing stands in the way of your developing independence and uprising confidence.

you are free, unchained to both the confines of your emotions and the neglect of your family.

happy, content, and living the best of your world despite the financial circumstances and... overdue bills. either way, you're satisfied and that counts. counts for the six-seven months you were away, meeting new friends, ignoring the prying eyes of a certain individual always watching you from afar, as you party and drink and come to only regret not staying sober the day after.

you were at your peak.

feeling the best of all worlds.

at least, not until dick's sudden messages flipped a switch, into a dormant part of your mind, adrenaline surging through your veins, your vision flooded with similar images of your past: of eerie hallways and lonely birthdays. those memories taunt you, and dick's gleaming pair of ocean eyes, that once bring comfort into your oblivious brain now traps you in his spiteful gaze.

and you really, genuinely thought you were no longer in need of anymore pain.

yet you were always wrong. of course you always are.

you're just you, remember?

now, in your current apartment, you stand hidden in the safety of your bathroom, staring at the mirror without thought, with only resignation; unprepared at your family's plans to take you back into their caging arms, but ready for the blade to once again reunite with the familiar lines long healed.

all to wash away your regret.

reblogs, and most especially comments and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: sometimes, the pain you bear is too much to handle alone. sometimes, it can manifest through physical means to overpower the anguish that hurts you from within. but that doesn't mean going through the notion is deserved; nobody should ever resort through hurting themselves. when writing this, i was projecting all my emotions into the mc. in truth, as much as i love goofy drabbles, or write for the pleasures of myself and others; that doesn't change any problems i have at all. chronic depression is a pain in the ass. releasing my emotions through writing helps me a lot. and i hope that whoever reads this little drabble know that this is a love letter both to me for how far i've come, and the readers who've supported me with comments and praises that helped me go through the day. i've nothing else to say, i feel indifferent to the draft.

[imblueeforyuu]

Yandere naga x janitor reader 

You were broke, living in a car and constantly having to take odd jobs was the norm. It wasn’t that bad actually, living in a car means you can pack up and leave whatever city you're staying in anytime. But recently you’ve gotten a job offer no one can refuse. 1000 a week to clean some snakes' cage for some billionaire. And that’s the only description  you got for the job. But damn you’d be a fool to refuse. So of course you took the job, and now you were at this gigantic mansion. 

You felt out of place. Everyone had their own uniform with the name embedded into it. And you were stuck in your cheap ass clothes. Looking at the walls you notice way too many paintings of mythical creatures. Like one or two is already a creepy amount, but this person had hallways on hallways of art of such creatures. There were none of the billionaires, which was odd, aren’t rich people supposed to be super egotistical and have one to many art of themselves? A butler led you to A fancy door, was the reptile in there? 

“The master is just in there ready to ask you some questions,” the butler said blankly. Oh, an interview, right. Dang you're not ready for an interrogation. Sigh. You walked into the room to see a very burly woman and a big ass glass wall which seemed to have the enclosure of the snake behind it. 

“Oh, you're the new piece of meat.” She smirked. What an odd way to describe you. But for 1000 a week you’ll take any abuse. The woman got up and started to examine you. You froze, you don’t really like people in your personal space especially like this. 

“Hm, you're perfect,” the lady said. So does that mean you got the job? Yaya!

she handed you a broom and sent you on your way into the enclosure. When you stepped in it was like transporting into the deep jungle. The sky was eerily realistic, there were little animals and bugs scuttling around. But no snake yet, not that you minded you’d prefer to do the job silently and quickly. Unfortunately your boss said no phone, so you couldn’t listen to music. 

Your job went as quickly as it could. You didn’t run into the snake at all which was strange because you thought it would be pretty big but apparently not. Whatever, you walk out of the cage and into the office room. Seeing your phone grabbing it and walking out of the office, the harsh reality of the never ending hallways hit you as soon as you walked out of the room. Thankfully there was another butler looking dude, dusting. You walk over towards him. He seemed shocked to see you. But got over it as soon as you asked for directions. Now you finally get to relax. The next day was pretty much the same thing. There was no snake and you just gotta chill, you convinced your boss to let you listen to music.

A month passed and you were 4000 dollars richer! And with the added bonus of free food you were finally closing a deal on a real house, well apartment. You’ve also done your job too many times. It takes like an hour max to fully clean the cage. Which is perfect because you’ve taken on a new hobby called sleeping in the cage. How could you not? It was so peaceful the sound of crickets chirping always lulled you to sleep. But one day your peaceful sleep was interrupted by an overgrown snake. 

   “Stupid human falling asleep in my presence, does he know who I am?” I said. Hating humans was always a part of who I was. Taken from my home when I was just a child and sold off towards a crazy old woman who I’m pretty sure wants to fuck me pretty much solidified that hatred. but gosh I couldn’t kill it, it was kinda cute. I slithered towards the human who was taking a nap. 

Towering over it I pause, I’ve been having trouble killing this exact human.  Normally I would eat them whenever they turned their back. But this one was different. Like there was a force pulling me closer to him. so I’ve just taken to staring at him. He’s so interesting looking, I reach my hand out and touch his hair. The human twitches slightly, I quickly pull my hand back and before I was able to hide back into the bushes he noticed me. 

Your eyes widened, why the fuck is there a 8ft snake monster just staring at you. Backing up quickly, the snake comes closer to you glaring. It looked like it wanted to murder you, and it probably did. The snake man lunged towards your neck and bit it. You scream and try to push him off. But it didn’t work. He was just a wall of mussels. Now you are a pretty strong guy. You go to the gym every other day! But this guy was on a whole different planet! You still try and push him off of course but whatever he bit you with was starting to make you sluggish and you fall back asleep. 

You wake up in a cold sweat, you try to stretch and move but something is squeezing you. Thrashing around as soon as the dread of being touched all over set in, you hated when people were too close but touching is on another planet of hate. 

“Stop struggling human,” a voice hissed out. quickly you turn your head to see whatever was holding you so close. It was the snake man. 

“There’s no point,” he continued, stretching his arms. “You're stuck with me forever,” he smirked.

 Oh well guess this is your life now, stuck with a ginormous snake man who hasn’t quite figured out the concept of personal space. 

[runninriot]

Backstage Romance (I Want It Bad)

written for @steddiesongfics

song: Backstage Romance (Moulin Rouge! The Musical) | rated: E | wc: 7.018 | tags: Rockstar Eddie Munson, Manager Steve Harrington, Famous Corroded Coffin, secret hookups, dom/sub undertones, angst, smut, ambiguous/open ending | complete fic on ao3

-----

Eddie is buzzing, high on adrenaline like always when they’re playing a show. He’s still not used to this, it’s still something he can’t quite wrap his head around – to watch people dance and sing along to their songs, to hear their roaring applause and deafening whistles, to know they’re here for them.

It’s electrifying.

A fucking dream.

They’re still considered newcomers but Corroded Coffin are finally climbing their way out of the gutter; they’re making it, step by step, and one day not too far in the future, they’ll be on top.

It’s all Eddie ever wanted, all he and his best friends have always fantasized about back when they were still a bunch of loser kids dreaming of becoming rockstars while terrorising Gareth’s poor parents (and the whole neighbourhood, really) with the horrible noise coming from their garage.

The dream is reality now, success not only a possibility but a fact. It would be poison for Eddie's already too big ego but thankfully, there's always someone bringing him back down to earth when he gets carried away.

