#as much to convince myself as a report about my state

[thahxa]

gah i'm so tired. first week of new job has been tiring. sleep is bad. oh well. can't complain, might as well go on

[piningforstan]

Memories

Part One | Part Two

Summary: You’re relieved to see your husband alive, but you have yet to learn at what cost.

Pairings: Stan Pines x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings: memory loss, it’s a bittersweet fic (let me know if there’s anything else)

A/N: I could honestly stay in this story forever. I hope you enjoy! (If you don’t think the small attempts bits of humor are funny, just do me a favor and pretend like they are)

Life moved on, of course, even though it felt like yours had ended. The town needed rebuilding. Newspapers and media outlets needed to be dealt with — Ford recommended telling reporters that there had been a series of animal attacks. But most townsfolk just wanted to forget. The lasting effects of the memory gun meant they preferred to just pretend like nothing happened.

You busied yourself however you could, clearing fallen brush and trees, reuniting families, making do with whatever food you could find and cooking for anyone who hungered.

And when you weren’t focused on resurrecting the infrastructure of Gravity Falls, you focused on doing it for your family. Dipper had withdrawn inside himself. Mabel practically resided in Sweater Town. And Ford largely made himself scarce as he puzzled out ideas for getting Stan’s memory back. So you invited Dipper to join you for nonsensical errands and you laughed your way through Mabel’s favorite movies and you always made sure that Ford had something to eat.

You had time for everyone, it seemed, but Stan.

He floated along the edges of your day to day life, suspended in a state of limbo — wanting to participate but not knowing whether his presence would be tolerable or not. And you didn’t want to provoke his already weakened mental state so you let him be, an observer to a family that he had been the nucleus of.

“Oh, uh, mornin’.”

You were sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing in particular when Stan shuffled in, donned in his boxers and wife beater. It ached to see him how you had so many other mornings. Perhaps that’s why you avoided him; to do so was easier than confronting this pain.

“Stan. Good morning.” You sat up a little straighter. “Coffee is made already.”

He grumbled his thanks. You noticed that he grabbed his favorite mug, one Soos bought him that stated WORLD’S GREATEST FARTER, without thinking. There were small, fleeting moments like this that made you believe that he might regain his memory. But they often slipped away, just like Stan clearing his throat and saying, “So, uh, we’re married?”

“Yes,” you said, inhaling sharply. “Thirty years.”

Stan wrapped one large hand around the mug. He let out a whistle as he reclined back on the counter. “No offense sweetheart, but that doesn’t speak highly of your intelligence.”

You can’t help it. You croaked out a laugh. “No, no it doesn’t.”

“How’d I do it?”

“Do what?”

“Keep ya around for thirty years.” He gestured in your general direction, veritably flustered. “I don’t need to ‘member much about myself to know you’re too good for me.”

“Well, you could be very convincing,” you supplied after a moment of consideration.

Stan scoffed. “Bullshit. What’s the real reason?”

You eyed him, then said in a resigned voice, “A wife can’t testify in court against her husband.”

A beat of silence ensued, followed by the loudest belly laugh of anyone you’ve ever known. Stan clutched at his chest, coffee spilling over his mug and onto the floor. He all but wheezed out, “I knew it!“

“It was my idea, actually,” you said, smiling fondly at the memory, “we had only gone out a few times when it happened. You wanted to make a run for it. Even though we hadn’t known each other long I already knew that I didn’t want to go a day without you. So we got hitched at the courthouse and the case was dismissed on account that I was the only eye witness.”

You were surprised to discover that relaying the story brought you more comfort than sadness. It fanned the dying ember of hope inside you.

Stan processed this information. “What was the crime? Must’ve been bad.”

“If I told you ‘stealing my heart’ would you believe me?”

“I’d believe you’re a shitty liar.”

Stan pestered you for an answer but you staunchly refused to give it to him, if only to prolong the conversation even more. Eventually you lapsed into a comfortable silence, but after thirty years of marriage, you knew that Stan hadn’t given up, rather reconsidered his angle. It wouldn’t be the end of that conversation.

Only the dredges of your coffee remained but you sipped it every now and then, taking the time to study Stan when you didn’t think he noticed.

Did he realize that he remembered more than he thought? Like the mug, for instance. The way he stood. How he moved around the kitchen. How much did the memory gun erase? You read once that memories consisted of just the last time you remembered something — a great portion of your life would pass without recollection. But the feelings stayed the same. You might not remember specific moments of your mother being kind to you, but when you looked at her your chest swelled with affection for her.

Was that how Stan felt now? Wading through residual feelings and sentiments without the memories to attach them to?

“Listen, uh.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “I know this is weird ‘tween us. But I-I hope we can be friends. Still. If you want.”

Hopefully your expression did not betray the stab of pain in your heart. “I’d like that.”

Apparently, rebuilding your friendship with your husband meant him “Stan-napping” you.

“If it’s Stan-napping wouldn’t that mean you’re the one being —”

He flapped his hand. “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”

You grinned and slid into the front seat of El Diablo like normal. Gum wrappers scattered the ground at your feet, along with a lighter and several cassette tapes. You inserted one, faint rock music playing from the radio. A laugh escaped you. “Remember when —”

You stopped. Stan smiled sadly.

“It’s a’right. Promise. Tell me anyway.”

And so you did, retelling the story as best as you could in detail. Stan listened intently as he drove, interjecting his own comments and questions, laughing at all of the parts you knew he would. The tape had played on repeat during a week that you spent running a con in Arizona. An unsuccessful one at that.

“You really did all that w’me? Now I really don’t trust the likes of ya.” Stan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the door with his elbow out the side.

“In my defense, I was always more of a reluctant volunteer.” You focused on the trees flying past, silhouetting Stan’s handsome features and his easy smile. “But I would follow you anywhere.”

It’s an embarrassing admission.

You stumbled over your words, but Stan was quick to cover for you. “So I didn’t need to Stan-nap you?”

“No, but I’m still glad you did.”

“And to think, all of the work I put into it.” Stan feigned clutching his chest in indignation.

You snickered. “By all of the work do you mean withholding caffeine from me until I agreed? That was more of a hindrance than anything. I would’ve said yes much faster with coffee.”

“Noted. Anything else I should know?”

“I can also be persuaded with chocolate.”

Stan mock-glared at you. Whenever he spoke, he used his hands in big gestures, emphasizing whatever point he was making. “Wait, wait, wait. Chocolate? What happened to followin’ me anywhere?”

“I’m just saying it helps,” you told him.

For the duration of the ride you regaled him with whatever tale that came to mind. Eventually the trees thinned out and the lake came into view, water shimmering. An outcropping of cliffs hugged one side of the lake, extending an almost natural awning over the small hut Stan parked in front of. Picnic tables dotted the sparsely grassy area and families darted in and out from between them, children laughing with sticky faces and parents chasing after them waving napkins.

“Ice cream?” You climbed out of the car, the door swinging shut behind you.

Stan watched the children with soft fondness, making faces at them as they passed. Together you walked down the worn path to the counter manned by a pimpled teenager.

“Ford said I should do things I used to like to try and jog my memory,” Stan said. He peered at the menu — 107 flavors! it boasted — instead of meeting your curious gaze. “He, uh, told me we used to come here.”

“We did.” Your throat felt thick.

He had kissed you for the first time on that picnic table over there, when dusk had settled and fireflies lit up the night around you. You had been sitting on the table with Stan slotted between your legs. His mouth was cold from the ice cream but soft and sweet tasting, dancing across your tongue. You never cared for mint before that day.

When it was your turn to order, Stan persisted that you deserved a senior discount. The teenager caved, leading you to roll your eyes as Stan put his change in the tip jar only to draw out more than he put in. He took the first taste of his mint, double-scooped cone and winked at you.

“You’re insufferable,” you said with a laugh.

“He made it too easy,” Stan replied. “Sucker.”

You sat down at one of the empty tables. No one approached you but they cast glances in your direction, undoubtedly interested in the hero of Gravity Falls. If Stan noticed he didn’t say, challenging you instead to an ice cream eating contest until one of succumbed to brain freeze.

Stan had a voracious appetite, as did you, and you won out in the end. Stan, as a result, had to jump into the lake with his clothes on.

“Wait, before you go.” You couldn’t hide your amusement as you leaned up on your tiptoes and wiped ice cream from the corner of Stan’s mouth. Your thumb lingered. Recognition flashed in Stan’s eyes, then disappeared as soon as it appeared. Had you imagined it? “Um, there.”

“Thanks, kid.”

A moment passed between you, the span of a few heartbeats, before Stan braced himself. He yelled, “TELL MY STORY!” before racing off towards the shoreline of the lake. You doubled over with laughter as his youthful sprint soon turned into a hobble, the wind carrying Stan’s curses back to you. He collapsed on the sand mere inches from the lake.

Concern worried the edges of your mind. You called out to him, “Stan? Stan!”

No response.

You smiled sheepishly at the townsfolk observing the whole situation, then trotted after Stan. Upon inspection he was still breathing, one hand draped on his chest. The sand crunched underfoot as you stood over him. “Did you die?”

“Maybe.” He cracked open an eye. “Does that make you an angel?”

Your worry vanished. Staring up at the sky, you searched the clouds for an answer about why you still put up with this old man. “No use flattering me. This doesn’t hold up your end of the deal.”

“Yeah, yeah. Gimme a hand, would ya?”

You reached down for his hand, but instead of meeting yours it clasped around your wrist, pulling you down on top of him. You cried out in surprise. The water lapped at the pebbled beach, soaking through your clothes as Stan caged you with his body and rolled you both into it.

You shrieked in protest. Entrapped in his arms, he hauled you out into knee-deep water. It was no use trying to fight against him, though you gave your best effort. He could’ve held you like that all day and you knew that when you twisted to face him, it was only because he let you.

Somehow you winded up with your hands on his chest, his shirt plastered to his skin and revealing a glimpse of the body beneath. The moment reminded you of how young Stan made you feel, still blushing over him. He never treated you as if you were old or frail and you might as well have been in your late twenties again, when you first met, not a crease or wrinkle in sight.

Stan cleared his throat and the spell broke.

You removed your hands and stepped back, already missing the warmth of his proximity. In an attempt to ease the tension, you quipped, “I won’t forget this, Stanley Pines.”

Stan’s mouth twitched into a smile, eyes soft. “Neither will I.”

Stan assured you that evening that the outing had roused a memory, but you knew that he just wanted to console you. It didn’t matter. You were determined to recreate as many memories as possible, some alone, others including Dipper and Mabel. Great fun was had by all but you could tell, sneaking glances at Stan whenever he looked away, that it wasn’t registering.

Dipper and Mabel’s last days in Gravity Falls were swiftly approaching. It was a general consensus in the Pines household to pretend that this was not happening.

“You know, you could go with them.”

Admittedly, while watching Stan entertain Dipper and Mabel with an outlandish story, you forgot Ford was sitting beside you. The sinking sun created an orange glow over everything, glinting in Ford’s glasses as he waited for your answer.

“Who?” You asked, distracted.

“The kids.” Ford made a flippant gesture towards them. “Back to Piedmont.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t given any thought about it. It was, after all, never your plan to leave Gravity Falls. Was Ford trying to get rid of you?

Ford continued, “Just…I see the way you look at Stan. I know it hurts that he doesn’t remember.”

“It does.” You grew a sudden interest in the fray of your jeans. For the kids you put on a brave face, recreating memories with enthusiasm, but in truth, each one that failed was a stake through your confidence in Stan's memory.

“My theory might be incorrect. Or just an outlier in Stan’s case,” Ford added with afterthought, never the one to admit failure. Unlike you. “It doesn’t seem he will ever recover his memories.”

“We can’t give up, though,” you said, voice wavering with emotion.

Ford’s jaw feathered. So much of him reflected Stan down to the last detail, but with an air of superiority that Stan lacked. “Stan told you about Stan-o-War.”

A statement. Not a question.

“Yes.” Irritation raised under your skin like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

“I want to take him out. On a boat. Explore the world like we promised each other.”

“What boat?”

“I have one,” Ford vaguely promised.

“What about The Shack?”

“We can leave it to Soos. Assuming that you go with the twins.”

“Why would I do that?”

A lull happened in the conversation as Dipper and Mabel exploded in uproarious laughter at something Stan said. You suspected Ford was gathering his words. “I’m afraid that if we carry on as we have, the stress on Stan’s mind will break it completely. We need to face the music.”

“I’m not giving up on him,” you gritted back.

Ford heaved a sigh. “I’m not suggesting that you do. I don’t think you ever would. But we have to do what’s best for Stan.” He put his hands on his knees and pushed up, his shadow falling over you as he stood. “Just think about it.”

And think about it you did. A lot.

You still hadn’t come to a decision a week before the twins left. Ford informed you that he planned to surprise Stan after they left, leaving you with the decision of staying with Soos or going with Dipper and Mabel. Could you just…up and leave?

Reportedly, their parents were looking for help; from what you understood, a divorce lingered on the horizon. It brought comfort to you to think about caring for them during a tumultuous time. Not to mention you couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing them every day — but to gain it at the risk of losing Stan?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Stan strode into the room, dapper in his Mister Mystery suit. Your cheeks heated. Too many times you had been caught this week lost in your thoughts. “Oh, I —”

“No, seriously. I need a penny.”

You opened the register. He proceeded to take said coin and spin some elaborate tale to a group of tourists about how it had been crafted from a rare alien metal. Stan sold it for “only ten dollars” after pretending to meditate on the offer, chuckling as the unsuspecting tourist walked away.

He tapped the money into his sleeve. “Okay, but really, what’s eatin’ at ya?”

“I’m just sad about the kids leaving,” you told him after a pause, which wasn’t a complete lie. Unable to bear the flicker of sadness across his face, you panicked, racking your brain for something else. “We should…throw a going away party for them.”

A party? That was the last thing you needed to concern yourself with. But Stan had already latched onto the idea.

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea. We could promote the Shack, invite their friends, exorbitantly mark-up entry tickets.”

Stan listed each idea on his fingers. Although you regretted suggesting it, it filled you with warmth to see him invigorated by the notion of a party. You couldn’t steal that away from him now.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you that Stan was an expert party planner considering he was the life of one wherever he went. He got to work assigning roles and soon after you were hiring a caterer (Greasy Sue’s), a DJ (Soos, who insisted you call him despite being in the same room), and security (the man you only knew as “the one with the tattoos”).

The more you inquired, the more people wanted to participate. It opened your eyes to how much the Pines family impacted the town over the last few months. It was heartening, to say the least.

And by the time the party started, everyone in Gravity Falls was either attending it or volunteering at it. Everywhere you looked there was someone you knew, someone there to celebrate the people you loved most.

“You think they were surprised?” Stan’s booming voice floated over the music.

Strobe lights flashed overhead, casting him in an array of colors as he parted the crowd to your side. Dressed in dark slacks and a deep v-necked shirt, gold chain nestled in a patch of chest hair, Stan cut a perfect image of himself in the ‘70s. And although the outfit invoked memories of a younger man, you found this older one much more preferable.

“Definitely,” you replied.

Stan leaned down. “What?”

“I said definitely!” The music blared, pulsing through the whole building like a living thing. It didn’t help that Mabel and her friends had acquired full access to the speakers that Wendy’s dad lugged in earlier.

“What?” Stan wrapped one hand around your waist and pulled you in, putting your mouth dangerously close to his ear.

Heat flooded you. You yelled, “Let’s go outside!”

“Lead the way!”

To your pleasure and mortification, Stan removed his hand from your waist just enough to rest on your lower back, steering you through the crowd of partygoers. The cool night air was a balm to your heated skin as you stepped onto the porch.

Stan strayed from you long enough to shoo away two people kissing passionately on the couch — Blurbs and Durland— before patting the spot next to him for you to sit down.

“Are we old or is that music too loud?” Stan asked. He fished a cigar from his pocket and lit it.

You were entranced by the smoke curling from the end, the fixture of the cigar resting against his bottom lip. You swallowed and uncrossed your legs, then recrossed them.

“All that matters is that the party is a success,” you said.

Stan chuckled. “Heh, it is, isn’t it? Little twerps didn’t know what hit ’em.”

A small eternity passed in which you hunted desperately for something else to say. Stretched out above you on an inky canvas, the stars shone, rendering you small and insignificant. You stared up at them as exhaustion claimed you. You were so tired of thinking, of inventing conversation, so you said the one thing you knew to be irrefutable.

“You’re a good man, Stanley.”

He guffawed. “Don’t let anyone hear ya say that.”

“It’s true.” Since that day at the lake you had been careful not to touch him, but now you put your hand on his knee. “You’re a good man. What happened doesn’t change that. Your memories do not amount to your character.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and you could tell he was fighting a swell of emotion. “I wish I could do better. Everyone has these…expectations of me. I dunno how to live up to them. I want to be that person.”

“You are that person, without even thinking about it. You’re still passionate about your family. And you’re clever and brave.”

“I’m, uh, not complain’ or nothin’ but I can see the disappointment in your eyes. And-And not just you. Everyone.” He took a drag from the cigar, chest expanding with an inhaled breath. Stan blew the smoke out slowly. “I’m a stranger in my own life, ya know?”

Ford’s words, his expression grim, emerged: We have to do what’s best for Stan.

Tears sprang to your eyes but you willed them away, swallowing until your throat no longer felt quite as thick. It wasn’t fair to push Stan to be someone he couldn’t remember by clinging to a past that only you knew.

Maybe Ford was right.

Maybe the best thing for Stan was to shed the weight of these expectations and carve out a new existence for himself. He would be thrilled to explore the world with his brother — who might as well have just been introduced to him considering the time they spent apart.

There was no room for you in this new life. You knew he could never look at you without thinking about his shortcomings, even if they existed only in his mind. You were standing on one side of a chasm, yelling at him; Stan on the other side, but he was too far away to hear you.

“Well that got depressing.” Stan stubbed out the cigar, ash crumbling. He stood and held his hand out to you, eerily reminiscent of how Ford had last week. “C’mon, dance w’me.”

