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banashee · 3 years ago

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It's midnight where I am, which means it's technically the 21st already 😁 Hi Folks, welcome to my fourth fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :)

@archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week four (June 21-28) Prompts: comfort, childhood, research, missing scene, statement

The key words I've used here are comfort, research (and arguably missing scene depending how you look at it)

So, this wasn't supposed to get nearly as long as it ended up being. But I enjoyed wirting this a ridiculous amount, and I hope you can find a bit of joy, comfort or anything else you're seeking as well.

Please mind the tags and content warnings for this one! It’s quite a bit heavier than my other entries for the Archival Pride 2021.

Content warnings: - Trauma, Grief - PTSD / Panic attacks - violent canon death of a sibling - coping - Nightmares - Canon-typical violence - Canon-typical Clowns / The Stranger - Death of a loved one - Canon-typical violence and thoughts of violence - Past underage kissing between consenting teenagers (nothing graphic and very PG) - breif internalized Bi-Phobia in the past - brief mention of past Ace-Phobia - strong language - TMA season 3 spoilers, even though this story is set pre-canon.

Whispers in the Dark

The first time Tim meets Jonathan Sims is when he sets down a small cardboard box and a stack of files onto a desk. More precisely, his own new place at the desk he just got assigned.

Tim just started out with his new job and he smiles, even though he is barely holding himself together at this point. He hopes no one will ask too many questions - it’s not like he plans on telling anyone what made him seek out the institute in the first place. It’s way too personal, and way too much to handle.

So he’d lied in the job interview, spun some story about wanting a new challenge. Mr. Bouchard didn’t question it, and Tim would like to think that is because his CV and education are rather high quality, which he isn’t shy about. Not at all - he is proud of his achievements, and rightfully so. But Tim can’t shake the feeling that his new employer had looked at him oddly, like he knows something that no one else does. It had been deeply unsettling, and if Tim thinks too much about it, it causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

Despite his gut feeling telling him something else, Tim decides to chalk it up to nerves and his… Current situation, so to say. He is more jumpy, more paranoid than he used to be, which isn’t surprising. He has seen things, lived through things that he wouldn’t know how to explain if anyone asked. But overthinking it won’t get him anywhere.

So, he puts on a bit of the show, something that looks like his usual happy-go-lucky personality. Loud, brash, flirty and wicked smart, just like he always has been. It feels incredibly fake to him, but then again, no one here knows him. No one has ever met him before… Before. They don’t know. They don’t know . None of them ever sees him when the mask falls, home alone, in a house that feels too big and too empty with Dany gone and - no.

“Don’t go there, Stoker, just don’t. Get through the day, see what you can find out and go home. Get back tomorrow, rinse and repeat. You can do this.” he tells himself and plasters on a smile that almost hurts.

As he sets down the box and his files, he greets his new coworker and desk-neighbor.

“Hi, I’m Tim, nice to meet you!” ( “be happy, sound happy, god dammit” he thinks, then reminds himself that this guy won’t know the difference.)

The man on the desk opposite of him looks up from his computer which he’d previously looked at with intense concentration. It seems to take him a moment to catch up, then he nods and there is the hint of a very small smile on his face.

“Oh, erm, hi. Welcome.” he says, like someone who isn’t used to interacting with too many people. And maybe he isn’t - Tim wouldn’t know. He almost moves on and accepts that he won’t get a name from his new desk neighbor, but then he hears him say,

“Jonathan. Jon is fine, too.”

And then, as if he never said anything, he focuses back onto the screen in front of him and starts typing furiously.

“Thanks!” Tim says, probably just a tad too loud and too enthusiastically, but he doesn’t get a response this time. Okay, awkward. He isn’t sure if Jon is ignoring him or if he just doesn’t realize that he is being talked to - judging from the very brief, first impression of him that Tim got, both options might be entirely possible.

As the days go by, they don’t interact a lot besides basic politeness and the occasional question or comment about something work related.

The first time Tim ever really talks to Jon, is when he witnesses the man climb a bookshelf in the library like a fucking tree. No kidding. Tim blinks, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a real, genuine laugh bubble up in his chest. What the hell? He steps closer, next to the large, antique bookshelf that his coworker is currently clinging to, pulling books from a shelf that is over his head still.

“Jon, hi.” Tim says, watching the scene in front of him unfold. This is not something he expected, least of all from the coworker who never seems to say or do anything mildly interesting. So much for the first impression - the second impression is something entirely different, and it is this very moment that Tim decides that he likes the guy.

The sound of Tim’s voice addressing him directly makes Jon turn his head.

“Hi. Can I help you?” he asks, brusk and matter of fact, as if there wasn’t anything odd about this situation.

“...I was going to ask you the same?” Tim offers, mildly amused as he finds himself kind of impressed when Jon manages to shrug with his hands full like that. While clinging to the shelf, because what even?

“No. Why? I’ve already got what I need.” Jon jumps down from the wooden board he’d been standing on, and it is only now that Tim realizes they’d been on eye level before. Now… Not so much. They never stood next to each other up until this moment, he realizes.

He’s only been here for about a week, but whenever Tim arrives at the office, Jon is already there, at his desk and working. He never gets up for lunch, only ever seems to leave the room to pick up or drop off books from the library, and by the time everyone else has left, Jon remains seated at his desk. If he wasn’t changing out his clothes, Tim would have been convinced that Jonatahn Sims simply plugs himself into a wall socket to recharge for the next day. Or maybe sleeps under his desk or something.

“Just… You know what, nevermind.” Tim has come to the very correct conclusion that he better just accept this as it is. It seems easier. Much, much easier than arguing with someone over nothing, even though Tim feels like punching a wall or two some days. But that is not his coworkers fault, and he doesn’t want to mess up the chance to get to know him because he is cute.

Tim doesn’t even question this train of thought anymore.

At some point in between meeting the man for the very first time and… well, this, he must have filed away the odd combination of grandfather cardigans, chipped dark nailpolish and neatly tied up hair, combined with that deep warm voice and decided that yes, this person is attractive.

To be fair, it doesn’t take Tim long to fall for people - it never has. He just didn’t expect to spend any time really looking at someone, now that his life has gone sideways in so many horrible ways.

Turns out he’d been wrong.

Finding something attractive about a person, no matter their gender or any physical attributes, is the easiest thing in the world to Tim. Ever since he can remember, he has enjoyed looking at people. Tim likes soft curves just as well as sharp angles, and has spent many many hours of his life getting lost in people's eyes. Sometimes, he’d caught himself staring when talking to a friend, losing himself in the depth of warm brown eyes with specks of gold, watery blue, light grey or green with specs of hazel and anything in between.

Tim vividly remembers a game of spin the bottle when he was a teenager and sat on the floor with a group of friends and classmates. Of course, there had been many dares to kiss someone, and he had happily taken them whenever possible.

At the time, Tim wasn’t sure about himself at all, because he’d only known that he finds people attractive, but all everyone around him had talked about was if you were gay or straight, if the question was even asked. Mostly, they just assumed whatever seemed convenient at the time.

No one tells Tim about the meaning of the word “Bisexual”, or even about the word itself until he is in college. But he knows how he feels, even though he is lacking the word for it for many years

Once he finds out, Danny is the first person he tells about it. Tim calls him that same night, sitting in a quiet corner of the dorm as he excitedly tells his little brother that he found a word to relate to himself and his feelings for other people.

“There are other people who feel that way, Danny. There is nothing wrong with me and there is a word for it!” he tells him in a hushed but excited voice, fumbling on a loose thread in a hole of his jeans. Those trousers have long been frayed into shreds but Tim refuses to part with them.

His voice is shaking with excitement, and he may or may not be holding back happy tears. This is a big moment for him, and because Danny is literally the best - not just because he answered his phone at fuck-o-clock in the morning when his brother called - he reacts with nothing but support.

“I might have a few questions, but I love you. No matter what. I’m happy for you.” he tells him, and in that moment, Tim couldn’t be happier or prouder of his younger brother.

The game of spin the bottle a few years earlier was the one of the first things that taught Tim that he finds many many things to be interested in and attracted to. It taught him that he is attracted to the many different ways people feel, and it hasn’t changed ever since.

Over the years, Tim finds himself falling in love quick and hard with a number of people, and none of them are ever the same. Each and every person is unique, in their looks and size and voice and feelings - and every single one is loveable just as they are.

“You do have a thing for certain types of voices though.” Tim thinks, and maybe that is the culprit here, now that he is standing in the library of the Magnus Institute and faced with Jonathan Sims, who looks up at him with one raised eyebrow. Oh shit, has he been staring the entire time?

Before Tim can think too much about it, or god forbid, overthink it, he hears his mouth blurt out without his brains permission,

“So do you want to come to lunch later? There is a café not far from here that I’ve never been to.”

Jon stares back for a moment, like this isn’t something he expected. Truth be told, he didn’t. But just when Tim starts thinking that he’ll decline, Jon nods slowly.

“Yes, I suppose. Just… Let me know before you’re going. I tend to, well, I tend to get lost a bit when I’m working and chances are I won’t notice how much time has passed.” he explains, and this is probably the first time he said anything personal besides his name.

“Sure, no problem. I’ll just put a giant sticky note on your monitor.” Tim offers him with a grin and wink, and as he turns around, he could swear that he catches a real smile on Jon’s face.

Tim actually does put a note on Jon’s screen though. As he was warned, all attempts to verbally get his attention have failed, so Tim scribbles a quick note for Jon.

The sticky piece of paper is bright pink and obnoxious, and all that Tim has written on it is “Lunch time!” in big bold letters, accompanied by a smiley face. He manages to walk up behind Jon, stick it right in the middle of his computer monitor and get back around to his own desk to gather his jacket and wallet before Jon squints at it through slim, rectangular glasses and blinks a few times before he remembers the conversation from earlier. Then, there is a small hint of a smile on his face, very similar to the one Tim caught in the library earlier.

He gathers his things and leaves the office with Tim, and the two of them walk next to each other comfortably as they make their way to the café.

Surprisingly, the lunch break together isn’t nearly as awkward as it could be, or should have been, really. Jon doesn’t talk much at first, and Tim has a feeling he himself is talking way too much without actually saying anything, just so his brain doesn’t drift off into the wrong direction. But then, it’s like the air has left his lungs and there is a minute or two of slightly awkward silence.

Then, Jon clears his throat and asks,

“So, did you know that snails can sleep for three years at a time?”

When Tim, surprised by the question, shakes his head, Jon starts talking about the topic in great detail as he fiddles with the edge of his napkin the whole time. Somehow, this of all things breaks the ice, and Tim finds himself to be able to breathe a little bit easier.

Even more so, he is enjoying this. He isn’t sure what he expected when he asked Jon to join him for lunch. Maybe it was just the urge for human interaction and to not be alone, which he supposes is fair enough. But he certainly didn’t expect random information about nature phenomenons. All Tim knows is that he feels better after their first break together, and after that, spending the break together becomes A Thing.

What he learns pretty fast is this: Jon is an info dumper when he feels comfortable enough to do so. As it turns out, Jon isn’t very picky with his topics, either. They range from science phenomena to weird, interesting nature facts and anything else that catches his interest.

Tim also learns that, if he is in the right company and being asked the right questions, he can hold monologues that could last for hours. He figures that one out when Jon drops a fun fact about 19th century architecture, and without thinking, picks up the loose end of the sentence and continues,

“Oh, yes, did you know that…” and thus, without even realizing it, Tim spends the entire lunch break talking about it - he is passionate about the topic, but he leaves out the details about the Covent Garden Theatre. It just hurts too much to think about, but other than that, Tim is excited about the topic. He gets so carried away and rambles on and on and on, he only stops when Jon and him get back to the institute. It takes even longer for Tim to catch up and realize that Jon just paid for both lunches while he went off on a monologue about Robert Smirke architecture. But when he tries to pay him back, Jon just waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, your lecture was very interesting, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

From anyone else, this might have been a dig - but coming from Jon, Tim knows by now, it is a genuine statement that makes him way happier than it should.

So, their lunch breaks together quickly turn into a tradition,

Tim isn’t entirely sure what is more surprising; the fact that he manages to get Jon to actually leave his desk for human needs like food and social interaction, or that the two of them are enjoying it so much.

