#also just saying that i DO NOT think that ford overreacted there

[divine-draws]

ohhh am i trying to do an animatic or smthn again?? maaaaaybeeeee

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

yknow its a hard line to dance, but i do love when people make the stans a bit mean at times in fics/art (hard line to dance, because its pretty easy to stray into ‘sounds like author just hates these two’ territory unfortunately)

it seems to me that ford has trouble with communication. he often cant tell when something he says could be hurtful to someone

(i say that because you can tell he really does care about his family and he does to try to make things up to them- ie, comforting dipper after the bill thing, praising mabel and letting her write an entry in the journal after the unicorn thing, actually trying to find ways to mend his relationship with stan in spite of everything)

stan is the type of guy to scare children and laugh about it. there is an entire episode dedicated to this. he nonchalantly insults people, hes unapologetically cocky, and, maybe most interestingly, he also seems to have trouble telling when something he said might have been hurtful

hes kinder towards his family/friends (note: kinder, he is definitely still mean to them at times. see: boss mabel, the bottomless pit, etc.) but he really just does not care at all about upsetting strangers. he delights in making people angry, at least, the facade he puts on does. and of course, this isnt an insult towards him, it…actually kinda makes sense when you think about his past. not that it made him that way necessarily, more that it sort of emphasized those traits i think

in a similar vein, i think at least part of the reason ford has difficulty interacting with people could be because of his time spent in the multiverse. it seems he doesnt really like having to interact with strangers (excluding most anomalies). in fact, the only time you see him doing that (that i can recall) is when hes talking to the government agents. otherwise he just sort of…doesnt acknowledge their existence at all. the only exceptions are the members of the zodiac, and he gets time beforehand to know most of them

anyway- when you take those two people and put them on a boat together, you get a really interesting (platonic) dynamic! these two guys who are aggressively protective over each other and who will both absolutely deck a stranger in the face

imagine a scenario where stans insulting some random stranger and the person throws an insult back just to get knocked out by ford whos absolutely not going to tolerate it (except from stan, who gets the equivalent of a slap on the wrist)

or imagine a scenario where someone notices fords extra fingers and theyre overreacting about them and it gets to be stans turn to fistfight someone

its fun to think about, but hard to pull off. oftentimes you get ‘ford is definitely egocentric and thats it’ instead of ‘ford struggles with communication/general human interaction and especially hates interaction with people he doesnt know’

oftentimes instead of ‘stan is unapologetically mean to a lot of people (and theres a good possibility that being homeless and having to live with filbrick emphasized this)’ you get ‘stan can be mean but hes not as bad as ford and also it doesnt actually count as being mean if its directed at ford’

and, of course, this isnt to say you have to change the way you write them, this is simply me saying i like seeing these two parts of them interacting with each other. and it ended up much longer than intended

if youre like me and youre afraid of depicting them as mean in any way because other people scare you, you dont have to write them that way! you should write your fics for you first and foremost and if you dont want to write them that way, you are in no way obligated to!

anyway- theres a lot more i could say about this subject, but i think this is long enough

(just a small bonus bit to say that living with filbrick + all the bullying he had to go through definitely affected ford just as much as stan. and that neither of their traumas are more important than the other)

[unculturedmamoswine]

Forduary 2024 Week 2, College and Researcher Years

Woo, my second Forduary fill for this year! Ford gets some bad news and feels some type of way about it. This fic is Ford/Fiddleford/Emma-May. Also, warning for offscreen minor character death.

The first person Ford told was his boss. He felt pretty alright about it. Almost normal. It wasn’t that real to him yet, he explained, so it was probably fine if he worked his shift. (He shouldn’t be telling Pat first, he thought. It was a big deal, right? So he should have told someone else first, someone who mattered more to him.)

He stood in the shabby but quite clean lobby of the old movie theater and explained his older brother to Pat.

“I don’t know why I brought it up,��� Ford added, gesticulating more vigorously than usual. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have. I just found out, but I had to work so I came here. You know that.” He snatched his hands back, clenching his fists. 

He felt oddly ashamed, as if he was overreacting, but he wasn’t. He was barely reacting at all. He was fine.

Pat’s mouth sagged open oddly. His flat brows crinkled up. “Oh, that’s god-awful, Stanford I’m so sorry. How old was he?” “Why does that matter?” Ford asked, confused.

Pat, as people loved to do, interpreted his direct and simple question to instead mean something Ford hadn’t actually said. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter at all, right? He was too young either way.” 

Either what way? Either was a word you only used when presenting two options. What two options was Pat imagining? That Shermie either had or had not been a specific age?

For some reason Pat touched Ford, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. Ford had worked at this movie theater for his entire college career so far, and Pat had never touched him before. Maybe he was making a pass. Maybe he knew that Ford was a queer now, that he was some kind of weirdo with a girlfriend and a boyfriend. (Shermie would never know, now, never find out. Ford would never have to wonder if he’d be renounced by his cool, distant older brother.)

“You shouldn’t work right now, kid.” Pat always called him kid. Him, and anyone who was either under the age of forty or who worked for him. Ford was ‘kid’. Emma-May was ‘kid’. Even Eustace, who was around Pat’s age, was ‘kid’.

“Sherman always called us kid,” Ford reported, as if the part of his brain that worked his mouth was determined to make Pat think that he was entirely unfit to work. “Me and my brother. I mean, my other brother, the one who’s not dead. As far as I know.” As his humiliation mounted, a nervous grin broke out across Ford’s face. Pat took his other shoulder. He looked kind of creeped out, and also quite sad.

“Stanford, go sit in the office. I’ll call Emma-May for you, okay?”

Ford did as he was told and sat in Pat’s shitty little windowless office for a good thirty seconds, then sprang up and paced as well as he could around the small space. The only thing he’d ever liked about the office was the row of velvet chairs that lined one short wall. Three chairs, all bolted together. They had come out of the theater during a renovation. Ford crouched by them and ran his finger over the worn velvet of a seat cushion, dragging a track into the surface and smoothing it away again and again.

By the time Emma-May got there, Ford was sitting in the chair. He didn’t want to be, but it had occurred to him that finding him crouched on the floor stroking a chair would alarm Emmy and make her think he was more upset than he was.

“Hey, Ford.” She was standing in the doorway, holding her bag. Fiddleford was just behind her. He should have been in class. Ford couldn’t think how he’d come to be there. 

Fiddleford’s eyes were huge and concerned. Emmy’s hands were tight on the strap of her bag.

They looked at him, and he stood up for lack of anything better to do. “Hi,” he said. It was less a response to Em, and more a place to start from. He had to say something. Ford wondered if they even knew what had happened. “My brother…” he didn’t know how to say it, which was stupid. He was in Vietnam. Now he’s nowhere. Just say that.

Emmy and Fidds stayed back as if afraid to touch him, but gentle Southern words of condolence came tumbling out of both their mouths. Ford bobbed his head agreeably and followed them out of Pat’s office. Pat was standing there with his hands on his hips. 

“Go back to school, Ford.” Pat said. “You can’t work like this.” Ford looked at Emmy. She wasn’t dressed for work. “Who’s taking my shift?” After he said the words, he realized that he should have instead argued that he could work. He didn’t want to go back to his dorm and do nothing, just sit there on his bed.

“It’s slow. All the movies coming out these days are piping hot buckets of piss anyway,” Pat said. (This was a joke. Pat loved to say that he, like everyone who loved movies, hated movies.) “I can do it all tonight. Heck, take the rest of the week, too; Eustace wants more hours, so don’t worry about it, kid.” Ford couldn’t afford not to work for the whole week, but the way that knowledge connected to the words needed to express it seemed fuzzy. He couldn’t quite imagine getting the words out from wherever they were hiding and putting them out into the air for Pat to hear. It was like he was a long way away from the conversation he was ostensibly a part of.

While Ford tried to sort out his mind, Emma-May and Fiddleford and Pat muttered around him, their words dark and fleeting, fluttering around Ford’s head without seeming to make it into his ears.

“Hey, buddy.” Fiddleford put his hands in his overall pockets and kicked gently at Ford’s shoe. “Let’s get outta here, okay? Emmy and me’ll take you back to our room. Or we could go for a walk, or invent some kinda doohickey or…” he trailed off helplessly. Hunched his shoulders and tapped his foot. Trying to figure out how to act in this situation, with Ford completely useless before him, was obviously a significant stressor for Fiddleford. Ford could sympathize.

“Come on, boys. Let’s get out of here. Thanks a bunch, Pat,” Emma-May gave Pat a closemouthed smile.

“Take care, you three.” Ford heard Pat heave an immense sigh as they left.

-

Fiddleford and Emma-May clustered around him on the sidewalk immediately outside the theater. The sky was gray. Brittle maple leaves fluttered past and wet ones clogged the gutter. Ford stared down at them.

“When did you eat last, Ford?” Emma-May asked. He wondered if she and Fiddleford would think he was avoiding looking at them. He wasn’t. It just felt nice to stare at the pile of leaves. It seemed like it would be hard to look up.

“I had lunch.” It felt good to give a good answer that he knew they would approve of.

“So then let’s go back to ours, huh? Someplace outta this wind.” Fiddleford’s voice was gratingly gentle. He made little flapping gestures with his hands as if trying to startle birds into flight.

Ford had thought to work his entire shift. He had thought that it would be 1) doable and 2) possibly a relief, that it would be nice to have something to do, a set of tasks to complete and limited, set interactions with strangers and coworkers. He felt he ought to be annoyed by Fiddleford and Emma-May’s presence and their making his decisions for him, but the opposite was true. It was an unexpected relief to have them there to decide where to go and what to do. 

On the walk back to campus Emmy took his hand, squeezing gently. It would have elated him under other circumstances, to hold her hand in public. Now he was just grateful to have a point of contact with anyone or anything.

At an intersection, when Ford nearly walked distractedly into traffic, Fiddleford rested a hand on his shoulder, only letting go when the signal changed, pushing gently to get Ford to take a step.

He thought about Shermie’s wedding. He’d been ten. Stan had been talking about his own future wife, who would be a babe, a real knockout. Shermie had rolled his eyes and told them both that what you really should look for in a wife was a woman you could stand to be around all the time.

“Someone you can trust, and who doesn’t drive you fucking crazy,” Shermie had said. “That’s what makes a keeper.” He’d flicked his match away and taken a drag on his cigarette. He’d seemed so grown-up, an unachievable exemplar of adulthood. Ford and Stanley had hung on his every word.

They hadn’t seen a lot of him after that, some years only at Passover. He had the good sense to move a long drive away from their parents’ house, and he was busy with work and fathering his kids, and then he was gone. And now, Ford was bumping along between two people who thought he was an only child up until an hour ago, and who must have been sure he truly was one now.

“– can finagle us a rudimentary sorta phase modulator if I put my mind to it,” Fiddleford was saying. Ford realized that they had almost made it, well, home for lack of a better word. “Don’t think I ain’t seen the look you get in your eye when you talk about all those physics classes you can’t fit in your schedule,” Fiddleford went on. Ford looked at him. Fiddleford smiled back, a strained and unpleasant expression that Ford didn’t want to see. He looked back at his feet.

“Anyhow,” Fiddleford went on haltingly. “I bet even if you can’t work those classes in, we can get a little independent study done, don’t even worry about that, okay?” Fiddleford shifted closer to Ford as a few other students passed down the narrow concrete strip that kept them all out of the thick campus mud.

At the entrance to their dorm hall, Ford summoned up the wherewithal to hand over his keys to Fiddleford. He glanced up at the feeling of rain beginning to spatter against his cheek. Then he looked around himself, frowning. “Where’s Emma-May?” he asked.

Fiddleford glanced at him sharply, then quickly smoothed over his expression. “Liquor store,” he said shortly.

“I didn’t hear,” mumbled Ford unnecessarily.

“Yeah,” Fiddleford said. “Don’t sweat it, Stanford.” He put his hand lightly between Ford’s shoulder blades to usher him into the building. He was being quite a bit more physical than usual. Ford wondered if it was subconscious or an intentional choice made in an attempt to make Ford feel better. It sort of worked, but also highlighted just how bizarre and completely unreal this entire day felt.

Back in their room, Ford and Fiddleford stood between their beds silently. Ford stared at his desk, while Fiddleford stared at him. He wished they still had somewhere to walk, or do, really any small task to accomplish.

“Emmy only went to Marv’s,” Fiddleford said finally. “She won’t be too long.” “Maybe you two should– or I should– I could go somewhere else tonight.” This was the wrong thing to say, but he was saying it anyway, apparently. “I’m not going to be…” Ford coughed out a laugh, hands moving restlessly through the air. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said, trying for a self-effacing smile. He felt like he was doing a bad impersonation of himself. It was all wrong, he couldn’t say anything that he meant to, not really.

“You really shouldn’t be alone right now, I reckon,” Fiddleford said, scratching vigorously at the back of his neck. “And I’m. Jeez. I’m just really sorry about your brother, Ford.” His face flushed and he screwed up one eye in a half wince that was so quintessentially Fiddleford, even as Ford felt so unlike Stanford. At least one of them could still play their part.

“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” Ford reported numbly, as if that could possibly be an adequate response.

Fiddleford bit his lip. What Fiddleford must be thinking hit Ford all of a sudden, hard and fast like a sucker punch: now I never will. I’ll never see him again. Ford’s breath caught, and for a second he wondered if he was going to completely fall apart.

“I–” Ford clenched his fists. He wanted to turn away from Fiddleford but it would be too obvious what he was doing. He could handle this. He could master himself, he could.

“Honey,” Fiddleford said, stepping closer to him. Fidds had never called him that before. Everything between him and Fidds and Emma-May was still too new. It was all too much. Why had Sherman had to be killed right when he was embarking on some completely crazy attempt at dating two people at once? Ford barked out a laugh, incredulous and completely inappropriate.

Fiddleford’s face crumpled. He reached out a hand, resting it on Ford’s shoulder in a way that was somehow completely incompatible with heterosexuality. (And Ford could be sure of that. He’d made an informal study of which actions, gestures, and mannerisms could be plausibly passed off as normal for all of his life.) He leaned marginally into Fiddleford’s hand. It was the way it cupped his shoulder, Ford thought. A couple of months ago, if Fiddleford were to put his hand on Ford’s shoulder like this, it would be a harder grip, not this half-caress. Yes. Yes, that was it.

“Hey.” Fiddleford put his free hand on Ford’s neck. His sweetly concerned expression was now just inches from Ford’s face. He kissed Ford then, a fleeting thing that probably shouldn’t have surprised him. “You in there? You’re freakin’ me out a little, I don’t mind telling you.”

Fiddleford’s hand started to lift from Ford’s neck. Ford grasped it, knowing Fiddleford wouldn’t judge him for wanting to maintain that point of contact. “I’m going to be fine,” he told Fiddleford, who nodded with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Yeah. Of course you will. Why dont’cha sit down, though?”

Ford didn’t want to, but he thought that arguing over this would make him seem irrational, even if he was perfectly comfortable standing. So he sat on his bed and kicked his shoes off. He even leaned back against the wall casually, the picture of a person reacting normally to a stressful situation, he thought.

He didn’t have to think of anything to say: there was the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, then Emmy walked through the door, kicking it shut behind her. She wasn’t supposed to be in here, of course, but she had Fiddleford’s key. Also, almost nobody at Backupsmore gave much of a shit about anything that went on here, Ford had found.

Fiddleford turned to Emmy to take her bags and they exchanged a look before Emma-May’s gaze turned to Ford.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hi,” Ford said back.

“Got us some supplies,” she said, rummaging through one of her bags. It clinked. “Beer, chips. Apples in case we get a wild hair to be healthy. Don’t really know why Marv sells apples but there we are.” Emma-May pulled three beers out of the bag and popped the caps off one at a time on Ford’s iron bed frame.

Fiddleford and Emma-May settled on either side of him, legs sticking out across Ford’s bed just as his did. Emmy handed him a beer. Ford held it with both hands. He’d never drunk with Shermie. He couldn’t imagine Sherman would have had a problem with his underage drinking, but there was never a time when Sherman, winking conspiratorially, snuck him and Stanley a couple of beers after dinner.

Ford took a swig from his beer, and then another. The sooner he was in an altered state the better. Emma-May leaned her head against his. Fiddleford rested a hand on Ford’s thigh. It should all feel like too much, but it was just enough. He should talk to them, repay their kindness with some kind of reassurance or at least an acknowledgement that he wasn’t completely out to lunch.

“Tell us something about him,” said Emma-May. “Just one thing.”

“It won’t help,” Ford dismissed her. He peeled back the label on his beer, tugging it so that the lines of glue on the brown bottle were exposed.

“No. But g’head and tell us anyway, Fiddy and me are dying of boredom over here.” Ford and Fiddleford both snorted.

“You got a real way with words, Em.” Fiddleford took a swig to drown his snickering.

“He was a lot older,” Ford said, cutting through Emmy’s and Fiddleford’s raised spirits. “He would’ve been thirty in the spring.” Ford took a breath. It was hard, like a hand had gripped him by the throat. “I knew, intellectually, that he might not come back, but I didn’t…” He took another wheezing breath. “I didn’t believe it.” He pulled his knees up and pressed his forehead against them. He wanted to hide from Fiddleford and Emma-May, who kept shifting even closer, as if they thought they could possibly protect him from the fact that his family was (once again) never going to be the same.

Ford tilted his head back, eyes screwed shut so that he didn’t have to see Fiddleford’s sorrowful expression, or Emmy’s worry. He held his bottle to his mouth and gulped down his beer. “I need another one,” he said. The bottle in his hand disappeared and was replaced by Fiddleford’s already half-finished beer.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Ford said thickly. Fiddleford sighed and clambered off the bed.

“Nothin’, if you don’t want. There’s time for that later, I reckon. Drink your beer.” There was a crack as Fidds opened another one.

“He’s right.” Emma-May wrapped her arms around Stanford and squeezed. “Let’s get drunk and maybe we’ll have us a little cry. Boys only like to cry when they drink.” She kissed Ford’s cheek, nudging his glasses off-center. Ford laughed unsteadily.

“Oh, yeah,” he choked out. “We love it.” He opened his bleary eyes and glanced between his… well, between Fidds and Emmy. “Just don’t let me embarrass myself or do anything too stupid.” He swigged Fiddleford’s beer.

Their responses overlapped: “When’ve I ever stopped you doin’ something stupid?” and “Whatever you do, we won’t tell.”

Ford didn’t have another smile in him, but he said, honestly, “Good to know you’re both there for me.”

[therealvinelle]

Hi, I was reading a post here in Tumblr about how Edward has two gifts, he can hear thoughts and is super fast, so I wonder what is your opinion about this topic?.

Furthermore, what others power might the Volturi's leaders and guards might have?

Edward has one gift, and it’s telepathy. Being fast isn’t a gift.

Strength, speed and even senses is varied among vampires. Some, like Emmett, are on the extreme end, but that doesn’t make Emmett gifted, nor does it mean that the rest are at an equal level. The Cullens have clear variations between them.

Physique appears to play a dominant role in how these variations play out: Alice, who was malnourished and never made it past 4′10″, is the physically weakest of the coven, while Emmett at 6′5″ and a mountain of muscles is the strongest. This is made very clear during the baseball game:

“Emmett was hovering close to third (base), knowing that Alice didn’t have the muscle to outstrip Rosalie’s fielding." (Midnight Sun, chapter The Game)

There’s also the fact that it’s taken for granted that Emmett would be intimidating to other vampires, and he is dismayed when James is more worried about Jasper, who is lean.

I suspect this disparity exists simply because a large frame means more tissue to have blood in. Newborns, animal, and human-eating vampires all having a difference in terms of strength is proof that blood has the final say in a vampire’s prowess, so Emmett being able to contain more of it than Alice and therefore being stronger makes sense to me.

This isn’t the meta for me to get into that, but I don’t think vampires have muscles in the sense we do. Or rather, we can’t know that they do. Renesmée is proof that Edward retains his human DNA, or she would be a clone of Bella. Nahuel is proof that Joham retains a Y-chromosome. Does this mean that vampires have different cell types? Does a vampire’s stone-like skin still contain human DNA? One would think yes - except, if you rip a vampire apart, you get rubble. The parts are all solid. There’s also Carlisle theorizing that vampires digest blood by absorbing it through porous tissue, which makes me wonder why he dismissed his digestive system (my guess: vivisection fun times with Aro in Volterra. Carlisle couldn’t have done it on his own, and Aro is the only one mad and curious enough to be down for that). I’m getting off-topic - what I’m saying is, we don’t know how vampires work, meaning I can’t build this meta off of the assumption that they have muscles. I simply can’t know for sure that they do.

The important thing is that a vampire’s physique is a deciding factor in how strong they are.

There’s also Laurent’s warning about James, that he has “unparalleled senses”, meaning some vampires are better at sight, hearing, and smell than others. I can believe that, because we have canon examples of vampires being bad at tracking.

There’s Edward in Port Angeles, who couldn’t track Bella’s, his singer, scent to her location, and (I admit this one is conjecture but it’s so probable that I say it goes) Carlisle’s creator, who after taking care of the mob must have realized he’d bitten one of the humans, meaning a newborn would soon be loose in London. This is punishable by death by the Volturi. The fact that he didn’t return to finish Carlisle off means that he was unable to find him. I remind the audience that Carlisle was bleeding and suffering the effects by a venom intended to paralyze the victim. To put it this way, Carlisle wouldn’t have survived James, or anybody with a trace of tracking competence. By comparison, Carlisle was able to locate a dying Rosalie by the smell of her blood, even though there wouldn’t have been a trail for him to follow, as her body had not been moved.