They’ve got a label now, signed record deal and all and-

   “Great show, guys! The people seemed to really love the new song.”

Yeah, and that. They’ve got a manager now, too.

Steve Harrington.

The guy whose appearance makes him stick out like a sore thumb from the sea of blacks and greys and dark reds around him. The guy who doesn’t look the part but actually likes what they do. The guy who doesn’t give two fucks about what others think of him because he’s not here to make friends, he’s here to do his job. And he’s pretty good at that.

Good at a lot of things.

At first, Eddie hated the idea of having a fucking babysitter on tour with them. Someone to watch their every move, someone to keep them out of trouble (where’s the fun in that?), to make sure they don’t fuck up their reputation. Someone to handle all their business affairs for them, as if they couldn’t take care of it themselves.

Now, Eddie’s actually glad they have someone to deal with everything – from interview requests and setting up their tour schedule to negotiating their contracts and booking their gigs. Steve handles it all, allowing the band to enjoy the fruits of their labour without having to deal with the annoying parts of being in the music business.

And that should be all there is to it. Just a business relation based on what’s in the band’s best interest.

But it’s not.

Not behind the curtains, backstage, when no one is looking. Where, hidden in dark corners, Steve and Eddie share a secret.

A secret that could ruin it all.

Because it’s unprofessional, could get them both in trouble. Could get Steve fired, possibly. Maybe even put Eddie’s – if not the whole band’s – career on the line if the public ever found out about it.

But that just makes it even more thrilling.

Eddie has always been drawn to that, the forbidden, things that could cause irreparable damage. And throughout his life, he’s come to ask himself more than once if this is really worth it. If it’s worth risking it all just for giving in to his reckless impulses.

But the answer has always been the same. Now even more so than ever.

He knows it’s wrong, dangerous, a game he shouldn’t be playing because playing with fire will get him burned.

The problem is that he’s a sucker for the pain.

And being ruined by Steve Harrington is worth everything.

-----

continue reading here

[viceroywrites]

deja vu - part six (stan route)

planning out your road trip through the pacific northwest, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the town of gravity falls.

little did you know that this town held more memories than you could have possibly imagined.

too bad you didn't remember any of them.

stan x fem!reader / ford x fem!reader

choose your own adventure / contains fluff and angst (w/ happy ending)

part five | part seven

interested in the ford route? click here for masterlist.

tag list: @awitchersbard | @theilluminatidragonqueen | @jazzypop-op | @jonndoe | @chaimshelii | @starship606 | @swimmingrascalbatdragon n | @stanfordsbaby | @gxstiess | @skrunkle11 | @valinbean | @funkyenby | @therealgoofygoober69 | @theblueraven | @adrian920155 | @im-kinda-bored | @miarabanana | @leo4242564 | @soupieoopieisloopie | @marvelous-maniac | @opossumclown | @m4x-3dw | @nothingbutcloud | @reivelmin | @grimometry | @walmartjim | @reiofsuns2001 | @bunni-teeth81 | @satorisgirl | @pen900 | @creat0r-cat | @lackingoriginalthoughts | @fries11 | @sunniskyies | @policedeer | @sadslasher13 | @kittenlover614 | @margibees | @lunnybunny12 | @the-hufflebird-girl | @sawendel l | @shamrockfish | @atseoks | @luckybatbones | @ryuyukawa | @mekkori | @bigbodycity | @kawaii1369 | @333brat333 | @styxxcrossing

The drive back to the Mystery Shack was a bit tense to say the least.

Stan and Ford had both agreed to not mention your dream to the kids, not wanting them to worry but immediately, Mabel and Dipper started to pick up on the tension between you and Ford.

The pair watched the two of you, eyes darting back and forth over their cereal, ate out of plastic cups as you both tried to avoid interaction with one another as much as possible.

The tension became apparent when you asked Dipper to switch to the front seat when Ford slid into the driver’s seat, offering to drive back since Stan was sleep deprived.

Due to the lack of sleep over the past two nights, both you and Stan knocked out in the back next to Mabel, the only sound echoing through the car was Stan’s snores.

Mabel breaks the awkward silence, “Are you and Y/N fighting, Great Uncle Ford?”

Dipper looks up from his book, back at his sister, “Mabel..” He mutters, not wanting to upset Ford even further than he already seemed.

“It’s alright, Dipper. You and your sister are much more perceptive than I give you credit for.” Ford glances back at Mabel who stares back at him in concern, “We’re… at a bit of an impasse, Mabel. Y/N got a painful memory back last night and I’m giving her some space as she processes everything.” Ford explains.

“Did you two get into an argument or something? Is that what she remembered?” Dipper asks.

Ford hesitates, not wanting to mention Bill at all after what they went through last summer, “Something like that..”

The two decide to drop the matter for now.

As Mabel looks through the photos she had taken during their camping trip, she glances to the side briefly when she hears Stan’s snore stutter. Usually, she would nudge him awake, thinking he was choking in his sleep. Instead, she blinked owlishly at the scene before her. Your head had slumped to the side in your slumber, landing on Stan’s shoulder. A bit of drool leaked from your mouth onto Stan’s shirt yet her uncle was still fast asleep, snoring away, with his head atop of yours.

‘Y/N has been a lot more comfortable with Grunkle Stan compared to Grunkle Ford. But that would be devastating for Grunkle Ford…’ Mabel muses before snapping her fingers and rummaging through her bag to pull out a tween magazine she had buried at the bottom.

‘A good ol’ compatibility test should prove that Grunkle Ford and Y/N are a perfect match!’ Mabel grabs a glittery pen and flips to the dog eared page, smoothing out the wrinkles on the paper.

“Mind if I ask you a couple questions, Uncle Ford? It’s.. uh… for a summer project of mine to interview a family member.” Mabel comes up with a fabricated excuse, causing her brother to glance back at her skeptically. She quickly hushes him with a finger over her mouth and he sighs, putting in his earbuds and going back to reading his book, accustomed to his sister’s antics.

“Sure, go right ahead, sweetheart.” Ford says, appreciating any type of distraction from the worries he had circling in his brain about the memories you were going to uncover tonight.

“What adjective best describes you? Smart, Cute, Flirty, Goofy?” Mabel asks, pen hovering over the bubbles.

“Well.. that’s a bit of an odd question. Smart probably is the most accurate descriptor for me out of all of those.” Ford hums.

“Got it. Next question, what do you look for most in a partner? Humor, A Killer Smile, Quick Wit, or Positive Attitude?” Mabel decides to skip over the option ‘A Six-Pack’.

Ford raises his eyebrow, “What class is this for, Mabel? These questions are quite peculiar.”

“It’s… uh for my Science class. We’re learning about the science of attraction!” Mabel comes up with hoping Ford will buy her answer.

“Huh, fascinating. The curriculum they’re teaching the youth nowadays is a lot more diverse. I probably could have used a class like that growing up…” Ford mutters mostly to himself.

“Quick wit. I value a mind that can keep up with me.”

“Interesting… Now what animal resonates with you the most?”

- You were woken up with a gentle shake, your eyes fluttering open. You’re greeted with the sight of the Mystery Shack with Dipper and Ford’s backs disappearing inside, carrying their backpacks and gear. Letting out a yawn, you’re about to sit up but pause, feeling the weight of Stan’s head still atop of yours. Your eyes flick over to Mabel who attempts to wake her Grunkle but with no success.