Sometimes, they go to cafés or restaurants, trying out places that neither of them has been to before. It turns into them picking favourites, and then they become regulars at a small handful of places. Sometimes they simply go on a quick walk to pick up some food, other times they sit down and enjoy being out of the office for a little bit.

One day, Tim arrives in the office early, and he brings lunch from home for Jon and himself for the first time.

Tim has spent the previous night wide awake, unable to rest after a nightmare startled him out of a deep sleep. It takes a long time to get his breathing back under control, and very late at night, or very early in the morning, depending how you look at it, Tim gives up on sleep. After hours of useless tossing and turning, he won’t be able to rest, he knows from experience.

Cursing under his breath, he pulls aside the covers and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. Exhausted, both in a physical and emotional sense, he scrubs a hand over his face.

The memories linger, and Tim feels like his whole chest is pulled together with anxiety and grief. Seven months. That’s how long it has been since he found Danny sitting in his dark living room in the middle of the night, crying silent tears as he had no idea what to do besides be there for him and offer comfort. Seven months since he followed his younger brother to the Royal Opera House Covent Garden and had to watch him being torn apart.

Carefully, Tim forces himself to keep breathing as evenly as possible. In - hold - out - hold - in - rinse and repeat. His hands are shaking, and he tries to force them into stillness as he grips hard at the rumpled bed sheets.

Attempting to go back to sleep is useless, he knows from experience, and so he makes his way down into the kitchen.

This house feels too big, too empty without the presence of his little brother. He left a hole in his life, and even though it’s been months since Danny died, Tim hasn’t moved a single one of his possessions. Not yet - it hurts too much.

Despite having been alone for a while now, Tim is still careful to leave the lights out in the hallway, walking as quietly as he can in the middle of the night as if there was still someone around he could wake up with his movements. It’s a long standing habit, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever shake it off.

It’s only when he arrives in the kitchen that Tim switches on the overhead light. It flickers to life, slowly, and the small kitchen is tinted into a warm light. Warm and homely, like this house once was. Now, it just feels painfully empty.

With a long sigh, Tim makes his way to the sink and fills up a glass with water - his hands are still shaking and he spills a bit onto himself, but he doesn’t care. Caring about it is too much right now, so he focuses on draining the glass empty before refilling it again. He feels dehydrated, but given the night he’s had so far, it isn’t surprising.

“I need a distraction.” he mumbles, and soon enough, he’s raided the pantry and his refrigerator. Tim pulls out some pots and pans from the cupboard, scattering everything throughout his kitchen where it’ll be most convenient. The repetitive tasks of cooking have always had a relaxing effect on him, and soon enough, the room is filled with scents and aromas that make his mouth water. Even now, while he is absolutely miserable.

The casserole ends up being huge. It’s way too much for one person, even one with an appetite. But cooking for one after being used to there being someone else is hard - kind of useless, while you’re already at it.

Tim has had that problem ever since he’s been cooking on his own, but knowing that Danny will be back to join him again, freshly back from some cave diving or urban exploration or whatever other strange new hobby he’d found at the time.

Now, Tim is all on his own. He sighs unhappily. Cooking was a good distraction, up until he is painfully reminded that no one is there anymore to share it with. Not here, at least.

He allows himself a few minutes of quiet greif, seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a lukewarm cup of tea, sitting on the table by his side, almost forgotten.

By the time the sun is starting to rise, Tim is up and moving again. He has put the casserole in several plastic boxes and packs two of them into his work bag.

When he arrives at the office, way earlier than he usually does, because what is the point of staying home doing nothing, Tim places one of the boxes at the edge of Jon’s desk.

Jon seems to be mildly surprised by the early company, and even more so by the plastic box.

“Oh, Good morning... What is this?” he asks then, mildly curious.

“Lunch. I was cooking last night and it was way too much. Thought I’d bring some in to share.” Tim forces a smile along with the half-lie, if only to cover how tired he is. He needs coffee.

The “Thank you” Tim gets in response is equally surprised and genuine, and he tries very carefully to not interpret too much into it. Especially because their shared meal feels a lot more homely and strangely intimate that day. Getting takeout together or sitting somewhere is one thing, but sharing a home-cooked meal is something entirely different, he finds. He also finds that he doesn’t mind it.

Only a few days later, conveniently when every last bit of the casserole is gone, Tim finds a plastic box that isn’t one of his own sitting on his desk. Curiously, he opens it and finds it filled to the brim with homemade curry, rice and veggies. Even cold, it smells heavenly and makes his mouth water. Tim looks over to the desk opposite of him, where Jon is already typing away like he usually does, but when he looks up and finds Tim smiling brightly at him, he smiles back.

Something in his chest feels incredibly warm and fluttering.

One evening, when the two of them get out of the office equally late - Jon because he always does, and Tim because he may or may not have waited for him - they walk to the tube together.

In a spontanous fit of bravery and “Oh well, fuck it”, Tim carefully rechaes out until his own fingers gently brush against Jon’s as they walk. It’s dark outside, only illuminated by the countless lights that illuminate the shops and pubs and the sides of the street they’re walking along. Tim does so casually and carefully enough to be ignored or taken as a coincidence if needed be, just in case. But then his heart almost stops for a second when after a moment of stiffness, Jon accepts the offer and closes his own fingers around Tim’s.

His touch is light at first, but then his grip tightens a bit, warm and comfortably so, and it is clear that his heart is in it. Of course it is - the two of them have gotten close in the last few weeks and months. There might have been some wishful thinking on Tim’s end involved - Jon is not always great at picking up social cues, especially romantic ones.

“That’s fine though” he tells him later, “You’re a huge enough flirt to make it up for the both of us.”

Jon squeezes his hand, and Tim happily squeezes back as he keeps walking beside him, just a little bit closer than before.

He can’t help but smile. Something like happiness blooms in his chest, and even though they don’t talk about it the entire way, even though they keep holding hands when they sit next to each other in the tube, they remain this close all the way until their ways separate and they have to get onto a different line each. It feels right, and the sudden loss of touch as their ways separate makes Tim wish it could last - but turning back and running after the other train seems kind of silly now, especially since he’ll see Jon again the very next day.

This becomes A Thing as well. Touching, that is.

Holding hands, brushing along each other when they reach for folders or mugs or books in the library. Speaking of which, Tim has learned very quickly that there is no way to stop Jon from literally climbing high spaces to reach whatever he needs. As of now, he is long used to watching him scale a bookshelf or kitchen counter, much to his own amusement.

“Hold on tight, little monkey.” he tells him as he walks past, grinning from ear to ear, knowing full well that he can’t expect more than a scoff and,

“Oh, shut up.” as a response.

Tim keeps it up though - because it’s fun and he knows he’s allowed to get away with it. Which can’t be said for anyone else in the institute, not like anyone would have tried as far as he knows. But he is ridiculously proud of it nonetheless. Tim is still cackling to himself when he wraps an arm around the other man’s shoulders and keeps chatting away to him all the way back into the research offices.

He has always been very openly affectionate, with family, friends and romantic partners or those he’d fancied. It’s part of who he is, and if he is honest with himself, it feels good to have some part of him back that’s always been there. It helps a bit, and even more so since Jon not only happily lets him, he also leans back into the touch. Jon’s attempts at seeking out touch are a lot more subtle than Tim’s, at least at first, but he knows and recognizes it for the sign of trust and comfort that it is.

That afternoon, there isn’t much time to chat at their desks, but about an hour before they’re supposed to get off, a balled up piece of paper hits Tim’s hand, clearly coming from Jon, but the sneaky bastard isn’t giving indication that he stopped reading at all.

With a small smile, Tim opens the note. It’s not like Mr. Workaholic to pass notes on the clock, but then again, he has to give Jon credit for loosening up significantly since the day they met. Or, maybe warmed up to human company is more like it. (He very carefully tries not to think, or more like hope, that it's him in particular Jon has warmed up to so much. But then again, Tim has heard some of their coworkers whisper in astonishment that it’s completely unheard of that Jonathan Sims leaves his desk for breaks or in time in the evenings, let alone interacting with other human beings more than absolutely necessary. Tim also caught the rumors about the two of them being a couple - he’d almost laughed then. He fucking wishes .)

Tim unfolds the note and reads;

“I have a lot of leftover curry I made last night. Would you like to come over for dinner after work? - J.”

This has become A Thing, too. Sharing meals after work and sometimes on the weekends. It alternates where they go, but especially lately, they have preferred to go to either Tim’s house or Jon’s apartment instead of a restaurant. For one, going out to eat on a regular basis is expensive, but also, cooking together or eating the leftovers from a late night cooking binge is a lot more comfortable and homely.

Sharing a meal and oftentimes a couch with someone fills at least part of the void that Tim finds inside of himself. He is struggling still, but having another human being in his personal space, warm and alive and happy to be there, means the world to him. He’s feeling something again, something that isn’t constant fear or everlasting sadness.

They watch movies sometimes - it’s not exactly easy to find something that both of them like . Their tastes in movies are widely different from each other, so instead, they opt to choose obscure sci-fi movies or anything they can pick apart and make fun of. No horror - they haven’t talked about it, but this is one of the few movie-related things they are in silent agreement over.

Truth be told, poking fun at bad movies together is much more entertaining than watching anything the normal way.

They are stuffing their faces with snacks and complain at the protagonists for making very unwise or straight up unrealistic decisions, even in-universe illogical ones. They pick apart plot-points and anything that doesn’t add up while they share space on the couch, either holding hands or leaning against one another.

“Oh, of course, give me a break!” Jon grouses as he shakes his hand that is currently holding a few crisps at the TV, annoyed to no end, it seems. In truth, he is enjoying this. He enjoys this an awful lot, and so does Tim.

He laughs out loud and pulls Jon a little closer to his side.

“Yes, you tell the creepy alien why it’s mere existence even in this fictional universe doesn’t make sense, Love!” He eggs him on, and only realizes the pet name has slipped out of his mouth by the time he notices the deep blush creeping on Jon’s face. Oh shit.

“Now don’t say anything to fuck this up, for once in you life, just shut up!” Tim thinks to himself, carefully trying to remain as calm as he can. They’ve been holding hands for ages and they keep cuddling up on the couch - this isn’t anything unexpected, for heaven’s sake. Hell, if Jon were anyone different, they might have ended up in bed already, but Tim is aware that this probably isn’t going to happen anytime soon - or at all, if he isn’t entirely mistaken, based on the hints and observations. First and foremost the slow and careful way in which their relationship to each other is changing and developing, but then again, he knows what the simple black ring on the middle finger on a person’s right hand usually means.

Tim doesn’t ask though - he figures that if Jon wants to talk about it, he will do so eventually and at his own pace.

So, Tim doesn’t push anything and carefully waits for a response. But there isn’t one, or at least nothing verbal. Instead of saying anything, neither to Tim or about the movie, Jon simply scoots a little bit closer to him, leaning against him and doesn’t let go of his hand. Tim takes this as a win and leans his head against the tuft of long black hair that tickles his cheek.

Both of them relax in an instant, and if they end up falling asleep on the couch, legs a tangled mess and with the TV still on, well, the next morning isn’t nearly as awkward as it might have been once upon a time.

It takes Tim, way longer than it should to realize that, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t startle awake screaming that night. Company helps. It helps a lot. Just knowing that there is someone else, that he isn’t alone and doesn’t have to wake up to an eerily empty house anymore helps.

Tim doesn’t fool himself into thinking that everything will magically resolve itself - he knows it won't, especially because his research about the circus isn’t going anywhere yet.

Sometimes, he feels guilty. Guilty for not spending every waking minute searching for hints, searching for answers to the things that have taken his brother and traumatized him for life. The calmer, logical part of his brain is aware that it doesn’t work like that - he needs a break sometimes, needs the time to himself and spend it with other people…. And goddammit, he deserves to be happy.

Danny would have kicked his arse if he could hear him think this, would have told him to get a grip and do something that makes him happy. Because this is what scares him sometimes - the happiness, the times where he doesn’t think of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden or circuses and… Skin. Just the thought alone makes him shudder, but he can’t stop thinking about those memories sometimes.

“...Are you alright?”