He looked nervous to ask you this, which dumbfounded you — you would do whatever he asked. The quiet observation made you smile.

You took his hand and allowed him to pull you back inside, a sense of bittersweet finality settling over you as you did.

The party prevailed. People were drunk on the cheap beer and good company, cheeks reddened, smiles wide. When Soos played a string of throwback songs, Stan animatedly swung you around the dance floor, surprisingly graceful for his age and size. Every touch and graze seared through you, and Stan’s gaze lingered on you in a way that heated your core and stole your breath, his dark eyes glinting with customary mirth.

A particularly enthusiastic move spun you nearly into the beverage table. You stumbled but Stan was upon you in a moment, catching you and steadying you with his hands on your waist.

“You okay?” He inspected you from head to toe, then chuckled. “Heh. Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

One moment you were like that — brimming with happiness, entangled, chests pressed together — and the next Stan had pinned you to the wall, the darkened corner lending plenty of privacy to his wandering touch and fervent kisses. You kissed him back with similar urgency.

There was no part of him that you hadn’t mapped at one point or another, though it felt jarringly now like new territory, the same broad shoulders and thick arms but somehow different.

And you wanted to explore all of it.

With your teeth you tugged at his bottom lip, teasing open his mouth in order to get a better taste. Stan, pliant and obedient under your lead, sighed in pleasure. Nothing you did sated the need inside you to consume him, devour all that he offered so that you could never miss it again.

Stan had just moved his hand from your ass down along the curve of your lower thigh to lift your leg up around his waist — hardly an appropriate position for a Grauntie, you thought vaguely— when you were interrupted with unmistakable cheering. “Get ’em! Get ’em!”

Stan ensured to cover your body with his own as he whirled on Tyler in a move of unexpected gentlemanliness. The next words out of his mouth? Not so much.

Stan rasped, “I swear to God if you don’t get outta my sight right now I’m gonna rip out your eyes and sew them on whatever horrible affront to nature I have in my shop. Now scram.”

Tyler paused. He breathed out a small, “Get ’em” then turned tail and fled.

You covered your mouth to stifle your laugh.

“Pervert,” Stan grumbled.

“Can you blame him?”

“Nah. I’d watch us, too.” Stan grinned then, renewed in his delight. He gestured with his chin towards the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. “Wanna get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The music, muffled by distance, sounded like an erratic heartbeat from the living room chair where Stan pulled you on top of him. You both laughed as your knees protested against the maneuver, Stan carefully guiding your legs to rest on either side of him. He kissed you at once. It was as if there had been no interruption from before, his hands in your hair and your fingers clumsily working the buttons of his shirt.

Stan shifted to accommodate the subsequent unbuckling of his gaudy belt, taking the opportunity to also unburden you from your top. Your entire being seemed to warm as he admired this new development, gaze drifting lazily, drinking in his fill. Stan always made you feel desirable. Even after your skin freckled and your breasts no longer held their perkiness.

Smiling with the ease of a contented man, Stan reached out and brushed a thumb under your collar. “How’d ya get this?”

You froze. You didn’t have to look to know what he was talking about — a tiny, heart-shaped scar.

The obvious shift in attitude made him recoil. His features spasmed with regret.

“I should know that, shouldn’t I?”

Your chest tightened. You whispered, “Yes.”

“Damnit.” He breathed your name. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known better than to say anything —”

The rest of his apology fell on deaf ears. You awkwardly climbed off his lap and collected your shirt. The shag carpet nearly swallowed your bare feet, having kicked off your shoes sometime after crossing the threshold into the house. Stan sat motionless, watching you. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” you quietly said.

Stan’s fingers flexed, an effort not to reach out to you again. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“It…it’s okay.” You felt, somehow, as if you were both shrinking and expanding. The words you managed to eke out next sounded hollow. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t a good idea.” For the second time that night, tears burned your eyes. Stan, upon noticing, leapt out of the chair but you stepped out of his reach, wrapping your arms around you.

Stan deflated. Actually deflated, shoulders curving into his usual rounded posture. “What’s going on? Listen, I shouldn’t have said —”

“It’s not that,” you interrupted.

But wasn’t?

Not exclusively, you corrected. It was a whole jumbled, tangled mess of things. We need to do what’s best for Stan.

You couldn’t do this to him. To yourself. Couldn’t cycle through these moments of normality that inevitably tainted themselves. Like oil in water, you couldn’t separate one from the other. You had been delusional to think that you could defy that basic logic.

You would do anything for love, wouldn’t you?

Didn’t that include letting it go?

“I can’t do this, Stanley,” you told him. You were floating above yourself, presiding over the conversation in incorporeal form. “I-I can’t move out of the past. And I want to move forward, I do. But it’s impossible, and I can’t have both. I can’t.”

Tears flowed steadily down your face now.

Stan moved to console you but must’ve thought better of it. “What are you saying?”

“I’m going to go to Piedmont. With the twins.”

“What? What about us?”

“There is no us anymore, Stan.”

His throat bobbed uncertainly. “I know that it’s not like before but I…I’ve really enjoyed our time together. We could make this work.”

You shook your head. Sobs racked you, great shuddering, choking cries.

Stan stepped tentatively forward. “I dunno what to say.” His mouth worked as he searched for his next words. “We’ve made so many new memories together. Ain’t that enough?”

Was this really happening? You couldn't believe that it had come to this, all of those years. You didn't have any words for the emotions wholly encompassing you. 

“Look, kid, I —” Stan’s brows twisted up in grief, in regret and confusion, “— I wish you would stay. I think I’m fallin’ in love with you again.”

The pleading tone of his voice proved exactly why you needed to leave. Realistically you could never have him this way, and you would only hurt him because of it. Stan deserved more than a constant reminder of the consequences of his heroic deed.

You turned from him. “I’m sorry, Stan.”

Your name from his mouth sounded like the prayer of a man desperate for salvation. “No. Please. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Heart heavier than it had ever been before, vision blurred, that’s exactly what you did.

As anticipated, the next day brought an onslaught of tears and goodbyes. You traipsed the halls of the Mystery Shack alone, ghosting your fingers over the chipped paneling and peeling paint. You were married to the old house as much as you were to Stan. Deep down you knew that you would return, but it didn’t make the goodbye any less difficult.

You avoided Stan at every possible turn. Only when you all piled into the car with your luggage did you force yourself to acknowledge him, fatigue creasing his face. You wanted nothing more than to comfort him. But this would be good for him — no more sorrow, no more pain. After the bus departed, Ford would surprise him with the boat and he would start a new life.

The walk from El Diablo to the bus station seemed to stretch on forever. You held Mabel’s hand while Dipper pushed ahead, feigning bravery, though last night you heard him crying softly in his room. So much had transpired over the summer, and now the days of adventure and laughter were over.

“I made these for you,” Mabel said. She handed Stan and Ford a pink sweater each, the former putting it on immediately and glaring at his brother to do the same. “I’m gonna miss my Grunkles.”

Ford smiled wistfully. “We’ll miss you too, kiddo.”

“C’mere, sweetie.” Stan brought Mabel in for a hug. It didn’t elude you that he used the endearment he chose before the memory wipe.

You felt as if your chest might burst from all of your suppressed, cresting emotions. Dipper bid his goodbyes next. The bus rumbled to the station then, kicking up dust, and the four of you fell into a tightened embrace.

You pulled away last. Stan regarded you with large, reproachful eyes as you kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, Stanley. We’ll see each other again.”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah.” He looked jarred by the interaction, a faint blush burning his cheeks.

Ford dipped his chin in your direction, a silent acknowledgment between you. Your lower lip trembled. But, as you turned to Dipper and Mabel, you summoned your most convincing smile and led them to the bus. Stan and Ford ensured that the driver allowed Waddles on the bus, who squealed his delight at entry. The duo, Stan outfitted in his brass knuckles and Ford with his gun, watched over your departure like two handsome, vengeful guardian angels.

Your bus seat creaked as you settled down into it, Dipper and Mabel on either side of you.

“To Piedmont,” you said.

“To Piedmont,” Dipper echoed. His grim smile had you reaching out to hug him again.

Mabel sadly waved Waddles’ hoof out the window. You couldn’t bear to look out it, staring straight ahead until the bus gained traction on the gravel road and the bus station — and your heart, your home — shrank in the distance.

For a long time the only sound was the bus chugging along and the only other rider, a snoring old man. You weren’t sure what the twins were thinking. Perhaps they were recounting their many adventures just as you were, Stan starring in most of yours.

No. No Stan. You needed to be brave.

You tried valiantly to raise morale. “We had so many great memories this summer. Fishing, swimming, being with Wendy and Soos and —”

“Grunkle Stan!”

You nodded somberly, adding, “And Grunkle Stan.”

“No! Look!” Mabel clambered in the seat, stabbing her finger at the window. Both you and Dipper righted in order to peer around her sweatered form. Sure enough, there was Stan, running to keep up with the bus and waving his hands.

“Wait! Stop!” He yelled, panting. “Stop the bus!”

“We have to stop the bus. He wants to tell us something,” Mabel said, eyes wide with urgency.

You eyed Stan, stumbling over rocks and roots, knowing that he wouldn’t last much longer. You signaled for the bus driver to stop; after the Waddles incident, he was only too willing to obey. The bus sputtered to a halt and the three of you piled off, Mabel and Dipper darting out in front to meet Stan’s breathless approach.

“Stan, what are you doing?” You shielded your face, blinking into the sun.

Stan doubled over, hands on his knees. He signaled that he needed a minute. You stood, smiling sheepishly at the bus driver, who looked less than impressed to be waiting. You started, “Stan —”

“I remember!” His face absolutely beamed. “I remember. I remember it all.” Stan grabbed Mabel’s shoulders. “You eat glitter when you think no one is looking. You told me once that you invented invisible ice cream but couldn’t find it when it fell on the floor.”

It was Dipper’s turn next for this onslaught of information, brimming out of Stan like an overflowing sink. “You! At the beginning of the summer you thought Mabel’s pet rock was an alien tryin’ to blend in. You were freakin’ out because it kept movin’.” Stan burst into laughter. “But it was just ME!”

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel and Dipper leapt to embrace him. He hugged them tighter than you had ever seen before.

He remembered? He remembered?

“Don’t think I forgot about ya.” Stan released the twins, crossing the space between you in only two strides. “I’m sorry, doll, ‘bout everythin’.” His large hands cupped either side of your face, gaze roaming over you with renewed wonder. “Everything is so clear now.”

Your lip wobbled. “You remember?”

“Yes I remember you beautiful, crazy woman!” Stan laughed and suddenly he was wrapping his arms around your middle and lifting you off your feet, spinning you in a circle. “I remember! I remember!”

You put your hands on his shoulders to brace yourself. “Stan! Stan! Are you sure?” You couldn’t let yourself hope again if it wasn’t true, fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird.

He set you down again, grinning like a child. “Like hell I’m sure. When…When Bill went in my mind, I ‘member thinkin’ that I could never lose you. None of you. I suppose I was s’scared of it that I repressed it deep enough to protect the memories. Then when you got on that bus, when I thought I lost you for real, it all came rushing back.”

“Really?” Tears strained your voice.

“Really.” Stan’s features softened. “I understand now why you fought so hard to get these memories back.”

A sound of strangled, delirious joy burst from you and you threw yourself against him, arms encircling around his neck. Stan’s mouth hovered near your ear, lips brushing the outer shell of it. “I love ya, doll. Even-Even when I didn’t remember why, I loved ya.”

“I love you, too,” you sighed into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “I can’t believe this.”

“Well, believe it.” Stan retracted enough to study you, curious and awed all in one. “You can’t get rid o’me that easily.”

“I-I really thought…” you shook your head, unable to get the words out. You just held him tighter.

“I know. I know, doll.”

You didn’t need to speak to understand each other, to know what the other one was thinking. When he held you now, he held you with thirty years of memories, a bind stronger than even the ring on your finger.

Mabel broke the embrace, tugging on Stan’s shirt. “What happens now?”

In the distance, Dipper and Ford were chasing Waddles. Stan observed this, then took a long look at you before turning to his niece. He waved off the bus driver, saying, “You ever been on a boat before, kid?”

A/N 2.0: In my head, they all get to go on their adventures together and reader homeschools Dipper and Mabel and they’re a big, happy family.

There’s little nods to the Swooning Over Stans dating game by @gfdatingsim and By Steps and Inches by @funkingrunkles . Memories is kind of my love letter to both stories that I enjoyed so much. (So if you read this, thank you💕)

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Cash Slave, reporting in...

Good morning, master. State Trooper Hernandez reporting!

I hope you're doing well since the last time we saw each other. Again, I can't apologize enough for pulling you over on the highway. I had no idea you were such an amazing hypnotist. Thank you again for letting me get off easy and only making me taze myself twice! I was paralyzed in that muddy ditch for awhile, but you could've given me a helluva worse punishment!

Your instructions aren't negotiable, so I made sure to snap a photo before I started my shift today. As you suggested, I've been eating a box of donuts every morning, and I've packed on a hefty 30 lbs since I've started. My wife has complained, but I know you want me to look more like a cliche of law enforcement!

I'll stop by your house to drop off my paycheck tonight after work. I won't forget to pick up some pizza for you and your friends on the way: extra sausage, just like you said!

See you tonight, master!

Hello sir.

It's been a week since you came into my shop, and I've followed everything you said. I didn't agree with it at first, but you convinced me with that little pendant.

You were right! I really am beneath powerful men like you. Filthy blue-collar workers aren't worthy to lick the dirt off your shoes. You were right to point that out, and you were right to tell me to embrace it. When the world looks at me, they shouldn't see a man. They should see a grease monkey at the bottom of society.

That's why I haven't showered or changed in seven days. My BO is uncomfortable to work in, but I know it's just a reminder of what I am. I used to be proud of my job. Ha! I used to look down on suits like you, but I'm nothing in comparison; just a tool at your disposal.

Anyways, I cleaned and waxed your old car as fast as I could. I know I lent you my convertible, but you're welcome to keep it. I put a lot of sweat and blood in fixing her up, but like you said, fancy cars are meant for you to drive and me to maintain.

Stop back in my garage anytime. White-collar men like you get free service here! It's not the place of any lowly laborer to get in the way of what you want.

Thank you again, sir.

Hello boss.

Just started another long day of window washing! It's another hot one, but I'll keep my head down and sweat through it like usual.

I've gotta say, it's days like this that make me miss the comforts of my old corporate desk job. I'd kill for some AC right now, but I remember how much you made me realize I hated that career. Like you said, I'm much better suited to a life of mindless cleaning.

It turns out you're the real one with a knack for business strategy because all of your advice has been genius! The income is dependent on the hours I put in, and since I'm working for half the price of all competitors, I've gotten a monopoly on the market! I've fully booked all seven days for the next five or so weeks, so I'll be washing windows non-stop!

The business is already booming! I've been billing customers to your bank account, so you should already see all the profit in there!

Later today, I'll make a note of the minimum I need to replenish the cleaning supplies I'm running through. I'd also be grateful if you loaned me a bit for personal use, but it's understandable if you can't spare any! We agreed that I wasn't working for a salary, and I'm fine with that! I've been sleeping in the company van the last few weeks and it's more than good enough for me!

Don't worry, boss. I'll get back to work!

Tell my wife hello for me, master!

Working on a rig has been isolating. The job is brutal, the days are long, and every night I head back to our bunks covered in oil. I thought I'd at least get to bond with the other guys, but most of us are too tired to do anything but eat and sleep after our shift.

The only thing that's getting me through it is thinking about you. I know I also have a girl at home, but you were the one that gave my life purpose. I was never going to make money as an actor, and you helped me see that! You were the one that convinced me to go for this ridiculous job in the middle of the ocean, and now I'm making a ton of money!

You deserve it all.

I wouldn't have seen any of this cash if I hadn't stuck around after your stage hypnosis show. I still remember the wild look in your eyes when you came up with this idea for me. I also remember that hungry look you had when you saw my wife. It was impossible to say no.

Oh, and thanks for keeping my wife company while I'm gone. A man like you deserves her attention more than I do. Like you said, I doubt I was pleasing her to begin with. The only thing I'm good for is earning money, and I hope you're enjoying it because it sure isn't easy to earn!

I gotta get back, but I wanted to let you know that I signed up for another six months like you suggested. It's lonely, but I'm happy to do it, master!

Son, or should I still call you 'sir'?

I'm not sure if I your new title applies through text as well? Being your dad and your servant can be a bit confusing, but I don't mean disrespect you! Just let me know.

My workout is done and I'm headed back to your house. I signed the deed over to you this morning, so you officially own it now! Like usual, I'll clean the place from top to bottom. I've got all the mops and cleaning supplies in my van and ready to go. Since it's Friday, I'll start on the weekly yard work; mowing, weeding, etc... I don't want to bore you with the details, but it'll take the majority of the day to keep your place in tip top shape!

As I understand it, you are having friends over tonight, so I'll prepare a three course meal for eight. I ironed my apron this morning so I should look like a more presentable waiter than last night when I served your food!

As always, please let me know if there's any other way I can be of service today or tonight.

I'll be awaiting your return, sir.

Hey little bro,

I just finished my workout at the gym with dad. We're both hitting PRs and we're really starting to see some results! Still can't believe you hypnotized his dumb ass to think he's your butler! That man looks so stupid changing from gym clothes into a bowtie and gloves. He's constantly calling you 'sir' too, even when you're not around.

He's such an idiot.

Anyways, I'm all dressed and ready for my new job. You were totally right. I'm going to be so much happier as a clown instead of a wrestler. I'm about to head out to my first gig; a ten year old's birthday party. I think he's the kid of someone I used to compete with. It might be a little awkward, but it won't affect my routine. I've got an afternoon of pies in the face and self-deprecating humor ahead of me.

