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ginnsbaker · 1 year ago

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (4/?)

Part summary: Getting to know Leigh Shaw comes with some hardships—literally.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 4.600 | Warnings/Tags: Pining | A/N: Still haven't decided how many parts will there be, but for now, enjoy reader's POV as her interest in Leigh grows :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Next

For some reason, you keep saying yes to Leigh Shaw.

Yes to providing your veterinary services for her.

Yes to divulging the private aspects of your relationship with Matt.

Yes to staying in her yoga class.

Yes to running very early in the morning, with a lung-busting pace that leaves you dehydrated and feeling queasy by the end of it.

As if to add insult to injury, Leigh Shaw doubles back to where you're lagging behind, barely hanging on for dear life. She flashes that cheeky grin, says, “Try to keep up,” and takes off again like it's nothing. You're left gasping for air, your heart screaming in agony as you attempt to match her pace, but Leigh's already a blur ahead.

She was right—your endurance is really nowhere to be seen. It's in these moments, as you're pushing past what you thought were your limits, that you start to get why Leigh's both a pain and a push that was kind of missing before in your life.

Leigh eventually vanishes around a corner, and consequently, you lose sight of her. You dig deep, pushing yourself to keep going, refusing to quit out of stubbornness and curiosity of what your body could do. By some miracle, you make it to the finish line, which turns out to be that park you've been to only once before with Matt. He had made it a special day with sandwiches and comics, while you got lost in a book he swore you’d love. You can’t shake off the feeling that this place is significant for Leigh and Matt too.

When you finally stumble in, there's Leigh, chilling on the grass, looking like she's lost in thought, her eyes dark with something you can't quite put your finger on. But then she spots you, and it's like someone flipped a switch. She’s back to the flippant Leigh—easygoing, as if nothing’s amiss.

“Was half expecting to find you passed out somewhere back there,” Leigh smirks up at you.

You can’t help but flop down next to her, letting the sun beat down on your face, feeling every bit of your skin that's exposed soaking up the warmth. Thirst claws at your throat, fierce and unforgiving. Gathering the little energy you have left, you manage to ask, “How long have you been waiting?”

Leigh glances at you, her casual ease belying the brief glimpse of concern you thought you'd seen earlier. “Oh, about five minutes,” she says, her tone light, as if the grueling run was nothing more than a leisurely stroll for her.

You pant out, “Why are you so fast, anyway?”

Leigh bursts into laughter, finding your question absurdly funny. “Fast? Me? That's hardly competitive speed, you're just... completely out of shape.”

You pout, feeling slightly offended but too exhausted to argue. Stretching out beside her, you let out a series of groans and pops, feeling your muscles protest and then slowly relax. “Feels like I'm a hundred years old,” you mutter with a heavy sigh.

Still chuckling, Leigh shakes her head. “I've been running for three years now. It's more of a hobby, really, but I need to stay active for my job at the Beautiful Beast. Or my mom will fire me.”

“Your family owns that place?”

Leigh corrects you quickly, “Not my family, just my mom. And being the owner's daughter doesn't give me a pass to slack off. I can't afford to be terrible at my job.”

Her distinction between “my family” and “my mom” sticks with you. It seems like a clue into her family dynamics. In the short time you've known her, Leigh comes across as straightforward, genuinely helpful, and yes, perhaps a bit quick-tempered, but overall...she's okay.

More than okay, actually. She must be incredible to those she truly cares about. So, what went wrong with her and Matt? How could he betray her like that? It’s even more baffling when you remember Leigh saying they were trying for a baby. That detail still turns your stomach, and you're endlessly grateful you never went down that path with him, despite once wishing things had gone differently.

Lost in your thoughts, you don't realize how intently you've been staring at Leigh until she calls you out on it. “What is it?” she asks, her voice pulling you back to the present.

Flustered, you find yourself asking the question that's been simmering in your mind, since you first pulled on your sneakers for that 5k this morning. “Why'd you bring me along for your run? Why are you even helping me?”

Leigh just gives an offhand shrug, says, “Well, you didn't have to show up, so you're actually helping yourself.”

“Fair enough,” you reply, but can't shake off a bit of disappointment. The truth is, you were hoping she'd say something that suggested she was up for being friends, or at least saw you as more than just another client of hers.

It's weird, really, why you keep wanting to be friends with Leigh Shaw.

Suddenly, Leigh glances at her watch and looks up at you. “Ready to go?” she asks, a bit impatiently.

“If I can still walk after this, sure,” you say, half-joking, half-serious, feeling the effects of the run in every muscle.

Leigh laughs at that, a genuine, hearty laugh that lights up her face. It's a sound that's real and unguarded, making you think that maybe, becoming friends with her isn't such a far-fetched idea after all.

Yoga sessions with Leigh stick to the script you first stumbled into. She's all business, only really tossing you a nod or a word when your form goes sideways. “Shoulders down, back straight,” she corrects you, her voice firm, yet not unkind. Outside of that, you might as well blend into the walls for all the personal attention she gives, just like anyone else there. Everyone gets the same treatment—tough love, dished out in equal measure.

Despite her imposing presence, there's something else, a depth to her that often seems just out of reach. You catch her sometimes, looking out the window with a distant gaze. But then she blinks, shakes it off, and is back, fully attentive and ready to guide the next pose.

“Focus on your breathing,” Leigh's voice snaps you out of your focus on her. “Inhale deeply, and as you exhale, sink deeper into the pose.”

Determined to excel, you pour all your effort into being the student Leigh doesn’t need to worry about. Ironically, your diligence only seems to make you more invisible to her. As you master the poses with less need for correction, Leigh's interactions with you dwindle further.

After class, you toy with the idea of approaching her. Maybe get some feedback, or even suggest grabbing dinner together so you don't have to eat alone. But as you're putting together what to say, you notice Leigh seems in a hurry. She exchanges a few quick words with another instructor who's just arrived, and before you can decide, she's excusing herself and heading out.

The moment to ask her has slipped away, leaving you to pack your yoga mat with a resigned sigh.

Another time, then, you think.

The next day, without another invite from Leigh for a run, you lace up your shoes and follow the same route you and Leigh took together. Just 20 minutes into the run, the solo effort feels more like a chore than the engaging challenge it was with company. You loop the route four times, hoping maybe to cross paths with Leigh purely by coincidence, but she’s nowhere to be found.

The studio had announced last night that Leigh’s yoga classes would be temporarily led by a different teacher, with her expected to return next week. This bit of news leaves you mulling about her absence, kind of hoping you might accidentally run into her to find out more. But as the week goes by without any such encounters, you realize you actually know very little about her daily routines or habits. Despite the nagging curiosity, you refrain from texting her, not wanting to intrude or anything.

Admittedly, your motivation to work out dipped slightly without Leigh being part of it.

When you finally talk yourself into visiting Matt’s grave, you do so just minutes before it could get really dark. You've chosen this time deliberately, betting on the common fear that keeps most people away from cemeteries as night approaches.

Your main concern isn't the general public, though; it's just Leigh. Past experiences have shown that encounters with her can happen unexpectedly and in the most random of places—like that night at the club when she ended up getting sick just a few inches away from you. You're not here out of a longing for Matt. Instead, you aim to properly close this chapter of your life, hoping to do so without running into his widow and giving her the wrong impression.

The air holds a chill that wasn't there when you left home, making you wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. It’s quiet, just the sound of your own footsteps crunching softly on the path. Being here as the day turns to night, watching shadows stretch out long and skinny, really gets you thinking about life, death, and everything else in-between. Maybe that's also why people avoid this place—it sort of forces you to face the music, making you curious if all the things you're wrapped up in are actually important or utterly pointless.

As for you, you haven't quite figured out where you stand on that yet. Lately, you've really come into your own in your career, especially now that you’re seeing the profits steadily rising each month. But that sense of achievement fades each evening as you return to your empty apartment. It's just you, night after night, pushing through the grind, pouring everything into your job. Yet, when you try to envision where you'll be in five years from now, the picture isn't clear. Will you be settling down with someone, or just picking up the pieces from another relationship that’s gone awry?

Finding Matt's grave takes a moment, but when you do, your heart clenches. It’s just a simple stone with his name, the years he was here, and a couple of words(you’re guessing it’s Leigh who wrote them) about him.

You kneel down, the grass cool and slightly damp beneath you, and lay the flowers you've brought on his grave. They look kind of bright against the dimming light. Like hope.

“Hey Matt,” you say, stepping into a silence that feels like it's hanging around, just waiting for you to fill it. Talking to a dead person feels ridiculous like they do in the movies, but it's not like anyone's around to hear you.

“You know, I met Leigh,” you begin. “Your wife you conveniently forgot to mention when you were busy asking me out.”

There's a sour edge to your voice, airing grievances to a guy who can't throw back excuses anymore. You can't help but chuckle, though it's more bitter than amused. You let your thoughts more freely now, like the barrier between you and Matt has thinned out with the honesty.

“Leigh is… beautiful, you know? Not in that runway or social media kind of way, but in a manner that's hard to just overlook.”

You could list a dozen more positive things about Leigh to tell Matt, but he already knew all that, didn't he?

“The first time I met her, I felt small, maybe even insecure. And now?” you shake your head, smiling slightly. “...I still do. But mostly, I'm just left thinking…” You pause. The next thought isn't really for Matt, not anymore.

It’s for you.

“I just can't wrap my head around why you'd want to be with me when you had her. I feel like the murder weapon that's trying to seek justice for its victim.” You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a great spot to be in, honestly. Makes me feel kind of helpless, you know?"

Sitting back, you take a moment, just looking at the headstone, at the name etched into the granite. The conversation, if you can call it that, feels like it's shifted something inside you. Not closure, exactly, but maybe the first step towards understanding—or at least accepting—that some things just don't make sense.

Standing up, you dust off your knees, taking one last look at the grave. “Anyway, Matt, I hope you've found peace. It looks like we're all searching for a little of that ourselves. Thanks for the book suggestions. Though, you might be a bit disappointed to hear Agatha Christie remains my top favorite.”

As you walk away from Matt's grave, it feels as though you're leaving a piece of yourself behind to rest with him. You decide then, as the cemetery gate closes behind you with a gentle click, that you won't let this page in your book define you. Maybe tomorrow, you'll try a new coffee shop, or take a different route to work. Small changes, but important ones.

Maybe you’ll even try that spin class that scares you so.

“Since when did you start living at the gym?” Suzie teases you from her spot across the desk, that signature playful, all-knowing arch to her eyebrow.

Suzie, who had originally come on board as a receptionist at your vet clinic with little more than enthusiasm and a genuine love for animals to her name, had quickly become much more than just a staff member. Her lack of relevant experience was initially a concern, but her dedication and the way she connected with both the animals and their owners made it clear she was a perfect fit. Over time, she evolved from being just the receptionist to a friend.

A friend who seems to enjoy teasing you, though.

“First off, it’s hardly the gym. It’s this fitness class I’ve been trying out—big distinction,” you clarify, eyes glued on your phone. The last half hour has been a slow crawl towards 5 PM, the magical hour when you can finally shut down and head to Leigh’s class at Beautiful Beast.

“Tomatoes, to-mah-toes,” she quips.

“Not the same thing,” you insist, still not fully engaged in the conversation, your focus on a food article you're reading.

Suzie just waves her hand dismissively. “Semantics. But seriously, you've been really into whatever this is. There's gotta be a guy making those sweat sessions worth it.”

You can't help but laugh, the idea so off base it circles back to being hilarious.

“Trust me, the allure isn't the sweat. It's those endorphins,” you say.

“Yeah, sure,” she drawls, unconvinced. “Come on. Who is it? I know you're not this amped to be all gross and sweaty for nothing.”

“There's no guy, Suzie.” Then, as if the thought just occurred to you, you add, “Or girl. But honestly, there's really no one.”

At that, Suzie's expression shifts from playful teasing to one of pleasant surprise and a touch of mock offense. “Hold up, you might be into girls? And here I was, shooting my shot in the dark this whole time!”

Your ears burn red at her blunt flirtation. “Suzie, come on,” you stammer.

“If I had known that was on the table, I would’ve upped my game ages ago,” she says, her wink sending your face from warm to inferno.

“You’re impossible,” you manage to say as you hurry to collect your things, ready to rush out the door.

“Impossibly into you,” she retorts saucily.

“I’m gonna have to fire you, you know,” you mutter jokingly, glancing at your watch. “Gotta run, bye!”

“Just so we're clear, the offer stands,” she adds, still grinning.

You feel a sense of relief seeing Leigh back in class.

Though the website clearly stated her schedule, you found yourself on edge until you could see Leigh with your own eyes. There's nothing noticeably different about her; Leigh seems just as composed and in control as ever. When she catches you looking, she offers a small, somewhat dismissive smile before turning her attention elsewhere.

You spend the whole session with your energy dialed up, partly because Leigh's presence just does that, and partly because you're already plotting. As soon as she calls time on the session, you're practically springing into action. Your belongings—a water bottle, towel, and the rest—land in a haphazard pile on the floor as you quickly stand up, eager to catch her before she disappears. You make your way toward her, determined not to let her slip away this time.

Leigh's busy packing up her own gear, her back to you as you close the distance. “Hey, Leigh,” you say, and it sounds like you've got this under control, even if your heart's hammering away in your chest. She turns, and there's a flicker of surprise in her expression. You’re hoping it’s the good kind of surprise.

“I'm really glad you're back,” you push on, hoping it doesn't sound as clumsy to her as it does in your head.