Tim blinks, not having realized that he must have zoned out. He’s still on the couch, slowly waking up and with Jon tucked somewhere next to him. He doesn’t sound very awake yet, but there is concern in his voice as he fixes Tim with a very direct look.

“I- yes, just. Zoned out a bit there.” Tim shoots him his best bright smile, hoping he’ll be able to chase away the ghosts. At least for now. He sighs, and happily leans into the touch and hugs back when he can feel a pair of slim arms snaking around his waist. Jon doesn’t say anything, but he seems to pick up that something is bothering Tim. And much like him in emotional situations, Jon doesn’t know what to say. So he remains close and thankfully, this is exactly what Tim needs right now. Just being close to someone he cares a whole lot about, feeling their heartbeat near his own. Being held for a bit. He squeezes Jon in silent gratitude for being there, and hopes he can get across what he can’t say.

It is Saturday and they have a whole weekend in front of them. After they peel themselves off of the couch, they stumble off to the bathroom after one another and then to the kitchen in an attempt to fuel themselves with tea and breakfast. It’s painfully, beautifully domestic.

While he is keeping an eye on several pans on the propane stove, Tim is chatting away about something - he isn’t exactly sure himself, except it is something pointless that distracts him from his earlier train of thought. Jon and him are laughing and joking while they drink tea and prepare breakfast together. But after a while it looks like Jon wants to say something, stops himself, and then more of the same all over again.

Eventually, Tim can’t watch him struggle over it anymore and straight out asks,

“Hey. What’s going on in that fuzzy head of your’s?”

It’s true - both of them still have a severe case of bed-heads, and Jon huffs at the question and tries to smooth down a few of the stubborn flyaways around his face. Only very mildly successful.

“I… Was going to ask something.”

“Alright? Shoot.” Tim very, very carefully swallows the joke he was about to make in the end - if this is going where he hopes it might, he doesn’t want one god awful pun to be part of the memory of it. So he waits.

Jon seems to be bracing himself, and then he turns around to face Tim.

“I would like to kiss you. Is that okay?” he asks. A simple question, and yet - it means so much. Tim smiles at him, heart beating out of his chest as he steps closer to Jon.

“Yes, I’d love that.”

There are only mere inches separating them. Both Jon and Tim cross the last of the distance at once, hands searching for each other. Their fingers are interlacing tightly as soon as they touch, and just a split second later, their lips meet for the first time. There is no rush, nothing in this world that would get them to hurry anything up at this moment. Slowly, they kiss again and again, tasting faintly of the tea they had earlier, but even more so, it feels like comfort. Maybe even a little bit like home.

A quiet happiness settles deep into them, and something seems to click into place. They are happy, and there is nowhere they’d rather be than anywhere, as long as they can be together.

After a little while, their hands let go of each other, but only so they can pull one another closer. One of Tim’s hands is cupped around Jon’s cheek, thumb gently stroking over the soft stubble while his other arm remains wrapped around him, hand resting at the small of his back. Jon on the other hand, has to angle his head up a bit due to their height difference, but he doesn’t mind that at all. Both of his arms are wrapped around Tim’s torso, and if it was possible, he would like to remain like this forever.

Unfortunately for the two of them, life has other plans.

When the smell of something burning registers with the two of them, they regretfully break apart cursing and laughing as they quickly remove the pans from the heat.

“That was - good lord, why now of all times?” Breathlessly and more than a little high from happy brain chemicals, they try to get a grip on themselves and on the situation.

“Just like our luck, isn’t it?” Tim is joking, of course, but still. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

“This better not become a habit.” Jon glares at the charred eggs and smoking pans as if they personally insulted him. He’d been having a good time, but of course something had to happen. Oh well.

“We’ll just have to make up for it.” Tim winks at him, grinning widely. He doesn’t mean much by it, and he only realizes how that might have come across when Jon awkwardly clears his throat and says,

“The kissing? Yes, absolutely. Other things… Well, most other things, actually… Not so much. I erm, I should have said that before now, I suppose. But, I’m Asexual.” he chooses his words slowly and deliberately, like he is trying to say them exactly right.

Tim looks into his eyes, bright green and shining with happiness, but now, there is something else creeping into them. Self-doubt, insecurities - Tim isn’t sure, but he wants to do his best to make the doubts disappear - and apologize for his big mouth.

“That’s absolutely fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that - I wasn’t implying anything else, I promise.”

Slowly, Jon nods, visibly relaxed now. He asks,

“So… We’re good?”

“We are. More than good actually, if you ask me.” Tim finds himself smiling again, which is something he’s been doing so much more lately. Then he tucks away a strand of hair from Jon’s face and kisses him again, just as gentle as before. He is happy to find that he returns the kiss in an instant, pushing close until the two of them end up pressed up against the kitchen table. After they break apart again, they remain standing in an embrace.

“I like you, Jon. I like you a lot. I love being around you and with you, just for who you are. Yes, I enjoy sex, but I don’t need it. So if you don’t want to, that is okay and it doesn’t make a difference to me. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

He nearly says, “I love you” but that might be a little early - saying it too early has ruined his relationships in the past, and although what Jon and he have is something different, Tim doesn’t want to risk it.

But as it turns out, he said the right thing. Jon looks a lot more relaxed than before, and he keeps a loose hold around Tim’s hips.

“Thank you, Tim, that’s… Very reassuring actually. I’ve been with people who reacted quite a bit differently to this, so” Jon shrugs, but it is clear that this isn’t a happy memory.

“I appreciate you.” He adds, and Tim pulls him a little bit closer.

“I’m sorry. These people fucking suck.”

“That’s one way to put it, yes.” Jon smiles, and pulls Tim down for another, longer kiss. It feels just as intoxicating as before. Then he tells him,

“And, just for the record. I like you a lot, and spending time with you makes me very happy.

The giddy happiness stays with them - being freshly in love and being freshly together is exciting. It is a feeling Tim will never get tired of. The thing is, being together with Jon doesn’t change a whole lot - they are still on opposite desks from each other at work, they still spend their lunch breaks together and Tim actually manages to get Jon to leave the office at 5pm these days, instead of late at night like he did for the longest time. They still have dinner together most days and they often spend their weekends together. All of these are things they did before, but now, it still feels… Different.

Then of course, there are the casually affectionate touches throughout the day. They’d like to think that they’re being more discreet here, but then again, at least Tim has never been shy about throwing arms around people or bumping shoulders or anything like that. In fact, people would probably get concerned and suspicious if he stopped doing any of it.

The point is: they keep it down to normal levels at work, but they seem to be glued together whenever they’re off the clock. Whether they hold hands, hug, kiss, bump shoulders, hips, arms or hands, or sometimes simply nap stacked on top of each other, they are always touching in some way. Both of them soak up the contact like sponges, and they know without having even talked about it in detail that they spent quite a bit of time lonely and touch starved before… This. Their relationship.

Waking up with one another in the mornings is probably Tim’s favourite part of all. Holding onto each other with their legs tangled together, hands searching for warm skin to rest on and heads pillowed on each other's shoulder or chest. Sharing breaths of air - all of this feels wonderful and intimate in it’s own way, and he can’t get enough of it.

Waking up in the morning is a peaceful thing. But some nights, unfortunately, are not. Both of them have nightmares on a regular basis. They find that they generally sleep better when they are not alone, and having someone to hold close or bury into when the lingering horrors hit, helps significantly.

Some nights, it’s Jon who startles awake in the middle of the night, eyes wide and chest heaving as he frantically looks around himself until he realizes where he is, or until Tim wakes up and mumbles quiet reassurances into his hair as he holds him close until the tremors have calmed down.

If they’re lucky, they manage to fall back asleep after a while, but if not, they simply stay awake, cuddled up under soft blankets and they just talk. Their topics of conversation vary widely, ranging from silly, lighthearted distractions to things they did or experienced in their past, as well as heartfelt conversations that are about much more than just that.

Tim himself has his fair share of nightmares as well, ever since he lost Danny. And even though having Jon close by and being held at night helps to keep them at bay sometimes, there are still nights where he startles awake either screaming or crying or both.

The first time it happens, Tim wakes up terrified and tangled in the sheets. His shirt clings to the cold sweat that is running down his back and his breath comes out in irregular, shaky bursts.

A dimly lit circus arena, old and dusty with centuries of dirt. Tim can’t move. It’s like he is rooted to the spot, and yet, his legs won’t stop shaking. He is shivering from the cold - no surprise, since he ran out in nothing but his pyjamas earlier, and this place is surprisingly freezing for a hot August night. Tim can feel the cold, but more so than anything, he is absolutely terrified.

He wants to scream, to run, do anything but stand here - but it’s impossible. The crumpled form of his brother - or the Thing that pretends to be Danny - sits motionless and hunched over, no matter how much Tim tries to call out for him. Not a single word leaves his throat, even though his vocal cords hurt from the strain he’s been putting on them. But Danny doesn’t hear him - can’t hear him.

From out of the shadows, Tim can see… Something. It looks like a clown, but it’s wrong. Too long, too folded up to be human. It drags itself across the floor slowly and grotesquely, like a creature from a horror movie, up until it stops. Unlike a movie creature though, this is very much reality.

Breathing is hard, and Tim wants to force his body to move, but still, there is nothing he can do. Part of him wants to believe that this… Place, this Thing is influencing his ability to move somehow, but then again, he might just as well be paralyzed by fear.

The clown moves forward, right towards Danny. As it unfurls itself, it is clear that there are smears of blood all over its face, red and bold and dripping wet.

“Shall I?” it asks, with a voice that is playful in the worst possible way. Too happy, and way too sinister. Tim can’t even answer, still unable to talk or move or do anything, but he can feel the bile rise in his throat. He wants to grab Danny and run, but knows he can’t. He wants to scream, cry or throw up, anything but watch the scene unfolding in front of him.

None of this happens though.

Instead, Tim is forced to stand motionless and helpless, watching in agony and horror as the clown moves much more quickly than he could have anticipated. It’s not as much that he can actually see the movement, but Tim can feel it. He can feel the breeze of air on his face, and just a split second later, it has removed the entirety of Danny’s skin. His limp, bloody and bare form slumps forward, and it is only then that Tim actually starts screaming.

He is screaming his head off, loud, desperate and terrified. Tim is shaking like a leaf. Breathing is impossible, and it takes him way too long to realize that in order to breathe, he needs to calm down for just a second. It takes even longer for him to realize that he is at home, safely in bed and long out of this situation. But Danny… Danny is just as dead.

Between ragged, forced breaths, Tim is curling in on himself, unable to register that Jon has woken up and is talking to him in a low, concerned voice. He tries to get his partner to calm down at least a bit, afraid he’ll end up hyperventilating from panic.

Tim doesn’t register any of it. He can’t make out Jon’s gentle voice trying to bring him back, doesn’t register the light, careful touch on his arm in an attempt to soothe without scaring him further. Tim curls himself into a tight, shaking ball without noticing any of it.

After the first initial panic, there is a brief moment of silence, but after that, he breaks. Ragged breath turns into uncontrollable, hiccuping sobs and it is only then that Tim realizes the familiar pair of arms slipping around him in a protective embrace. He uncurls just enough to be able to hug back and let Jon slip closer to him, which he does as soon as humanly possible. Tim clings onto him for dear life as Jon curls himself around him in what must be an uncomfortable or at least awkward position, but this is the last thing on his mind. All Jon cares about right now is making sure that Tim is okay, or at least, as okay as he can be.

Their bodies are pressed flush together, tightly enough for them to feel each other's rapidly beating hearts hammering out of their chests. Tim tries to focus on that, tries to focus on the carefully even rhythm of breath that Jon attempts to get him to follow.

His presence is constant, warm and comforting. Tim can feel his weight on top of himself, the hold of his arms around him. Strands of hair and warm breath on his neck are a familiar sensation as well, something he’s been getting used to lately. Even more so, it is something that Tim loves and associates with home by now. And while the fear and pain caused by his nightmare are still very much lingering, he is able to relax in order to calm down eventually. Slowly but surely, a little bit over the course of - he doesn’t even know how long.

