#crossposted to my ao3

[hauntedhopeghost]

Originally posted this on ao3 but I thought it would be fun to post it on tumblr too lol

anyways hello ava/avm tumblr, i don't post a lot but I might try more in the future

[lakes-writting-rambles]

Out Of Choice, But Not Out Of Reach - #1 Inevitabilities And Such Unfortunate Things

words:2889

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Sometimes your destiny is completely out of your hands – Danny Fenton couldn’t seem to find a way to avoid learning that lesson. First; when he was shot when Slade invaded the headquarters of the League, and subsequently his family, was using, while the fight between Slade and Grandfather was going on, he used the chaos to get to the Lazarus Pit before he bled out; a second time when he died in that godforsaken portal; the most prevalent one was definitely his first meeting with Clockwork, there he noticed that it doesn’t matter how hard you try, if it isn’t meant to be, someone will interfere. It doesn’t mean he won’t still do things as before, but now there’s forever the dread of knowing.

It’s been about a year since what he, Jazz, Sam and Tucker dubbed “The Dan Incident”, and Danny can't seem to stop thinking about it. Well, not really about Dan, no, but about Damian. He can’t stop thinking about how Dan likely ended up killing Damian – it’d be inevitable, and, considering the state the future he had been shown was in, he hoped Damian went early on, really, he also hoped it was quick, like he tried to do when he was in the League.

What really bothered Danny, though, was that he couldn’t help but wonder if staying with the Fentons even was a good idea at this point. Surely he has learned that misfortune would follow him anywhere he went, so why wait for the shoe to drop? Before the accident, he was relatively safe to live the rest of his life in Amity, sure, it was kind of a deadend, but it was tranquil, so he couldn’t really complain. Now, though? He was in constant danger inside and outside his house, being half dead meant no place with the living and no place with the dead. He should leave while he still can.

The League isn’t likely to spot him, considering it’s been years since his “death” and he probably looks different enough from Damian now… which is something he’ll have to think about later. And the threats of dissection (vivisection?) by his parents keep increasing – he doesn’t want to fuck around and find out.

So, the League is probably not an issue anymore, staying seems to get more dangerous each day and he’s pretty sure most ghosts only come to Amity to fight him.

Nevertheless, running away also came with a plethora of problems, for one: leaving Jazz and his friends. When he got adopted into the Fenton household he tried not to get attached to anyone. He couldn’t keep that up for long, as a touch starved 9 year old that came from a violent background and got thrown into a very loving family. First, he got attached to his parents, then Jazz, Tucker, and finally, Sam. He doesn’t regret it, not one bit, but it might make this choice hard to make – since the easiest way to run away would be to fake his death and forgo any contact with everyone from his old life. Maybe they’d know he wasn’t (fully) dead, maybe they’d just be extremely miserable, he wouldn't know. 

Another issue is that he’s the current Ghost King, and oh boy doesn’t that complicate things? He keeps getting more powerful, which means keeping his cover is getting harder – an unsettling and overpowering aura surrounds him now, and sure, it reacts to other people’s emotions as well as his own, which in theory should make it easier to hide, since everyone in Amity seems to have differing opinions on his two  personas, but the fact that his aura is big enough that others take notice is concerning enough on its own; he’s control over his abilities needs to be impeccable or he risks getting found out; and he’s pretty sure some of his more ghostly traits are beginning to bleed over into his human form. He also needs stable access to a portal, since he needs to take at least two trips per month to the Ghost Zone so he can check over things with Clockwork and parade around to remind the citizens of the realm that he is their king; he can’t officially take over since he’s still alive, once he’s entirely dead he will, but for now the observants act as regents and that’s more than fine by him.

And third: he’s not really sure where he should go. You’d think Gotham would be his first option because of his father, but he has too much media presence, so Danny’d be brought to the spotlight. Does anyone in Amity care about Gotham? Not that he knows of. But it’d still be too big of a risk. Plus, Tucker really wants to work in Wayne Enterprises in the future, he’s sure that it’d become a problem in no time.

So… what to do? Money isn’t a problem, since he has access to all the treasure hoarded by Pariah Dark over the centuries, but that’s not all he has to consider. He needs some sort of safety net, that much is obvious, and since he won’t be able to count on his regular support system, he should fall back on his blood.

Maybe he could go to Blüdhaven? It’s close enough to Gotham that he can go there if he somehow needs to come into contact with someone from his biological family but not enough that he’d be immediately clocked… but then there’s Nightwing… as long as he doesn’t get  into any trouble it should be fine, right? It’s not like there’s a city without a hero nowadays… Urgh, nevermind, he’ll come back to these thoughts later, he’d rather not spend his rare moment of peace coming up with what to do after he fakes his death.

Sometimes fate decides that things should be ultimately out of your hands – but Damian Al Ghul Wayne fights with all his might to avoid such a thing becoming a rule in his life. When he came to live with his father, around 7 years ago, he held out hope that his twin had made it and would eventually return to his side. That never happened. And now Damian isn’t sure how to approach the topic of Danyal with his family, so he just… doesn’t. Even after all this time, it feels wrong to keep the memory of Danyal to himself, he should be celebrated, even if his death was premature and almost a decade has passed.

Danyal had died the same day as Grandfather, which is why his grief isn’t questioned –, even if the Bats are well aware of his distaste of his Grandfather’s actions, now that he’s recognized them for what they were. Damian isn’t sure if it’ll ever come to pass, because in quiet moments like this, he thinks of what could have been.

His twin was never needlessly violent, and his killings were virtually a mercy, compared to the others in the LoA, even himself. Maybe he would have adapted faster than Damian did, maybe he would have made a better Robin, maybe they would still wake up together and share little moments of quiet.

It’s all speculation, all it will ever be. They never found his body, but even now, years later, the image of his pierced chest is burned between the other twin’s eyes, it wasn’t likely to survive a wound like that, and even if he did, the bloodloss would’ve killed him regardless. But to a 9 year old, the what ifs often overshadow reality, which is why Damian had kept his hopes up, afterall, one of the many teachings of the League was that “if there isn’t a body then one should always consider the possibility of the victim having survived”. But now, at 16, he could see it for what it was, the foolishness of a child longing for what is gone – he’ll never admit it, but in the darkest, deepest and most hidden part of his heart, Damian still has a little bit of wonder, almost completely squashed, but a bit of hope of seeing his brother once again remains.

There’s no use for pondering at the moment, time doesn’t stop and soon one of his siblings will notice his absence at breakfast and come to pester him, thus he gets up and readies himself to face another hectic morning.

“If I were to go missing, where would you search for me first?” was not a question Tucker was ready for, like, at all, but especially at two in the afternoon on a saturday. Danny hadn’t been the same since that thing with Dan or whatever they had dubbed it, he didn’t change much, but he seemed to get lost in thought more frequently, and Tucker didn’t blame him! Really! But man, what went through his head was morbid at times, and he maybe shouldn’t voice those out of nowhere.

— Uhh I guess… your parent’s basement? — awkward silence fills the air, it’s the most obvious answer, but not a thing they normally consider outloud. A grimace crosses Danny’s face for a second.

— No, I mean, if I …ran away. — he says, and there’s some hesitancy. Obviously, there’s more to the question, but Tucker can’t for the life of him figure out what it could be.

— I’d guess Wisconsin, since it’s close by and you might be able to rely on Vlad if push comes to shove, but that is not likely at all, — Sam starts before coming to a slight pause to think. — Maybe Missouri?

— Why…?

— Cause it’s close by, it’s not like we’d let you get far before going after you. — she smirks and gives his arm a little punch.

—  I think we’d find Danny in Florida, actually, — Tucker chuckles before continuing — it’s the only place where he wouldn’t stand out.

— Oh, screw you. — He says before he lunges at Tucker.

Sam watches for a bit, the conversation got to her more than it did to Tucker. She decides that now isn’t the time to worry about it, she doesn’t think Danny would leave them behind without saying anything, not after all they’ve been through, but it did leave a sour taste in her mouth. To stop herself from spiraling down a rabbit hole, she jumps – literally jumps – into the struggle. 

That is how the three friends end up scratched all over, with dirt and grass stuck to their clothes and silly smiles on their faces, looking up at the sky as the clouds pass by. Moments like this used to be common, but with the chaos that is Amity Park nowadays a chance to just relax and joke around as friends seems more and more like a luxury.

Their peace is interrupted when Danny sighs, a defeated sigh that usually comes after his breath fogs – which means there is a ghost nearby. A shout ruptures the quiet and kills any hopes for the rest of their afternoon.

— BEWARE! I AM THE BOX GHOST!

— Alright, — he gets up and stretches. — Just wait for me, I’ll be back in a sec.

Sam and Tucker look at each other, worried glances on both ends – they didn’t even need to say anything. Things will never go back to the way they were before, that is something all three know intimately. Danny died. Everything they have witnessed is bound to leave some sort of mark as well. And there are the Fentons. Sam and Tucker knew Danny and Jazz loved their parents, but at this point it seemed inevitable that someday they’d turn on Danny, and it seems that even if he doesn’t talk about it, it’s also something he believes.

It feels unfair, Danny seemed to have come from a bad background and was settling into his own skin and fully letting his guard down for what felt like the first time before the accident. And wasn’t that heartbreaking? He’d adjusted to the life in Amity early on, but to actually enjoy himself? That took some 2-3 years, and to trust that he could always rely on the people around him? It had just started happening into the beginning of their ninth grade. Then the portal opened and he had to put some of those walls back up to protect himself, not just emotionally, but physically as well. Now, they’re in 11th grade, they should be looking for colleges and studying for entrance exams, but instead, Danny is thinking of running away.

They know how their friend thinks at this point, and it’s undeniable they’ll likely have to say goodbye soon.

Dealing with the Box Ghost wasn’t hard, but it sure was annoying. After the fight (if you could even call it that) ended he went back to Sam and Tuck, they laid on the grass for a while longer, ultimately, they got hungry and headed to the Nasty Burger and ate before parting ways.

Danny plops face first into his bed. Well… he could have approached that with more subtlety. Maybe it was his subconscious trying to get them to look for him, or something, to prepare them for his absence. That sounds too close to something Jazz would say…

He turns around, putting his arm on his forehead. His thoughts keep getting away from him, always back to Damian – would he have liked Amity Park? Probably not, if he was being honest with himself. He couldn’t even see himself liking it there when he arrived – in fact: He had hated it. The city was so calm it felt forced, the Fentons so loving it felt like a trap, the kids lacked any malice at all, everything screamed danger at him, like he was about to be ambushed. Nothing ever came to that, just a nice, cozy, little town. 

Well, until the portal opened, that is. 

He stops and just looks at his ceiling for a bit, the old glow in the dark stars already discolored and lacking any actual functionality, there was no reason for them to remain there but the attachment to what they used to be, kinda like him. There was no escaping his current reality. No escaping his need to desert this city, this family, this life. 

Danny sits up and looks around his room, which for the last few years had become his safe haven. He looks at the stained carpet, marked by his many sleepovers with Sam and Tuck, he looks at his ceiling fan, that was cracked from the time the trio had tried to recreate the solar system on it, he looks at his closet, his posters, his desk, everything that was proof of the life he had lived here.

He needs some water and something to eat before setting his plan up.

As he heads down the stairs to the first floor he hears his mother’s soft voice coming from the kitchen.

— Oh Jack, I’m so worried about Danny, — the phrase startles Danny, he turns invisible and intangible, floating a bit so as to not make any sound, — his ecto-contamination has only gotten worse over the years… how can we be sure he’s okay?

— Honey, I’m sure Danno is fine! He must be building up resistance!

— But what if… what if it’s fusing to him? What if there’s no reversing this? — His mom is chewing on her lower lip, clearly distressed. 

At the sight, his dad softens up and hugs her, his voice comforting as he speaks, — We’ll make sure he’s fine, Maddie. We might not know what happened, but we know each other and we know what we’re doing, we’re experts in our field. 

Danny can’t stay there anymore, they know he has ecto in his system and they know it’s getting worse. They know and they want to “fix” him. He’s completely and utterly fucked. 

Alongside his nervousness there is also newfound resolve. He quickly phases into his room, grabs his thermos, maybe two shirts and a pair of pants, he shoves it all inside an old backpack he hasn’t used in years. He will need to dispose of his phone, taking anything electronic with him will leave a trail and he can’t have that. Hopefully his parents don’t have his ecto signature yet, he doesn’t think he has the time to get rid of it if they do.

He checks the kitchen again, they aren’t there anymore, likely back in the lab, then. He has to leave through the front door, to not raise any suspicions. Now, how to make this realistic? Maybe he can fake being murdered? No, Amity doesn’t really have that type of violence. Maybe he can fake being a casualty in a ghost attack? But he’d have to damage public spaces to do so and he doesn’t want to endanger anyone else… Fake getting kidnapped? It wouldn’t be the first time it happened, even as a human.

He could also just up and leave. It’s not like Amity has any actual investigative police force… Maybe he’s complicating things too much. He needs to go before he has time to chicken out. His parents will probably make a move on his ecto contamination within the week and he can’t be there for that.

— Bye mom, dad, be back in a bit! — and so, he shuts the door – leaving his house for what will probably be the last time.

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Inevitabilities And Such Unfortunate Things > Those We Leave Behind

AO3

[beanarie]

inspired by this post by @monstream theorizing that tommy will pop back up in a couple months and reveal he dipped out like his ass was on fire because he got a cancer diagnosis. (be advised: this is not about real cancer. this is tv cancer.) 1300 words.

a chance encounter

Bobby still has a blood donation appointment at First Presbyterian every two months, which he attends religiously, barring exemptions like the six months he had to skip after the heart attack. Years ago, when it started, Chimney arranged a rotation for rides, and as their team went through staffing changes, it settled to a more informal thing, whichever of them would be available verbally stepping up each time. Athena would have been the logical choice with one of the 118 as backup, but this is theirs. Buck likes it because usually he and Bobby stop for a meal and catch up, just the two of them.

On their way to the elevators, they hear applause in the next wing over, and Bobby gives Buck a little smile before they join the gathering at the back of the small crowd. He loves a bell ceremony.

A teen girl in a green hoodie that reaches her knees is blushing and stumbling over her words, flustered by the attention. "Anyway," she says, "I'm not gonna be sick at prom and I'm so effing excited." She rings the bell and pumps a fist in the air before hugging one of the nurses.

"All right," says a blonde woman holding a clipboard. "We have three more patients who completed treatment! I know, right? It's been a good week."

Buck looks down at the coffee he grabbed from the on-site cafe while Bobby was getting drained, which tastes different somehow but he can't put his finger on it. Soy milk, maybe? A sharp nudge forces him to look up into Bobby's suddenly tense expression.