She takes a swig from her water bottle, giving you a once-over, and then says, “Thanks. Do you need anything?” There's an expectant look in her eyes, and in that moment, your confidence begins to wane, melting under her gaze. You're on the spot, scrambling for words, any words that don't involve asking her out for dinner, which suddenly seems like an insurmountable task.

“Uh, actually,” you start, your mind racing to find a safe topic, “I was wondering if you had any tips on improving my form?”

Leigh's expression softens, and she nods, setting her water bottle down. “Sure, I can show you a few things. Let's go back to the mats,” she suggests, leading the way. Despite feeling like your tank is on empty and your body crying for hydration, backing down doesn’t feel like an option.

Not when Leigh is already spreading her mat next to yours. She does so with a sort of blasé authority, and you can't help but think how this is Leigh all over—straight to the point, no fuss. You're tired, sure, and a part of you is suggesting that you're about to make a fool of yourself with your shaky legs and probably even shakier form. But then, Leigh starts talking, pointing out where you're going wrong and how to fix it, and suddenly, you're not thinking about dinner anymore. You’re too distracted now by the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of her sweat.

The next few minutes turn into what feels like a whole new session under Leigh's watchful eyes. She's on you about everything—the angle of your arm, the set of your shoulders, even the way you're distributing your weight on your feet. Leigh's not mean about it, but she doesn't let anything slide. You're just trying to keep up, watching her move with that easy confidence. It's mesmerizing, really, how she can make something so complex look so simple.

By the time you're done, your muscles are burning, your breath is ragged, and you're pretty sure you've sweated out every last drop of water in your body. As you lie there, staring at the ceiling and asking yourself how a ten-minute guidance turned into an even harder session, you mentally kick yourself for not just admitting you wanted company for dinner. It was right there, and you were too scared to be rejected.

But why? Considering everything that's happened and the circumstances, Leigh turning you down seems like the more probable outcome anyway.

And then Leigh does something totally offbeat. She glances at the clock, then back at you, and out of nowhere, she's asking, “Want to grab something to eat?”

It's so unexpected, that for a moment, you're sure you misheard her. But Leigh's waiting for an answer, a slight smile playing on her lips, and suddenly, the fatigue feels a little less overwhelming. You sit up, a slow grin spreading across your face as you realize this is it—your chance, handed to you when you least expected it.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to say, almost tripping over your tongue. “Yeah, that'd be great.”

When Leigh mentioned grabbing something to eat, you expected a sit-down at some cozy restaurant serving healthy food. Instead, she pulls into the drive-thru of a fast-food joint, orders a mountain of fries and a couple of burgers, and parks the car in a secluded spot overlooking the city. It's laid-back, unpolished, and honestly, pretty perfect.

“So, how long have you been in town?” Leigh asks as she hands you a burger, the city lights twinkling below like a scattered deck of glowing cards.

“Just over a year,” you reply, taking a hearty bite of your burger. “Moved here for the business opportunity, but it’s been... you know, slow on the social front.”

Leigh nods, understandingly. “It can be tough, starting fresh somewhere. This place isn't the friendliest to newcomers.”

Your eyebrow lifts, curious whether she's speaking from her own experiences or perhaps someone else's.

“Yeah, most of my socializing happens online these days. My closest friends are scattered across different states,” you say.

Leigh just hums a bit, not really adding anything else. She doesn't go into details about her own friends, so you're left trying to think of something else to talk about. But everything that comes to mind feels too personal, like asking why she wasn't at the Beautiful Beast for a week, how she's dealing with being a widow, or questions about her family.

Small talk isn't really your thing, so the conversation fizzles out from here. Both of you just end up staring out at the city lights in silence. Leigh seems comfortable with it though, so you decide to just go with it and savor the quiet moment too.

After a while, Leigh breaks the silence. “I didn't think I'd be able to love another dog after Rogue,” she shares, not taking her eyes off the cityscape. “Matt and I had to put her down because she was sick. It was brutal. I swore off dogs after that.”

You look over at her and offer a soft, “I'm sorry.”

But there's no trace of sadness on her face. It’s so nonchalant, almost as if she’s just talking about the weather and not a painful memory.

“But then...I saw Visitor,” she goes on, a small smile cracking through. “I just knew he needed me. And, this might sound odd, but I realized I wanted to feel needed. When Matt—” She stumbles over his name, a rare falter, but she's quick to brush it off. “When he died, nobody needed me. And I struggled with that. Because being needed felt like a purpose.”

The idea of needing to be needed isn't something you've ever considered. Truth is, you've never really needed anyone. You've been a solo act for as long as you can remember, handling things on your own, relying solely on your own capabilities. And so, that also meant you couldn't imagine being on the other side of the spectrum—being needed by someone.

However, there's a part of you, unexpectedly, that feels a twinge of jealousy towards Leigh. To truly experience loss, there first has to be something meaningful to lose. You're not sure you've ever let yourself have that kind of bond with anyone. Not yet, anyway. It's a sobering thought, making you think about what you might be missing out on.

Leigh notices you're not saying much and says, “I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. I'm sorry.”

You shake your head slightly, “It's okay. I just... I don't think I've ever been in your shoes.”

Leigh looks a bit puzzled. “What do you mean? Are you talking about the dog thing, or…?”

“The other thing,” you clarify.

Leigh smirks. “Oh, I wish I was like that.”

You quickly realize how arrogant that must have sounded, so you rush to explain, “No, I'm not trying to brag or anything. It's just, I guess I've never really opened myself up to that kind of bond.”

“Not even with Matt?” she asks, and there it is—the topic of Matt you've been tiptoeing around. You're suddenly aware that Matt's shadow is something you'll have to get used to, just as Leigh apparently has, given the unceremonious way she alludes to your almost-affair with her late husband.

“No,” you whisper, looking straight into Leigh's eyes, hoping she’ll believe you. “We never needed each other like that.”

Leigh's eyes linger on yours a moment longer before she looks away. Eager to change the subject, you add, “Must've been rough, giving Visitor back to his real family.”

“Yeah. I mean, I shouldn't be, right? But part of me was actually angry at them for letting him get away like that. He could've been hit by a car or worse, all because they weren't careful. But at the end of the day,” she stops, a sigh escaping her, and that smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes comes back as she looks at you again. “He’s not mine.”

“Visitor really snuck into your heart, didn’t he?”

Leigh nods. “I wasn't expecting to care that much, you know?” Then, she offers a small, reflective chuckle. “Makes you think about the connections we allow ourselves to have, and the ones we avoid, doesn't it?”

You try to gauge whether she's still talking about Visitor while also trying to figure out where you stand—the connections she's chosen or the ones she sidesteps? Before you find the courage to ask, Leigh starts the car and presses down on the clutch, ready to switch gears.

“I need to head back to the studio, so I can only drop you off somewhere on the way,” Leigh says, signaling the end of your time together for now.

You quickly decide that being dropped off at the studio is fine. “The Beautiful Beast works for me,” you reply, hoping to extend the time you have left with her, even if it's just by a few minutes.

The ride is quiet, the earlier ease replaced by a thoughtful silence. You're watching her, the way she's all eyes on the road but clearly lost in her head. Leigh, as you’ve noticed, is someone hard to get to open up, her walls built high and strong. She's this fortress of a person, but tonight felt different, like she accidentally left a window open and you caught a glimpse inside.

It just makes you crave for more.

As the studio comes into view, it feels like you've both made some progress with Leigh and yet, somehow, not made any at all. Stepping out of the car, you’re met by Jules, another staff member at the Beautiful Beast whom you've heard Leigh refer to numerous times, approaches. You barely catch her saying, “Danny is waiting for you inside,” to Leigh. You miss the frown on Jules's face or how Leigh instantly seems on edge.

“Thanks for the ride—and for dinner,” you say, feeling a bit out of place now.

“Don't get used to it,” she says, the corners of her lips twisting into a reluctant smile. “Was nice talking, though. Thanks for not making it weird.”

As she's quickly pulled away by whatever's going on inside, you hover for a second, debating if you should go in for a goodbye hug. But before you know it, Leigh is tossing a quick “Bye” in your direction as she strides towards the studio.

You're left there, floating in the aftermath, wondering about everything and nothing all at once.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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gravity-between-us · 4 months ago

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Gravity Between Us

Chapter 2: Tidal Forces

Summary: Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try.

Pairing: Female! MC x Caleb

Spoilers: Spoilers for Caleb's Myth's as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers.

WARNINGS:

Unlikely to be completely canon. The other love interests will not be likely to appear in this fic.

MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times.

Very? Slow Burn.

Very explicit smut (Chapter 12 onward): PiV/oral (male and female receiving)/anal sex. Fingering. First time. Pet names (angel, babe, baby, pip-squeak). Kinks: Praise, breeding, creampie, light dom/sub. Rough. Some consensual degradation talk (MC is into it). Probably many, many more that I am forgetting to name. If you see one that should be listed that isn't, feel free to let me know. (MC is a repressed deviant, and so is Caleb.)

Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour.

Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals.

Protective Caleb. Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship.

We will revisit memory scenes, but they will be different from the memories in-game.

As proofread as I can get it, but not beta read, so probably some mistakes.

Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions.

More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

The store Caleb takes me to is nothing short of outrageous. It boasts an overwhelming array of high-end furniture, each piece embedded with entirely unnecessary tech.

Do couches really need built-in speakers? Cup holders that can heat and cool drinks on demand? Recliners that give you a full-body massage while simulating the sound of a crackling fireplace? I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these beds came with an AI that whispered affirmations while you slept.

I try not to look at the price tags. I really do. But the few glimpses I accidentally catch nearly send me into cardiac arrest. Who in their right mind pays this much for a coffee table? Is it made of enchanted wood? Will it levitate and brew coffee for me in the morning?

Still, despite my incredulous muttering, the second I so much as glance at an item with a hint of interest, Caleb is on it. He either picks it up or scans it into his virtual cart with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t care about financial consequences.

“Caleb,” I hiss as he casually adds an absurdly expensive throw blanket to the list. “You don’t have to—”

“You like it,” he says simply, as if that settles everything.

“That’s not a reason to buy it!”

He gives me a pointed look. “In my book, it is.”

I stare at him, then at the virtual cart, then back at him. “You know this is insane, right?”

“Of course,” he grins. “But at least you’ll be comfy while sufferin’ through it.”

“Caleb, seriously. This is too much!” I protest, but he tilts his head, as if I’m speaking a language he’s never heard before. “Some of this stuff costs more than my entire yearly salary!”

“Well,” he muses, lips twitching, “you could always join the Fleet as my permanent adjutant. I’d make sure you’re well compensated—great benefits, too. And you’d have the world’s coolest boss.”

I bump my shoulder against his, and though he tries to bite back a grin, laughter slips through anyway. It’s effortless—this rhythm between us—jokes, banter, a dance we’ve long since mastered. Just like that, my earlier hesitation melts away, dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

As we weave through the aisles, a massive apple plushie perched high on a shelf catches my eye.

“I want that,” I announce, pointing.

Caleb follows my line of sight, then snorts. “Really? Where are you even going to put that thing?”

“In my bed,” I reply, as if the answer is obvious. “Where else?”

He hums, rubbing his chin in exaggerated thought. “Ah, I see. Trying to replace me with the plushie.”

For a fleeting second, his expression cracks, but it’s gone before I can name it, replaced by his usual teasing smirk.

“It’s way up there,” he mentions. “How do you plan on getting it down?”

“I’ll go get a—”

Before I can finish, gravity bends around me, and I rise effortlessly into the air. Caleb’s Evol.

“Trust me, pip-squeak?”

“With my life.”

The ascent is smooth and steady. I remember when he was still learning, when his control would slip and send me rocketing into the sky. I used to beg him to launch me straight into space—just to see if he could.

I reach for the plushie, securing it in my arms, and flash him a triumphant thumbs-up. Seconds later, my feet meet solid ground once more. Caleb takes the apple from me, inspecting it with pursed lips, clearly unimpressed by my choice.

“Come on. Let’s pay for this,” he sighs. “If I don’t get food in you soon, I’ll be dealing with a grump.”

“You!” I gasp, swatting his chest in mock outrage. “I do not get grumpy when I’m hungry!”

He levels me with a knowing look. “Remember that time at the amusement park when you sat down in the middle of the walkway and refused to move because the restaurant was ‘too far away’?”

“Nope,” I chirp, shaking my head, smile as innocent as I can manage. “Pretty sure you’re making that up.”

“I wish I was. I had to carry you all the way there while you pouted.”

I roll my eyes but concede with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But can we eat at home? I think I’m all ‘people’d out’ for the day.”

“Sure thing.” Caleb nods, digging through his pockets for the car keys. “I’ll pay for this stuff and meet you outside.”

I hesitate, uneasy about leaving him with the bill. But, luckily, I have a secret weapon.

When Caleb was declared dead, his accounts were transferred to me—next of kin. I never touched them, but I’m almost certain I still have access. I make a mental note to quietly transfer some funds back.

I remember how, for months after his funeral, I kept paying his cellphone bill. On the loneliest nights, I would call—just to hear his voice when the voicemail picked up. Sometimes I’d do it over and over, as if pressing redial could summon him back.

Now, I wonder… did he have his phone all along?

Did he listen to the messages where I wept, where I whispered how much I missed him? Did he hear the ones where I told him I loved him and I was lost without him?

And still, he never reached out.

A part of me can’t let go of that. A quiet, aching resentment curls in my chest—he could have sent me a sign. When we were kids, we spoke in codes, messages woven into the mundane, undetectable to anyone but us.