You decide to pull your head out from underneath Stan’s, feeling slightly embarrassed at the thought of how long you two were leaning on one another for. This causes his head to toss suddenly down, jolting him awake as his head whips back up, “Wha-? Where are we?”

“We’re back home, Grunkle Stan. Your snores were practically shaking the car.” Mabel teases her Grunkle before her eyes look over at you.

You see a certain look in her eyes and can’t help but gulp.

You knew you were in for a Mabel interrogation session.

Did Ford tell the kids about your dream?

You barely understood what was going on - how were you supposed to explain this to a 13-year-old?

“Y/N, I wanted to ask you a couple questions for… a school project.” Mabel says with a grin that you can’t fathom saying no to.

Stan glances over at you and chuckles, “Trial by Mabel again… good luck, toots.” A warm hand encloses over your shoulder, patting it in a mockingly sympathetic manner.

“How about we head inside first, Mabel?” You say with a tired smile.

Surprisingly, said interrogation was not about your first encounter with Bill. Instead, it was a quiz straight out of a teen magazine.

‘Huh, somehow I thought this would be way more intense.’ You think to yourself as Mabel finishes the last question, sitting on the floor in front of your air mattress.

“Hey… are you mad at Great Uncle Ford, Y/N?” Mabel asks, putting her glittery pen down to look up at you with a concerned tilt of her head.

Ah, there it is.

“Mad isn’t really the right word.” You explain, trying to find an accurate descriptor for your feelings towards Ford at the moment, “Frustration fits a bit better. Mix that with a good amount of confusion and that’s how I feel towards your great uncle right now.”

“You think you’ll be able to forgive him?” Mabel questions, “Grunkle Ford kinda gives off a prickly cactus vibe when you first meet him but he does have a softer, less prickly side.”

You laugh at Mabel’s comparison, envision a cactus with Ford's nose and glasses, “I guess that fits him, doesn’t it?”

“I really hope I can, Mabel. I still don’t know what your Grunkle did that led to us going our separate ways but I definitely don’t want to be holding a grudge forever.” You admit as honestly as you can.

A knock on the closet door interrupts your discussion, your voice telling the person on the other side of the door to come in.

Stan opens the door, “Is the interrogation over? Is it safe to come in?” He jokes, eyes flitting between you and Mabel.

“I don’t know, am I done, Mabel?” You ask, glazing down at the pre-teen who nods, “Yup, got all the information I needed!”

“Mind giving us some privacy, pumpkin? The adults gotta talk about adult things.” Stan asks his grand-niece and Mabel grimaces, remembering the birds and bees conversation Stan had with her in Dipper’s body last summer.

She quickly takes her leave, thanking you before shutting the door behind her.

Now it was just you and Stan.

“So what adult things do we need to discuss, my fellow adult?” You say teasingly.

“Hey, you try to find a better way to ask your niece to leave to have a private conversation without getting a billion questions asking why she has to leave.” Stan scoffs before his expression looked a bit more serious.

“Ford told me you wanted to break into the museum tonight to maybe find more of your memories.” Stan pauses.

You notice his reluctance, “Is breaking and entering against your moral code?”

“Of course not, I’m all for breaking in, but… you sure you want all your memories back all at once?”

“I mean yeah, why not?” You say, wondering where Stan was going with this, “Who knows how long it’s going to take for these memories to come back organically, especially since Ford has nothing from our time together?”

“Guess that’s true…” Stan mutters, not considering that he had a lot more to work with to bring back his memories compared to you, “Listen, I’m just speaking from personal experience here. I know ya got a time limit compared to me but it gets pretty overwhelming getting a ton of memories back to back. Just… pace yourself, if it gets too much tonight, okay?”

Despite your initial skepticism, you see the genuine concern in Stan’s face. You knew that while you had a few years of memories to get back, Stan had 60 years worth of joys and sorrows all flooding back to him at different stages. You were still determined to get as much of your memories back tonight as possible, but you better understood the potential pain and confusion that came at the cost of that.

“I’ll try…” Your answer doesn’t give Stan full certainty but he recognizes that’s the best he can ask for at this point.

“Well, I’m gonna catch up on some more sleep. The real reason I came in here was Ford wanted me to tell ya that the museum closes at 10 PM so we’ll head out at 11 PM, don’t forget to wear all black.” Stan reminds you, heading towards the door. You were slightly perturbed by the fact that Ford was using Stan as a messenger of sorts. You recognize you had asked for space but this was a bit much.

“I’ll remember to bring some black gloves too.” You say jokingly.

“I mean if you’ve got 'em…” Stan says with a shrug, having a pair himself that he was going to wear.

He sees your surprised expression, “Oh.. you were joking. Forget I said that.” He says, closing the door behind him.

Meanwhile, Mabel stares down at the results of the compatibility quiz in her and Dipper’s room in the attic, having compared you and Ford’s answers.

40% - Good friends but not much more.

“That can’t be right… they should at least have a 70 or 80% compatibility rating for them to be soulmates!” Mabel says in shock, her pen running across the pages to make sure she tallied up the scores correctly.

Dipper looks up from his journal, halting his own writing, “Ya know, it’s been almost thirty years since they dated, Mabel. People can change, maybe they just aren’t compatible anymore.”

“But Dipper, I failed at matchmaking for Grunkle Stan last summer… I was really hoping I could find a match for Great Uncle Ford and Y/N seemed like a perfect candidate.” Mabel sighs, flopping back down onto her bed and burying her head in a pillow. “Maybe Great Uncle Ford’s match isn’t even human. He did date a siren at one point.” Dipper points out.

On his way up to his room, Stan stops at the twins’ room, giving a courtesy knock before opening the door. He sees Mabel buried in her pillow and glances over at Dipper who merely shakes his head in response, a silent way of communicating ‘It’s complicated.’

“Hey kiddos, me, Ford and Y/N are going out later tonight to hopefully find some of Y/N’s memories back in the old museum. Soos and Melody will be in charge if you need anything.” Stan announces nonchalantly, leaning against the door frame.

Mabel sits up, “You guys going on an adventure without us?”

“Why can’t we come, Grunkle Stan? We’ve been down there before last summer, we can help you guys search.” Dipper protested.

“Hey, this isn’t an adventure - I’m just tagging along to help break in, and keep your Uncle Ford and Y/N from fighting.” Stan puts his hands up defensively, “Besides, you kids gotta remember that they didn’t end on… the best terms to put it lightly. Y/N’s might have a lot of not so great memories with your Uncle Ford that I don’t think either of you want to see.” Stan explains with a slight sternness to his voice.

The two twins look at each other, knowing Stan only uses a serious tone when he means business before nodding in understanding, their prior protests gone.

“Alright, your Grunkle’s gonna take a siesta before another late night. I swear I haven’t stayed up this late in ages.” Stan is about to take his leave before Mabel stops him in his tracks.

“Wait, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel calls out, causing Stan to pause at the doorway and groan over the fact that he was being kept from the sweet solace of his bed.

“Can I… ask you a couple questions too?” Mabel asks, clutching the magazine.

‘Maybe there is something there.’ Mabel thinks to herself, recalling the last few interactions you’ve had with her Grunkle Stan.