When it comes to these disparities in strength and speed among the Volturi, I imagine Jane and Alec are the physically weakest members of the guard, and among the slowest. They’re prepubescent, meaning no muscle for them, and their height (a humble 4′8″ and 4′10″) implies very short legs. They’re simply not going to get as far as an adult would, not in the same number of steps. Renata at 5′0″ is another tiny vampire lady who likely isn’t very strong or fast.

That’s not to say I think these physically weaker members of the Volturi guard are necessarily useless in hand-to-hand combat, Alec at least is a boy stuck in a playful age, and the males around him are trained warriors. He’s probably picked up a few things over the years.

As for the others, Aro is described as frail-looking, which hints at him being quite thin. I don’t think he’s weak, if he couldn’t win a fight he wouldn’t be around, but I do think he’s probably below average in terms of strength. Caius I picture as a Harrison Ford type, so of course I’m gonna think he’s a bit burly, but this is me headcanoning and not actually hinted at in canon. Marcus is 19, so I imagine he can only be so strong.

Back to Edward’s speed.

He’s a 6′2″ teen, that’s code for “very long legs”, though I’m actually going to go ahead and posit that he’s not actually that fast. Strap in for this next part:

The guy was a teenager who lay dying for an undisclosed amount of time. The fact that Carlisle had the time to get to know his mother points to a few weeks, at least. And Edward was very ill:

Elizabeth worried obsessively over her son. She hurt her own chances of survival trying to nurse him from her sickbed. I expected that he would go first, he was so much worse off than she was. (New Moon, page 21)

Muscles atrophy quickly, never more so than when you’re a teen ravaged by fever, on your deathbed. And as I’ve explained above, I think your physique in life ties directly into your vampiric prowess.

I think Edward is certainly the physically weakest of the male Cullens, quite likely weaker than Rosalie as well, maybe even Esme.

Now, speed is not the same as strength. However, for humans, the two are connected. It’s the muscle fibers in our legs that determine our speed. Basically, type I fibers make an enduring runner, type II fibers make a speed runner. So, assuming that vampires retain their human musculature, one could argue that Edward had a lot of type II in life. However, Carlisle when he was human was able to outrun the mob he was with:

He ran through the streets, and Carlisle — he was twenty-three and very fast — was in the lead of the pursuit. (Twilight, page 158)

Carlisle clearly had a lot of type II fibers, and unlike Edward he was in peak physical condition when he died. He was also an adult who’d had more time to develop musculature, while Edward was a seventeen-year-old. If musculature was a deciding factor, one would think they would at the very least be of equal speed, though realistically Edward should be slower.

So, if it’s not muscles, what is it that makes Edward faster than the others?

It could be a matter of technique. Except, the way Bella describes movement when she wakes up as a vampire, it’s all very automated. Her body knows exactly how to do everything, and executes it without much input from her:

After that first frozen second of shock, my body responded to the unfamiliar touch in a way that shocked me even more.

Air hissed up my throat, spitting through my clenched teeth with a low, menacing sound like a swarm of bees. Before the sound was out, my muscles bunched and arched, twisting away from the unknown. I flipped off my back in a spin so fast it should have turned the room into an incomprehensible blur—but it did not. I saw every dust mote, every splinter in the wood-paneled walls, every loose thread in microscopic detail as my eyes whirled past them.

So by the time I found myself crouched against the wall defensively—about a sixteenth of a second later—I already understood what had startled me, and that I had overreacted. (Breaking Dawn, page 251-252)

Growling, crouching - those are all distinctly vampiric, non-human ways to act. Bella didn’t learn this, her body knew it of its own accord. When she later runs, she explains it as happening the same way - she just does it.

The way Bella experiences it, vampiric movement is like a package she downloaded, and that executes her instinctual commands with no need for her to actually know how to do any of this. Her grace is another example of this - Bella Swan may be in charge of her own consciousness, but the venom is entirely in control of her body.

Given these facts, I don’t think it’s technique that makes Edward a better runner than others. His technique is likely similar to everyone else’s. If it isn’t, if technique is what makes the difference, then who is and isn’t fast is an arbitrary process.

With that, we get to my controversial theory about why Edward is the fastest Cullen: he’s not.

Running and being fast is the only thing about vampirism that Edward enjoys. This is for another meta, but Edward is extremely depressed about every single other bit of it. Every aspect of being a vampire torments him.

Except the running. He enjoys all of it, especially being the fastest, so much. And as a newborn, he would have been faster than Carlisle.

But after that, when his newborn strength faded…

I honestly think that Carlisle decided to just slow down a bit when running with him, let Edward have this. It’s no skin of his back, and it makes Edward happy, so why not.

Esme joins the family, and of course she would be down for this. Nothing is more parental, more maternal, than losing at checkers to make your child happy, after all. Could also be she’s not very fast herself, but even if she were then she would downplay it to make Edward feel like Jesse Owens.

Enter Rosalie, who would think it’s completely ridiculous, yes, but she would also recognize this excellent opportunity to call in a big favor from Carlisle later on. There’s also the fact that I think Carlisle has a gift (yes, yes, meta is coming, people) that makes him very persuasive people. And also that for all that Rose gets a lot of bad rep, she is very generous and loves her family, if being fast makes Edward happy then alright.

Emmett is an easy-going guy, he goes along with things. Alice adores Edward and would go along with it. She also has tiny matchstick legs and couldn’t outrun him if she tried. Jasper could not care less.

Bella does get outrun by Edward after waking up, but she also did zero exercise in life (listing this in case musculature matter), had Renesmée devour her from within rendering her emaciated, and then died like a slasher movie murder victim. There’s not a lot of blood in her, and what little blood there is doesn’t have a lot to work with. She does defeat Emmett at arm wrestling, so I’ll concede that. However, there are enough extenuating circumstances surrounding Bella that I think my “Edward isn’t that fast” theory survives his ability to outrun her.

So, I believe Edward is the fast Cullen because Carlisle told a white lie in 1919, no one ever corrected that, and now it’s too late.

[s1ut4harrypotter]

savior complex

George Weasley x Fem!reader

this is based on savior complex by phoebe bridgers, my favorite song. it’s not my best work or anything but i sorta liked writing it. I haven’t been able to figure out endings on any of my wip’s so i might put a bunch of stuff out this week but idk. yet another without a happy ending because as usual i’m a piece of shit.

Warnings: sad, angst, mentions of canon character death, not proofread. If there’s anything wrong with it let me know lolz

word count: 2.5k

lyrics in italics/bold

tags: @amourtentiaa

Emotional affair, overly sincere

It’s been almost a year and a half since Fred died. George seems to be getting better, but also more distant. He is happy and joking around again, but he has been going to see Angelina more often. You and George had been dating since your 6th year at Hogwarts, you were going to be together forever. But now, as the days go by, he is getting farther and farther away from you. 

Smoking in the car, windows up. Crocodile tears

You were there for George, through everything. You didn’t shy away from any of it, the nightmares, the rage, the sadness, you were there. You helped him, he had started smoking, you’d find him in his dad's old Ford Anglia, smoking a cigarette, sobbing. you got in, rolled up the windows, took the cigarette, and took him on a drive.

Run the tap til its clear

 We pulled up to a small cliff we used to hang out at during the summer and held him while he cried. We had talked for the whole night, we only left when the sun started to come up. 

Drift off on the floor

You tried to keep him involved with the rest of the world, so you started having monthly movie nights with the rest of his siblings. One night a month, everyone would go to one person’s flat and watch a movie or two. One month, it was your turn to have everyone at your flat, the two of you lived alone in the flat now, since Fred was gone. George hadn’t been sleeping well and ended up falling asleep halfway through the movie. Once everyone was gone, you cleaned up and decided not to wake him. 

I drag you to the shore

Just as you were about to walk into your bedroom, you heard him. George had been having nightmares since Fred died. Some nights you’d make him a potion for dreamless sleep, but tonight the two of you forgot. You sighed and walked back to the living room,

You’re gonna drown in your sleep, for sure

“Georgie” you whispered. “Georgie it’s me, y/n you gotta wake up darling.” he was sweating buckets and breathing heavily. You gently coaxed him awake and walked him back to your bedroom, he started to cry. “I’m so sorry darling” you cooed, as you stroked his hair, trying to get him to fall back asleep.

Wake up and start a big fire, in our one room apartment

He wouldn’t stop crying now, he was hiccuping and mumbling incoherent things into your chest. You were so tired, you were the only one with a job at this point, not that minded, you had just had a long day and needed to go to sleep. 

But i’m too tired, to have a pissing contest.

“George, darling, you need to breathe, take deep breaths, you’re going to throw up if you don’t calm down Georgie.” he had a bad habit of crying until he threw up, then passing out and falling asleep. 

“He’s gone. It’s my fault. I should’ve been there. It should’ve been me.” He hiccupped out, crying harder now. You were on the verge of tears too, you hated how sad he was. 

“No George. You can’t think like that, it wasn’t your fault. Fred wouldn’t want you to feel this way.” you spoke softly into his ear. 

“Don’t tell me what he would’ve wanted y/n” he suddenly got serious. “You didn’t know him like I did.”

“Of course I didn’t know him like you did George, but I like to think that I knew him pretty well, and I don’t think he was the kind of person to want you wallowing in your bed, wishing it had been you instead of him.”

“God y/n can you just go? Please? I want to be alone tonight.” he said, you scoffed. He couldn’t be serious, but you were tired and you didn’t want to upset him more. You slept on the couch that night.

All the bad dreams that you hide.

You were grieving too, you had met Fred first at Hogwarts, then he introduced you to George. You felt like you had been really good friends with Fred, so it really hurt when George said things like that, but you knew he didn’t really mean it. Sometimes he just said things like that when he was upset, you understood, he was hurting. Sometimes he wouldn’t tell you about his dreams, he would just change the subject whenever you asked, you had dreams about Fred’s death sometimes too. You were with him and Percy when it happened, you’d constantly beat yourself up for it, all the things you could have done differently to save George from this pain, but what’s done is done. 

Show me yours and i’ll show you mine

You wished that George would tell you what was going on with him. He had been going through different stages over the past year, at first he didn’t talk at all. You’d walk by his room at night and he’d be mumbling things to himself, never anything you could make out. Then he started telling you how he was feeling, anything and everything that he felt, he’d tell you. You liked it then, even if he was sad and there wasn’t much you could do about it, at least you could be sad together. Now he didn’t tell you anything, he just brushed you off.

Call me when you land, i’ll drive around again.

You loved him so much, there wasn’t much he could do that you wouldn’t take. You were willing to wait for him to get better. You knew he was hurting, you knew it would take time for him to get back to the ‘old George’, if there was even any of him left. You’d never say it out loud, but you knew everyone else was thinking it. When Fred died, he took a big piece of George with him. It brought you so much heartache that he was in pain. You wished you could just bring Fred back, then maybe you could get your George back. But you were willing to wait.

One hand on the wheel, one in your mouth. Turn me on, and turn me down.

You and him hadn’t been intimate in months, you knew George was hurt, and he would only ever think about it on his good days, which were now few and far between. But it was ok, you were willing to wait for him. You loved him. 

Baby you’re a vampire, you want blood and I promised. I’m a bad liar.

Lately you felt as though you never saw the happy side of George. He’d go out during the day, to meet friends from school he said. He’d never say who it was if you asked, but you figured it was just Lee Jordan or someone else he had been close friends with. He was physically and emotionally exhausted when he got home. It was like he used up any energy he had to be happy wherever he was during the day, then when he got home, you were left to pick up the pieces when he shattered.

With a savior complex

You were beginning to get burned out. You had finally gotten some time for yourself to meet up with some friends, and they suggested you break up with George. You simply couldn’t do that. It may be slightly exhausting to keep up with him, but you knew the old George was still in there. They kept telling you it seemed like you had a savior complex, and that George was a lost cause. Deep down, you knew you were probably the only one still holding on to the relationship, but you still loved him so much. You wouldn’t know what to do without him, even if you knew it was practically already over.

George had been getting further and further away, figuratively and literally. He was almost never home, and when he was, he was back to barely talking, occasionally giving you one or two word answers. You’d ask him how his day was and he’d reply with just “good” not even bothering to ask about your day. 

You were fed up with how things were, you wanted to know if at least he was back to his joking self around his friends. You knew it was wrong, but you followed him one day. Turns out he had just been going to the Leaky Cauldron, at first you were worried he just spent the day drinking. But, you waited a few minutes and went in, only to see him kiss Angelina Johnson on the cheek. 

Ok, maybe they were just catching up, they were good friends at school, you knew that. But the longer you watched, the more you realized you weren’t watching two friends catching up. You were watching your boyfriend, the man you had spent the last 5 years of your life with, with another girl. Deep down, you knew your relationship was over, it had been for months, you were just dragging it out because you didn’t want it to end yet. But you didn’t want it to end like this. 

You wanted to scream, cry, hit him, do something. You had thrown away the last year of your life, devoting yourself to helping George feel better. You spent long nights rubbing his back, whispering comforting things in his ears as he cried into your chest. YOU did that, not her. How could he do this to you? After everything you’ve been through together, everything you had done for him. He threw it all away. 

You were distraught. You were thinking irrationally, sending yourself into a spiral. You called in sick for work and walked back to your flat in a daze. You needed to think about this. For a few minutes, you contemplated obliviating yourself, maybe if you just forgot you saw it, went about your relationship as it was before this morning, it’d be ok. But you knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. So you did the only other thing you thought you could do, you conjured some boxes and started packing. 

You spent the day packing every last trace of your belongings, you called one of your friends and told her something happened with George. You didn’t give her any specifics because the optimistic, or stupid, side of you was holding on to hope that you were overreacting, maybe you saw wrong. Maybe, this was a big huge misunderstanding and you could unpack your stuff with George when he got home and live happily ever after. But you knew that wasn’t the case, so you told her you’d tell her when you got there. You finished packing the last of your stuff a few minutes before George got home, it was later than usual. You didn’t want to face him, you thought about leaving him a letter, telling him you saw what he did and not to contact you ever again. But you needed to hear it from him.

He walked in and saw the boxes, confused he walked into the living room and saw you sitting on the couch, just staring off into the distance. 

“Y/n darling? Are you alright.” he asked, confused.

“No Georgie, but I will be.” you whispered back, sadly.

“What’s with all the boxes? What happened?” he asked again. It was like you were a ghost, or someone else. You were there but not really, he could see you’d been crying. 

“What did I do wrong Georgie? What could I have done differently?” you asked, you could feel the tears starting again.

“Darling I don’t know what you’re talking about, did something happen at work?” he said, he was worried maybe you got fired.

You scoffed. “No George, nothing happened at work. I have been so worried about you lately, you seemed to be getting worse and worse. Coming home from god knows where, in a mess of tears. Just coming home for me to clean up, then going out again the next day.”

When he didn’t reply you continued, “I have spent the last 5 years of my life with you George. Completely devoted to you, through everything I supported you.” you laughed bitterly, “I spent all day packing today, trying desperately to figure out where I went wrong. What I did to you, what I could’ve done differently, to make you love me enough. But it wasn’t me was it?” 

“What are you talking about dear? Why were you packing.” he replied.

“God George you’re just not seeing it are you?” You looked at him, bewildered. “I saw you. You and Angelina.”

“Oh” he whispered.

“OH! THATS ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY GEORGE? OH?” You shouted, he could feel himself starting to cry now too. 

“I have spent so much of my time cleaning up after you, taking care of you, loving you. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I should’ve known. When you started going out more, I told myself, maybe you were just out with friends, when you came home after a long day with Angelina, using up any happiness that you did have with her, who was there to pick up the pieces? ME!” you yelled. 

“I just can't do it anymore George. We’ve been over for a long time, and I need to let you go now.” you trailed off, the last part coming out in a mix between a whimper and a whisper.

“No, darling please let's talk about this!” he begged.

“What is there to talk about George? I saw you, with my own two eyes.” you replied.

“Please baby it was a mistake. I love you so much, please please don’t leave me.” he was begging you, he needed you.

“I can’t George. I’ve spent so much time caring for you, I need time to care for me. I need to get better too. I just can’t do this anymore, there won’t be anything left of me if I keep giving it all to you.”

He broke down next to you, crying. You stood up, ready to disapparate with your things, but he ran up to you and hugged you.

“Please don’t leave me y/n. I’m so sorry! It was a mistake I love you so much.”

“You need to let me go Georgie, I'm sorry. I need to go.” you whispered, calmly removing his arms from their tight hold around your waist.

You whispered a quiet, final goodbye, before disapparating from his flat and to your friends home, you both needed to move on.

[thelastspeecher]

Angenie AU - Untangling

Yes, that is an absolutely horrific title for this ficlet, but I really wanted to give this ficlet a title and this was the best I could come up with.  And it sort of fits.  Gotta untangle all the chaos and crossed wires that happen in this ficlet.  Also, fun fact I recently decided for this AU, which is revealed in this ficlet: this is a rare AU where Angie takes Stan’s last name when they get married.

(This ficlet is the third chronologically.  First chronologically.  Second chronologically.)

——————————————————————————————        

              Stan and Angie followed the McGuckets into the living room.  Mrs. McGucket looked around the room with a slight grimace.

              “Well, this is disgusting.  How’d this place come to such a state?” she asked.

              “You’d have to ask Ford that,” Stan mumbled. Mrs. McGucket glanced at him curiously. “My brother.  He’s the one who owns the place.  Actually, the reason we came here was to check on him.”

              “Hmm.”  Mrs. McGucket snapped her fingers again.  Silver sparkles filled the living room.  When they cleared, the room was clean and neatly organized.  Mrs. McGucket took a seat in the recliner that had magically appeared, lounging like it was a throne.  Mr. McGucket stood next to her, a hand on the back of the seat.

              “I think it’s best if ya tell yer whole story, son,” Mr. McGucket said.  Lute joined his parents.

              “Yeah,” Lute said.  Stan looked at Angie.  She smiled at him encouragingly.  He took a breath.

              “Where do you want me to start?”

              “The manner through which ya met our daughter would be good,” Mr. McGucket said.

              “Right.  I was in the Middle East-”

              “Why?” Lute interrupted.

              “I had business to do there.”

              “What kind?”

              “Look, buddy, just let me get to the important part, okay?” Stan snapped.  Lute scowled, but made a “carry on” gesture.  “I was in the Middle East.  While I was wandering around the desert, I found this oil lamp just sorta sitting on the ground.  I picked it up.  It looked kinda dusty, so I rubbed it.  And Angie came outta it.”

              “How long were ya in the lamp, sweetie?” Mrs. McGucket asked Angie.

              “I ain’t quite sure, Ma,” Angie replied. “But prob’ly at least a couple weeks.”

              “Poor thing,” Mr. McGucket said.

              “I used my first wish for money-” Stan continued.

              “Of course ya did,” Lute muttered.

              “-and I used my second wish to free Angie,” Stan said, ignoring Lute’s interruption.  “I didn’t expect her to stick around to give me the third wish, since, now that she was free, she didn’t need to.  But she did.  And after a while, we started dating.”

              “There was no datin’ while I was beholden to him,” Angie said.  Lute rolled his eyes.  “Lute, if I wanted, I could’ve left him at any point.”

              “Still feels weird,” Lute mumbled.  Mr. McGucket shrugged.

              “It ain’t that dif’rent from how I met yer mother. ‘Course, I used my very first wish to free her.”  Mr. McGucket smiled at Stan.  “Don’t worry, son, I won’t judge ya fer usin’ yer second to free Angie.  The order don’t matter.  What matters is that ya freed my daughter instead of wishin’ fer somethin’ to benefit ya.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.  “So, after Angie and I started dating, we sorta kept doing what we were doing before.”

              “Which would be?” Mrs. McGucket asked.

              “Traveling.  Had some fun. Went to weird places.  Angie almost destroyed multiple landmarks with her magic.”  Stan smirked at Angie.  She rolled her eyes, the gesture very similar to her brother’s from a moment ago.

              “Wait, what?” Mrs. McGucket asked.

              “Yeah, Angie sucks at magic.  Unless it’s an actual wish, she messes up a lot.  She’s gotten better, though.  Now, she only really screws up every other spell.”

              “Rude,” Angie said playfully, punching Stan’s shoulder. Stan chuckled.  Mrs. McGucket pursed her lips.  “Ma?”

              “I might want to give ya some exercises to help ya gain more control.”

              “That’s better than what Stan’s been sayin’,” Angie said.  “He keeps thinkin’ that there’s somethin’ wrong, that I should see a magic doctor or somethin’.”

              “I ain’t no doctor, medical or magic,” Mrs. McGucket said.  “But I can do a quick scan of ya, Angie, to see if there’s somethin’ a bit off ‘bout yer energy that could be causin’ difficulty in spelling consistency.”

              “Sounds great,” Stan said.  Angie frowned at him.  “Like I keep saying, someone as smart as you should be better at your job.”

              “But the scan can wait until after ya finish yer story,” Mrs. McGucket said.

              “Right.”  Stan cleared his throat.  “We traveled for a while.  Eventually, we visited my hometown so I could talk to my mom.  And while we were visiting her, she told me that she hadn’t heard from my twin for a while.  So we decided to check in on him.”