It started as a game—to hide our plans from Gran when we snuck chocolates instead of fruit from the store—but over time, it became our own secret language.

Could he not have used that?

I don’t know. Maybe it’s better that way.

But the bitterness lingers, a quiet ghost pressing against the edges of my thoughts, whispering of things I cannot change.

The rain had been relentless that day. A cold, unyielding downpour that seeped into my skin, soaked through my black dress, and weighed heavy in my hair. I remember how the world blurred—water streaking down my face, mixing with the tears I couldn’t stop.

Caleb’s funeral had been full of people, but I only remember fragments. The gleaming rows of dress uniforms, white gloves curled into fists, polished boots sinking into the mud. His squadmates stood like statues, their grief hidden behind rigid salutes and solemn faces. The flag draped over his casket was crisp, untouched by the rain, as if it existed in a different reality—one where he was still alive. One where I wasn’t standing there, drowning in loss.

I couldn’t stop staring at the casket. At the smooth, dark wood that felt so impersonal, so unlike him. Caleb had been all warmth and laughter, a constant force in my life. Then, he was just… gone.

My hands curled around the small object I’d been holding all day—a tiny metal toy plane. His favourite, the one he used to fly across the room as a kid, making dramatic explosion sounds as he crashed it onto my bed. He’d left it behind when he went to the academy, and I’d kept it ever since, tucked away like a piece of him I could hold onto.

My fingers trembled as I placed it gently against the gravestone, the silver wings catching the dim light before the rain dulled their shine.

“You were supposed to take me with you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “You promised, remember?”

The words felt small, swallowed by the storm. I clenched my teeth, hating how fragile they sounded. Hating him, just a little, for leaving me behind. I stayed long after the funeral ended, long after the others had left and the mud swallowed their footprints. My body ached from the cold, but I couldn’t leave him.

“I hate you for this,” I murmured, pressing my fingers against the stone. “For making me go on without you.”

The wind howled in response, tugging at my dress, but I didn’t move. Not until I had nothing left to say. Not until my fingers were numb and my chest felt hollow. Only then did I turn away.

The slam of a car door jolts me back. I blink, my vision still blurred, though I’m not sure if it’s from the memory or the tears I’d failed to hold back. With a quiet breath, I swipe at my face before Caleb can see, forcing a smile as he slides into the driver’s seat, entirely unaware of the storm still raging inside me.

"Alright," he says, stretching with a satisfied sigh. "Let’s get out of here before I bankrupt myself buying you plushies."

His voice is light and teasing, a stark contrast to the weight pressing against my ribs. But that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? Caleb, the sun. Me, the storm.

I nod, tucking my emotions away. "Yeah. Let’s go."

Evening unfurls over Skyhaven in slow, gilded waves, like ink spilling across a golden page. The sun sinks toward the horizon, its last defiant rays piercing the heavens, setting the sky ablaze in smouldering hues of copper, crimson, and molten saffron. The clouds cradle the light in their billowing arms, their edges kissed by fire, their centers fading into soft, dusky violet.

From Caleb’s house, perched high above the world, the sky feels boundless, a shifting sea of colour and light. Wisps of cloud curl around the balcony like phantom tendrils, stirring lazily with the wind, their delicate forms dissolving and reforming with each breath of the heavens. They drift apart, as if intoxicated by the sunset’s beauty, slipping like fleeting dreams from memory.

As the last of the sun’s radiance retreats below the horizon, twilight rolls in like a whisper. Stars begin to blink awake—hesitant at first, like shy performers stepping onto a grand stage—before scattering themselves boldly across the sky. A deep, endless blue spreads overhead, a celestial canvas dusted with pearl-like stars.

The air shifts, losing the warmth of day, as the wind carries the crisp scent of rain yet to fall, mingling with the distant, charged hum of the city below. Skyhaven finds itself suspended in a world between, where the ground is a distant memory and the stars feel close enough to touch.

I reach up into the abyssal depths, as if I might be able to hold the starlight in my palm. My heart cracks open in the cold, where nobody will hear it cry. My Evol shines, gilded against the bruised hues of the sky. I know I can’t resonate with the stars, but that’s never stopped me from trying. Their beauty is haunting, ethereal in its eminence. Sometimes I wonder: if I can’t have my freedom, why can they?

“Whatcha doing?” Caleb’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and my Evol flares bright, like a star collapsing in on itself for a split second before I pull it back.

“Nothing,” I reply, my hand quickly shrinking back to my chest.

“You used to do that as a kid, you know.” Caleb’s tone is casual, but he doesn’t miss a beat, ignoring my half-hearted attempt to hide my thoughts. “When it wouldn’t work, you’d beg me to lift you closer to the sky.”

“Well,” I shrug nonchalantly, shaking my head with a playful grin, “I still can’t resonate with the stars, but I have a feeling you might be able to launch me into orbit at this point.”

Caleb’s gaze lingers on the sky with an unfamiliar weight, a strange despondency I rarely see from him. He stares into the vastness, as if searching for something, his fingers absentmindedly cradling his chin.

“I might be able to,” he muses, his voice trailing off.

The wind tousles his hair, and the scent of rain stirs in the air as he stays lost in thought, eyes fixed on the heavens.

I nudge his side lightly. “If you’re seriously considering launching me into orbit, I should at least get a helmet first. It’s only fair.”

His lips twitch with amusement as he turns to me. “Oh, please. Like a little thing like space would stop you. You’d probably just show up back here, annoyed the moon wasn’t as impressive up close.”

“I would be mad,” I admit with a dramatic sigh. “I bet it’s just a bunch of boring rocks.”

“Exactly, and then I’d have to listen to you complain about it for days.”

“You love listening to me complain,” I counter, grinning wide.

“Hm. ‘Love’ is a strong word,” he teases, feigning deep thought before shaking his head. “I’d say ‘tolerate.’”

I place a hand over my heart, feigning a deep wound. “Wow. Here I was, ready to let you be my first pick when I take dominion over the stars. Guess I’ll have to go with someone who actually appreciates me instead.”

Caleb snorts, his earlier melancholy melting away into laughter. “Yeah, yeah. You do that. In the meantime, dinner’s ready. Unless you want to continue your existential crisis out here?”

“As tempting as that sounds, I guess I’ll come eat.”

“Generous of you,” he retorts playfully, turning on his heel to head inside. “Try not to overthrow the celestial order before dessert.”

“No promises.”

I follow him into the warmth of the house, leaving the stars to their untouchable freedom. Caleb moves easily in the kitchen, his back to me as he plates up dinner. I’ve always known he’s a good cook—it’s one of those facts about him I never really thought much about before.

Just like I never really thought about the way his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong hands and those unfairly attractive forearms.

Since when have forearms been attractive?

I linger in the doorway, watching him longer than necessary before forcing myself to move forward. “So, what’s on the menu? Something extravagant? Or just your usual ‘Caleb masterpiece’?”

He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “First of all, all of my meals are masterpieces.”

I scoff, trying to sound unaffected. “Debatable.”

“Second of all,” he continues, turning back to the plates, “braised short ribs, garlic mashed potatoes, and a side of vegetables. You know, because I care about your well-being.”

I blink, momentarily lost for words. “Oh.” My brain shorts out. “That’s… uh, very adult of you.”

Caleb pauses, looking over at me with an amused expression. “Very adult of me?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by my reaction.

I clear my throat and cross my arms. “You know, like... responsible. Grown-up. With... food. That you made. Yourself.”

Why am I like this?

His smirk deepens as he leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Right. Because I’m secretly a ten-year-old surviving on cereal and questionable vending machine snacks.”

“Well, I was under the impression you’d never really grown up.”

His eyes glint with mischief. “Oh? And here I thought you liked that about me.”

I open my mouth, then immediately close it. Something about the way he’s looking at me right now—casual, teasing, infuriatingly attractive—turns my brain to static. I busy myself inspecting the table, as if it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“I guess it has its... occasional merits.”

“Uh-huh.” Caleb watches me a minute longer before tilting his head. “Okay, what’s going on with you?”

My heart stumbles. “What?”

“You’re acting weird, Inara.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

I scoff. “I am perfectly normal.”

“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced. With exaggerated thoughtfulness, he taps his chin. “Wait a second. Don’t tell me—” His eyes widen, full of mock horror. “Did you hit your head outside? Inhale too much cloud air? Are you possessed?”

I groan. “You are so dramatic.”

“Says the person who just described my cooking as ‘very adult.’”

Heat prickles my cheeks. “Shut up.”

Caleb chuckles, shaking his head as he sets the plates on the table. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you off the hook—for now.” He pulls out a chair with an exaggerated flourish. “Come on, sit. Before your ‘perfectly normal’ self forgets how to function entirely.”

“So,” Caleb says, digging into his food with zero hesitation, “Are you gonna keep making that face all night, or is this just your new thing?”

I nearly drop my fork. “What face?”

“The one where you look like you just realized the sun’s a star.”

I clutch my fork tighter, debating whether stabbing him with it would be too aggressive. “I do not look like that.”

He grins around a mouthful of food. “Mmm. Sure.”

I shove a bite into my mouth just to give myself a reason not to respond. Of course, because the universe is cruel, the food is amazing. Warm, perfectly seasoned, with just the right balance of heat and flavour. It’s almost offensive how good it is.

“Ugh,” I groan, because I have zero self-control. “Why are you good at everything?”

Caleb tilts his head, smug as anything. “Oh? You finally admit it?”

I glare at him, cheeks burning. “I take it back.”

“Nah, too late.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking downright pleased with himself. “Can’t unsay the truth, pip-squeak.”

I scowl, stabbing at my food with a little more force than necessary. Caleb just laughs, shaking his head before turning his attention to the window. Outside, the stars have fully emerged, scattered like shards of shattered light across the sky.

For a moment, I let myself watch him—the way his expression softens, the way the quiet settles over him like a familiar friend. There’s an ease to it—to him—that makes my heart do that stupid, traitorous thing where it clenches and stumbles in my chest.

I turn back to my food before I do anything reckless, like keep staring.

“So,” Caleb says after a beat, flicking his gaze back to me. “Are you gonna tell me what’s up, or do I have to start guessing? Because I gotta say, watchin’ you malfunction like this is kind of entertaining.”

I choke. “I am not malfunctioning.”

“Uh-huh.” He taps his fingers against the table, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve. “So if I were to say... pick you up and spin you around like I used to, you wouldn’t turn into a human-shaped emergency alert system?”

I gape at him. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin widens, devious as anything. “Wouldn’t I?”

I shove the rest of my food into my mouth as fast as possible, which just makes him laugh harder.

Maybe if I eat fast enough, I can escape. I bolt the second my plate is empty, but I barely make it two steps before I hear Caleb shift. Then—predictably—he moves.

“Caleb, no—”

“Caleb, yes.”

I bolt.

The problem is, Caleb is fast. Not just fast—predictably fast, which means I don’t even have to look to know he’s already on my heels. I make it three steps past the kitchen, heart hammering, when I feel his presence behind me, closing in like some relentless, overpowered force of nature.

“No, no, no—”

“Yes, yes, yes—”

I dodge left. Caleb lunges. I twist away at the last second, nearly colliding with the couch as I scramble to change direction.

He’s laughing now—actually laughing, like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks. “You do know running just makes this worse for you, right?”

“You would say that,” I huff, kicking off the floor to gain momentum.

It doesn’t matter. One second I’m sprinting; the next I’m caught. Caleb grabs me around the waist with ridiculous ease, lifting me clear off the ground as I shriek.

“No! Caleb, put me down—”

“You know the rules, pip-squeak,” he says, voice full of mirth. “If you run, you get spun.”

I barely have time to react before the whole world tilts—arms flailing, breath hitching as he spins me in a wild, dizzying circle. The motion sends my stomach flipping, my pulse thundering, my everything completely out of control.

"CAL—" My words dissolve into helpless laughter, any protest lost to the sheer absurdity of it all.

The spinning slows, and the grip around my waist shifts—less playful, more steady. I feel it before I even process it: how my body presses against his, how my laughter fades into something quieter, more complicated.

When he finally stops, I realize just how close we are.

In the chaos, my hands have found his shoulders, fingers curled into his shirt without me even noticing. His arms are still around me, firm and warm, anchoring me in place.

Stars above—he’s right there.

I can see the way his expression shifts. The laughter is still in his eyes, but it’s softer now, tempered. His breathing isn’t steady. Neither is mine.

The space between us is nonexistent. I should say something. I should move.

Instead, I keep staring at the way the light catches in his hair, at the sharp angles of his jaw, at the curve of his lips, and at the way he’s looking at me.

Not like a best friend or a childhood memory, but like something else.

"See?" His voice is quieter now, a little rough around the edges. "Didn’t even scream that much this time."

I blink, throat dry. "I definitely screamed."

He grins, slower this time, as if he’s letting the smile stretch across his face at his own pace. "Mmm. You sure?"

"Obviously."

He hums, tilting his head slightly, his eyes dipping just for a second. I swear I feel it—the weight of it, lingering too long. My stomach flips for an entirely different reason.

I push lightly against his chest. "Okay. Now put me down."

He doesn’t move immediately. Not like he’s ignoring me, but like he heard me and still chose to hold me longer than necessary. Finally, he sets me back on my feet, his hands lingering a fraction longer than needed.

The moment breaks. I exhale, stepping back, willing the heat in my face to fade. Caleb watches me, an emotion I can’t quite decipher swirling in his eyes—violet and pink, like a nebula suspended in the quiet of space. He exhales too, raking a hand through his hair.