I made sure to tell the guy who hired me that I'm willing to stay after and clean up. Kids make a huge mess after all. I just hope he won't be too weird about me being a clown at his son's party. We may have been rivals in the past, but that was back when I wrestled. Now I'm just a joke for hire. He's technically my boss for the day, so I'll have to get used to taking orders from him.

Wish me luck, bro. I'll give you the money after the dad dismisses me. Let's hope I make a good clown!

[mediocre-shark-tales]

The Debut Part 2

Masterlist

Interviews after the race were the worst part. Riding the high of my debut, I had forgotten how some people would still question me, regardless of how much I’d proven myself on track. Sure enough, an older interviewer wasted no time, diving straight into the skepticism.

“We didn’t see you here on media day. Would you say you weren’t mentally ready, given the backlash online about you stepping in for Lance?” he asked, his tone pointed.

I kept my expression bright, masking the sting behind his words with a smile. “Actually, I don’t mind what people think about me racing. My team requested permission from the FIA to excuse me from media day. I don’t know if it was our preparation yesterday that influenced their decision, but I’ll be here for all the other media days,” I replied confidently.

The reporter’s scowl hinted he’d hoped I’d falter. But he pressed on. “Can you explain why you disappeared from F2, only to suddenly show up in F1?”

Images flashed through my mind—my strong F2 season, the bittersweet moments with my mother, and my decision to leave to be by her side. Without missing a beat, I answered, “As my former team and I have always stated, I left to undergo the training Aston Martin required. Luckily, that timing allowed me to step in strongly for Lance after his accident. I wish him a strong recovery and hope to see him back next season.”

His frown deepened, as though frustrated by my composure. “You do know that no one buys that story, right? Plenty of insiders have come forward with other theories.”

I met his gaze with a smirk, catching him off guard. “I’ve seen those theories, and they’re certainly creative! But they’re reaching. I’d hope my real supporters pay attention to who’s sharing those stories—that alone could answer a lot of questions.” I took a breath, then added smoothly, “I love a bit of chaos as much as the next person, and if it’s at my expense, so be it. But I’ll prove myself on track. I can show you my personality, but if you already dislike me without knowing me, why should I try to change your mind?” I finished, my smile still firmly in place.

Finally, I was given the chance to move on from him, though I knew he wouldn’t be the last disrespectful interviewer I’d face. It was time to lock in and remind myself that I couldn't let their jabs or ignorant questions get under my skin. The media's skepticism would always be there, but I could choose how much of myself I shared with them.

It was time to bring up my walls again, to let the ‘daredevil’ persona I’d honed over the years take the lead. I’d mastered that version of myself—the unshakeable, casually confident, and unflinchingly witty driver who wouldn’t let anyone mess with her head. I was here to race, to show everyone exactly what I could do. And if I had to tune out the noise to keep my focus razor-sharp, then so be it.

Once I escaped the media pen, I heard my name called over the hum of busy teams rushing around. Marcus, who had been quietly with me throughout, looked back first. He turned to me with a reassuring smile. “I’ve got a few more things to wrap up. Once you’re changed and ready, find me in the Aston Martin Hospitality lobby, and we’ll head back to the hotel.” I nodded, watching him leave before turning toward the person calling my name.

It was Franco, of course, his signature smile lighting up his face as he approached with his PR manager in tow. “I was hoping to catch you before you took off,” he said quickly, then hesitated, his expression shifting to one of concern. “I heard what that guy said. Don’t let it get to you. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know you belong here. After another race weekend or two, I bet you’ll have plenty of drivers on your side—even if I have to convince them myself.”

I returned his smile, touched by the sincerity in his voice, though I noticed something else—an edge to his tone, as if he was frustrated with the others. It felt like he knew something I didn’t, but I didn’t push. We weren’t that close yet, and if there was anything important, I trusted he’d tell me in his own time. For now, I was grateful just to have his support.

“Enough of the tough topics,” Franco said, shifting to a more cheerful tone. “I actually found out we’re on the same flight back to the UK. How about we sit together? I’d really like to get to know you better. It’s nice to have another rookie on the grid, but it would be even better if that rookie became a good friend of mine?”

I smiled, appreciating his honesty, and nodded. “Yeah, I’d love that. Here, let me give you my number so you can text me when you’re in the waiting area. We can meet up and figure out seats then.” As I handed him my phone, I added, “Do you know if any other drivers are on our flight? I’ve never been on one of these shared private charters. To get here, they just had me fly business class.”

Franco chuckled, noticing my nervousness. “Don’t worry, it’s a bit different, but you’ll get used to it. Plus, you’ll have me as your tour guide,” he said with a wink. “I honestly didn’t even check which other drivers were on this flight,” Franco admitted, his eyes glinting with a playful smile. “I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

I felt a blush creep up at his flirty tone, and I laughed, brushing it off. “Well, you’ve got your excuse,” I replied, meeting his smile with one of my own. “Just don’t go using all your charm on me at once.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying my reaction. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m saving some for the flight.”

Two hours later, freshly showered and packed, I made my way down to the hotel lobby. Marcus greeted me with a smile, already waiting with our bags by his side. Soon, we were off in an Uber, navigating the post-Grand Prix traffic around Monza. It didn’t take long before we arrived at the airport, and I gathered my bags, heading toward the entrance.

As I stepped through the doors, my phone buzzed with a new text notification. I pulled it out and smiled when I saw Franco’s name on the screen.

Hey, hermosa. I just got to the waiting area. You’ll find me by the big windows looking out at the planes.

I typed back quickly: Just got here too! I’ll be through security soon and meet you there.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I felt a little surge of excitement. After a long day, I couldn’t wait to unwind—and having Franco’s company on the flight would make the trip back a lot more enjoyable.

Security was surprisingly quick this time. Being a Formula 1 driver on a chartered jet with other team members seemed to come with its perks—no endless lines, just a fast check of my bags and a quick scan, and I was through in under five minutes. My larger bags were taken aside to be loaded onto the plane, leaving me with only my small personal bag for the flight.

Fidgeting with my sea turtle necklace, I glanced around the private waiting room, scanning for Franco. The place was buzzing with drivers and managers, some eyeing me with thinly veiled curiosity or judgment. Ignoring the glances, I finally spotted Franco, engrossed in his phone, lounging by the windows as he’d promised.

I walked over, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Franco looked up as I approached, flashing a grin as he moved his bag off the seat in front of him. Gratefully, I slid into the booth across from him, feeling a wave of relief as we exchanged a friendly smile. The tension from the room faded slightly with his friendly demeanor. 

“Finally, thought you’d gotten lost back there,” he teased, sliding his phone into his pocket.

I laughed, shrugging. “I was a little distracted by all the stares,” I admitted, glancing around the room. “Guess they’re not used to new faces—especially mine.”

He nodded sympathetically. “It’s their loss,” he said, shrugging it off. “I get the whole ‘new kid’ vibe too. It’s why I was so keen to talk to you. How are you finding it so far?”

“Intense,” I replied, chuckling. “It’s been a dream come true, obviously. But the media, the judgment, all of it’s been... a lot.”

Franco gave an understanding nod, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, they don’t really teach you how to handle all this quick enough, do they? I feel like we’re both just tossed in with the sharks and told, ‘Good luck.’” He grinned, then added, “But hey, you killed it today. I heard the team talking about it back there.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “You did too! I mean, holding off my DRS attack for that long? Impressive.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I was just praying my tires would hold out. Honestly, the whole time I thought, ‘If I screw up, she’s taking my place.’ Guess we’ll just have to keep each other sharp, yeah?”

“Deal,” I agreed, feeling my nerves ease. “Let’s make a pact—rookie alliance, right? We can look out for each other. Maybe have a few friendly competitions?”

Franco’s eyes lit up. “I like that idea. A little rivalry—who gets the most overtakes, or who makes it into Q3 first?” He paused, then smirked. “Loser buys the winner lunch?”

I grinned, nodding. “Oh, it’s on. And I hope you have an expensive taste, because I’m definitely winning.”

“Confident, huh?” he said with a laugh. “Alright, I’ll see if you can keep up. But really, it’ll be good to have someone who gets it, you know? We rookies have to stick together.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, feeling genuinely happy. “And hey, here’s to proving everyone wrong.”

Franco raised an imaginary glass. “To that,” he said with a wink.

Our conversation continued for a little while longer until it was finally time to board the plane. 

Franco and I found our own little area, of course it was a group of 4 seats facing each other. I sat across from Franco who watched to see if anyone else might join us. I could see both of the drivers from Mclaren and Mercedes. Of course there is also Alex and Fernando from our teams as well. 

As we settled into our seats, Franco glanced around the cabin, nodding toward the familiar faces. “Feels like a reunion of sorts,” he murmured, leaning back with a grin. “Wonder who’ll join us in our little corner of the plane here.”

I chuckled, glancing over to the other drivers too. “Honestly, it’s kind of surreal to be surrounded by them. Like, I grew up watching half of these guys race. Now here I am, sharing a plane with them.”

Franco smirked, lowering his voice. “You’re handling it well, though. Can’t even tell you’re fangirling inside.”

I playfully kicked his foot under the table. “Oh, please. You were the one practically glowing when Lewis said you defended well today.”

He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. But, hey, Lewis Hamilton is still a legend, no matter how chill he tries to be.”

Just then, I noticed Alex approaching with a water bottle. He paused, giving us both a slight nod. “Mind if I join?” he asked, glancing between us with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Franco shot me a quick look, as if to say, Is this okay? I nodded with a smile. “Of course, take a seat! We were just… rehashing the race,” I added with a laugh.

Alex slid into the seat next to Franco, giving a faint smile but avoiding my gaze just a bit. “You two held up the midfield well today. Gave the crowd something to watch.”

“Trying to make our rookie debuts memorable,” Franco said, shrugging but smiling.

Alex nodded, a little more reserved. “Good mindset to have. Just remember it’s a marathon, not a sprint. A few strong races don’t make a season. You’ve gotta keep that consistency.”

I leaned forward, intrigued despite his slightly distant tone. “How do you manage that? I mean, all the pressure, the criticism… how do you stay grounded?”

Alex glanced briefly at me, as if weighing his answer. “Honestly? You’ve gotta tune it out. Find people who believe in you—team, family, friends—and hold onto them. The rest? Noise.”

Franco nodded, clearly taking it all in. “Noted. I think we’re off to a good start, though, right?” He shot me a grin, his confidence unmistakable.

I smiled back, feeling a little reassured, though Alex's slight hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Definitely. And having each other’s backs just makes it easier.”

Alex gave a quick nod, looking out the window. “Yeah… it’ll help to know who’s really there for you.” His words felt weighted, leaving me with a feeling that maybe not everyone was convinced I belonged here—yet.

Hours passed as the plane hummed softly around us, and eventually, the lights dimmed, casting a warm, quiet glow across the cabin. Franco had fallen asleep, his head tilted slightly back, arms crossed. Across from us, most of the drivers had either slipped on sleep masks or simply leaned back, eyes shut, lost in much-needed rest.

But sleep evaded me. I leaned my head against the window, earbuds in, playing one of my favorite playlists on low volume. The familiar songs were meant to be comforting, but my mind raced far too much to relax. I glanced at Franco, then Alex, even Fernando a few seats away, all peacefully asleep. They seemed… unburdened, or at least at ease in a way I hadn’t felt since I first entered this chaotic world.

My thoughts drifted back to the interactions I’d had with some of the drivers over the past few days. The way Alex seemed hesitant earlier, the awkward silences in the paddock, the way some of the others had yet to fully acknowledge me. It wasn’t overt; most people were polite, but something lingered under the surface, a guardedness. And I had a sinking feeling I knew why.

I clutched the pendant of my necklace, my thumb running over the little sea turtle. If only they knew the truth, I thought bitterly. If they understood why I’d left my F2 team so suddenly, maybe they wouldn’t look at me like some sort of imposter who had jumped into F1 overnight.

But that truth—the time I spent away, the weeks I’d missed—wasn’t something I could just blurt out. It was private, a chapter of my life I’d had to keep from everyone. I had left F2 mid-season, not for any lack of commitment or a mysterious “training opportunity” as the media had said, but because I couldn’t bear to be anywhere else but by my mother’s side in her last days.

She’d kept her illness a secret from everyone except those closest to us, not wanting the world to see her in her most vulnerable moments. And I had honored that, staying silent even as the rumors spread that I’d gone MIA. That I’d given up. Or that maybe I just couldn’t handle the competition and pressure. My team had tried to cover for me, but the whispers had taken on a life of their own. It was strange; the further I pushed ahead, the more those rumors seemed to haunt me.

I sighed, leaning back in my seat and turning up the volume slightly, letting the music drown out the dull ache in my chest. Maybe they’ll see who I really am in time, I told myself. Maybe the track will speak for me, louder than any rumor. But part of me wondered if it would ever be enough. If, someday, they’d realize why I’d fought so hard to get here and just how much I’d given up to be in this seat.

With one last glance around the cabin, I took a shaky breath, steeling myself. I had a lot to prove—not just for me, but for my mother, who had believed in me until the very end.

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

okay but. imagine cowboy!reader is actually very educated. pro-LGBTQ, pro-choice, BLM, acab. very big speaker and doesn't take shit. BUT everyone thinks he isn't gonna educated and such until they're on a case dealing with like a trans kid and he's the first one to step up and comfort the kid and such. man im in the rabbit hole.

Allergies (Not Really)

No no no no no but the way I've started one where something of this theme happens (I don't want to give too much away aha)

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: transphobia, sad reader :( (i teared up a little ngl - it's not sad, he's just sad), guns, bullet wound, fighting, briefly mentions some murders to set the scene a bit, someone calls reader a redneck

Also I just want to say that the relationship between Mia and (Y/N) is completely platonic, maybe familial (a bit older brother-y or fatherly) not anything else. Just because I'm panicking because they spend a lot of time joking about and I wanna make that clear.

Taglist: @xweirdo101x @xdark-acadamiax

Your blood boils when you hear the case, an unsub has been targeting young families (parents and three kids all under the age of sixteen). The last family had a survivor, a twelve-year-old transgender girl named Mia, who was currently in the hospital being treated for a variety of injuries.

Your jaw clenches as you read the hospital report, whilst it wasn't too long (thankfully), you knew she would still have a lot to work through mentally.

"You alright over there, Eastwood?" Morgan asks.

"Just angers me, is all," You answer, not feeling the need to elaborate, feeling the source of your anger being fairly self-explanatory. You miss the concerned look Rossi and Hotch share. 

A few hours later, the jet landed, once everyone was situated at the police station, you turned to the team.

"I'm gonna head to the hospital, make sure Mia's okay," You said.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Rossi’s the one that says it, but you can see everyone's thinking the same thing. 

"Wha- Why wouldn't it be?... Oh I see," You say as the penny finally drops and it clicks, "Y'all think 'cause I'm from the South I'm against her bein' herself?" You sigh softly, rubbing the back of your neck, "Have I not proved myself yet?"

No one says anything for a moment, shocked by the hurt that flashes in your eyes, before they can, you pick your hat back up, settling it on your head, "I'm headin' to the hospital,” You mumble, leaving the room before anyone can say anything.

When you leave the room, you rub your eyes with the back of your hand. 'Not crying,' You try and convince yourself, 'allergies.' You trying to ignore the fact you know, 100%, that you don't have any allergies. 

You get into one of the SUV's and begin making your way to the hospital, ignoring your phone as it lit up with various concerned messages.

The receptionist was a nice woman and was quick to show you to Mia's room (after staring at you hungrily for a few minutes). You gave a small knock before walking in.

"Are you here to tell me I'm too young to know myself as well?" 

You furrow your eyebrows, "No, who told you that?" 

"One of the nurses," She answers with a shrug. 

"You know which one?" 

"The guy with brown hair," She shrugs as she answers, "It's fine though, happens all the time." 

"I personally don't think y'all are too young to realise who you are," You said with a shrug, "I think anyone who thinks that is trynna hide their bias by invalidatin' your identity."

Mia looks at you for a moment, "I like you." She states, "I thought you were going to be against it." 

"I've been gettin' that a lot today, it would seem," You mumble before your head snaps to the door, relaxing when it's just JJ. "Anyway, I'm (Y/N), this is my colleague, Agent Jareau. Mia, you a'right if we ask you a few questions?" 

"Sure,"

"Could you run us through what happened that night?"

"Mum and dad were cooking. We were all sitting at the table doing our homework, and someone knocked on the door." Mia began, "They asked me to open the door, and he grabbed me and put a gun to my head. He shot my dad, then-"

You gave her a small, encouraging smile, "You're doin' great,"

"Did you get a look at the person that did this?" JJ asked, when Mia nodded, she continued, "What did they look like?"

Your eyes widen in worry as the heart machine next to Mia picks up, as does her breathing. You pull yourself together and turn your attention to her, "Mia? Mia, hey," Your voice is soft as you kneel next to her, "You need to take some deep breaths for me sweetheart,"

"Can't-"

You nod at her, "Yes, yes you can," You encourage, "Deep breaths, in, one, two, three, four, five, and out. That was good, keep going," 

It takes a moment, but her breathing evens out and she appeared to be less anxious, "There we go," You grin, "Told ya," 

"Okay, Texas," Your jaw drops slightly, the joke catching you off guard. 

"That's not fair, I can't even say anythin' back without bullin' a child," 

"Ha ha." She responds, you throw your hands up in the air, smiling when she laughs at you. 

JJ rolls her eyes slightly at you with a small smile as the doctor walks in with a few nurses for a routine checkup. Your eyebrows furrow when you see a male nurse with brown hair. Your eyes flick to the name badge, 'Darren', assuming this is the same nurse, you make a mental note of his name.

"We'll be just outside, a'right?"

Her hand shoots out, clinging onto your sleeve, "No! Don't leave!" She looks at you slightly hesitantly, "Please?"

"Hey, hey, it's a'right, I'll stay here," You answer, eyes flicking down to her for a moment before turning to JJ.

"Hotch wants me to go with Morgan to the scene," JJ said, "You good here? I'll let him know,"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good here and thanks," You give a small smile.