“I swear I think you’re starting to get a kick out of interrogating people, pumpkin. Someone's gonna recruit you for the FBI someday."

-

Your fingers ran over the ink of your journal, looking through the pages of the dreams you had cataloged over the past twenty plus years.

Tonight was hopefully the night you would uncover the meaning behind them.

Slipping the journal into your black fanny pack that you are thankful you packed, you close the door of your room behind you, decked in all black attire. You pass by the living room on your way outside, seeing the peaceful scene of the twins watching Duck-tective with Soos and Melody in the living room before making your way to the front door of the Mystery Shack.

As you step out into the cool summer night, you see Stan and Ford already standing outside, their deep voices bickering. Both wearing all black attire with gloves. They practically matched aside from some clear stylistic differences in their tops - Ford wearing a black turtleneck and trench coat and Stan wearing a black t-shirt and black leather jacket.

“Stanley, if we just bring a pair of bolt cutters, that should be enough to just cut off the lock.” Ford argues, holding up the bolt cutters.

“When you’re breaking and entering, you want to bring as little equipment as possible - otherwise, you might leave evidence at the scene. Besides, you’re the one who said you needed me to tag along for my lock picking skills!” Stan protested.

“Am I interrupting something?” Your voice cuts through as you approach, causing the two to whip their heads around and fall quiet out of embarrassment.

Ford clears his throat, “No, we were just discussing the best method of getting into the museum.” It was the first time he had spoken to you since this morning, and the tension between the two of you was still present as he redirected the conversation back to Stan as he brushes past you to put the bolt cutters back inside, “We should probably get going, I’ll concede and let you pick the lock.”

The three of you piled into El Diablo, the twins sitting in the front and you sitting in the back behind Stan. Stan toyed around with the radio, the music filling up the awkward silence. You glanced over at Ford who had a steely look in his eyes, quickly averting your gaze when he saw you looking in his peripheral, taking a look himself.

Stan’s eyes flicked between the two of you in the rear view mirror before letting out a heavy sigh, “You know, this night’s gonna be a lot harder if you two knuckleheads can’t at least talk to one another. I know I’m supposed to be the mediator here, but I can’t translate silence.”

“Stanley, I’m just giving Y/N the space that she asked for.” Ford mutters defensively, his arms crossing in an almost childlike manner. “She said space, not a cold shoulder, Poindexter.” Stan points out before glancing at you through the rear view, giving you the floor to speak up.

“We do have to communicate… you’re really the only person who can help me understand my memories.” You admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “I can’t promise that I won’t get upset tonight, but I will at least give you the opportunity to explain everything before jumping to assumptions.”

Ford glanced back at you, a sense of relief washing over him, “Thank you… I hope tonight gives you some type of closure depending on how deep we get into your memories.”

Stan’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the sound of you and Ford putting aside the tension for now to address the issue of your memory loss. The rest of the drive goes smoothly for the most part aside from the twins’ usual bickering and bantering.

Once Stan parks in front of the museum, Ford quickly steps out to scout the area for any cops or security while you and Stan wait in the car. “Already doing a great job as our mediator.” You mention with a grin to which Stan rolls his eyes, “Please, I was just pointing out the obvious. I can’t do much mediating if you two aren’t even talking.”

“By the way, these are for you. Need to make sure we don’t leave any prints behind even though I’m doing the lock picking.” Stan reaches into his jacket pocket before fishing out a pair of black gloves and handing them to you. You look between Stan and the gloves before taking them from his hand, your fingertips brushing briefly as you do so. “They might be a little big… they’re an extra pair I have.” Stan admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, I appreciate it either way. Thanks Stan.” You say with a soft smile, sliding the gloves on. Ford raps his knuckles on the glass, signaling the coast is clear. He eyes the gloves on your hands briefly when you slip out of the car before addressing Stan. “So how do you plan on picking the lock?”

Stan pops open the trunk of his car, pulling out a briefcase that contains all the tools of the trade that he has used before in his many years on the run. “Ford, could you go and check what kinda lock is on the door?” He asks his twin as he rummages through the briefcase. Ford walks off again to assess the entrance and your eyebrow raised, “Does it matter what kind of lock it is?”

“Well yeah, you got your deadbolt locks, padlocks, mortise locks, cylinder locks. I know how to break into all of ‘em… except those new-fangled locks that you just put in a bunch of numbers.” Stan explains before glancing over his shoulder as Ford calls out ‘Padlock.’ “Oh this’ll be easy then.” Stan pulls out two small tools before pocketing them and beckoning you to follow him.

You’re not sure whether to be concerned or impressed by Stan’s vast knowledge of lock-picking, but you’re grateful for it the moment the padlock comes loose, dropping onto Stan’s hand. “Great work, Stanley, that went much quicker than I had anticipated.” Ford says, pulling a flashlight to illuminate the dark museum as the three of you slip inside, shutting the door behind you.

You gently nudge Stan on the side, the two of you trailing behind Ford who leads the way, “Nice work, you gotta teach me how to do that one day so I don’t have to call a locksmith whenever I accidentally lock myself out of my place.” Stan’s chest swells with pride from the praise, “Well, it’s pretty simple, I’ll give ya a tutorial before you head out of town.”

Making your way through the museum, the figures and masks that adorn the walls and space looking creepier in the dim lighting, Ford searches for the room full of eyes that Dipper had mentioned to him during their encounter with the Society of the Blind Eye. “Hey Ford, mind explaining how my memories would be in this museum?” You ask.

“Would you believe me if I were to tell you that Fiddleford started a cult?” Ford lets out a dry chuckle at the statement, glancing over his shoulder to see your look of disbelief. “You’re gonna need to elaborate on that one, Sixer.” Stan pointed out. “Honestly, at this point, I would have believed you if you told me that you and Stan were actually clones more than that.” You scoff, causing the brothers to laugh.

“When Fiddleford first invented the memory gun, I had warned him about the potential risks it could pose if it fell into the wrong hands. Unbeknownst to me, Fiddleford continued to use it to deal with his anxiety. After…” Ford paused, clearing his throat of the nervous lump that got stuck, “After the two of you left, Fiddleford created what he called the Society of the Blind Eye. Its sole purpose was to help the people of Gravity Falls cope with the weirdness they witnessed on a daily basis by forgetting.” You stop in your tracks, your brain seemingly buffering. Just when you thought things couldn't get stranger, there was always something that caught you off guard.

“Excuse me, one second.” You announce, walking away from Stan and Ford into another exhibit away from them.

Ford looks at Stan in confusion before both of them jump at the sound of you exclaiming.

“What the fuck?!”

You walked back into the room, letting out a sigh after getting that out of your system, “Alright, let’s keep moving.”

Ford and Stan look at each other and Stan pats Ford’s shoulder sympathetically, “Better get used to that, I have a feeling that’s gonna happen a lot tonight.”

After following Stan and Ford down a pole that Ford had insisted lead to where the memories were stored, your eyes widened, taking in the sight of a room full of capsules with different names laid across the floor, and a statue of a figure in a cloak at the center of the room.

The Hall of the Forgotten etched above the entryway.

“Jeez, how many minds did that old hillbilly erase?” Stan comments, kicking aside a capsule that rolls across the floor.

“I highly doubt this was all Fiddleford’s doing. Apparently, when his mind was gone after multiple uses of the memory gun, someone took up his mantle and took the job quite seriously by the looks of it.” Ford crouched down to survey the different names on the gold tubes.