Then, like nothing happened at all, he smirks. “So… Malfunctioning confirmed, huh?"

I groan, shoving past him toward the sink. "I hate you."

He laughs, following me like nothing's changed. Like he wasn’t just holding me like that. Like I wasn’t just wondering what it would feel like if he—

No. Not finishing that thought.

I grip the edge of the sink, inhale sharply, and pretend my face isn’t on fire.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

Chapter Masterlist Thank you for taking the time to read! I started this for fun, and decided it might be something silly others may possibly enjoy with me.

If you do, leave a comment, or don't, or you know, do whatever you're comfortable with! Take care everyone!

#lads caleb #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads fanfic #loveanddeepspace #caleb x mc #caleb lads #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lnds #lnds caleb #love and deepspace fanfiction #Gravity Between Us

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sometimes-love-is-enough · 1 year ago

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Every time you talk about giving yourself writing challenges, I think about how it would be fun to have a 'handicap bingo'- where you get a random writing 'handicap' like not being able to say any character's name, and have to write a full story with it. Idk. I think it would be fun

Min's Writing Challenge

Rules: Roll a d20, accept your fate, write a fic of your choosing and follow your fate to the letter. (Creative workarounds encouraged.)

Roll twice; you have to use both. If you roll another 1, the extra challenges compound accordingly.

Pick a single letter, A-Z. You're not allowed to use it for the entire fic. (Bonus challenge: E.)

Every sentence must be under ten words long. (Bonus challenge: five words.)

Pick a poetry/lyric style (sonnet, terza rima, ballad, etc). The whole fic must be written in that form. (Bonus challenge: keep it still obviously a normal fic, with appropriate tropes and narrative conventions.)

You must write in future tense.

You must write in first-person POV.

You must write in second-person POV.

Take your least favorite fanon concept/trope, and make it into something you want to write. (Bonus challenge: play the trope entirely straight - no subversions! - and make it enjoyable anyway.)

No character names allowed. (Bonus challenge: no dialogue tags either; you can't use descriptive phrases like 'the man in the prince costume' to work around it.)

No dialogue allowed. (Bonus challenge: no internal monologues allowed, either.)

Dialogue only - playscripts encouraged.

Epistolary fic - only letters, emails, notes, etc.

Write an AU, but the alternative universe is a profession!AU that you know nothing about. (Bonus challenge: no research allowed.)

Unreliable narrator. (Bonus challenge: the narrator is good at being unreliable, to the point that they might legitimately fool a reader.)

Whatever fic concept you have, you can only write the very ending of it. (Bonus challenge: you aren't allowed to use any exposition to explain how you got to that point.)

Write any AU of your choosing, but you must choose at least one major canonverse event/plot point and adapt it accordingly to your setting of choice. (Bonus challenge: Make the canonverse event and AU of choice absurdly incompatible.)

Must start in medias res, with a 'yep, that's me. Bet you're wondering how I got into this situation!' moment. (Bonus challenge: Don't plan what the in medias res situation is before you write it. Force yourself to resolve whatever bullshit you come up with on the spot. I've definitely never done this in my life, ever.)

You must write in outsider OC POV - no canon characters allowed. (Bonus challenge: No Sanders Shorts/related characters allowed.)

Pick a fairy tale, fable, or myth. The fic must be a retelling or reinterpretation of it. (Bonus challenge: you aren't allowed to reread or reference any version of it while you're writing - from memory only!)

Dealer's choice - pick from any of the above.

Good luck.

#god help you if you nat-one a ten AND eleven #asks #writing challenges #obviously targeted for sanders sides fandom but if anyone else stumbles upon it - go wild

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ghostgirlcara · 9 months ago

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Hi Rotomblr! My name is Cara, I go by she/her, and I'm a Pokémon trainer from Johto!! I'm not too used to this website so please forgive me for any mistakes. (Heck, Rotom weren't even discovered until well past my time, so all this new technology surrounding it kind of makes my head spin!)

It seems to be the standard to start by showing off your trainer card, but the League here refuses to let me renew mine, so you'll have to put up with my old one. ;-;

The Sneasel is Umbra, and the Murkrow is Edgar. My Horsea (Kheb) has long since evolved into a Kingdra, and I started training a Misdreavus (Banshee) a while back. It's a shame that I can't get them officially recognized, but I guess what can you do. Anyway, I'm excited to maybe make some new friends on here!!

-- OOC info and CW tags below cut --

This blog shares a universe with @goldenrodchef. A list of other blogs known to share a universe with them can be found here!

So far I've not encountered any type of Rotomblr blog that I don't want to interact with. Sentient Pokémon, Eebies, Chosens, people who are absurdly powerful, people who are absurdly un-powerful, literally anything goes for me.

On my end, I'll warn that this blog will be making references to glitches and unused content, though I try very hard to keep it reasonably in-universe.

Current Arc: Following a Paper Trail [#following a paper trail] Together with @h3x-code-x and @pokeglitchden Past Arcs: Facing Fears [#facing fears arc]

CW tags are in format [#cw: .*] Tags I've used so far (or plan to use) include: [#cw: sensitive] - discussion of sensitive real-world topics [#cw: death mention] - discussion of death in a way that I felt wasn't covered by the blanket warning. [#cw: death] and [#cw: pokemon death] - ive used these in posts in which cara describes her death in detail [#cw: scopophobia] and [#cw: eye contact] - post contains an image involving direct eye contact with the camera. used together.

Please let me know if something I post makes you uncomfortable; I'd be happy to tag it appropriately so that that discomfort can be avoided in the future!!

#rotomblr #pokemon irl #pkmn irl #pokeblogging #blog intro #rotumblr #my art

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serendark · 10 months ago

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Too Many Triangles

Summary:

Stanley Pines never knew what to make of that creepy cult room full of triangles that he found beneath his brother's house. Decades later, as the portal turns on, he thinks about what he's seen in all three of his brother's journals. He thinks about the note that Bill left behind for Mabel. This demon triangle has been harassing his family. There’s entirely way too many triangles in this house and in this family’s lives. Hours later after the worst reunion Stan's ever had, he steels himself and travels back downstairs, back to the portal basement. He needs to talk to Ford about Bill. He needs to protect his family. Even if that family apparently includes someone who hates him now.

Word count: 8,717

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Language: English

Characters: Stanley Pines (major), Stanford Pines (major), Bill Cipher (mentioned repeatedly), Dipper Pines (brief), Mabel Pines (brief)

Tags: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Self-Harm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Bonding, Guilt, Minor Violence

Spoilers: Season 2 (canon divergent: s02e11 "Not What He Seems"), Journal 3 (lore reference), The Book of Bill (lore reference)

Read on AO3.

Glistening rainbow shimmers of long-abandoned pyramid prisms were indiscernible from the flutters of stale dust motes that fell around Stanley’s shoulders like a hideous ceremonial scarf as he tore pallid drapes down from the walls to the floor beneath his feet.

All too suddenly the room was all too small, walls caving in and seizing the man’s lungs while tumultuous needles pinned his frozen legs in place. He didn’t know where to look, but there was only one place he could, washing over him in waves of deep, dark, terror: Dozens upon dozens of eyes gazing back at him, staring right through him, every inch of his soul torn open and laid bare to see, to be chewed and drank by these confusing triangles… By the absurdly gaudy golden statue that might as well have winked back at him for all that it deigned.

Stan stumbled backwards, backside and hands meeting the floor as he struggled to process what he was beholding. This did not feel like something he should have seen, and he couldn’t shake the gross feeling bubbling under his skin that there was no taking it back, no undoing the fact that he is now privy to this awful, terrible room of goddamn cult secrets. He has become a part of this and he cannot scrub that away.

“What the hell, Sixer…?”

He never knew what to make of this room, and after scouring the piles, drawers, and corners for anything that might help with the portal he never once returned, preferring to forget about it entirely if he could. Unfortunately, forgetting was rather difficult since he passed the place every time he went down to the basement and he kept finding more of those damn prisms in random rooms in his brother’s home.

Sometimes he wondered if he should care more about this discovery, but it’s not like he had a lot of leads to work with. The journal in his possession didn’t mention anything about it and neither did any of the papers scattered around the room or lab, so other than the obvious similarity with the shape of the portal, Stan doubted if there even was more for him to learn, anyway. He just needed to fix the portal, get it running, and get his nerd brother back home. That’s all that mattered. No creepy geometry could alter the path which Stan has stitched into his very soul.

He will fix his greatest mistake or he will die trying. If this house does not see the two brothers reunited, then it will bear witness to the disappearance of both instead.

It’s the least Stan can do.

—

An extensive, wavering exhale rolled over Grunkle Stan’s nerves as he sat on the edge of his bed, head in hands and mind whirring over everything that had happened today. Finally, Stanford Pines was home. The real Stanford.

… Home? What was ‘home’ to Stanley Pines, now? Certainly not in his brother’s arms like he had hoped. Apparently not in the Mystery Shack, either. Not for much longer. A dark chuckle wheezed through his lips as he gingerly massaged the bruise on his temple.

No matter. His twin hates him now, but that won’t change what Stan needs to do. He’s almost tempted to hate himself for his own stubbornness, at this point, but that won’t change the facts. Ungrateful bastard or not, a sad 30 years of daring to hope only for it to leak down the drain… And Stan still knows what path he has bound himself to. He is going to protect his family. Even if that family now includes someone who, once again, is trying to send him away to never see his sorry mug ever again. Even if that family now includes someone who he himself disowned as family merely an hour or two ago.

…Shit, he really regretted that. He idly wondered if Ford might be regretting that whole conversation too, but Stan just shook his head before he got lost in that train of thought for too long.

Bill Cipher. It’s been a long time coming: Stan finally needs to confront the damn triangles with their damn eyes.

He still didn’t know what to make of the private study he found beneath this house all those years ago. But what he did know is that, whatever the geometric eyesore is, it’s dangerous. Stan has scoured every page of the second and third journals lately, blacklight included, and it was all… a lot to take in. Despite what Ford had said, Stan isn’t an idiot. He knows that triangle is bad news. He knows Ford was real chummy with the guy once and then fell out of line, with some rather disturbing pages in Dipper’s journal to prove it.

This demon triangle has been harassing his family. There’s entirely way too many triangles in this house, in his brother’s journals, in the kids’ dreams, in this family’s lives. And Stanley Pines is going to do something about it.

—

He swallowed down the static in his head and the cotton ball in his mouth as he waited for the elevator to carry him down to Hell. He was hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t a mistake.

Well, even if it was, he was doing it anyway. He’s pretty good at that. He’s sure Ford would be more than happy to remind him, even. Safest bet he’s ever gambled.

Once more partaking of their familiar 30-years-long song and dance, the elevator rattled and released Stan into the maw beneath this home for yet another time. Cautious feet stepped forward as he peered ahead, trying to locate his brother.

Stanford was in the portal cavern. Hands busy, head ducked down, sparks flying. The room was still a mess from the gravitational anomalies that had preceded the worst reunion in Stan’s life, though it looked like Ford had pushed some things into comparatively tidier piles. The portal was in even more pieces than it had been after the chaos earlier.

Alright. It’s showtime.

Stan wasn’t looking forward to it.

“We need to talk, Poindexter.”

The speed with which Ford whipped around, choking back a yelp, would have been impressive, perhaps funny, even, if Stan weren’t so anxious. Ford had damn near fallen over, peering towards the source of the sound with too-wide eyes as he dropped what he had been doing and reached beneath his coat towards his gun―

“Wh… Stanley–!”

Stan just shrugged. “Yeesh.” He felt as tired as Ford looked. It’s been a long day and now he’s come back down to this accursed old basement to make it even longer.

Before Ford could finish stringing together his thoughts or lacing his tongue with venom, Stan wagered to jump right into the train directly, disregarding the nausea settling in his stomach: “We gotta deal with that Bill Cipher guy, right? I don’t exactly understand what the sitch is but–”

He saw the ceiling rotate over him and felt his back collide with the floor before he could even blink, world spinning and stars infiltrating his vision as hard as his lungs hissed. He swallowed against the muzzle of Ford’s gun pressed to his neck, those angry owlish eyes boring mere inches away from his face, the man’s full body weight keeping Stan pinned flat; knees digging into thighs and wrists scrunched in a vice grip by an impossibly firm six-fingered hand. Ford growled. Oh sweet Moses, yeah this was going about as well as Stan figured it would.

Panic. Gotta say somethin’. “Oookay, uh, Ford… Stanford, care to explain why ya just came at me like a damn cheetah pouncin’ a bison?” A gruff cough betrayed the grin he tried to steady his heart rate with.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds–

Confusion crossed over Ford’s eyes like a delayed signal, eyebrows furrowing as the gears in his brain turned. Stan swore he could see smoke coming out of this nerd’s ears. He blinked, spluttering, leaning back slightly with his grip on Stan’s wrists slacking. “Cheetahs and bisons aren’t even on the same continent, Stanley!”

Stan simply offered him a million-dollar grin and the best shrug he could in response. Which was difficult, by the way, thank you Ford. “Get off me, dammit.” Ford leaned back, letting Stan sit up, but frowned at him the entire time with his gun still primed and waaaay too close to Stan’s face for comfort. Was that a snarl? Seriously?

He was seconds away from figuring out what he was going to say next when an offensively bright light beamed into his eyes and shocked his mind to blankness, Ford’s hands gripping Stan’s face as he forced each eye open in turn before the light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. Stan swore furiously, waving his arms in front of his face and trying to scoot away, only succeeding once Ford finally backed off and let him free.

