#fix writes with friends

[bluerosefox]

Stellar Dynamics

You know what.

ANOTHER DPxDC idea (as if I write prompts for anything else lol ✍(◔◡◔)

And once again, I think I might have a hyperfixation rn, another deaged Dani (Ellie) and Dan (Dante)! and Dad!Danny.

And you know what, lets make it another DannyxConner idea.

Danny is on a field trip with his class (NOT in Gotham though, LOVE Gotham but lets go with a different city) in like Central City or Metropolis (If Metropolis, Danny is SUPER excited to see the space sections they have at the museum they no doubt have, because well SUPERMAN is an alien and based in their city. If in Central City Conner is visiting Bart.)

During the trip he bumps into Conner and the two just hit it off. Conner enjoys listening to Danny rant about space and the stars and finds watching Danny's eyes light up in joy kinda cute. And if he got his new hero name Supernova from listening to Danny's rants about the stars well... no one needs to know how he got it.

Danny likes how chill Conner is and how the guy stood against Dash and the other jocks when Dash decided he wanted to mess with Danny during the trip, a rare thing nowadays but sometimes Dash does try, and how he respects/likes Danny's friends.

He didn't even say anything negative or hurtful when he found out Danny has two kids back home.

In the end the two exchange numbers, flirt hard, and maybe set up a date in the future. And then more dates. Becoming boyfriends. AND meeting the family. Conner is smitten with just out of toddlerhood Ellie and toddler Dante and adores them. And he loves how the Fentons just love him the moment he stepped into their house and was introduced as Danny's boyfriend, he made sure to bring over a pie Ma should him how to make.

Things get a bit complicated when Conner, Supernova, is at a reunion of YJ members and his phone lights up with a text message from Danny.

He's smiling with a goofy/soft look when he opens the text and see's its a picture of Danny holding a pouting toddler Dante and Ellie on his lap smiling with a notable gap in her teeth at the camera. The message he got was 'Ellie wanted you to know she finally lost her first baby tooth. Dan's been grumpier, I think he misses you.'

He is pulled out of his happy thoughts and musings when he hears Bart gasp hard and drop a bowl of snacks onto the floor. Conner turns to from the future Speedster and see's him about to have a panic attack.

Bart, Impulse, is having a freak out after catching a glimpse of the text picture Conner had gotten and being nosy wanted to know what got his friend to smile so smitten. He knew of Conner's current boyfriend and the kids Conner adores but haven't had time to be introduced to them or even see a pic.

He wasn't expecting to see the very MONSTER of his NIGHTMARES that basically destroyed the world in the FUTURE as a toddler pouting at a camera and surrounded by two smiling identical looking people either. People he never saw in the future or with HIM AND-

Oh.... OH!

Was that why he turned evil? Did something happen to his family?

[cosmicredcadet]

enough stories about how someone learns to truely be happy through love. i want a story where someone is desperately seeking out love thinking it's the only way to be happy only for them to learn by the end that happiness is what they make of it and they don't need love at all to make it.

[morgana-ren]

i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 126

In place of August Fourteenth, Promptapalooza 7/ Geralt knows he has a soulmate when he first hears a small voice ask him what his name is. He doesn't respond. He's not humoring destiny (that bitch) or fate (that cunt). He's not going to respond.

It's been a few years and occasionally the voice still speaks to him.

"Are you real?" "Do you hate maths too?" "I fell earlier and really hurt my knee. Today's been bad. what about your day?" "I had a nightmare last night, but thinking of you helped." "When we're grown ups one day and we get married, we'll have flowers at the wedding, right?" "Do you like music?"

And Geralt never answers. He won't link this innocent child to his wretched, wretched life. He won't link them to a murderer.

Another few years go by, and unfortunately the voice won't shut up.

"Still not talkin', huh? That's fine! I can fill the silence easy enough! Let me tell you alllll about my day!"

He's temped to use their connection to tell his soulmate to stop talking, but he doesn't want to expose himself.

…

And he doesn't want to hurt them.

But them telling him a long rambling story about their walk in the woods that day and how a squirrel scared them right in the middle of Geralt fighting a leshy wasn't exactly helpful.

A few more years pass, and the voice still speaks to him. It's gotten deeper, so Geralt suspects it's a boy. Almost a man, but not quite.