"Well. So... yeah. These last few months have sucked."

Buck swings his head around and Bobby grabs the coffee out of his hand. There, acknowledging a round of polite laughter, is Tommy, dressed in a henley and flannel shirt, all in shades of blue. Buck always liked him in blue. He looks slimmer, more like the version of himself from Chim and Hen's old team photos. He's wearing a Raiders hat.

"I knew, as a firefighter who flew helicopters, that I probably didn't have the highest life expectancy. But this diagnosis still threw me for a loop."

Buck should not be here. He should not be here. But he can't convince his feet to move.

"I did some dumb things, isolated myself, assumed the worst. It was the staff here who kept--gently--smacking me upside the head, reminding me that there was still hope." Tommy ducks his head and when he looks up eyes are bright. "Thank God for them."

Buck feels like he is stuck in a column of rapidly curing cement. It started down at his feet and now his lungs won't inflate.

"Buck," Bobby hisses, tugging at his sleeve.

"Bug your city council rep to increase compensation for healthcare workers because there's no way they get paid enough to deal with my bullshit." A cluster of small children at the front of the group starts howling at the swear, and he grins, unrepentant. Buck might be drowning. "Thank you, everyone. Fuck cancer." He rings the bell and steps back quickly for the next patient, accepting good-natured pummeling from several members of the staff as everyone applauds.

The smile that settled on Tommy's face vanishes as their eyes meet. The column of cement also vanishes. Breathing hard, his pulse hammering in his ears, Buck follows Bobby down the hall to the elevators.

"Buck?"

It still sounds so wrong coming from him. Buck flinches and looks at the slowly progressing display of which floor the elevator is on. Stairs it is. "I'll meet you down there," he says to Bobby, and doesn't wait for a response.

Buck plows through the door to the stairwell, moving as quickly as possible.

"Wait! Please? I can follow for a little bit, but fourteen flights of stairs is beyond me at the moment."

Buck slows his progress down, stopping at the next landing.

"What-" Tommy takes the stairs slowly, one by one. "What are you doing here? How did you find out?"

Buck glances up. "I didn't. We just happened to be in the neighborhood. This place is our home away from home, you know?"

"Oh," Tommy says, then has the nerve to look concerned. "Is everyone okay?"

"I'm not fucking okay. Did you know you were sick?"

"When?" he temporizes. "I mean, they did tell me at one point."

"You know when," Buck says, seething, his vision growing redder when Tommy doesn't answer. "I asked you to move in with me." I was all in. You didn't have to do this alone.

Tommy finishes the last few steps and joins him on the landing. "You asked your gym rat firefighter boyfriend to move in with you. Not an unemployed puke machine with a thirty-nine percent chance of kicking it in the next five years."

"Oh my God." Buck laughs, wanting to scream at the wall. "So I'm not a newborn bisexual who couldn't possibly know what I want, I'm just a piece of shit who would drop a partner for getting sick. Or maybe I'm both."

"No, I-"

"If you say 'it wasn't you, it was me' I'm gonna start taking these steps three at a time."

"It was-" Up close, Tommy looks tired. There are lines in his face that weren't there before. "Significantly more about me and my trust issues than it was about you. Is that different enough for you to stick around?"

"You gave me trust issues, Tommy. Not just in you, or other people I might date, but in myself."

Tommy's expression is gutted. "I'm sorry. I was trying to avoid more pain in the future, for both of us."

Sparing a thought for Bobby, who hopefully settled in the lobby to wait, Buck sits on the landing, wedging himself against the wall to take up less space. "I loved you."

"I believe you." Tommy sat down next to him, almost touching because of the width of the staircase. "I shouldn't have dismissed your feelings. You're a grown man and all I can say in my defense is that I become the fucking unabomber when I get scared. Ask Howie and Hen about my years as a closet case working under a captain who got a medal for outstanding work in homophobia."

It would be so easy to pull Tommy into his arms. Just reach out.

"Buck?"

Buck swipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Please don't call me that."

"I'm sorry. I honestly felt I gave up the right to set myself apart in that way." Tommy swallows. "Evan."

Buck blinks away a fresh round of tears. "Are you okay, really?"

Tommy gestures at himself. "As you can see, I'm not going out tomorrow and running a marathon, but next week I get to start training to go back to work." He shrugs a little, smiling. "So I'm pretty damn peachy."

"What about the thirty-nine percent?"

Tommy whistles while pointing down. "It's pretty much back to whatever my prognosis was for running into fires and flying around in a tin can."

"That's- That's great." Buck's phone rings.

"Hey, I don't mean to interrupt anything," Bobby says. "I just didn't want to leave without saying something. I'll get an Uber, okay?"

"No. No, we're good. I'll see you in five." Buck meets Tommy's steady gaze. "Next week, huh? Do you wanna go for a run at that park near my place? I promise to take it easy on you. Or, not easy, whichever you need."

Tommy visibly stops himself from declining. "Okay. Text me." He rises from the steps and starts for the exit door as Buck begins his way down. "Evan?"

Buck turns. "Yeah?"

"I loved you, too."

Breathing out, Buck rolls his shoulders back. "I figured. See you next week."

[spacecatchako]

Kissing Lessons- Tenya Iida x Reader

Pairing: Tenya Iida x Gen! Reader Genre: Fluff Content Warnings: Suggestive fluff, Tenya and reader are third years here, marking (reader is okay with it lol), no actual sex or smut, making out, praise, neck kissing Word count: 1.2k words Tenya has never had his first kiss before. You offer to teach him how.

When Tenya Iida, class 3-As representative, declared that he had never kissed anyone before, you almost did a spit take.

It was understandable; an uptight guy focused on hero work probably didn't make much time for romance. But at the same time, it was almost unbelievable. Tenya Iida was beyond handsome, if not the most handsome guy in 3-A. You can't say you hadn't fantasized about making a move on him in your three years at U.A. together.

So that's how the two of you got here, sitting across from one another on your dorm bed. Tenya sits cross-legged in front of you.

When you realized the blue-haired boy had never been kissed before, he confided in you that he'd wanted his first time to be perfect. So you offered to teach him. It's what friends are for, after all.

"So just to be clear you haven't kissed anyone before? Not even a peck?" you verify, gentle and unjudging.

Tenya blushes and shakes his head from side to side.

"Not even a little."

You offer him a small smile.

"That's okay. We'll start small. Here."

You wait for his slight nod and straddle his lap, arms wrapped around his neck. Tenya is leaning against the wall by your bed, and your faces are close.

You can feel his breathing this close, the glisten of chapstick against his lips. His face is so close to yours. Cupping his face with one hand, you close the gap between your lips.

He grunts a little but eventually kisses back. After a few lingering moments of sweetness- chaste, nothing probing- you pull away, hand still cupping his square jaw. You can feel his stubble against your palm.

"See Tenya? That wasn't so hard."

He gasps a little, and his hands find your waist. During the entire kiss, he didn't know what to do with his hands.

His glasses are askew, and a light blush is dusting his face. His blue eyes are wide with shock and wonder.

"H-how. How did you do that so confidently?" He wonders aloud.

You smirk and tuck a lock of his well-kept blue hair behind his ear.

"Practice. Just act like you know what you’re doing and gauge the other persons reactions. That way you can figure out what they like. And ask for consent before doing something huge, obviously. Ask for consent before kissing them. It isn't too awkward if you're upfront and honest about it, I promise." You advise.

Tenya is still flustered, the collar of his blue shirt slightly uneven.

"If you want, you can try initiating. Go ahead." You say, leaning away from his grasp a little. "I'm all yours."

Tenya is hesitant when he leans forward to close the gap between the two of you, but when he does, it feels heavenly. Awkward and a little rough, his top lip bumping into yours, but your hands find purchase in his hair and adjust him to your liking. His lips are plush and soft. His breath is minty- he probably prepared for this- and hot against your mouth. He moans a little bit when you tug at his undercut and bring him closer.

His hands press into your lower back, pushing your lower body flush with his. His hands are so big and robust, capable of maneuvering you however he wishes. Your eyes flutter, taking in the senses. You moan softly, and he follows suit. You pull away briefly to switch angles and let your tongue lap out to meet his a little. Tenya's eyes widen slightly at the intrusion, but you smile reassuringly against his mouth. “This is okay.” You seem to tell him. “I want this,” you hope to convey.

His hands move from your waist to your upper back, under your shirt, trying to feel any expanse of skin he can reach. There's nothing but the sound of your breathing and the smack of your lips as you bring one another closer, closer, wanting never to let go.

You pull away for air, and Tenya follows your lips, desperate for more. You sigh and give him a chaste peck back.

"You seemed to like that, pretty boy. Want to try more?"

"I- yes, if you so wish to."

You hum, scooting against the pillows on your bed.

"Then take me."

Tenya presses you back into the pillows of your bed, pinning you down with his body weight. He is arguably the most muscular of class 3A, exceeding even Bakugo. He has so much strength and could crush you right now, but he chooses to use it gently, pinning you where he wants you, kissing you like you're the air he needs to breathe. You claw at his back, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull your bodies flush together. You're surprised when he pulls away from your lips, kisses your cheek, and then moves to your neck.

"Can I?" he murmurs, a low voice asking politely. He is ready for the possibility of you saying "No. This is too much. I want to stop here." He is prepared to be rejected and return to the quiet of his room to contemplate this last lesson. If that were the case, he wouldn’t feel hurt or entitled at all. Just grateful that he got to have you, like this, in any capacity. Grateful for your expertise and understanding, grateful for your touch and compassion.

So it's to his surprise when you whisper "yes," scritching at the base of his well-kempt undercut.

He hums and dives in, licking and sucking at your throat. You moan at the sensation, back arching into his touch, hugging him closer. Tenya braces himself against your bed and almost growls. It happened instantaneously and without you registering it, but your crotches are grinding together, all heat and light and comfort and carnal.

Who knew your formerly uptight, type-A class rep could be so gentle yet sensual and strong?

Tenya pulls away, and his eyes widen at the mark he left.

"I- shoot, I am so sorry," he panics at the mark left. He fusses over your bruised neck before you cut him off.

"Don't be, Tenya. I wanted it. I liked it a lot, you made me feel really good." you praise. Tenya adjusts his glasses, which are fogging up slightly due to his heavy breathing. His cheeks warm with the praise, and his heartbeat speeds up.

You guide him into another kiss, reassuring him that he did well. After plenty of time in class together, you know how Tenya reacts to praise. He thrives for it, chest throbbing. You nuzzle his cheek and jaw, giving him gentle pecks across his sharp jawline. Eventually you pull away, hands cupping his face, eyes meeting his. He seems so gentle here, nothing like the brazen boy or the confident leader that you’ve gotten to know.

"I'm going to ask you again because I care about you and I don't want to put too much on you. Do you want to go further or stop here?"

Tenya looks up at you, blue eyes shining in adoration.

"More. Please don't stop here, I want more of you." He pleads.

You give in his body against yours, hearts beating in tandem. You give him all you're willing to, and he gives you all of him too. He's such a good, strong boy, and you're more than happy to be his friend– or more. Whatever he wants to be, whatever he wants, he's yours.

Maybe he didn’t need kissing lessons after all.

[ravenite-void]

✧₊⁺⋆.˚₊✩∘ "They were great. And a family." ∘✩₊˚.⋆⁺₊✧

Stained glass piece and a messy companion piece inspired by prompts from Melly on ao3 as a part of an exchange by @vaderkin-is-a-lightning-rod ! Crossposted on ao3

[voiceofthe]

He loves you. He reminds you of this. Always there with you, holding onto you like something too precious to let go of. He murmurs to you, a presence in the back of your mind-- My darling, my love, my angel. It's nice, to not be alone anymore. You're tired of being alone.

You deserve this, you think, dully, as he tries to lead you through a waltz, clunky though it is to dance with a shadow. A thought always there, always present. He fusses over you. You stumble, and he catches you, holds you there. "Beloved, are you alright?" It's a whisper. It's a thought. It's an echo. You nod, resolute. He doesn't let go for a long moment.

You're tired of waiting.

At least, this time, you can walk across the room. He grips your hands as you walk down the stairs, into the hall, almost like a cathedral, in your honor. "Because you have always held my heart," He tells you, nodding to the stained glass portraits.

You don't respond. You still remember it pulsing in your hand. At least you're not alone.

The door is there. You can see sunlight through the windows-- "A pale shadow of your own radiance," He says, "Nothing could ever compare to your light, my dearest." The door is there. He's too lost in his poetry, his soft, adoring words, to notice how your gaze fixes on it. You're tired of waiting. You're tired of being alone. You could almost reach for it--

He grabs your arm. "Please," He says, pained, desperate, in a way you rarely hear him, "Don't. I-- I cannot go with you." You let your hand fall back into his shaded clutches. He takes it. Gripping you so tightly it almost aches. A lifeline.

He guides you back to the stairs with a stream of pleading reassurances. "You're safe here," He tells you. "I wouldn't be able to keep you safe outside. All I want is your happiness-- Did I not do well enough? I can try harder, I promise. I will."

The same, familiar room. It's nice. It's better than your last home. Far better than the first. He sets the table for you. Leads you to your seat. Tells you how beautiful you are, again. How loving, how kind. How he'll do better to keep you happy, this time. "At least I could get rid of your chains," He says, more to himself, falling into a mournful silence.

You touch the blade around your neck. You don't have the heart to tell him otherwise. You deserve this.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣 - ℂ𝕙. 𝕏𝕍: 𝔻𝕣𝕠𝕡𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕤 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you to @kavalyera for the beta read!

Summary: Vincent makes his case to retain control of the Myrmidons.

TW: minor character death, discussion of slavery

The sun had not yet found the time to bleach away the final traces of the crimson pool that had darkened the Castel Sant’Angelo’s bridge four days ago. Not that there was any red clinging to the cobblestones. It was, rather, a little shinier, a little cleaner, where Santino D’Antonio’s body had lain, in contrast to the surrounding stones. No other evidence remained under the golden glow of mid-morning, and in the distance, commuter traffic played an indifferent hum, hardly knowing how the underworld held its breath.

The Marquis toed at that polished spot before taking his seat at the black marble conference table that had been hauled out to the midway point of the bridge. Chidi took up a stand behind him, feet planted and hands clasped, his steady presence backing up his Marquis in every way possible. He could almost feel Vincent buzzing with nerves, longing to expel them in some biting way. “You know, all the cleansers my people use at cultural sites are approved for historical preservation,” said Vincent to Sr. D’Antonio conversationally. They’d both been careful to arrive a few minutes early. “Such as those which lift the grime from the surface of oil paintings. Nothing harsh enough to bite into the stone. Conservation is of the utmost importance in such cases, don’t you think?”