When Stan finished rubbing his eyes and pulling himself back onto his feet, he saw that Ford had returned to his earlier position of crouching by the ruined portal. Okay, seriously? All that bullshit that just happened and you’re desperate to shove your nose back into some busywork like I’m not even here–

“...How do you know about Bill, Lee?” Ford was back on his feet, body facing Stanley though eyes downcast as though the floor could answer his questions instead. Stan hesitated, the bite of his anger gradually receding as his eyes took in his brother for what might truly be the first real time since he walked through that luminous, ephemeral, triangular frame of metal. His eyes drank in the deep, dark circles under Stanford’s cracked glasses, the pasty color of his skin, the patchy stubble on his face, the sweat sliding down his forehead from his mop of greasy mussed-up hair…

The way his closed fists were trembling as if taut with tension, just like his brow and his lip, presenting a portrait of a Poindexter who was teetering on the cusp of erupting into his own flaming supernova where he stood. Stan knew that feeling. Had partied with it multiple times. He was intimately familiar with the way it burrowed a hole in your chest in place of your heart: a fear that was all-consuming, an anxiety that buzzed beneath one’s skin; a frantic, off-kilter energy that kept a ragged man going on his feet when he had nothing else yet couldn’t bear to simply not care.

This was a man who was running on fumes, no fuel left in the tank, and ready to collapse into non-existence the moment the strings puppeting him forward decided to stop yanking him along.

A man with one reason to live, yet even that reason is barely enough. The worst buried secret in the world; a heavy weight plain as day upon his shoulders and carving out the marrow of his bones.

Stanley recognized pretty easily the poorly-hidden tells of devastated fear and utter exhaustion in his brother’s body language. Because he had lived like that, too. Because he still struggled to remind himself when it wasn’t one of those days.

Sixer had never looked so… small.

Stan heaved a deep breath, slow and rickety enough for him to feel it vibrate down his limbs.

“Read ‘bout him in your journals.” Ford’s head lifted slightly, eyes flashing to Stan’s face. “...‘Nd the kids had the misfortune of fightin’ him.” Stanley might as well have punched Ford directly through his core for all that the words, hanging in the air, impacted this man and hung despair on his face. “‘Course, they don’t know that I know that.”

“... What happened?” His brother’s voice was barely a whisper, almost a keening whine from his lungs as he ran his hands through his hair and down his face, fingers creeping under his glasses to push into his eyes as he massaged his temples. It was like his eyebrows hadn’t left his hairline in minutes, the creases in his forehead deep enough to age him by another few decades.

Stan hobbled over to the ruins of the portal, taking a moment to stretch his lower back before sitting on the cold stone and patting the ground next to him. Ford didn’t immediately follow, but kept his eyes trained on him the whole time. Stan just started talking anyway.

“Alright, without talkin’ to the kids about it I don’t got the whole picture, but I got enough. Some rascal kid that was freakin’ Mabel out tried to take the Shack. Same kid who found your second journal, wherever the hell that was.” Ford had carefully stepped closer, hovering over Stan before letting himself sink into place on the floor beside him. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands and was awkwardly twiddling all twelve of his fingers while he listened, muscles in his face twitching.

“Mabes and Soos saw this kid, Gideon is his name, summoning the guy. Bill, I mean. Made a deal with ‘im to go in my head ‘nd find the code to my safe, so he could steal the deed to the Shack.” Ford raised an eyebrow, making his posture straighter for a moment as he prepared to speak before Stan just continued and cut him off. “The kids used that spell in yer third book to go into m’ head, uh, my mindscape, and fight him out. Whatever they did, it worked, though that piece of geometry didn’t seem to amount to much compared ta what that Gideon did next anyways. Kid had a plan B that didn’t involve Bill.”

“You weren’t there for this.” Ford said it like a statement, but with an intonation to his voice that made it an inquiry. Stan shook his head. “I was out cold. Not sure I even dreamed that night.” Ford nodded.

Silence chilled the air between these old men as Stan cracked his neck and began popping every one of his knuckles in turn, only releasing his breath once he was finished. Ford wanted nothing more than to break this silence, to urge Stan to continue, but it felt… sacred, somehow. Once Stan was ready, he balled his hands into fists and snorted. “S’next part really pisses me off.” He didn’t notice Ford gulp and tentatively hover a hand in his direction before changing his mind.

“I dunno what was said, I dunno what it all looked like, but that bastard got in Dipper’s head, got in his body.”

He suddenly turned to look at Ford, eyes wide. “He hurt him. Gave him scars. Gave him nightmares. Gave Mabel nightmares, too.” Stan’s mouth opened and closed, hanging strangely for a moment while his eyebrows knit together. “...Bill left a note, Stanford. For Mabel to find.”

One shaky inhale later, he continued. “Was gonna… jump off the water tower. Invited Mabel to the same.” He turned away from Ford, leaning back against the portal again and flexing his fingers, shoulders tense while he cracked his neck again. Stan’s gaze was forward and distant, a hollow feeling taking over his face and posture.

A loud slam startled him back into awareness.

Ford had sat up and punched the piece of portal he had been leaning against, struggling with growled breaths of air and trembling shoulders. He grit his teeth and punched it again. And again. Then he tottered to his feet and slapped both open palms into the metal, dipping his head forward and colliding against it. He hissed, rearing his head back like he was preparing for a larger blow―

“Woah― hey, hey, Ford! Stanford!” Stan was on his feet in no time and shoved Ford away from the portal, digging his hands down into Ford’s shoulders to hopefully keep him immobile. Ford wobbled and refused to meet his eyes, but Stan managed to keep him rooted where his feet stood. “What the hell was that about? Ford, buddy, are–”

Ford growled again and yanked himself backwards out of Stan’s hands, but made no move towards the portal. Stan’s hands floated, the man hesitating while he tried to put together what to say while his brain was still buzzing from whatever the heck it was that just happened.

“...My fault…”

Stanley froze, unsure if he heard that right.

“It’s my fault! I’m the reason why the kids are hurt, I’m the reason why they can’t sleep in peace. This is my fault, damn it!” Stan couldn’t entirely understand the next few words Sixer spoke, like some kind of foreign language, but he didn’t need to. His brother slumped over to the portal, giving it a half-hearted kick before leaning one shoulder on it and crumpling down to the floor. He tucked his face into his knees and wrapped his arms around his bent legs in a gesture that Stan well and truly understood.

Seeing his brother like this gave him flashbacks of a different time, of back when two young boys had spent the sweltering afternoon venting about life on a beach with grains of sand and glass between their toes. The shade of a patched-up wooden boat enveloped them in comfort much like the warm, salty air did the same. Stan needed to punch what was making Sixer feel this way. Stan needed to hug his brother. Stan needed to protect him and take care of him and make sure he never felt like this ever again. Down here in a stuffy basement in Oregon, Stan could have swore he smelled the ocean for just a moment. He licked his lips and tasted salt.

But when he reached a hand out to Stanford’s shoulder this time, his brother slapped it away and glared daggers at him. “It’s your fault for interrupting me during my fight! You should not have turned the portal back on!” Stan gaped at him and reeled back from the outburst of rage and accusation, his head feeling like an out-of-control jackhammer of confusion and pain.

He saw a nerdy little boy shaking his head, shoving his twin’s chest, and running out of the shade, running out of the sand, his snot-nosed face poorly hidden in the crook of an elbow.

“This was an insanely risky move, restarting the portal! Didn't you read my warnings?!”

“Stanley! Stanley! Do something! STANLEY!!”

Memories and voices from hours to years past spun a cacophony in his brain, a terrible chokehold that rattled the old man and stole his tongue. The room felt as though it were trying to take the air from his chest, twisting and swaying and becoming smaller around him. The broken portal sneered at him, trying to scare him away with taunts of his mistakes, with visions of a brother who pushed him into a burning hot panel 30 years ago and would gladly shove him out of his life today. It felt boiling, perspiration rolling down these walls of stone while sweat poured down his face and his burnt shoulder throbbed, stung, and scarred just like yesterday.

There was a painful pressure between his ears that urged him to leave, to escape, to find safety in a dark corner out of sight and as far away from here as possible like he failed to do three decades ago. If he stayed here then this grisly room, no, this ghastly portal, were going to squeeze his guts out inch-by-inch and break his bones one-by-one, the lightest punishment they could sentence him with. The eye of the portal would be judge, jury, and executioner, even from the floor as it was. He thought the laughter coming from the elevator behind his back sounded like his brother’s… only, higher-pitched and strangely distorted. Something off-putting, much like how he is out of place and out of his league in this basement. He was the one who willingly came back down here, letting his feet bring him to Hell. He was the one who dared to talk to Stanford. He should flee Oregon, he should ditch his name again, he should take Ford’s journal and go back out through the blitzing snow and leave and―

Stan closed his eyes, eyebrows scrunched as hard as humanly possible while he thought about why he came down here in the first place.

Bill.

Bill Cipher.

Right, that’s right.

That triangular devil.

The ruckus in his head slowed down all at once as he pictured Ford’s intricate drawings and written warnings, his mind’s eye blocking everything else out as it tunneled in on what mattered the most. A glowing triangle seated amidst a blackness that blanketed the cavern around him in an act of grace which smothered his fevered thoughts. A white hot fury in Stan’s chest that radiated outwards in this dark, musty basement, encouraging him forward. The portal was nothing more than piles of scrap, tape, and screws. The elevator was silent with only rust and age to its name. His brother was home. Stanford was here. Ford and Bill. His brother punched him in the face.

Stan huffed and abruptly spun away from Stanford, stomping over to the control hub area of the lab. Upon returning to the portal chamber moments later carrying one of those clear pyramid prisms, he made eye contact with Ford and then roared as he chucked the pyramid into the stone floor with all the might he could. Unsurprisingly, unfortunately, it did not shatter or break. Stan knew it wouldn’t. He’s taken out his stress on it before.

Ford was startled by Stan’s sudden violence, jumping at the impact noise and cringing as the prism rolled an echoing clatter across the floor. He swallowed when Stan whipped around to face him, his brother’s eyes searing a fierce unforgiving flame into his retinas as he glowered.

“Let me make myself clear. I’ve READ yer nerd diaries, Stanford. I KNOW ya have that really damn creepy room down here with this triangle bastard all over the walls, ‘nd I also know the last things you wrote about him were ugly as all hell.” He crossed his arms, turning his head to look real hard at the shadows in the corner. “I get it, whatever, you think it’s a mistake that I saved ya, you think it’s just another worthless screw-up from Stanley Pines. I don’t need a reminder of how much ya hate me.”

“Stanley–”

The con man snarled, meeting Ford’s eyes again. “What’s important right now is this guy is messin’ with our family. I dunno how you know this guy or what all happened between ya, but if you care at all about protecting the kids then let’s just go find some unicorns or whatever the hell and take care of this weirdo already! Then I’ll be outta your hair just like you wanted ‘nd we can pretend this all never happened.”

He shoved a finger at Ford, stepping closer. “‘Nd I don’t wanna hear it outta your mouth that any of this is your fault. I won’t stand for you badmouthing yourself, and I don’t wanna see you hurtin’ yourself again.” His eyes flickered to the portal frame briefly. “I am gonna protect this family from that demon monster and that includes you no matter how much you make it clear you don’t wanna see my sorry face. So DEAL with it, Poindexter, and stuff it.”

With that, Stanley stomped his foot and went to lean against the portal a little farther away from Ford. Ford couldn’t seem to swallow the tension in the air down enough no matter how hard he tried, sheepishly keeping his head turned down towards his feet.

The only sound that hazarded being heard now was the ever-present hum of resting machinery in the nearby control room. Red, white, green, and blue lights slowly blinking in and out of existence. Dark screens and large windows reflecting blackness and the distant visage of two upset twin brothers. A glossy, framed photograph of Dipper and Mabel smiling at the camera; Dipper giving Mabel bunny ears while she stuck her fingers in her mouth and stretched her face into the silliest, widest smile she could.

Twin siblings sharing the moment together like nobody else could do it better.

A captured memory of two kids being kids.

Happy memories from the beginning of an Oregon summer that supervised the final stretch of Stan’s very long 30 years, now bookended at last by the portal finally turning on.

Happy memories from nostalgic summers on Glass Shard Beach that safeguarded Stan through his shivers in the sleepless night, jacket pulled tight around his shoulders while he waited out the bite of winter in his car.

A worn photo of two boys that burned a hole in Stanford’s chest where the pocket of his black coat rested.

Dust hung in the air for minutes, fluttering in a draft so small it might have been imagined. Silence that built itself into a fortress, brick by brick. Tension that polluted the very air, threading it into thick, inedible cotton and dry tongues.

Breaking the silence had never felt less appealing. It would have been preferred had a chasm opened up and swallowed him instead.

Ford wiped his hands down his face again and sighed. “Alright. I can accept that I need to tell you about Bill. You are the other adult here and the primary guardian of these children. You’re already involved, anyway.” In his peripheral he caught Stan looking at him in the corner of his eye, clearly listening.

“Bill is… a dream demon made of energy who possesses no physical form in our world. He must manifest through dreams–projecting into our mindscapes–to interact with our realm. Or… make a deal that gives him control of a human body. Like… Like a puppet.” It didn’t escape Stan’s notice how Ford cringed, shame and fear washing over his face instantaneously.

“The purpose of the portal is to enable Bill access to our world in the flesh with his own physical body. Then he can use his god-like powers to take over and wreak havoc upon human society as we know it, bringing the whole of planet Earth, nay, Dimension 46'\, to pure chaos and ruin.”