Time has lost all meaning at this point. It might take him minutes or hours to breathe normally again, and at some point, Tim realizes that the steady stream of talking, besides the quiet attempts to comfort and assure him, are actually bits and pieces of random information. Anything to keep talking and keep up a steady presence, Tim supposes, but he is eternally grateful for it. He shifts a bit, arms still wrapped tightly around Jon, although he’s stopped clinging as much by now. He stretches out a little bit without letting go of their embrace - everything hurts from holding himself so tense for so long. Then Tim pulls the both of them onto their side so they can cuddle properly.

Gentle hands keep running through his messy mop of purple hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp. Tim leans into it, soaking up the touch like a sponge. He’s stopped shaking now, he notices, and he registers a lot more sensations than he did before.

Little sounds around the house, wind outside, the occasional car. Most of all, he registers all the different little touches from Jon, and the way he keeps talking to him even now.

After a while, he leans in to kiss Tim’s forehead, thumbs wiping away a few stray tears. It seems like the worst of the storm is over by now, but Jon stays close. He’s never seen Tim in such a state, and it worries him to no end. At least it looks like he isn’t in severe panic anymore.

“Do you want to talk?” Jon asks quietly, but all Tim can manage is shake his head. It's not like he could talk right now if he tried. He doesn't trust his voice, knowing it will break, which is probably going to set him off again and he's not ready to face that.

Maybe, a part of him wants to talk about what happened. Sure, it is going to hurt regardless, whenever he decides he is ready for it, but there is no doubt that it will help to get it off of his chest. But Tim doesn’t know how he is supposed to talk about the horrors he's witnessed. Where would he even start? How does he explain all of it without sounding - well.

“That’s alright.” Jon tightens his hold around Tim as he shifts a little bit, without letting go, so he can rest his head on top of Tim’s. There is a quiet, almost suffocating sadness radiating off of him, and even though he doesn’t know what happened that got him into this state, Jon offers him all the support he can, in any way he knows how. Physical touch seems to help a lot, thankfully. That, he can do forever.

“I’m here for you. Whatever it is you need, I’m here.”

The sun is starting to rise on the horizon, but Tim and Jon remain in bed, wrapped up around each other just like before. Birds are starting to sing outside, even before the first rays of the morning sun tint the room into a low light.

“I love you. I’m here for you, and I love you.”

Notes:

#Archival Pride 2021 #Banashee writes #tma fanfic #JonTim #the magnus archives #tw trauma #tw death #tw blood and violence #mind the tags and CWs please

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silyabeeodess · 3 years ago

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FusionFall Fic: Wayward Souls pt.2

Read Part 1 Here

Weeks later, Wirt didn’t feel any more at ease. It was slow, but the gap between when fusion fighters revived and when they regained consciousness only grew until a handful of them simply wouldn’t wake up at all.

Not that they were dead: It was more like a coma. At first, people wondered if the Resurrect ‘Ems had somehow broken, saving the body while leaving the soul behind. It was so severe that even Grim got involved. However, further investigation revealed that the soul was still present, just... hard to reach.

It didn’t make sense. Every fusion fighter’s soul was bound to the Resurrect ‘Ems via magical contract. Wirt remembered having to sign one himself, how the foreign ‘ink’ seemingly burned his name into the paper and how it felt as though something tugged at his chest when he finished writing it. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone could break easily. The problem was that that wasn’t impossible either. For example, while the contracts made it more difficult, there was still a chance that beings like Demongo and his fusion could still steal souls. Which meant that monster likely could as well...

He still wasn’t sure whether or not everything about the Unknown was something his oxygen-deprived mind had made up, but he couldn’t shake away the memory of the soldier who knew the Beast’s song. The timing was too perfect: It was too big of a coincidence. And it ate away at his mind every day on the job. If the Beast was somehow involved, then countless people were in danger.

None of them knew that though, not like he did. Wirt had tried prodding other fusion fighters to see if any of them shared memories of a place similar to the Unknown before they regained consciousness, but hadn’t had any luck with their answers. They seemed confused when asked, as if trying to recall something from a dream.

He really didn’t want to pry more than that, knowing it would only lead to trouble, but Wirt didn’t think he had a choice. So, with a foreboding feeling clenching at his heart, he approached the cloaked skeleton inspecting the area’s Resurrect ‘Em.

Normally, Wirt avoided every kind of supernatural being; he even shirked runs to Grim Gardens to keep from interacting with the Underworlders that worked there. Having the Reaper himself come and inspect their Resurrect ‘Em--out of the worse ones--was a chance that shouldn’t be passed up. He felt a lump form in his throat as eyeless sockets peered back at him after a tap on the shoulder.

“H-h-hi, uh...! E-excuse me, Mr. Reaper? Do I call you that...?” his voice cracked and he he cleared his throat, “I work here, and I might have an idea of what’s wrong--”

Those sockets narrowed. He couldn’t stammer out his explanation before a boney hand waved him aside, “Not now, child! Can’t ya see I’ve got me work cut out for me here?”

That alone was almost enough to make Wirt give up. He knew Grim wasn’t being rude: He was just as frustrated as everyone else--if not more--about the recent events. The real issue was that Grim didn’t have to even try to be terrifying to make the young man’s blood run cold.

Ok! I’m not as used to the supernatural as I thought!

He tried to pull himself together, turning away for just a second to take a deep breath and work out his nerves. He flexed his fingers, hoping that would quickly drain the anxious energy that made him want to wring his hands. He couldn’t stay this way if he was going get the Underworlder to listen.

You’re being stupid! Think of Pottsfield: Ignore the scythe and he’s not much different than those guys... You can do this: Lives are on the line.

That was right... If what he knew was important and he kept it to himself, people could actually die. He wasn’t a soldier, but he was a field aid: It was his job to save them. Reminding himself of that once again gave Wirt the last bit of strength he needed.

“It’s really important!” He turned back around, this time able to keep both his voice and expression steady.

The firmness in his tone, that told the reaper he wasn’t going anywhere until he heard what he had to say, brought Grim’s unamused, doubtful gaze back onto him.

“Look, I’ll admit, I don’t know the first thing about souls or magic or... whatever kind of occult power you use to make those,” he pointed to the Resurrect ‘Em, “but I’ve helped take care of the people here since the war started. I caught one of the soldiers singing something that I’ve only heard once, when I was close to death myself.

“Have you ever heard of the Beast? Or the Unknown? It was his song! I know it!”

Grim didn’t have to answer. His ‘eyes’ widened knowingly. After his initial surprise, rather than speak, the reaper looked away and tapped his chin in thought.

Only after a minute did Wirt hear him murmur under his breath, “...yes, I suppose dat could be it. Dat parasite, if he’s breakin’ da rules now, of all times...”

“You know him?!” Wirt couldn’t hide his disbelief, but even he didn’t know whether he came more from the fact that Grim understood exactly what he had implied or that his theory had apparently been completely on-point.

“Of course I do! I reap souls: He’s one of da creatures dat takes dem,” Grim almost seemed offended that he even asked. Nevertheless, the anger in his voice was directed at another, distant someone. “And I know de Unknown as well. For most mortals, it’s a subconscious realm ya can only enter in dreams or at da brink of death. However, if ya make it out, most of your memories of de place don’t typically come back wit ya.” Here, he gave the field aid a curious glance, “If dey did, it’d probably be because you’ve already been exposed to supernatural forces.”

Considering that he’d lived what he considered to be a pretty normal life up until that fateful Halloween, that confused Wirt. Rather than question it though, he let it slide to focus on the matter at hand. “I didn’t think the Beast would still be around...” He didn’t know what happened after he left the Unknown and returned home with his brother, but he thought the Woodsman would somehow deal with him. Looking back, what if he’d made a mistake, giving back the lantern and leaving the old man by himself?

“He went quiet some time ago, but if he is the cause of dis, den we need to act as soon as possible. We’ll gather a team. I can open a portal to dat place, and you can search for the souls of the unconscious fusion fighters.”

Although he didn’t understand how that worked, Wirt nodded. At least now they had some kind of plan. Still, it took him a second longer to digest the full of the reaper’s words. We... You...

His voice cracked again, nearly rising a whole octave, “...what?”

((Quick note, since I know some people who’ve watched OTGW might probably know the references to Dante’s Inferno and understand that the Unknown is supposed to be based on a kind of limbo/purgatory: I 100% agree for the show’s canon, but I wrote it as a place overlapping with the subconscious due to how the Unknown is presented in the comics. In them, we not only have the context of Anna--the Woodsman’s daughter--being born in the Unknown and her family having an entire history there, but we also see Greg, his frog, Wirt, and even possibly Sarah there post-show on another series of adventures through dreams. That considered, there may be more to the various inhabitants of the Unknown outside of just lost spirits and I wanted to leave that more open.))

#my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #fusionfall #video games #congrats you survived the first test #but i have some unfortunate news #you're going back #bye!! :D #...please let me know if someone gets that reference

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overthegravityfalls · 4 years ago

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Bodies and Beasts

Hey, so, this fic I mentioned off-hand 5 years ago?

I finished it!

...Better late than never?

(please heed the warnings)

Rating: E Word count: 4,300 Pairing(s): Bipper/Beast!Wirt, Bill Cipher/The Beast Summary: "Those that enter shall become part of my forest. No matter how long it takes,” the Beast says, his eyes glowing with colour. “Oh, don’t worry, pal, this flesh-sack can spend an eternity here. You can have him. All I’m asking is to have a little fun with it first.” “Oh?” The Beast tilts his head, feeling the weight of his antlers as he does. Warnings: Main Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gore, Cannibalism, Coerced Suicide, Child Death, Torture, Unhappy Ending, Self-Mutilation Read on AO3 here

There is a body in the woods. He discovers it on a day when the air is cold, despite the brightness of the sun. In another time, he would have receded into the deepest, darkest parts of his domain in such conditions, but he no longer needs to be so closely tied to the night and shadow; now, the plainness of day could serve him just as well.

The body reminds him of his own still-new form: made of flesh, bones, skin. Teenaged, brown-haired, slim. It is more similar to him than he realises at first.

It lies there motionless until he approaches it. When he leans down, its eyes open wide, and he can see through them that the being inside it is not one who belongs. The amalgam grins, and it continues to grin even as he wraps his hands around its neck and clenches hard. Such a body can usually be coerced into becoming a part of his forest, with muscle and intent being just as effective as the deceit and patience he was once limited to, but this one seems to warrant a different approach. It seems to enjoy the ministrations he is putting it through. Unconcerned, his fingers twitch and their grip loosens; he comes to a stand. After all, his lantern is still burning strong from that younger brother's oil, as little as his Edelwood tree had been; and he has, too, a heart within him which beats black around his body.

"Don't they teach you manners in this plane of existence?"

He stares at the being with white, narrowed orbs.

"As it happens, you're actually not that far off from what I want from you. But an introduction wouldn't hurt, pal! Here, look. Name: Bill Cipher, occupation: this kid's flesh sack. See how easy that was? Haven't even tried to strangle you yet!" It—he—rubs a hand across his neck and bares his teeth again in a facsimile of a smile.

"How did you come by that vessel and to my woods?"

'Bill Cipher,' as he calls himself, sits up, putting his weight on his forearms. He watches closely in case Cipher tries to do anything as unpredictable as his nature seems to be. "Oh, me and Pine Tree go way back. Introduced him to an awesome apocalypse before he and his family had to go and ruin everything." His voice lowers, and his face contorts into a scowl at those words, but, like lightening, it passes in an instant. He brings himself to his feet and dusts himself off, then meets his eyes. "Take it from me, do not wish on Shooting Stars, no matter what people tell you.

"Buuuut I'm getting sidetracked here. Point is, he was mine to control a few years ago, and after all those difficulties he and his family caused, I thought a little payback was in order. That annoying little pest took his time in dropping his guard--honestly, had more forms of protection than a Trojan factory! —but my waiting paid off. Eventually, he awakened my statue. Curiosity killed the cat, am I right? And so, here I am!" Cipher does a little flourish with his hands, and he notices that his white sleeves are stained heavily with red. “Now, you wanna introduce yourself, Beast boy?”