“That ‘grime’ was my son.”

“How true. That absolute smear of grime was your son.” Chidi had to stifle a laugh.

But The Harbinger tapped his watch meaningfully, as distant bells began to chime. “Gentlemen. The clock tolls nine. The time has come to present the case. But first, Sr. D’Antonio, please remind all present of the terms by which the Marquis must abide, should the ruling be cast in your favor.”

With his eyes narrowed in open contempt: “The Marquis must surrender forty percent of the Myrmidon army to the High Table at large.”

“Very well. And the Marquis? If you are acquitted?”

He shrugged. “Sr. D’Antonio has slandered myself and my family. He will die.”

From their seat beside The Harbinger, The Adjudicator nodded evenly. “I accept these terms on behalf of the High Table.”

“Wait – “

“Do you withdraw your claims, Sr. D’Antonio?” they asked.

Reluctantly, he settled back into the seat. “…No.”

“Very well,” said The Harbinger. “Sr. D’Antonio, please present your case.”

Giovanni had selected legal representation in the form of some droning bureaucrat Chidi had never seen before, who laid out the same points Giovanni had stated a few days ago. He used more words and examples but not, to Chidi’s mind, any more persuasive force. But then, Chidi was only halfway listening. Without turning his head, he’d focused his attention on the long parade of armored cars filing into the Castel’s parking lot, and grey-suited figures climbing out of each one, settling into formation at the end of the bridge.

The plaintiffs certainly did turn their heads. Their own cars were blocked in, and the entire entrance surrounded. Vincent’s people had closed off the street for several blocks in advance of the operation. By the time the second squad took up position, Giovanni’s representative faltered mid-sentence and Giovanni himself demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

“They’re my witnesses,” said Vincent. “Please, do go on.” He gave the prosecutor the kind of encouraging smile typically offered to precocious elementary students in the midst of rehearsing for a school play. The man stuttered indignantly for a moment, but there was little he could do except oblige.

Chidi looked down at his charge. Vincent sat with studied grace, shoulders squared and legs crossed, face impassible, silver strands glittering through the pale blue of his blazer like shooting stars at noon in a cloudless sky. Impossibly beautiful. He’d had so little time to share happiness with this perfect man, and now it was all threatened…his nerves strained so taut with sympathy for Vincent that time itself seemed to distort. Had thirty minutes really not passed yet? Or were ten minutes passing each time he blinked? Either way, the moment approached. The prosecution would end, and Vincent would make his stand.

And then he was standing up, the moment had come, and Chidi felt like his own knees might buckle. Only focusing on Vincent’s body, the every rise and fall of his chest, kept Chidi upright. He’s here in front of me. We’re okay, nothing bad has happened yet. We can win this. And either way…we’re together. Vincent shot him an almost imperceptible glance and both men felt the same surge of confidence. For once, Vincent didn’t have to face his battles alone. If you only knew what it means to me to be here for you in a moment like this, sir…

“Well.” Vincent broke into a slow clap. “That was very entertaining. But I notice that we haven’t heard from a single Myrmidon. It’s their lives in question, no? And the last thing I would want is for any Myrmidon to feel like a slave. Because, as we’ve discussed, Sr. D’Antonio, we all know what that feels like. So, let’s have the conversation.” He turned to the crowd, from which a young, low-ranking Myrmidon was running up with a microphone. “Thank you,” said Vincent, glowing with magnanimity, his honeyed voice now flowing across the crowd even to the far end of the parking lot.

“My friends. My siblings. My children.” Vincent paced from one railing to the other, slow and pondering, forcing the plaintiffs’ necks to crane after him. “Every one of you has someone you care for deeply. My father called them ‘leashes.’ And they are. To love is to be bound. But it is a grave misunderstanding to think that this binding comes from any external threat. In my short time in leadership, I have learned that every person’s desires carry the leash. No one else can do so. You want what’s best for the people you love. And you want what’s best for yourselves. That’s what rules you, not me. So I happen to offer myself as a path to a better life. That’s all. And I want to clarify, above all, that if you don’t take it, fine. I won’t kill you and I won’t kill anybody you love. I don’t need to. Regret will kill you. The world will kill you. Maybe even your wrongs against me will end up killing you. You spill a High Table secret, you piss off the people who care for me with your blatant disrespect, you cross me myself, and I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you. I don’t want things to be that way.”

Hundreds of eyes followed him, some lighting with hope, some unreadable, some internally seething. But none moved. How surreal, Chidi thought. If they all mutinied at once, they could kill Vincent and Chidi both. But they couldn’t bring themselves to do it.

“Maybe you haven’t thought about this choice. You could try to find a ‘normal life,’ you who have already been cast out once before…”

“Or you could stay. I protect you from your own kings and presidents. I treat you like my own family, because you are loyal to me. Do you want to be a citizen of the United States, of Russia, of China, of Afghanistan, of Chile, of all the so-called governments who try to govern us out of existence and fail, who promise so little, just a peaceful life, and don’t even deliver on that, no matter how loyal you are? Do you want to live under the High Table at large, which demands fealty regardless, from every living person, no matter whether you are aware of it or not? Or do you want to live under the Gramont branch, where your needs will be looked after and all that is expected of you in return is the fulfillment of your own greatness? Yes, sometimes, that will include acting as a soldier, as every citizen is asked to do. But I, personally, will protect you against petty disputes because no one kills our own, even in revenge. I will see that you get justice for the grievances against you, because our boot is on their throat and not the other way around. I will always put a roof over your head, and most likely, it will be richer than anything the world’s most promising financiers could earn for themselves in a whole lifetime. I will clothe you and feed you with exactly as much decadence as befits any servant of mine. I will give to you what you need to be the peak performers in the entire world. I will take care of you when you are sick – no fees, no questions asked, just care. I will honor you in your old age and memorialize you when you die. And yes, most importantly, I will do the same for the person you love most. Because love is the true motivator. We are a family. We are a sick fucking family who will kill and die and live for each other, and no one will ever understand us, and no one will ever stand against us.”

“Now, my children: you are going to walk past me one by one. And either you will kiss the ring of your parrain [godfather], with The Adjudicator and Harbinger as witnesses, thereby acknowledging that you understand yourself to be a free citizen, swearing to serve me for the benefits I offer…Or you will pass me by, and we’ll be nothing to each other. You’re free! You’ve always been free. Do what you want to do.”

Chidi was the first, of course. Leaving his mark before anyone else could touch that malleable fleck of gold. Taking Vincent’s hand to his lips and bowing low, looking up at his chosen master through the bars of his own lashes, and reading there the gratitude, the wonder, the benevolence, which ignited in response. The love answering to love.

He lingered, to be sure that no onlooker could mistake such devotion for mere discharge of duty. And then he took his place on the other side of the bridge and turned back, facing down the whole of the Myrmidon army, daring any of them to reject the man for whom he had just shown such affection. They’d have to stand right next to him afterwards. Come challenge the Marquis’ most loyal guard dog. I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Maybe not today, not in front of the judges, but one day, and you know it. Love itself has granted me the power.

So they filed on, through the crystalline autumn sunshine, by the dozens and then the hundreds. The day wore on. And they kissed Vincent, and kissed him, and kissed him. A whole army showered him with kisses while he smiled on them. Chidi made them do it, without saying a word.

It was afternoon by the time the whole affair came to a close. Vincent was sweaty and his hair spray had begun to wilt under the heat, but he was beaming. Not one person had passed him by. He sank back into his chair, sighing. “I rest my case.” Only Chidi could see how earnestly he was smiling, or make out the note of restrained buoyancy he held down at the bottom of his voice. Oh Vincent…have we made you emotional?

Again, their eyes caught across the crowd. Both were sparkling.

The Adjudicator, who had long ago shed their heavy black coat and gloves, rose with both draped neatly over their arm. “Impressive. I’ll begin by stating that anyone who can command such loyalty is an asset to the High Table. This has been instructive in understanding why the Myrmidons function so formidably. More to the point, it has been instructive on the topic of their employment and its true nature. I can now confidently offer a ruling. The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont is acquitted.”

For the second time, Giovanni interrupted in protest. “You can’t be serious! This is entirely outside the spirit of the law. Surely you of all people understand that these traditions were set forth to preserve the integrity of the High Table as a whole, and all its constituents.”

From the end of the bridge, Chidi watched Vincent’s figure turn on him coldly. “I would remind you of what you told me just three days ago: that when business was good for my family, it was always good for yours, and good for the Table. The Gramont seat is by far the highest earning. I would even go so far as to say we’ve personally bankrolled your operation in the Netherlands. Nobody, Sr. D’Antonio, wants the Myrmidons eradicated. Rather, it is you who put a personal vendetta above the good of the Table. And no one, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, is above the Table.”

“But this is a farce! These people have no choice, they – “

The Adjudicator quickly put a stop to the squabbling. “Silence. The spirit of the law is not in question. The letter is. If the letter doesn’t match the spirit, that is to be brought to the attention of the Elder through the proper channels (though of course, the Marquis speaks quite rightly in suggesting that the Elder has little reason to wish for the Myrmidons’ dispersal). For the time being, the letter of the law is fully intact. The Myrmidons have every right to leave without facing any immediate deaths as retaliation, either their own or their loved ones’, so I consider this matter settled. Let the decision be carried out.”

He fell into confusion then, as fundamentally confused men do when their luck has run out, shouting desperate things that all ran together. But the Myrmidons had already closed around him – the Marquis’ personal detail specifically, with Chidi among them, in a tight circle of grey suits and one blue. A dozen guns fired at once into the chest of the man who had tried to interpose between Vincent and those who ought to adore him. Tomorrow, the stones of the Castel Sant’Angelo bridge would be even more thoroughly polished.

They walked away with shoulders nearly touching and not caring that the whole army might see how close they stood. Who could call open affection anything but a strength after it granted Vincent such a victory? Vincent wiped some thousand kisses off his ring with a handkerchief and whispered, “Quand nous serons seuls, toi et toi seul l'embrasserez à nouveau. Compris? [When we’re alone, you and you only will kiss it again. Understood?]”

“Oui, Maître. [Yes, Master.]”

◃ Back ⚜ Next ▹(coming soon)

Image Sources: One | Two...I've had this saved for so long that I truly can't find its source anymore, I'm sorry. But I think it was from Pinterest.

[becauseplot]

Phil wakes up in the morning, curled up on his side of the bed, wings splayed out over the empty half of the mattress behind him. As always. Snags his robe off the hook by the bed and shrugs it on and doesn't look at the vacant hook beside it. As always. Half asleep hauls himself out of bed and shuffles into his slippers and opens the blinds; bedroom flooded by golden sunlight, shining on the glass panes of the framed family photos hung up on the walls, drowning them in morning glow. As always.

It's just another morning up here on the wall. He heads down into the basement expecting the usual: finding Tallulah already awake and writing quietly in her diary, listening to her giggle as Phil drags her dead-to-the-world brother out of bed, sending them both off to go get dressed and wash up while he fumbles something together for breakfast.

When he steps into their bedroom, their beds are empty.

The spike of panic is immediate. He knows he put them to bed last night. They're not staying over anywhere else. They weren't anywhere in the front garden. There's no obvious note or sign anywhere that Phil can see. Where did they go? Where are his kids?

But then he hears it---the laughter. Clinking of dishes in the kitchen. The smell of eggs and bacon and beans. Soft Spanish that's low and syrupy-sleepy, still waking up.

Phil walks into the kitchen, and it's like walking into a dream.

The three of them are crowded around the counter, with Chayanne standing on a stepstool to the left and Tallulah standing on a chair to the right. Daylight spills in through the window above the sink and makes the mirage of Missa expertly dicing onions shimmer, body wreathed in warmth.

Missa sets down the knife. He turns around, the off-white of his bone mask almost dandelion in the sun, and Phil just about loses it.

He's relieved. He's disbelieving. He's ecstatic, and he's furious, and he's oddly numb. Something inside him wants to hurl a fist across his jaw; something else wants him to curl a fist around the lapels of his cloak and never let go.

Phil's arms are around him before he even realizes that he's crossed the kitchen.

Missa makes a sound of surprise, arms briefly hovering like this is the last thing he expected, but it doesn't matter---Phil feels him return the embrace a heartbeat later, and Phil sinks into it. A soft noise of anguish dies in his throat; he buries his face in Missa's shoulder and clutches at the back of his cloak and squeezes him like he wants to shatter bone and nestles in closer with the irrational, irrepressible desire to burrow into Missa's chest and fucking live there. Missa would probably let him.

A hand comes to cradle the back of his head. He feels lips and nose land softly in his tangle of unbrushed morning hair.

"Buenos días, querido."

He's home.

[nightvi3w]

scent.

feat. uni classmate!choso kamo x afab!reader. wc. 3.1k cw. mdni. includes dry humping, whiny loser choso, reader is a menace. not proofread because i can't stand this being a wip anymore. any and every interaction is much appreciated. ✨️

classmate!choso, who's always been your closest friend, even though he acts as if you annoy him just by smiling in his direction.

classmate!choso, who's the kindest soul you've ever met, sharing his warmth when it's cold by letting you wrap around his body, in skinship that feels as natural as breathing.

classmate!choso, who sometimes gets riled up when you take your skinship just a tad bit too far, when your legs over his lap get too close to his crotch. or when your face is too close to his delightfully warm neck, your cold breath tickling him, and testing his patience.

classmate!choso, who just takes deep breaths when you jump into his arms, wrapping your own around his shoulders. sometimes, your neediness was adorable. sometimes, it got on his nerves. did you understand what your actions provoked in him?

classmate!choso, who just lets you plan study sessions and movie afternoons with other of your close friends, playing hard to get, even though he fights the smile that creeps its way into his lips when you pout and grab his arm, trying to get him to surrender.

classmate!choso, who has to let his room be raided by a bunch of rowdy kids who don't want to study, but rather spend time laying around in the floor, in front of the TV, watching some god-forsaken anime.

classmate!choso, whose heart skips a beat when you're sitting on the sofa, and he's sitting on the floor, and you suddenly pet his hair, combing through his unkempt locks.

classmate!choso, who coughs in surprise when you relinquish your seat to sit by his side on the floor, warming up by his side, under the same blanket. and his right hand can't help but look for yours under the cover. and he's sweating bullets, his ears ring once he finds your soft left hand resting over your legs. and he grabs it. and you let him. and now, you're the one going crazy with that simple, hidden touch.

classmate!choso, who ends up paired up with you and another classmate for a group essay due next week. you want to get it over with, so you tell him to work on it during the weekend. you'll drop by his, and so should your classmate. however, it ends up just being the two of you, alone.

classmate!choso, who wholeheartedly hopes for the other classmate to come by, and even convinces you to go out and wait for them outside for a while, since you have enough time to work on the essay that day. but your classmate doesn't come, and you have to go back to choso's to finish your duty.

classmate!choso, who lets you in first and watches your hips swaying more than usual. the god-forsaken jeans you're wearing make it hard for him to focus on the task at hand, but the eye candy is very much appreciated. he lets you sprawl out on the sofa while he takes a seat by his desk, ready on the keyboard to start the essay. you talk it out, going over the theory and the research with ease. choso was trying really hard to focus on it. you, on the other hand… no, you had something else in mind.

it was driving you mad, this situation. you were going crazy, you had to be. there was no other explanation for the quick beating of your heart, for your trembling breath, for the obnoxious, not-entirely-unknown throbbing between your legs. because it was being caused by the man on the computer, right there, in front of you. your best friend, the guy who was usually nothing more than a great buddy. usually, a word sparingly used to try to ignore the budding feeling at the back of your head. but today, that wasn't the issue, no. no, today, you must be out of your goddamned mind.