When the doctor and nurses left, you turned to Mia, "That nurse you mentioned earlier? The brown-haired one? Was he in the room just now?" 

Mia nodded, "Yeah,"

"Had a name badge on, name Darren?" Mia nodded once more. "Alright, I'll be back in a moment,"

"Where are you going?"

"I just want a quick word with this Darren fella," You shrug, seeing the look on Mia's face you roll your eyes slightly, "Don't you worry your little head about it, I'm not gonna hurt him or anythin'."

"Okay..." She said.

"Is that a'right?"

Mia shrugged, "Sure." You nodded before exiting the room.

Furrowing your eyes when you came face to face with Rossi, "Howdy, I'm just popping out for a few," You said. 

Rossi nodded, walking into the room after you had left. "I'm Agent Rossi," He said, "I work with (Y/N),"

"The cowboy?"

"Yeah, the cowboy," Rossi huffs a small laugh as he sits in his seat. "Have the staff here been treating you okay?"

Mia shrugs, "Yeah," She answers, "There was one nurse but I think Texas has gone to sort him out or something. He might beat him up."

Rossi smiles slightly, "Texas?" 

"Yeah, the cowboy," She said, "I think he's frustrated that everyone keeps assuming he's going to be against me being trans... I'd be frustrated too, I think," She added after a moment's thought. 

You leave Mia, now feeling slightly better that Rossi will be there whilst you're gone. Spotting your target, you speed up.

"Excuse me! Nurse?" The man turns towards you, Darren. "I just wanted to have a word with you about Mia?"

You watch as Darren shifts uncomfortably. "Yes?"

"I just wanted to say that perhaps telling someone they're too young to understand 'emselves probably doesn't make 'em feel a whole lotta good about 'emselves."

Darren looks you up and down slightly as he takes a few steps towards you. "And what exactly do you know?" He scoffs, "I'm surprised a redneck such as yourself can read and write."

"That's some nice deflection there," You said sarcastically, trying not to let it show how much the stereotypes flung into your face hurt. "Just... don't be a dick. If you don't understand somethin', look it up. I'm sure you can read. So perhaps do your research before you project onto a twelve year old girl." With that, you give a forced smile before turning on your heels and head back to Mia's room.

"Welp, that outta have done it," You give a lopsided grin, "A'right Rossi?" 

"I'm fine Kid, you okay?" 

"Yes sir," You answered, "I might grab myself a drink, y'all want anything?"

Mia laughs, "Y'all?"

"Rossi, Imma need your assistance, I'm getting bullied by a twelve year old," 

"Sorry, Kiddo, can't help you there." He chuckled, "I will ask that you grab me a coffee though."

"Coming right up!" 

Hours later, she's sat up on the bed whilst you're sat on a chair (a rather uncomfortable one) next to the bed, Rossi having left an hour ago, both of your gazes focused on a small, empty glass bottle that stood on the overbed tables. Each armed with a small piece of string as a makeshift lasso. 

"You're not a very good cowboy, are you?" Mia observes as you miss once more. 

"Hey, I haven't done this in a while," 

"How longs a while? Never?" She asked, throwing the lasso perfectly once more. 

"I'll have you know its been, okay so it's been like ten years, a'right? You were two last time I had to lasso something," 

"Wow, you're old." 

"I had no idea twelve year olds were so mean, you're about to make a grown man cry,"

Mia gave a laugh, you quickly joining in. You flung the lasso half-heartedly, eyes widening as it hit its target perfectly. "Yeehaw!" 

"Yeehaw? Seriously? You're so lame." You jaw dropped once more. You both jumped as gunshots echoed throughout the hospital, you sat up straight, immediately turning to Mia.

"Mia, I need you to take this," You handed your phone over to her, "The pass code is 1999, okay? You need to phone Hotch. Lock the door behind me, go into the bathroom and lock that door too, okay?"

Mia looked up at you with wide, scared eyes, "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I'm gonna be absolutely fine, a'right?" When she nodded, you gave her a smile, "Don't open this door until I tell you to, or Hotch phones and says to okay?" 

You shut the door, not moving until you heard it lock in place. When you heard the soft click, you nodded to yourself as you began to make your way towards sound.

Seeing a nurse, you jogged up to her, "Ma'am, try and get everyone into their rooms, tell them not to come out, okay?" The nurse nods and runs off. You continue cautiously towards the sound of gunshots, revolver clutched in your hands.

When you find him, he's holding a person close to his chest, what with that and the people running past you, you don't have a clear shot. You meeting eyes with the wide yes of the hostage against his chest, you look at her, giving a small nod as you inch closer. 

When the moment's right, she ducks her head, pulls her elbow back, before slamming it into the guy's ribs. As he curls over, she wiggles out of her grasp, joining the others in fleeing. With a sigh, you brace yourself before charging at the man, tackling him to the floor.

It takes a moment for the unsub to recover, in that time you've delivered a few blows to his face, both of your guns falling during the tackle. He's quick to flip you over, he aims for the torso first, delivering a handful of well-aimed punches. Next, he takes a fist of your hair, slamming your head into the floor. Once, twice, three times before you get the momentum needed to push him off you.

You staggered up, paying no mind to the pain in your head throbbing in beat with your pulse, the blood on the side of you head that's slowly dripping into your eye, or the ache that's spread through your abdomen. You had to either distract this guy until the team got here or knock him out. Either way, you weren't about to let yourself pass out and let this bastard hurt Mia.

As you're breathing deeply through the pain, the unsub has stood, he (however) is not as chivalrous, so he takes the moment make his way over to you. He grabs your shoulders as he pulls his knee to your groin, pushing you to the floor as you double over in pain. Happy with having the advantage, he continues to aim cheap blows to your sides.

Despite this, you stumble up once more, you keeping your left arm wrapped close to your ribs on your right. They were definitely bruised as a minimum. You duck the punch sent your way, wincing slightly as it pulls on your arm and ribs. Both of your eyes lock on the gun at the same time as the pair of you dive for it. He reaches it first, gripping it tightly in his hands as you immediately go for it, to loosen his grip, anything you can think of.

There's a bang and you grunt as a bullet enters the top of your left arm, adding insult to injury. Okay, so disarming him didn't really work.

"FBI!" You sigh in relief as the unsub is pulled away from you, letting your head fall against the cold floor with your eyes closed - trying to get a grip on the pain. You listen as they cuff the bastard before dragging him out of the hospital. You let your eyes flutter open as you begin to push yourself off of the floor. 

"I'm fine," You mumbled, shrugging Hotch's hands off you, "I'm fine, check on Mia."

"Morgan, stay with (Y/N)."

When Hotch is gone, you turn to Morgan, "I'm fine, go help Hotch."

"Sorry, got my order," Morgan said with a shrug. You don't answer, as much as you don't want to admit it, the pain was really starting you affect your headspace. You felt like you couldn't think. "Come on, let's get you checked out." 

You shook your head, "No, I need to check on Mia first," You mumbled, giving a low groan as you pushed yourself up. 

"Alright, lead the way," Morgan said. You don't answer, simply forcing one foot in front of the other until you're back at Mia's room.

"Is he okay?!" You hear Mia's question through the door.

"He's okay," You hear Hotch reassuring her.

"Then where is he?! He said he'd be here as soon as he could!" Mia's panic causes your eyebrows to furrow, "Oh god, he's dead, isn't he?"

You push the door open, trying to look as put together as possible for Mia, not wanting her to panic. "I'm very much alive, thank you very much," You say.

"I thought he killed you!" She exclaims, rushing towards you. You groan when Mia flings her arms around you, burying her head in your chest and she immediately steps back, seeing the blood her eyes widen. "Holy shit he shot you?!"

"Hey, language," 

"Sorry Texas," She grins, and you roll your eyes. 

"Texas?" Morgan grins, "Oh, that is so sticking around,"

You groan slightly, "Seriously?"

"Seriously." 

You turn to Mia, "Thanks kid," You say sarcastically.

"No problem, old man." Your jaw drops once more.

"I don't know if my ego can take all these insults," 

"I don't know what y'all are talkin' about I would never do such a thing to y'all," She says, trying her best to do an impersonation, giggling slightly at the look of disbelief on your face. 

"That- Now that was just a bridge too far-" You barely get the sentence out before you're huffing a laugh (and then wincing because of said laugh).

"Alright, come on, Texas," Derek smirks, placing a hand on your shoulder, "Let's go get you checked out."

You weren’t too injured (thankfully), minus the bullet wound, it was mostly just bruises. Eventually, you were all stitched up and laid in a hospital bed - which you hated, but Hotch had glared at you when you went to protest. 

A soft knock echoed through the door before it opened, a blonde woman poking her head round. You frowned slightly, not recognising her.

"Hi, I'm Mia's aunt," The woman says and you straighten up (ignoring the discomfort).

"Ma'am," You said with a nod.

"I just wanted to say thank you," 

"What for?" You furrowed your eyebrows as she raised hers, motioning to your current state. "Ma'am I was just doing my job."

"Well, either way, thank you." 

You give a small smile, "No worries, Ma'am."

“I’m going to be her guardian now that-” Mia’s aunt paused, taking a deep breath to compose herself before she continued, “After everything and I really appreciate what you did for her.”

You give her a small smile, “Of course, Ma’am.”

She gives you one last smile as she leaves the room, “Oh, agent?” You look at her, “Is it alright if I bring Mia in? We’re about to head off and she wanted to say goodbye.”

You nod, “Yeah, yeah, of course,” 

When the door closes, you push yourself the best you can, the door opens a few minutes later and Mia walks in.

“How y’all healin’?”

“First, I wouldn’t say y’all if it’s just one person,” You said, rolling your eyes, “Second, I’m doin’ a’right,”

“You missed like seven letters in that sentence,” She laughs, you huff a small laugh, forcing a wince down.

“It’s an art form,” You reply. "Your aunt seems nice,"

“She is, I’m going to live with her,” Mia says, smiling, “She lives in California. I can’t wait, apparently my uncle’s been getting a room ready for me,”

“That’s great,” You smiled. "How are you feeling in yourself?" 

"I'm okay," Mia said with a shrug, "I know it's going to be a while until I'm back to one hundred percent, but I'm willing to put in the work."

"Smart kid," You said, "You'll be okay." 

"Oh, Aunty Meg you should have been there earlier! Texas was all like 'how are y'all doin'?' And he made lassos but he was absolutely useless with one and the last time he used one was when I was two and…"

Mia's voice faded as you looked at the hat on the table for a moment, lightly taking it in your own hands, brushing over the material lightly with the pad of your thumb. It was one of your favourite hats. You looked up, seeing the grin on Mia's face as she did her best cowboy impressions, you smiled. "Hey, I think you'll find, every southerner - impersonator or not - needs their very own hat," You said, reaching over to place it on her head. "Perfect, a true southerner!"

"Well I'll be damned!" Mia exclaimed, tilting the hat slightly. 

"Come on, we need to make a move," Mia's aunt said. "I think Uncle Jack's getting restless waiting for us,"

Mia nodded, reaching up and taking the hat off before handing it over to you. You shook your head. 

"Nah, you keep it kiddo, I've got hundreds." You give her a smile. 

Mia walked forward, clinging onto you as she buried her head in your chest, you ignored the dull ache that flared up in your chest as you hugged her back, "I'm gonna miss you."

"I'll miss you too, kiddo," You say, lifting one hand to wipe at your eyes. 

"Are you crying?" Mia asked softly. 

"No." You answered, "I've got allergies."

You wait for Mia to let go before you do, you gave her a small smile, "See you later, a'right?" She nodded, quickly wiping her eyes. 

"See you later Texas," 

The door shut quietly behind the two of them and you were enveloped once more in silence.

Whilst everyone was wrapping up the case, you were sitting in a hospital bed, bored out of your skull. With a sigh, you pushed yourself up, sneaking past the nurses and doctors as you made your way outside, wanting some fresh air. 

You sat yourself down opposite the hospital in the grass, letting yourself pluck a blade of grass from the ground, running it through your fingers as you lost yourself in your thoughts. 

You kept your eyes trained on the grass as Hotch sat down next to you. The pair of you sitting in silence for a moment. “Are you alright?”

“‘M fine, sir,” The answer rolls off your tongue. “Nothing to worry about,”

“If you want to get something off your chest, you can always talk to me,” 

“I know, Hotch,” You said, “I just… struggle with the whole talkin’ about how you’re feelin’,”

Hotch nods in understanding, for someone who doesn’t talk about it, you sure do end up giving a lot away. You both sit in silence.

"I know people think I'm stupid," You mumble, staring intently at the blade of grass between your fingers as you spoke, "I know I have that Southern drawl," You exaggerate your accent slightly before continuing, "That I don't exactly talk like y'all. I know some just see me as some redneck, but I can hold my own. I ain't stupid. And I certainly ain't no bigot."

"I know, we all know that." Hotch replies.

"But you didn't." You pointed out before sighing, "Whatever, it doesn't matter..."

"We were concerned because there was no way could have known."

"You could've just trusted me," You said, “I have, in no way, given any of y’all a reason to believe that I am against anyone in that community. And I get it, I do, it just… stings, is all.”

Hotch doesn’t speak, unsure of what to actually say. Because he did jump to conclusions, they all did.

"I think if she didn't have any family I would have adopted her, or at least tried to, anway," Your eyebrows are furrowed, gaze deepening at the blade of grass as you tore it apart in your hands. "But, hey, she's happy, that's the main thing and her aunt seems like a lovely woman."

With that, you push yourself off of the grass, ignoring the ache that shoots through your body. Leaving Hotch sat on the curb with a frown as you limped back into the hospital for one final check-up before your flight.

You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, “Fuckin’ allergies.”

[thesimpsbasement]

How do you think Azul would deal with having a s/o where he would say they would do crimes to people who would bully their s/o and s/o is like “That’s illegal, but awe 🥹”? Like if he paybacks someone, s/o is trying to be the voice of reason, but they’re smiling so it ruins it?

You're so right. omg, he'd be so extra about it, too

Azul is definitely the type to beat the shit out of your bullies no questions asked

But only after making sure you're okay of course,he has to take care of his precious angelfish before he gets his hands dirty

Even if the bullies didn't bother you that much, Azul is not having any of it.He's not going to let people disrespect you like that.He'd pamper you even I'd you protest,shower you in affection and after he's certain you're feeling better he excuses himself and leaves the room

You begin to worry when he still hasn't come back, that is until you hear a familiar voice or rather voices shriek in pain as 2 other familiar voices laugh hysterically. Rushing towards the VIP room,the scene you're met with was truly something.

Floyd and Jade holding your bullies still,said bullies bruised and bloodied.One might think the twins were responsible for this but as soon as you see the now injured bullies the dots connect. Despite not being the tallest or the most muscled man,Azul's physical strength shouldn't be underestimated. The damage on the now crying victims’ of Azul's wrath made you wince

Azul simply turns to you “hello darling,sorry for making you wait for so long,just have this mess to clean up” he says with a menacing smile. You want to feel bad for them especially when being held in a death trap like the tweels but you can't help but smile,letting out a chuckle. “Azul you can't just beat up people to a pulp like that,it's mean” you say.A part of you is telling you to be the voice of reason,to somehow convince Azul to not strangle anyone who dares to badmouth you,but at the same time another part of you is all over the moon.Seeing them in such a pathetic state made you feel giddy almost. “Nothing is too mean when it comes to protecting you” Azul simply replies “Now be a dear and wait for me in my room,I'll be back shortly” he says in a sweet voice.The bullies turn towards you with a pleading look but you simply smile,waving “Alright dear,don't bully them too much” you tease “Oh don't worry,I won't bully them, I'll just give them a piece of my mind” he says as he watches you leave.

Eventually, you hear the door opening,revealing your darling boyfriend.He sheds his outer layer of clothes,leaving him in his white button-down as he plops right beside you on his comfy bed. “Hope you didn't miss me too much” he says,pulling you towards him “you know I always miss you” you reply,pressing a kiss on his cheek,not missing the way his cheeks are dusted pink. “And I always miss you”, he replies,kissing your lips softly. When you pull away, you stare lovingly at him,admiring his beauty. You both stay in comfortable silence before you speak once more “you know you didn't have to do all that. it could've gotten in trouble”.Azul chuckles,hand cupping your cheek “Don't worry about that,angelfish ,besides even if they were to report me to the head mage I have my own ways of getting myself out of trouble” he says,almost menacingly. You sigh,shaking your head at his antics “Do you really have everyone wrapped around your fingers?” You ask “hmm not everyone” He says ,eyes locked on yours “You're the one who has me wrapped around their finger” he says before leaning in to steal a kiss.You sigh again,giggling as you cup his cheeks “mhmm just don't kill anyone next time alright?”.Azul smiles “I'll think about it” he says,causing you to roll your eyes ,hands moving towards his waist to pinch his sides,making the octopus yelp. “I protect you, and this is the thanks I get? Siiggghhh” he says in a fake sad voice. “Thank you, Azul, for your service” you say in a sarcastic voice before pressing your lips against his once more, “It's my pleasure”

[senselessviolets]

"don't wanna be alone."

Roman Roy x Original Character

Rated T (Angst/Feels, Drabble)

Word Count: 1.6k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Cursing, canon typical humor, descriptions & themes involving PTSD/depression. Roman is kind of a dick.

Author's Notes:

Heavily inspired by "Calling U Back" by The Marías. I realized there was some unintentional overlap between this fic and the headcanons about being Rome's assistant that I made so shared universe I guess? /s

Set during Caroline's Wedding in Italy at the end of season 3.

Summary: After a business trip in Turkey ended with her and her boss being held hostage, personal assistant Maxine Lee has some big questions to ask herself; why has he now gone cold on her? Will they be able to work through these unresolved feelings? And most important of all---is the paycheck really worth it?