              “And?” Mr. McGucket prompted.  Stan opened his mouth.

              Wait.  Do I really need to tell them everything? They don’t need to know the dirty details about my twin brother going to a different universe or whatever.

              “…When we showed up, the house was empty,” Stan said after a moment.  Angie frowned at him.  He soldiered on.  “I decided to use my third wish to find out what happened to Ford, and when I did, Fiddlesticks got teleported in front of us and then passed out.”

              “Fiddleford,” all four McGuckets corrected.

              “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

              “He’s yer brother-in-law, you should really learn his proper name,” Angie hissed.  Lute leaned forward.

              “Hang on, what did ya just-”

              “Is that the whole story?” Mr. McGucket interjected.  Stan nodded. “Hmm.  Well, I could use some time to ruminate on that.  Sally, want to scan Angie?”

              “Sure thing.”  Mrs. McGucket got up from the chair.  “Angie, follow me to a private room, please.”

              “Sure, Ma.”  Angie stood on her tiptoes to kiss Stan on the cheek.  “Play nice with my Pa and brother, okay?”

              “Since you asked,” Stan sighed.  Angie chuckled and followed her mother out of the room. An awkward silence fell.  “So…”

              “What are yer intentions with my sister?” Lute blurted out.  Stan frowned at him.

              “What?”

              “Lute,” Mr. McGucket sighed.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Though, in all seriousness, do ya intend to marry Angie?”

              “We’re already married.”

              “What?!” Mr. McGucket yelped.

              “We stopped by Vegas a bit ago.  It felt right.  So we got married.”  Stan shrugged.  “No big deal.”

              “I- yes, it most certainly is a big deal!” Mr. McGucket said firmly.  “Marriage is a big commitment.  And yer s’pposed to share the moment ya take on that commitment together.”

              “There were like, a coupla guys there.”

              “Share it with yer fam’ly,” Mr. McGucket insisted. “Not a ‘couple of guys’.”

              “Angie already told you that she felt weird about talking to you, since she wasn’t sure how you’d respond to the whole genie thing,” Stan said.  “That’s why you weren’t invited.  My folks weren’t invited, either.”  Mr. McGucket continued to scowl.  “But, I dunno, if it turns out to be as big a thing for her as it is to you, maybe we can-”

              “Stanley?”  The men looked over.  Mrs. McGucket stood in the entryway, her face carefully neutral.  “Come with me.”

              “Uh, okay.”  Stan followed Mrs. McGucket out of the room, down the hall, and into a bedroom. Judging by how neat the room was, Mrs. McGucket had used her magic to clean it, too.  Stan sat next to Angie, who was sitting on the bed.  “What’s going on?”  His eyes widened.  “Wait, did the scan find something?”

              “Yes.  It did.”

              “Is there something messing with Angie’s magic?”

              “Not yet,” Mrs. McGucket said slowly.  “What I found with the scan, it’ll disrupt her magic, but not fer a lil bit.  It’s too early on.  No, her issue with her magic seems to be that she wasn’t given any proper trainin’. I’ll be sure to give her some guidance and leave her with steps fer practicin’ when we part ways.”

              “Then what did the scan find?”

              “I overheard that ya got married to Angie in Vegas.  Which is a good thing,” Mrs. McGucket said evasively.  Stan frowned, bemused.  Angie put her hand on his knee.

              “Stanley,” she said softly.  She squeezed Stan’s knee.  “I’m pregnant.”  Ringing filled Stan’s ears.

              “You’re what?” he asked.

              “Pregnant.”

              “With twins,” Mrs. McGucket added.  Stan’s jaw dropped.  “It’s too early to tell much more ‘n that with a basic scan like what I just did.  But Angie told me some of what she’s been experiencin’ health-wise lately, and what she said confirmed the results of the scan.”

              “You’re- you’re pregnant?” Stan whispered.  Angie nodded, tears in the corners of her eyes. “I’m- I’m gonna be a dad?”

              “Yes, dear, you are,” Angie said.

              “What?!” a voice shrieked.  The door to the bedroom slammed open, revealing Lute. Lute glared at Stan.  “The first time I see my baby sister in ages, it’s with some feller what freed her from a lamp, then dated her, then married her, then got her pregnant?  This ain’t right!”

              “Lute!” Angie scolded, jumping to her feet. “Nothin’ is wrong with any of what ya just said!  Yer just strugglin’ with it ‘cause this is the first time you’ve met Stan.”

              “And this first time, I’ve learned everything I needed to ‘bout him,” Lute said firmly.  Stan got to his feet.

              “C’mon, man, stop overreacting like this.”

              “I ain’t overreacting,” Lute snarled, stomping over to Stan.  He jabbed Stan’s chest with a pointed finger.  “Yer a stranger to me, but ya knocked up my lil sister.  I don’t want ya ‘round here.”

              “Like you can make me go anywhere,” Stan scoffed. Suddenly, copper sparkles appeared around Stan, blinding him.  When his vision cleared, he was in the front yard.  “What the-”

              “Lute, what did ya do?!” Angie’s voice shouted from inside the house.

              “I didn’t do nothin’!”

              “Yes, ya did!” Angie argued.  Stan rushed back inside, slamming the door behind him. “What was-”

              “I’m fine, Ang,” Stan called.  “I wound up in the front yard.  Don’t know how.”

              “Lute did it,” Angie said.  Stan headed for the bedroom.  Mr. McGucket had joined his wife and children there.  Angie glared at her brother.  “Guess he’s a genie, too.”

              “I ain’t no-”

              “Every genie’s magic has its own color,” Mrs. McGucket interjected.  “Angie’s is gold.  Mine is silver.  The magic what accompanied Stan disappearin’ to the front yard was copper.”

              “Not to mention, Lute, you wanted Stan out of here,” Angie pointed out.

              “Bang-up job on that, by the way,” Stan said. “You sent me, what, thirty feet?”

              “Sorry, next time I’ll send ya to the bottom of the ocean,” Lute said tartly.  Mrs. McGucket glared at him.

              “Lute Everett, that’s it!” she snapped.  She grabbed Lute’s ear and dragged him out of the bedroom.

              “Ow, ow!” Lute yelped.  “Ma!”

              “Yer father ‘n I ‘re goin’ to have a talk with ya while we let Stan ‘n Angie deal with their big news,” she said firmly. Mr. McGucket sighed.  He looked at Stan and Angie.

              “Congratulations, you two.”

              “Thanks, Pa,” Angie said quietly.  Mr. McGucket kissed her forehead.

              “I’m just glad to have ya back.  Ya comin’ back with a husband and baby on the way, why, that’s just sugar on top.  But I better go help scold some sense into yer brother.”  Mr. McGucket patted Stan on the shoulder and left.  Stan closed the door behind him.

              “Your family’s intense,” Stan said.  Angie smiled and sat back down on the bed.

              “We’re married.  That means they’re yer fam’ly, too.”  She frowned.  “By the way, my fam’ly don’t really tolerate lyin’.”

              “So?” Stan asked.  He sat next to her.

              “You lied.”

              “About…?”

              “About what ya found when we arrived at this house. Why’d ya tell my folks that Stanford wasn’t here?  He was.”

              “I know Ford was here.  I was the one who got him through a portal and into a different universe, remember?”

              “Why’d ya lie?” Angie repeated.  “My folks have a lot of experience and wisdom.  And my ma’s definitely a better genie than I am. They’d be able to help us-”  Angie stopped mid-sentence.  She stared at Stan.  “You don’t want their help.”

              “No.”

              “Why not?”

              “Look.  I’m sure that your parents are nice people.  But Ford was clearly in some deep shit before he went wherever he went. I don’t want your family sticking their big noses into whatever Ford was up to here.”

              “Big noses, huh?” Angie asked, raising an eyebrow.

              “Oh, come on.  You know that I wasn’t ragging on your nose,” Stan scoffed.

              “I certainly hope not, ‘cause there’s a high likelihood one of yer children will have that nose.”

              “And it’ll look as gorgeous on the kid as it does on you,” Stan said firmly.  Angie smiled. “Seriously, though, I really don’t want your folks to get involved in Pines family business.”

              “I’m involved.”

              “You’re a Pines.  Or did you say you’d take my last name just to make me feel better or something?”

              “No, I took yer name ‘cause it looked so good on ya,” Angie teased.  She interlaced her fingers with Stan’s.  “Now that I’ve contacted my fam’ly, I can settle back into my proper identity a bit and get the paperwork done, make me legally a Pines.”  Stan grinned at her.  She looked down.  “You really don’t want my fam’ly to know anything ‘bout Ford’s sit’ation?”

              “No.”

              “All right.”  Angie took a breath.  “We’ll keep ‘em out of it.”  Stan kissed the top of her head.

              “Thanks, babe.”

              “Wow, a ‘thanks’ that I didn’t need to use magic to get?”

              “I’m gonna be a dad, remember?  I’ve gotta learn how to be responsible and use manners and shit like that,” Stan said.  Angie chuckled.  “Damn, we’re gonna be parents.  We’re gonna need a house for the kids.”

              “I’m assumin’ that ya want to stay in Gravity Falls so’s that it’ll be easier to get yer brother back.”  Angie looked around the room.  “This ain’t that bad of a place.  We could stay here.”

              “In my brother’s creepy rundown shack?  Uh, no.  We’ve got enough money to get something nice.”

              “All those five-star hotels really spoiled ya, huh?”

              “Yep,” Stan said cheerfully.  Angie laughed.  “Maybe we can go for a drive around town later to look for a house appropriate for someone in our tax bracket.”

              “Like you pay taxes.”

              “When I’m a dad, I probably should.  Don’t wanna go to jail when I’ve got two kids at home.”

              “Aw.”  Angie kissed Stan’s cheek.  “Yer already changin’ yer criminal ways fer yer babies, and they ain’t even born yet.”

[youngdumbamericanteen]

Mabel bad?

Oof sorry for never answering you nonnie! I’ve been pretty busy lately haha. But the post you’re responding to is a bit...old. I now understand Mabel a bit more now as a person, however I do still dislike her as a character because her flaws I was talking about in that post are never meaningfully addressed. 

This might get a wee bit long, oops. Click for a big Gravity Falls writing analysis/essay/thingy.

It’s good for characters to have flaws. Flaws that actually affect them and have consequences. Otherwise you have something of a Mary Sue that isn’t relatable and has a story that’s too easy and boring for the audience. The narrative punishes or addresses those flaws and they present a challenge for the character.

But at the opposite end, you have characters who have flaws that the narrative never addresses, which means the characters never have to grow. There’s two reasons this is bad. One, that you can have the same issue where they don’t face any struggle or grow as characters and it’s a boring story, or two, people don’t generally like to root for characters who they’d want to punch if they ever met them irl. You can have a story with main characters who are bad people, but you have to either make the character likable in other ways, present the situation so that the audience can gather that they’re in the wrong and either be rooting for their downfall or their growth, or have their actual story be compelling enough that the need to know what happens next outweighs dislike for the character. (And all of these things often require the story to be told from said bad character’s point of view.) Gravity Falls doesn't really do any of these things. Or rather, it tries but is ineffective for around 50% of the viewers.

Mabel is often presented as a pure soul, good of heart and just overall a good person. But she’s got flaws. She’s selfish and a bit inconsiderate, which is normal and not an unforgivably terrible thing, especially for a 13 year old girl figuring out her place in the world. All the Pines are a bit selfish, I think it runs in their genes. But the thing is, the show will treat her selfishness as perfectly fair and normal, with anyone her selfishness affects being shown as in the wrong. She often guilts people, mainly Dipper, into sacrificing things for her while rarely making any sacrifices of her own. She does it to other characters as well, but here’s a brief list of times Dipper has sacrificed something for Mabel (which I compiled with the help of this post on Quora):

 Tourist Trapped: Dipper spends almost the entire time worried about Mabel’s safety and trying to protect her, while she just brushes him off and laughs at him.

The Hand that Rocks the Mabel: Dipper agrees to break up with Gideon for her.

Time Traveler’s Pig: Mabel insists that Dipper give up the reality that doesn't break his heart so that she can adopt Waddles, and when he initially refuses she purposely endangers the space-time continuum as retaliation. 

Little Dipper: Mabel is very angry about Dipper making himself taller, even though Dipper would not have resorted to it if now for her teasing. She immediately demands and fights for the magic flashlight, causing it to fall into Gideon’s hands.

Summerween: Mabel drags Dipper out to go trick-or-treating in a costume he dislikes because she’d planned on them having a duo costume.

Boss Mabel: I shouldn’t even really have to explain this one, the whole episode is about her going on a power trip.

The Deep End: Mabel embarks on a rescue mission for Mermando, doing and using things that would lead to Dipper being fired from the pool job he loves, without consulting him at all. She hears his concerns and instead of just explaining she’s saving Mermando the first time, she completely ignores him and speeds off, destroying more pool property and ensuring he’ll be fired.

Carpet Diem: Dipper informs her of the the issues he has with her roommate habits, and she completely denies any fault, even though she and her friends had legitimately destroyed the room and the mini-golf course the twins had built. The two of them both overreact, and act selfishly throughout the entire episode, but she absolutely refuses to listen to him.

Boyz Crazy: This one isn’t Dipper but I still wanted to mention it because she is so ridiculously selfish throughout the whole episode, to the point where it’s to her and the people she loves’ detriment.

Dreamscapers: Again not Dipper or a sacrifice, but her worst nightmare is apparently losing her cuteness and becoming ugly. I dunno if that’s exactly selfish or anything but God did it make me wrinkle my nose in distaste.

Sock Opera: After promising to help Dipper with the laptop, she almost immediately abandons him for her crush of the week, then proceeds to ignore him for, and inconvenience him with, her puppet show, taking his things without asking and expecting him to be completely cool with all her actions. Bill literally mentions her selfishness to manipulate Dipper and it completely works.

The Love God: Dipper leaves Wendy and her friends in chaos to help fix Mabel’s mess.

Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons: Mabel, her friends, and Stan all make fun of Dipper and Ford and insist they should have full use of the living room.

Dipper and Mable vs the Future: This is one of the big ones that people talk about. Mable finds out that Dipper might want to stay as Ford’s apprentice and becomes incredibly upset because she dreamed of the two of them having fun in high school together. She sees Dipper and immediately makes it about her and her feelings, treating something he’d been dreaming of all summer (being The Author’s apprentice) as some direct attack on her happiness. She proceeds to literally give Bill the ability to start the apocalypse to avoid being separated from Dipper, all without having any sort of meaningful conversation with Dipper or considering his feelings.

Weirdmageddon Part 2: Escape From Reality: Out of all of these, this might be the one that gets to me the most. Mabel, seemingly knowing full well that she’s trapped by Bill, creates an imaginary fantasy land and refuses to leave just to spite Dipper for considering taking the apprenticeship. And despite doing all this, and attempting to convince him to stay with her, she creates an alternate “better” version of Dipper who’s “cool” and supportive and very, very, different from the real Dipper.

And this isn’t even mentioning all the times she just assumed she was completely in the right about something or had the moral high ground. Mabel frequently makes rush decisions because she thinks everything should be her way or how she thinks is right. 

And I want to say again, none of these things are unforgivable. Honestly, a lot of the things on the list are pretty standard sibling things, and like she isn’t even always in the wrong. The issue is that I’m naming at least 15 times where Mabel has been selfish or forced someone to give something up for her, and she almost never learns her lesson or is punished by the narrative. There are also only 2 or 3 times I can think of where Mabel sacrificed anything for Dipper, and they were all times he was in actual danger or someone had to talk to her and say she messed up and needed to fix her mistake. 

Dipper, on the other hand, sacrifices things for Mabel, faces consequences for his mistakes and his flaws, learns substantial lessons, apologizes, and rarely, if ever, repeats said mistakes. Now, this doesn’t mean that Mabel is awful and Dipper isn’t. I mean, Dipper does some pretty crumby things and has to be told he’s in the wrong or to apologize. And Mabel isn’t a bad person. Like legitimately, that is not what I want anyone to take away from this. She does genuinely love her brother and care about his wellbeing. She’s just a little selfish and unthinking sometimes, like anyone else.

Like I said, my issue is that it goes unpunished, and she repeats the same type of offense wayyy more than any other character. She’ll disappoint Dipper enough that he’d make a deal with Bill and then everyone will still say she’s the best and most caring person ever. That’s just annoying, honestly, or it is to me at least.

This isn’t dunking on her, this is dunking on the writers. And they aren’t unforgivable either, I mean Gravity Falls was a masterful web of foreshadowing, character building, lore, plot work, and incredibly intelligent humor mixed with jokes kids would love too. I don’t blame them for dropping the ball on Mabel, and I don’t hate her or the show or anything because of it. I just want us to acknowledge this flaw of the show, and also have people get it when Mabel gets on my nerves a little bit.

[mildkatfics]

small talk  rating: m  word count: 6316 summary: Simon and Baz come to the family estate for Christmas, for the first time as an official couple. read on ao3

I did it with an email. Not even with my personal account. My fucking LSE address:  basilton.pitch@lse.ac.uk. 

Dear All, 

Hope you’re well. I’m sending this message this way because it would be too crude to do it on my mobile, and I didn’t want to wait to be back at Hampshire to tell you. I hope you don’t mind. 

I’m gay. Simon Snow and I have been in a romantic relationship this whole time, and we are happy. 

I suspect none of you are surprised, but it was getting ridiculous to pretend like none of us knew the situation. I am, however, happy to carry on as always. I just figured it’s time for us to get through this bit. 

Regards, 

Basil 

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch 

MA Candidate, Teaching Assistant 

Department of Political Science | London School of Economics 

“Merlin, don’t use your email signature.” Snow peers next to me on the sofa. “Using this account is bad enough.” 

“I kind of like it,” I admit. “It reminds them to be proud of me.” 

“Remove it. And shut up, they’re proud of you.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. I can smell the coffee on him, though he’s showered after work. I wonder if he’ll ever stop smelling of Starbucks. He glares up at me through his eyelashes. “Say it.” 

I narrow my eyes. “No.” 

“Baz. Say it.” He rolls his eyes and shoves his body against mine, slightly toppling me over. He hasn’t gotten any gentler over the years. I love it. “Say that your family is proud of you.” 

I sigh, but give in. “My family is proud of me.” 

“So is your boyfriend.” 

I indulge in a sneer, and he throws it right back at me. I say it. “So is my boyfriend.” 

He grins, and sits back up. “Right. Now remove the email signature and send it. And remove my last name. You’re talking to your family, not applying for a mortgage.” 

I snort. “I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t know what a mortgage is.” 

“Here,” Snow takes my laptop from me and removes the signature and his last name from the email. I watch his brow furrow and his lips move slightly as he focuses on re-reading the text. He starts to tug on his hair, and I almost laugh. I didn’t bother spending too much time on the message, but here he is, reading and re-reading every word because he cares. I press my lips against his cheek. I let myself linger, inhaling his scent. Dark Roast. Probably the Christmas Blend. “Don’t give yourself a hemorrhage,” I murmur. 

He ignores me for a while before speaking again. “I’m gonna hit send, yeah?” 

I don’t take my eyes off him, not even bothering to read it over. “Yeah.” 

I watch his finger hesitate for a second on the trackpad, then clicks it. He blinks and takes a deep breath, and I laugh. “Are you going to be alright?” I joke. 

His eyes slide over to me. “You just came out to your family. I can’t tell if I’m overreacting, or if you’re...underreacting.” He cards his fingers through my hair. “I also can’t tell if you’re hiding your feelings from me, or if you’re a complete fucking sociopath.” 

I laugh again, and I consider his question seriously. “I’m happy,” I think out loud. I make sure to look in his eyes when I finish my sentence. “But that’s par for the course nowadays, isn’t it?” 

Snow tries to trap his grin into a smirk. “Sap.” He leans in and brushes his lips against mine. I lean hard and deepen the kiss, and I feel him grin for real and bite my bottom lip. I give an indignant grunt, but don’t bother pretending how much that gets me on. He pushes back until he braces himself against the arm of the sofa, trapping me. I grip his shirt in my fist, only because I would never let him do that to me. And I do it to him, because I get off on that kind of thing. And so does he. 

My laptop pings from the coffee table, and Snow breaks away. “What are you doing?” I hiss, and capture his mouth back in mine. 

“That’s probably your family.” He crawls back and opens my laptop. 

I slump back, keeping my eyes closed. “Is it my father?” 

I can feel him roll his eyes at me. “Baz. You read it.” I feel the sleek metal on my chest. I sigh, and I open it. 

Dear Basil, 

Thank you for your email, and for your candor. We look forward to seeing you both this Christmas. We’ve actually just invited loads of your aunts and uncles for this year. Wonderful timing, isn’t it? All my love to you and Simon. 

Also, please remember to bring my mixing bowl. 

Sincerely, 

Daphne 

Snow is peering over my shoulder. “I’ve always liked Daphne.” 

I have, too. 

— 

“I’m not asking you to memorize a family tree here, love.” I’m leaning against the condiment stand, now plastered with plastic snowflakes, a few feet from where Snow is working. The fairy lights around the place sparkle against his skin, complimenting his freckles. I watch the way his arms flex as he pulls chairs back, handles cups and saucers, and carries our conversation with a kind of effortless rhythm that I find really hot. “And you’ve done this before. You’ve spent, what, four other Christmasses with my family?”