You felt like an animal, a predator. The way your gaze lingered on his nape, the way his hair softly flowed with the breeze coming through a nearby window, the way his fingers typed efficiently and certainly.

were you ovulating or something? was it just the pent-up sexual frustration getting to you? was it the pinnacle of your accumulated desire over time? you really couldn't tell, but today, there was just something about choso…

you could almost feel the precision of his fingers on the keyboard somewhere around on your body. what wouldn't you give for that to be real. you could almost smell his stuffy breaths, as he huffed in frustration while going through more articles. God, just imagining his labored breathing under you, his brows knitted, the grip of his strong hands on your skin, almost bruising, not hard enough still…

A call of your name brought you back to reality. That reality was your essay, your friend, your best friend at that, who was just dying to just finish it soon. You were awful. You had to be because there was no way you were behaving like an unfed, rabid dog over someone like that. you couldn't just act like that. not with him. not with your best friend. but then again, had he always seemed so utterly delicious? Was that even the right word?

You made your way towards him, bending over a bit by his side, taking a closer look at the screen, reading over your work for the past hour. You were making the biggest effort to actually care for your homework, but really? choso's scent was driving you up the wall. so musky, that natural perfume that always calmed you down and made you feel at home. so enticing, so damn rich. you had to be losing your mind. You forced his body away with your own, making him share part of his seat with you, so you could actually read and contribute to your shared homework. While sharing a seat like that wasn't out of the ordinary for you both, it made every single hair of choso's to stand on end, extremely aware of you, existing so close beside him. Nothing out of the ordinary, but still, there was just something about that day and the way your hands lingered too close to his, the way your warmth was seeping into his side, the way your voice turned softer around the edges. You were absolutely driving him crazy. Unbeknownst to him, you were on a similar wavelength. Oh, the woes of young lust.

"That wasn't properly cited," your voice interrupted him for the eleventh time in the span of five minutes. If your voice wasn't as sweet, Choso would've lost his mind ages ago. "Prof is an ass when it comes to APA shit. Leave that to me, I'll do it later when I get home." It wasn't that it would take you too much time to correct it then and there, but you felt too lazy to stretch your arms out into the keyboard when you were so cozy by Choso's side, almost melting, wrapping yourself around him like an ivy as much as humanly possible. Again, nothing out of the ordinary, if it weren't for the wild strumming of your heart. You could swear that he could hear it. Could he? Was he just ignoring it to save you the embarrassment? You never knew with him.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, right. I could just…" His fingers were working overtime, typing in record time while deleting the letters in the incorrect order, only to write them incorrectly again. What was wrong with him today? Couldn't he behave as nonchalant as he usually was? Where was all this flustered shit coming from?

"What is it with you today, Cho?" Velvety, warm whispers hit his neck. Tender, thrilling teasing reached his ears as he could feel your nose making its way through the side of his neck. "Can't focus or what?" Oh, you cheeky little thing. You were going to be the death of him. Choso cleared his throat while trying to make some distance from you, but you could notice the reddened tips of his ears, how the blush took over the apple of his cheeks. Oh, he had to try harder. You both usually were quick to draw a line between you two, whenever one of you was just too much for the other. He wasn't this time. You were getting to him, but he wasn't fighting you.

"N-no, n-not at all. C'mon, this is going to take ages. I don't need to focus, I just need you to sit still for a minute."

"I am, though."

"No, you're not. Be nice."

Oh, but you were being so nice. So, so nice. It was him not playing nice. You could see him growing jumpier by the second, swalling his spit with difficulty, trying to relax his hands every once in a while. Oh, you had gotten under his skin, most definitely. You decided to not be an asshole and actually listen to him. Carefully, you rested your head on his shoulder, watching the screen with a bored expression.

"I don't think we'll get this done by today."

"Do you doubt our abilities, woman?"

"It's just so boring. I hate citing obvious stuff. It's like finding sources to support you saying water is wet."

"Actually, water is…"

"God, don't be obtuse. You know what I mean."

"Me? Obtuse?"

Of course Choso wouldn't consider himself to be obtuse on purpose. Him not getting any innuendos or signs from you or your friends had nothing to do with it, not at all. How could he, right? You rolled your eyes and took over the keyboard for a while, as you talked through some more essays and papers that would support your assignment. But no matter how much you tried to completely lock in, there was a small screaming voice at the back of your mind, yelling for attention like an absolute whore, urging you to do something, whatever, just so you could get him against you ASAP. You had to cross your legs tightly, which proved to be very difficult given your seating position, half a buttcheek in a small seat with Choso, who still couldn't get rid of the blush on his face. You both could be so much more comfortable if you both just weren't such cowards.

"My fingers are cramping up. Take over, man."

"You're being so whiny today." He could call you almost any similar adjective and you wouldn't take it to heart, because he was right. The whiny curl in your voice was difficult to supress entirely, but you hoped it was, at least, easy to blame on your boring schedule. "You should've just let me take over it a long time ago. Could've gone home to rest if you needed."

"My, so eager to please, baby. And miss the opportunity to watch you being such a good boy? Not a chance," your voice overly sweet as you caressed his chest, barely dragging your fingertips through his pecs. Your words had a certain jokey lilt to them, it was more than obvious, so you weren't expecting a grand reaction, maybe besides a scuff and a slight jab to your ribs. You giggled, not because it was hilarous, but because getting under Choso's skin was some sort of national sport for you, so you rested your head dangerously close to his neck, your breath ricocheting in warm puffs. Choso had to supress a whine, unable to understand whatever could be the outcome of this situation. You'd never been as forward as this afternoon and he was trying his best not to take advantage of it because, what if? What if he actually did? Was this only a joke for you?

Actually, you didn't have much to work on now. Your parts of the essay had been awful to write, but the draft was mostly done, you had a bunch of references, and you were just missing your classmate's part. So, actually… What were you even doing still seated so close? Your nose insisting against his skin, inhaling his scent, drawing incoherent shapes against his delicate skin, while Choso debated still on what to do. Could he go for it? Was this a sign from you to take his chance? You were never going to be as close and as alone as you were today, mainly due to his own doing. How many times had he rejected your company, scared of what the outcome could be? It wasn't like you were going to do something he didn't wholeheartedly want. You wouldn't force your way into his arms because he always prepared to receive you, despite his humurous scowl.

So he took a leap of faith. He looked for your eyes, finding your faces merely milimeters away. Your breath went straight to his crotch. What had he been so scared of before? Choso closed the distance, forcely crushing his lips against yours in an insisting, passionate kiss that was so out of character for him, as well as the whine that he tried so hard not to let go of. God, you were so, so sweet, so warm, so damn hot against him. Your mouth fit perfectly against his, your lips receiving him with an eagerness he couldn't really register. It was you, your heat, your perfume, your softness. You were wrapping yourself around him minutes ago, but you were totally wrapped around his mind. He couldn't fathom anything better than this.

That was until a moan escaped your rosy, puffy lips, as you gasped for air, not letting go of him. Your arms were quickly around his shoulders, your hands in his locks, like he was tying you down to Earth. You had underestimated your need for his touch. Choso could lose it any second, as his arms slowly and surely wrapped around your torso. It wasn't enough, you still felt so far away…

But you shared his wavelength. You uncrossed your legs, and keeping one of your hands securely grabbing his thigh, you got up and sat on his lap, straddling him without a second thought. He short circuited and you couldn't hold a single thought in your mind if it hadn't had anything to do with feeling more of Choso. That's why, as soon as you straddled him, you moaned into his mouth.

"Are you sure?" He almost whimpered. Who was being whiny again?

"Mhm," you cut to the chase as you went back to full-on eating his face. This was it, this was what you needed. You needed to feel him everywhere around you, your lips crashing, his hands grabbing onto you like you were going to disapear, his legs slightly trembling as his crotch reacted to your weight on top of him. Even through your jeans, you could feel him, and you were just reeling. But still, a chant of more, more, more took over you. As you slowly angled your hips to grind yourself on Choso, you guided one of his hand towards your ass. Choso broke the kiss, stunned, a deer in headlights.

"B-but…"

"Yes, that's what it is."

The joke didn't land as he watched you as if you were dumb. Tough crowd.

"Are you sure of all this? I mean, we…" He couldn't really help it. Holding hands in the dark wasn't even near in the scale of things that were going on at the moment.

"Do you want it? This, I mean?" You asked surely, slightly backing off to give him space. While this caused some delicious friction that got to his head quickly, he closed his eyes to focus on what you really meant.

"Yes, I do. I want this." Oh, his whimpering voice. Seriously, he had to be doing it on purpose.

"I want it too. I wouldn't be here," another drag of your salacious hips for emphasis, "if I didn't want to. So…"

"Please." He pleaded, trying to place his wrists into your palms, desperate, a glint of despair in his eyes, like if you didn't comply, he'd fall into pieces right then and there. Such a power trip, it went straight to your head, bathing your body in the most intense, warm apetite. You needed more of this.

"Of course, baby."

Laboured breathing, the wet sounds of biting, desperate kisses. You could've swore this came straight from the fantasies you'd have time to time, when times were desperate and he looked just too good to be true. Too good to stay just as your best friend and confidant. But a best friend shouldn't be drowning in your mouth, shouldn't be grabbing at your hips to move you faster over his lap, squeezing your flesh through your jeans. A best friend shouldn't be quietly moaning with eyes squeezed shut, desperate for more of you, obsessed with your taste, your scent, the feel of your body, so right against his. And the more you moved on top of him, the closer and clearer your need became. You were going to cum from rubbing yourself on him. Like a crazed, touch-starved teen. Which you technically were, but that didn't mean a humiliating feel spread through your chest, as Choso began bucking up his hips into you. And that did it. One second later, you were a throbbing, mewling mess on his lap, kissing his neck with reverence and desperation, riding out a high you didn't know it'd be as strong. All from dry humping. Now, you were the blushing wreck, as you hid your face from him.

"You okay?" He asked in a rugged, hushed voice as he left slow, determined caresses on your hips and back, keeping you still and flush against him. God help you, he'd be your death.

"Peachy." The humoristic reply didn't really go with the needy, out of breath tone that left your trembling lips. You gulped. Riling him up was a fun past time, something that had become a second nature to your weird, convoluted relationship. But you hadn't stopped to think just how much that actually was affecting you just as much. As if teasing him didn't make your heart grow warmer at the thought of him. As if seeing your best friend all blushed and unfocused didn't make you hold your breath.

"…wanna move to the bed?"

His follow-up question made you freeze. You slowly peeled away from his embrace, just to take one look at his face, now wondering if he was up to mess with you like that. But the only thing you could see in his hazel eyes was molten desire, blown out pupils. A half-lidded gaze you never thought would be directed at you. And you loved it. You gave him one small nod before he took you in his arms once again. As always, you wouldn't force your way into his hold because he always prepared to receive you.

[hauntedhopeghost]

and it's you.

aka: i play around with thoughts in that one IA ep 3 scene

as much as he worked over it, it wasn’t good enough for anyone.

not him. 

not them. 

not anyone. 

people. all people who saw but didn’t know. 

who knew but didn’t understand.

or maybe they understood, but didn’t know how bad it was until it came back, stronger than ever. 

or when his friends were hurt by him. because all that’s he’s it’s ever wished for was for the world to love it. 

perhaps he thought boxing it up,  both literally and figuratively, would make it disappear. because unlike him, it wasn’t good enough.  

even if he knew one day, it would all blow up in his face. 

and it did. 

it was a monster, when it formed. tearing everything apart with no goal except to hurt.  

at least, that’s what it felt like. it was sewn out of a patchwork of everything he announced to himself as stupid. the various clips from all the things discarded. 

and he knows he’ll never satisfy anyone with it. 

and what’s the point of uploading anything, if he can’t make them happy? 

.

.

.

but he’s gently taking it apart. 

the voice in the back of his mind whispered that he couldn’t fight it anymore. 

he’d already tried. and it only left him more hurt. 

too long. he thinks. it wasn't as if he didn't know how much a fault was worth already.

even before this. even before all of this it was just another way to feel enough. pull him apart because he hated it. 

he hated it. he hated how it glitched and how no one would ever love it. 

he hated how the video destroyed and hurt and broke.

he hated how much it looked like him. 

he hated how it built off of all the things he hated. 

he hated that he knew no one would ever love it. 

.

.

.

but it had stopped, suddenly. almost in shock. 

almost as though it couldn’t believe it. 

it never got enough love from him, anyways.

why would he? what was there to love about it, anyways?

what was there to love about him?

it was just something he threw away and hid and never given the light of day. because no one wants to see a mistake that isn’t worth anything. 

 not even him. especially not him.

perhaps there were a few that someone liked, someone’s who’s opinion mattered far more than comments ever would. 

but the glitch. no one loved the original greenscreen. no one loved the way it punched and hurt.

no one loved the person who hurt himself and his friends just to be seen. no one loved all the adjustments done to it, but at least at the time it was for him. 

not people he never saw.

no one ever loved it. 

no one would love it. 

but he still wraps his arms around it. just him. 

and it pulsed against his chest like a warm, faint heartbeat. because he’s hugging it. he’s hugging him. 

and suddenly, almost ironically, he almost didn’t want to let it go now. but he wasn’t letting him go. 

after so long of hating it. it’s almost funny that he’s the one to do it. funny he’s the one to love the person he hated the most. 

but there are millions of people and only one that can love it, without swarms of doubts screaming fake. without hurting who he loved, again. and it still matters to him but if he was going to be better, he wasn’t going to hurt it. 

and it’s fine. if it were a mistake then it was still his. 

just another piece of him that never gotten love. 

and it’s him. just him. 

all of him. 

he thinks as he lets it go. as it becomes a part of him, finally. 

it was always a part of him, actually. but one that he hated so much. a part of him that he didn’t think was any worthy of love. 

but it’s still him. 

it’s him. 

it’s you. 