I could feel two hazel beams searing into my back as I stood across the party from him. There was nothing that stated in the e-vite he forwarded me that I was to be his armpiece for Italy. And yet, Roman’s unshakeable gaze nearly had me feeling guilty or at the very least—unresolved. I knew jetsetting was going to be a part of the job and my brief stint in PR for the luxury fashion label ALMEN had gotten me well acquainted with travel of the sort. Instead of preparing statements for reporters about the brand’s upcoming collection for the spring-summer season; I was having to be a pincushion for the World’s Wealthiest Brat/Fuckboy.

It was a rather impromptu thing in the beginning. My father had gone to Wharton with Waystar’s CFO Karl Mueller and according to him; they “go way back.” Funny how Karl’s name had never once come up until his youngest daughter needed a cushy job in the city. All because someone (me) had to bite off a little more than they could chew. 

“It’s, uh, nice that you stuck around even after the whole Turkey…thing,” Cousin Greg emphasizes, using his hands.

The briefest mention of Turkey had my stomach doing flips. I didn’t speak to Roman for weeks after. Beyond the now bi-weekly video calls with my therapist; I became something of a recluse. I didn’t dare to leave my apartment. The meals I did remember to have were left at my doorstep. I convinced myself this leave of absence was helping me cope and all it was doing was prolonging the inevitable. Sooner or later, I was going to have to face him even though the last time he would’ve seen me, my face was hot and wet with tears. Tears I’d done everything to keep from spilling over.

There was just so much uncertainty at that moment. Being the lone female companion on that trip left me more vulnerable. In ways that Roman, Karl, or Laird weren’t or would ever think about. Beyond that, I was the most objectively expendable member of the group. I wasn’t a big-name banker like Laird, much less a high-level exec like Karl. If I were them, I would without a doubt choose me first to get thrown overboard if it came down to it. 

I wouldn’t fucking think twice about it, in fact.

But Roman, as powerless as even he was at that moment, did everything he could to assure me that wouldn’t be the case no matter what. He was sweet. Why’d he have to be so fucking sweet? There were a couple of nights I’d spent awake in bed, eyes trained on the dark ceiling above me asking myself that same question over and over again until I either drifted off to sleep or the ache in my heart dissipated. Usually, it was the first one.

“It’ll…um…no, d-don’t…don’t cry. Please. You’re gonna be okay, w-we’re gonna be okay actually. Yeah. I mean, w-we got Laird. He’s like a fucking behemoth. And I know he sorta…got pulled away but we do have Dave. Dude is jacked. Y’know Colin? My dad’s security? Dave’s that but not as scary. We’d be covered. We a-are covered. We got you, Max. I got…,” he assured, almost rhythmically, “...I’m gonna…make sure you stay okay, okay?”

Was it incredibly verbose and clumsy? Yes. 

Did it make me feel any better in that moment? Somewhat. 

It was something to hold onto when there wasn’t anything else; it was something. I remember feeling weak and sick. All these powerful men occupying various corners of this decadent hotel lobby and here I am; a little girl dabbing snot into her sweater sleeve like I was eight years old again, legs criss-crossed in the church pews during my mom’s funeral service. Being utterly alone had been the bane of my existence for some time. Not just simply being by myself as I actually preferred that a lot of the time. Some mindless Netflix binge and takeout was enough most nights. “Utterly alone” to me meant being nothing in the eyes of the people around you. An organism, a space-filler—being interminably interchangeable. Roman had done what he could to assure me I was the opposite at my most terrified.

Though I didn’t owe him anything and I was on his payroll and a result, had received the fruits of my labor—I felt innately that I was indebted to him. An entire year later I had still yet to rid myself of this feeling. There was a heaviness to it. It usually occupied any prolonged gaps of silence in between our conversations. It was tangible to me but I often wondered if it was for him too. 

I figured it was; otherwise, he might not be as much of a hellish prick as he had been to me lately. He’d spontaneously request revised versions of the business plans he’d drafted. Late into the night, he’d call me, harshly demanding I send over the revisions. At a certain point, I realized he wasn’t even checking to see if I had sent them or not. Like he just needed somebody to bitch out for the hell of it. I remember when I shrewdly accused him of doing so during one of his random calls, this one occurring around 2 AM.

“Do you even read my fucking notes? I feel like you don’t otherwise I wouldn’t be fuckin’ calling you at odd hours of the night to remind you to do your fuckin’ job.” he chastises, in a voice that’s made gravelly due to the phone and fatigue. 

I was calling from my bed, propped upright by some pillows with my bedside lamp turned on. Likewise, I could tell Roman was sprawled out on his mattress due to the shifting of the bedsheets the mic picked up. The sound of sleep was always palpable in his voice. 

“Well, if you bothered checking if I’d sent them over before calling to bitch me out for not sending them at all; it could save us both the fucking headache, yeah?”

“...lookit you, being all big-bad-bitch out of nowhere. Was wondering when I was gonna bring that outta you. I’m legit so proud of you right now, Max. Keep killing it, Kween!” Roman taunts, “Makes you wonder where this Max was when we were living it up in Turkey way back. Okay, okay, if you can admit right now that the only reason you were putting on the waterworks then was that you were weeping over the possibility of losing your meal ticket…I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

What kind of twisted ultimatum was that? 

Unfortunately, my throat becomes too dry all of a sudden and I’m unable to question what possessed him to ask such a fucked up thing this late at night. Instead, I’m only able to bid him a choked-up farewell and hang up. 

“...I-I’ll send you my next round of revisions soon. I appreciate the follow-up call. Thank you, Roman. Have a good night.”

It wasn’t exactly a secret that Roman could be incredibly cruel with his words when presented with the opportunity to be. I’d had a litany of expletives hurled at me over the most minor of mistakes. That’s not even including the constant sexual innuendo but even he had the common sense not to push things too far with that. For all of his kindness; there was always an edge. Gestures of appreciation were undercut with sarcastic comments and name-calling. “Thank you” was most commonly followed by a well-timed “fuck you” or “fuck off” if he wanted to evoke his father’s bitterness.

  This was by all means the norm.

But that’s why Turkey had been so different. That’s why it had been sitting in my craw so strangely these twelve-odd months. Sure, he had been trying to keep things light-hearted and get a smile, better yet a laugh, out of me since things were so dire. However, there was no “edge” to be found. No rug to be pulled out from under me and him to snicker at. 

Cliche sure, but I could just feel the difference. 

I could feel him trying to make a genuine connection which I’d come to surmise was typically quite difficult for him. Then again that seemed to be the case with most who shared his status; especially his siblings. His little-spoken-of partner Tabitha was evidence of this failure to connect. As were his handful of Raya dates that ‘never panned out’. 

He was my boss. I was his first-ever assistant; meant to ‘help him acclimate to the increased levels of responsibility he hoped to gradually take on.’ At least that was how Ms. Kellman further described the position in my follow-up interview. While having Waystar’s General Legal Counsel conduct my second job interview was beyond intimidating, I was under the impression she was attempting to mentor him. Clearly, the two had history and that was none of my concern. Though I’d be lying if I’d said I hadn’t thought about asking her what his deal was. If he’d ever been the way he was at the hotel in Turkey to her. Maybe he had. 

Or maybe she wouldn’t know a serious, genuine Roman if he was looking her dead in the eyes. 

He was a confounding person who contradicted himself all too often. It made him impossible to decipher sometimes and intolerable to be around other times. And yet, I was stuck making the same mistake I suspected many individuals that came before me had too made; trying to make sense of this person named Roman Roy while at my core hoping that maybe he’d break through and be better. 

If not for me or his would-be-girlfriend or his deeply flawed family—at the very least for himself. Because regardless of all he’d said or all he’d done, it’s what he deserved.

End.

{ Feedback is always welcome! Let me know if you want to see a follow-up to this! <3 }

[tumblermakesapodcast]

draft one, part one

roughly the first 30 minutes, ~4k words PINK text indicates an undecided name, as well as sentences i wrote and am definitely going to change Sections are separated by a new line break // indicates a note to myself, usually put in as a way to remember where a plot element goes, or to indicate that a section is missing a large/important part of its content

behold it, in all of its messy, imperfect glory:

Letter, Odette to Friend

Dearest Vergie,

I wouldn't be surprised if you saw this envelope and immediately figured out the reason for my sending it. Nevertheless, I find that I cannot say anything other than 'thank you.' From the bottom of my heart, thank you for putting in a good word for me with Mr. NAME. I am happy to report that I am officially the newest hire at COMPANY, though I am swiftly impressing my skills on my superiors.

Because of this, since the time you last visited, the pattern of my daily life has changed drastically, and there is much to update you on.

The first and perhaps most drastic of these changes is the widening of my world from just my bedroom to the whole house, and sometimes even the street! I nearly made it all the way past the Fischer's home unassisted the other day-- a new record! I’ve regained most of the strength in my arms, but my legs still remain weak, which has made walking difficult. Luckily, John recently bought a Ford, and has been driving me around town-- the wonders of modern technology!

The most recent of these was a trip to (PLACE—ARE WE IN PERU?)

I do have a word of reprimand for you, my friend, and that is that you failed to mention to me how downright fun this job would be! While we're on shift, it's all business--no talking, eyes forward, you know the drill, but after, after is a real treat. I hadn't realized how much I had missed being in the company of girls my own age! Though we are not exactly alike, I find a lot of kinship and joy by being among them, and am so grateful to be getting to know them. When we got off shift the other day, we all went down to the drug store for sodas, and Katie convinced me to get a scoop of ice cream to go in mine. I was skeptical at first, because I figured the fizz would sour the milk, but she was so earnest and sweet that I simply could not deny her. The drink was surprisingly good—a touch too sweet for my taste, but I think you’d like it just fine! Next time you find yourself with a soda, you should try it.

I hope you aren’t working yourself too hard, dear.

All my love,

Odette

Letter, Friend to Odette

My dear Odette,

I'm so happy to hear that the job has been treating you well. See, I told you all you needed was to get out of the house! I remember when Beni was sick and I had to stay at home to keep the sickness from spreading-- those four days nearabout drove me up a wall, I can't imagine what a month of bedrest might do to me! It's heartening to know that you're improving, if however slow. One day at a time, dear, it'll be over before you know.

I'm very sorry for missing your call the other day. I would've called back, but I fear the operator must have written the callback number down wrong, because I tried to reach you and got some farmer over in CITY instead!  I'm sure you do a much better job than the kids over here-- Mrs. Fletcher's youngest was just hired, so that tells you all you need to know about the state of affairs here at our office.

You know, it's funny, they showed me the call card and it didn't even have a message on it! Good grief. Hopefully your coworkers are demonstrating more proficiency than that!

Oh, speaking of Mrs. Fletcher, you'll never guess who I ran into at the grocer the other day! Thomas. Fletcher. That's right, Tom Fletcher, perusing tomatoes as casually as you please, looking every bit a civilized young man, can you believe it? I almost didn’t recognize him at first—he’s grown up so much since we were kids. I tell you, it’s remarkable the transformation he’s undergone, he looks like a full functioning member of high society, now! You’d hardly know he was responsible for dropping toads down people’s dresses, or that dreadful stink bomb on Easter Sunday! I suppose time really does

And now, Dettie, I have some terribly exciting news to share with you: Hobie and I are expecting! I went in to the doctor just the other day, and he confirmed it! A baby, can you believe it? I tell you, I have not stopped smiling since the news, my cheeks ache!

Diary Entry, Odette

Sleepless again. Frustrating. Had thought that having something to do during the day would tire me out more, but alas, I find myself at these pages once again at the ripe hour of three in the morning. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Diary, Odette

Got a letter from Vergie today. The strangest thing, she mentioned missing a call from me, though I can't remember calling her any time recently

Note, Manager to Odette

Miss Odette LASTNAME,

Congratulations on a successful first quarter! You have been a tremendous asset to the company, and we are more than pleased with your work with us so far.

In light of this, your hours will be extended to a full twelve-hour shift, securing your status as a full-time employee of COMPANY.

Please contact your shift manager for more information.

Best,

Company Manager

Call, Odette & Other Odette

Buzz, incoming call

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

MALE VOICE.  //number

ODETTE.  What’s the name for the call?

MALE VOICE.  John Smith

ODETTE.  One moment, please

Clicks of pins/switches being moved

Chime, as call connects

Buzz, incoming call

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

FEMALE VOICE.  //number

ODETTE.  What’s the name for the call?

FEMALE VOICE.  Jane Doe

ODETTE.  One moment, please

Clicks of pins/switches being moved

Chime, as call connects

Buzz, incoming call

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

The buzz continues

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

Static, screechy whispering snippets of a voice, but no words

ODETTE.  Hello?

Static. From amidst it, OTHER ODETTE’s voice crackles.

OTHER ODETTE.  Hello

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

OTHER ODETTE.  1234567. 1234567. Odette. 1234567.

This pattern continues, even as ODETTE tries to talk to the caller.

ODETTE.  I—I’m sorry, I don’t understand—

OTHER ODETTE.  1234567. Odette. 1234567. 1234567.

ODETTE.  Um. That’s too many—Are you sure you have the right number, sir?

OTHER ODETTE.  Odette. 1234567. 1234567.

ODETTE.  I’m sorry, hold please

OTHER ODETTE.  Odette. Odette. Odette. Odette.

The voice suddenly cuts off. Dial tone.

ODETTE.  Thank you for holding, may I have the name of the city you’re calling?

Static.

ODETTE.  Hello? Hello? Are you still there? He—

The call cuts off.

Diary, Odette

Had an odd incident at work today. Customer called and requested a number that was much too long, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and what’s more, they hung up before I could get any sort of clarification! Katie says it was most likely some rascal playing a prank, which I would like to believe, except… the voice sounded familiar. And it could’ve been my mind playing tricks, but I could’ve sworn I heard my name somewhere in between the numbers

Diary, Odette

The numbers man called again.

Diary, Odette

1234567. 1234567. 1234567.

Another sleepless night finds me at these pages. All I can think is 1234567. What on earth?

Book Excerpt, Number Stations

Book Excerpt, Encyclopedia

Coordinates Revealed

Letter, Odette to Snr. Ibarra

Dear Sir,

I am writing to express my thanks for your discretion and compassion regarding the incidents of (DATE). I know you have received communication from Mr. (ROWAN) and Drs. (NAME), but I felt it prudent I sent something to you personally. Additionally, I would like to apologize for

Diary, Odette

//the journey to CITY

Diary, Odette

My first night in CITY. Or, rather, just outside of it-- the train let me off in the town at the base of the mountain, I’ll have to go the rest of the way by some other means. It was too late in the day to continue my journey, so I’m spending the night in a boarding house owned by a very sweet older gentleman, who insisted I take his room on the ground floor when he saw my cane. I tried to refuse, it’s his room, after all, and his house to boot, but he would hear none of it.

Everything around here is so beautiful—greenery and rolling hills all around, nothing like the beige drudgery of the city. I sat on the front steps of the boarding house to watch the sun set, and nearly wept at the vibrancy of the colors. I don’t think that even given a century I would be able to find the right words to describe it. I am by no means a poet, and find myself jealous of those with a gift for words. What must it be like, to be able to paint a picture with a few simple strokes of a pen? Alas, I fear I may never know.

I had thought, given all the travelling I’d undertaken today, that exhaustion would take over and send me swiftly into sleep, but that is not the case. Once again, three am has found me wide awake, staring at the shadows cast by the moon. This room is positioned perfectly to catch the most moonlight— for the moment, at least, it’s nearly bright as day in here. I can see clearly without need for another light, that’s how bright it is!

Diary, Odette

Finding transportation up to CITY is proving more difficult than I thought. I’ve received a strange assortment of reactions from people when I ask after it, some have laughed, others shoo me away, still others outright ignored me. One lady even started shouting at me, telling me to get out of her shop before she calls the cops again! I think she mistook me for someone else, but still. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why it should be so hard to get information on how to get to a nearby city. You’d think that it would be easy, to even just point me in the direction of the road that will take me there, but for some reason, even that much information is eluding me.

I asked NAME, the man who owns the boarding house, for a map of the area, and have been scouring it for CITY, with little success. I’ve traced out the coordinates, just like John taught me, but it keeps landing me in the middle of nowhere… UGH! I am beginning to grow frustrated by this whole ordeal. Not to mention, the amount of walking I’ve had to do today has been obscene—it’s just past noon and I’m exhausted. Am going to try and sleep for a bit, hopefully things will shape up while I’m in dreamland.

Diary, Odette, Same Day, Later

A bit of news—talked to NAME, who revealed something to explain the weird reactions I’ve been getting when asking after CITY. Apparently, CITY is another name for CITY2, technically. From what NAME tells me, CITY was founded a mile and a half away from CITY2 well over two centuries ago, until a devastating flood rendered the land unlivable. Nearly half the town’s residents lost their lives, and the survivors were left homeless. They moved a smidge west, to where CITY2 stands now, but locally, the two names are interchangeable, so when I was asking for directions to CITY, the odd looks I was getting were because I was already in CITY, aka CITY2!

I showed NAME the place on the map that the numbers pointed to, and he confirmed that CITY stood there before the flood, so that’s one mystery solved, and about a million more questions left in my mind.

I no longer know why I’m here. I was blinded by the chase, and now that it’s over, and with such an abrupt, accidental end, I feel… adrift. I don’t know what to do, now. There’s still a day left before I have to go back to ORIGINALCITY, but I’m not ready I don’t think. I feel unsatisfied. There was supposed to be meaning at the end of this, answers, but instead I’ve received a stock-standard story for my troubles. Why would someone take the time to call me, over and over and over again, with these coordinates and my name, only for there to be nothing? What purpose does that serve? If it’s a child playing a prank, it’s an elaborate one, and I fail to see the humor in it. If not, I fail to see the logic. At this point, I begin to wonder if perhaps I was wrong, if maybe I’m finally succumbing to the exhaustion brought on by too many sleepless nights and have begun to dream things in my waking life.

I don’t know what to do next. That’s the truth, plain and simple. I don’t know that I want to do anything next. Stagnation seems agreeable, at this moment

Frustrated sigh, the sound of a notebook snapping closed

Medical Report

//Odette sees her double, passes out, gets bonked up, care gets passed to the Sisters bc the hospital is overtaxed

Patient Report, Dr. House attending.