“Oh, don’t even try pretending this is the same. This is the first Christmas since your email, not to mention all these people.” He replies without looking at me. He looks up and smiles towards the door when a patron enters, and turns his head back to an empty table. “You have, like, five uncles with loads of kids a piece, who all speak Latin—” 

“They speak English too.” 

“Not the French ones.” 

I purse my lips. “So you have been listening. Don’t worry about them. They stick amongst themselves, anyway.” 

“I’ll be right with you, mate.” Simon calls out to the guy. He throws his cloth onto his shoulder and starts walking backwards towards the bar. He redirects his attention to me. “Busy now, I need you to go away. We’ll talk about this at home.” 

I give him a pout. I’m six foot two, wearing a Tom Ford coat, and pouting at my boyfriend at a Starbucks. I’m shameless. 

His eyes, still locked on mine, sparkle for a second before he turns all his attention on his customer. “Sorry about that. What can I get started for you?” 

I let the smile stay on my face even as I exit the shop and head to class. 

— 

I lay my suitcase and my folded clothes on the bed. I almost ruined a white cashmere on my last trip by putting my toiletries on the same side, so I place it at the very top this time. Then I decide it’s actually better to put it at the bottom of the stack, to keep it safe. So I pull everything out to rearrange. I place my socks in between the empty spaces. “You should focus on your own packing instead of watching me do mine.” I turn to raise an eyebrow at Snow, watching me from the door. 

Snow mirrors the gesture, opens his dresser, and dumps a bunch of clothes into a black backpack that he picked up from the floor. “Done.” 

I wrinkle my nose. “Will you please let me pack for you next time?” 

Amusement lights up his face. “I think I should pack for you.” He sits on our bed, looks at my full suitcase, and looks up at me. “It’s two days, darling. Or is this one of your anxiety-packings?” 

“Aren’t you the one nervous to meet my family?” 

He groans and flops down on his back. “I’m trying not to panic, but the closer we get, the more I think about it.” He lifts his head to look at me. “Please tell me I’m not the only one. There has to be another cousin’s weird boyfriend or someone who flunked out of uni or whatever your family gossips about.” 

I consider it. “Elvira voted Labour in the last election and told everyone.” 

“Rookie mistake.” 

“I know. Don’t even utter anything remotely political in that house.” 

“Great. So don’t mention your school, career, or passions, and we should be good to go.” He sighs before muttering, so low that I can barely hear it, “Bloody hell.”

A beat of silence passes, and I can hear his brain spinning into overdrive. “Snow,” I start. 

“They’re gonna eat me alive.” 

“They won’t.” 

“They will.” 

“They won’t.” I look him in the eyes when I say it. “Do you trust me?” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes at my low blow. He looks at me for a moment, hesitates, then nods. 

“Good,” I say. “Just stay close to me and look pretty.” 

He shoves me, hard, and laughs. 

— 

The drive up to the country is still one of my favourites. Fiona would usually drive me each year in December for the holidays, and I loved watching London slowly disappear. The buildings and adverts fade away. The last minute Christmas Eve shoppers nowhere in sight. The snow on the roads thicker, whiter. Trees replacing lamp posts. The thrill is multiplied now that I’m behind the wheel, with Snow on the passenger seat, his fingers massaging my nape and pulling slightly on my hair. The road is deserted, and I accelerate. The engine purrs with the effort underneath us, and I can’t help but grin. I feel electric. 

Snow looks at me. “Are you smiling because you’re endangering my life?” 

I raise my eyebrow at him. I can make this drive with my eyes closed. I go faster, and his eyes light up. His finger travels up my nape, and starts scratching my scalp. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms. “You keep this up, and this car will spin off the path.”

“Anything to delay getting there, right?” 

My eyes slide towards him. Just as I try to gauge how serious he’s being, he retracts his hand to run it down his face. 

“Simon,” I start to say. 

“No, s’alright. S’alright, I promise. I think I just need to get through the first bit, then I’ll get in the zone.” I can hear his heartbeat pick up. I slow the car to a halt. 

He keeps his eyes closed when he mutters, “I may seem like I’m mental, but I’m fine. I’m great.” 

“I’m sure.” I keep my hands on the wheel when I turn to him. “We don’t have to do this, you know.” 

“‘Course we do.” 

“I’ll turn the car around right now if you’d like. I’m serious.” 

“And I’m serious when I say I can do this. I can. Besides,” he drops his hands and looks at me. “I want the roast beef.” 

I laugh, but my face settles into a frown. “Are you sure?” 

His lip quirks upward. “Start the car, Baz.” As we accelerate, he adds, “Though if Daphne decides to suddenly go vegetarian or something, I swear to Merlin and Morgana we are leaving.” 

I smile, and I let my right hand drop down to loosely lock with his left. The rest of the drive is as beautiful as I remember it. 

— 

When we pull in and step out, there are already cars lined along the path. Snow stretches his arms above his head, his green jumper riding slightly above his waist. I pop open the boot and grab my suitcase, but Snow touches my wrist. “Let me,” he says. I stare at him as he swings his backpack over his shoulder, take my suitcase and the paper bag in his right hand, and shuts the boot with his left. 

He takes my hand and starts walking. I roll my eyes. “Are you doing this to impress my father?” 

“I’m trying to impress my boyfriend.” 

He’s a git, and I love him. “At least let me carry the bloody mixing bowl,” I say, grabbing the bag. I think about how inappropriate it would be to snog him ten feet from my family home. We never did when we’d come for the holidays, but would we start, now that everyone knows we’re a couple? I spot a lamborghini parked near ours, and the possibility dissolves. Fat chance Snow would feel at ease enough to do anything like that.  

We approach the door, and I feel the heat and energy radiating off of him. His feet shuffle in place, and he rubs the back of his head. My finger hesitates before ringing the bell. I should say something. Some final words of affirmation, to make sure he’s feeling better— 

My eyes widen when Simon shoves me into the wall, and they flutter shut when he kisses me. Deeply. He looks sheepish when he breaks away, stil inches away from my face. “Sorry. Don’t know when I’ll get to do this again.” 

I kiss him another time before letting him go. “Idiot.” I let my smile stretch wide across my face as I ring the doorbell. 

— 

The parlour is already half-full of people, but the staircase is blessedly tucked away when we enter the house. I can see a few of my relatives from where we stand. Most I recognize, and others I don’t. Cousins whose faces ring a bell but have changed since they’ve grown. New wives and husbands. Little toddlers using their magic like firecrackers, sending sparkles and clouds of smoke in the air as they chase each other up and down the stairs. 

Daphne shoos them away as she leads us to my room—our room. “How was the drive, darling?” 

“Lovely, thank you. The snow’s being kind to us this year, isn’t it?” I can already feel my tongue change inside my mouth. My years with Simon has morphed my vocabulary and made my words looser. More relaxed. Simon’s chuffed, of course; my slurring speech and clipped words are entirely his fault. Here at home, though, it’s like my whole body automatically straightens. 

“Oh, yes.” Daphne replies. She swiftly spells the stray toys and wrinkled carpets tidy. The mixing bowl has long floated to the kitchen. “Nothing can be as ghastly as last year. Your Uncle Edgar’s tires had a tough time, remember? He’s got a new car now.” 

Ah, yes. The lamborghini. 

“Have you got new flowers, Daphne?” Snow asks. This catches me by surprise. 

That makes her smile. “Yes, actually. I thought orchids might brighten the place up for the children. You’ll see the poinsettias in the kitchen.” She clasps her hands when we reach our room. “Right. I’ll let you two get settled. Don’t wait too long to come down, everyone’s excited to meet you.” She squeezes Simon’s hand and walks back to the party. 

Simon opens the door, drops the bags, and walks back out. “Right, let’s do this.” I look at him. I was planning on showering, at the very least changing clothes. He speaks again before I can ask. “If I go in there, I’m not gonna want to come back out. Let’s get on with it, yeah?” 

I hesitate, then I nod. I rub his back while we go down the stairs, as the party sounds get louder. Well, calling it ‘party sounds’ would be misleading. It’s murmurs, conversation, and the occasional clinking of dishware. 

Snow grips my elbow before we step into the parlour. “Stay close to me,” he whispers. 

There was a time when I wouldn’t say my reply out loud. That was a long time ago. “Always.” I say, firmly. 

— 

It’s fine. It’s only been two hours, but it’s been fine. 

Snow and I entered the parlour, and I don’t know what dark curse is after us, but my cousin Emille approaches us first. Of the French Pitches. 

“Basil! Bonsoir, comment ça va?" She had smiled warmly. We always got on well during these events. 

“Bien, bien. Et tu?”  

We kept up this back and forth for a few minutes, and it became clear that she had no intention of speaking to Simon. “Sorry, I don’t believe you’ve met Simon. My partner,” I say in English. I place my hand at the small of his back and smile at him. 

He smiles at her and holds out his hand, right when she goes in for a kiss on the cheek. 

The conversation didn't last very long. 

As I was steering us away from Emille, I caught my father’s eye from across the room. His smile almost reached his eyes when he called us over. Almost. 

“Basil,” He said, gripping my shoulder. “Welcome home.” I nod, and he turned to Simon. “All right, Simon?” 

Simon holds out his hand. “Good evening, sir.” He smiles, but I can see his jaw pulled taut. I can feel his pulse picking up. He’s called my father that every year. 

I waited for him to correct Simon, to call him literally anything else, but he shook Simon’s hand and replied, “Did the snow give you any trouble on the drive?” 

“Not at all. Made it in record time,” Simon replied, while I grit my teeth in annoyance. 

“Very good. Your aunts and uncles are thrilled to see you...” 

Thankfully, since then, we’ve stayed off to the side as each uncle and aunt exchanged pleasantries and tried their best to casually mention their child being brilliant or athletic or powerful. Each is playing their own game, and they’re all losing. I see Simon intently listening, his eyes darting back and forth to keep up with this pathetic six-person tennis match. I want to rub his back again. To tell him not to waste so much energy for this. That he’s too good for any of them. 

Instead, I sip my wine and look around the house. Fiona hasn’t arrived yet—typical. She’d probably bust in at half-nine, after dinner and when the children are about to sleep. I watch Mordelia sit in the far corner near the dining room, her nose in a book, with one of the toddlers curl up next to her. Softie. She’s gotten so tall since I last saw her... 

My attention whips back when I hear my Aunt Ariadne says my name. “Are you at uni, then, Basil?” 

I uncross my legs and straighten my spine. “Yes, doing my Master’s at LSE.” 

I pray she’ll let me leave it at that, and she replies with, “Oh, lovely. Your cousin Rainn is thinking of pursuing one as well. She’s almost done her undergrad. Over at Cambridge.” Good old Aunt Ariadne. 

I nod and smile, about to prompt her about her precious Rainn and Cambridge, when my father speaks up. “Have you decided on your dissertation, Basil?” 

I try not to sigh when I say my practiced reply. “I have. I’m doing it on democratic theory and fiscal austerity in the EU.” I leave it as vague as possible, and hope the conversation simmers away. 

I see Edgar sit up, and I brace for impact. “Good lad. More people your age ought to learn about personal responsibility and the free market.” 

I think about my work, the research I’ve poured over, that argues just the opposite. How the time for austerity has long gone. How democratic theory must be at the forefront of economic policy. But nothing can be worse than a roundtable discussion with my dear Uncle Edgar and half the Pitch extended family, so I swerve. “Yes, the school work can be a pain, but I’m grateful for the opportunity.” 

“Public discourse has thrown what really matters out the window,” he presses, and I can see his face begin to liven up. “It has corrupted our society. Having Labour in power now, of course, is a bloody nightmare. Giveaways here and there. Iced lollies, penny sweets, thousands of pounds a month?  What difference does that make? Throw it all to the wind! There’s a ‘public program’ for anything nowadays.” He makes air quotes with his hand. 

“Edgar,” Daphne starts. 

He ignores her and starts to speak with his hands. Clearly, he’s enjoying being a world-class twat. “And what will that do with my taxes, hm? Wasting and throwing it to bums and lunatics.”

Edgar’s points are so dogmatic, so cartoonishly cookie-cutter, that I almost laugh, but I feel Simon tense beside me. I gently nudge my thigh against his. Steady, love, I want to tell him. 

“Well, dinner’s just about ready. Let’s all wash up and get the children, shall we?” Daphne suggests. Bless her heart. The others heave off the sofa, chairs, and loveseats handsomely positioned all around the parlour, and disperses to different corners of the house. 

I start to get up, relieved to eat, when I see Snow stay put. His jaw is set, and his eyes are fixed on a spot at the wall. The parlour has cleared, so I take my hand loosely in his. “All right?” I ask. 

His fingers absently toy with mine, but it takes a minute for him to look at me. I’m an expert in reading Snow’s transparent face, but right now, I’m at a loss. He nods, stands up, and drops my hand. 

— 

Dinner, so far, is hardly better. At least Daphne didn’t go vegetarian. 

The table is spelled longer to accommodate all the guests, and it stretches from the dining table, past the archway, and into the parlour. 

Next to me, Snow is quiet. He’s aced the table manners over the years, and I smile at the lumps of food on his plate. Underneath the table, I tap his foot with mine, and he taps me back. 

This is good. We can do this. 

Aunt Willow—A Danish Pitch—takes a sip from her wine and turns to us. “So what do you study, Simon?” 

I feel Simon straighten up. “Oh, I don’t, actually. I’m working right now.” 

“Like for a gap year?”

“Er, I’m not sure yet.” He chuckles, and he hides his discomfort well. But not to me. “Just reckon I’d spend my time saving up if I’m not sure what I’d like to study.” 

“Of course, I think that’s wonderful.” I take another bite, and try my best to look nonchalant. But I already start to dread my family’s behaviour. My body feels like I’m about to enter a duel. “Where do you work, darling?” 

Simon hesitates before he replies, “Central London.” I watch his fork swirl around the mash. Willow smiles and nods, and just when I can see her about to turn to someone else, he abruptly adds, “I work at a Starbucks. In Central London. Just by LSE, actually.”

“Lovely,” she says, and I can tell she’s at a loss with what to say next, but that won’t stop her from carrying a conversation. “I tried a scone from there one morning when I was running late to a conference. It was quite good.” 

Simon laughs, and I can feel an edge to it. I decide to jump in. “I’ve had all their scones, Aunt Willow. Almost comparable to Watford, if you ask me.”

Daphne smiles. “Maybe someone can give Cook Pritchard a run for her money.” 

“Baz, you interned at the Home Secretary’s office, didn’t you? When you finished your undergrad?” I hear my father suddenly add.

“Yes, father.” I reply without a beat, though my brow raises slightly at the question. What is he on about? 

“Well, maybe you can connect Simon. He ought to have a better gap year than a cafe, eh?” He’s smiling, but when we make eye contact, I can feel a bucket of cold water splash through me. I clench my fist and I feel a loud clunk on the floor. Simon ducks down to fish his knife from beneath the table. I’m so taken aback from my father’s words that I’ve stopped keeping tabs on him. 

I stare at him from across the table. It’s completely quiet now. 

“Mummy, will you pass the gravy, please?” An even voice says from three seats down. I look over at Mordelia, with her plate almost empty. 

Daphne clears her throat. “Sure, darling.” When Mordelia gets the boat, she sets it down and doesn’t pour it on her plate. 

I clear my throat. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t think they’d even remember me.”

He nods once, and goes back to his roast beef. 

— 

Thankfully, the rest of dinner is quieter. Snow is quieter. 

He barely finishes dessert before he excuses himself and steps away from the table. I smile, excuse myself, and follow him through the parlour. 

I can tell Snow is trying not to stomp and barrel up the stairs. I can tell his jaw is clenched, so tightly that I can hear his teeth scrape together. He opens the door, and we go inside. 

My walls have been permanently spelled sound-proof since I was fifteen. I can still feel the magic I left behind, permeating the wallpaper and the tapestries. A part of my brain appreciates the irony of that; I spell them on the summer I tried to wank my feelings away, and now the spell still stands, concealing the clenching jaw and heavy footsteps of Simon Snow himself. I think I would have been thrilled, had I knew. 

Now, though, I feel my stomach constrict, like cold water sizzling against my heated insides. I sit down on the trunk at the foot of my bed. I want to ask him to sit with me, but I know better. I  watch him five feet away from me, running a hand through his hair. “You’re angry,” I say. 

“‘Yeah. I am.” He’s not saying anything else, but he’s anything but quiet. He takes a deep breath and exhales out his nose. His heart is thumping, and I can hear his blood rush across his veins. He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. Like I have countless times before. 

When he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “I wanted this visit to work. So badly. But those things he was saying. And you listening and taking it, and...and...” He huffs in frustration. It’s demeaning, Baz.” 

“Is it Edgar? My father?” I ask. “They’re old dickheads, Simon. They humiliate themselves. Can’t even go through small talk without—” 

“That’s the thing,” he interrupts me. His eyes flit to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but me. “It’s not just </i>small talk.</i> That rubbish he spouts? You think it’s jest?”

“Why do you care what he thinks?” Seeing him so upset is sending a ripple of panic fluttering from my chest. I scramble, and I grasp, and apparently, I break. 

“It’s not just Edgar, isn’t it? It’s that whole lot. What would they say when they find out their darling Basil is dating a bloody chav from a foster home? Leeching away his money ‘cause I serve coffee eight hours a day.” He laughs a bitter, joyles sound. He’s still not looking at me. “This is real life, Baz. It’s not small talk. It’s not a chat during a fucking garden promenade at your family’s club. I guess I’d know if I picked up a few shifts there, wouldn’t I?” 

Irritation swells in my throat. I think about the Easters, Christmases, summers at the club where I kept my mouth shut when my family makes gay jokes about lads and queers and faeries. He has never thrown my privilege in my face. “You know I don’t mean it like that.” 

“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea what you do mean. Not when you sit there and say nothing.” He breathes again. “It’s not just everyone else.” He repeats. “It’s...it’s you.” 

Fights aren’t the same from when we were twenty. Now, at twenty-three, they don’t feel like we’re one shout from breaking up. They don’t feel like Simon will slip from my fingertips unless I hold on so tightly that my knuckles are white with the effort. They don’t feel like the love I had for him was an overflowing static, buzzing through the air and hurting anyone who dares come close. Now, they’re just fights. 

But they still fucking hurt. 

“Simon, love—” 

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand. He stares at a far wall when he talks to me. “Don’t call me that when I’m upset with you. Please.” 

I stand there, at a complete loss. He turns around, unzips his backpack, and starts shoving his clothes out on the bed. I can see his hands trembling. His heart is still thumping, blood still rushing. I shut my eyes and start to feel the tears well up. Long before I learned to retract my fangs, I’ve mastered retracting my tears first. But I don’t want to hold them back. Not here. Not with him. 

He keeps his back to me, and I stare at it—at the thick ridge, strained and tense. I know he can feel me looking. I want him to keep talking. I want him to yell at me, tell me what to do. Because I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. 

I turn around and open the door. 

“Your toothbrush is in mine,” I mutter. “You almost forgot it this morning.” I close the door shut, and I go down the stairs. 

I blink, but the tears don’t come. Like I said; my body knows when I’m home. 

— 

When you hang a left by the garage, there’s a brick wall on the side of the house. It’s completely dark at night, and dead quiet. At half-eleven, it would be tricky for any visitor to end up there, and I easily make my way down there without being spotted.  It was my favourite spot to sneak a fag. Not that I have one on me. I’d kill for one now. 

I stop when I see Mordelia standing near the bins, one leg folded to prop herself up. I see her blow smoke up to the sky, with the soft ember at her fingertips the only light between us. I had no idea she smoked. 

I walk up to her and join her against the wall. She looks at me, but doesn’t say anything. “Have you got a spare?” I ask her. I can’t remember the last time we spoke. Surely, not last Christmas? 

She flicks open her pack and holds it out to me. I put one between my lips, light it with my wand, take a deep drag, and exhale. I close my eyes and relish the way my head starts to spin. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me off?” Standing next to her, I realize that she’s almost past my shoulder. 

I shrug. “I was about your age when I started.” 

She narrows her eyes and bites her lip, and I think about my life at sixteen. Fifth year. I hope to Merlin and Morgana that she’s not going through even a portion of what I did. I think about saying something to her, or asking about Watford, when she says something that throws me off. “Is Simon never coming back here? After spending a night with the family?” 

I laugh, almost bitterly. I never give her enough credit. “That Edgar is a real wanker, isn’t he?” I deflect. She chuckles, and I take another drag. I follow her line of sight and look at the stars. They’re so much prettier here, away from London. I continue talking. “He’ll be alright; he’s always been stronger than me. It’s me who can’t stand it.” I look back at her and give a half-smile. “Do you want him to? Come back?” 

I was meaning to take the piss, but she slowly nods. “When he spent that first Christmas with us, I didn’t like it. Not cause he was the Chosen One, or whatever. Crowley, that seems like a lifetime ago.” She takes a drag and exhales. I wonder if our father would blame her smoking on me. “I didn’t like it because you were different with him. Where he goes, you go. And neither of you have any clue. It’s like someone cast ‘Shall we dance?’ on you. And it freaked me out to see you so different. It never changed with every December, you see. Didn’t waver or dampen. And Simon never stopped looking bloody terrified every year.” She pauses when I laugh, and then looks at me when she speaks again. “I can barely remember what you were like before him now. I’ve never seen you so happy.” 