“…You know me. Therefore, you know that the Unknown is my domain. Those that enter shall become part of my forest. No matter how long it takes,” the Beast says, his eyes glowing with colour as he remembers the thrill of finding the brothers in his woods again. They had carried freezing water in their lungs ever since their fateful journey, and it had dragged them back to the forest from a pair of white-sheet beds. One to bear his weakened being, one to fuel his flickering soul. He blinks, his eyes white again.

“You got a bit of personality in there, huh? Yeah, yeah, I know you—got my mitts in all sorts of dimensions. The Unknown is a funny name for Purgatory, but, whatever. Just thought you could be polite about it, you know?”

He cares not for how much this being talks. Underneath all of the blabber, he wonders what he means to gain by coming here. If he thinks he can saunter out, he is mistaken. “You are… intriguing, but your vessel is still young enough; here, it will remain,” the Beast says, his voice soft.

“Oh, don’t worry, pal, this flesh-sack can spend an eternity here. He’s already suffered a punishing fate in his physical reality, but I am not satisfied with just making him kill himself and leaving all of those Pines heartbroken. You can have him. All I’m asking is to have a little fun with it first.”

“Oh?” the Beast says, tilting his head, feeling the weight of his antlers as he does.

“He’s in here. With me. Pine Tree. First time around, I kicked him out, but now, we’re roomies in this here head of teen angst. And hoo boy, he is not happy about it. See, I love pain, and I love how much squishy and breakable stuff is inside these gross human bodies. It’s hilarious! I had to rush through everything in the physical realm, but now…” Cipher grins so wide it looks like it could split his face in two. “I can take my time in torturing him. Care to explore with me, Beast?”

He follows along well enough with the story this demon tells, as strangely as he tells it, and his ideas stir something sadistic in him. He wonders, though, “Why would you simply dispose of the body when you could utilise it, Bill Cipher?” He himself enjoyed that shadow of consciousness within him and the empty, hollow sadness and regret it emitted. Wirt’s emotions had burned through his being initially, as heated as the fire of the lantern, but once the Edelwood branches were all ash, the boy gave himself fully to the Beast. There was nothing else he could do.

“Eugh, when I take over the world, it will be with my equilateral perfection. No, no, the slow torture and crash course in forestry will do just fine for Pine Tree—or should I say Pine-Edelwood Tree?”

“You should not.”

“You’re right, let’s just get on with it. Here, I have something that’ll help,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a knife coated with red.

The Beast plucks it from his hand, running his slim fingers along the flat steel. He taps on the point and a pinprick of black blood swells from his digit. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

“Why don’t I just lie back and think of England?” the demon says with a wink. He spreads his arms out like a cross and falls back, hitting the ground with an “oomph.” The Beast straddles him, taking his time to get comfortable, but Bill Cipher is impatient. He squirms and pulls at his shirt collar, making the button strain until the Beast carefully nicks the thread with the blade and sends the button flying.

First, he can cut his shirt open, then, he can cut his chest open.

Settled in place, the Beast works on revealing this Pine Tree’s milky skin. It is dotted with bruises and old scars here and there and looks unnaturally pale. His ribs are just about visible, his body skinny. Delicate.

“Get on with it, I’m vibrating in place here!” Bill Cipher urges.

He rests the blade on the centre of his chest, making Cipher still, and applies a bit of pressure to it. Blood oozes out and continues to do so as he pulls the knife down, past his ribs and across his stomach. It is only a shallow cut, surface-level damage. Enough to sting.

Cipher lets out a breath, sounding satisfied. The Beast repeats the motion horizontally, vertically, diagonally, until there are lacerations all over his chest.

“Mmm, this would pair perfectly with some lemon juice.”

The scarlet rivulets look too inviting to resist, and he leans down and licks his tongue up the red stripe. The bright, coppery taste delights his senses, and he collects more blood with his fingers and sucks them clean.

“Hey, think you missed a spot there,” Cipher says, his voice taking on a raspy tone. He props himself up and grabs the Beast’s face, swiping his tongue across a smudge of blood on his cheek. Cipher surprises him by twisting his face forward and invading his mouth, wrapping around his teeth and gums and all the inner spots he has missed. It is less of a kiss and more a cannibalistic instinct he cannot seem to help. The Beast allows it, closing his eyes and waiting for him to finish his exploration.

“Yum,” the amalgam simply states, then leans back without any further comment.

He notices he has spots on his cloak, though that is nothing compared to how many stains are on Cipher’s shirt, the contrast of red on white stark and harsh. Cipher decides to do away with it, taking the clothing off completely and discarding it besides him. The Beast can clearly see, now, the ugly gashes that had stained his sleeves, following his veins from his wrists down his forearms.

He wants to excavate this body.

The Beast takes a hold of Cipher’s hand, resting the knife where it had carved a path through skin in the physical realm. This time, though, he will take it deeper. He lets the knife feel its way down the path, then pushes, pushes, pushes, until bone scrapes against the blade. Cipher laughs dementedly, then screeches, then his voice takes on a different tone; it is agonised, raw and rough.

“Stop, stop, stop, PLEASE, I—AAAAAAAAH,” he yells. Cipher has lost control, and Pine Tree thrashes and fights against the Beast as he sobs and wails. He drops the knife, protecting himself against flailing attacks. Spittle and blood flies between them. Pine Tree finds his face and tries to dig his thumbs into the Beast’s eye sockets, but his hands tremble. His pain makes him uncoordinated. Cipher takes advantage of the unclarity; with a spasm, Pine Tree’s eyes roll into the back of his head and when his pupils appear again, they are elongated and unquestionably demonic.

“Woo! Did not anticipate how much he would push back from a little bit of torture like that. We are just getting started, pal,” Bill Cipher says casually.

The Beast has to pause for a moment, because he can feel his own storm inside him. Emotions that are not his own are flaring and twisting in his chest. He can tell Wirt yearns to save this poor creature, to bring himself a moment of redemption—but there is no redemption for him. Not after he failed to save his own brother. With this in his mind, the Beast lures him back to despair and resignation; he was so much easier to coax than that blasted brother of his, a boy good for nothing but firewood. It does not take long for his emotions to wither and dull. It is so comforting to feel nothing at all, is it not, Wirt?

There is no answer.

“Perhaps I should utilise the idea your host so kindly gave me,” the Beast murmurs, hovering his thumbs over Cipher’s pale, yellow eyes.

“Woah, woah, woah, I wanna see these innards, thank you very much. Shoo,” he says with the accompanying motion.

“Very well.”

“Why not reveal this Bleeding Heart’s bleeding heart instead?”

“Hmm…” the Beast considers, gazing at his chest. “Yes, that would do.”

He chooses not to pick up the knife again. He wants to do this himself.

With supernatural ability, the Beast buries his fingers into Pine Tree’s chest, buries into flesh and feeling around bone. He yanks back and rips him open. Skin and matter tear off in large sheets, Cipher’s cry piercing his eardrums, until there is revealed his ribcage and lungs holding a frantically beating heart hostage.

It is beautiful.

Even Bill Cipher needs time to adjust to this onslaught—he pants and lies there, presumably also keeping Pine Tree at bay more carefully this time around. With drool pooling from one side of his mouth, he says between gasps, “See, Pine Tree? Told you we were just getting started.”

The Beast drops his skin, leaving the amalgam spread open, a creature in the middle of a vivisection. Fluid coats his hands. The temptation makes him hunger. He cradles Cipher’s face with both palms flush against his cheeks, then drags them down over his neck, his grip tightening and then releasing. He wants to crush this human, but he has to remind himself to take it slowly. Cipher, now painted with shades of maroon and scarlet, licks his lips.

“So nice to find a kindred spirit. Just bros being bros, bonding over some good old-fashioned gore. Maybe I should come back here with Shooting Star sometime,” he contemplates.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves. I want to appreciate what I have right here.” If he felt he could have another plaything, he really would crush this human all too soon.

“Oh, you’re so romantic, Beast,” Cipher says with a grin.

He traces each of his ribs, squeezes around the heart to feel the atriums and ventricles straining to keep this body alive. In the Unknown, it can work all it wants, beat until all the blood is drained and the skull is caved in and the body is in dozens of pieces that will never be reassembled. If it believes it needs to keep beating, it will.

Bill Cipher bites on his fist, like he needs to keep his thrill toned down to savour the intensity of the situation. Then, with a lightbulb moment, he remarks, “Apparently, the force needed to bite through a finger is the same as biting through a carrot.” Without waiting for a response, he sticks his little finger in his mouth and snaps his teeth around it. “Ow. Okay, that’s not true.”

The Beast picks up his knife again with his musical fingers, twirling it the same way Wirt would do in marching band. His body still has the instincts his mind has failed to overrun. “Allow me.”

“With pleasure!” Cipher agrees, stretching out to him like he is asking him to dance.

He takes his hand, caressing delicate skin, then lays it flat on the leafy ground, pushing down hard on his wrist. With his other hand, the Beast holds his knife with the tip squarely aimed at Cipher’s pinkie finger. In one swift movement, he drives it through air, body and into the soil, and holds fast against Cipher’s flailing to keep his hand in place. When he raises the weapon again, there is a neat severing right at the knuckle, the finger laying meekly as blood collects underneath it.

Bill Cipher tugs his arm back, and the Beast relinquishes his hold in order to allow the demon to appreciate his handiwork. It is strange how one small removal can so change the appearance of the extremity, the wrongness of the missing part highlighted by the bloody stump.

“Again! Again!” he cries, waving his other hand around.

The Beast grabs it with annoyance, and instead of placing it on the ground, digs his knife in between ring and pinkie and scores right in the middle. The gash in the connective flesh hangs open obscenely.

“Yeowch—not like that,” Cipher admonishes.

“Well, if you demonstrated some patience, maybe I would have a clearer understanding of your wishes,” the Beast replies tersely with a shake of his head.

“Oh, fine, fine, yes, take your time, just get the damn fingers off,” he says.

This time, the Beast acquiesces, repeating his earlier action, and Cipher yelps at the removal. He brings the cut-apart hand up to his mouth, placing his lips over the wound and sucking. Cipher moans weakly as the Beast looks at him from under half-hooded eyes.

The demon bites his lip. “Sexy.”

“Shall I continue to work?” he says once he pulls away, saliva and blood mixed on the abused hand.

“Yes, yes, yes, but just the ring fingers, alright? I still wanna be able to do some shit while we play. Just don’t ask for a pinkie promise or for my hand in marriage.”

“Duly noted.”

The Beast hacks away the two fingers with ease, then collects the four severed digits and contemplates them as he holds them.

“Feelin’ peckish?”

“I desire something…more substantial,” the Beast finally says, placing the digits back besides their tortured body.

“I hear thigh of Pine Tree is especially succulent,” he suggests with a leer.

White eyes meet pale yellow as he considers this, and then the Beast decides to cut up the trouser leg to reveal more flesh, from calves to thighs. The smell of viscera is heavy in the air, emanating from such an array of exposed organs, but when he presses his face against the amalgam’s leg, there is a faint scent of mechanical oil. He knows just a little more about Pine Tree’s life outside of the Unknown now, he supposes. Not that it matters anymore.

He bites down hard enough to pierce the skin with his canines, and then, wretchedly, demonically tears off flesh. His heart squirms with Wirt’s revulsion as he feasts, a visceral reaction from the usually placid boy to his monstrousness. It is pleasing to the Beast to use this human’s body to eat another. Even more so since he would not yearn to cannibalise if it were not for humans in the first place. Every time they told their stories, every time they believed him to be more and more malevolent, they transformed him; their beliefs became his truth. And, sometimes, the people of the Unknown called him another name—wendigo.

And a wendigo he would be.

With the heightened pleasure from the textured, delectable meat in his maw, he almost forgets to notice Cipher’s reaction at all. His eyes flicker open. He pulls away and swallows. Cipher has his hands—what is left of them—inside himself, squeezing his own intestines to deal with the pain as he gasps. The ropes of gore squirm around his fingers, coiled snakes twining around and around each other in the cavity.

“It hurts…real good…” he says weakly, the nasal quality of his voice reduced to a quiet whine. All of their machinations are starting to add up—or, rather, take away from him; with chunks taken out of his leg, body parts missing and a red pool underneath him, Bill Cipher is fading. In a broken voice, he whispers, “Please…let me go… I just…want to go back to my family…” before he passes out. He hopes Pine Tree will not be the one to wake up.