[reason-with-the-underdog]

modern au chatfic

thinking about modern au where alhaitham casually refers to kaveh as "loml" in the groupchat

& tighnari messages kaveh "pls tell me you guys got together finally"

kaveh: wdym no he thinks it means "light of my life" lol

tighnari: do you understand why that's not better. do you

kaveh: he's just making fun of me and my nickname!!

tighnari: [switches to alhaitham's dms] that's rough buddy.gif

alhaitham: [Your message could not be delivered. This is usually because the recipient is only receiving direct messages from friends]

tighnari: [switches back to kaveh's dms] alhaitham blocked me

kaveh: WHAT how could he do that to my bestie>:( what did you say

tighnari: oh just laughed at him about the loml thing

kaveh: IKR icb he calls me loml & not know what it means

tighnari: mm hm tell him to unblock me

alhaitham: [This user has accepted your friend request! You can send each other messages now]

tighnari: that was fast wow

tighnari: kaveh doesnt know how much u listen to him huh

alhaitham: Is this important?

tighnari: nah just bored

tighnari: anyways try sending him the wikipedia pg for "loml"

alhaitham: I clarified my intended definition already. He thinks I'm pretending to have known all along out of embarrassment

tighnari: and how does that make you feel

alhaitham: It's fine. He'll accept my feelings when he's ready

tighnari: [switches to kaveh's dms] KAVEH

kaveh: what?!!?

tighnari: i wish i didn't believe so strongly in not sharing private messages

kaveh: is this about alhaitham? did he unblock you

tighnari: i love how i gave you no context and you still guessed it was about alhaitham

kaveh: i wasnt wrong though!

kaveh: what did he do

tighnari: i just said i wouldn't say anything

kaveh: why would you tease me like this... 🥺 do i need to talk to alhaitham to find out

tighnari: yup

kaveh: why does everyone keep telling me to talk to him i literally talk to him all the time

tighnari: i think you should look at the common denominator here

kaveh: yeah ik alhaitham's terrible at communicating directly

tighnari: no comment

kaveh: pls agree 🥺 you know im right

tighnari: no <3

kaveh: >:(

kaveh: but it is weird he didnt bother to look up a word before using it

tighnari: im gonna log off, getting late, good luck figuring it out

kaveh: ok gn

[46 minutes later]

kaveh: tighnari do you think he meant it

kaveh: ykw im not gonna overthink this

[the next morning]

tighnari: kaveh why did you leave a heart react on alhaitham's message in the groupchat

kaveh: im embracing it! i'm the light! nbd!

tighnari: hm very convincing

kaveh: if i pretend it doesnt bother me then it wont

tighnari: does it really bother you tho

kaveh: yes!! ofc it does! not when he doesnt really mean it

tighnari: maybe you should talk to him about your feelings

kaveh: ur supposed to be supportive not attack me >:(

tighnari: if you want an enabler go back to school

kaveh: i CANT that's where he works!

tighnari: didnt you bring him lunch last week

kaveh: yeah he gets grumpy if he skips a meal

tighnari: no comment

kaveh: WE ATE LUNCH AS FRIENDS. JUST LIKE HOW YOU & I GET LUNCH TOGETHER SOMETIMES. AS FRIENDS

tighnari: i dont call you loml tho

kaveh: u are def not the loml rn

[serendark]

Too Many Triangles

Summary:

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

Word count: 8,717

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Language: English

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

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

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

Read on AO3.

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

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

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

“What the hell, Sixer…?”

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

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

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

It’s the least Stan can do.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Alright. It’s showtime.

Stan wasn’t looking forward to it.

“We need to talk, Poindexter.”

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

“Wh… Stanley–!”

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

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

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

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

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sixer had never looked so… small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A loud slam startled him back into awareness.

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

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

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

“...My fault…”

Stanley froze, unsure if he heard that right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill.

Bill Cipher.

Right, that’s right.

That triangular devil.

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

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

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

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

“Stanley–”

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

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

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

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

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

A captured memory of two kids being kids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ford seemed surprised, but nodded, looking at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One inhale. One exhale.

He twisted his torso to face his twin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is fine. This is surely fine.

Don’t think about the end of summer.

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

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

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

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

Pieces of glass smothered in sand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ford visibly swallowed and gave a tiny nod.

“... Thank you. I appreciate it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[zizzlekwum]

Stranger In A Not-So-Strange Land

Masterlist

CHAPTER TEN

The BAU investigates a series of murders in Texas. Follows the events of Criminal Minds Season 2 Episode 17 "Distress."

Trigger Warnings: descriptions of a prior toxic relationship

Word Count: 6,304

Tag List: @leftoverenvy @itsmeanobody @ctrljuls @theclassicgaycousin @fatherfigured [if you want to be added to the tag list, please comment or send me an ask]

You’re late to work on your first day back at the BAU due to red tape, so you get there just as JJ is beginning to present the next case.

“Welcome back,” Hotch says quietly as you take a seat at the table between him and Prentiss. You give him a nod before focusing your attention on JJ.

“This is Houston’s Fifth Ward,” she explains, pointing the remote at the TV. “It accounts for a large percent of the city’s growing homicide rate due to gang violence and a bustling narcotics trade. Although in the last forty-eight hours, there have been three distinctive murders in the ward.” She clicks a button on her remote, bringing up pictures of the crime scenes.

“Distinctive?” Morgan asks.

“Three men, three different socioeconomic groups, all killed on the street with their necks snapped,” JJ continues. “There appears to be no other injury, and there’s no apparent connections between the victim, or motive.” She shrugs.

You open your mouth to say something but stop as Reid enters the room, taking a sip of his coffee. He nods at JJ to continue while he sits down to your left.

“The ward’s detectives are inundated with homicides,” JJ explains. “Gang violence is a big problem. Shootings, armed robberies, it’s an everyday occurrence, but this type of street attack is new to them.”

“Could it be gang related,” Prentiss posits. “Maybe some type of new initiation rite?”

JJ shakes her head. “The gangs in the ward use guns. In fact, no known gangs exhibit this type of MO.”

“What about dope?” Morgan asks. “These guys come up with pretty freaky ways of killing the competition to get their message out.”

“But wouldn’t they want to leave a sign to tell others it was them?” you point out. “Kinda defeats the purpose if people don’t realize the killings are a targeted threat.”

“Yeah, and there just doesn’t seem to be any connection between the victims and the drug world,” JJ adds.

“Homeless man, a construction worker, security guard.” Gideon lists the victims.

JJ nods. “Just three dead men and no witnesses.”

“We’re looking for a homicidal serial criminal in a neighborhood populated by criminals,” Hotch notes. “The challenge will be separating him from the rest.”

“We have no evidence, no apparent interaction between the unsub and the victims pre- or postmortem, and an indistinguishable MO,” Reid says. “Should be simple.”

“Like finding a needle in a stack of needles,” you say. “Wonderful.”

*   *   *   *   *

On the plane, the team continues to try to make sense of the victims. “We got a construction worker, outsider in the community,” Morgan starts. “We got a security guard— that’s an authority figure. And then we got a homeless man. That’s a powerless victim that no one would notice missing.”

“They’re all over the place,” you note, jiggling your leg up and down, not looking up from where your hands are folded in your lap.

“So who’s he targeting?” Morgan asks.

“Let’s see if any of the victims frequented the same stores or sites,” Hotch says.

“He used blitz attacks,” Reid adds. “He most likely lacks the interpersonal skills he needed to coerce his victims into coming close, and he also used the element of surprise, which means he may have stalked his victims prior to killing them.” You swallow hard. Prentiss glances over at you, frowning.

“Well, if that’s the case, I wanna go to the last crime scene to see where he may have been hiding,” Morgan says.

“I want to see the neighborhood for myself,” Gideon says. “I’ll go with you.”

“Good,” Hotch says. “The rest of us can go to the precinct and set up shop.”

“I’ll map out the area and see if I can find any places the victims would have visited in the neighborhood,” Reid offers.

“Good, maybe we can find a connection between them,” Emily says, still watching you. “I’ll help you with that.”

Reid frowns. “I can handle it.”

Prentiss turns her attention from you to Reid, frowning. “I… wasn’t suggesting that you couldn’t.”

“Isn’t that what ‘I’ll help you with it’ means?” Reid snaps.

“Reid,” Hotch interrupts before he has a chance to continue. “Prentiss will help you with the geographical profiling and victimology.”

“Fine,” Reid says sharply, looking down at the papers in his hands.

Hotch sighs. “Remember, this is a high crime area. Be vigilant. Nobody goes anywhere alone. Y/L/N?”

You glance over at Hotch. You notice him watching your bouncing leg so you make an effort to stop. “Hmm?”

“I want you to stick with Prentiss and Reid for now,” he says with a frown.

You nod. “Gotcha, boss-man.”

He glances between you and Reid again before turning his attention away, and you let out a sigh. You really don’t want to go to Texas.

*   *   *   *   *

After you, Prentiss, and Reid get situated in the conference room, you begin to get to work, using a map of the neighborhood to get started. JJ walks in after a few minutes.

“What’s that?” Hotch asks. You turn to face them.

“One of the detective’s wives made us cookies,” JJ tells him.

“Wow, homemade cookies?” Prentiss says with a smile.

JJ sets the plate on the table and you go over to grab a cookie. “Yeah, I guess that’s what they mean by southern hospitality.”

Reid walks over to the window and fumbles with the blinds. “I need to concentrate— how can anybody hear anything with all this work going on?” He slams the window shut.

“Well, you’re gonna have to get used to it,” JJ tells him. “Construction crews are working around the clock.”

“Saw it on the way in,” Prentiss adds.

“City’s trying to return to its splendor, and that means that Houston’s poorest are being kicked out of their homes,” JJ explains as you nibble on a cookie.

Reid opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by Morgan and Gideon entering the room, followed by a detective.

“Unsub might be homeless,” Gideon reports. “Appears to have been living in a building next to where the security guard was attacked.”

Reid gestures to the map. “These are the locations of the last three murders, all near abandoned buildings.”

“To be fair, there are a lot of abandoned buildings nearby,” you point out.

Hotch nods. “She’s right. I noticed the neighborhood, maybe he was recently displaced.”

“Could be a motive,” Emily adds. “Construction worker, security guard at a construction site. Payback?”

“What about the homeless man?” Morgan asks.

“We get a lot of beefs down there among the homeless. That one could have just been a fight about space or food,” Detective Fuller says.

“Let’s get a list of residents who’ve been kicked out of their homes by the gentrification.” He turns toward you and Prentiss. “You, Y/L/N, and Reid check the shelters?”

“Yeah, we’re on it,” Prentiss says, standing. You nod. Then she pauses. “Unless… you okay with that, Reid?”

Reid furrows his brow in confusion. “I’m fine with that.”

You and Emily share a concerned look as you follow him out of the room.

*   *   *   *   *

At one of the shelters, the three of you are looking for someone in charge when Prentiss’ phone rings. It’s Hotch, alerting you of another murder.

A woman walks up to the three of you just as Emily is hanging up her cell phone. “Heard y’all are looking for someone in charge? I’m Angie, one of the administrators.”

Emily holds out her hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Agent Prentiss, these are Agents Reid and Y/L/N. We’re with the FBI.”

“Really?” Angie says, surprised.

“Really,” Reid snarks as Emily shows her badge.

“It looks like you have your hands full,” Emily says.

Angie nods. “With the demolitions in the projects and the abandoned buildings, there’s no place else for people to sleep.”

Prentiss smiled. “Well, thank God there are people like you who take the ti—“

“Do you have a list of everyone who comes through here?” Reid interrupts.

“Uh, we have a sign-in sheet,” Angie tells him, frowning. “But we don’t force anyone to sign if they don’t want to. Some who do don’t even use their real names.” She smiles. “Elvis eats here a lot.”

“Do you think we could get a copy of any lists you might have?” you ask.

“Why?” Angie asks, frowning.

“Have you noticed anyone who acts unusually aggressive towards the other residents?” Reid asks.

Angie crossed her arms. “What’s this about?”

“A series of murders in the area. The perpetrator may be a homeless man. Maybe someone who stays here.” Reid looks around. “He may even be in this room as we speak.”

“Reid!” Prentiss says sharply as Angie looks around, nervous.

“Have you noticed anyone who acts paranoid or displays explosive, unprovoked bursts of violence, more than just pushing and shoving?” Reid continues, ignoring Emily. “I mean, someone who really tried to harm others.”

“There are territorial fights over food and places to sleep,” Angie says. “The nurse treats people for minor injuries all the time, but no one seriously hurt.”

“If anyone does come to mind, give us a call,” Reid tells her, giving her his card. “Thank you.” He turns and walks away as you and Prentiss share a concerned look.

Angie looks at Prentiss. “A murderer?”

Prentiss holds up here hands. “I-I’m sorry. This investigation is still—“ She pauses, flustered.

You glance over your shoulder at Reid’s retreating form. “No one’s actually been hurt in a shelter,” you reassure Angie.

Prentiss nods. “We’re just— we’re acting in an abundance of caution. So please, let the police know if anything unusual occurs. Thanks.”

Angie nods, and you and Prentiss head outside to find Reid, who is observing the people outside.

“There’s a high presence of mental disorders with the homeless,” he says.

“Yeah,” Prentiss says, not really paying attention to what he said. “What the hell was that in there?”

“What?” Reid asks.

“‘He may even be in this room as we speak?’ We have nothing to support that.”

“We’re investigating a serial homicide,” Reid argues. “Should I have pretended there’s no danger?”

“You just scared the shit out of that woman,” you say. “She’s probably afraid of every dude who walks in, now!”

Reid shrugs. “Again, until we find this unsub, how is that a bad thing?”

Prentiss frowns. “What is the matter with you?” she asks, not unkindly.

Reid raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, what’s the matter with me?”

“I’ve never seen you act like this,” she explains.

Reid frowns, upset. “Oh really? In the months that you know me, you’ve never seen me act this way? Hey, no offense, Emily, but… you don’t really know what you’re talking about, do you?” He turns and storms off, leaving you and Emily standing there, shocked.

“What the fuck?” Emily mutters.

“He… he’s not okay,” you tell her, frowning. “It’s not you.”

She nods. “I know, but….”

You put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m worried about him, too,” you admit. “But I’m not sure there’s anything we can do.”

Emily looks over where Reid is walking away. “Let’s just get back to the station,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing left for us to do here.”