Patient was brought in at 1:00pm by emergency response crew. According to eyewitnesses, patient had collapsed while walking down Park Row, and, in a remarkable stroke of bad luck, fell into the road. An oncoming motorist was unable to fully brake in time, and ran into the patient, inflicting fractured ribs and a mild concussion. Patient has preexisting condition in hips and left leg

Patient has been moved to the care of the Sisters, as hospital is at capacity and danger has passed.

Diary, Odette

Can’t sleep. Sick of staying in bed, but am not able to go much further than the door before someone comes swooping in to usher me back to the mattress. Infuriating. Not sure how this is supposed to help, but am not in a position to argue. I suppose I should be grateful that I have been sent here and not an institution, but I find the sentiment hard to scrape together. I can only stare at the same patch of ceiling for so long, and that time has long since passed. If it comes to it, I believe I could finagle my way out the window and into the tree that brushes its panes, though where to go from there is more of a mystery. Alas.

My one saving grace has been the texts that Sister Ana has snuck in for me to peruse. None of it is anywhere near the caliber of what I would expect from the library, given its reputation, and I cannot tell if the (word on the street) is exaggerated, or if she is simply handling me with kid gloves. I would be more mad about it, but as I said, these texts are the only things keeping me from clawing at the walls, so. I’m trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Am going to attempt to copy some of the illustrations here, to take back as souvenirs when (if) I leave the Abbey.

Image description: a pencil and paper sketch of a creature, done by an unskilled hand. The image is smudged, as if a hand had dragged its way across the surface of the paper, blurring the lines, distorting the shape of the animal. The eyes have been erased and redrawn with a heavy hand, to the point that it seems to have a good many more than it should.

Hm. Perhaps I should use this time to improve my drawing skills. That came out more than a bit scary looking, if I’m completely honest. It… it almost seems like the eyes follow me. They don’t, obviously, but. Hm. Ramblings of an overtired mind, I’m sure.

Ha. Can’t hurt to try again, I suppose. Goodnight

Newspaper Clipping //something to do with the doubles

Diary, Odette

Surprise surprise, still unable to sleep. I had thought that perhaps, given my increased mobility and the start of my duties in the Library, I thought that I might be more physically exhausted at the end of the day and therefore more inclined to fall asleep, but alas. Physically exhausted? Yes. However, my mind and my body do not seem to be in communication with one another on this matter, and I remain sleepless.

Have taken to wandering the halls at night. The garden would be the obvious choice, but on the two times that I’ve attempted to sneak out there after-hours, there’s been someone else out there, and I simply cannot deal with the human interaction that would require. Similarly, I’ve been avoiding the chapel, since there’s almost always someone praying holy hours or sitting Adoration, and it feels a bit sacrilegious to loiter there without the intention of praying or anything.

Which leaves the work rooms, or the library, and. Well. I know for a fact that the Sisters adhere to a strict schedule, that Mother Superior is very adamant on maintaining curfews, mostly because I myself have been told off for wandering into off-limits areas. This wouldn’t be a problem, except I have heard shuffling in the work rooms, the same step step swish that always accompanies her arrival into the doorway of my room. Which… leaves the Library.

The Library which I have specifically been told not to enter unless I’m chaperoned by one of the Sisters.

The Library, which I know is locked at the end of each shift (because the Mother Superior showed me the key she wears around her neck when she told me I wasn’t allowed to enter the Library without a chaperone).

Locked library means no one will be in there at night, means no one will come looking, means I won’t be found out if I camp out there.

Will have to find a way to pick the lock, though… Hm.

Research Recording, Ana

Fizzle fizzle pop of the phonograph

ANA.  Transcription, translated and recorded by Ana. Original song heard sung between children skipping stones on the lake.

¿Qué le gustaría, señor, señor?

¿Qué le gustaría, señor?

¿Media libra de patas, señor, señor?

¿Media libra de patas, señor?

¿Una fanega de tarwhi, señor, señor?

¿Una fanega de tarwhi, señor?

He vaciado mis bolsillos, Señor, Señor

He vaciado mis bolsillos, señor.

¿Qué más se puede pedir, Señor, Señor?

No tengo nada más, señor

¿Qué es lo que quiere, Señor, Señor?

¿Qué es lo que quiere, señor?

¿Quieres mia lliclla, Señor, Señor?

Me voy a quitar mia lliclla, señor

¿Quieres mi chumpi, Señor, Señor?

He desatado mi chumpi, Señor

Por favor no, Señor, Señor

¡Por favor no, Señor!

What would you like, Señor, Señor?

What would you like, Señor?

A half-pound of patas, Señor, Señor?

A half-pound of patas, Señor?

A bushel of tarwhi, Señor, Señor?

A bushel of tarwhi, Señor?

I’ve emptied my pockets, Señor, Señor

I’ve emptied my pockets, Señor

What more can you ask, Señor, Señor?

I’ve nothing more, Señor

What do you want, Señor, Señor

What do you want, Señor?

You want mia lliclla, Señor, Señor?

I’ll take off mia lliclla, Señor

You want mi chumpi, Señor, Señor

I’ve untied my chumpi, Señor

Por favor no, Señor, Señor

Por favor no, Señor!

At the end of the song, the kids all turned and sprinted into the lake, until they were knee-deep in the water. The last child who made it into the water was ganged up on by the others, subjected to a deluge of splashes and tickles for losing the footrace.

While, on the surface, an innocent childhood game, one cannot help but wonder where these kids learned the rhyme, as it clearly describes, or at the very least implies an unwelcome encounter between a man and a woman, presumably sexual in nature. Where did they learn it? It’s not entirely unlike the songs I remember singing when I was their age, but it is an odd coincidence, that it would align so neatly with my current research. Is this related to the Señor Sombro these same children have reportedly been talking about, or is it simply another instance of kids being kids? I’d like to ask around town—

Door shuts, footsteps

ANA. I--  Hello?

Footsteps stop

ANA.  Is… is someone there?

shuffling

ODETTE.  Hi. Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—

ANA.  Who are you? How’d you get in here?

ODETTE.  I—I’m Odette? We… we’ve met, you’re Sister Ana, right? You brought me some books to read…

ANA.  Oh! Yes, Odette. You’re… supposed to be bedbound

ODETTE.  You can stare at the same four walls for only so long before the need to see something else takes completely over

ANA.  I don’t… I’m no doctor, but I don’t think that’s how bedrest is supposed to work

ODETTE.  Hm. Shows how much you know

ANA.  How did you get in here? The door was locked

ODETTE.  (smug) I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?

ANA.  Yes, actually. How did you get in?

ODETTE.  Hairpin. Your locks are old

ANA.  That’s… concerning

ODETTE.  Only if there’s something you’re trying to protect in here

ANA.  Or if we’re trying to keep someone out

ODETTE.  I was told no one was allowed in here after-hours

ANA.  I have special permission

ODETTE.  Huh. Why

ANA.  I’m an archivist.

ODETTE.  It’s three in the morning.

ANA.  I’m a… midnight archivist

ODETTE.  If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to

ANA.  If you don’t want to believe me, you don’t have to

//segue somehow

ODETTE.  What’s this?

ANA.  No, don’t touch—

Recorder fumbles

ODETTE.  Sorry, sorry I didn’t mean to—is it okay?

ANA.  It’s fine

ODETTE.  What… what is it? A phonograph? Were you listening to something? I didn’t hear any music

ANA.  Yes and no. I was recording myself

ODETTE.  Why?

ANA.  It’s a… project of mine. Already, we are recording operas and musicians—why not more? Think! What if we recorded books, and stories, too? This could be our future—Someday, we could have a library full of records instead of books!

ODETTE.  I see

ANA.  You’re not convinced

ODETTE.  Not really, no. What’s the point of recording a book? Operas and music I understand, but books are already portable

ANA. What if you were able to record people’s first hand experience of things? In their own words, with their own voices? What a wonderful gift for our children, to leave them with our stories, told in our voices, for them to remember us by when we’re gone! Of what if you can’t read? Or can’t see? Just think of how many more people we could bring a world of stories to, simply by recording them

//segue somehow

ANA.  Hm. Well, you don’t have to use it

ODETTE.  Now, I didn’t say that—

ANA.  I thought as much

ODETTE.  Cheeky, you are

ANA.  Guilty

ODETTE.  So how does it work?

ANA.  Look, come closer. Here, you speak into the bell, and it moves the needle to make impressions onto the wax, here.

ODETTE.  And that…catches the sound?

ANA.  It does

ODETTE.  Wha—how?

ANA.  Sound is just vibrations, yes? So if we can make something that vibrates in the same way that your voice, or music does, then we can recreate the original sound. That’s what the wax impressions do—when you put the needle on the grooves, it recreates the original vibrations from when you recorded. Here, listen

Stops recording, starts again

Recording: Odette does the hello, hello, hello testing a mic thing

ODETTE.  That’s… does my voice really sound like that?

ANA.  I know. Odd, isn’t it?

Research Recording, Odette

//exposition but masquerading as something cooler

Research Recording, Odette

//something that won't come back to bite us until the third act

Diary, Odette

//feelings about the other odette, hanging out with deut

Research Recording #3, Odette

//the stuff other odette was working on, witchcraft, supernatural things?

Research Recording #4, Odette

//a topical poem? story of some kind?

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 14: Preparation

“OK, Meghan, but I need to inform you that I am required by law to report if I suspect that you have plans to harm yourself or others, and that includes Mr. Säure. Even though he is a dragon, like you, he is still a citizen of the United States and currently legally recognized as a fellow human being.”

That last phrase just feels so wrong.

I did not miss a third therapy session. I’m there. I think I’ve made an error.

“Not harm,” I say. “Stop.”

“What do you mean by ‘stop’?”

“Intervene,” I carefully type out. “Convince to cease terror.”

“Shouldn’t you leave that up to the authorities?” she asks.

“Out of their league,” I say. “Either they let continue. Or they attack with military. Bad either way.”

“That’s like what happens in movies, though, isn’t it?” my counselor asks. “Don’t you think we’re all more sophisticated than that? Don’t you think there are experts who can work diplomatically with someone like Säure?”

I snort. It’s basically a sneeze. A sneeze of derision.

“No? You don’t think so? You know something they don’t?” she asks.

“Am dragon,” I say, and just stare at her.

“Then why did you ask me for my advice on the matter?” she asks.

“How,” I type into my tablet, looking up at her occasionally to indicate I’m taking my time and want her to pay attention, “do we fight fear? You are a therapist. Maybe you have idea about humans I do not.”

—

I’m starting to formulate a plan. But I’m not writing much of it down, just some of the process of putting it together, because I don’t want to tip Säure off to just what I’m doing. You’ll have to excuse me for this, it’s important.

Hang tight. I think this is going to work.

Why try to take Säure down?

That’s a good question. Mostly, for my part, because he’s targeted me specifically. He tried to eat me. But also, because he’s terrorizing my city.

And we’re dragons having a territorial dispute. It’s inevitable.

He’s a competing predator trying to push me away from my food source, but also away from my family and my own hoard.

But also he’s a rampaging billionaire. I keep harping on that without demonstrating just how dangerous that is. He hasn’t really done anything yet besides fly around and scream at the sky and boil the bay, basically threatening everyone. Except, as a billionaire, he is a representative and enforcer of the very system that failed to accommodate my own disabilities and that put me into government funded low income housing while on SSI, and that made and kept Joel homeless before his dracomorphosis, and that had the police illegally working with his own company to kidnap people and relocate them into the wilderness because we had the fortune of becoming full blown dragons. And sure, he disavowed that last thing, but he was complicit in the habits and systems that made it possible in the first place. It was his company. Like, these are just tiny examples in a massive system of the exploitation and destruction of the populace.

I feel like I should just point outside and let the entire world be my example. You can surely see what’s going on out there. And if you can’t see that, then you might not be my audience anyway.

But, in this case, it is actually personal.

And it’s not like I’m trying to hurt or kill him, anyway, just change his perspective and behavior.

I’m going to communicate with him. As legally as I can, because I myself personally don’t want to deal with the consequences of misstepping. I’d like to keep living on the roof of my building and to continue dating Rhoda and Chapman.

And, like, that’s hard. Everything is set up so that the average person can’t do this sort of thing without getting dinged for it. Or without just being ineffectual. What incentive does he ever have to change his behavior in the first place? What leverage does anyone have to give him an incentive?

But, despite all of my instincts or C-PTSD or whatever it is that’s causing me to ideate the act of tearing him apart and spending the rest of the decade swallowing the bits and chunks, as if I can even do that, I do think I have an idea of how to do this in just this particular case.

Every dragon of his kind has a weakness.

And also, as a dragon, I have resources the average person does not.

—

The sound of three seagulls crying as they fly low overhead makes it hard for anyone to talk. It’s kind of amazing how loud they can be sometimes.

Caleb squints his eyes as if that helps keep the noise out of his head. Then he glances at Astraia and says, “We’ve got lines of communication to most of the dragons in the county, now. Each community has their own mirror of your Discord server. Well, not mirror as in a digital copy of it, but an imitation, their own thing. Believe it or not, you weren’t even the first to do it. The city of Jam had a PHPBBS going by the end of that first weekend, of all things.” He sighs, “Anyway, yeah, I think we can do this. But we’re not going to get 100% cooperation.”

“Don’t need all,” I say, knuckling my tablet to do it. “Just most.”

“Yeah, it’s still going to be tough going,” he replies. “This isn’t instant communication. Honestly, a lot of the dragons are being represented by their human friends and family. And while not everyone is always on their devices, there’s a lot of relaying going on, too. The more time we have, the easier it will be to set it all up and get everyone coordinated. Or, most of them coordinated. But, day of, we can’t rely on it.”

“Need humans, too. As many as can,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s take time,” I tell him. “Day of, Sunday?”

“Might work. Good choice for other reasons, I think,” Caleb nods.

I turn to Astraia, “You lay low. Keep healing. Coordinate.”

“It’s what I’ve been doing,” she responds, doing her eight headed trick with a newer, larger looking tablet. “We’ve had to crowd fund a garage for me, and that dovetails with the other outreach we’ve been doing. I’m good.”

“Thank you.”

“People do like to support their neighborhood dragons,” she says. “We’ve really got that going for us.”

“Banking on it,” I say. Then I work to spell it out, and everyone waits patiently while I type it “When I led roll call on Murder Thursday, the fact it worked tells us what we need to know.”

Joel yawps cheerfully.

We are on his territory, in his park, behind the defunct acid tanks. We’re here so that he stays up to date on the plan, too.

“I have something for you,” I tell him. “It might suck.”

He tilts his head.

With some effort, I pull out the pendant that Chapman made for me, and lay it on the ground next to my tablet, then I say, “Put this on, human. Take off, dragon. Magic. Chapman made. But, make you girl. No talk, only type.”

He sneeze-snorts and looks away.

Yeah, OK. Honestly didn’t think so.

—

As I’ve said before, I’ve had a little training with Wentin since it helped me to see my true nature as a dragon, and to access what I guess could be called dragon magic. Our natural abilities to engage with reality in a way that other life cannot typically do. But I haven’t had much.

And though I still won’t say all that I’ve learned, I will admit I don’t feel like it was enough, despite how little I trust the monster.

Our dream hunt through the woods of the nightmares of my youth, the one that turned into a game of me chasing it, felt like it changed something between us. And I feel like I could seriously use some extra help in what I’m trying to do.

So, I try to set up a meeting with it in its arboretum, despite all my misgivings.

I do this by sending it a direct message on Discord, and then moving on and dealing with other preparation work.

“I agree to train with you at your next earliest convenience,” I send it.

Eventually, I do get a message back from it.

“I’m sorry, My Dear Queen, but I am currently indisposed with other work. When I am done, I will let you know when I am free, and I would love to assist you in your studies at that time. I do not know when this will be.”

For how relieved I am, I’m also sharply disappointed.

But it did respond to me, it is marked as online, so I dare to ask it something that’s been bothering me. If it answers, it might still be a help.

“Did you have life as human before?” I send to it.

“Oh, dear no, My Queen. Not at all,” it says.

I’d asked the question because everything I’ve been learning about it had led me to have a doubt about its origin. To question whether it underwent dracomorphosis the way the rest of us did. But to have it confirm that doubt feels unexpected anyway. And it leaves me with a question about the most frivolous thing.

I wonder so many other things, like what its nature was before dracomorphosis. And whether it had been some other kind of creature, or whether it had always just been a nightmare monster. How is it now capable of manifesting physically?

There’s a lot to wonder about, but instead I focus on this one silly thing.

“Why are you called Wentin?” I ask.

“Oh, I love this story,” It sends. “Long ago, a child I used to hunt chose a novel way of dealing with me. And one night, she turned to face me and told me to stop. And, of course, since I no longer had consent to hunt her, I had to cease. Confused and at a loss as to what to do, I asked her what she wanted from me. And she in turn asked me if I would be her friend. For the life of me I don’t know why, but I agreed. And when she learned that I didn’t have a name, she gave me the name Wentin. She has now died long ago. But I have kept the name ever since in her memory.”

And then its status turns to red, indicating that it has logged off.

In case it will answer another frivolous question when it logs back on, I ask it, “Do you use a computer or other device to access Discord?”

I do feel a little strange trying to have such a mundane conversation with the monster of my childhood nightmares. But I get to, it seems, so I’ll keep pushing it.

I tuck my tablet away and get back to business, part of my mind chewing on its answer.

There are so many clues to other questions it just gave me, as well as a lot more questions.

—

Somewhere in there, I have a genuine date with Chapman.

We do spend some time talking business and preparation, during which I learn that sie can’t prepare much for me to use on such short notice. But that sie thinks my plan has some merit, and won’t dissuade me from trying it.

And then we spend the rest of the evening just getting to know each other better over some unexpectedly good food and live music on a Thursday night. The nice thing about using the table to communicate with each other is that we don’t have to hear what the other is saying.