As Ford continued to speak, Stan carefully came back closer and sat down on the floor again, trying not to grimace at his back as he did so. He was careful not to touch Ford. For but a moment he felt dizzy as he lowered himself, swimming colors in his vision putting his knees in sand before he blinked and was back on the stone floor.

“I… There is a deal between Cipher and I that is still in effect, but I have a metal plate in my head now that nullifies his influence over me. So I am safe.” At Stan’s raised eyebrow, Ford knocked his knuckles against his forehead. Sure enough, Stan heard the metallic echo.

Stan licked his lips, trying to choose his next words carefully. “If ya got that while in sci-fi sideburns land, then… you didn’t have it when ya asked me to come here, back in the 80’s.”

Ford seemed surprised, but nodded, looking at him.

“Is this guy the reason why you looked so god-awful back then?”

“...Indeed. I had only recently found out about his true intentions and was trying to thwart his efforts with the portal. He… was not happy about that and tried everything to get back at me, to sabotage my efforts, to win, and to punish me for even trying to resist.” Ford swallowed, glancing away while his fingers tapped at each his knuckles, eyes somewhere else and filled with long-buried memories. Was each word he spoke making him seem smaller, or was that Stan’s imagination?

Stan knew he was receiving the sanitized version of the story. It was written all over Stanford’s face: he was trying to be detached, objective, clinical. Like he was relaying scientific information from a formal paper and not reluctantly spilling secrets about his traumatic personal life story. But Stanley couldn’t find it in himself to blame him, not really, not when he knew he’d do the same if he had to talk about… Rico. Ford had created what might be the most acceptable version of events to present to Stan, the extent of what Ford himself could swallow, the most he could face his own shame and torment. It chilled Stan’s heart as he felt the cold sorrow creep into his nerves. This was just one more miserable thing that Stan wished he couldn’t relate to his brother about. Ford should never have gone through this, no, Stan should be the only one, and yet…

“...Stanford, in the days after I lost ya, I cleaned up a buncha junk in this house. Nonsense scribbles ‘nd piles of paper, old dishes, shards of coffee mugs, sticky notes covered in eyes, weirdo science books.” This time Stanley didn’t hesitate to put a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “There was a lotta blood. Random messes of it on piles ‘nd notes. Bloody bandages in the bathrooms. Bloody handprints on wrecked walls ‘nd doors with broken locks. Bloody clothing under your bed, crammed into piles of laundry...”

Ford leaned his head back against the portal and took in a large, stuttering inhale. His motions were slow, hesitant, like the pins and needles in his limbs were pinning the cavity of his chest open and revealing himself to Stan; the flayed pages of a tattered open book against his will. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he had to talk about this eventually, but he always hoped he could just ignore it and handle it on his own. His brother didn’t deserve to be roped into this burden. This was Ford’s problem, Ford’s pain, and Ford’s mess, no one else’s.

Yet, hearing the truth that Bill had been winding his spindly claws into the kids, into Lee, during Ford’s absence… made the gut-wrenching scope of this plague undeniable. The plague Ford unleashed upon not only this world but his family. He swore he could feel the sticky wetness of his great-niblings’ blood on his hands.

Ford noticed a question in Stanley’s wide eyes and, while hesitant, nodded. This was all the answer he needed to give. His brother simply understood. But Ford forced it out of his throat anyway. "Yes… The blood was Bill's doing."

This time, Stan was the one who punched the portal, cursing and sneering at what remained of the triangular structure. “I was so far up my own ass that I couldn’t even protect my own twin brother after he reached out to me for help… All I did was yell, fight, ‘nd shove someone who was hurt, someone who was scared ‘nd needed me to do something and I didn’t…!”

Ford’s reaction was immediate: clumsy and unfamiliar yet harkening back to what Stanley had thought was long gone and left beaten and buried in the sand. “Stanley, no… No, no no, you didn’t have a clue. Because I didn’t tell you enough, you could not possibly have known. I escalated the argument with you and I fought back. I don’t… think it would be right to fault you on that.” His hands were held up, fingers curled and loose and unsure what to do but yearning to reassure Lee, hankering to clarify and correct about Ford’s mistakes and where the blame lay so someone else need not falsely feel that vice.

Stan stared at him, shoulders rising and falling as his breathing returned to an even and steady rhythm. He didn’t really know what expression he had on his face, and judging by the look on Ford’s, that genius had no idea, either. He exhaled something fierce, erratically rubbing his hands up and down his face. He settled back down after a while of de-stressing and slouched against the portal debris again, looking like he didn’t really care about how he landed or if he were sitting comfortably or not.

One inhale. One exhale.

He twisted his torso to face his twin.

“But you think it’s right to fault me on other things.” Ford averted his eyes. Stan clicked his tongue. “Whatever… So what do we need to do? Make that unicorn barrier crap, smash this ugly piece of work back into scraps,” –he rapped his knuckles on the metal over his shoulder– “and then what? Anything we gotta do to the kids? Ya better not suggest installing metal into their skulls, Sixer, or so help me god.”

His brother spluttered at that, staring at Stan incredulously. “No, of course not! Besides, I wouldn’t trust anyone in this dimension to successfully pull off such a surgery.”

“Oh yeah? Aliens got it that much better than us?”

“Eh…” Ford shrugged his shoulders and made a so-so gesture with his hand. “It depends on where you look. I cannot say that consistency is a term the multiverse is particularly familiar with…”

Stan leaned closer and clapped Ford’s back as he laughed. “Ha! Not so different from us, huh.”

His brother could only just muster up an awkward chuckle alongside him.

“That aside… Yes, I believe you have the correct idea about how to tackle the… Bill problem. I intend to review my journals again for the sake of verifying my old memories pertaining to some key details, and then I will take care of it. I will disassemble the portal and erect a unicorn hair barrier–”

Stan cleared his throat in the most obnoxious way he could. “Ahem. You ain’t doin’ this alone, Poindexter. We’ll destroy the portal, and we’ll put up the barrier.” He raised a hand when it looked like Ford was going to protest. “Uh-uh, I’ve read those diaries more than you have at this point, or one of ‘em anyway. Ya can’t keep me out of this ‘nd you are not gonna do this alone, do I make myself clear?” He wiggled his fingers and flashed a well-practiced salesman’s grin.

Ford’s face contorted through a few different emotions before he finally hung his head and sighed, crossing his arms. “Fine.” He straightened to his feet and gestured over his shoulder for Stan to follow him to the control hub room, not looking back once.

This was going better than Stanley had dared to let himself hope. It still felt like Ford was at risk of exploding if Stan said the wrong thing, but his brother apparently didn’t have as much fight in him as he had earlier that day. Or when Stan first came down here, for that matter. He rubbed his wrists and winced his left eye toward what surely must be a fully formed bruise on his face by now.

He wanted to say he was happy, but as he swallowed around the rough feeling in his throat he knew he couldn’t fool himself about that. This sucked balls. His earlier attempt at levity seemed promising at first, but it was like trying to hold back the might of the entire ocean when Ford slipped right back into trying to exclude Stan again. This dense pressure surrounding his brother was suffocating, impenetrable, and something in Stan’s chest that he tried not to think about hurt like a raw wound at the realization that he didn’t really know how to broach this wall of Ford’s like he once used to.

Something in his chest chafed even more when he thought about how he didn’t really know how to talk to Ford like he used to, either. In fact, Stan didn’t feel like he had managed to actually talk to Stanford straight for once during this entire confrontation. He was being tolerated and he knew his brother was probably silently pleading for him to go away and leave him to his misery so he could mope around until this awful day finally came to a close. Would they repeat this song and dance tomorrow? …Would it be worth it to?

But despite all the eggshells, they had managed to connect just a little bit about their shared concern for the kids. He tried not to think about their shared pains from the past decades, something which was undeterred despite both twins living such wildly different lives.

Maybe Stanley doesn’t need anything else. Just think about the kids.

This is fine. This is surely fine.

Don’t think about the end of summer.

Don’t think about a rickety old boat casting shadows on the beach.

He entered the control room just in time to be shaken out of his daze. He watched as Ford arranged all three journals on the desk… and suddenly collapsed, holding onto the desk’s edge for dear life before he hit the floor.

Ford raised a hand to keep Stan away, fingers wiggling something indecipherable, limbs visibly shaking as he forced himself into a seated position on the nearby desk chair. He immediately staggered forward, elbows hitting the hard surface and his face sinking to hide in his hands, glasses falling down to land haphazardly on Journal #2.

Stan felt like he was watching his brother crumble into pieces.

Pieces of glass smothered in sand.

After another moment, he cautiously approached his twin, unsure what exactly happened.

“My apologies,” Ford rubbed his eyes, swallowing and bouncing his legs on the balls of his feet while he sat. “I’ve wasted so many decades of my life on that accursed charlatan.”

His sunken eyes glanced over at Stanley through his fingers like that was all he had the energy to do.

“I was one trigger away from having finally wiped myself clean of him before I was unceremoniously forced back here.” He scrunched his eyes closed, teeth grinding as he grimaced. “I shouldn’t be here, my life should have been spent on taking him down, on redeeming myself for being so big a fool as to fall for his schemes!” His arms swung to hang limply down at his sides as he leaned back, face staring up at nothing on the ceiling.

Like a doll with no control of its limbs. A puppet left to rot somewhere without strings.

“And yet he and I both persist, continuing to unjustly live, and it simply isn’t enough that he has me wrapped around his fingers, but now I find out that fiend is harassing the kids as well!” Ford’s words tapered into a roar, the spike of energy pushing him to lean forward far too fast while his round eyes located Stanley in the room’s dull light. He ground his hands against his knees, needing some kind of anchor.

“That’s personal, Stanley, I can’t help but fear that it must harken back to his gleeful torment of me all those years ago where he knew I was trapped and was toying with my psyche. He’s happy to hurt my family because he’s happy to hurt me, because he knew I wasn’t here to stop him, and he can laud his power over my head and rub my own powerlessness and failures back in my face, and… a-and…”

Stan’s arms were wrapped around his brother before he even finished registering that Ford’s voice tripped into a broken choke.

Ford cried out, “And when… when I saw all three of my old journals laid out bare here, I felt heavier than ever the monumental weight of my mistakes and how wretched my life has been. How, just how, could I have gotten my niece and nephew caught up in my disaster?”

The raw wound in Stan’s chest throbbed as he took in those words, the weight of them carving a home where he was already torn asunder and bruised.

Stanford’s full body lurched as he sobbed in his brother’s arms and gasped throttled breaths of air, returning the hug and scrunching the material of Stan’s shirt beneath all twelve of his fingers. “I’m so tired, Lee, I’m tired of Cipher! I’m tired of forcing those around me to continually suffer from my mistakes! I’m tired of running, I’m tired of being a puppet, of.. of being his toy, his property that he can jostle around the board as he pleases…!”

Stan began to rub small, gentle circles into Ford’s back while he thought over what he’d just heard, the motion so natural to him and so ingrained in his muscles that he didn’t need to think about it twice. For his brother to expose his heart like this… It was truly serious. It set Stan’s face in a grave expression. Not that long ago a rekindled relationship between the two of them had seemed impossible, and yet Stan now held the delicate reins of responsibility, an instinct burning inside him that made him want to protect his twin. He didn’t want to mess this up. He wanted to be there for his twin the way he should have been three decades ago.

He kept rubbing his brother’s back as the two of them sat there on the sand with their eyes closed, sniffles being carried away by the ambience of the ocean and tears falling down to the beach beneath their feet. Wet droplets left dark marks in the sand as though they could become sea glass.

Soon the sky was awash in pink and orange, and the cold shadow of the Stan o’ War stretched longer and longer, reminiscent of young boys chasing after the last remnants of dimming sunlight.

Once Ford’s sobbing diminished to but a few sniffles, Stan made his decision.

He picked up his twin’s glasses and gently sat them back on his face.

“I know this isn’t what you wanna hear right now, but, let’s get ya in the shower, and I’ll cook up some warm food for ya before we get ya to bed.” Ford lifted his head off Stan’s chest just a little, quizzically raising an eyebrow. “You need rest, Sixer, or else you’re gonna keel over ‘nd die before ya can do anything about Bill. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“But… The kids. Bill is too dangerous to ignore.” Ford’s voice was small and pathetic, yet as determined as he could make it. The familiar scared face of an insecure little boy standing on the edge of help and hurt. On the edge of where the tides meet the sands.

“I know, I know. You said the metal plate makes ya safe, right? The portal’s non-functional ‘nd in pieces that woulda taken me months to fix, ‘nd the kids are in the attic, prolly pretendin’ to sleep, so…”

“So…?”

“So I think we can afford to spend a lil’ time on makin’ sure you don’t fall apart first, brainiac. We’ll need that bright brain of yours runnin’ on something more than ten cups of alien coffee, right?”

Ford was struck with a look of astonishment following that comment. “Coffee… I can have Dimension 46'\ coffee again! Oh how I have missed it terribly; nothing else ever compared.”

His eyes glittered like Stanley had just hung the stars in front of an aspiring child.

Ford leaned back from Stan, using the collar of his black turtleneck to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. “I… do not like it or feel entirely comfortable with it, but I will concede that you have a point that’s hard to argue. I’ll freshen up my hygiene if you include coffee with whatever food you make– I do not care what time it is right now.”