I look at her with wide eyes. In the moonlight, I can see how her eyelashes flutter. How her cheeks redden in the cold. I wonder how much she’s absorbed, how much she’s grown up, right under my nose. She puts out her cigarette and stomps on it. Without another word, she turns to head back inside. 

“Mordelia,” I call after her. She turns back to me and raises her eyebrow. “Happy Christmas.” 

She rolls her eyes, but I can see a smile start to form. “Go back inside. Don’t cock it up.” 

— 

I don’t know what to expect when I carefully open our door. Part of me hopes he’d be asleep; he tossed and turned all night last night. 

Instead, I find him sitting on the floor cross-legged, facing the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything when I shut the door behind me. 

I pad across the room and join him, leaving a few feet of space when when I sit. I watch him for a moment in my periphery. He’s hunched over his knees, resting his chin at the top of his knees. I indulge in inhaling his scent. “I’m sorry,” I say. 

He’s silent for a long time. In the quiet, if I concentrate, I can still hear the party below us, louder now that they’ve brought out the brandy. I remember the drill, and I hate it. 

Instead, I listen to the crackling of the flames. Simon’s even heartbeat. 

“I’m not angry anymore,” Snow mutters. He keeps his gaze on the fire. 

“I fucked up tonight,” I say. 

Simon shakes his head, and I spot a small smile on his lips. “You don’t fuck up, darling. You’re too perfect for that. You miscalculated, maybe.” 

He’s trying to lighten the mood, because he knows how. He’s bloody brilliant with that. With me. But I won’t take it. “Simon...”

“We save that phrase for actual fuck-ups, like me.” 

“Simon. No.” I shift to properly face him. He keeps his eyes forward, but that’s alright. “You’re right. Those things are important, and they matter, and they were unacceptable. And I didn’t understand that. And I hurt you.” 

He hesitates before replying. “Don’t you think they have a point?” 

Anger rises in my chest. “No,” I almost growl. “They don’t.” My hands ball into fists, and I force them to open again. I breathe. “Please look at me, love.” 

He does. I scoot forward and lean in, pushing his curls back. “You are not a fuck-up, SiImon Snow. I will make a spreadsheet, I’ll write you a speech. I’ll do a dissertation, and I’ll pass with distinction. Because I’ll prove it. Crowley, I will prove it.” Nothing would be easier to do. Would make me happier to accomplish. 

He looks down and smiles. He takes my hand from his face, kisses my palm, and laces our fingers together. 

“Will you forgive me?” I whisper. 

He leans forward and kisses me. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he answers against my lips. He moves to my ear. “I know I’ll never be a fuck-up as long as I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Because Basil Pitch doesn’t date losers,” I answer breathlessly. 

“Indeed,” he whispers. He moves to my neck, kissing me there. “Merlin, I’ll live up to it. I could be buried with that title, and I’ll be the happiest ghost around.” 

I close my eyes and breathe him in. His pulse is so loud, so close to me, that it rings in my ears. I pretend that it’s mine, that we’re sharing a heartbeat. If I had to stay this close to keep my heart pumping for the rest of my life, I’ll accept it. Gladly. Gratefully. 

“Do you want to go home?” I murmur against his hair. 

He pulls back and looks at me. “Really?”

I can see in his eyes that he wants to. I nod. 

“What about your family?” 

My lip quirks upward. “I think they’ll manage.” 

He keeps looking at me, searching my eyes for hesitation. When he finds nothing, he smiles slowly. “Will you let me drive?” 

I purse my lips. “Then we’ll be even?” 

His eyes sparkle, lips twisting in wicked amusement. “Deal.” 

It’s almost one o’clock in the morning when we step out of the house with our luggage, so I wasn’t expecting anyone to notice. We almost make it past the gate when I hear a voice behind us. “Leaving so soon?” 

I turn around. Fiona. 

I look at her, unsure of what to say. Of whether or not she’d stop us. She drops her cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with her boot. She rolls her eyes and says, “Just give me a hug before you go.” 

I walk forward and wrap my arms around her. When we pull away, she nods at Simon behind me. “Drive safely, yeah?” She jerks her head towards me. “He’d cry if you wreck that Jag.”

I hear Simon chuckle. “I will.” 

She nods. “Go on, then. Before anyone sees you.” 

I kiss her cheek. “I’ll ring you when we get home.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Go.” 

— 

Turns out, the drive is even better in total darkness. 

— 

We woke up on Christmas morning at eleven o’clock. 

I can’t remember the last Christmas where I slept in so late.

[impishnature]

Stray Feelings

AO3 Fandom: Gravity Falls Rating: G

A/N: Thanks anon! I hope you enjoy this <3 Also I think the prompt speaks for itself. Theres Feral!Ford and there’s fluffy animals.

.

Stan wasn't meant to be gone this long.

There was a strange atmosphere around the Shack as Ford paced, quick sharp steps and tapping fingers. Stan had a routine. He may not realise it but he did. Through the week he probably knew; get up, get dressed, work, go out on the porch to relax or in front of the TV if the weather was rough, sleep, rinse and repeat. That was simple, it made sense and Ford could integrate himself easily enough. At the weekend, or on days off, it was calmer and things could change if he only asked, Stan happy to jump at the chance to spend time together. But certain things were always the same, Stan got up, made himself a warm drink and sat on the porch for half an hour before coming in to make them both a breakfast that set off the rest of the day.

Only.

Stan hadn't come inside yet.

And deep down there was a voice laughing at him that it was nothing, that Stan was just taking his time and that was that. It was his day off, he was allowed, he didn't have to jump to Ford's whims and fancies.

But the much louder voices were the ones that itched to check up on him, to make sure he hadn't gone past the barrier or done something equally reckless. The alarm bells that clogged up his throat and set his heart racing so that he couldn't call out and get him to come back inside. It wasn't like Stan to deviate, he was a creature of habit and kept himself to himself, straying from the pattern set off too many warning signals for him to ignore.

And so he paced.

And the time Stan took outside stretched and stretched.

Until the 'what ifs' and awful cackling laughter got too much and he propelled himself at the door, brain ready and expecting a threat.

"Jesu- Sixer!"

The door cracked against the wooden wall and Stan yelped like he'd shot at him.

Ford blinked, the light outside blinding in it's intensity as he scouted for a threat in the distance, too amped up to wait for them to adjust. He could feel Stan in his peripheral, stumbling up from the floor and it only added to his anxious, heightened senses.

What was he doing down there?

"Easy, Ford, what's going on? What's happened?" 

Ford frowned, finally turning to him as he groaned and stood up properly. He darted to his side, lifting him up and depositing him into the porch chair to another disgruntled yelp at his manhandling. Had he fallen? Why hadn't he called out for me?

Stan slapped his fluttering hands away, gently but still frustrated. "Sixer, I'm fine! Just tell me what's happened." His eyes were soft, searching Ford's face as he loomed above him. "I can't help if you don't tell me, Ford. Breathe." 

"I-I-" Ford stared back at him, head tilting ever so slightly. It was easier to breathe now that it was obvious Stan was OK, and that meant the words flowed just that little bit easier. "You- uhm-" 

And suddenly everything felt that much more childish and unnecessary.

The laughing, cackling voice from before suffocating the paranoid voices.

Paranoid.

"Nothing. Doesn't-"

"Oi. Don't do that. Whatever it is, it matters." 

But did it really?

He didn't want Stan to worry about him more than he already did.

"Ford."

But perhaps that ship had already sailed.

"I- that is-" Ford huffed, scrubbing at the back of his neck as he stood up. "You were taking longer than usual."

Stan raised an eyebrow, though there was a strangely sheepish tilt to his mouth that he couldn't quite hide. "O-oh?"

"You usually, uhh, you tend to only stay out here for a little while-"

Understanding dawned on his brother's face and Ford's heart sank guiltily. "Or I tell you if I'm going somewhere, don't I? Shoot, sorry. I just lost track of time."

"No, no." Ford held up his hands. "I still overreacted."

Stan shrugged, an apologetic smile still on his face. "Well, perhaps next time I lose track of time, you'll remember this time."

Ford tried to smile back but he knew it wasn't fully working from Stan's expression. "Hopefully."

"Or you could always join me- maybe with less fanfare next time." Stan's smile turned more mocking, a sibling grin beginning to stretch from ear to ear.

Ford groaned. "Don't give me that look. But yes, next time, I'll- do my best to just check on you."

Stan shrugged. "Suit yourself. It's very calming out here in the mornings." 

Ford stared at him for a few moments. He'd always assumed this was Stan's quiet time, away from the world, away from- well, him as well. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." Stan's face brightened, as if he'd just won an argument before his face fell again and suddenly he began searching at his feet. "Shoot. Wait, where'd it go?"

"...Stan?"

Ford watched as Stan almost forgot he was there, head snapping to him for a second before going back to his search. "Oh, right, well I did say I lost track of time. I kind of got distracted." He started making a strange noise with his mouth, soft clicks and pursed lips. It was a sound Ford was sure he'd heard before, but given all of his travels, everything had become jumbled together into a mix of signals, either angry or pleasant. This one came under the pleasant category at least, though his hackles still raised ever so slightly at the thought of another creature being on their porch that he hadn't even noticed.

He stayed silent, watching Stan's shoulders lock up even as he continued his hunt.

"So, right- this little thing came padding up to me while I was sat here. And I was going to come in and talk to you! But  I didn't know what your thoughts were on strays and the like... so I was trying to come up with a good way to broach the subject and-"

He was starting to get agitated, and Ford couldn't have that. 

It felt like he'd started this downward spiral.

"Slow down." Stan flinched and Ford hated it. "I didn't mean- just tell me calmly-"

A soft mew punctuated both of their words.

Ford watched as Stan leaned over as far as he could, a little pink nose peeking out from under the porch seat. 

"There you are!" 

He placed his hand within reaching distance, the little nose sniffing at his fingers before warily popping a whole head out and glancing up at Ford with worried eyes and downwards ears.

Ahh. He'd spooked it.

He squatted down beside the seat, hoping to appear smaller and less threatening, as the small creature shimmied it's way out of it's hiding spot and rubbed against Stan's hand, still watching him carefully. It was a skinny little thing, he could almost see ribs, but it seemed happy enough at the attention Stan was doting upon it. It was grey, though he was unsure on how much of that was dirt versus actual colouration, with short tufted little whiskers and big ears that it had yet to grow into. It mewed at him again, tiny teeth making their presence known as big brown eyes continued to stare at him. 

"See? It's just a kitten." Stan's face was locked onto the little thing as if it were Mabel at her cutest. One of his fingers was big enough to scritch it's chin and it seemed happy to sit there and bask in the attention. "It stumbled out of the woods when it heard me. Even fell over half way along the trail like the kids did sometimes when they were too excited to just walk." He cooed at it ever so softly, Ford wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it. "And- I don't-" He frowned, eyes darting to Ford. "Guess I've always had a thing about looking after strays."

Ahh.

Ford could understand that.

After everything, he could see Stan doing that.

Besides, as much as he had to fend for himself in his travels, and his hardships had been innumerable, sometimes you just couldn't resist helping someone or something else in need as well, regardless of the danger it put you in.

Ford put his hand out slowly to the kitten, extending the olive branch and waiting patiently for it to accept or reject him. It at least looked curiously at him from behind Stan's hand. "What were you worried about?"

Stan swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I-I dunno. I mean, it is your house and your rules so. I guess I was scared you'd say no and I'd have to try and hide this little one on the porch so I could still feed 'em."

Ford was mildly offended. "It's our house." Stan looked at him strangely at that. Oh, had he never actually said it before? "It is." 

Stan continued to stare before his smile widened again. "Alright, it's our house. But that still means it has to be a joint decision on looking after this little one until we find it a good home."

"Hmm..." Ford gave the kitten a joking once over as it slowly plodded over to him. "I mean it doesn't seem like a threat."

Stan snorted, Ford grinning along with him as he achieved what he'd hoped. "I swear to god if I find you running tests..."

"Well, you can never be too sure." Ford continued to smile as a cold, wet nose hit his finger, but his eyes trailed over to a little wonky tail and skinny legs. "Though I think any tests would be to check how healthy this little guy is."

"There's a vet for that."

"I'm better than a vet."

Ford could feel the eye roll he received but his focus was fixated on the little creature that was now too filled with curiosity to be cautious. It sniffed his hand, and then his coat, continuing up until both front paws were on his knees and a little face was stretching up to sniff his. He leaned down, letting the small creature continue its ministrations, scoping him out in a way that made him oddly proud but also oddly protective of the little child that didn't seem to understand that he could also be a threat.

He scooped the little thing up, pulling it into his chest. There was a soft yelp and more searching eyes as Stan started to tell him off but then the kitten relaxed, curling up into his arms against his chest. His heart was still beating fast from the earlier worries and the strange conversation but as the kitten relaxed against him, he could feel the tension easing.

It evaporated entirely when a soft purr emanated from the tiny body, slipping into his chest and warming him from the inside out. 

"We're keeping them."

Stan beamed, fist pumping ever so slightly like they were teenagers again. "Yes! I'll go out later and grab some food and see if anyone's looking for a kitten-"

"No."

Stan paused. "What?"

"We're keeping them." 

And with that Ford stood up, kitten still in hand and walked into the house, happily rejoicing at the peace the small creature was giving him as it purred in his grasp.

He heard an exasperated and confused voice behind him as Stan tried to catch up. "...Well, alright then. Guess that's that decided-"

He was sure Stan wouldn't mind.

After all, it had been his idea in the first place to look after the stray.

And they both knew deep down that once you were family to Stan, that was it for life.

He could pretend all he wanted, he'd have never been able to give the kitten up once he was attached to it.

And Ford was pretty sure from his earlier arguments and that fond expression he'd worn that it had already happened.

Yeah, he was sure Stan would forgive him.

[nyroom]

The Ghosts of Childhood - Chapter 2

The Pines family adapts to this new change with mixed results. 

[AO3 Link] [Part 1]

All things considered, Stan took the news remarkably well. 

“So you’re sayin’ something came around and turned me into a kid?” He had echoed, scrunching up his face in thought for a moment. “Eh. I guess it could be worse.” 

To be fair, Ford had kept it simple and brief. There was no sense in telling Stan the reason he had gone out in the first place, just as there’d be no sense in explaining every shred of bitterness that had built up over the years. Stan was old, went out, and then wasn’t anymore. Anyone could understand. 

“And we’re your great-niece and nephew!” Mabel piped up, grabbing her brother in a side hug. “Your favourite great-niece and nephew, by the way.”

Ford almost corrected her that they were their only great-niece and nephew (unless there were more descendants of Shermy? Ford would need to investigate that once he was settled), but bit his tongue. For once, it wasn’t the time to play perfectionist. 

“Great-niece and nephew, eh?” Stan tapped his chin, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So that makes me the boss of you!” 

“Well, you’re younger than us right now.” Dipper corrected, straightening out his clothes from his sister’s hug/chokehold. From what Ford could tell, Mabel didn’t do her hugs by half measures.

Stan ignored this point, nodding to himself. “I’m the boss of people… Cool!” 

“Let’s not forget who the older twin is here, technically and literally.” Ford cut in next, shooting his brother a stern look. “So I’m the one in charge right now.” 

That made Stan deflate a little, crossing his arms and huffing defiantly. “Only by fifteen minutes!” He shot back, but kept it at that. For as stubborn as Stan was, that was certainly remarkable. Maybe now that they were farther apart in age, he would finally listen to Ford. 

Ha.

The annoyance passed quickly, Stan’s face brightening with realization. “So if Sixer’s an old man, then I’m an old man too, right?” He immediately rounded on Ford, leaning forward excitedly. “Did we fix the Stan O’War and go treasure hunting?”

Ford’s mouth shut with an audible clack. He had already told himself he wasn’t going to bring up the years of bitterness, but how was he supposed to answer that question without lying? ‘For unspecific reasons, we actually haven’t spoken in 40 years.’ That would never work.

He may be upset with Stanley right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to crush this child’s innocent naivety.  

“You run a business!” Mabel volunteered, saving Ford from having to answer. He wondered if she did that intentionally or not. “And you do have some employees, so you’re basically still a boss anyways!”

Stan’s eyes widened with wonder, childhood dream momentarily forgotten. “No foolin’? Wow! I bet Pa was real proud of me!” 

And here Ford thought it was impossible for this to get worse. 

The excitement in Stan’s expression crumbled a little at his audience’s stony faces, uncertainty creeping back into his features. He looked right at Ford, searching. “...He was proud of me, right? Stanford?”

The scene was so heart-wrenchingly familiar that, for a second, Ford wasn’t an old man with the threat of the world on his shoulders. He was a child, just like Stan, standing in a cave, hiding in a theme park attraction. His twin was so open and vulnerable, looking at Ford like he had all the answers in the world, pleading to tell him he was wrong. 

‘Do you really think I’m a bad kid?’

‘It just sometimes feels like Pa hates me.’

‘Do you know what it’s like being the stupid twin?’

‘I wish just once Pa would look at me the way he looks at you. Like he actually likes me.’

Truth be told, Ford had spent so long trying to bury Stan in his memories that he had forgotten all about his twin’s insecurities. His stomach twisted at the reminder. How long ago had those memories happened for Stan? How long had he felt like that in general? Probably longer than you’d care to admit.

Ford hadn’t wanted to lie to Stan if he could help it. Lies had never been Ford’s strong suit, not like they were Stan’s. Lies were liabilities, a misstep waiting to happen. They were messy and risky and something Ford would rather avoid altogether. Yet looking into Stan’s eyes, he knew he had no choice.

“Not just proud, Stanley. He was impressed.” He said, and his voice didn’t even shake. “You really beat him at his own game.” 

If at all possible, Stan looked even more starstruck than before. He looked back in the direction of the Gift Shop, blinking hard. Ford didn’t need to see his brother’s eyes to know they were damp.

It’s just a white lie. He told himself when Stan turned back to him with a thousand-watt smile. There’s no harm in a white lie or two. When Stan is back to his proper age, he’ll understand.

After that, the questions came at Ford rapid-fire. Really, he should have expected as much.

“So did we really go treasure hunting after all?”

“Yes.”

“Did we find lots of treasure and get all the girls?”

“Yes.”

“Did I open the business before or after we went sailing?”

“After.”

“Where’s all the treasure now?”

“Hidden away to protect it from pirates.” 

“What about the Stan O’War?”

“In a museum. We are world-famous adventurers, after all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the younger twins exchanging a grimace and pretended he didn’t notice. The children just didn’t understand. It was easier to do things this way. If Stan knew the harsh reality their lives had taken, he may not be so quick to trust Ford and allow him to reverse whatever had done this to him in the first place. Stan didn’t have the emotional capability to handle the truth. This was for his own good.

He also pretended that the giddy smile Stan wore didn’t warm something within him, buried after so many years. 

Just because Stan is this way right now doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. I’m still justified to feel angry with him. When he’s his proper age, we’re going to have a very long discussion. 

“I told you it’d happen!” Stan proudly declared, reaching across the table to affectionately punch Ford in the arm. Ford pointedly ignored the memory of the last time Stan had punched him 30 years ago. 

Before Stan could launch into more questions, Dipper awkwardly cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, Great Uncle Ford? Do you think we could have some dinner?”

Right, Ford should have realized. Stan had left around midday and, apparently, hadn’t been back until just now. The children must be starving. That realization was followed by another, more daunting one: Ford would have to cook for them. 

Ford hadn’t cooked for anyone since he lived with Fiddleford, and even then that had been sparingly. Fiddleford had dubbed him a “fire hazard” when he accidentally added vinegar instead of pasta sauce; a clear overreaction. It wasn’t like he had done it intentionally, he had just been sleep-deprived! It could happen to anyone! 

“Of course, Dipper.” He responded, spite burgeoning him with confidence. He could cook just fine, thank you very much, Fiddleford. “You’re actually in luck, I was in the middle of cooking for myself when you all arrived. It shouldn’t be too much to whip up a bit extra.”

If he could survive the multiverse for 30 years, he could handle cooking for 3 children. It was just cooking more, after all. It wasn’t rocket science. What could go wrong? 

----------------------

Evidently, a lot could go wrong. 

As it turned out, leaving food unattended in this house was a bad idea. Apparently, a pig - Mabel’s pet Waddles, Ford learned later - had taken the opportunity to indulge in the unguarded delicacies and left nothing to salvage when Ford returned. Never one to accept a setback, he had merely taken it as a sign that he needed to make something a bit more extravagant than plain old eggs for a family dinner.

After liberally covering the kitchen in food matter, utensils, and soot from a spontaneous fire, the family had made the decision to give the kitchen a much-needed break. This was what had lead to them piling into Greasy’s Diner, tucked into a booth near the end of the restaurant. Mabel tried to assure him that Stan had done much, much worse in the beginning. Ford got the impression she was just saying that to make him feel better.

Truth be told, the idea of being in town set Ford’s teeth on edge. While the Rift may be contained, it was in no way safe. Until Bill was defeated once and for all, he would never stop trying to get it. This made every citizen not only a target, but a suspect as well. They couldn’t afford to trust anyone. 

Ford had almost turned the idea down when it was suggested, but a look at the kitchen reminded him that he wouldn’t be able to provide the proper meal growing children needed. Instead, he settled on lecturing them at length about keeping on guard, making sure to keep it specific enough to dissuade questions and vague enough not to keep Bill’s name out of their mouths.  Worryingly, the children barely seemed fazed. 