“Well… where do we start?” You ask, still dumbfounded at the sheer amount of memories that seemed to have been erased.

Ford glances around the spacious room before giving an answer, “Divide and conquer is likely the best strategy. I’ll take this area over here. Stan, could you take the area on the other side of the room? Y/N, you can check the capsules that are next to that statue.”

With the directions given, the three of you split up, the sound of metal clanking against the floor with each tube tossed to the side amidst the sorting. Each new name that you read causes a pit in your stomach to form, becoming more and more hopeless about the possibility that your name would be found amongst the massive pile. Part of you wonders how many hours, days, potentially years of memories of people’s lives are lost within this room.

The hours spent searching drag along, time standing still underneath the museum. “How long have we been down here for?” Stan asks, making it halfway through a pile in the far corner of the room. Ford pulls back his sleeve to reveal a calculator watch the twins had gifted him for his birthday, “Approximately two hours, eight minutes, thirty-one seconds.”

“Should we just call it? There’s still a good chunk of the room left to sort through. We’ve already lost sleep over this.” You sigh, tossing another tube to the side. Stan glances over his shoulder to see you sitting on the floor, your shoulders slumped down dejected.

Stan gets up from his spot on the floor, walking over to you and placing a hand on your shoulder. You glance up, giving Stan a look that he understood immediately. You were getting exhausted by this search. He’d been there before after sleepless nights spent with Ford, looking at old photos and videos of them growing up. He would stare at them over and over again in the tiny hope that his memories would return.

“Hey, Ford and I are ready to stay up all night to help you look as long as you are. Right Ford?” Stan attempts to reassure you, looking to his brother for back up. Ford nods, “I drank a whole pot of coffee right before we left. I’m prepared to continue searching until the sun rises as long as that’s what you want, Y/N.”

Stan looks back at you, “How about it? You wanna keep going or you wanna throw in the towel for tonight?” With the newfound encouragement, you make the decision to push onward. To pass the time, Ford and Stan would share stories about their adventures this past year as well as a few adventures they took when they were kids to help pass the time.

Stan stood up to reach for a box that contained more of the gold capsules. His hands wrapped around the wooden box, slowly lowering the box that was filled to the brim. One of the capsules fell from the pile, hitting him straight in the nose. “Son of a-” Stan winces, placing the box down to rub his nose before snatching up the capsule that fell to the ground. His eyes widened at the text on it.

Before Stan can speak up, your voice cries out excitedly, “I found it!” In your hand, you hold up a capsule that reads ‘Y/N L/N Memories’

Ford puts down the tube in his hand and rushes over to your side of the room at your announcement, “My god, it actually is here. I was starting to worry that my theory that it may be here was completely off base.” He mutters, taking it from your hands to assess it.

Once the high of finding the capsule has worn off, Stan watches you and Ford look at each other, knowing what lies ahead. Stan decides it may not be the best time to mention the capsule he discovered and pockets it for now, joining the two of you in front of the monitor that displays the memories.

“I’m not sure what lies ahead in these memories… but words cannot express how truly sorry I am for everything that unravels moving forward.” Ford sighs, “I know you may not want comfort from the person who hurt you deeply, but if you need any clarity in what you see, I will give you those answers.”

You look down at the capsule, looking back at the twins before letting out a sigh, “Here goes nothing.”

Your hands place the capsule inside the holder, the screen flickering on the moment that it is inserted. You sit on the floor, knowing you’re in for a long viewing. Ford and Stan follow suit, sitting behind you to give you space.

Memories flicker onto the screen like a tape, playing back every single interaction you had with Ford.

Your first meeting in the library.

All-nighters you pulled together.

Reading under the trees in the quad, Ford’s head on your lap.

Tender kisses exchanged, his six fingers intertwined with yours, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Ford carrying you on his back as you wear your graduation attire.

Stan glances over at his brother who watches on with a bittersweet smile.

It’s such a strange sight to see such tender moments between you and Ford when the two of you weren’t talking to each other just this morning.

There’s a tinge of something else there that stirs within Stan as he watches on.

‘Now’s not the time, Stan. Pull yourself together.’ He thinks to himself, trying to push down the emotion that he did not want to admit.

The memories from college that were still quite murky were becoming crystal clear, everything unraveling in front of you. You could almost feel the feelings of affection towards Ford come back, the butterflies in your stomach stirring.

They suddenly drop at the sight of an offer letter to the National Parks in your hands.

You were about to knock on Ford’s door before he suddenly burst out, grabbing you and spinning you around in excitement. “Ford, put me down! What’s with all the commotion?” You chuckle, still clutching the letter in your hand.

“Y/N, my grant proposal got accepted!” Ford shared the news excitedly. Your eyes widened, and you embraced him in response, “That’s amazing, Ford! I-” Ford cuts you off, “I’ve decided that I want to study anomalies, the oddities of the world like myself… There's a sleepy town in Oregon that is a hot spot for them!”

“Oregon…? That’s so far away from here… but I suppose we could do long distance while you’re doing your research.” Your voice wavers, clutching the paper in your hands tighter.

“Well… we don’t have to.” Ford pauses, holding you by the shoulders, “I would love for you to accompany me on this journey. Oregon is chalk full of geological findings, I’m sure you could find work out there.”

“Right…” You trail off. You had to make a decision right here and now - pursue your dream job or follow the man that you loved to support him. You knew if you shared the news with Ford, he would insist on you taking the job.

“Is everything alright, my star?” Ford asks with a furrowed brow, seeing the conflicted look in your eyes.

“Yes… I’d love to join you in Oregon.” You say, crumpling up the offer letter.

Ford watches in awe, guilt washing over him. He was not aware that you had been offered your dream job right after finishing school. He wonders in his excitement that he took away that moment for you to shine. That you shrunk back into his shadow, like you had always done.

Your first year of Gravity Falls flies by, showing your adventures with Ford hunting anomalies, several nights of attempting to get Ford to go to bed at a reasonable time that seemed routine, and Fiddleford’s arrival to help with the portal.

Shortly after a clip of you, Fiddleford and Ford building a snowman in the front yard of the Mystery Shack, the beginning of your dream from the night prior plays on screen. Ford’s figure whips around revealing those vibrant yellow eyes and face-splitting grin characteristic of Bill’s possession.

Stan reaches over to place a hand on your shoulder, “Maybe we should take a break…”

You shake your head vehemently, “No, I want to keep going.”

“Y/N, maybe Stanley’s right…” Ford chimes in before being silenced at the sight of you turning your head around to face them, a look of determination etched across your features.

“It’s going to be painful. I know that. I know what I’m getting myself into.” You snap at the two before looking over at Stan whose gaze acts as a silent plea, “I promise.. I’ll tell you when I need to pause.”

Stan and Ford back off, allowing you to continue watching the memories that play out in front of you.

You wince as the screen plays out your nightmare before your eyes. Your hand clutches your necklace tight to your chest, almost wanting to rip it off as it feels constricting, your breath picking up in pace. Your body was stuck in freeze, unable to fight or fly your way out of the scene before you.

Ford watches the screen helplessly, watching Bill use his body like a puppet. Anger and sadness washes over him, wanting nothing more than to comfort you, but knowing it may only make things worse. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Stan scooch forward to take a seat next to you.