I also start making longer term plans with hir. Things to do as the world maybe, hopefully settles down from the dracomorphosis. Though we both acknowledge that might not happen for a while. I want to genuinely pursue a remedy for people like Kimberly, who may feel left behind by the latest wonders of the world, who are beings of other sorts stuck in otherwise human form. And maybe if we track down and find the Artist of Transformation, or whatever they actually call themself, we might be able to do that. Chapman agrees to give this an honest shot.

Perhaps we can help transgender humans on the way, if sudden transformation and other spectacular expressions of Art are here to stay.

Or, at least, maybe we can bring a few people some joy while the world seems to continue to vibrate itself apart, as it is apparently doing.

I suppose you might conclude I’ve thoughtlessly thrown my lot in with what Säure calls the Architects, without suspicion or question.

Maybe I have.

But, mostly, I’m following Chapman, because sie has given me reason to trust hir. And I like hir. A lot.

I might be a little dazzled or smitten or something, but I guess I’ll eventually learn.

In the meantime, I’m swallowing bits of marinated lamb wrapped in herby and fragrant other foods, something I don’t think I’d have ever tried before, while enjoying a live band that’s developed a strange and dark fusion of traditional Greek music and bluegrass, with lyrics about the Odyssey.

It’s a very Fairport moment.

—

On Friday, there isn’t much prep left to do, besides wait for the threads that I’ve started to continue weaving themselves together and the net to spread. Fortunately, today’s the day I’ve put aside to tend to Rhoda.

We’ve been back to our nightly tea. And I’ve been spending the night in her apartment, curled up by her front door, ever since that first night she drew her line, made her rule, and offered me shelter. We’ve effectively been living together.

But I need to talk to her about this.

Normally, after a day out and about, I arrive on her doorstep in my faerie trans princess gown and tiara, and relax back into dracoform once inside her door. I’ve been doing this because it’s just easier to get to her apartment that way.

This time I’m much earlier and I relax before I knock. This is our agreed upon signal for this.

Of course, she peers through her peephole before she opens the door, so she already knows.

She opens the door and just says, “I’ll start the tea.”

Her acknowledgement. By being business-like, instead of welcoming me home, she’s telling me she’s prepared to rescind her rule about the apartment for the night.

I see a haunted and exhausted look in her eye, though, and I dread what this conversation will entail.

But she lets me make my way into the apartment, and once she closes the door behind me, she’s smiling and coming to cup my jaw and give me a kiss on my snout. And then she says, “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Rhoda,” I say. The one full phrase I can smoothly use my syrinx for.

She’s still moving more slowly and thoughtfully than usual when she goes into the kitchen to get the kettle and fill it with water. The tea set itself is already arranged on her coffee table, complete with my customary bowl. The water she’s about to heat is actually for my bowl, her tea is now steeping.

“You seem to have had a busy week!” she calls from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I say.

She comes back and sits down and then plugs the kettle in and sets it on the table.

“Let’s go ahead and talk about that, then,” she says. “Whatever we need to air out is fine. Catch me up.”

I have my explanation as a set of sentences in my tablet that I play one at a time, pausing in between to let Rhoda react or to ask any questions. She just prompts me to continue, so I do. But by the time I’m done explaining my whole plan to her, my bowl is full of tea and I can taste it fully by licking the air.

I then turn the conversation over to her by playing my final precomposed sentences, “I imagine all sorts of ways that this could cause worry and be difficult to bear. We can try something different.”

She considers that for a while, finger touching her lip to keep it from quivering, and then she blinks a couple times and shakes her head, “No. This is good, Meghan. I won’t say I’m happy about your role in this, but I am proud of you for coming up with the whole idea. I can’t think of anything else to try that would be any safer. And somebody has to do something.”

I don’t bother telling her that she’s someone who can do something. We’ve already covered that. She doesn’t want that power or what using it for that level of influence will do to her. She doesn’t want the responsibility or the weight of it, nevermind that the proclamation she’s already made is clearly having a profound and powerful effect. My goal here is to take some of that weight off her shoulders.

I bow my head and stay quiet a little longer to see if she has more to say. She does.

“You have to come home after this, Meghan. I’ve been working on a project that’s important to me, and I think you’re the only one who can edit it properly. I need your insight. Your experiences. I need you to help me make sense of some things I don’t think I can fully understand, and I don’t really know anybody else who is qualified. Except maybe Chapman, but I’d rather it be you.” She lowers her head at me and says, “So, after you do this on Sunday, you come home. Please.”

I know what she means. I know how important it is to her. I hope I can deliver.

[radinclus-not-radqueer]

On "consensual incest"

PT: On "consensual incest" END PT

I know I said this wouldn't be an education account, but as this affected me personally and is something other anti-radqueers struggle to argue against, I decided to briefly explain why "consensual incest" is a lie and how it's almost always harmful.

Let's start this out by explaining that, when you're being hurt, you often don't notice it. Any abuse or grooming victim can tell you that when you're currently being abused, you usually don't recognize it. Even if you do recognize that something is wrong, you convince yourself that it is either normal/it'll get better soon or it's entirely your fault. An abuser rarely ever directly states "I'm abusing you" (and when they do, it's often a sarcastic joke made to make the victim think they're imagining it).

When you're a minor being abused by a family member who lives with you, it is nearly impossible to leave. Because of this, your brain tries to convince you that everything is fine because you have no other option besides staying. On top of this, abusers often follow up abuse with love, gifts, and apologies, pretending that they're going to change and that it actually wasn't that bad. This further manipulates the victim into believing everything is actually just fine - and when you can't physically leave your abuser, your brain is already trying to latch onto anything to make it seem better.

People who support "consensual incest" are probably already skeptical of this because I keep talking about abuse - however, there have been many, many studies that incestual relationships badly affect your mental health and traumatize you.

According to this study in 1983, incest victims are much more prone to drug and alcohol abuse, depression, and intense guilt, and are also at an increased risk of marital problems and abusing their children. It also states that victims will usually have PTSD, which will worsen if they don't receive help.

In this study from 1992, victims of incest were shown to have much higher rates of anxiety, depression, phobias, PTSD, and alcohol addiction.

In this article from 2018, it states that survivors of incest are more likely to report feeling depressed and psychologically damaged than survivors of other types of sexual abuse. They are also more likely to be shamed and shunned when they try to go to others for help.

There are many, many more studies and articles explaining the same thing. If you google "stories from survivors of incest", you can find many stories from people who went through this type of abuse.

You can say that everything is actually fine and you're in a happy, healthy relationship, but as I explained above, it may seem like that, but it is often not the case. If you believe that your partner is an amazing person and would never do that to you: your partner is most likely lying to you. You are probably experiencing love bombing - where an abuser tries to act all sorry and loving to keep their victim trapped in the relationship.

Many victims of incest report that they convinced themselves everything was fine. Ex-radqueer victims (including myself) have, time and time again, talked about how they were encouraged to stay quiet about their abuse because it was "consensual" and they were only grossed out because it's "stigmatized".

I was manipulated by radqueers into pursuing a relationship with my sibling. My sibling and I have always been best friends, partially because we've both been through a lot of abuse and trauma from family members. Because of the abuse I went through, I felt incestual attraction towards my sibling as a trauma response. I was in the radqueer community at the time.

People in the radqueer community offered no help. All they did was tell me that I was an example of how people who went through incest-related trauma can still support and be in happy "consang" relationships. They told me to pursue a relationship with my sibling, because that was just what being radqueer was all about.

My sibling and I briefly dated for a few weeks. I was sent to a mental hospital due to several suicide attempts. While staying at the mental hospital, I realized how awful the community was, and I realized how badly being in an incestual relationship was affecting me. I'd tried to normalize and rationalize everything in my mind, I'd tried to see the best in everyone and do my research before supporting things, but the radqueer and "pro-consang" communities had taken advantage of that and used it to turn me into a living proship fanfic.

We both consented. We both desired a relationship. Neither of us intentionally abused each other. Despite that, we both have trauma from it and may never recover.

I'm in therapy now, and I'm recovering, so don't worry about me. Worry about the young, traumatized kids in the radqueer community who are being manipulated into accepting abuse as "consensual" and "normal". After everything I've typed up here, I think it's as clear as can be that nothing about incest can ever be consensual.

[ladadee195]

Ladadee meets Legends of Avantris at Too Many Games 2024 (LONG POST read at your discretion)

I'm not one to write up a trip report cause I'm firmly in the "no one gives a shit." camp but for this I feel like people will get a kick out of my anxious distress over the past two days and I know those that couldn't make it would also appreciate it.

I knew a few months ago that when LOA said they were gonna be at TMG that I could go, its only an hour away from me. I'd gone to TMG back in 2019 to meet Brandon Rogers of Youtube and Helluva Boss fame and even then I didn't get HALF as nervous as I did the past two days. I was a shaking hyperventilating mess. Embarrassing, truly.

Friday was worse then Saturday.

First off, we'd barely parked in the parking lot when we see Andy casually strolling across the parking lot and get into his very nice red mustang, nice to see where the car vlogs happen!

By the time we got to the booth I could barely breath but I wanted to grab my free pin and say hi first. I want to disclaimer this by stating that I realize LOA tries really hard to make it perfectly clear that the Party and fam are regular people that work hard to produce their content and be successful at what they do without being celebrities or influencers. Logically, I know this and I respect the hell out of it. However my hyperfixated brain and general anxiety made it incredibly hard for me to remain CALM. Its really hard to remain calm when you've been watching them by yourself alone in your room hours upon hours and then suddenly there they are in real life before you, talking to YOU! How am I meant to be remain calm?

Anyway, I met Andy and Nikkie. Talked briefly with Andy and just generally embarrassed myself but he's so cool ya know and is probably used to it all things considered. I asked them both to sign my Cake Chad shirt, both we're happy to do so and I got a great hug from Nikkie. After that I cut my losses and decided to move on. Their meet and greet wasn't for a few hours and we were hungry. When the meet and greet came, I jumped in line to get a picture. It went really quick and I got no chance to really talk to them but they were super awesome and I love the picture! I knew they were TALL but god I felt like a hobbit.

The live show wasn't until 7:30 so we left the con to check into our hotel and relax for a few hours. It was a nice break and I finally got to breath. We returned to the con and got seats for the live show.

if you haven't already seen other's overviews or the whole video I wont spoil anything but it was SO good. I was so curious about what they could possibly do for a one shot but holy shit was that amazing. Its always interesting and fun to attend live shows with cheering and laughter and suggestive whistles. Gives one a sense of community you only ever get a taste of on here or discord.

Afterwards we went back to our hotel and rewatched the whole show on the live stream LOL

Saturday I was much calmer because I had a goal. Get the whole parties signatures and not be embarrassing.

We did a lot of waiting cause the con opened at 11 and again their meet and greet was at 3 but we managed to pass the time well enough and then we got back in line. An readers when I tell you how amazing it went!?? I was very proud of myself even though I was still nervous and shaky I did much better.

They all were super cool and signed my Hootise shirt. I still geek out thinking about it! But the best thing happened. Richie saw my Gideon/Kremy candy bead bracelet I'd made myself and legit forgot I'd worn for this exact reason. This is how that went. Richie: is that a Kremy and Gideon candy bracelet?

Me: YES!I forgot I had that on!

Richie: thats the best I gotta get a picture and show Mace.

I was DYING omfg. The two behind the ship SAW my ship bracelet??? still freaking out. I decided that I should have made ones for them. I convinced myself they wouldn't like them, I know better now for next time.

After they'd all signed my shirt I gave them my thanks and MAYBE acted a little embarrassing when I told them name and that I was already in the discord but as I said earlier they're so cool and awesome I doubt they noticed me being like that.

i felt like even though it was short I had a really good moment with them which is all I really wanted.

I regret a lot of things. Like the fact that I had plans on making them gifts but ran out of time due to me being sick like right up until Friday and being so nervous and scared and I acted only a little crazy. I know next time (PAXUnpluged in Dec?) I'll be much better prepared.

I hope those that cared to read this very long post enjoyed my little overview. Just remember even though you may be scared and nervous to do something, you still should cause you never know how great it might be at the end.

[calliemity]

HEY!!!!! this post is outdated!!!! check out this post here for an updated post on orin scrivello's head!

-

content warning: very very mild special effects gore(?) i have no idea if this could be upsetting to some, the stuff shown is 99% free of blood, not super high quality, and also very clearly fake. im putting this warning here just in case!

hi! so my full set of the little shop of horrors topps bubblegum cards just got here (long name i know). i bought them partially as an early birthday present for myself, but also because the cards include a very interesting piece of info/trivia that ive become completely obsessed with. take a look at this:

this is a picture of the card that i took! its the scene where seymour is feeding pieces of orin to twoey, but as you can see, he's holding his head. hes Holding Orin's Severed Head. hoooooly shit, right??? you can see his face is frozen with that goofy grin and everything, its so cool!!!!! im gonna go into more detail about it under the cut, its a big ol ramble so fair warning

so, if youve seen the movie you probably know that (unfortunately) there isn't any part where you see this head. thats because it was a prop that ended up being totally scrapped from the scene! im still actively gathering information, but from what i can piece together from older drafts of the script along with the workprint, the original plan was to show orin's head (big, stupid grin and all) being fed to audrey II

source

this concept was, at the very least, held onto long enough for a prop replica of steve martin's/orin scrivello's head and face to be fully created. however, as seen in the workprint of the movie, all footage of the head shows only the back of it, with zero glimpse of its face.

source

(Video description: a low quality, slightly green tinted video depicting a deleted scene from Little Shop of Horrors (1986) where Seymour is feeding the decapitated head of the dentist, Orin Scrivello, to the plant. The video starts with a man in glasses reaching into a garbage can and pulling out a black-haired decapitated head, holding it upside-down by the fabric on its neck. The head is faced away from the camera, so only the back of its hair is visible. There are vines flailing in the foreground of the shot. The video cuts to a shot of the plant puppet laughing silently. The video cuts again to a shot of the man slowly shuffling forward while holding the head in front and away from himself. The plant is seen on the left side, still laughing and flailing its vines. Throughout the video, there are brief flashes of light that resemble lightning. There is also a time counter in the bottom left corner of the video, which shows minutes-seconds-milliseconds. The counter starts at 06:10:09, and the video ends with it at 06:18:10. The video's audio only consists of thunder noises and an unidentifiable sound that resembles chewing noises.)

and as we know, in the final version of the movie there arent any severed head props to be seen, meaning it got entirely left on the cutting room floor. i havent been able to find any written info about it so far, so i cant tell you the exact reason why it ended up being scrapped. my personal guesses are that it was considered too scary or dark, test audiences reacted badly to it, and/or the head wasnt considered convincing enough to be included.

in a previous version of this post, i stated that i believed there was only 1 existing photo of the head's face, that being the one on the trading card. im happy to report that i was incorrect, as ive now found a Second Image!!!! this one is from a slightly different angle, and its much higher quality than the previous image, allowing us to see more detail on the prop itself!! here, take a look:

source

for one, i gotta express how EXCITED i was to find this!!!! this new photo allows us to see that the prop itself has quite a bit of detail to it! you can see the creases in its face, not just around the mouth but the eyes and forehead as well! the whole face is impressively realistic, i would say the eyes (or at least the eye thats visible) is a bit uncanny, but every else looks so so good!! there also appears to be some blood stains on the shirt collar and neck, and even more blood stains on the fabric that seymour is holding. something like this was definitely made with a lot of attention to detail and a lot of skill, which makes it even more gutwrenching that it got left completely cut out. im really happy that we have another photo of it, though!!

i'll update this post as needed, once/if i find anything else that relates to this (admittedly very very niche) topic. if youve read the whole thing, thank you!! i really really appreciate it, i hope you found all this as interesting as i did!!!

[beardedmrbean]

Chrissy Reifschneider had just left rehab to treat her heroin addiction in 2017 when she started taking tianeptine, popularly dubbed “gas station heroin." The 41-year-old from Alabama was struggling with low energy, so a family member who worked at a gas station recommended she try the pills. 

Within days, Reifschneider was hooked, and three dark years cruised by. Now four years clean, Reifschneider reflects on the deception that contributed to her tianeptine addiction and the overwhelming shame that followed. It's a trend that addiction medicine experts say shines a sobering light on the ongoing mental health crisis that's driving people to "easy" solutions amid widespread healthcare accessibility issues in the U.S.

“I thought well, I'm not sticking a needle in my arm, so I literally convinced myself that I wasn’t a drug addict until I realized I didn't recognize who I was anymore,” Reifschneider said. “It's crazy to think that these gas station pills just controlled me. I was ashamed because I'd rather people know I was shooting up heroin than actually spending all this time and money on over-the-counter (drugs).”

Tianeptine is prescribed as an antidepressant in some European, Asian and Latin American countries, but it’s not approved for any medical use in the U.S. Still, companies are marketing and selling tianeptine products as dietary supplements typically in pill and powder form, claiming it can improve brain function and treat depression, anxiety, pain and even opioid use disorder. 

Tianeptine has been banned in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Mississippi, Ohio and Tennessee.

Reifschneider used to take five pills every four hours, which she said gave her enough of a “warm, fuzzy buzz” without making her feel clammy or nauseous, similar to the effects of doing too much heroin, she said. The brand she purchased recommends two capsules daily “or as needed,” and advises against exceeding three capsules in a 24-hour period. 

She started to lose her hair and lots of weight; had auditory hallucinations; developed paranoia surrounding electronics, at times using 10 cellphones at once; and began to convince herself that she was “better off dead.” Reifschneider would even chat with gas station employees about how dangerous the pills were: “I was silently crying out for help.” 

After several unsuccessful stays in rehab, Reifschneider quit “cold turkey” and entered a withdrawal state for the next six months, which she said felt similar to but lasted longer than her withdrawal from heroin and fentanyl. Today, she continues to “feel like a 15-year-old in my brain,” alluding to her debilitating memory problems. “It’s one of my more shameful things,” she said.