The Beast places his slack leg down and dabs his mouth and chin clean with his shirt sleeve. As he straightens up, he can see that there are Edelwood branches starting to grow around the amalgam, reaching up from the ground and tipped with autumnal leaves. As much as Bill Cipher wants to enjoy this, his body is beginning to give up. It is inevitable. There is only the forest, and there is only surrender.

The Beast lets him rest. He trails a finger down one of the branches by his hip, a drop of oil leaking out. Then, he picks up his lantern from the nearby spot he had placed it. As he stares into the flickering firelight, what had once been rendered an ember by the Woodsman, he feels a strange sense of gratitude to the brothers who had changed everything for him. Were it not for them, the Woodsman would have never disposed of the lantern, would have never allowed the Beast to reform and take control of his own soul again. When he decided to fuse himself with Wirt, and become Beast and Lantern-Bearer, he gained entirely new ways of growing his forest. He still remembers how it felt to wrap his arms around Gregory’s neck until the twitching stopped and the wood grew. Though some aspects of his human form were tiresome, he knows he would not go back to his old trypophobic self.

Bill Cipher stirs, groaning and lifting his head up. He blinks one eye, and then the other, and shakes himself awake. “Whew. Did I miss anything?”

He puts his lantern down and gestures to the Edelwood.

“Oh, man. Guess we’d better wrap up, huh?” He lifts his leg to inspect the damage. “Had your fill?”

The Beast puts his hand in his hair, rubbing the base of his antler as he considers. “For now. I will have your heart after we are through.”

“Good choice. So, what next?” he says, feeling up his stomach and ribcage like it is a salacious act.

After a moment, the Beast’s hands join his, appreciating the slippery, warm texture of his organs. The colour in his vision intensifies as he realises he can now anything to this body; he no longer needs to hold back. His hands ball up into fists so tight they shake as he says, “I want to break you.”

Cipher’s eyes widen. “Then break me, Beast.”

He spreads his fingers wide over Cipher’s ribs and locks his arms straight. Pushing down from his shoulders, he applies enough pressure to make the bones fracture, only showing small amounts of damage at first, but as he pushes harder, they crack and break apart completely. The splintered bones pierce Cipher’s lungs as the Beast’s breathing becomes heavy and feral.

“I c—I can feel—,” Cipher attempts to say before he starts to hack up blood, decorating his already-painted face even more. The hacking coughs become laughs, as much as he is able to laugh. With his lungs filling with fluid, even this chatterbox has to admit defeat. The Edelwood branches are growing before their eyes, working their way around his limbs and intruding into his body bit by bit.

The Beast looks at Cipher’s smile and, wanting to give him one last thrill, takes his drenched hand back and picks up the knife again.

Cipher gurgles as the Beast positions the tip of the blade at the corner of his lips, a rough hand grabbing his chin and forcing his face to the left. His eyes squint with delight, elongated pupils staring straight at the pink, yellow and blue glow in the Beast’s. The Beast curves the knife up as he slashes across his cheek, making Cipher’s face-splitting smile literal. Warm blood gushes over his fingers as he turns Cipher’s face to the right and finishes the look.

The gashes pull apart and squeeze together as the amalgam works his jaw. He attempts to say, “Why so—,” before he’s coughing up blood again.

The Beast gives him a rare smile. “Why, this is the first time I have been able to hear my own thoughts since you arrived here, Bill Cipher.”

Cipher’s eyebrows lower, and the Beast chuckles darkly as he moves his hand down to his neck and his knife over his heart. “Now, it is time for your host to become a part of my forest.”

At the instant he drives the weapon into that frenetically-beating heart, a golden spirit somersaults out of the broken body. Triangular, with one eye and a black top hat. Bill Cipher’s true form.

The Beast flickers his attention back to his task, and he twists and rips the heart free of the veins and arteries holding it in place, takes it off of the blade and holds it in his palm. It beats once, twice, before giving up the ghost and stilling.

“Oh, Pine Tree, it sure did take some time but boy, was it worth it!”

Pine Tree’s body looks so bereft, so utterly fragile. His skin is starkly pale now, and his head is tipped onto the ground, his eyes closed and his mouth ajar. His arms, encased in branches, lay with his cut wrists facing the sky. All of the movement in his chest—the writhing intestines, the inflating and deflating lungs, the beating heart—have come to a stop. White, fragmented ribs are threaded with earthy Edelwood. His shredded clothes lay soaked in his own blood around him, flicked with bits of flesh and cut-up parts. He looks… small, in death.

“Yes. The destination is all the more sweeter when the road is long, is it not?” the Beast says, touching his own skin with his fingertips.

Cipher floats over to put an arm around his shoulders. “Ab-so-lutely. And hey, you’ve been swell, such a great guy. Thanks for hooking me up with this awesome venue for torture! Love what you’re doing with all the trees and whatever. But I’d best be going, things to do, chaos to enact, you know the deal. And we’re both great with deals, aren’t we?”

The Beast inwardly sighs, then admits, “I would not object to having more dealings with you. I have not felt that kind of pleasure in many moons. Thank you. For now, I shall bid you farewell.”

Bill Cipher blinks—or winks—and spins out of his hold. “Have fun burning up this sad-sack and chomping on that ol’ ticker. See you on the flip side. The universe is a lie, buy gold, bye!” he shouts before flashing out of this existence.

The Beast pauses, raises the heart, murmurs to himself, “The loveliest lie of all,” and bites into it.

Wirt is just as drained and deadened as this boy lying in front of him; he cannot even feel disgust anymore. He cannot feel anything at all.

#Over the Garden Wall #gravity falls #bipper #beast!wirt #possessed!pinescone #the beast #bill cipher #dipper pines #fan fic #crossover #gore #bad end friends #who knows maybe one day I'll finish that sequel to Some Books Just Swallow You Whole #never say never :')

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smile-files · 4 years ago

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melon’s comprehensive kinlist!

including name of character, source, image, short personality description, mbti, and then why i kin them! take your time to read, or don’t. i get it if you don’t want to scroll through an entire page just to psychoanalyze me lmao, have a good time

1. wirt (over the garden wall)

an angsty, socially awkward dweebus who nerds out over interior design and plays the clarinet. fears death. infp.

my first kin! for a month after rewatching otgw i desperately wanted to be him. to be like him. anything!! it eventually wore away but i still feel that urge sometimes - the urge to write r/im14andthisisdeep poetry and to distance one’s self from their siblings... and heck - his tape for sara is indeed just as awkward as he is but let me assure you that his poetry and clarinet are actually pretty cool. 9/10 i need to see him more. give me more otgw comics. ok thanks.

2. snufkin (moomins)

a philosophical vagabond of vague age. acts stoic all the time but can and will leave every social situation whether or not it’s humanly possible. infp.

after watching some 90s moomin (and later on moominvalley) i realized how much i liked him and how much i was like him; i soon daydreamed of myself, as snufkin, venting to someone. it made me very happy. i vibe with his general demeanor and ideals (minus his gripes about rules, i follow those by the book) and i love psychoanalyzing him. so fun. so fun.

3. arnold perlstein (the magic school bus)

overly-anxious jewish kid and certified expert on rocks and panicking. owns a pair of fire-proof pyjamas in a lovely shade of green. isfj.

you all saw this one coming. my early childhood lives in my mind rent free and such i can’t help but revisit arn and his character. i’ve always loved him (even in, and quite possibly especially in, the reboot) and i’ve always loved psychoanalyzing every single little thing he does (remember that one time he said he was traumatized? me too). i soon realized a lot of it was me projecting! so sue me. actually, sue miss frizzle. either one of them. i mean, if arnold really didn’t like the field trips he could’ve just filed a restraining order! ...just saying.

4. fluttershy (my little pony)

anxious pastel butterfly baby child. probably loves animals more than she loves herself. cries upon impact. isfj.

the pony i’d mentally point to and think “me”. i had like 10 fluttershy-related things growing up, like plushies or funko pops or that sdcc guardians of harmony thing. while not shy in the same manner, it was nice having a character i could relate to about so much! i cosplayed as her equestria girls form for my first comic con as well, so that’s pretty cool. in addition, me being a little lepidopterist means i was bound to love her. it was destiny~

5. lammy lamb (um jammer lammy)

socially anxious and generally anxious rock star who thinks literally everything is a guitar. has an emotional support girlfriend. infp.

man!! she embodies the feeling when you have to go to the eye doctor by yourself to get your glasses fixed or when you have to call someone over the phone... that sheer tension. the panic. the feeling of ‘i want to throw my entire being into the trash can’. but lammy has a bunch of friends to support her, so she’s cool. died by slipping on a banana peel! same, sister. and man would i like to shred on my ukulele now...

6. loser (bfb)

humble (screw bfb 21), supportive, well-loved cube dude who’s voice is like that of an angel. has an entire fanclub in his honor. enfj.

okay, no, i was never a cool kid or ‘popular’, really, but in school i was never bullied for whatever reason and was generally well-liked; i hung out with a squad of weirdos and yet the cool kids would often talk to me? and try to engage me?? despite my very apparent self-deprecation and awkwardness??? either way i feel like it’s such a blessing to me, that i have so many friends! i often feel like i don’t deserve it, but hey. it’s nice! and heck, back when i was on scratch i had a little fanclub myself :0

7. fan (inanimate insanity)

nerdy, friendly aspie boyo who subliminally vents via blogging. longs for stability in his life; was best friends with an egg. entp.

ever since i noted his aspergers-like behavior i became super attached to him - whether or not it was intentional, i found it nice having a character i can relate those feelings with. he’s really sweet and dorky and i love how he gets along with test tube, paintbrush, and lightbulb! it makes me really happy to see him whenever i do. it made me really sad when he was eliminated. what the heck. yeah i dunno i don’t kin him super strongly but i love him to bits.

8. spinel (steven universe the movie)

emotionally unstable clown girl who stood in a garden for thousands of years. patience of a saint. edge like an 11-year-old me. esfp.

uhh um uh totally wasn’t completely disturbed by how much i related to spinel after watching steven universe the movie... totally wasn’t reminded about how and why i hated middle school... totally didn’t rethink my life that day... that’s it. this is all i’m saying.

9. molly blyndeff (epithet erased)

innocent child who has a terrible father and a wonderful demeanor. teddy bear who needs a hug and a criminal as her new dad. infp.

epithet erased is adorable okay?? i knew molly was infp in the first few minutes... more precisely, i knew she was me. man!! i don’t relate directly to her angst but i still feel it. i can replicate her voice so accurately it’s scary. also, i coined a new thing - ‘molly cake’! you have a chocolate cake, preferably with chocolate chips inside. use chocolate frosting and add little pastel star sprinkles! on top! my mom would make this cake for us anyway but then i realized it was literally just molly in cake form. and it’s just as sweet!

10. tommy coolatta (hlvrai)

a 30-something-year-old child who rocks a propeller hat. chose his last name off of a dunkin donuts menu despite the fact that he has a father. infp.

everyone loves tommy. he’s so sweet? and funny and loveable?? often times when i say something funny but bizarre, i just remember that tommy has said ‘soda helps you see faster’ and it makes me happy. if i’m going to be a weirdo i want to be the wholesome weirdo who loves soda and has a .png for a dog! also i legally have to kin tommy. i took a test for it (and i’m not complaining! i find it quite flattering).

11. twyla (monster high)

the daughter of the boogeyman; would very much like to boogey out of here, if you know what i mean. avoids people like the plague. infj.

seeing her role in the show and in the movies, i really love twyla? first of all, her voice is my new favorite thing. it’s like... gravelly? and soft? she’s the type of person who would very much like to disappear when in a crowd; thankfully, she literally can. i am drawn to any sarcastic, self-deprecating introvert who takes care of their bonkers extrovert friend (in this case howleen), as i often act as such myself. also the phrase ‘boogey sand’ will never leave my mind now :)

12. lapis lazuli (steven universe)

water gem who wants you to leave. cynical as all heck, sensitive as all hell. is there such thing as a gem therapist? just asking. infp.

in a similar way to twyla, i vibe with lapis’ sarcasm and wit as well as her emotional side. it can be kind of addicting, isolating one’s self. anywho, me and my sister used to do this routine of yelling up to each other this certain dialogue between lapis and peridot when peri was leaving for something (in which lapis replied to everything she said with dry ‘yeah’s); i would always do lapis’ part. i do reply a lot with ‘okay’ or ‘yeah’ or ‘cool’ to things people tell me, as i never really know what to say.