Perhaps if he couldn’t comfort you, at least Stanley could.

After all, Stan was much better at reading people’s emotions and offering comfort than Ford ever was.

Stan notices your tense posture and places a gentle hand on your back, “Deep breaths, you can look away if you wanna.” His deep voice coaches you through it, feeling him rub gentle circles against the material of your top. You look away briefly to focus on evening out your breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly, “Atta girl, you got this.”

“Is it done? I think I might need a minute.” You ask, peering up at Stan, finally ready to tap out for now. Stan nods his head, his hand lingering on your back before looking back at his brother, “This thing got a pause button?”

Ford’s gaze lingers on his brother’s comforting hand still resting on your back, and Stan takes notice of it immediately, pulling away.

Shit.

“I believe so. It’s 3 AM so we still have about an hour or so before we have to absolutely be out of here.” Ford says, standing up and tinkering with the machine before pressing a button on the side that pauses the video on a still-frame of you sleeping with your back turned away from Ford.

‘How fitting.’ Ford muses to himself.

You look around the room, trying to distract yourself from the image of Bill’s hand around your throat. Your mind is still racing at a million miles an hour, blurry images in your subconscious slowly coming into focus. Your shaky gaze ends up landing on the statue that towers before you, staring at the daunting symbol of the Society of the Blind Eye.

An X through an all-seeing eye.

Your pupils dilate as the symbol suddenly conjures up a memory that was shoved deep in the back of your head.

The symbol glaring back at you, etched atop a red hood that cloaked its wearer’s face. Staring down the barrel…. though it was more like a bulb… of the memory gun. The cloaked figure’s hand trembling, the finger on the trigger slipping off every time it tries to pull it.

The constant shaking causes the hood to fall out of place, revealing the holder of the Memory Gun to be Fiddleford before a flash of light clouds your vision.

The sleep deprivation over the past few nights mixed with the overwhelm of all these memories flooding back, caused your body to begin to slump over, your vision blurring and making the room hazy.

‘Y/N!’

One pair of hands keep you up right to prevent you from falling over, while the other cups your cheeks, slapping them lightly to knock you out of your stupor.

“Come on, don't pass out on us now.” Stan’s voice rasps. Feeling five fingers against your skin tells you that Stan is the one in front of you holding your face.

Your eyes flutter open to see Stan staring back at you with concern before he looks over your shoulder to address Ford, “We’re calling it a night, let’s head back to the Mystery Shack.”

“Wait… I’m okay… please, let’s keep going.” You say shakily, your hand grasping his forearm. After that memory resurfaced of Fiddleford erasing your memories, you’re now more than ever desperate for answers. Desperate to make sense of the voices ringing in your head.

‘I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone!’

‘Stop being a distraction.’

‘You’re useless.’

‘I thought you of all people would understand what I’m up against!’

Stan shakes his head, “Kid, you nearly passed out just now. You just got at least three years worth of memories back in one night, they’ll still be here tomorrow.” He tries to talk you down but you’re persistent.

“I don’t have any more time to waste, Stan! I can’t keep waiting every single night to sneak back down here and uncover maybe another few months of my memories! I don’t have time to take it slow like you did!” You argue, hitting your breaking point and irritated from the lack of sleep.

Stan’s expression falters, and you immediately wish you could take back the last few words that escaped your lips.

His expression shifts after that brief moment of vulnerability, practically unreadable, a blank poker face as he looks past you to address his brother, “Ford, is there a way to take this hunk of junk back to the Mystery Shack with us?” Stan gestures back to the machine that displayed your memories.

“Yes, let me see if it’s connected to anything. Otherwise, we should be able to just pick it up and go.” Ford says, standing up to check if there were any cords keeping the monitor tethered.

His eyes flick over to you and Stan, “You two can head back to the car, we’ll reconvene back upstairs.” He figured it might be best to give you and Stan some time to talk, it’s clear to him now that Stan must have shared with you that he lost his memories as well.

Making your way back up to the museum and wandering through the dark halls, the two of you walk next to each other in absolute silence. You’re not sure what to say to the man that you just attacked with your words. The man who had gone out of his way to help bridge the gap between you and his brother, comforted you these past two nights.

A gust of wind hits your skin the moment you push the large oak doors of the entrance, the moon still high in the sky. After holding the door open for Stan, you lean against the pillar, pulling out the journal of your dreams you had brought along and a pen. You skim through the pages, marking off on each page each dream that you now had the full memory of. Stan watches you, rummaging through the pockets of his leather jacket.

The first words that come out of his mouth aren’t what you are expecting.

“Mind if I smoke?” Stan asks, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a worn-out lighter with the Mystery Shack logo etched on the side. You look up from the pages of your journal, “Yeah… sure.”

The sound of the lighter clicking and a deep exhale follows, the heavy scent of smoke filling your nostrils.

It was a scent that lingered on Stan’s jacket when he had lent it to you a few nights ago, mixed with some form of woodsy cologne. Pine-scented, fittingly enough.

Closing your journal and slipping it back into your bag, you break the silence finally.

“Stan I-”

“Save the apology, toots. You’re right.”

Stan’s response catches you off guard.

“I hit below the belt though. I didn’t mean to minimize the journey you went through getting your memories back. I mean I’ve got what… maybe five-six years of my life to recover? You had to get back a whole lifetime’s worth, the fact that you were able to get most of it back already is a feat in itself.” You spill out all your feelings, worried that Stan may cut you off if you don’t get it all out in the open now, “God, I can barely handle one night of memory recovery, how the hell did you survive months of this?”

“If you think that’s below the belt, you should hear me and Ford’s fights back in the day.” Stan scoffs, taking another hit from his cigarette and blowing the smoke away from your direction. “Listen, I get it, you’re on a tight schedule and I don’t want you leaving here with half of your memories of my brother still missing. That’s why I asked Poindexter to bring that machine back to the Shack with us, that way you can watch back the memories whenever you want.”

“That’s why you asked Ford?” You ask in alarm.

“Yeah, of course. Why else would I ask him to do that?” Stan stares at you as if his intentions were glaringly obvious.

“I dunno… just thought you wanted to wipe your hands clean of this situation. Leave it up to me and Ford.” You mutter, rubbing your arm.

“Hey, you can't get rid of me that easily, toots.” Stan chuckles, “I dragged you into this mess, picking you up off the side of the road. Now I’m invested in helping ya get your memories back as much as Ford is. Also, I would very much like to get my sleep back and I don’t feel like baby-sitting you and Ford from killing each other every single night.”

“I could probably use the sleep myself.” You admit.

“Ya think? Thought you were gonna bite my head off in there from how sleep deprived you looked.” Stan teased.

You both let out a chuckle, just in time for Ford to walk into the scene, the gold monitor in his arms, with a sense of relief. He wonders how you and his brother seemed to have worked things out in the brief amount of time, he can’t help but envy how Stan seemed to have gained your trust and comfort so quickly.

To be fair, though, you did not have the same history with Stan as you did with Ford.

“Shall we head out?” Ford pauses, seeing the cigarette in Stan’s hand.

“Seriously, Stanley? What did I tell you about smoking?”

“Oh, get off your high horse, Stanford! I know how bad smoking is for you, I don’t need the three hour lecture about carcinogens again!”

The light-hearted bickering between the twins distracted Stan enough to completely forget about the capsule that weighed heavy in his pocket.