*   *   *   *   *

When the three of you walk into the station, Reid begins filling in Hotch. “We just got back from the local homeless shelter,” he says. “The administration hasn’t noticed anyone new displaying aggressive behavior.”

“He’s not in a homeless shelter,” Hotch says. “I just talked to Gideon and Morgan. They think that he’s killing to protect some makeshift shelter of his own.”

“Are we ready for a profile yet?” Reid asks.

“We’re missing something.” Hotch frowns. “How did this homeless man learn to kill so efficiently?”

“You know what we need?” Prentiss says.

“We need to get lucky,” Hotch tells her. “We need him to make a mistake.”

Everyone goes back to what they were doing while Emily pulls you aside. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

“Huh?” you ask, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve been off ever since we were assigned this case.” She frowns, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You sigh. “You’re not gonna drop this, are you?”

She shakes her head. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I….” You’re not sure how to word it, so you decide to just plow right ahead. “I was nineteen when I met my first boyfriend. We met online, which may seem crazy now, but where I’m from— or should I say when I’m from— that isn’t uncommon.” Prentiss nods, listening intently. You stare down at your hands, wringing them together and bouncing your leg. “Honestly, I try not to think about how many red flags I refused to see. It embarrasses me.”

Emily nods. “We’ve all been there,” she reassures you.

You laugh humorlessly. “Anyway, he was thirty. I mentioned I was nineteen at the time, right? Now, had I not still been a literal teenager, the age gap would’ve been less creepy, but I was just a kid. And he was the first person to have ever shown interest in me. We started off as fast friends, while I overlooked all the red flags, like I said, but then we started becoming something… more.”

You cringe before continuing. “You know how I said the first red flag should’ve been his age? Well, second red flag should’ve been that he was a convicted felon.”

“Oooh, yeah, that’s… not great,” Emily says sympathetically.

“To be fair— and this is the only concession I’ll give him— he was like twenty when his only friend, who also happened to be his fiancée, was killed in a car accident. He kinda went crazy and tried to rob a bank like, literally three days later.” You shake your head. “Dumbass got caught at a hot dog stand. And I’m not condoning it, but, I mean, temporary insanity exists as a legal defense for a reason.”

Prentiss nods. “No, I get it.”

“So yeah, red flags abound,” you continue. “And like I said, it was the first time anyone had ever been interested in me like that, so I was naive. I quickly became obsessed, but I didn’t recognize it as obsession and thought it was love. Stupid fucker ate that shit up. He eventually flew up to Mass to visit me for Halloween. I thought things were fine— other than the fact that I hated kissing him, but I chalked that up to sensory issues. He went back home, and that’s when shit started to hit the fan.

“Really soon after he went home, a celebrity followed me on Instagram— that’s a photo sharing website. Turns out that celebrity was the son of Lou Ferrigno, who was the Incredible Hulk. As I’m sure you know, I’m a huge Marvel fan.”

“Oh, I know,” Emily says with a chuckle.

“Anyway, I thought it was cool that the son of the Incredible Hulk followed me. I told the guy I was dating, and he got wicked jealous and spent the entire night at the 24-hour gym by his house.”

Emily blinks. “That’s fucking insane.”

“Yep,” you agree. “That’s when I started to lose interest, and got my first urge to break up with him. However, I was too nice, and knew that his family sucked— long story short, his step-dad was abusive and his mom allowed it— so I wanted him to spend Christmas with me and my family in Massachusetts, to have a good holiday.

“So I put up with his clinginess, along with other insane shit, until he flies up for Christmas. Christmas Eve night, while my extended family was over, he cornered me and tried to be clingy and I just shut down. He literally chased me to my room, and when I closed and locked the door, he stood and talked at me through the door. I had a meltdown and ended up cursing him out, after which my mom came up and convinced him to go downstairs, then reprimanded me about yelling and swearing while family was over. I spent hours in my room that night instead of enjoying Christmas Eve, and only came out after I called my aunt, who was in, like, Mexico or something for a holiday vacation, and she talked me down. I eventually went out and luckily, Fuckface was in the basement for the rest of the night. I decided to be nice and not break up with him on Christmas, and faked my way through the day.

“A couple weeks later, while I had been pretty much faking any interest in him to give him a couple nice weeks, I was invited to my friend’s baby shower. It was Patriots themed and everyone was expected to wear a Pats jersey. Since Fuckface hated the Patriots, I told him I wouldn’t make him go. He fucking thanked me, then had the gall to cry to my dad after I left that I didn’t take him with me. I came back home, missed the shower, and immediately broke up with him, but told him I wouldn’t insist upon him going home since, again, his family sucked and I wanted to be nice. Which, by the way, if you ever see me trying to be nice to someone to my own detriment ever again, please smack some sense into me.”

“Will do,” she tells you solemnly. “I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks.” You take a deep breath. “It all came to a head a few weeks later, when he found out that I had a date. He stormed upstairs and complained to my mom, right in front of me, that he just assumed we would, and I quote, ‘find our way back to each other,’ and what was he supposed to do? He then wondered aloud, in front of AJ, my nine-year-old little brother who had his own severe mental health issues, if he should hunt down my date and blow his brains out, and— again, I quote— ‘see that pink mist.’”

Prentiss takes a deep breath. “Fucking unhinged.”

You nod. “Seeing AJ becoming distressed, I yelled at Fuckface to shut up. He proceeded to storm over to me. I ducked, and he smacked my hat off of my head. Now, I’m convinced he tried to hit me, but my mom always insisted he was just trying to hit my hat off of my head. Not okay either way, of course, but one is worse than the other. I ran upstairs, afraid, and locked myself in my room and armed myself with the switchblade I got from camping that year that I kept next to my bed. I didn’t sleep at all that night, and he flew back home the next morning. That was the last I physically saw of him, but he proceeded to cyberstalk me for the following two years.” You take a shaky breath. “Anyway, to sum it all up, my crazy ex was from Texas, and even though I’m literally in a different universe, and Texas is so fucking huge that even if I weren’t in a different universe, the chances of running into him would be slim to none, I’m still anxious about being here.”

Emily puts a hand on your shoulder. “It’s a trauma response,” she tells you.

You nod. “I know. That doesn’t make me feel any less stupid for stressing over a nonissue.”

“It’s not a nonissue,” she insists. “It’s trauma. And even though you may be safe, your mind doesn’t fully recognize that.”

Sighing, you shake your head. “Maybe. I don’t know, I just—”

“Please help my daddy!” You’re interrupted by a young girl running into the police station, followed by a man with blood dripping from his nose.

“I-I need help, I was attacked!” the man shouts.

JJ hurries over to him. “Can I get some help here, please?”

You head over to the man’s daughter as he turns to JJ. “Please call my house to come get my daughter, please!”

You bend down to speak with the little girl. “Hi, I’m Y/N. We’re gonna take good care of your dad, okay?”

She nods as Emily comes over to you two and says something in Spanish to the girl. “Maria,” the girl says.

Emily glances at you. “Her name is Maria.”

You hold out a hand. “Maria, do you wanna come with me and Emily while my friends help your dad?” She nods, taking your hand, and you lead her to the unused conference room.

“Is my papa gonna be okay?” Maria asks as you direct her to a chair. Hotch sits down to her right as Emily takes the chair to her left, you staying crouched in front of Maria.

Hotch nods. “Yes.”

You glance at Hotch, who gives you a small nod. “Maria, do you think we could ask you a few questions?”

“It would really help us find the bad guy,” Emily adds. She waits for Maria to nod before continuing. “Did he say anything to your papa?”

Maria shakes her head. “No.”

“What were you and your papa doing before the bad guy came?” Hotch asks.

Maria takes a deep breath, squeezing your hand. “Papa took out the garbage. And then he jumped out and he hit my papa. I was screaming at him. I thought he was gonna hit me, too. But then he stopped… and he looked at me funny.”

You squeeze her hand. “What do you mean by ‘funny?’”

Maria looks at you. “He looked sad. He did say something. Not to my papa. To me.”

“What was it?” Emily asks.

“He said ‘are you okay? Why are you crying?’” Maria says. “And then we ran.”

“Maria,” Hotch says, giving her a small smile. “What you did was very brave. Can you help us with one more thing? Can you tell us what the man looked like?”

Maria nods. “He was white. And tall. And dirty.” She looks down at Hotch’s hand. “And he had a ring like yours.”

Hotch points to his wedding ring. “Like that?”

Maria nods again. “I remember his ring.”

You squeeze her hand. “Thanks. You did a good job.”

She opens her mouth to respond before focusing on something behind you. “Abuela!” She jumps out of her chair and runs toward a woman who just walked through the doors. Emily goes over to greet her while you and Hotch walk back to the conference room to update the team.

*   *   *   *   *

“He asked if she was okay and why was she crying,” Hotch says once he joins you, Emily, and Reid in the conference room. “He wasn’t aware of what he was doing to them.”

“Garcia’s on line one,” JJ says, pressing a couple buttons on the phone, next to an open laptop.

“Go ahead, Penelope,” Prentiss says.

“All right, cowgirls and boys,” Garcia says. “I’ve got the comparison satellite images of the before and after pictures, and I found something. Check it.” An image of the top of a building appears on the laptop screen. “See it yet?”

“Yeah,” Hotch says.

“Is that an SOS?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Garcia says. “It’s made of debris and other rocky bits of gobbledygook. This is the building where the security guard got killed.”

“He’s asking for help,” Hotch says.

“Wait, guys, listen outside,” Reid says.

“Chaos,” Hotch says. “The SOS.”

“He’s a war veteran,” Emily realizes.

“PTSD episode?” you ask.

Hotch nods. “He thinks he’s in a war zone.” He dials Morgan and Gideon, who are with the detective. “He left a distress signal on the roof of one of the buildings,” he tells them once Morgan picks up.

“The quick strikes are consistent with trained military tactics,” Morgan says.

“He must’ve served in a place that looked or sounded like this ward,” Emily suggests.

“Well, we were right about him being homeless, in a sense,” Gideon says. “Wherever he is, in his mental state, he’s certainly not at home.”

“He may not even be aware he’s killing,” Hotch says.

“Now how’s that?” the detective asks.

“When soldiers suffered from anxiety, depression, and flashbacks in World War One, it was called shell shock,” Reid says.

“Battle fatigue in World War Two,” you chime in. He nods.

“Now we refer to it as PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, war related, a side effect of which is slipping into dissociative states,” Reid finishes.

Prentiss nods. “The mind divorces itself from reality so it can cope with the trauma.”

“He’s reliving a memory,” Gideon says. “He’s trapped in his head in some war zone.”

“Hiding and defending himself from the enemy,” Morgan adds.

“Okay, but how do we find a man who’s trapped inside his head?” JJ asks, frowning.

“He’s got a wedding ring,” Prentiss points out.

“Someone’s probably missing him,” you add.

“Good,” Gideon says. “I’m on the way in with Detective Fuller. Morgan has one last crime scene to check.” He hangs up.

“JJ,” Hotch starts, “check missing persons reports, see if anyone matches the description. It would’ve been filed recently, the last two or three days.”

She nods. “Okay.”

*   *   *   *   *

JJ almost immediately finds a promising lead, inviting the wife of a missing man into the precinct. She and Detective Fuller lead the wife and another man into the unused conference room.

JJ turns to Hotch, just outside of the room. “Dana Woodridge and Max Weston. Her husband and his best friend, Roy Woodridge, has been missing since Tuesday.” Hotch nods and you follow him into the room.

“He was on his way home from work,” Dana starts. “He called before he left the office and said we needed to talk when he got home. He sounded upset.” She swallows hard. “That was the last I heard from him.”

“What was he upset about?” Prentiss asks.

Dana shakes her head. “He didn’t say.”

“Dana called me that night when Roy didn’t show up,” Max continues. “So the next morning we filed a missing persons report.”

“Mrs. Woodridge, where does your husband work?” Hotch asks.

“He’s a consultant at a security firm downtown,” she answers.

“Did your husband ever serve in combat?” Gideon asks tentatively.

“Excuse me?” Max says, frowning.

“Is he a war veteran?” Hotch asks again.

Max nods. “Y-yeah, we both are. We were in special ops. 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company, Third Battalion. But Roy, he retired shortly after things went bad in Mogadishu.”

“That was back in 1993,” Reid says. “Let me ask you this— does he display any, uh, behavioral tics? Certain everyday things that make him jumpy or startled?”

“Why?” Dana asks.

“Does he?” Reid ignores her.

“Is this going to help find him?” Dana frowns, glancing at Max.

“Mrs. Woodridge, please,” Prentiss implores. “We need to know everything we can about your husband.”

Max sighs. “We all had a… hard time over there. You bring some things home with you.”

“Like what?” you ask.

“He has a hard time with loud noises,” Dana explains. “He can’t be in crowds. He has nightmares and wakes up in cold sweats.” She pauses. “The smells are the worst. He… if he smells something burning, like a barbecue, or gas, or fire… he gets sick.” Max rubs his face as Dana continues. “It really only got bad about a year ago.”

Gideon looks at Max. “What happened to him in Somalia?”

Max laughs uncomfortably. “Nothing. Combat happened.”

“What does that mean?” Gideon asks.

Max stands. “I’m gonna… get a drink of water.” Gideon follows him.

Hotch pours Dana a cup of coffee. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “Could somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

You and JJ look to Hotch. “There have been some people hurt, recently, and we think that there may be someone lost on the streets,” he explains. “Someone who thinks that he’s still at war.”

Dana shakes her head. “Well, Roy would never hurt innocent people. Why would he even be in this neighborhood?”

Prentiss goes to respond but the phone rings. JJ presses the speaker button. “Hey, Garcia. We have Mrs. Woodridge here with us.”

You can hear Garcia hesitate. “Oh, uh, well. I found an ‘02 white Ford F150 pickup truck.”

“Oh God,” Dana says. “That’s his truck.”

“It was impounded,” Garcia continues. “It had a flat tire and was picked up on Lyon Street about a quarter mile from Highway 59.”

“He takes the freeway to work every day,” Dana says.

You and Prentiss share a look. “Mrs. Woodridge, I’m very sorry,” Emily starts, “but this is definitely your husband.”

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the conference room, you’re updating the map when Gideon comes back in. “We need to put a SWAT team together. Plan a grid search, go building to building.”

“He’s reliving the war, isn’t he?” Hotch asks.

Gideon nods. “A specific incident in which he killed a child.”

“Guys, the SWAT team’s gonna have guns, right?” Reid points out. “What happens if he tries to fight them?”

You sigh. “You know what happens, Reid.” You and JJ leave the room and go look for Dana, who is grabbing another cup of coffee. She notices the cops suiting up in the room next door.