Now, sitting in the diner as the group looked over the menu, Ford was struck with another troubling realization. While people were going to address him by his actual name, they were still going to think he was his brother. With Stanley right there, he couldn’t very well correct them, either. Not only that, but he’d need to think of a good excuse for why “Mr. Pines” suddenly had another child. 

Frustration surged through him at the thought and he found himself remembering the resentment he felt earlier today. Damnit Stanley, why do you need to make everything so hard?

Before Ford could entertain that thought further, he caught sight of an older woman in waitressing attire approaching their table. She had a lazy eye, but the eye that remained open was a perfectly boring hazel. Not Bill. Ford could relax a little.

“Stan!” She greeted, smiling brightly at him. “Did you get dressed up just for me?” 

Ford looked down at his clothes and inwardly cursed. If he had had the forethought, he would have taken the time to dress like Stan to compl-- wait a second. 

As he finished processing the woman’s words, he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Of all the people in Stan’s life that Ford could have met first, why did it have to be someone he had been or was currently romantically involved with? He could barely woo his own partners when he bothered with romance, let alone his estranged twin’s. 

Luckily (or unluckily, in hindsight) for Ford, the woman soon shifted her attention to Stan and brightened even more. “And who’s this cutiepie?” Damnit, Ford hadn’t thought up a decent cover story for the town yet.

“My name’s Stanley!” Stan chirped, puffing out his chest at the compliment. He had always been more receptive to people’s praise, soaking it up like a sponge while Ford shied away from it. Ford supposed it was natural, considering how they were raised. 

 “He’s our younger brother who just got back from a trip to New Jersey!” Dipper cut in quickly, drawing the attention of four sets of confused eyes. He seemed to quail a little under the scrutiny, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uhh… Our parents decided to just send him here too.” 

There was a moment of silence, but only for a moment before Stan answered confidently, “Sure am! I can’t let my big siblings hog all the fun of camping up here.” Ford had forgotten how honed his brother’s lying was, even at such a young age. He hadn’t even stuttered. 

The waitress laughed and, thankfully, took their orders without pressing the issue further. Once she was gone, he smiled gratefully at Dipper. “Nice thinking, Dipper. Great work.” 

The boy flushed at the praise, eyes darting down to the menu as the hand rubbing his neck increased in pace. “Oh, uh! It was nothing… I just figured we probably should keep this under wraps until we get Stan back to normal.” 

Stan nodded his agreement, much more cooperative than Ford thought he’d be. “Makes sense to me, but won’t people wonder where I am? I mean, if I’m a world-famous adventurer and successful business guy an’ all…”

Right then. It would probably be best to get their stories straight before anyone else happened by. Though Ford wasn’t much good at this lying business, he knew the logic behind it. If they were all in agreement, that lessened the chances of conflicting lies, which lessened the chance of confrontation. Confrontation was certainly not something Ford’s skittish heart needed right now. 

“Simple: you’re an adventurer. Though the lull of running a business was a nice reprieve, the calls of the sea were not so easy to dismiss. You set out in search of wonder and new exhibits for your business, ready to fight any who opposed you.” 

Ford expected Stan’s eyes to light up at the very idea. It played into his dream quite handily, harkening back to days spent weaving tales on the beach. He even pitched his voice dramatically for the effect. Instead, Ford was met with a stormy expression, Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Ford didn’t understand. 

“An adventure without you sounds like a pretty dumb adventure,” Stan grumbled, picking at the edge of his menu. He refused to meet Ford’s eyes. “Are people really gonna buy that?”

Of course. Sailing away hadn’t just been Stan’s dream, it had been Ford’s once as well. Wherever we go, we go together. He swallowed uncomfortably. 

“Well, of course they will.” Ford reasoned, wracking his brain for a believable lie. “One of us needed to stay back and keep running the Mystery Shack. No good business can just close down, you know.” 

Stan’s scowl deepened, unconvinced and stubborn as ever. Ford found himself sighing in response. “It’s just a lie, Stanley. It doesn’t need to be realistic.”

“If anyone can make something unbelievable believable, it’s you Grunkle Stan.” Mabel pointed out, smiling. “And this time, it’s for a good cause!” 

Stan’s expression wavered at that. “I guess so. And it’s not like it’s gonna last forever…” He nodded to himself, tension easing. “It can’t be any harder than that time I convinced Mr. Carter that I ate roasted seagull for lunch every day. The look on his face was priceless!” 

The air at the table lightened some as Stan began to re-tell tales from their youth. Another forgotten aspect of his brother’s personality came to surface as he watched him, gesturing and speaking with the flair of a showman. Truly, Stan had a knack for public speaking. Ford wondered what else he had forcibly repressed about his brother. 

He might have been able to make something of himself if he wasn’t so insistent on suffocating me. A dark voice murmured in his mind. Ford dismissed it, forcing himself to focus on the present. There would be time to stew in bitter thoughts later. 

Though the children were listening with rapt attention, they were not content to play captive audiences for long. As their food arrived and the group dug in, they repaid Stan with stories of their own from their summer in Gravity Falls. It didn’t escape Ford that plenty of their tales centred around anomalies that he had recorded in his journal, nor did he miss the side glances Dipper cast his way anytime one was brought up. 

He thought back to the first time he had opened his third journal upon his return, flipping through the carefully scrawled blue words. The twins - Dipper mostly, judging on the writing - had certainly been busy this summer. The solutions they posited seemed so obvious when spelled out, how hadn’t he thought of it? 

Stan had been firm in keeping Ford away from the children for their own safety. At first, he could see the logic behind that assertion. While Gravity Falls was a wonderfully weird place, it was also dangerous to those who were unprepared. Yet the more Ford read the journal, the more capable the children became in his eyes. Hearing the stories firsthand merely solidified the notion in his mind. Stan was just being overprotective. 

If they were going to turn Stan back to his proper age, then he was going to need to work with the children, deal be damned. If he happened to get closer to and bond with them along the way, then that was just a logical and inescapable outcome. Stan couldn’t fault him for that, not when it was for his own good. 

Besides, these children were his family too. Stan had no right to hold them hostage from him. 

---------------------------------------------

The past few hours had been such a whirlwind, Stanley was having trouble processing. To start the day on the beach and finish it in a small town smack dab in the middle of a forest? It didn’t feel real. More than once, Stan would dig his fingernails into his arm when he felt like no one was paying attention, just to see if he was dreaming after all. No luck. 

Don’t get him wrong, he was interested in this new life he seemed to have made for himself! His great-niece and nephew seemed really nice (even if it was weird to think that kids around his age were actually younger than him?), and the fact he was a businessman now was an unexpected delight. But it just wasn’t the same without Ford here by his side to experience it with him. 

Ford may be around, but he wasn’t really around. He was older and wiser and sure, he was still the same old Pointdexter, but it just wasn’t the same. Experiencing this sudden environment shift on his own, after doing everything with his twin before, was a change Stan wasn’t ready to face. Beneath the bravado and excitement, Stan couldn’t stop himself from feeling terribly anxious. 

Riding in the backseat of an admittedly neat looking car (“It’s your car, Grunkle Stan!”), wedged between unfamiliar family, Stan could feel those anxieties creeping back up to the forefront once more. He had been to the woods before on a school trip, but never at night. The trees looming through the windows looked dark and foreboding without the sun, like they could swallow you up and no one would hear from you again. He had to resist the urge to shrink back into Dipper’s side. 

Ugh, what kind of wimp was he? Pa would likely scold him if he knew. ‘Belt up, boy. A Pines man doesn’t hide from danger.’ Of course, that thought just made him homesick. What he wouldn’t give to tuck himself into Ma’s arms right about now. 

But Pa was right. He was a Pines man, and a Pines man didn’t hide. He pointedly squashed down his fears and, instead, asked about the pig Mabel had called Waddles. The girl lit up with a dazzling smile and spoke at length about how wonderful he was, showing him picture after picture that she had saved in the pockets of her sweater. Dipper assured him this was only a fraction of the pictures she had, the rest having found a home in her scrapbook. Stan believed him.

Maybe Stan didn’t have Ford here to face this unknown situation with, but Dipper and Mabel made good company. Though he wouldn’t trade Ford for the world, it was nice to have other people to call friends for once. He closed his eyes as he listened to the two talk, allowing himself to be soothed by their voices. 

If they and Ford weren’t afraid right now, then he had no reason to be either.

He hadn’t realized he had dozed off until he heard the sounds of car doors opening. He opened his eyes, blinking blearily and scrambling to get out of the car. Looks like they were back at the Mystery Shack (his business, wasn’t that so neat?). Man, how long had he been out? Hopefully, the others hadn’t noticed.

As they made their way into the house - coming in through a different door this time, though Stan guessed that wasn’t really important - Ford clapped his hands together. “Alright then, Stanley. Let’s get you situated and off to bed.”

Darn. He must have noticed.

“What? But it’s only -” Stan paused, looking over at the clock on the wall “- 8! It’s not even close to bedtime, and I’m not even tired!”

Ford shot him a stern look, looking much more like Pa than Ford. Stan felt himself instinctually straighten. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I believe that you aren’t tired. That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been through quite an ordeal, mentally and physically. Your body and mind need time to recharge. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”

As usual, Ford was making a good point. That didn’t stop Stan from crossing his arms and scuffing the floor with his shoe, most assuredly not pouting. Stan didn’t pout. Pouting was for babies. 

Apparently satisfied with Stan’s silence, Ford turned his attention to the other two. “While I’m attending to that, do you two mind fetching me my remaining two journals? They should be down in the lab.” 

Dipper’s eyes widened at Ford’s request, looking like a kid on Christmas. Were Ford’s nerd scribbles really that interesting? “O-Okay!” He stammered out before turning on his heel, racing out of the room. Mabel was hot on his heels, calling after him to slow down and wait for her. 

Stan watched the two until they disappeared down the hall. “Journals, huh? Isn’t that kinda like a diary?” He asked, turning to where Ford was standing. Keyword: was. Turns out, his brother was already halfway up the stairs. Looks like he had decided to take a leaf out of Dipper’s book. Stan frowned at that and hastened to follow.

Ford stayed quiet as they journeyed through the house, scarcely seeming to notice that Stan was following at all. He looked lost in thought, which Stan supposed wasn’t all that out of place. Ford was usually thinking about something, and sometimes he’d get so lost in that big brain of his that he stopped noticing his surroundings. Usually, that only happened when he was faced with a really hard problem. 

Maybe Stan’s situation was hard too? It seemed hard to Stan, but Stan was never all that bright to begin with. For Ford’s sake, he stayed quiet too.

Eventually, the pair stopped outside a door. Luckily, Ford seemed to snap out of whatever daze he had been in. “Ah, yes, here we are,” He said, opening the door and gesturing inside. “This is your room. You can sleep here while I work on getting you back to normal.”

The first thing that Stan noticed was that it was dark. Maybe it was just because the lights were off, but the dark felt different somehow; suffocating, almost. The curtains on the window were drawn tight, preventing any moonlight from brightening the room. The light that did spill in from the hallway illuminated the dusty air and the general state of disarray the room was in. 

If Stan had to describe it, it seemed sad. Was this really the room he slept in as an adult?

Ford continued talking, sounding way too casual after revealing such a dim place. “Now I doubt you have any children clothes here, but I don’t anticipate Dipper having an issue with you borrowing some of his. If everything goes well, I should have you back to normal in a few days, so it won’t be an issue for long. The children sleep in the attic and I’ll be sleeping in the room down the hall, so we won’t be far if you need anyth--”

“Wait.” Stan cut in, realization dawning. No wonder there’s only one bed. “You’re not sleeping with me?”  

He turned to look straight up at Ford, watching as his brother’s eyes immediately looked off to the side. He had that sad look on his face again, a look that Stan was starting to realize showed up quite frequently now. It made him wonder if he was the one causing that look. 

“No, Stanley.” He eventually said, reaching up to push his glasses further up his face. It was a nervous habit, one Stan could easily recognize. “We haven’t slept in the same room for a very long time. Adults need their own space.” 

Stan wanted to argue that. Ma and Pa shared a room - heck, they shared a bed! - why couldn’t he and Ford? Yet taking another look at his brother, Stan once again remembered that this Ford wasn’t really his. This Ford was basically a stranger to him, and Stan hated it. Sharing a room would probably just make the strangeness even more apparent.

It was Stan’s turn to avoid eye contact, staring into the room instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford’s features softening a little. Soon enough, the familiar six-fingered weight was settling on Stan’s shoulder. The fingers were bigger and rougher now, but the gesture was still the same. It felt like Ford was drawing out the tension through touch alone. 

“I know it’s new and frightening, but I promise you’ll get used to it.” He said, stooping down so he was level with Stan. His lips twitched up into a slight smile. “As I said, I’m not far away, okay? If something happens, you can still come to me. Just because we don’t share a room anymore doesn’t mean I won’t be there for you.” 

Of course, what was he thinking? Ford might be old and strange right now, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still his brother. He really shouldn’t be expecting so little of him. Just because he was sleeping here alone didn’t mean Ford didn’t have his back. 

It’s just temporary. The room is weird but you can do this. You’ve taken on worse. 

Stan took a breath and let the weight on his shoulder strengthen him. It was hard to feel afraid when he had someone at his side and a slow, shy smile spread across his face. He turned to face his twin, holding up his hand in mutual solidarity. No matter how many years separated them now, surely this was universal. This couldn’t be tainted by the strangeness. 

“High-six?” 

Instead of immediately raising his hand and completing the gesture, Ford just stared blankly at it. One moment passed, then another, and Stan’s smile began to flicker. Ford had that look in his eye again, that sad, far-away look. Stan decided he hated it more than he hated the room. 

Subconscious now, Stan lowered his hand. Maybe he had been wrong after all. Stan couldn’t imagine it; in what reality could he achieve his dream while everything he shared with his brother was suddenly different? Was it just inevitable? 

“I-I’m sorry, Stanley.” Ford finally stammered, removing his hand from his shoulder to card anxiously through his hair. “It’s been… A trying day for me, too. I hope you can understand.”

Stanley didn’t, not entirely. 

Maybe… Things were just different because Ford had lost someone, too. Maybe he felt this same strangeness in reverse, looking for the adult version of his missing half. Stan didn’t really know how he’d feel in Ford’s shoes, so it seemed probable to him.

Either way, he put on a smile and reached over to put a hand on Ford’s shoulder too. His hand was much smaller and probably lacked the same satisfying, grounding weight to it, but he hoped it helped anyways. “Course I do, Pointdexter,” He lied. “But it’s okay. We can be here for each other, just like always.” 

Ford inhaled softly at the touch, but didn’t immediately move away. Stan took that as a good sign and remained there, allowing the silence to stretch for as long as Ford needed it. 

The moment passed soon after and Ford straightened once more, letting Stan’s hand fall away. Stan understood; Pines men didn’t just sit there and whimper. If you had time to cry, you had time to fight. That was what Pa had always said. 

Feeling lighter, Stan dutifully crawled into the too-big bed without any further complaint. For the time being, he didn’t even notice the heaviness. Now that he was really laying down, the exhaustion that he had been fighting since the diner was returning with a vengeance. He had just enough energy to turn onto his side, looking at where Ford stood in the doorway. 

“G’night, Ford.” He murmured, eyes already closing. 

Whatever Ford’s response was, if there was any at all, fell on deaf ears. Stan was fast asleep before he knew what hit him. 

--------------------------

Far away from the odd little family, in a dimension nothing like theirs, a being contemplates the scene he has just witnessed. The little display was disgustingly saccharine, almost making him sick to his proverbial stomach.

Still, the advantage that had just been handed to him was well worth enduring that little sob fest. He leans away from his handy eavesdropping orb, hands clasped at his back. 

“And here I thought my conquest was going to be difficult.” He thought aloud, unable to stop himself from cackling. After enduring those embarrassing defeats at the hands of those meddlesome twins, this break was exactly what he was looking for. 

It was time to exploit that six-fingered freak’s kryptonite: Stanley Pines. 

[anistarrose]

I don’t think anyone necessarily asked for a mildly angsty but mostly just ridiculous Gravity Falls x TAZ Balance crossover involving a case of mistaken identity, but apparently I sure did write the intro to one, so here it is:

***

“Excuse me? Anyone home?”

Stan was sorting merchandise in the gift shop when he heard the knock on the door and the muffled voices, and spent several seconds internally debating whether he wanted to answer. He was pretty sure he’d flipped the sign to around to its “CLOSED” side for the night, and he was positively exhausted from a long day of fixing the leaky roof with Soos — but autumn was also rapidly rolling in, with the least profitable season for tourism right on its heels.

Ultimately, his pragmatic side won out. These late-night visitors were also potential customers, and he couldn’t pass up any moneymaking opportunity after the latest series of unexpected repair fees. If he ended up losing the Shack by just a matter of a few hundred dollars that he easily could’ve scammed these tourists out of, he didn’t know what he’d do with himself.

As he made his way towards the door, a second, more gravelly voice spoke up from outside. “We’re just scientists looking to ask a couple questions! Should only take a few minutes!”

That piece of information didn’t give Stan pause quite like it should have. If anything, it gave him hope that maybe they’d be especially gullible, not unlike another nerd he used to know.

But his hopes were crushed only a few seconds after opening the door and putting on his best fake smile. He saw his three visitors’s expressions morph from something vaguely apprehensive to eerily enthusiastic, like they’d just reunited with a long-lost friend.

The man at the front of the party was the first to speak up, his eyes beaming behind square glasses. Like his two companions, he wore a long red robe with a patch vaguely reminiscent of the NASA logo over the left breast, but unlike the others, he also had on a pair of faded blue jeans.

“Ford!” he exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you again!”

Fuck, Stan thought.

“I told you two that I had a good feeling about this house!” The woman at his side stopped twirling her umbrella, and threw an arm over Stan’s shoulder. “But I hadn’t pinned you as a ramshackle log cabin tourist trap kinda guy, Ford! What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Got any mad science experiments hidden under that roof?” the man in jeans asked. “Out here in the middle of nowhere does seem like a good place to mess around with interdimensional rifts and that kinda shit.”

Stan sucked in a breath. “Can you… can you keep it down?” he stammered in what he hoped was a decent impression of Ford. “My research is supposed to be confidential —”

“Oh, of course! That’s my bad, didn’t mean to jeopardize your cover or anything,” the man in jeans hurriedly whispered back. “Is inside the house a better place to talk?”

“I might’ve… overreacted. Talking out here is fine, just lower your voice.” Think, Stan. How are you going to get rid of these people? “Normally I’d invite you inside to give you a tour, but for one thing, it’s getting late — and I also had an invention malfunction the other day, making the whole place… very smelly. Trust me, you don’t want to spend the night here —”

“Oh, we can handle it. Merle picked up a corpse flower seven cycles ago and it’s stinking up the ship like crazy right now. Your lab can’t possibly be worse,” the umbrella-toting woman told him as she walked past him into the Shack. “Tomorrow morning we’ll call Cap’nport and the rest of the crew over and we can all help you clean up. Then you’ll give us the grand tour and show off the inventions that don’t stink up the place!”

The final member of their party followed her into the Shack, giving the stuffed antelabbits in the hallway a bemused look while taking off the red jacket he wore over his matching robe.

“By the way, you probably guessed from our whole ‘knocking on random doors’ thing, but we’re still looking for the Light,” he announced matter-of-factly. “Only got about a month left before the big ol’ cosmic nihilism comes and slurps up this planar system for breakfast, so we could use your help searching.”

Stan’s jaw dropped.

“Hey, what’s with that look?” the man asked, tossing his jacket onto a faux antler coathanger. “You know the drill — unless…”

“Unless?” his colleagues echoed.

Before Stan could blurt out a half-convincing excuse, the man grabbed one of Stan’s hands and held it up to the light. “Aha! Five fingers!”

“You’re a parallel version of the Ford we know? Why didn’t you just say so?” the man in jeans asked.

Stan’s other two guests exchanged a Look with a capital L. It reminded Stan of Looks that he’d exchanged with Ford back in the good old days… and come to think of it, these two visitors did look an awful lot like siblings…

“I’m not quite sure it’s a parallel universe situation, Barry,” the woman with the umbrella spoke up after a moment. Narrowing her eyes at Stan, she added: “I can’t see why our new Ford-adjacent friend would’ve played along with it if it was…”

“Alright, you got me!” Stan blurted out. “I’m not Stanford, or any version of him — I’m his twin brother. Stanley Pines.”

Barry frowned. “Did Ford ever mention a brother to you two?” he asked his companions.

“Nah, but he did give us a lot of weird looks after he learned we were twins,” the man who’d discarded the jacket replied. “I think this Stanley guy’s telling the truth.”

“You go by Stan, by any chance?” the woman with the umbrella asked. “Stanford was always weirdly adamant that he was Ford, and not Stan.”

Stan nodded slowly. “Sounds like you got to know him pretty well, then…”

“Yeah, you could say that. We’ve run into him — what, twelve times in the last twenty years? By the way, I’m Lup, and this is Taako and Barry.”

(to be continued? I don’t know, I’ve got a million other fic obligations I need to finish writing. maybe someday)

[beermanoftana]

daddy insecurities [arthur, ariadne, eames]

a repost, originally posted in my former writing blog

ship: arthur x ariadne, slight eames x valeria

warnings: swearing; edited thrice in a span of…a few minutes so mistakes may be present

notes: this is 1 of my 3 inception babies; i was still using a different voice then but nothing else has changed

summary: arthur is jealous. he’s very jealous. eames may not have gotten ariadne, but he sure is getting his children.