‘Y/N L/N Memories 2.’

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

I've already done a version of Supercorp wicked the musical, where our blorbos are starring on stage together, but now I want a version where in a different universe Kara and Lena are starring in the movie together.

Kara as Glinda comes from a stage background, and Lena as Elphie is coming from child-star lifetime of acting in Hollywood. They hit it off on the sound stage, and they swiftly become besties, seen increasingly around town together between filming days. To the point that people already speculate.

Then the press/marketing tour begins, and they are so cutesy and bubbly together and visibly affectionate to the point that the gays are all screaming from the rooftops. It all comes to a head when they arrive together to the red carpet screening of the movie.

One lucky photographer catches a semi-private moment between them, where Kara lifts Lena's hand to her lips for a familiar and casual kiss. The fans go nuts, but confirmation remains elusive. Until their outings together continue, eroding any argument that their romps have been solely to drum up interest in the film.

For a year, speculation runs rampant, until-- at the screening of Part 2, during an interview along the press line, Lena extolls how much she loves Kara, loves working with her, etc. The brave interviewer finally asks the question-- is there any substance to the rumors that have followed them for the past two years.

To which Lena smiles, a little smug. "She moves in next week."

[thearunadragon]

Like many other people, I have wanted to know for years what it is the Menoä Tree took from Eragon. Let us analyze what we know, shall we?

Firstly, Paolini has said that whatever it is is long-winded and will cause many dramatic issues in the future (Book V.) And, secondly, we know that at least one person has gotten it right, and in a post 4+ years old judging by the time Paolini said this. The platform of the correct theory is, to my knowledge, unknown.

The popular fan theories that have been disproved include:

Eragon or Saphira’s fertility. Paolini has stated clearly they both still have the ability to have children (though Eragon’s transformation during the Agaetí Blödhren might make this difficult with a normal human/elf.)

Saphira’s Eldunarí. Paolini states both that what was taken ONLY affects Eragon, and Saphira definitely would notice if her Eldunarí was missing. Furthermore, he stated the theory that Eragon gained his own Eldunarí during his transformation is false, but interesting regardless.

Eragon’s connection to the land. Paolini stated that Eragon’s loss was unrelated to his leaving Alagaësia, Angela’s prophecy, or anything of this nature.

The Menoä Tree did not take nothing. She did, in fact, take something, but of what nature, we do not know, though I saw a hint Poalini left about it mentioning that Eragon’s transformation was not complete.

He has also stated that what is taken should be guessable based on given text. However, most theories I have seen that would leave the Menoä Tree’s actions making sense have been disproved, as it apparently is not related to her backstory, at least not evidently.

He also says that the Menoä Tree definitely TOOK something, which disproves the theory that she put a “seed” in his body to continue her forest.

It is also (if the information I was relayed is correct) disproved that Menoä tree took Eragon’s sperm, or his DNA. (Besides, neither of these would have formed a physical pain, as he felt in the book. Even though it would amuse me to think that she, like, stole his DNA to make her a new lover to replace her old, cheating one, but this time with less flaws. She WAS weirdly interested in ‘what nature of creature Eragon was…’)

She did not fix any incurable disease (as said in an interview) and it is highly doubtful that she took part of his spleen, gallbladder, or appendix, though I cannot remember if I actually SAW him say this is untrue, or dreamt it. HOWEVER, this is a very popular theory (partly in satire) and Paolini has stated that all popular fan theories are not correct.

But what does that leave us? What did she take? A part of his intestine? A piece of his True Name (though that also wouldn’t explain the physical discomfort)? Cause a hernia? It’s BUGGING ME. I NEED to know, and I’ve been searching every Menoä Tree post I can find for answers (and I still am)!

The only way I can think of to know fully would be to understand a COMPLETE Rider’s transformation and try to find the missing piece between it and Eragon. Or maybe the piece is not something taken from the transformation itself, but something that will cause issue when the transformation progresses. Perhaps a part of his connection to magic, a measure of strength, ANYTHING.

Now, perhaps it really is an organ, or another physical part of his body (which makes the most sense to me, considering the physical pain in his stomach mentioned) in which case his rapid loss of weight mentioned in TFTWTW might be a clue of some sort, but I can’t be certain. (He has been working hard, after all, and stressed half to death to boot.)

Are there any theories you guys have come up with or seen? What am I missing here?

[three-headed-monster]

this month has literally just been confirming to me that i'm a fandom Elder my god, me vs explaining 2021, 2022, and 2023 fandom lore to various different people 😂

but yeah ! macklin is really interesting cause i would say there's a decent amount of scholarship on him, but not a lot! he seems, by all accounts, a fairly regular kid, but i think the lack of media bubble around him has also meant we haven't really gotten as much information about him in comparison to other draftees (this also might just be a big gap in my own information because while i have followed this dude for a long time, last year as a whole is a year where i feel hockey did not exist to me for 80% of the year)

i would be careful about third hand accounts though, because i think a lot of us are partial to twisting the narrative to how it fits our own headcanons (very much guilty of this sometimes, but i really do try to be accurate). there's a lot of stuff on adam fantilli in particular, and the reasons he left the canadian hockey system that are inaccurate, or stretched to a large degree. i fear that has been applied to macklin's story too, which he himself has refuted. so i would def encourage to be diligent in doing your own research ! and forming your own headcanons outside of the third hand accounts :)))

connor's masking is so insane and it's gotten more and more blatently obvious since he came into the nhl. before, of course he had his pr voices and everything but every once in a while he'd break character and we'd get a glimpse at the true him. now it feels like unless we're getting another friends livestream, we're never seeing that again 😭

i don't think any of them were raised normal tbh and you're right in saying we can only take what the media says about them. i hate comparisons in anny way though, and even though it's great media foddder, it honestly serves everyone involved terribly because well....

time to talk about shane wright.

shane wright was, from the time he was 14! projected to be the top pick in the 2022 nhl draft. people called him the next one. he was connor before connor was connor. exceptional player status in the ohl, was playing with people 3-4 years his SENIOR by the time he was 15 and eating them alive. everywhere this kid went, people were telling him he was great.

and then covid hits. and he doesn't play hockey. for a year. despite so may other people going overseas to play in europe just to try to continue their development, shane wright doesn't. he sits on his hands. he waits for the ohl to begin again in a year it never does. there was speculation at the time that it was because he was struggling with the idea of being so far away from his family at so young, which. objectively. makes sense. 16 in europe alone is a lot different from billets in the same province as his parents. (also what they won't tell you is that 50% of the players who did get to go overseas was because they had dual citizenship, look at i.e. mctavish and othmann going to switzerland because they were dual citizens, because at the time no one else could cross the borders).

but he does u18s. he looks fine. GREAT even. breaks all kinds of scoring records. consensus heading into the 2021-22 season is that he's still going to be the first overall pick. nothing seems wrong.

until it is. because he has a subpar year in terms of scoring. and there's other competition making their cases for top pick. and it looks like the canadiens will be picking first overall while the draft is in their city, and it's a bigger deal than most first overall picks regardless of who it is.

and i think part of why connor was so hesitant to say "when i'm drafted" the next year in 2023, and always reverted to "if" is because shane makes the mistake of saying in a mid-season interview that he deserves to be the first overall pick in 2022. because that's what everyone's told him since he was 14? so it must be true right? no one has indicated to him anything otherwise?