“Can I get you something, Mrs. Woodridge?” JJ asks.

“Those men are going after Roy?” Dana says. Her voice breaks. “Do they need so many guns? I mean, he’s just one man.”

JJ pulls her away from the doorway. “It-it’s protocol, ma’am.”

Dana looks at you. “How badly were they hurt? Y’all said that people were hurt.”

“Some people were murdered,” you tell her gently.

“Murdered?” she repeats quietly. She sighs. “He never really came home. I lost him fourteen years ago. It’s been like living with a ghost.” She grabs JJ’s arm. “Help him,” Dana pleads. “Please, help him.”

JJ swallows. “We’ll do everything we can.”

You go back to the conference room where Reid is messing with the map. “Reid, what are you working on?” Hotch asks, following you into the room.

“Three days ago, police shut down the freeway at 5PM for ten minutes. Cars were stalled and Roy must’ve tried to exit onto a surface street. Sadly, he ended up in an unfamiliar area with a flat tire.” Reid pauses. “He was changing that tire when an eight-story building on Market imploded five blocks away. He heard the explosion and the ground rattled like a mortar bomb had landed nearby.”

“You think that explosion is what triggered the dissociation,” you say.

“Exactly,” Reid tells you. “Since then, he’s been stuck in that state. Running when he needed to, sleeping when he could, camouflaging himself into his surroundings, and hiding from his perceived enemies.”

“He’s reliving the worst moment of his life,” Hotch says. “He’s gotta be terrified.”

Reid nods. “Yeah.” Hotch exits the room as Reid’s phone rings. “Yeah, Garcia, what do you have?”

“Why isn’t Derek answering his phone?” Garcia asks.

“He’s probably stuck underground somewhere,” Reid explains.

“Underground?”

“I’ll explain later,” Reid says.

“Oh, okay,” Garcia says. “Anyway, I finally got through all those recent police reports he asked me to check, which, by the way, was no hopscotch through the park because that precinct you’re at is kinda tragically behind on their paperwork.”

“They’re very undermanned,” you tell her.

“Oh, jeez, really? I can’t imagine what that feels like,” Garcia quips. You chuckle. “Oh no wait, yes I can, cuz—“

“Garcia, do you have anything for us?” Reid asks.

“Well, he told me to look for anything unusual, and it’s all… usual. Minor break-ins, apartment burglaries, televisions, stereos, car thefts, and smash and grabs. Common stuff in the world of burgling.”

“Nothing someone lost on the streets might use for survival?” you ask.

“No, nothing reported,” she says. “Like I said, it’s all petty. There’s a… some vandalism at construction sites. Communications radio missing from one.”

“Wait, stop,” you say.

“Did you say a radio?” Reid asks.

“Yeah, construction foreman reported that one of their trucks had been broken—“ Garcia’s voice cuts off as Reid hangs up, hurrying out of the room.

“Guys,” Reid interrupts Gideon, who is briefing the SWAT team. “He may have stolen a radio, a walkie-talkie.”

Hotch waves him over to the room Max is in.

Morgan walks into the room. “We were right. He had a nest of sorts right near every murder scene.”

“There was a burglary of a two-way radio from a construction site recently,” Reid reiterates.

Max nods. “That could be Roy. We only used UHF back then.”

“He’s looking for help,” Gideon says.

“And he’ll keep trying to contact operations command,” Max adds.

Hotch turns to the detective. “Detective, can we get a dozen UHF radios set up in this room, each of them tuned to each of the preset channel frequencies?”

“Right away,” Detective Fuller says.

“Wait a minute,” Max says. “When he calls, we need to be very careful with the communication, because we set up specific responses to contact op com so we could avoid hostile interception and to establish no danger signals. And we had specific names to identify our squad to the operator.”

“Do you remember the language you set up?” Gideon asks.

“I couldn’t forget it,” Max tells him. “Roy and I wrote it. The callout was ‘this is John Doe looking for Mark Rippen.’ Rippen was our hero at the time, number eleven, the quarterback for the Redskins in 1993.”

Gideon nods. “Now we know where he is in his head. If he calls in, we’ll be on the other end when he does.”

“What if he doesn’t call?” Detective Fuller asks. “What if he just kills someone else?”

“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” Gideon tells him.

Detective Fuller frowns. “Kinda easy for you to say. Now, this guy may be messed up, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has killed four innocent people. Now, why don’t we just do the grid search?”

“If you set up a grid search and he confronts one of your men, you’ll be planning a funeral,” Max tells him.

“I can guarantee you we’re right about his profile,” Gideon says confidently.

“He wants to get rescued,” you add.

Gideon nods. “All we’re asking is that you just give us a chance to bring him in.”

*   *   *   *   *

Once all the radios are set up, you all gather in the conference room.

“It’s channel eleven,” Detective Fuller says.

“You ready, Garcia?” JJ asks.

“I’ve got nat recon satellites all over the ward,” Garcia says over the phone.

“Stand by,” JJ says.

One of the radios makes a static noise. “This is John Doe looking for Mark Rippen.”

Gideon looks at Max. “Can you help us?” He hands him the radio. “You know how to do this better than we do.”

Max nods, taking the radio. “Roger that. This is number eleven, all clear.”

“Maxey,” Roy says over the radio. “Boy, am I happy to hear from you. I’m taking heavy fire. Request immediate extraction.”

Max takes a breath. “What are your coordinates?”

“Unknown,” Roy says. “I lost my land navigational aids. I went high but I don’t recognize anything. I don’t have a fix on my grid coordinates.”

You look at Max. “Is there any other way for him to signal his location?”

Max nods. “Did you put up any flags?”

Roy laughs. “Yeah, you bet your ass I did. I’m holding cover here!”

“Roger that,” Max says. “Hold your position.” He turns to Gideon. “He triangulated. We need to look for three large, colored flags. Maybe on rooftops. They’ll be identical in size and shape.”

“Did you get that, Garcia?” you ask.

“I got it,” she says. You can hear her keyboard clicking as she types.

“Number eleven,” Roy says over the radio. “Do you still read me?”

“Garcia!” Gideon says.

“I’m working as fast as I can,” she tells him.

“I can still read you, loud and clear,” Max says. “Stay put.”

“I found one!” Garcia exclaims. “I found one! I got them! I see… housing projects and a courtyard.”

“We need street names, Garcia,” Hotch says.

“Farmer and Capron! Farmer and Capron!” she says.

“I know where that is,” Detective Fuller says. “There’s some abandoned buildings right there. I’ll have construction sites to halt work and secure the streets.”

“He’s gonna expect men in fatigues,” Max says. “And a chopper as cover.”

“I can take care of the chopper,” Detective Fuller says.

“We’re in black SUVs,” Hotch says. “Tell him we’re security executives. You’re coming with us, we need to do this fast.”

“Tell him to stay there,” Gideon tells Max. “We’re coming to him.”

“Roy, we’re coming to you, buddy,” Max says over the radio.

*   *   *   *   *

You stay behind with JJ, Emily, and Reid as everyone else rushes out to meet Roy. Reid gets the call from Hotch and shakes his head at you and Prentiss. JJ is in the room with Mrs. Woodridge, who breaks down.

Later, once Mrs. Woodridge has left and everyone is packing up, Detective Fuller comes in. “Folks. Ah, look. Thank you so much for coming here,” he says. “No one ever makes this place a priority. We’re grateful to you.”

“I wish it had ended differently,” Emily says.

“Yeah,” the detective says. “Me too.”

You look around, frowning. “Has anyone seen Gideon?”

“Agent Gideon left some time ago,” Detective Fuller tells you. “Said he’d meet you all at the airport.”

JJ frowns. “Did he says where he went to?”

Hotch stands. “I think I know where he is.”

The rest of you pack up quietly and head to the airport.

NOTE: Fuckface, if you're reading this, fuck off and leave me alone and stop cyberstalking me.

[fluffywing-e-tarot]

What I am not (Fic Idea)

Summary.

Merlin of Ealdor, son of Huneith, was many things that revolved around Prince Arthur Pendragon. He is not Arthur Pendragon.

Where, Merlin changes all but Afew’s perception into believing he is Prince Arthur Pendragon.

~*~

Leon returned to Camelot after spending time away with his family and managing his land. Leon knew he would need to go out on patrol soon.

“Sir Leon”, a squire greeted him with groomsmen from the stable. Taking the reign as he dismounts

“Prince Arthur requests your presence.”

Leon walks to the prince’s chamber, contemplating the topic. There's the Harvest count. Patrol routes. Potential knights. A new training regiment.

Leon arrived, knocking on the door.

“Enter,” his lord grants. Leon enters the room, ready to do whatever Arthur deems necessary to reevaluate. Standing over the table in the prince's chamber, a map and papers strewn across the surface weren't the blonde prince but the raven hair of the Manservant.

“Merlin?” Leon asks.

Merlin’s head snaps to look into his eyes.

“Leon, you recognise me,” Merlin said. A look of disbelief on his face

“Of course, Merlin,” Leon said

“Close the door.” Merlin looked stern as one of the guards outside the door. They noticed the conversation.

Leon closed the door. Then looked around the room for the blond prince. “ Where is Arthur?”

“Leon, I need you to promise me something,” Merlin said. Blue eyes giving a frigid satire.

“What do I need to promise?”

“What I'm about to tell you doesn’t make it to King Uther.” Merlin started to pace; he looked frustrated.

“I cannot promise you, Merlin. If what you tell me is a danger to Camalot. Then, as her knight, I must tell him.”

“I’m Prince Arthur,” Merlin said. Leon scoffed.

 “That’s impossible. I would have remembered growing up with your scrawny limbs on the training ground,” Leon said 

Merlin continued, “That’s what the entire castle believes.”

“ You don’t resemble Arthur at all. And you’ve worked for him for years.”Leon said the pieces fell into place. Leon whispers, “There’s magic involved.”

Merlin snapped towards the quiet declaration.

“Are you cursed, Merlin?” Leon asks. “You never liked Royalty; must have cursed you.”

“In a manner.”Merlin said, “But it hasn’t affected everyone.”

“Who else knows?”

“Gaius, Gwen, Arthur, and now you,” Merlin said.

“How do you know Arthur knows.”

“I designed it that way,” Merlin mumbled 

“Say again?”

 “It was during Negotiations,” Merlin said clearly. Leon’s stomach dropped.

“This happened when Camelot was in negotiation with another Kingdom?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, slumping.“ They had already known Arthur's appearance and mannerisms. I didn’t want to panic the delegation, so I did something stupid.”

Leon felt his chest tighten and worry that a curse was upon his friend to pose as Arthur. However, both Gwen and Gaius know Arthur is currently the manservant.

 “You Cast the spell.” Leon pointed his blade at Merlin. Merlin didn’t resist; a small trickle of blood fell from his neck. Merlin looked resigned to his fate of death. Leon let him keep talking.

“Two days after the Noble delegation arrived, Arthur decided to go Hunting. At the third watch of the Night, he burst into my room and took me hunting for the morning. While we were hunting, I tripped, and during my recovery, someone attacked, overwhelming and taking Arthur, disappearing before I could follow.”

Leon could tell where this was going.

“I didn't want to be punished for losing Arthur. The negotiations were just starting, and Arthur needed to be present. I cast a spell to have the Bandits and Cort believe me as the Prince.” Merlin bounced his leg. “ I did it in hopes Arthur would be back by now. I can’t lift it until Arthur is safe. I can’t let up now.”

“You would immediately be charged with treason and impersonating royalty,” Leon said. But he understood. Merlin didn’t want to die. No one wanted to die. Merlin had to act dispassionate because that is what was expected of him, not to throw the kingdom into chaos. Leon dropped his sword. He was kneeling before Merlin.

“Sire,” Leon said affectionately, despite Merlin only posing as the prince.“I will find your manservant. I will bring him home.”

“Leon, I can’t in good conscience allow you to undertake such a feat alone.”

“Perhaps not. You must have allies outside the castle. Could your magic lead me to them?”

“Lancelot and Gwain. Those two would be the only people I trust to help.” Merlin said

Leon left Prince Arthur’s chamber with five letters. He dared not touch them for the magic that Merlin enchanted three of them with. He began to walk towards Gaius but was intercepted by a summons to Uther.

“How is Arthur?”

Leon had to remind himself that Merlin was currently Arthur.

“Missing his Mansurvant.”

“That boy can get another one,” Uther said. Leon knowing Merlin’s magic, determined. No other servant is out there with the magic or loyalty to Arthur.

Leon gathered his squier and another knight he knew who thought the private conversation wasn’t entirely adverse for magic to set out on patrol. Leon hoped that he wouldn’t report the use immediately upon seeing it.

“You rarely choose me as your partner, Leon.” Sir Dresden said.

“There is an important task given to me by his highness,” Leon said

“I didn’t hear anything different?“ Hurlburt, his squire said.

Once they left the city, Leon called to halt dismounting.

“What is it?”

“What I am going to tell you must be kept secret.”

“What is it?”

“ An enchantment has been placed on the whole of Camelot.”

They both looked stunned. “Leon, how do you know this?”

“A sorcerer is posing as Prince Arthur,” Leon said. They both laughed at him.

“There is no way Prince Arthur is a sorcerer.”

“King Uther enchanted and marring a troll,” Leon said. They both stopped laughing, remembering that such an alteration to the king’s perception had almost lost the kingdom’s stability and heir.

“I see.” Sir Dresden said. “ and why do you trust this sorcerer?”

Leon didn’t want to reveal that Merlin was the sorcerer, so he said, “The sorcerer gave me the quest to find the real prince.”

“And what must we do to aid you?”

“Continue on patrol. I hope my quest will yield results.”

“I will join you.” Sir Dresden said.

“ So will I.” Hulburt siad.

They mounted up again. Leon told Dresden where to meet on the patrol route, handed over one of the enchanted and standard letters, and demonstrated how to operate the enchanted letter.

He went for Gwaine and handed him the regular letter. Gwaine joined immediately after reading it. They went to the meeting spot and opened the final letter, leading him to the prince.

The battle to reclaim Prince Arthur was short, and he was glad he had accepted Sir Dresden's offer and his squire as there were more than he was comfortable with for the bandits and a sorcerer leading the troop. Lancelot delivered the final blow to the sorcerer.

Arthur was severely injured due to the torture he took. They found a farmer’s house near the woods and summoned Gaius for treatment. Gwain and Lancelot promised to stick around and watch Arthur on his recovery.

When Gaius cleared Arthur to return to the castle, Merlin declared he was going hunting. When he reached the farmhouse, he dispelled the enchantment and roughed himself up—with assistance. 