“You’re s'posed ta go to sleep, knucklehead, but sure, I’ll make ya a mean coffee,” Stan chuckled as he swapped his hands over to patting Ford’s shoulder a couple times before stepping back to give him some space. The soothing lull of cool waves echoed and receded from farther and farther away. “Ha! I am unsure even coffee could keep me going on my feet tonight, as much as I would prefer it to.”

They both turned towards the elevator and had managed to take a single step before Ford abruptly stopped. He turned back towards the portal room, glancing between it and Stanley, his brows set in a worry. “I need to check something…!”

Stan just shrugged. “S’long as it won’t be too much work.”

“Excellent! Now, if you’ll excuse me.” His coat billowed behind him as he rushed out into the cavern.

Stan didn’t follow him all the way, but did hover near the entrance, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “So what’s got ya in a tizzy?”

“It is of crucial importance that I check for any possible rifts.” Ford looked over his shoulder to verify where Stan was before he continued. “During my travels between dimensions, I had to track where potential rifts might form in order to continue my journey. While some rifts were man-made, or should I say alien-made, others simply occurred as a natural consequence of the unnatural frayed fabric of reality. Like a hole in a piece of cloth whose threads weaken, loosen, and allow additional holes to form.”

“So in other words, yer lookin’ for smaller holes near the portal?” He couldn’t help but smile like an idiot just a little bit. It was nice to hear his nerd brother again.

“Precisely! Seeing as our shiny punched hole in reality here was designed to lead to the Nightmare Realm, also known as Bill’s domain, I fear that any rifts will follow in those footsteps and do the– Aha! Stanley, could you bring me a borosilicate jar?”

“Come again?”

“Laboratory glassware! I need a resealable container, such as a jar. I used to have some spares sitting around here somewhere…”

Stan disguised a chuckle with a cough as he watched Ford crouch near the far corner, legs and hands splayed far apart, before turning to go fetch what was needed. When he returned, Ford was several feet away from the corner and busy with his hands on the portal instead.

He jumped when Stan suddenly slapped his shoulder. “What did I just tell ya about takin’ a break? Anyway, here’s your jar.”

Ford sheepishly nodded and retrieved it from him. He inspected it for a few moments, removing and replacing the lid a few times, before going back to the corner. Stan tried to stand on his tippy toes to peer at what the heck a rift might look like without getting any closer to the corner. He observed as Ford swung his arm in wide arcs and seemed to be capturing… floating blobs of spacey stardust? He thought they’d make for a cool alien lava lamp. I bet I can sell that.

His brother turned back to face him, sealed jar clasped between his hands.

“There we have it! It is but a small thing for the time being, but we will need to seal it and monitor it in case of any changes. I believe I know just the thing and can have this taken care of…”

Stan gave him a look. He put a lot of work in making sure that unimpressed eyebrow was as judgmental as it could be.

“...We’ll take care of it tomorrow.” Ford looked a little dejected as he changed course, sighing wistfully.

Stan gave him a thumbs up. His brother just snorted, shaking his head and smiling as he walked past and back into the control room. He seemed ponderous, one hand on his chin while he considered whatever it was he was thinking about, and then he opened a cabinet on the wall and locked the jar away inside.

“Ready to head upstairs now?” Stan was back by the elevator.

“Yes, I believe so. Well, no, but I accept that I should.”

For a short while, the tension between the twins had disappeared. But the elevator felt suffocating again.

Ford kept fidgeting and looking everywhere except at Stan. When Stan caught his eye once, he cleared his throat. Ford took in a deep breath.

“Stanley… It is very difficult. I do not have the words for everything it is that I am feeling, and everything that I want to say to you. I am still unsure of a lot of things, not the least of which is myself. But… I am glad to be home.” The wrinkles on his face were the softest Stan had ever seen them.

It wasn’t a thank you, but it was close enough for now. Close enough for Stan’s face to beam into a great big toothy, giddy grin. “Glad to have ya here.”

When the elevator reached their destination at the top and Ford made a motion to leave, Stan held him back with a hand on his shoulder. Ford turned to him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Stan averted his eyes and coughed into his free fist. “I, uh… Sorry. For earlier today. You’ll always be my family, ya nerd.”

Ford gave him a small smile. “Me too… I apologize for punching you earlier. I am not entirely sure why I did, honestly.”

Stan shrugged, then wrapped his arm around Ford’s shoulders in a hearty embrace. “Eh, stress ‘nd nerves probably. ‘Sides, you sound like ya could use somethin’ to punch!” He gesticulated dramatically with his free hand as though he were painting a picture for Ford to see. “Maybe we can pull out that boxing dummy from storage tomorrow ‘nd draw a triangle on it!”

“Oh that isn’t necessary, Stanley…” Stanford snorted, leaning into Stan as his laughter made him less steady on his feet. “Nah don’t worry about it Sixer, I wanna punch it too. And if that guy ever shows up here again, I’ll punch him for real!”

Stanley grabbed both of Ford’s shoulders as his laughter died down, turning his brother to face him. “I really mean it, ya know. Don’t gotta ask me twice. Easiest sell of m’ life, even. No one messes with my family like that ‘nd gets off scot-free, ya hear me?”

Ford visibly swallowed and gave a tiny nod.

“... Thank you. I appreciate it.”

They shook the sand off their shoes as they stepped out of the elevator.

They held each other for support as they trekked through the ocean, waves lapping at their calves as they climbed the stairs one step at a time.

When they stepped through the vending machine, the nostalgic laughter of two twin little boys wrapped around them like a scarf before evaporating into ocean mist.

The vending machine had only been closed for a second before Mabel bounded right up to her Grunkles and planted herself right into their legs, trying to wrap her short arms around them both in a hug. Stan gestured for Dipper to come over as he and Ford crouched down to Mabel’s height, apparently already knowing that the little dork was nearby. Ford watched as Dipper meekly came from around the corner and joined them, repeatedly glancing between Stan and Ford all the while.

Stan spread his arms wide and trapped all of his family in a big bear hug, laughing and feeling weightless and the most alive he has in years. “I knew ya little knuckleheads wouldn’t be asleep! Tell ya what, I was about to make some Stancakes ‘nd coffee for my nerd brother here. How ‘bout I make a few ‘nd some hot chocolate for the two of ya, ‘nd then you can head to bed this time?”

Dipper’s guilty smile fell sideways into laughter as Stan broke the hug to noogy him and his sister, but Mabel was undeterred by her hair getting ruffled. “You better give me extra marshmallows and heaps of glitter!”

“Yes Stanley, and I better have no less than four tablespoons of sugar in my coffee.”

“A-and I want four Stancakes, Grunkle Stan!”

Stan broke out in a belly laugh and clapped Ford’s back as he stood up straight. “Sheesh, no wonder none of ya can sleep!”

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this positively about the future. The spring in his step and the healing salve on his heart nearly made him feel like a new man. As he pulled out the flour and baking soda and opened the fridge to grab the milk and butter, he couldn’t help but feel like no matter what may happen, things would work out just fine.

#seren's writing #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #ford pines #stan pines #this is my first gravity falls fic and my first time crossposting on tumblr like this #i don't have a lot of writing experience in general but i hope this is enjoyable #oh boy i hope i didn't mess up the ao3 page or this post haha #for some reason the italics for the summary are scuffed and no editing this post seems to fix it

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katebeckets · 1 year ago

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the tortured poets department

i have thoughts!! surprising, right?? this is for anyone who cares to read them ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Before you read, note that this is going to be critical of things, so let me just start by saying I have loved and listened to Taylor since I was 8, so none of it is said lightly or without careful thought (in fact, this took me absurdly long to write). Most of the issues I have are very near to my heart, actually, so I've spent a lot of time thinking about it. If you don't want to read criticism, then just don't read more. DISCLAIMER that I did my best, but not even this fully captures the nuance I feel able my own opinions lol I recognize the other sides and points, I really do. I hold many conflicting opinions.

The short version is I will always love her music and her voice and she is capable of writing absolutely gorgeous lyrics (dare I say poetry?). I don't tend to think too much about the sound of it because if I like the sound, it's all I really care about—maybe it sounds the same as other stuff, but if I like that other stuff, I don't really care about whether she branches out or not. I think it's great and interesting when she (or anyone) does, but I also don't like change so it doesn't matter to me the way I know it matters to some people. That's just me!

What gets more complicated for me is the narrative, themes, and general trends that have been more prominent the last year or so, and that's what the rest of my thoughts are. It's me enjoying the music while also being acutely aware of all the grief tangled up in it because of how much less connected I feel in many ways.

Side note: this got soooo much longer than even I expected and it still just scratches the surface! so if you decide to read, 1. thank you, and 2. I'd love to keep talking to you. 🤍

———————————————————— 💭

I am an overthinker (shocking!) and will for sure be annoyed that I can't think of each and every thing I think about this album, but this is what comes to mind right now. Some things that have stood out to me more and more with each release:

a tendency to write self-aware lyrics that, in trying to be self-aware, betray somewhat of a lack of self-awareness

a frustration with never growing up that she expresses while also not realizing the way she is complicit in that and her own refusal to grow up

considering herself the victim, particularly after "overcoming" the accusations that she always plays the victim

venturing more boldly into the territory of serious mental illness/suicidal ideation/mental health treatment despite demonstrating a fair amount of ignorance regarding those things in the past

fame going to her head (in the sense of her becoming further and further out of touch) and the entitlement in a lot of the more immature attitudes that come across in these songs

self-awareness: for me, the first example that comes to mind is Anti-Hero: "it's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me." It's a claim at self-awareness because she's poking fun at the fact that she knows people always say "maybe she's the problem." The reason why it feels to me like it exposes a lack of self-awareness is because she explores it mostly as a criticism to overcome and not a valid point of self-reflection. @jakeperalta's tags on her post explain it better than I do. Yes, there's an issue when you reduce every feeling to "well maybe she's the problem," but part of growth is admitting that maybe you are part of the problem and coming to terms with the fact that there is often some inevitable truth to that statement—and being willing to work on it. This example is from Midnights, but I think it ties into the next point.

immaturity/never growing up: I actually think these first two sections are just two parts of one section, but it's easier to read this way anyway. There are lots of references to not growing up on this album, the first that come to mind being "So High School" and "teenage petulance." Maybe it's just me, but as a 34-year-old woman, I wouldn't want to be feeling "so high school." I mean, as a 25-year-old, when I talk about feeling like my high school self, it's usually because I'm recognizing how limited my judgment and self-awareness was in high school (despite all the therapy and my efforts to be self-aware in high school). And I am aware of my own bias here—I absolutely hate the football game days because I didn't even like watching people act like that in high school, but at least they were high schoolers—but I do think part of what we've seen is Travis allowing her to be more immature and take less responsibility because that's also where he is at. Obviously I don’t speak to it with any authority since I don't know what happened in the relationship, but based on her behaviors and what I know about Joe (which is VERY little), I kind of get the feeling that part of what she didn't like about being with Joe is that he pushed her to grow. "Your integrity makes me seem small," etc. etc., but not in an “I want to grow” way, but not liking that feeling because she shouldn't have to feel small just because she wants to be able to only do what makes her happy. Just looking at the difference in her behavior and the fact that it seems like she's stopped trying to learn (Miss Americana-ish), it seems like she very much resents the responsibility that comes with being such a famous person and mainly considers herself a victim of her fame.

victimhood: to an extent, yes, she is a victim of her fame. No one should have that much fame and power, and of course she didn't sign up for it in this way. But wanting to have the kind of influence and reach that most artists desire is intertwined with fame. There isn't a way to separate it (in an ideal world, maybe, but that isn't what we're dealing with) and it's something that, to some degree, artists do sign up for. And I think she resents that she's expected to take any sort of responsibility for anything that she doesn't want to do, in a very, "but that's not fair!," teenage petulance kind of way. She even says in Sweet Nothing that "I'm just too soft for all of it." We're all too soft for all of it, but that doesn't mean we get to ignore it. It bothers me that she doesn't seem to feel any sort of responsibility to use this giant platform to do better. Everyone is aware of her influence, including her. I think that's part of the grief. No, it is not her job to use her platform for good, but I thought that it was something she valued and something she wanted. The other line that really stuck out to me was from Cassandra: "They say what doesn't kill you makes you aware, what happens if it becomes who you are?" You may be a victim of what doesn't kill you, but if it becomes who you are, that's not their fault. It reminds me a bit of the exhaustion of living with mental illness. For me in particular, it affects my relationships in a very fundamental way, and there are days that I sob because I am exhausted of things that are so normal being so, so difficult for me... but even though I didn't ask for it and it's not fair that this happened to me, it's still my responsibility to understand how my issues affect how I show up in relationships. It's still my problem, even though it isn't my fault that it's my problem. And if you're lucky, you find really beautiful people who are willing to help you and see that it's not their responsibility, but they want to make it easier for you—I recognize how lucky I am to have some people like that, but it never makes it anyone else's problem. If they decide one day it's not their problem, the truth is that it isn't (and then there's a more complex conversation about what you want to do to preserve a relationship). This is also very connected to something about Kate Beckett/why I identify with that character, and I can touch on that if anyone wants to know, but I don't really have cohesive thoughts about that prepared (it makes more sense if you already know the character). This also goes to other things, like her being upset that people always focus on who songs are about while ignoring the part she played in feeding that culture (like with secret messages).