the habs don't think so. they hate it. they consider it entitlement, but they don't say it to his face. the habs wine and dine him, they send scouts to his games consistently throughout the year to talk to him, habs fans are even asking him to sign habs jerseys with HIS name on it before the draft and he stays on the carpet longer than they're allowed to just to do that

but then the pick comes. it's not him. the habs don't even have the decency to call and tell him. devils are next. they don't change their plans. it's not him. arizona. they don't change theirs either. it's still not him.

imagine being told for your entire life that you are destined for greatness and then the last four years being told you are meant for greatness even higher than the GREATEST of the greatness. you were supposed to be the next mcdavid, gretzky, crosby, all of them. and it fell apart at the last moment, only because you repeated what THEY said to YOU and they didn't like that you broke that unspoken social rule not to. i think i'd be pretty pissed! i would NOT have reacted as calmly as he did on that day, lmao i burst into tears about that, and several people i knew who had followed his journey for years, did too.

he didn't have a complete meltdown, which is a miracle. but he did have one according to everyone's standards of him and how hockey players were "supposed to act". all he did was "glare" at the habs table for a split second and suddenly, he had attitude problems and he deserved what he got and he will be booed at bell centre for the rest of his life. the number of people who sent this kid VITRIOLIC hate for a half second break in his mask, is insane. INSANE. they sent ME hate for defending him. AND THEY LEAKED HIS SNAPCHAT PHOTOS. he was universally blacklisted p much, for "acting like he was above 4th overall" when he smiled SO big in every photo and was genuinely excited to be a kraken. but it wasn't enough for anyone because he was privileged and spoiled and thought he would be the first overall pick out loud.

and ik i said i hate comparisons but part of where my personal headcanon for him comes from is how he reacted to slipping in the draft, compared to adam fantilli (people loved to use this one at the time too so i must include it). adam was THRILLED to be going to columbus. but shane had the equivalent to what would be a personal meltdown to him, and while he maintained high spirits, you could tell that he was heartbroken that it seemed like he lost what had been promised to him. all as a result of him just not understanding the social rule that you don't say you're going first overall.

meanwhile he's captained several different teams and no one had ever mentioned "attitude issues" until the night of the draft. there's more stuff too on his autism, like how he is has literally one hobby and talks about it in every video (guitar and he self admits its his one thing)

and how he acted at the space needle, while it was spinning

seemingly obsessed with moving floors ! he also liked them in the haunted house video from last month and kept saying everything was fine when he looked like he wanted to die.

and he said earlier this year that he liked that the kraken had a new podium for their media space because now he actually knows where to put his hands

saw the tags on your rb, and as a fellow "connor bedard has autism" headcanoner, i would love to know more of your thoughts 😈

it's less of a headcanon and more of a divinely correct vibe check. but like am i wrong...???? although I do see it more as they're the same flavour of ND with different presentations, like Connor is hyperfocus ADHD, and Macklin is inattentive (this comes from someone with mixed presentation ADHD¹, they also tried to diagnose me with austim but my legs were too long i make eye contact BUT!!! 93rd% "indicating that Cassie has many behavioural characteristics similar to youth diagnosed with ASD." raaaaa 💪💪💪 93% is an A!! i ace even the tests i fail!!!) Plus his rigidity with his diet, is bonkers for someone that young (and it's been going on since he was like 14-15)

Like especially with the way that Connor's constant practicing, after practice until the zamboni kicks him off, and then on off days and optional skates hiding his gear to make him take days off?? that is pretty classic hyperfocus ADHD. And especially with the way he blames the teams loses on himself, like please sir seeing you in the mirror is not good for my health!!

And with Macklin, people often mischaracterize inattentive ADHD with not being motivated or good at routine and while yes those two things are a normal part of human life, and more-so with ADHD, he has shown many times how deeply he cares about hockey........ but I think (and also remember i am projecting) his father being THAT hands on with him and his brothers training (even now which yuck, you have your own job get your grubby paws off of your kid's job) has made him unable to self propel, and get himself into that routine? (AND AGAIN I AM PROJECTING) like something Macklin has said a few times is how the shift to a pro-hockey schedule has been hard, and yes it is an adjustment, but he has been essentially living away from his parents for YEARS, two years boarding at Shattuckk, one year (presumably) billeting in Chicago while playing in the USHL, and one year in college at BU, and I think the real shift is that... daddy is planning his workouts again, full time not just summers (also, the travaling doesn't help) AND THAT (i am projecting) is HELL to someone who built a routine, and any hope of getting back into one was dashed when he went of IR for his hip after one game. the boy needs CONSISTENCY!!!!! And until they get him 1) away from his freak father who has his hands al over his development plan, and 2) on simple routine with max five types of days (home game, home practice, home rest, away game, away rest) he will not get situated.

BACK TO BEDARD <33333

the man loves rules and procedures. him at his first training camp all doe eyed and "wanting to make the team!" so much that Kyle Davidson... maybe it was Luke Richardson who said it...??? either way his coach or his GM pulled aside his MOTHER to tell them that they needed to start looking at apartments. Before getting drafted it was never "when" it was "if i get drafted".... like dude.... it's gonna happen! Whenever he get's sen't to the box its always a "they hate me, don't they know I am unable to break rules!! not because they don't apply to me but because I can NOT break rules!" vibe (I am only kinda projecting on this one)

and I do think the type of media around them during their developmental years up has affected them, Macklin's media was always focused on his father, which reinforced his reliance/dependence on him, whereas Connor's was focused on him which encouraged him to focus on himself and what HE can do to improve.

also Connor has that DOG IN HIM

^ connor bedard real not fake (also my childhood psychologist had this PROMENENTLY displayed in her office and i think seeing it every two weeks had an adverse affect on me)

¹ and a bunch of other learning disorders, dyslexia, dysgraphia, dyscalculia, audio processing disorder, also anxiety, depression, and cutie patootie disease (fatal 😔)

[oscarwetnwilde]

James Wilby interviewed for BFI for "Reflections on Maurice" in 2019.

[cuntylouis]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 1.01 | 1.07 | 2.05

[brainrotcharacters]

"get 😠my country's 🇨🇦name out📤 of your 🫵 fucking🖕 mouth😗

and my sword 🗡️

give me that 🤨"

[carveredlunds]

ASSAD ZAMAN as THE VAMPIRE ARMAND in INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 2.08: AND THAT'S THE END OF IT. THERE'S NOTHING ELSE

[deadrlngers]

I'm the reticent vampire of the Ninth Arrondissement. I walk the night capturing disappointment and regret as only the reticent vampire can.

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (2022-)

[criticalamityz]

come out

[sevenines]

i saw this tweet and found it interesting for two reasons. one is that some people base how good cartoon network would be to toh by how it treated su, and despite the fact that su’s treatment by the network was considered poor at the time, now its thought to be exceptionally good in comparison to modern shows.

two is how exactly su got impacted by a limited budget. a common criticism is how characters like connie, peridot, and lapis are left out of missions. but balancing a lot of characters is not only hard but also costly (extra animation, extra voices—it’s been revealed that the show is limited to a set number of characters per episode otherwise they’re over budget). animation mistakes are not uncommon since retakes cost extra. the entire reason the original show got cut short was due to loss of funding!

[dubaipenthouseupdates]

Louis & Armand • Do you know what it means to be Loved by Death