13. brad meltzer (xavier riddle and the secret museum)

shy jewish butterfly kid who absolutely hates time travel. attracted to people who know how to socialize like a normal human being. infp(?).

okay okay so... combine everything from arnold and everything from fluttershy and that’s basically what brad is to me. a jewish socially anxious nerd who loves butterflies and drawing. badabing badaboom, there i am. that’s it.

and boom! all of the kins i can think of, of course not including comfort characters like will byers from stranger things or isabelle from animal crossing. if you have any kins to suggest to me, i would love it! thank you for taking your time to read this, friend! have a fantastic day :)

#melonposting #extreme melonposting #kin #kins #kinlist #i will not tag every character here for the love of god #13. 13 is the number of the kins #good night folks :pensive:

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absolutelynochillonlydeath · 4 years ago

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Garden Wraith

1. Aftershocks:

Over the wall and back again.

The soft flame of a lantern flickered and was blown out, now lying among the dead leaves and snow.

Walking deeper into the mist and snowflakes, they felt the cold surround them and the fog filling their heads cleared, water filling their lungs.

They shivered and shook, hacking out the water in their lungs as they desperately clawed their way up the muddy bank before collapsing, the darkness of exhaustion dragging them back down just as they caught a glimpse of their rescuers. It had taken every bit of energy he had to get them out of that lake, the cold seeping all the way down to his bones and to his soul, tugging it back to the place they had just escaped from. The smell of the lake and mud and an almost indescribable smell of what would only be described of as the dark clung to them as they were rushed to the hospital, but not as hard as he had clung to the tiny body in his arms.

Paramedics later told him how he hadn’t let go of his brother even when he had fallen unconscious and how brave he was to have not let his brother go through all of that. He didn’t feel like he deserved the praise and told them as much, but the adoring eyes from said younger brother soon stopped him. In the eyes of that child, even after all they had gone through, he was still the older brother that he admired deeply and that had gotten them out.

After being settled into their hospital beds, fussing nurses and serious doctors now out of the way, the boys experienced their mother’s hugs for the first time in what felt like a long time. And in a way, it was. They sunk into her warm embrace and the comfort she provided, feeling her love for them and both cried in her arms. The images and impressions from their experiences were still too fresh and the terror was still all too real for them. This lasted until they felt they could cry no more from relief and everyone was ushered out of the room for the night, the doctors keeping there for further monitoring, but they would be released in the morning. With that reassurance, their mother promised that she would return bright and early for them and they agreed, smiling at her softly.

Once alone in the hospital, the brothers turned to each other, tears in their eyes as they whispered about what they had gone through. They wanted to reassure themselves and each other so as not to think that had simply made it all up. The Unknown. The Beast. Beatrice. The Edelwood. Cloud City. Wirt almost dying. Greg’s deal. Greg almost dying. The escape. The lantern. The smaller boy held his frog close to him in a desperate bid for comfort.

“Wirt?” the younger asked.

“Yes, Greg?” the elder answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling, but was still hoarse from the previous tears.

“Is he gonna come back for us?” he asked quietly, his tiny body almost visibly trembling. The elder swallowed down the true terror he felt, his mind flashing back to the brilliantly shining arms that beckoned in the dark. But he shook his head to dislodge the image. They had vanquished that darkness. They had broken free and walked towards the light that was life. When they had awoken, Wirt’s first assumption was that he had had some sort of crazy fever dream while they had been drowning. It was a reasonable assumption considering all they went thought, but that illusion was shattered when he heard the sound of Lorna’s bell ringing inside of Jason Funderburker’s stomach. Not only that, but Greg was also spouting off the more lighthearted parts of their adventures rather than the darker parts that stuck vividly in Wirt’s own mind. Luckily, his parents wrote that off as just the overactive imagination of a child that just went through trauma, smiling and nodding to indulge the seven-year-old. Wirt wouldn’t know how to explain to their parents that their kids had been stuck in the quasi equivalent of Purgatory and had almost not made it back without being taken to a psychiatrist and possibly committed. Taking a breath, he blinked away the thoughts and shook his head.

“No, Greg. He’s gone and we’ll never see him again. We beat the Beast.” He reassured the younger and Greg let out a small, broken sob, sending a jolt of pain and shock through Wirt’s chest.

“I was so scared, Wirt. I…I thought…” he hiccupped and Wirt sat up immediately, concern creasing his brow. He had never seen his little brother like this. Sure, he had cried, he was only seven after all, but to see him sobbing in fear or pain or sadness wasn’t something he did. He was happy and carefree and everything that Wirt himself wasn’t. Maybe that was why he hated him for so long? He hated that Greg was so confident and friendly and people instantly warmed up to this sunshine child and his parents loved him unconditionally. And now, after everything that had happened, Wirt understood that too and lamented at how much of a horrible person he had been to his brother. How could it be that it was only as he was about to lose him that he realized how much Greg meant to him? He was lucky, incredibly lucky, that he learned this lesson before it was too late, and he vowed that he would never take advantage of that again.

With a slight huff from the ache in his bones, he untangled himself from the hospital sheets and padded over to the other bed, moving the frog to the other end of the mattress before sliding in and holding his brother tightly, rubbing his back in comfort.

“I know, Greg. I know. You were so brave to face him down like that and I’m so sorry I made you do that. I should have been better at leading the way out. I shouldn’t have lost hope and given up and I’m so sorry I failed you.” He whispered and hugged him softly, feeling his own tears threaten to spill over.

“What? Wirt, no! You made me the leader! It was my job to get you and Jason Funderburker out of there!” Greg cried quietly, nuzzling into his elder brother’s chest.

“No! None of this was your fault! You were a great leader! But I should have been good leader too. I was a bad one and got you hurt and I’m so sorry!” Wirt apologized, hugging the little body next to him. The image of Greg’s form slowly being trapped in the Edelwood made him tremble and he had to reassure himself with the feeling of the boy’s heartbeats beating beneath his fingertips.

“We’re out now and I promise that I’ll protect you. You’ll never have to see the Beast again. Not if I can help it.” Wirt whispered, taking comfort in the fact that Greg was calming down now, his trembling stopping and his sobs turning into small sniffles.

“Y-you promise?” Greg asked softly, eyes staring up at him. Wirt sighed softly and grabbed a forgotten object from the desk next to him, putting a small smile on his face.

“It’s a rock fact!” he whispered softly, playfully moving around the rock with a painted-on face. Luckily, that made the boy let out a small giggle and it filled Wirt with relief. There. A smile suited the child’s face much better than tears. And if it were up to Wirt, he would never have to see Greg cry about that again. From then on, he would be the best brother he could be and they would never have to experience something like the Unknown again

With their hearts settled and with the comfort the other brought them within reach, they fell themselves slip quickly into the arms of sleep, relief that it was all over now.

Sadly, that couldn’t be farther than the truth.

Over the next month, Wirt and Greg discovered that while they had left the Unknown, the Unknown hadn’t left them. At least, not completely. It had left them with a few souvenirs for their troubles that neither of them expected. On the whole, the remnants of it wasn’t all bad. For some reason, neither of them could be turned around as long as they were outside. They had discovered this when they had gone on a trip to their nearby park. Normally, they would have to keep a close eye on Greg who had a tendency to wander off and get lost, but he always came right back and when he didn’t and his mother panicked, Wirt always knew where to find him. It was like the forest itself was bending to his whim and sent a resonance into his soul as to where all things were within the forest. Greg described it as knowing where everything was in a dollhouse. It sent a tremor through the elder boy, but he resolutely pushed the fear back, excusing the occurrence as that he and Greg were just better at navigating through the forest now since they had spent so much time in it before. He had even joked with the younger boy as to how he had become an expert at Greg tracking and his brother laughed. It was a good reason and that was what he stuck with, trying to assure himself and Greg that there was nothing wrong and smiling a bit as Greg thought of how cool it was. It was a relief to know that they would never be lost in the woods again and Wirt tried to take comfort in that.

Another oddity that they boys noticed was that they now attracted animals to themselves, though the most common occurrences were the neighborhood and woodland animals. Frogs absolutely adored Greg and Jason Funderburker and it was amazing to see the amount of frogs that were on the lawn even when they really should be hibernating. The same couldn’t be said for Wirt. He seemed to attract birds. The most common, much to his embarrassment, was bluebirds, though more than that popped up including a few owls. Greg commented excitedly that maybe he was being invited to a wizarding school, to which Wirt rolled his eyes and tried to shoo them away. Stubborn bluebirds always ended up staying, though. Maybe Beatrice matched what she was after all? A few of them even reminded him of her when he attempted to shoo them away and they cast an unimpressed look his way, refusing to leave. Either way, these were things that Wirt could handle. It was harmless and altogether inconsequential to their daily lives. This was fine. It was even something fun to show off on occasion.

But then the dreams began, and Wirt felt his heart clench in terror.

As December rolled in and the holidays began, he closed his eyes in the comfort of his home, glad for the short reprieve and the time to spend doing nothing and fell asleep. School had been stressful as usual, but he was getting better at the whole “friends” thing. The Unknown, if nothing else, definitely taught him a few things about not being a pushover and talking to people better, including Sara and her group of friends. Or, well, they were his friends now too. After Halloween and after he was cleared from the hospital, she and him had talked about the tape he left her and about his feeling towards her. Sadly, she didn’t really see him that way, though she appreciated the tape, and asked if they could still be friends. It was a bit of a blow to Wirt’s pride, but he agreed. She was still nice and funny and sweet and made him feel comfortable about his interests. In turn, she introduced him to her friends and they all hung out now and got along with Greg as well. It certainly did wonders for his self-confidence and it was a bonus that none of them made fun of his poetry and even encouraged him to enter writing competitions and to try out for band of which a few of them were a part of. It was…nice, to have people he could trust and relate to. He even ended up talking to Jason Funderberker. The human, not the frog. He still found himself bristling around the boy occasionally, but the boy was harmless, albeit good at a lot of things and fit in well with their friend group. His life was going well and both he and Greg seemed happier for it, settling back into their normal lives even as the falling snow settled around them and reminded them of their escape from the dark forest.

However, as sleep released its hold on him and he opened his eyes again, he found that he had woken up in a familiar dismal forest, though it looked different than when he and Greg had left. The change didn’t help though and sent him into a spiral of panic as he begged for this all to be a dream, pinching himself repeatedly to try and wake himself up from this nightmare. It didn’t work and only served to throw him deeper into the pit of fear with the pain punctuating the all too real reality of the situation. The world blurred black around the edges of his vision and the colder wind fluttered through his clothes. Shaking from both the fear and cold, he saw that his clothes were his Halloween costume which vaguely struck his hazy mind as odd since that wasn’t what he was wearing when he went to bed. This shook him enough for him to be able to survey his surroundings, lungs still heaving, but when he looked around the snow-covered ground, a flickering light caught his eye.

There, sitting innocently in the mouth of the yawning, twisted hollow of an Edelwood tree, was a lantern. It flickered warmly within the vessel, almost taunting the teen.

There must always be a Beast in the Unknown.

A whisper. A fact. A promise. It flickered through his mind and that was it. Wirt felt the world tilt and the black overtook his vision. He woke up screaming for the first time since he and his brother returned, heart thundering and mind whirling. His breathing erratic and his vision dark, he breathed out slowly and saw his breath coming out in a cloud of ice. The room was almost frosted at first glance but disappeared when light was cast into the room.

“Wirt? Are you okay?” a small voice suddenly came from his door and he jerked his head to the entrance where a very tired looking Greg was rubbing his eyes, his other hand wrapping around his frog. Said frog also looked tired, but Wirt could have sworn it cast a worried look his way as well.

“I… I-I… Yeah. Y-Yeah, I’m fine…” Wirt croaked, the temperature slowly going back to what was normal.

“You sure, brother o’ mine?” Greg asked quietly, concern now taking over his soft, sleepy expression.