Poison control cases involving tianeptine have increased nationwide, from 11 total cases between 2000 and 2013 to 151 cases in 2020, the FDA says. Many poison control calls often involve severe withdrawal symptoms, such as agitation, vomiting and diarrhea, because people typically consume higher doses than those prescribed in other countries, according to a 2018 CDC report.

Dr. Holly Geyer, an internal medicine physician specializing in addiction medicine with the Mayo Clinic, said fear of withdrawal and the depression that follows can contribute to addiction to a variety of substances. 

“These often aren't people who are chasing a high. They're just trying to feel normal, and if there's a drug out there that helps them curb that appetite, they're probably going to take it until it as a solution becomes the problem,” Geyer said. “These people are trapped biologically, mentally and spiritually. It's a horrible situation to be in, and I can tell you tianeptine does not let them out of it.” 

Shame and stigma prevail among addiction recovery circles 

Since Reifschneider joined social media to share her tianeptine experience, neighbors and friends have confided in her with their own struggles with the supplement. “It was a very dark secret we all kept in our recovery circle because it was so shameful,” she said. “We all felt better about ourselves because we weren’t doing the worst of the worst.”

Aaron Weiner, an addiction psychologist, says that mentality is “completely reasonable” considering the stigma and “traditionalism” that still weighs on drug use in general. “There’s a very intense mental health burden in this country right now,” he said.

Tianeptine is marketed as a supplement, but it’s really an opioid receptor agonist. That means it binds to the same receptors in the brain that heroin, fentanyl and other opioids do, causing similar euphoric and addictive effects by hijacking the body’s dopamine system. So when people use tianeptine amid their recovery journey to cope with withdrawal or other lingering effects, judgment frequently follows.

“In a lot of recovery circles, the goal is complete abstinence from all intoxicating substances,” Weiner said. “In this scenario, some people may assume they’re substituting one drug for another, and say they’re not really sober.”

Similar judgment occurs among those taking FDA-approved medications for opioid use disorder (MOUD), including methadone, buprenorphine and naltrexone — some of which are opioids themselves. Mounting evidence shows that they reduce opioid cravings and withdrawal symptoms, and block their euphoric effects, Weiner said, but don’t make people “high” or cause withdrawal when dosed properly. 

Although MOUD use has grown by more than 100% over the last decade, nearly 90% of people living with opioid use disorder are not receiving these medications, according to a 2022 study published in the International Journal of Drug Policy. Experts say stigma is partly to blame. 

“One of the greatest problems we have in this country is that of stigma; we label people, then throw them out with their diagnoses,” Geyer said. “So when many of them turn to MOUD, they experience equal amounts of stigma and are led to think that no one could yell at them or be offended if they use supplements like tianeptine that they think are safer.” 

"It kills me to know this is still out there"

Reifschneider said she visited a doctor who specializes in addiction medicine two times for help to detox from tianeptine, but neither attempt was successful.

“The doctor had no idea what these pills were, but he wanted to help me because he could see my desperation,” Reifschneider said. “I was terrified to come off of them alone, so I didn’t know what to do.” 

She ultimately detoxed herself, but this lack of awareness and access to proper treatment, Geyer said, is what deters people away from evidence-based treatment and attracts them to the illicit market.

Data show that nearly 50% of counties in the U.S., don’t have MOUD medication providers and 32% don’t have any specialty substance abuse treatment programs at all. 

“There's not a whole lot of attention paid to tianeptine because it’s one of many drugs that you could find at gas stations these days that are not technically outlawed but certainly not beneficial,” Geyer said. “The big name drugs out there like fentanyl is where the money has historically been in this industry, so that's where most treatment approaches have focused.”

After years of rehab, Reifschneider said she wants to lay low and just live a normal life, but knowing that tianeptine is still being sold on gas station shelves weighs on her.

“I'm honestly grateful that there's been more awareness, but it kills me to know this is still out there,” she said.

[thevoiceofthebard]

Chapter 7 - Balgruuf I: Before The Storm

Morndas, 18th of Last Seed 4E201 Evening

Balgruuf

I am the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater. I enjoy my place, caring for my people as best I can. However, nothing could have prepared me for the headache I face this day. Nothing my father taught me could have prepared me for dragons.

When the reports first came in, I admit I scoffed at the lone scout. Paranoid ramblings, I thought, the product of an overworked soldier's mind. At least until I spotted one of the damned things myself from my balcony during my midday meal. I heard it scream, and felt fire burn in my veins, the fear and desire to fight bursting forth from my soul.

Pity then, my place requires such tedium as this.

"My Lord, please, you must listen. I only counsel caution."

The words of my advisor, Avenicci. Smart enough, and truly a political genius, but at times - like now - his cowardly Imperial blood shows through. Not that I would ever say so to his face.

"If the news from Helgen is true... Well, there's no telling what it means."

Inaction is Avenicci's favorite strategy. Not that action is always the better option, but standing idly by has never been the Nord way. "What would you have me do, then? Nothing?!"

"My Lord, this is no time for rash action. I just think we need more information before we act. I just..."

Inaction again. Even the rumour of the kind of destruction reported at Helgen should be enough to warrant some kind of measure, defensive or otherwise. Politics be damned if it cost me the lives of my people. This is just like the Giant incident from last Frostfall. I look around for some distraction, that the Nine... Eight might grant me the patience to endure this farce of a meeting. Much to my surprise as I find one. Two, in fact. A pair of strangers, stopped at the head of the dining hall by my Housecarl, Irileth. A Dunmer, and the most loyal fighter I've had the fortune to battle alongside, who showed me the true meaning of the phrase, "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb."

"Who's this then?"

The two strangers sink to their knees and state their names, as Irileth whispiers to me what little she had been told.

"Sven, of Riverwood."

"Talao, of High Rock."

Hmm, a Nord and a Breton. Sven I vaguely recall having entertained at the Huntsman a while back, on one of my nighttime jaunts. The Breton is not familiar to me, though both seem quite comfortable at court. And odd combination, the two of them. Hardly the time for reminiscing, though.

"So, Irileth tells me you were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with you own eyes?" An eyewitness account of the destruction is all I need to convince Avenicci to act... Or more likely, enough to properly overrule his counsel.

Sven shifts slightly; "Not I, my Jarl, but Talao here was present. I merely guided him to you, out of concern for our town's safety."

"Yes, I had a great view of it as the Empire was about to chop off my head. I do a terrible chicken impression."

I blink. "You're certainly..." Blunt, I wish to say. But that would be blunt of me. "Forthcoming about your criminal past."

The Breton grins in response. "Nay, I said they wished to execute me, not that I was guilty of any crime. Regardless, I imagine the threat of a dragon capable of razing an entire town filled with Imperial troops would take precedence over the circumstances of my capture."

Kynareth save me, the man's tongue is inlaid with more silver than my cutlery. But he is certainly correct. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

"My Lord," Irileth says, "We should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger." A dark look crosses her face, and I can imagine the scene playing in her mind. "If that dragon is still lurking in the mounains..."

Surprisingly, Avenicci interject once again, "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him. We should not..."

"ENOUGH!" The vehemence in my voice didn't truly match my emotions. Perhaps it was the thought that anyone would think I would join Ulfric the Storm Cloak. Maybe it was my frustration at practically having to babysit my own counselors instead of mediate an actual discussion. More likely, it's to prevent Irileth from murdering Avenicci where he stands, if the murderous mask on her her face is aught to go by. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl." To my relief, she salutes and leaves without further issue.

Avenicci, however, looks as though someone had run a rancid potion underneath his nose. "If you'll excuse me, I have other duties to attend."

"That would be best." To be sure, the man is invaluable to my court, and has a knack for thinking through any negative reactions from others. For certain, I'll have him draw up a missive to the Jarl of Falkreath to reassure him of my neutrality and warn him of the dragon. But my first duty is, was, and will always be the safety of those under my banner. Speaking of which...

"Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. As a reward, I shall grant each of you a small token of my esteem.." They both smile, and I lean forward in anticipation of their answers... Well, one of them at least. Sven seems a loyal but simple Nord, but the steel within Talao intrigues me. It did not escape my gaze, the gleam within his eye as he mentioned the dragon. Perhaps there is truth to the idea that Bretons have Nordic blood within them.

"My Jarl," Sven begins, "I am truly grateful for your offer, but the guards you have dispatched to watch over my village is reward enough."

"Nonsense. It is my duty and privilege to protect the people under my care. I wish to honor you personally."

"Well," he looks uncomfortable, but I urge him on with a smile of my own. "In that case, my Jarl, I have just yesterday found myself promised to a beautiful young woman. In no small part thanks to my brave friend here. If you would gift us some livestock to help begin our lives, I would be forever grateful."

"A most reasonable and thoughtful request. I'll discuss the particulars with my steward, but I assure you it will be done before your wedding." A cow and several hogs should be more than sufficient.

"Many thanks, my Jarl."

"And you?" I turn to Talao. "What gift may I bestow upon you?"

"Well, sir, I am but a humble bard. Whereas my friend here is a tree about to set his roots, I am as the wind, travelling wheresoever my story goes. I have little need for material things, but I should truly enjoy performing for your court some day."

"Truly?" A bard, then. Like Sven himself. That would indeed explain much. "You wish only to ply your trade here in Dragonsreach?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Jarl. Well, once I replace my instrument, that is." At this, he ruffles his hair, looking rather sheepish for once. "I fear my old one is naught but ash by now."

Hmm. Self-serving, but not selfish... Yes, he'll do, I think. "If that is your desire, it shall be done. Kyne willing, you'll not deafen us as our last bard did, though I use the title loosely. And I imagine far as you are from your home, you'll have many tales to tell us." I stand, and they follow. "Again, I thank you for your service. My blessings on your union, Sven, and may Kyne grants you warm winds and fertile fields." I pause a moment, that my dismissal is clear, and as they turn to leave, I call out, "Talao, a word, if I may?" The two share a glance, and a brief farewell before he returns to face me.

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?"

"There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps." To his confused look, I say, "Come, let's find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... Rumors of dragons." As I lead him to a side chamber, my mind is racing with how best to entice Talao into this errand. He may not be a warrior, but I sense that his presence may mean the difference between survival and destruction. I know the stories of what the return of the dragons signifies, but damned if I'll not do my best to avert catastrophe.

Chapter 6 - Ralof II: Before The Storm x Chapter 8 - Farengar I: Bleak Falls Barrow

[liskantope]

Lately I've been thinking a lot more about my love of creative writing from when I was much younger (part of this was triggered by the recent experience of reading Almost Nowhere I think) and how I wish I could try to build such a skill as an adult, starting with short stories, but my main problem is not really any good ideas for even a short a fiction story. My brain has long (for around twenty years, I'd say) given up spontaneously trying to generate them by habit.

And then I had the craziest dream experience last night, where I found myself in the midst of an intricate social plot where one of the people involved turned out not to be real but a psychotic delusion which had been nonetheless affecting everything that happened. And I "woke up" out of it while still dreaming (I suppose you could say in a "shallower" layer of dream), reflected on the story that had occurred in the dream, and used it to concoct a complex plot that I felt would be perfect for a short story (something that I had to admit would be on the fairly long end of the spectrum of "short story"). The main hook of the story would be this imaginary person which only existed in the mind of the narrator -- I even came up with a name for this person which was Tom with a single-syllable last name that I thought sounded like a really good fictional character name. Besides the eventually-revealed-to-be-imaginary Tom and the rather ambiguous narrator, there were two female characters involved (one of them inspired on a more aesthetic level by a real-life friend). At every moment I was coming up with another connection that made the structure of the story more brilliant in my mind (while pleasantly aware that many details still had to be filled in), thought triumphantly "I've finally come up with a great idea for a story!"...

...and then I sort of woke up but was still not entirely awake, fairly lucid but still convinced I had found a wonderful idea for a piece of fiction writing (telling myself "it's not like those ideas that come in dreams that turn out to be garbled nonsense", also "I should report this in a Tumblr post!"). But I had immediately forgotten most of the details, including Tom's last name (ah, if only I saw a list of possible surnames I would remember which one it was, but I decided for now, well, that could still be salvaged by calling him Tom Roots even though I was sure Roots was not the original last name). I actually spent quite a while in that almost-awake state trying to rack my brains or bring back the dream so that I could remember the full idea before giving up and falling back entirely asleep.

In the morning it occurred to me that having a major character turn out to be a product of the psyche of the narrator/protagonist obviously isn't as original as I'd imagined in my partly-asleep state -- see Tyler Durden for instance -- although I still have the strong feeling that I was employing that plot device in a very distinct way somehow. It seems likely that my idea really was partially nonsense or at least largely incoherent, but hey, it was fun for a bit of last night while getting some sleep in to think I had exciting fodder for some original fiction.

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Zofia Kowalska Species: Vampire Occupation: Former Antiques Dealer Age: 315 Years Old (Looks about 26) Played By: Grace Face Claim: Matilda De Angelis

"I’ll build myself and my world anew from burnt and broken pieces, and I'll fashion them into something shining and glorious."

Zofia Kowalska had always wanted more from life. She dreamed of parties and jewels, castles and crowns. She loved the night because it hid what was true. She could stay in bed in the forgiving shadows, convincing herself that she would wake the next day living in splendor. She would curl up with that dream and try to will it into existence, until her enemy the sun started to creep its way over the horizon to remind herself her life was no fairy tale.

Zofia grew up in Gdansk, youngest child of Milos, a cobbler, and his wife Izolda. The couple didn’t have enough money to pay another dowry, and all of her siblings had earned their share. Zofia would simply have to set aside her childish fantasies and grow up. Still determined to enjoy some worldly comforts, Zofia decided if she couldn’t be the one wearing the pretty dresses, at least she could be near them. At the age of 16 she set out to attempt to work her way up in the households of the local nobility. After years of working as a maid, she finally became a lady’s maid to Karlonia Branicka. The lady was famous for her parties, and even more famously well connected. Dignitaries from all over found themselves in Karolina’s parlor. Zofia had long been considered a spinster, but it couldn’t possibly hurt to look at the beautiful strangers the noblewoman had collected over the years. At one party in particular, a new addition to Karolina’s menagerie of friends captivated Zofia. She’d been instructed by her mistress to see to the Du Pont’s every need, and Zofia was all too eager to please. Though she was surprised to find Madame Seraphine Du Pont seemed to be just as fascinated with her as Zofia was with the woman and her companions. “A pretty thing like you should not be a mere servant, ma colombe.” The woman had said, petting Zofia on the cheek. “Wouldn’t you like to be so much more?” Hearing her dream spelled out for her, Zofia nodded. “Yes,” She had said. “More than anything I’d like to be like you.”

The next day, Zofia Kowalska was reported dead. And yet she’d never felt more alive.

Zofia Du Pont never wanted for anything. When she had arrived at the Du Pont clan’s chateau in the Loire Valley in France, she felt as if she’d stepped into one of her dreams. It was easy to forget that she no longer needed normal food when her new form of sustenance was poured out for her in crystal goblets and fine china tea cups. Seraphine and Adrien, Seraphine’s consort, as well as their ‘son’ Henri, taught her everything she needed to know. To unsuspecting humans, she was always presented as Sofie Du Pont, Adrien’s distant cousin. Zofia learned that being a Du Pont meant experiencing life as it was meant to be lived. Operas, ballets, and art galleries- the most exquisite fashions and perfumes- nothing was too good for the Du Ponts. The revelries went on for centuries. Sofie saw the world, and played with it. From spectacles such as seeing the Eiffel tower light up for the first time, to pretending to be the long lost duchess of a notable Russian family on a dare from Henri, Sofie Du Pont did it all. So when her new family wanted to join some of the Du Pont clan that had made their way to America, why would she have said no?

The United States at the dawn of a new century was a whirlwind for Sofie. She barely noticed the Depression or the onset of another World War- it was hard to when she was still thriving off the high that was the twenties and still enjoying the luxuries of being on the Du Pont bank roll. She didn’t notice, as the decades passed, that more was going wrong. Every day they received news that more of their clan had gone missing, or turned up dead. She didn’t start to pay attention until Seraphine and Adrien were killed by a slayer and Henri went missing. And by then it was too late.

Alone for the first time in her existence, she had made her way by selling antiques, and had started to settle into life in Wicked’s Rest. She’d started to find a home for herself, to make a new family. Things were finally looking up again. A shame that’s when she stepped into a trap.

Being one of the last survivors left those hunting her clan to eradication with the brilliant thought that she might be in contact with the others. Holding her hostage for months, they tried to extract the information they thought she had from her by any means necessary. Then one day, they made a mistake. They left only one person on guard. In a moment of clarity from the fogginess of her mind, Zofia managed to escape. Now, she’s more determined than ever to finish the hunters off, and to create a new clan for herself.

Character Facts:

Personality: Charming, focused, loyal, captivating, driven, obsessive, vain, forgetful, impulsive, detached

She once pretended to be the long lost Grand Duchess Anastasia as a dare from Henri

Her birthday is June 3rd 1709, making her a Gemini Sun, Aries Moon.

She worked for a while as an independent art broker and antiquities dealer. It’s very easy to sell old works of art when you’ve been collecting them for centuries. She rented a small space as her office in Nightfall Grove, and called the business Dorian Gray and Associates (she thinks it's hilarious, even if she was the only ‘associate’ the business had)

She’s gone by many last names over the centuries, but her first name has always been Zofia, Sofie, or some variation upon that. 

Before it was driven to near extinction, she was a member of the Fleur De Sang clan, a vampire clan in France. The Du Pont line of the clan was a particularly prominent one, and their deaths/disappearances sent many scattering into hiding.

She has always been a patron of the arts, whether it’s performance art, sculpture, paintings- you name it, she supports it. One thing that she’s held on to over the years that she probably shouldn’t have because it’s INCREDIBLY conspicuous is a portrait of her done by Madame Le Brun. The painting is over two centuries old and belongs in a museum and not in Sofie’s apartment. But there it is. Hanging in her living room.