Merlin's return was appreciated by both Arthur and much of the surviving staff. Merlin’s normal workload was stressing many servants out. Leon smiled when Hespotted Merlin with the wash maids in intense discussion. Uther was none the wiser to what was happening around Arthur. 

[fantasticalchaos]

The First Thronecoming

Chapter 4: Absence of Leave

Summary: “There is plot” the narrator whispers, typing up this chapter. “More specifically, side-plot!” In which, at the dead of night, there is something else going on in the background. A call for a peculiar leave of absence. But for what? [Crossposted on AO3, Inspired by SayuriCorner’s TWST x EAH AU & LovelyLlama’s Thronecoming Headcanons]

A/N: Sorry for not posting Chapter 4 in the usual format I do here on Tumblr! I was busy crossposting these works onto here cause 1) in case AO3 crashes (which it did) and 2) because enjoyment on other platforms!

P.S: (09/15/24) THE AO3 IS DOWN AGAIN!!! AND I FORGOT TO POST THIS ONE LOL! Also I had to reuse the version that I saved in docs since the website is down 😅

EDIT: WTF ITS BACK WHEN I POSTED LMAOOO 😂

⬅️ Ch. 3 | AO3 | Ch. 5 ➡️

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[Location: Headmaster Office]

Even late at the dead of night, the elegant beauty of the Headmaster’s Office never fails to impress those in there. The flickering glow waving off the candles and chandelier. The paintings of the Great Seven smiling proudly in their shining splendour and glory. Not even a speck of dust can be found at all here from the top to bottom!

{Such elegance indeed! How befitting for a headmaster of such a prestigious academy!}

“What do you two mean that you are having a break for the next few weeks?!”

And there is the Headmaster with his hands raising in the sky. Crowley blubbers inelegantly through his sobs. Tears swelling and spilling onto his desk. A smooth wooden desk, now dampened by tears.

{Very unfitting his appearance and status as a Headmaster…}

“Why would two members of my dear, respectable staff want to leave?”

Sitting across his desk, is an elderly sorceress and a middle aged man. The elderly sorceress leans over and grumpily says to her colleague. Her cerulean blue eyes narrowed as she watches her crying supervisor.

“I knew we should’ve cursed him or better yet ditched when we had the time, Giles.”

“Now, now Baba Yaga,” the man whispers back gently, placing a hand on hers. “He’s a friend of mine, let me handle this.”

Baba Yaga rolls her eyes, but leans back in her chair. She lets him go at talking sense to the blubbering crow-man. Giles had a point; he and Crowley were long time friends. How far that friendship has surely been taken to the level where Giles is confident in dealing with this crow’s antics. Truly, Giles has the patience of a saint!

Giles turns to Crowley. The latter was touching up his tears with a handkerchief in his hand.

{Where in Ever After did he got that handkerchief?!}

I have no idea either Brooke! 🤷‍♀️

“It’s just a few days Dire, we won’t be gone for that long.” He reasons, tilting his glasses up in one hand. Giles places his other arm on the crying crow-man’s cloak. He gives a quick shoulder rub as his friend glances back up.

“But why?” The crow-man sniffles. Dabbing the last of the few teardrops with his handkerchief, he brings down his hand. “What could possibly be the reason for such a sudden, and long absence?”

{Okay, at this point this is starting to look like a parent consoling a child who’s about to go to work! Or on a business trip… Something along those lines.}

“Well, that is a little more complicated to explain….” Giles rubs the back of his neck. A slight nervous chuckle fell out. “We might as well show you for ourselves; Baba Yaga, the invites.”

He turns to Baba Yaga, who nods promptly.

Baba Yaga places 2 pieces of scrolls onto Crowley’s desk. The Headmaster tilts his head. Even with the upper half of his face obscured by his corvid skull-like mask, his neon yellow eyes glowed with anticipation.

Passing them over the table, the Headmaster picks up one of the scrolls. Indeed, there was a small attachment having both of the formers’ names (separately) on them. The scrolls, embalmed with a stamp in the shade of magenta. Upon the stamp, an etched logo of a mini key against a lock in the shape of a heart.

Unrolling both - one with his hand and the other with magic - the scrolls unwrapped themselves. Inside, the contents were as presentable as it was before. The handwriting, written so pristine and legible in its curves. Their strokes are sharp and to the point. There is even a small illustration of the same logo drawn and painted. Almost, just almost, this rivals that of the style of the Sea Witch.

“But of course, the Sea Witch does it better!” thought Crowley.

Headmaster Crowley began to read.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

To the addressed, Greetings! If you have received this message, you are royally invited to join as a newly appointed member to the Council of Ever After.

The Council of Ever After is founded as a community organisation filled with many fairytale representatives since the exile of the former Queen of the White Kingdom, Snow White.

Our mission is to explore beyond our destinies with new ideas in order to bring more life and freedom to everyone. In order to do this, we royally invite other fairytales such as yourself to help provide us with your enlightenment and wisdom. Moreover, we intend to reverse the damage of the original big bad destiny ideologies created and enforced by Milton Grimm and his associates.

We are well-aware that this will take time out of your schedule. Additionally, your newfound position will also require you to make more than one trip as well as stay longer in Ever After to fulfil your duties. Nevertheless, we have faith in you and your abilities!

Your attendance is fairy mandatory. Our first meeting with you will commence on XX/XX. The meeting will take place in the former Ever After High. Precisely at 8AM, so don’t be late when the bell strikes 8.

Fairest Regards,

Council of Ever After 🩷

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Everything went still for a moment.

It was peaceful. Agonizingly peaceful. All eyes were on Crowley, awaiting the verdict of these invitations. Crowley’s beady eyes blinked through his mask. His head bobbing slightly up and down the scroll a few times. Slowly, he pulls away the scroll, letting it rest neatly onto the table.

“I see…” He muses at last. His talon nails touch and tapped underneath his chin. “The Council of Ever After.. ”

So Ever After has a council to represent themselves now, huh? Not a king! Not a queen! Nor a group contained that of royal blood! A whole community of different tales ruling together!

Crowley remembered on the news that day! The day when King White (husband and Prince Charming to Snow White) refused the offer of ascension since the dethronement (and divorce) of his wife. After seeing what his daughter endured, he believes that they need to rest elsewhere.

Somewhere far far away from home. Additionally, he believes that it’s also his time to reflect on his distant relationship with Apple. Perhaps, by using this time, he could try to catch up and make time with one another. Just like old times once upon a time! For Apple’s sake!

{It was a giant field day for the news back home too, I’ll tell you that much!}

Oh shoot… I can’t imagine how chaotic narrating all of that was like.

{Yeah, and… I’m not supposed to say this here, but… There was also some high tea going around kingdoms about King White.}

Oooh~! What kind of tea?

{That he lack the skills in kingdom management compared to Snow. More speci-fair-ally, the more political and economical aspects of ruling a kingdom. At best, he can look the part, but not act it! There was more to the glitz and glamour towards managing a kingdom in of itself!}

…Oh my gosh. That’s huge!

{I know right?! A total major fairy-fail!

Anyways… The number of royalty that lives in the Ever After World is big, but not too common. Surely, there would have been a royal family willing to take charge in the former kingdom. Or at least siege an opportunity to form an alliance for a kingdom or two to share.

Instead, many tales decided to help one another in ruling. Ranging from those of royalty, to the lowly commonfolk and peasantry. Humans to fairies to mythical creatures that live out in the Enchanted Forest! All different classes, in rank and in species. Working altogether!}

And yet, only one thought racked through the crow-man’s brain.

“Oh Sevens, why can’t my students be more like this?” Crowley’s mind ponders, massaging his forehead. Quivering mentally like a parent lamenting over their own children and their shenanigans.

Even before the flourish of transfers, the NRC kids were a stubborn bunch. They snark at best, and argue or even throw hands at worst. Whenever they join hands and unite, there’s often something to gain for their own interests. Just a simple, personal matter that would benefit them.

Yes, there are a few students who are exceptions to this. Even the Prefect and their tanuki-cat he allowed were in charge (though mainly the former) of rounding up the troublemakers!

And yet, with all of these factors combine, there is high brewing of trouble! He can’t seem to figure out why nor how he can do more…

His students… Oh, his poor students.

{Oh the irony…}

The sweet irony…

Dire’s eyes looking over to Giles and Baba Yaga. Both eyes staring at him. One expectantly. The other impatiently.

“Well?”

“Well… as your benevolent headmaster, I suppose you two can go back to Ever After to fulfil your council duties.” He decreed, “Consider this jury duty! After all, you two were chosen for a reason.”

Sighs of relief came.

“Thank you so much, Dire!”

“Thank you Crowley!”

“Ah, by the way,” Crowley interrupted, “Did you two have signed-“

Plop!

“Already done it.” Baba Yaga stated matter of fact, slamming down pieces of paper onto his desk. “We already wrote our leave request a while ago. I brought an extra copy in case you forgot…”

An offended gasp came from Crowley, his talons touching his chest. How dare?!?

“Of course I didn’t forget! I am a very busy headmaster!” He defended with such emotion in his voice. Surprisingly, the most emotion since his outburst at the beginning. “What makes you think—”

Spritz of water flew onto and over his face.

“AH!”

He stands up from his seat. His talon-hands flare up and out. As he wipes off the excess water that went on his mask and outfit, Giles snaps his head to Baba Yaga. In her hand, is a spray bottle filled at the brim with water.

“Baba Yaga.” Giles placed his arms on his sides.

“What?” She defends herself, bringing her spray bottle closer to her. Her grip on the handle, on the other hand, remains set. “He was asking for it!”

Giles pinches his nose, tiredly sighing before getting up from his chair.

”It’s just plain water! He’ll live!”

“Doesn’t matter; Come on, and help me.”

With a begrudging sigh, she complied. She flew over and grabbed a towel and helped clean up the mess. Unwillingly. The mess that is not only on their boss, but also on his desk. And on the floor.

{Don’t forget his crocodile tears from earlier!}

Oh shoot, almost forgot about that! Thanks Brooke!

{Anytime!}

“So, I’m assuming that is everything?” Crowley asks, patting down the last spill on him. Both of which the two nod.

With a nonchalant wave in his hand, Crowley continued. “That will be all then! You both are dismissed.”

“Finally,” Baba Yaga blurts out loud. Not any hint of shame in her voice. The stool she is sitting on, turns away from her colleagues and towards the door.

Whatever it is telekinesis, magic, or some fairytale magical force that levitates her stool, it pulls the elderly lady up and away. As she enters the hallway, leaving the two behind. Not too far to hear, she makes a slight comment.

“Thought this meeting would never end.”

With the two left in the room, Giles coughs into his fist he made to get rid of the awkwardness. The tension in air, if you will.

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Giles rubs the back of his neck. His eyes downcast onto his shoes. “She means well, I’m sure.”

A curt nod from his friend came.

“Always having something good to say about others, isn’t it Giles.” Crowley complimented.

In his mind, however, another older man forms. That man is draped in a deep blue, one like the night sky devoid of light. A stern expression, one that lacked Giles’s warmth and whimsy. The golden eyes of the crown narrows.

Under his breath, he scoffed, “ Even to those who don't deserve it…”

“Indeed, Dire. You know me so well!” Giles said, unaware of his friend’s muttered quip. He waves a hand, his eyes shifting from his sneakers to the purple carpet.

“What can I say, I’m so kind after all!” Crowley puffs his chest out with a wide grin. His sense of pride swelling once again from such a compliment. His shoulders faltered as he heard his friend yawn.

“Well, it’s getting late!” Giles brushes a part of his hair away. Another heavy yawn escapes his mouth. He turns around, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dire!”

The sneakers padded through the carpet as Giles made his way to the doors. His hand lays itself onto the handle. In a quick swipe, he pulls the door handle.

The door opens.

. . .

..

.

“Giles.”

Giles stops. His feet a moment away from passing the door. He lifts his head over to Crowley. There was no smile on the latter’s face and tone. As if the joy was snuffed out of Crowley. Just a straight-lipped face looked unreadable. He almost feels like a different person entirely.

Hands gripping tight to his staff. Eyes studying Giles form intently from head to toe. Dire said, his face poised, “You and Baba Yaga be safe out there. It is an important job after all.”

The tone, calm and even. Yet at the same time, heavy. An anchor within an otherwise normal farewell. Almost too normal. Not many times does the Headmaster drop the dramatics.

This is one of those times.

And yet… Giles gives out a smile. A small, yet knowing smile underneath his greying beard.

“We will, Dire. No need to worry about us!” Was what came out of Giles as he turned away. With a wave, he added, “Farewell!”

The door shuts, and all is quiet once more. The invites and documents, being Crowley’s only company left. The headmaster sighs, sitting back down at his table.

“Goodbye Giles.”

Glancing out, pass through the painted frames and through the window. The night, clear and shimmering with dots and stars. All sparking at the moon, a waxing crescent with the rest obscured by darkness.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

[Later that night…]

Ring! Ring! Ring!

A grumble echoes as a figure arises from his bed. Their fluffy cat once rolled up like a cinnamon roll, now stirred up and awake. Lights illuminating the once dark room. They watched as their owner left their shared resting spot. Not wanting to be left out, the latter hops off and tails after them.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

The figure walks over to the ringing phone. When they reached it, they stopped in their tracks. The ringing continues ceaselessly, prompting the figure to massage their forehead.

“Great Seven… What time is it? Who would be calling at this forsaken hour?”

“Meow.”

Feeling one of their legs being wrapped in soft fur, they look down to see their cat purring up at them. The figure smiles a bit, feeling a sense of comfort and strength to deal with this minor setback.

Kneeling down, they picked up their cat in their arms. Cradling them as they took a deep breath. Their emotional support companion. They picked up the phone, bringing it to their face.

“Hello—”

“Why, good evening Trien!” Cheerful greetings phase on through the phone. Trien sighs at the voice. “How are you doing on this beautiful night?”

“Crowley, you better have a good reason for calling me late at night.”

On the other end of the phone, Crowley stilled. Sweat spilling from his forehead as he fiddles with his white collar.

“Ah, yes! I have an utmost reason to call you!”

“Tell me then, Dire.”

“…”

“Tell me, what could it possibly be to talk about at this ungodly hour?”

Perhaps the Headmaster realised that maybe… Just maybe totally this wasn’t a good time to tell Trien about the increased workload for the next coming days….

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⬅️ Prev | Next ➡️

A/N: And that’s the last of the current chapters I have crossposted here! I’m so glad I have these here when the crash happened lol

I’ll be continuing on my writing the next chapter, so please be patient until the next one comes out! Thank you for reading! Until next time!

[gentil-minou]

so if I put Free Palestine in the title of my fic will OTW censor that too?

Where do they draw the line? Or does the line only exist when it comes to BIPOC?