“Yeah, Greg. Just…just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.” He murmured reassuringly, though still a little breathless, and Greg hesitated before nodding, stepping out and closing the door behind him. With that, both boys lay down in bed, minds and hearts racing at their experience. Wirt tried his best to fall back asleep, hoping that he wouldn’t dream again while Greg could only stare at the ceiling, reeling and trying not to give in to fear. Wirt didn’t know it, but his eyes glowed in a similar way to the thing they feared the most. He wasn’t sure if his older brother knew yet and he didn’t know how to tell him if he didn’t.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, an older man stared in awe and horror as something that he had seen almost every day for many, many years and caused him many a headache along with a few nightmares changed before his eyes.

A single glyph on the cave wall, copied down meticulously in his notes, so out of place and seemingly unrelated to the rest of the symbols all bunched together was shifting and changing. In the previous month, he had noticed that the symbol had begun to blur around the edges. At first, he had thought that either he or his family had accidentally smudged it a bit. It wouldn’t be a surprise considering how old his notes were and how many of said family had handled the book, so he disregarded it and shelved his book again. But that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. A few days later when in his lab, he happened to glance over at his forgotten corkboard of notes and theories in the corner of the room and his heart leapt into his throat. That symbol had had its own little section when he had been studying it before dismissing it when nothing came of it. Looking at it now, though, all surfaces on which the symbol had been drawn on were smeared even worse than the one in his notes. Now he knew for a fact that something was going on. His family all knew that no one should touch his notes, even his brother and the man hadn’t even glanced that then through all the years of his absence, so he knew that this wasn’t their doing. The previous symbol was almost completely indiscernible and looked like it was shifting into something else. It worried him deeply since he knew that nothing like this had ever happened before. At least, not without some sort of outside interference and that couldn’t happen in his lab. He had fortified his home with everything he had against everything her could after the almost apocalypse not too long ago, so nothing unwanted should have been able to make it down to the basement without his knowledge. Nodding, he resolved to keep an eye on the symbol and hope that it meant nothing.

By the end of the month, the symbol had completely changed and the new shape that took its place filled his stomach with a sense of unease he hadn’t felt in a long time. He learned to trust his gut feelings like this and if the symbol changing by itself didn’t already concern him, then the feeling it gave off now absolutely left a pool of ice in his chest. Gathering up his courage, he walked upstairs to tell the rest of his family about his discovery and give some kind of warning. They would need to be watchful and wary of this new development. Nothing would endanger his family ever again.

Silently, the dark shape of a lantern filled the spaces on the papers, the center almost glowing brightly in mockery of a flame.

#over the garden wall #beast!wirt #gravity falls #GFxOTGW #Undecided ships

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pinesconessecrets · 5 years ago

Text

The hardships of being gay and anxious

(Hi! This is my gift for @colorfullyminded, hope you like it!)

Lately, Jason Funderberker and Dipper had spent a lot of time together.

He thought nothing of it, not even when Norman teased him about being jealous. Because, why would he even be jealous? What was there to be jealous of? He had accepted that Dipper was straight and his chances were nonexistent a long time ago, and even though it didn’t stop hurting it had certainly eased up; so he had high hopes time would be kind and he would finally be able to let go of his stupid crush once they graduated from high school. And yeah, he would prefer it if Dipper chose to hang out with him instead of that idiot, but he couldn’t force him to take better decisions. So no, he wasn’t jealous or suspicious.

Until that day, when they both walked into class wearing matching bracelets.

They’re just friendship bracelets, he thought at first. But then he noticed the colors of the strings. Black, gray, white, purple, pink, purple and blue. The colors of the asexual and the bisexual flag. Did that mean… that the two of them were biromantic asexuals? Why didn’t Dipper tell him? He was the first person he had come out to! He supported him when he decided to tell his parents and little brother he was gay! So why…?

He didn’t mention the bracelets, waiting for Dipper to tell him when he felt ready. But the time didn’t come. Instead, Funderberker and him began to hang out even more than before, as if the time they spent together because of the band and DnD club wasn’t enough. Were they dating? It sure as hell looked like it.

So now Wirt found himself counting the days until graduation, heartbroken, stressed and feeling the most lost he’s ever felt in his life.

He tried to find comfort in his poetry, but every single thing he wrote was about loves that couldn’t be, misery, or just straight out about Dipper. It felt good to let it out of his chest, but after noticing he had almost filled a notebook with those poems he felt so pathetic he almost cried. No matter how much he tried to focus on more positive themes and emotions, he just couldn’t, and any attempt at it would be ripped out of the notebook in a fit of rage at how awful he thought it was.

It really seemed that when Dipper distanced himself, he took everything good Wirt had with him.

It wasn’t fair.

*****

Dipper couldn’t stay still.

The day had finally come, and he couldn’t stop fidgeting with his bracelet in anticipation of what was about to happen. He had been working on this for a whole month, paying attention to every little detail and doing his best so everything was close to perfection. The weight of the notebook in his bag was a constant reminder of how things would change and how they would never, ever, be back to normal.

A part of him was so scared of the outcome and begged him to just go home and let things stay the same, and to hit his stupid feelings with a shovel and bury them in the ground somewhere in the forest back at Gravity Falls. But it was too late to back off now, and it had taken him months to accept his crush on Wirt like to throw all his hard work down the drain just because he was too nervous and frightened.

Sighing while fixing his sleeves, Dipper let his thoughts take him back a few months ago to an event Mabel liked to call “The Bi-pper awakening”.

He had just been walking towards the place in the park where he would meet with Wirt and Norman (though the latter had sent a text saying he was going to be late) when he spotted Wirt sitting under a tree at the distance. His heart beat a little faster, but he thought nothing of it like the dumbass he was. That is, until he heard him.

Wirt wasn’t exactly a good singer, but he had quite the decent voice. A kind, trembling and a little creaky voice. And as he heard him sing in a foreign language with the peace of someone who belongs right there between the nature, Dipper found himself aware of his breathing and of how all the decisions he had made in his life had taken him there, in that moment, with that beautiful man.

And then he heard a record scratch in his mind.

The only logical thing to do then was, of course, to start panicking.

So he did, turning around and running until he found a bush excellent for hiding. It was a good thing that zone of the park was practically desolate, because otherwise someone would have heard him talking to himself trying to find an explanation to what he was feeling: was he gay? Why had he never felt like this for another man? What about all the girls he had liked before? Was Wirt just an exception? Were the crushes he had on women fake? Was it all a dream?

It went on and on, and it would have surely keep going had it not been for Norman texting him to ask “about his fucking whereabouts”.

He took another couple of minutes to regain his composure, and for the rest of the day he tried to act normal and to avoid staring at Wirt (it had never been difficult, what was happening now!), though he really wanted to go home, steal one of Mabel’s sweaters and go to Sweater Town.

Weeks passed, and after days of questioning his sexuality and doing deep internal analyses, he could say with confidence he was bisexual. So he came out to his sister, though he wasn’t ready to tell the rest of the family yet. Coming out to his friends was an easier choice, but after telling a few (it’s not like he had many to begin with) he found himself with a big trouble: how was he going to tell Wirt without spilling out his feelings? He, Norman and Jason were the only ones left, and though he knew he could trust Norman he wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep quiet in front of Wirt (he didn’t have the same trouble with Jason because he knew Wirt wouldn’t believe him), and he wasn’t fucking prepared for that. That only left Jason.

The day he came out to Jason was amazing; he hadn’t been ready for him to came out as asexual, much less to spend the rest of the afternoon making friendship bracelets while singing ABBA and promising to go together to the next Pride. Of course, while talking about that Jason suggested to invite Wirt too, which kind of forced Dipper to talk about his crush, which made Jason remind him of prom and of how big of an opportunity it was, which caused Dipper to think…

So now, after days spent planning and writing, he was ready to tell Wirt.

He tried to stay calm, listing in his mind every step of his plan and the words he had to say, but he just couldn’t stop sweating.

But he was going to do it, no turning back.

*****

If someone were to look at Wirt while he waited for Dipper, they could easily tell he was terrified.

Was Dipper finally going to tell him he was dating Jason Funderberker and that he couldn’t be friends with someone that hated his boyfriend? Because he could change! He could become Funderberker best friend if that would keep Dipper in his life, no matter how pathetic that sounded. He loved him, and he would take Dipper’s love in whatever way he choose.

He was in the middle of a really detailed fantasy of how different his life would be without Dipper (and how gloomy the future was certainly going to be), when Dipper himself walked into the room. Well, if the secluded section of the park their group of friends always used as meeting point could be considered a room. He was sweating, his shaking hands holding onto a notebook as if it held all the secrets in the universe, and overall worrying Wirt to no end.

But before he could even ask what was wrong, Dipper cleared his throat and opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again. Then he closed it with a defeated expression and just handed Wirt the notebook.

It looked like a normal notebook, a harmless and typical notebook, were it not for the words written in the cover.

100 reasons you should go to prom with me (sources included)

Was this a joke?

Right as he was about to panic (and/or cry) Dipper finally found his voice.

“I… I had a whole thing I wanted to say… but Mabel confiscated all the copies I had of my speech so… let’s just….” he coughed trying to dissimulate the way his voice had creaked and then proceeded to clear his throat with force “let’s just go with the words past Dipper wrote, please?”

There was a lot of questions Wirt wanted to ask, and yet the one he did hadn’t even crossed his mind adequately before he said it.

“Weren’t you dating Funderberker?”

Dipper’s face in that moment could have been the reaction meme of the decade.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He tried to explain the detailed monologue he (kind of) kept in his mind, but his brain refused to remember every piece of evidence and every argument he had accumulated “You… him… the bracelets”

“They’re just friendship bracelets”

Well, now he felt stupid. That meant he had only spent a month wallowing in self-pity when those two were just friends and when Dipper actually wanted to go to prom with him… alright, that last part still sounded fake.

He took a deep breath, discreetly looking at the bushes expecting to see a hidden camera or the bastard of Jason Funderberker laughing at his situation, but he found nothing of the sort, just Dipper with his adorable sweaty face, and his hat that finally looked like he had washed it, and his only decent pair of pants, and his formal shoes and oh god, this was serious wasn’t it?

He gulped, not believing his luck even though the light weight of the notebook was making it easier by the minute “So this… you want… you really want to go to prom with me?”

Dipper looked at him with determination in the eyes that had inspired him to write dozens of poems, and suddenly he was stricken with the realization that he would never, ever, stop writing poems about him “I like you, Wirt.” He then rubbed his arm and kept going, though it took Wirt a second to notice, lost in those words as he was “I don’t know for how long, I just know I realized it when I heard you sang that ballad that your grandfather taught you”

He couldn’t process Dipper’s confession yet (he was on it though) so he decided to focus on the memory of that day.

“Yeah, I remember that. Mabel caught me humming it and all of you insisted I sang it and explained it to you” That had been a really awkward moment, but sharing the song with his friends was incredible. His grandfather had always been so kind with him, and he had taught him his mother language since he was little, so preserving his memory through the songs and the tales he learned from him was the least he could do for the man that had cared so much for him.

Dipper blushed “No. I heard you sing it before, when…” he groaned and covered his face “when we decided to hang out here and Norman was late and I saw you and I loved your voice and I realized I love you” taking a deep breath after uncovering his face, he finally looked at him again “And also… I love it when you speak German”

He loved him. He said it. He said it.

Well, it was his turn wasn’t it?

“Ob ich dich liebe, weiß ich nicht. Seh ich nur einmal dein Gesicht, Seh dir ins Auge nur einmal, Frei wird mein Herz von aller Qual. Gott weiß, wie mir so wohl geschicht! Ob ich dich liebe, weiß ich nicht.”

Okay, technically he didn’t say it, but he really loved that poem and hey! It was in German! That probably gave him extra points.

If Dipper’s face was anything to go by, it did.

“What did you say?”

Mustering all the confidence he had, he smiled at him “You’ll find out at prom”

(The song they talk about is this one, if anyone wants to hear it! Also the poem is from Goethe. Sorry if there’s a mistake, English is my second languague)

#Pinescone #pinescone secret santa #Pinescone Secret Santa 2019 #Wirt #Dipper #Dipper Pines #submission

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