Things have been going great for Arthur and Ariadne. In their opinion, they weren’t taking their relationship too fast or too slow. After a year and a half of being engaged they got married. A year later they had Casey Luca Brandon, followed by Spencer Phyllira Brandon after another four years. They moved into a modern Victorian home not too far from the city once they started family planning, but keeping the apartment that they shared for the future—and desperate times.

When Ariadne was pregnant with Casey, she had to stop dream sharing. When Arthur first held Casey in his arms, he knew he wanted to be with his family every step of the way. So they agreed to stop dream sharing until the kids were old enough. As much as they wanted to quit permanently, they missed it too much. For now, they’re your regular but above average-looking family living in Paris.

So on this beautiful summer day, the whole family decided to go out of the house and bask in the ambiance of nature. They took a stroll around the city, had lunch near the Eiffel Tower and went shopping for some new clothes before settling down in a park. Arthur and Ariadne found a great spot under a tree and they laid on the grass as Spencer squealed while running—or waddling—to the playground with Casey holding her left hand and their dog, Coulson, on her other side.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at her,” Arthur tells Ariadne. His jaw is clenched and his fingers are intertwined with his wife’s. “And I think he really wants to play with her.”

“They’re children, Arthur.” Ariadne rolls her eyes and looks at the man beside him. “Stop staring at him at least.” She turns back to the playground to watch her children building a sand castle. “Casey and Coulson are with her. They’ll be her knights in shining armor.”

And just as she says that he jerks forward a little. “Did you see that?”

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “See what?’

"She looked at him.” His eyes dart to the boy on the other side of the playground. “Spencer saw that boy.”

“Arthur…”

“How’d she even know that he exists? He’s been behind her all this time!”

“Maybe she just happened to look that way. She’s two-years-old, Arthur. He looks just about her age or a little older. There’s nothing wrong with that. Calm down!”

Frowning, he rubs the bridge of his nose then sighs and leans down to rest his forehead on her shoulder. “Am I overreacting?”

“Yes. It’s very un-Arthur-like. Imagine if Eames was here.” She chuckles a little. “But I won’t be surprised if he suddenly does talk about it without even being here. He knows everything, it’s actually kind of scary. And really, who wouldn’t be weak when it comes to Spencer? Look at her!” She raises her free arm to gesture towards the little girl and boy a few feet away. “Look at them!”

Arthur looks over at his children. Both of them have more of Ariadne’s facial features. They both have brown locks and chocolate brown eyes. Spencer also acquired Ariadne’s natural waves while Casey’s hair is a little more straight. They even have some freckles on their nose. Arthur’s glad that they have Ariadne’s smile, it lights up his world when he sees all three. However, the way their eyes crinkle when they smile, their adorable dimples, thin lips and height come from Arthur. Unfortunately, they both have his ears, too. Ariadne and the kids love it but he doesn’t. Arthur’s very conscious about his ears.

Casey, who had just turned six, is starting the first grade in two months. He’s got both Ariadne’s creative brain and Arthur’s skills (or at least, starting to show signs of it). He loves building and sketching, and Ariadne’s excited to teach him a few tricks once he’s older. He also loves to dress up in Arthur’s suits. During his most recent birthday, Uncle Saito gave him his own suits, a custom made Armani, a three-piece Tom Ford, and the latest Gucci. And yes, they can imagine how Saito can get his hands on smaller sizes. There was a note attached to the gifts, ‘I see that he has Arthur’s taste. When he is older, I shall send the rest.’ And Saito always keeps his word.

Spencer, on the other hand, spends way too much time, in her two years of living, with Eames. He unexpectedly shows up in their house and brings the little girl out without their permission. The first few times he did that both the Point Man and the Architect panicked, fortunately, they’re rational thinkers (and Arthur has spent way too much time of his own life with the Forger). But the little girl loves Eames and is already starting to show signs of becoming a prankster.

“Add a little color to your life, darling,” he would say. And Eames adores the little girl. Always calling her princess and buying her unnecessary gifts. Whenever Arthur or Ariadne would scold him about spoiling the girl, he’d reply, “And you don’t? She’s got us all wrapped around her tiny finger.”

During dates with the Cobbs, Phillipa, now a high school graduate, and James, an incoming high school student, loves playing with them. Dom likes to think that it’s a second shot of being a parent. Saito constantly showers them with expensive gifts (and even promising on granting them a scholarship to whichever university they’d choose). Yusuf also shows his love for the kids by sending them trinkets from his trips around the world for conferences.

“You’re not going to lose her, Arthur,” Ariadne assures, “especially not at this age. And even if she does end up having a silly crush—”

“She’s too young for that,” he interrupts, which earns him a glare from the brunette beside him.

“She will never choose them over you.”

Arthur grumbles, “She chooses Eames over me all the time.”

“You know she loves you both equally,” she reminds him.

Arthur sighs and nods. When he looks up again, his eyes narrow. “What the fuck is he doing?”

“Arthur!”

“It’s Eames! He’s trying to take her away again!”

Ariadne looks at where the children are, and, sure enough, the English man is by the sandbox, holding the little girl by the waist, and talking to the six-year-old boy. Coulson is wagging his tail and sniffing the man with glee. “He’s not going to take her away in front of Casey, and this is one of her favorite spots, he knows that.”

Eames looks up and gives them a grin and a wave. Ariadne does the same while Arthur simply raises his hand in acknowledgement. He whispers to the little girl and then says something to the boy the Brandons can’t decipher. The brunettes nod happily before turning to their parents and giving them a wave with smiles on their faces. Ariadne giggles and, again, waves at them with a huge smile on her face. The scene of his children warms Arthur’s heart and immediately, he smiles, his eye crinkling and his dimples showing, and waves back at them.

“Maybe I won’t kill Eames today.”

“Your daughter would be heartbroken.”

Arthur nods. As he watches his children play with one of their godfathers the boy he had been fussing about earlier is walking towards the sandbox. “Ariadne?”

“Don’t stress, Arthur. He’s simply looking for a playmate, and besides, Eames is there. Doesn’t that relax you a little?”

“I suppose.”

“He’s pretty much their second father.”

“He’s just a suspicious boy.”

“Arthur, he’s probably only three.”

“Exactly, at that age, girls and boys don’t know that they can feel attraction!”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “That boy probably thinks Spencer is a pretty little girl who seems to be having fun and who just might want to play. He just wants to be friends with Spencer! There’s nothing wrong with that. Stop being such a jealous father and let your daughter have some fun.”

“I’m not jealous,” Arthur snorts.

After a few minutes, the two see Eames kiss Spencer’s temple, stand and make his way towards them. “Darling,” he starts, “I can hear the two of you bicker over nonsense all the way over there.” He uses his thumb to point at the place he’d recently been in.

“Arthur’s just jealous,” Ariadne says.

“You should be, your children seem to like me more than you.”

Arthur glares. “Aren’t you due back to visit Valeria in Germany?”

“Val knows it’s hard for me to leave our godchildren. Do you want to get rid of me that easily?”

“Always.”

Eames chuckles. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“They’re not.”

“Arthur’s just jealous that Spencer will start to replace him soon,” Ariadne supplies.

“He already has been replaced, ever since I showed up in the hospital when she was born. Even your own dog likes me better than him.”

Ariadne fails to suppress a soft laugh. “Not helping, Eames.”

“The only time I’ve seen this bloke get jealous was with you, love. It’s very amusing to see him all worked up over,” Eames looks behind him, “a three-year old boy,” he continues when he turns back. “You can probably take him down with a single move. He doesn’t seem to have much experience with hand-to-hand combat.”

“What’s his name?” Arthur asks.

“Are you going to check his records with your phone, darling?”

“No, his family’s. And not now, when we get back home. What’s his name, Eames?”

Ariadne rolls her eyes and Eames just shrugs. “Christopher.”

“Christopher what?”

“Robin.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Eames.”

After roaring with laughter, Eames says, “I’m surprised you know who that is.”

Ariadne laughs. “Having two children does that to him.”

A small smile escapes the dark haired man’s lips. “Give me his name, Eames.”

“All right, all right. It’s Christopher Mann, and that’s with a double 'n’. He’s a sweet child, really. I’d hate for you to find something in his record.”

“I just want to make sure that when this boy tells his family or anyone about playing with a little girl named Spencer and her brother named Casey with a dog named Coulson, I have nothing to worry about,” Arthur tells him. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

Both Ariadne and Eames look at each other and sigh.

Arthur squeezes his wife’s hand. “I just want this family to be safe.”

Ariadne smiles. “I know.”

The three adults watch the three children play. Arthur hates to admit it but Spencer is enjoying the company of the new boy. “Where’s his family?” he wonders aloud.

“Over there,” Eames points at an older couple on the other side. They seem to be having a heated argument. “Christopher doesn’t like hearing them talk loudly. It makes him sad. Poor boy. His older brother is away in college so he’s very much alone at home.”

That breaks Arthur’s heart and he’s suddenly really happy that the children are getting along really well. He can’t imagine either Casey or Spencer being alone while he and Ariadne fight. Hell, he can’t even imagine him and Ariadne fighting when the children are within reach. Sure, they’ve had their share of arguments and cold shoulders when the kids are around, but they’d always make sure to keep their emotions in check until they’re alone.

The boy, Christopher, also seems to be having fun playing with Coulson. The dog sniffs the little boy before licking his face. “Even Coulson likes him,” Ariadne says with a little laugh. “It’s really just you, Arthur.”

About an hour later, Christopher’s mother calls him. “Chris! It’s time to go now, honey.” Arthur sees the boy frown. Christopher stands and pets Coulson one more time before waving at the two children he had recently befriended. Once he’s left, Spencer pouts and gives an exaggerated sigh. Casey pats her shoulder and tries to cheer her up, which seems to have worked.

“My princess is sad,” Eames observes, “it’s time to bring her to the ice cream parlour.”

“You’re really showing favoritism, aren’t you?” Ariadne says with a small smile.

“I do not, love. I also spoiled Casey when he was younger. But I suppose I have a softer heart for little girls.” He shrugs. “Hey, Arthur, would you rather teach Casey or Spencer?”

“Teach what?”

Eames groans. “Fighting, of course! We’re going to teach those children to defend themselves! They are definitely not going to be bullies—”

“Unless they hang out with you too much,” Arthur mutters.

“—so they will be bullied. We need to make sure that they’re feared!”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Eames…”

“Love, we cannot allow those two precious children be looked down upon.”

Arthur gives a little nod. “There’s no need for us to personally teach them unless we think that they need more. Ari and I have been talking about it; we’re planning on letting them take self-defense lessons. Casey would probably start soon and we’ll wait until Spencer is his age.”

Grinning, Eames says, “Perfect. I’ll be there in the waiting area.”

Ariadne smiles and Arthur can’t hide the smirk on his face.

When Arthur notes that the sun would be setting soon, Ariadne suggests that they head home. After getting some ice cream from the store they arrive in their grayish-white house and Eames mentions to them that he has nothing better to do and there’s nothing more he loves than spending time with the Brandon children. “You and Ariadne can have some grown-up time, yeah?”

“We don’t do grown-up time when the kids are at home,” Arthur mumbles. “Just don’t kidnap our children and you can stay for an hour.”

“You can stay for as long as you want, Eames,” Ariadne says as she helps Casey with a new shirt. “We’re having pasta for dinner.”

“Eames does love pasta,” the Forger tells them, licking his lips. He picks up Spencer just as she says, “Me!” Eames chuckles. “Everyone loves your mother’s pasta, princess. You should try Uncle Eames brownies.”

“Oh, dear God, no,” Arthur groans.

“Don’t you have some researching to do, darling?” Eames jokes.

“I just have to make sure that you’re not going to make a run for it.” Arthur shakes his head and heads for his study. “Come, Coulson.” And the dog happily follows him inside.

“Your daddy is a strange man, princess.”

Spencer grins. “Daddy!”

Less than an hour later, Arthur emerges from his study and walks back to the living room. On the way, he passes by his wife preparing the ingredients for dinner. He smiles and kisses her cheek before heading to his destination. He spots Casey on the floor with his building blocks and Spencer still on Eames’s lap. Coulson sits obediently beside Casey.

“You’re still here,” Arthur deadpans.

“Your wife said I can stay as long as I want. And I’ll be staying until dessert. Or at least until this little princess’s bedtime.”

“Tuck! Tuck!” Spencer claps.

“Tuck me in, too, Uncle Eames!” Casey joins.

Eames grins. “Of course, of course. I will gladly tuck you two in. Perhaps you’d even want a story of one of my adventures?”

Casey nods enthusiastically. “Yes! I love your stories, Uncle Eames!”

“Love Unca Ease!” Spencer squeals.

“Aww,” Eames tickles her stomach, “Uncle Eames loves you, too, princess.”

Arthur smiles at the scene. As much as he despises Eames—okay, he really doesn’t, at all, he loves the man as much as he loves his brother, Edward Brandon—he loves that Eames loves Casey and Spencer enough for them to be his own children. He hears Casey play with his toys and he’s a little jealous of the attention that Eames is getting from Spencer. “Casey,” he calls.

Casey looks up and grins. Arthur has his legs open and arms outstretched. The little boy walks to his father and Arthur carries him to his lap. He stretches towards the dog who was sitting beside him. “Come, Coulson,” he says.

Coulson wags his tail and trots over them. Casey pats his head and then turns to his father. “Daddy, I think Coulson is lonely.”

“He can’t be lonely, he has you.” Arthur smiles, already knowing where the conversation is heading.

“I think he needs a friend.” Casey smiles.

Arthur shrugs. “He has a brother and a sister.”

“Daddy, you’re being silly!” Casey giggles. “I think we should get another dog.”

“Another dog?” Arthur feigns surprise. “Now where did you get that idea?”

Casey shrugs exaggeratedly. “Can we, Daddy?

Arthur smiles. "Your mother and I would have to talk about it first, okay?” Although he’s very sure of what the answer will be. “But we may not get one exactly like Coulson, he’s one of a kind!” Coulson wags his tail and sniffs Arthur’s knee. “Yes you are, Coulson,” he murmurs, fondly remembering the time he first entered his and Ariadne’s lives.

“That’s okay,” Casey nods, “I just think he needs a friend.”

Arthur kisses his temple. “We’ll see, big guy. We’ll see.”

After dinner and dessert, the family, plus Eames, is sitting around the living room watching an old, classical film that stars Audrey Hepburn. While the adults are engrossed in the film, Casey and Spencer play with the dog on the floor.

“It su—it’s sad that she’s only known for her acting skills and beauty,” Ariadne sighs, “she’s an amazing person. So much more than what people say about her.”

“Well, that’s Hollywood,” Eames says with a shrug. “And as an actor I can definitely say that some people are only judged by our faces. Some people, as beautiful or as handsome as they are, cannot act to save their lives! And yet, people still praise them. It’s more of a popularity contest. While some people, more average looking ones, who can act wonderfully, cannot shine due to being overshadowed.”

“It’s hard to tell who you are in that argument,” Arthur sneers.

“Oh, darling, you wound me so deeply. I’m neither and you know that.”

Ariadne giggles softly before placing her head on Arthur’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go to bed early? Like, right after this movie ends.”

“If that’s your way of shooing me out, love, it’s not working,” Eames says with a wicked grin.

Arthur groans. “You’re not planning on spending the night, are you?”

“Well, now that you’ve revealed to me your master plan, someone’s got to keep the children together, right?”

Ariadne smiles. “Well, someone’s got to wash and tuck the children to sleep.”

Arthur shifts. “Really?” But the grin on his face cannot be stopped.

Eames laughs, causing the children to look at him with smiles on their faces. “What’s so funny, Uncle Eames?”

“Oh, just a grown-up joke, Little Man. We’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Okay,” Casey nods. Casey’s memory is better than most, he’d remember this moment, and Eames knows it. “Are you tired, Spencer?”

Arthur and Ariadne smiles and squeeze in together. But just as they’re getting cozy, Spencer appears, waddling with a grin that showed off her few baby teeth. “Daddy!” Arthur smiles brightly and doesn’t think twice about carrying her and putting her in between him and Ariadne. “Mommy!” she squeals.

Ariadne plays with her daughter’s hair before kissing the top of her head. “Not tired yet, sweetie?”

“Na!” She grins. “Pay!”

“It’s almost your bedtime, you can’t play anymore. Once this movie’s done, Uncle Eames will be washing you and Casey and then tuck you to sleep.”

“No sip!” she protests.

“Yes sleep,” Arthur tells her. “If you sleep earlier, there’s more time for you to play tomorrow.”

Spencer pouts. “Unca Ease towo?”

“If you wake up early enough then I might still be here,” Eames tells her. The tone that Eames used makes Spencer squeal in delight. “Sleep?”

“Sip!”

Arthur peaks over to see Casey resting his head on Coulson’s curled body. “How are you doing, big guy?”

“Coulson’s tired and I’m tired.”

“I suppose that means you had a great day today?” Ariadne asks.

Casey looks at them. “I did! What about you, Spencer?” His little sister raises her arms and squeals. “I think she also had a great day,” he replies, making the three adults laugh.

Later that night, with Spencer and Casey soundly asleep in their respective rooms, Eames in the guest bedroom, and Coulson back in his doghouse, Arthur and Ariadne lay quietly on their bed. Ariadne’s resting her head on Arthur’s chest while he has his arms wrapped around her.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be jealous of a little boy, Arthur,” Ariadne says.

He chuckles. “I know.”

“And you shouldn’t be jealous of Eames, either.”

He sighs. “Eames is a challenge. He’s amazing with everyone, it’s hard not to like him.”

Ariadne smiles. No matter how many times Arthur has admitted to caring about Eames, she still catches herself thinking about the two being best friends. “You’re not just Spencer’s father, but her dad. Eames is…well, he’s Eames. We already knew that our children would love him.”

“Eames is a great dad without having to be a father.”

“He’s scared. Valeria told him about the pregnancy scare, he was so relieved. She was hurt but she understood. He isn’t ready yet. Maybe he loves the two because he also wants to start a family, he’s just not sure how.”

Arthur sighs and holds her tighter. “He’s weird.”

Ariadne laughs and snuggles closer. That’s when they hear a bark and a scream. Arthur quickly puts on a pair of boxer shorts and Ariadne scrambles to find her robe. The Point Man is out their room quicker than the Architect.

“Coulson!?”

Ariadne gently pushes Arthur to the side to see what’s happening. Coulson is running around with Casey right beside him. Eames is at the end of the hall with Spencer on his shoulders.

“Eames!”

The fun stops and they turn around to look at Arthur. “Darling, you’re in front of minors. And they’re your children.”

“My children shouldn’t be out here in the first place.”

“Casey couldn’t sleep. He knocked on my door about an hour or two after I tucked him into bed. He said he wanted to be in one of my adventures. We couldn’t have fun without Spencer and Coulson. So,” he shrugs. “Oh, love, you look…hm, I can’t really say it in front of the children.” Eames winks.

Ariadne wraps the robe she’s wearing tighter around her and hides behind Arthur, a faint blush appearing in her cheeks. “It’s way past the kids’ bedtime.”

“Pay!” Spencer squeals, clapping her hands.

“No, no,” Ariadne shakes her head, stepping away from Arthur and moving towards Eames, “Spencer, it’s time to sleep.”

“No sip!” Spencer argues, but her arms are outstretched. “Mommy pay!”

“It’s late now, honey,” Ariadne tells her. Eames brings the little girl down from his shoulders and gives her to Ariadne. “You have to go to sleep.” With Spencer at her hip, she looks over at Arthur who’s trying to get Casey to bed. “Arthur, I can take care of the kids and you’re in charge of Coulson and Eames.”

Arthur groans. Coulson stops wagging his tail and sits. “Oh, no, not you, Coulson.” Eames laughs out loud. “Eames, you’re banned from this house at night.”

“Stop being jealous of me, darling,” Eames teases.

tagging: @angel-cap

[toooldforfandom-liveblogs]

Gravity Falls S02E16 - Roadside Attraction

The Mystery Shack doesn't really qualify as a roadside attraction since it seems to be fairly out of the way so, maybe they'll open something?

I think last episode resolved most of the standing mysteries with a clear-ish explanation of Bill's plan and what's needed for it to happen. The only plot questions left are how the Rift is going to get stolen and how they are going to defeat Bill and those answers seem end-of-season-ish. So... I guess this episode is going to have Bill possessing people trying but failing to steal the rift? I dunno, so let's do this!

Are they all going to die of dysentery? I thought they were going to make a roadside attraction but I guess they are going to visit one.

...why are they traveling when their house is the only place protected against a body-possessing mind-reading demon?

I was going to say "better than hiding porn magazines" but nope, it's not.

I have never felt so identified with multiple people in a tv show.

It's probably too early to tell but this already feels very season 1 slice of life. They didn't even mention Ford back in the house.

This entire episode is going to be about Dipper failing miserably to talk to girls, isn't it? All that wasted effort when he could just talk to Pacifica ʲᵘˢᵗ ˢᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ

imagine the ben kenobi meme but with "you were the chosen one, season 2! you were supposed to kill the wendy plotline, not rehash it four episodes away from the finale!"

oh no

If this somehow turns into Candy getting jealous of Dipper talking to girls I'm going to... keep watching but very reluctantly.