mental health: this goes to a bigger discussion of how we turn to celebrities who are HIGHLY unqualified to have opinions on things for guidance (the nuance of the above discussion about using your platform), but the more she ventures into the discussion of mental illness, the more upset I get by some remarks she has made in the past. And yes, people grow, she may not feel this way anymore, but nothing in her behavior gives me any reason to believe that she doesn't still have this attitude. This is one that I know I have to be careful of because of how personal it is for me (I've been placed on a 5150 "danger to self" hold and I am a therapist), but one interview that has always made me so upset is that one where she talks about how she's never been to therapy, then ends it by saying "I feel like we just had a therapy session." She has said multiple times how she has never wanted to go to therapy when she has her mom, who already knows everything about her. And that is highly irritating to me because 1. that's why she's your MOM, not your THERAPIST, and 2. there's already so much stigma and apprehension around therapy and many people feel this way, so to have someone like Taylor Swift validate all the people who say "I'd rather talk to someone who already knows me" or "so and so is my therapist" is unbelievably frustrating. There's a reason it's unethical to treat people you know—that isn't therapy. And I think I wouldn't be so bothered by it if she didn't speak about it with such authority, like she knows what she's talking about when what she's saying shows that she doesn't (edit: this is specifically in regard to therapy, not mental illness. I am highly aware that anyone can be mentally ill). The other thing about this album is that it does seem to be an album about loving people with mental illness, and I've already seen a lot of interpretations that simply feed the narrative that people with mental illness are unlovable and mental illness is the reason people mistreat you (particularly the discussion about her lovers being blue all the time). And the issue with that is it's already a common misconception among people with mental illness, that their mental illness is an excuse or reason why they don't treat people right. It's disrespectful to the people who recognize that they have a mental illness that affects how they interact with others and choose to try to overcome it. I'm all for honest discussions about mental illness, but it's so disheartening when it happens on such a large scale and some of the loudest voices are people who don't know enough to know how to (at least try to) do no harm.

fame: I'm not really going to go into it because this has already turned out way longer than I meant for it to, but also because I feel like it's already been touched on. For me, it's the conversation about her feeling she should be able to just do what she wants. I think we all feel that way, but because of her fame and the fact that she's just about untouchable (as shown in how she came back from being cancelled), she can just tune everyone out. But one example was how uneasy I felt about this album being announced at the grammys. For one thing, it's not a fan-voted award, so even if it should, it doesn't feel the same. And regardless of your take on award shows, I do think it showed a level of insensitivity to the other artists who haven't won a bunch of grammys to decide that she would announce a new album at the grammys. Because even if she had a backup plan and said she didn't plan on it, the truth is that, to decide to have a backup plan, you did have to count on it happening, at least to an extent. You had to feel it was likely enough that you wanted to have a back up plan just in case, but it probably would go the way you wanted. To me, it just felt so... disrespectful. Because for many other artists, it doesn't happen more than once. (not to mention the many other things happening that got completely overshadowed, like Annie Lennox calling for a ceasefire)

So if you read all that... I don't even know what the point is at this point. These are just thoughts that, to me, don't feel right to simply ignore. I know there's an argument that you can enjoy music without enjoying where it came from, and it's true to an extent, but I also think part of the music is where it comes from. So... I don't know. Do with that what you will. And if you are reading this, I love you (I can't believe you're reading this).

#ttpd #tswift #low key mutuals you might not want to read this

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colubrina · 5 months ago

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Ten people I want to get to know better…

Thanks @iggygiraffe for tagging me

Last song: i live most of my life in silence on purpose but probably pink pony club

Favourite colour: the sea

Last movie: A Complete Unknown

Last TV show: Severance

Last book: On Writing by Stephen King, which sounds so absurdly on brand, but before that was Onyx Storm, and before that Long Live Evil and before that Adrift in Currents Clean and Clear and anyway, that's me in a nutshell

Sweet/savoury/spicy: usually savory but right now I really want chocolate cake

Last thing I googled: is larry ellison evil?

Current obsession: my endlessly stalled career lol. please universe, let me move forward this year

Looking forward to: Going to Florida this March

Tagging: @kittenshift-17, @lostinsantacarla, @immortan-valkyrie, @medievalfantasist, @arleney, @juniperhillpatient, @johnsrevelation, @quiet-compassion, @purplebass, @tamrapraxidike, @beamorgan(sorry if you've already been tagged) + anyone who wants to play along and share.

#tag games

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wannab-urs · 2 years ago

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The Spreadsheet Digest | Vol 29

Howdy folks!

This is the final Spreadsheet Digest of 2023! I started the spreadsheet back in May as a way for me to keep up with everything I read. Basically, I was having trouble finding fics I had read so I could reread them or I was getting two chapters into a new series before realizing I'd already read it. So I did what I do and I made a spreadsheet about it. Then I felt like other people might benefit from a searchable list of fics. Then, and I don't know why, I thought people might want to know what I thought about the stuff I was reading. And here we are - 29 volumes and 34 weeks later.

Sorry for long intro! This week I have 16 fics for you (Frankie, Joel, Max Phillips, Javi P, Ezra, Dieter, Dave York, and Jack/Whiskey). Summaries and Tags provided by the author where applicable - sometimes I filled in some stuff.

You can find my masterlist here and all my fic recs here

Recs under the Pedro!

My Way - Frankie one shot by @goodwithcheese

Summary: Frankie's working on his truck... you interrupt him Tags: PIV Sex, Frankie uses his words, aka "you know he talks you through it," frankie is bossy Thoughts: if he uhhh "uses his words" this much in the series this is technically set in, I do believe I'll be reading that. This was HOT. Like absurdly hot. Lemme be you car girl, Frankie

Cocoon - Joel series by @secretelephanttattoo

Summary: A short ode to Joel's coat. / a bath with Joel Tags: Angst and intimacy. 1 reference to blood and allusion to canon typical violence (nothing is described) Thoughts: God i love little intimate moments like this... wrapping yourself up in Joel's coat, washing the bad day out of his curls... I am SICK! Someone let me hold this man, please.

I'll Leave a Light On For You - Max Phillips one shot by @oonajaeadira

Summary: Max has reservations when it comes to love, and for very good reasons. Tags: Angst. Character death. Allusions to the atrocities of war and its lasting effects. Max is a vampire. Traumatic soul memory. Me assuming I know anything about French culture of the 1930s. Thoughts: This is beautiful. Just absolutely stunning. I have a fascination with the concept of past lives, and I adore the way it's written about it here. There are some really interesting takes on it here with Max being a vampire. Also, side note, this fic made me cry. It's that soft angst that you don't expect to make you sob, but holy shit. When it hit (you'll know it when you read it) it hit. I was devastated. And then because it's adira and "we do soft here" it ends sweet.

Once in a Blue Moon - Dieter one shot by @whatsnewalycat

Summary: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo. Tags: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention Thoughts: Aly has this way of writing Dieter that is like she knows him in real life. He feels so personal and real to me in her stories. I think I say this every time I talk about her fics, but my Dieter would not exist without hers. Anyway -- this fic is wonderful. Dieter has all that silly druggie boy charm he always has, there's a really interesting inclusion of him having PTSD from working on the movie from The Bubble and a really interesting way that he's dealing with it. It's got perfect vibes for us christmas haters too. I loved this so much.

Jingle Balls / Dashing through the ho - Frankie series by @idolatrybarbie

Summary: Santa Frankie porn... that's it. That's the fic Tags: santa kink???, cockwarming, cum, like so much cum, unprotected vaginal sex, unethical use of a mall Santa Village, semi-public sex, dirty talk and pet names, mentions of free use. / santa kink again, free use, spreader bar, creampie, come eating, facefucking, throatpie, anal sex, degradation, cum, pet names (honey, little girl, sweet girl, baby), praise, CUM AGAIN GUYS LIKE IDK WHAT HAPPENED HERE. Thoughts: This is mostly my fault and I refuse to apologize for it

Galletita - Javi P one shot by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

Summary: Your sister and brother-in-law have enlisted your help with their small business while they await the birth of their first baby. You help with the cafe and find yourself face to face with a new customer whose appetite might have met its match in you. Tags: big boi Javi P is hungry and a little cranky, you like to bake and Javi likes to eat, belly kink, feeding kink, probably bad Spanish, we’re playing fast and loose with timelines, canon, and everything in general, so just forget about timey wimey boo boo wah wah and enjoy the story lmao Thoughts: I do, in fact, need a big boy

Devour - Ezra one shot by @frannyzooey

Summary: Falling for Ezra on the Green Tags: harvesting violence, mentions of gore and blood, mentions of cannibalism, love as consumption and all the visuals that come with it, so much fucking and filth and ass play and cum eating it isn’t funny Thoughts: It was a gift for me, so I really probably should not be so amazed by how much I love this fic. But oh my god, dude. Love as consumption, freak nasty smut, Ezra being Ezra, bi!Ez, the Din/Ez hints (I'd like to know more about that), it's all perfect. I will never stop being obsessed with this

Tear You Apart - Dieter one shot by @psychedelic-ink

Summary: it's the 70s and your friend invites you to an underground club where one of your favorite musicians is playing: dieter bravo. Tags: innocence kink, mild corruption kink, backstage sex, piv, dirty talk, weed, oral + handjob (male receiving)obsessed with rockstar Dieter. Thoughts: I'm surprised I haven't seen more rockstar Dieter. This was hot, filthy, and just... in the words of the man himself perfect.

One Man Show - Dieter one shot by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

Summary: Dieter gets himself off! Tags: male masturbation, use of sex toys, anal fingering, butt plug, sex tape??? i guess Thoughts: I'm loving this solo session concept so much. Dieter filming himself!!! for no reason!!! is so hot. Everything about this is so fucking hot. I want him to send me that video...

I am a nightmare, you are a miracle - Joel series by @party-hearses

Summary: After your two year relationship with Tommy Miller ends, Joel takes you in — and it’s home like you’ve never quite known before. Tags: slow burn, explicit (eventual) smut, language, infidelity, alcohol, age difference, soft!joel, no cordyceps outbreak, sarah doesn’t exist (sorry), tommy stans don’t come for me. Thoughts: I have been very intentionally not reading WIPs and waiting for them to be finished, but I fucked up. I was scrolling the dash and frannyzooey recc'd this and it caught my eye and I just didn't even check if it was finished. But I regret nothing. Ch 4 is coming soon, I'm manifesting it. I fucking love Joel in this and I'm super intrigued by reader's uhhhh mommy issues and the way that those manifest.

MASTERLIST BINGE INCOMING | @brandyllyn

To sell your love for peace - Javi P series by @brandyllyn

Summary: You are Javier’s newest informant. You’re not his usual type but he’s willing to make an exception. More than one. Tags: smut, sex work, canon typical violence, javi being a moron Thoughts: I adore a lovers to idiots to lovers story... and man is Javi an idiot. The characterization of Javi here is perfect. Protective!Javi is very canon and I love seeing it in fic. Also, I don't normally go for miscommunication tropes (they tend to annoy me) but this was perfect. I loved every second of this story.

The Serpent Under It - Dave York one shot by brandyllyn

Summary: Dave is very good at his job Tags: Canon typical violence. kinda dark yo, soulmate AU Thoughts: I don't typically read soulmate AUs, but I actually read several of brandyllyn's this week. They're very different from the normal trope. This one broke my heart and it's less than 800 words.

To perish twice - Javi P series by brandyllyn

Summary: You can feel when your soulmate comes. Tags: smut, soulmate AU, Javi being an idiot, male masturbation, piv sex Thoughts: This is what I mean... you can feel when your soulmate has a fuckin orgasm??? What a concept. This was really hot, kind of funny, and had just the right amount of angst.

Cross My Heart - Ezra one shot by brandyllyn

Summary: While waiting at a clinic for the hope of a prosthetic arm, Ezra meets a woman who will change his life Tags: Talk of self harm / suicide but no one does it, discussion of medical procedures and prostheses, some use of ability based slurs by Ezra and others, canon typical violence Thoughts: We love a man who will threaten to murder someone's entire family for you... no seriously. I absolutely love Ezra's characterization here and I love the FMC's story AHHH. It's just a very sweet story... with a little Ezra flair.

Into the Shade - Ezra series by brandyllyn

Summary: Why would anyone fake having a soulmate? Tags: Ezra being Ezra, con man!ezra, soulmate AU, smut, Ezra x OFC smut, Ezra x reader is in there though. Thoughts: Yet again, the typical soulmate concept has been turned on its head here, and I love it. I also adore the flores animae - the particular soulmate mechanic in this fic. It's really interesting!

Dreams are Sweet Until They're Not - Jack Daniels series by brandyllyn

Summary: A crimson rose could only mean one thing. Tags: soulmates au, Jack being a slut, angst, smut, happy ending Thoughts: Okay last soulmates AU on the list, sorry. I went a little nuts. They're just so good. The ending of this one was so sweet, dude.

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My fics this week:

Something Sweet - Javi p x reader - You’re new to the team in Colombia and all alone on your birthday. Your partner, Javier Peña, decides to do something sweet for you. (fluff, smut)

Under Your Skin - jack daniels x javi p x reader - You’ve worked on Chucho’s ranch since you were 15 years old, grew up with Javi, loved Javi… He comes back after nearly 20 years to find you hooking up with a certain former secret agent. He’s jealous, for sure, but of who? (smut)

in the a.m. - javi p x reader - Between sleeping with informants and getting in bed with Los Pepes in the fight to bring down Escobar, Javier Peña also finds time to be with you. Wrestling with crippling self hatred, Javi tries and fails to keep his blood stained hands off of you. Based on some of my favorite Arctic Monkeys songs (smut, angst)

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Happy Reading!

#fic recs #the spreadsheet digest #fanfiction recommendations #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro fics #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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