Aren't these "pranks" a bit much since he's literally destroying the attractions?

So, not only the Love God was a bad episode in general but it also was completely useless because no one learned anything from it.

Props to Candy for being so direct about what she wants.

oh god no please dipper

Stan's advice is not necessarily wrong but it depends on everyone being on the same page. Dipper's first reaction of "I'm going to tell her I'm not ready" initially felt like a bit of an overreaction but since they are all 12 and it's all so dramatic at that age I guess it would have been the right choice instead of whatever awful thing is about to happen.

Best exchange this episode.

I hate so much that I was right.

* facepalm *

All annoyance at the plot aside, this is a _great_ face.

oh no scary shiny glasses

well that's horrifying

If this is his reaction to being mummified I wish Stan had been honest about knowing about the supernatural since the start.

WHAT

THE

FUCK

all's well that ends well

CARLA MCCORKLE RETURNED ALL HIS FLOWERS

MARILYN DIVORCED HIM AFTER ONLY SIX HOURS

BEATRICE SLAPPED HIM FOR BEING A CAD

OLD GOLDIE'S THE BEST GIRLFRIEND STAN EVER HAD

...well that's depressing.

---

What a weird episode. It really felt like it was something from the first season, even if the plot requires it to be placed here.

Not a big fan of the return of the wendy/dipper storyline. Or the forced misunderstandings/jealously. Poor Candy, she's one of the least developed recurring characters and she gets saddled with a bad crush (very temporary, thank god.)

The apology pamphlet was cute though.

If this show was more serialized I'd be trying to guess why the writers decided this episode was necessary. Why does it need to be clear that Dipper is 100% over Wendy before the finale? Is it just to show how he's growing up? Maybe he'll get tempted by Bill again?

I'm just feeling very bleh about the episode in general, probably one of the ones I've liked the least of the show. Oh well, I hope the next episode is better. Until next time!

[unculturedmamoswine]

Forduary Week 3: Insomnia

Post-series Fiddauthor fluff! Sometimes sleeping is hard. (CW for mention of serious bodily injury, and also for a lil bit of Ford’s ptsd)

There’s nothing like falling asleep on a boat, Ford thinks longingly. He never once had trouble sleeping on the Stan o’ War, unless it was because of some temporary problem, like Stan stomping around their room or pain from a cracked rib.

Now that he and Stanley have returned to Gravity Falls for the summer, Ford seems only to be able to sleep in fitful catnaps throughout the day, sometimes waking by jolting himself upright, filled with the urge to either punch something or run until he realizes where he is. At night, after trying and often failing to fall asleep, he paces around the Hootenanny Hut like a none-too-stealthy ghost, exploring the cavernous, tacky rooms and their contents.

Ford stands at the end of a spacious hallway. In the darkness, it seems painted in grays and blacks. The window at the end of the hall is so ostentatiously large and multi-paned that he wonders if it was placed there by accident. It was probably intended to be the central feature of a house that cost a mere six figures. The window overlooks a healthy portion of deep, black woods, bathed at the moment in bright moonlight that spills into the hallway and pools on Ford’s bare feet. He winces, suddenly realizing how cold his toes are. He curls them into the thick, artfully patterned carpet. He should have worn socks.

Ford’s eyes are gritty and sore. His head aches. His jaw, too. He’s been clenching it without noticing, an old habit of his that’s resurfaced. His tension ratchets up when he hears footsteps behind him. He whirls around quickly, despite the fact that he knows perfectly well who it will be.

Fiddleford is dressed for sleep in sweats and a t-shirt. He moseys down the hallway, smiling when he catches Ford’s eye, in spite of Ford’s overreaction to his presence. Ford smiles, slightly embarrassed to be caught panicking at nothing.

“Good evening,” he says, feeling immediately re-embarrassed. A lot of formality for a man wearing plaid jammies, he thinks in an annoyingly Stan-like voice. Fiddleford only smiles and steps nearer.

“Evenin’. Come here often?” They both look out Fiddleford’s window, shoulder to shoulder.

After a comfortable pause, Ford answers, “It’s my first time at this particular window.”

Fidds snorts. “Can’t sleep or don’t want to?” he asks.

Ford glances at him, smiling slightly. “I’d love to if I could. I think I’m just having trouble adjusting to sleeping on dry land.”

Fiddleford nods. “Did all you could to avoid it when we were young and now you can’t sleep when you want to. That’s irony for ya.”

Ford nearly jumps out of his skin when Fiddleford brushes his hand against Ford’s. Before Fiddleford can do more than twitch in surprise and open his mouth to apologize, Ford slips his hand quickly into Fiddleford’s.

“Sorry,” he says before Fiddleford can. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, honey.” Fiddleford’s frowning up at him, worried. His eyes are full of concern. Ford likes Fiddleford’s eyes. Although Ford can’t see their color in the darkness he imagines he can, his brain filling in the details it knows to be there. He can see/not see the dark blue of Fiddleford’s eyes and the way they scan Ford’s face. Surely, in the poor lighting, Fiddleford must also be relying on memory to fill in Ford’s finer details. He wonders if the Ford Fidds is imagining has rid himself of facial hair in the last day. Or if he lacks the tired circles under his eyes that the real Ford has. Then again, Fidds was with him today– he knows Stanford isn’t looking his best.

It occurs to Ford that he should perhaps say something. He can’t remember what the last thing said was. Is it his turn to talk? He doesn’t know. Could his tiredness be catching up with him? Shameful. He used to be able to go for three to six days without sleeping.

“I’m getting old,” he tells Fiddleford, who laughs.

“Sure are, sugar, but least you ain’t the only one. You plan on looming here at my window for much longer?”

“I can probably loom anywhere,” Ford jokes. Fiddleford squeezes his hand.

“Come on, then. If you can’t sleep, you can’t sleep, and I wanted to show you my stories. Now’s as good a time as any.” He pulls Ford gently back down the hall.

Ford winces. Soos’s Japanese cartoons have cast some kind of spell over Fiddleford, who can’t get enough of them. He can’t say he has any particular interest in them, but Ford has to keep an open mind. Soos is a man of surprisingly good taste; he introduced Ford to FCLORP, a delightful hobby that Ford wishes existed when he and Fiddleford were young. It’s possible that anime has hidden depths.

Anyway, as crappy as he feels, he has a ready-made excuse if he fails to pay adequate attention.

They settle in the TV room, which is not to be confused with the theater. The theater seats sixteen and is lined in red velvet curtains. The day after he and Stan arrived back in town, they watched an old movie in there with an assortment of Fiddleford’s friends from town. The TV room is next to Fiddleford’s bedroom. It was once an identical bedroom, but now boasts a TV at the foot of the bed. Ford has never seen anyone in the TV room outside of himself and Fiddleford.

The bed is one that came with the house, formerly belonging to the Northwests– big and soft, all dark wood and fabrics in shades of blue. Ford flops onto it and crawls to the left side, wishing there was a couch in the room. Being in bed and unable to sleep feels like a slap in the face. Ford feels that the bed is mocking him, like the beds all do in the No Sleep Dimension.

“Alrighty, you all comfy?” Fiddleford asks cheerily.

“Let’s go for it, Fidds.” Ford tries to inject some energy into his voice, but it’s been over a week since he got any more than two unbroken hours of sleep a night. His ability to be energetic is severely reduced.

The opening sequence of Fiddleford’s show is action-filled and blindingly bright. Ford, watching carefully, gathers that it’s about a group of teenagers who possess the power to transform into large, conveniently color-coded robotic bears. Once the show proper begins, Ford quickly loses the thread.

“So he can’t become a bear yet,” Ford confirms with Fiddleford.

“Naw, just watch! This is only the first episode.” Fidds shifts closer and takes Ford’s hand again. “He ain’t found the razor yet that’ll change him into an Ursa Fighter.”

“Oh.”

Ford watches, stupefied, as the teenaged boy, sans colorful friends, discovers a large claw which he confusingly calls a razor and allows him to change his shape, mass, and chemical makeup. (But only specifically into the aforementioned robot bear shape.) He engages in combat with laser-toting androids and ultimately swears to protect the city from the sinister WitchCorp. When the closing credits begin, Ford wonders what he was supposed to have gleaned from this experience.

The next ten episodes clue Ford in slightly to the fact that context and meaning are somewhat nebulous in this fictional world. Occasionally he asks a clarifying question.

“Is he still inside the bear suit?”

“Nope, it’s converted his body into a bear.”

“Don’t his parents notice that he’s gone for hours at a time?” “It’ll come up later, just wait.” “These girls are happy to become child soldiers on the advice of a complete stranger?” “Well, they were destined to be Ursa Fighters just like Daisuke was, y’see.”

By the time the sun lances its horrible rays into the room, signaling another failed night for Stanford, he is now, if not proficient in the ways of the Ursa Fighter, at least an initiate. Ford’s no less exhausted after half a night spent watching cartoons, but is at least content. Sometime after Towa joined Daisuke in his quest (adding the White Bear to the team), he ended up pressed against Fiddleford’s side, head lolling on Fidds’s shoulder.

Fiddleford stops the stream. He wraps his arms around Ford, squeezing, and presses his face into Ford’s hair.

“Didn’t expect you to watch all that with me, if I’m telling the truth,” he says, voice muffled. “I was hopin’ it’d put you to sleep.”

Ford smiles, unsurprised. “But if I did stay awake, I might be inspired to help you try to work out the finer details of human-to-robot transformation by means of an enchanted claw?”

“That’s what we call a win-win!” Fiddleford laughs. “Though as far as transformin’ folks into robots goes, I reckon I don’t need any help– don’t forget you’re the looks and I’m the brains, peach pie.” They snicker together as Fiddleford squirms down to Ford’s level until they’re face to face.

Ford looks at him. He can see Fiddleford perfectly now, so the daylight is good for something, at least. He can see each wrinkle on Fiddleford’s face, the permanent tan that’s the legacy of decades spent homeless, the crooked way he’s smiling close-mouthed. Ford hopes it isn’t out of self-consciousness for his lost teeth and the shape the ones he has left are in. The longer Ford has loved Fiddleford, the more handsome Fidds has become, subjectively. He assumes it’s that way for everyone in love, but he’s never asked.

“We might as well get up.” Ford’s voice sounds like it’s being dragged across gravel. In all honesty, he has another idea regarding what they could do in a bed that they aren’t going to sleep in, but there’s no reason they can’t have coffee before sex.

“Sooner we get coffee into ya, the sooner it’ll metabolize and you can take a nap,” Fidds agrees. “Come on, then. We got frozen pizza for breakfast!” He’s much too full of energy for a man with his severity of caffeine dependency. Before he can rush off, Ford inches his face forward to kiss Fidds gently. Fiddleford puts a hand to Ford’s jaw, presumably to keep him in place, not that Ford was planning an escape.

Since the age of twenty, Ford has been of the opinion that Fiddleford is a very good kisser, though whether that’s due to the act of kissing just being generally pleasant or to Fidds’s natural talent, Ford doesn’t know. He used to entertain himself in college by imagining finding everyone Fiddleford had ever kissed and having them fill out a questionnaire, with the goal of determining the objectivity of his conclusion. “On a scale of one to five,” he would imagine writing, “how would you rate subject’s use of tongue during a kiss?” In spite of himself, Ford laughs, breaking away from Fiddleford’s mouth. He hasn’t thought about that in years and years.The lack of sleep must be making him giddy.

“Ain’t sure if that’s a compliment or not,” says Fidds, laughing too. “Be honest, now, does the beard tickle?”

Ford explains his secret, hypothetical study of Fiddleford’s past romantic interests, only a fraction as embarrassed as he would have been to talk about it thirty or forty years ago. He’s rewarded for his honesty by the thing Fiddleford’s face does as Ford explains his proposed methodology. His eyes shimmer with emotion, his mouth trembles, and his cheeks flush deep red.

“Ford!” He grabs Ford’s face with both hands. “That’s the most romantical thing I ever heard in my life! I can’t believe you never said anything about this before!” He kisses Ford again, then pulls back, looking almost irritated. “Dangit, if you weren’t so pathetic all sleep-deprived I’d say phooey to the whole notion of gettin’ outta bed and keep you here all day.”

Ford snorts. “Keep me here doing what, Fiddleford? Watching you sleep? Even when we were young you were always out like a light about twenty seconds after–” Ford interrupts himself by huffing when Fidds shoves him unceremoniously back onto his own side of the bed. He always was startlingly strong for his build.

“You can go ahead and talk yourself out of havin’ any fun with your old pal Fiddleford if’n that’s what’ll make you happy, Stanford. I’m gonna get me some coffee.” But he smiles when he says it, not really angry of course.

Ford reaches out a hand to him, only half as a joke. “I hope it goes without saying that I think of you as more than an old pal,” he says, pressing his free hand to his chest. Fiddleford pulls him out of bed and onto his feet. “You’re an old pal with an unparalleled technical mind and a very pleasant accent,” Ford goes on, putting his arm around Fidds.

“Oh yeah, the country charm always worked wonders on you, don’t think I don’t know it,” Fiddleford says, mouth curling at the corner. He removes the arm from around his waist and takes Ford’s hand again. Ford isn’t sure what’s gotten into them lately. Thank god Stanley isn’t here to witness Ford and Fiddleford acting like idiot honeymooners. “C’mon, hon, you look dead on your feet. Coffee.”

Ford grinds his teeth. He wishes he could hang on to his good mood, but it plunges at the reminder about coffee. Coffee means committing to another few hours awake. Or less. Maybe less. Worst case scenario, he will wander off to one of Fiddleford’s labs or workshops and climb into a cupboard to sleep, as if he’s on the run from Bill’s forces and can’t sleep openly in an undefended room.

Best case scenario, he’ll end up in Fiddleford’s bed, dead to the world. And, as long as he’s wishing for things, he might ideally sleep for a good four hours. (The middle case scenario for sleep, incidentally, is falling asleep in one of the mansion’s several sitting rooms. Fine, but not great for his back. A cupboard floor is more supportive.)

Now that he’s standing, Ford’s joints feel like water. Loud, popping, grinding water. His left thumb aches fiercely from his arthritis. His right fares better, the right arm having been cut off at the shoulder and regrown when he was fifty. Each time Ford blinks, his eyes click loudly. He can’t believe that a mere few minutes ago he was considering doing something as energetic as having sex.

In Fiddleford’s vast kitchen Ford sits at the scuffed table and mismatched chairs Fidds has crammed inelegantly against the breakfast counter as Fidds makes coffee and preheats the oven. He realizes he’s closed his eyes when he hears Fidds sigh but doesn’t see it.

“I was thinkin’ about pickin’ your brain over a robot I been fiddlin’ with, but somehow I think your brain may be slim pickings this mornin’.”

“Luckily I’m just the looks,” Ford mumbles. Fidds chuckles. 

“Well, you ain’t holdin’ that side up, neither. No offense, darlin’, but you look like ten pounds of shit in a two-pound bag. If you don’t get some sleep soon, Stan’ll think I’m mistreatin’ ya. ”

Ford grimaces at the thought of being passed back and forth between his brother and his lover to be looked after, as if he can’t do a thing for himself. He opens his mouth, thinking naively that it will express the thought in his brain, but instead it says “Is it a bear?”

“What’sat?” Fidds calls.

“The robot you want to build,” Ford calls, propping his forehead on his hand. God, what he wouldn’t give to be in his bunk right now. Why can’t he sleep in Gravity Falls? It was his home for years. He’s slept peacefully in a miniscule bed with Fiddleford more times than he can count, so the gigantic piece of real estate Fiddleford calls a mattress should pose no problem. There’s just nothing that accounts for Ford’s failure in this department.

Ford feels a hand in his hair, hears the thud of a large mug of coffee being set on the table before him.

“Not every robot and elixir I rustle up is inspired by cartoons. I was actually thinkin’ bout something that’d take care of the Mystery Shack’s roofin’ problems. Poor Soos’s got his hands full, and Mabel told me she and Dipper did the retiling last summer.” Fidds takes a slurping sip of coffee, reminding Ford to do the same, savoring the burning feeling as it pours down his throat and into his belly. “And no offense to those two, but they’re no kinda roofers. Somethin’s gotta be done.”

“That’s kind of you,” Ford says, leaning into Fiddleford’s hand.

“I try,” Fidds says fondly.

[raesportfolio]

WNM Blog #4: it is what it is

“Some people describe these shifts as a crisis in copyright and others a crisis in fair use. Fans defend perceived rights and practices that have been taken for granted for many years, such as the longstanding practice of creating “mix tapes” or other compilations of quoted material. Corporations, on the other hand, want to constrain behaviors they see as damaging and having a much larger impact in the digital era. Both sides accuse the other of exploiting the instability created by shifts in technology and media infrastructure” (Jenkins, Ford, and Green 71).

As a YouTube connoisseur, this is a fight I’ve been hearing about for YEARS. When I say years, I mean probably since 2009, the time this book continues to reference. YouTube creators are constantly complaining and ranting about the frustration of being called on copyright infringement despite attempting to be vigilant and catching anything that might get them flagged during editing. They also complain about being demonetized about the smallest of things – but that’s possibly an argument for another day, or maybe just a separate facet of this ongoing fight.

I’m a lover of the average Joe and the underdog, a glutton for pain and suffering and absolute idiocy, a consumer of sh*tty content as well as high quality. I live for people who for the most part are, or were, just like me, and do things similar to me. I would never think about the music playing on my phone in the background while I rant about how the Grammy’s and the Oscars are a scam in front of my garbage webcam. I would never consider that playing Christina Perri’s “Jar of Hearts” as a scene-setter between my takes would be an issue. These things wouldn’t cross my mind naturally because they’re just songs and they’re constantly playing all the time.

Half the time when I’m watching YouTube videos I don’t even notice when the music the creator is playing in the downtime isn’t royalty free.99! The content they make is typically reviewing or reacting, or just having the song play absent mindedly, and therefore the song is incredibly important to the video or nonconsequential. Either way, more observant people than me hear or see these clips and seek out the source – often legally. YouTube creators, the ones attempting to make a profit and not genuinely pirate corporations’ materials, typically don’t put enough of the materials into their videos to get satiate viewers curious minds.

But, I get it, mostly. Corporations want credit and to earn money. They feel ripped off and threatened. I get it. However, an option: make you ish more accessible! Stop taking people’s videos down! That’s their income! Nobody is worried about your tunes and no one is stopping your bag! Collaborate with YouTubers, make everybody happy! Declare your comfort: limit length of clips (both audio and visual), and define what’s off limits and what is public domain. Suing people who have no chance in hell in besting or beating you because they don’t have and often can’t afford a giant team of big corporate leaders is unfair and cruel – and OVERREACTING!

Also, for the love of all that is good and holy, pay content creators better, and make it easier to get paid. I know a lot of creators who are making dust if anything at all from their content because their following and views are too low despite the quality, time, and effort put into it. It’s not fair. Make it a bigger, better, and stronger industry.

I do know these changes are unlikely to happen because content creators will want to fully own their things, and corporations want more than half. They’re both interested in floating and surviving on their own and the split will continue. Digital media: the hellfire.

[newx-menfan]

Eh- I would argue D&W’s plans for Kevin Ford and Laurie Collins especially would have been amazing and pretty unique story arcs ; also I would say “Academy X” is a cult classic comic that Marvel has never quite been able to recapture. It just fit perfectly with the time period; both in capitalizing off of Morrison’s popularity and with Marvel’s desire to create books that would essentially mimic the manga boom…

I would say Academy X was just more focused more primarily on Laurie, Josh, Sofia, Kevin, and David. KYOST was more interested in Julian, Nori, Laura, and David; really that’s the main difference along with KYOST doing more traditional comic book storylines, where D&W were pushed to do more of a slice of life comic…

I would say Sofia and Julian worked, not so much because of the “good girl/bad boy” trope…but because honestly, personality wise, they are very much the same. Both are extroverted and ambitious. Both are a little hot headed and prone to overreact.

I think ultimately all of Julian’s relationships end badly because none of his partners can ever accept Julian’s “bad sides”. Sofia left Julian because she couldn’t take his egotistical and shallow nature. Laura left Julian because she couldn’t take his anger after losing his hands, depression, and him needing more emotionally from the relationship.

Julian, truthfully, I think needs someone who can accept his flaws- that he is at times: very vain, very shallow, and has a very big ego. He’s ambitious and that DOES result in him desiring power and success. He IS a very emotional person- and while that CAN be a positive (he truthfully cares about people a little TOO much); it can also be a big negative.

In some ways I think the strength in Sofia is, that she does on some level understand him more than Laura. I also think Sofia obviously loves Julian, even after she lost her powers… (enough to dream about him and in her desire to get her powers back)…

Laura more or less seems to have completely moved on from Julian and made it clear in Liu she no longer feels that way for him; whether you agree with Liu’s interpretation of their relationship or not…it’s a LOT harder to patch up their relationship than it is Sofia/Julian- because it’s been heavily implied Sofia still has feels FOR him.

I just think both books are good in their own ways and have their strengths and weaknesses…but while I AM a huge X-23 fan, I will still admit Laura being added to teen books often spells doom for certain characters and previous development

The NYX kids, Wind Dancer, Hellion, Surge, Elixir, Avengers Arena….

Not to be too down on Laura lately though… but it was kind of nice seeing the original NXM get attention…