"Father yelled at me again. If you care. I hope whoever you are, you have a better home." "Are you dead? They didn't give me a dead soulmate, right?" "Why won't you talk to me?" "i don't think anybody likes me. Not even you. You never speak to me. I wish you did." "I'm thinking of leaving. If there was any time to speak up and tell me who you are or where you reside, it'd be now." "Please talk to me." "I dreamt of you again last night. I keep doing it, recently. Sometimes you're a woman. Sometimes you're a man. Sometimes I can't really tell. Sometimes you're sweet and shy, sometimes you're flirty and crass. Sometimes you have brown eyes. Sometimes they're green. Sometimes they're blue. I wish I knew."

They're yellow. Hideous and grotesque. Inhuman. The boy shouldn't wish to know them.

"I left. I finally did it. I left just last night. I swear, wherever you are, I'll find you."

Another few years pass, and the voice is still there, but it's much rarer to hear. Geralt feels relief knowing he's finally giving up on Geralt and will find himself a better life.

"I haven't been doing a good job of finding you. But you haven't really given me any hints. Do you not want me to find you? Do you really want me to stay away?"

And Geralt finally responds to the man, for the first time ever.

"Yes."

"IT'S YOU! You responded! You're real! You're actually real! I do have a soulmate! I knew it! I knew I wasn't unlovable! Where are you? I'll-"

And Geralt hears the exact moment his rambling thoughts come to an abrupt crashing halt, as he processes what Geralt agreed to.

"Oh."

And that's the last message he gets from his soulmate's voice. It's what Geralt wanted all along. But after a solid year of hearing nothing from him, Geralt will admit he misses him. He misses the chatter.

It's the beginning of the very next year that he meets the bard Jaskier, who stubbornly fights tooth and nail to incorporate himself into Geralt's life.

He fills the silence left by Geralt's soulmate. It's nice to have prattle back. He doesn't tell Jaskier that, of course. Jaskier is young and foolhardy and jumps from bed to bed, but soon enough, he'll want to settle down with his own soulmate and he'll leave Geralt. Geralt isn't looking forward to the silence returning, but he likes Jaskier. He'd go through any silence for him.

It's Jaskier's fifth year traveling with Geralt. They sit across from each other around a campfire as Geralt roasts some pheasants and and Jaskier stares despondently at the notebook he's not writing in.

And then Geralt hears him. His soulmate's voice in his thoughts again.

"I've fallen in love."

And Geralt is happy for his soulmate. Because - Geralt glances at Jaskier for a moment and smiles to himself - He has too.

"I don't know if you hate me. Or if you're dead. Or if you've found someone else, but whatever it is, I hope you can be happy for me. I love him. I really, truly do. I love Geralt with everything in me."

And Geralt jolts and whips his head to look over at the bard.

"Jaskier?" He sends through the connection, and watches as his bard's eyes grow wide with shock.

"…You love me?"

[senipsenipsenip]

Stan shook his head, chuckling as he hung up the phone. Geez, if he hadn't put a stop to that he was pretty sure his nephew was going to overheat and explode like one of Ford's old computers. Speaking of, he should probably make sure the fire extinguisher down in the lab wasn't expired if Ford and Dipper were gonna be messing around down there the rest of the summer.

Eh, that was a tomorrow problem. Dipper was still up in the attic with Mabel unpacking for another summer in Gravity Falls. Hopefully that meant Stan had at least twenty-four hours until the nerds started blowing stuff up. Mabel and Dipper's parents had seemed surprised the twins wanted another summer with their Grunkle Stan. After all, they were teenagers now, Stan couldn't blame their parents for expecting the two of them to want to spend a summer with kids their own age in California rather than an old fart in the middle of the woods. Well, two old farts, but their parents didn't know about the second one. Besides, Ford would probably object to being called a fart. He'd probably complain that's not the proper term Stanley, if anything I'm an old flatulence.

Stan shuddered. Man, he musta been on that boat with his brother for too long.

"GRUNKLE STAAAAAAAAAN!"

Speaking of the kids. Stan grunted as he hefted himself out of his armchair and made his way up the stairs toward the attic. There hadn't been any sound of breaking glass before Mabel's call, so he figured he could take his time getting up there. He heard a loud thump, a groan from Dipper, and a loud giggle from Mabel. Okay, maybe he should walk a little faster.

"There you are!" Mabel called. Stan stood in the doorway, staring at both of his niblings sprawled out on the floor, a half-rolled poster laying between them and a hammer still clutched in Mabel's hands.

"Dipper's trying to hang up this poster, but he's still not tall enough. I tried climbing on his back, but I guess he still hasn't gotten his puberty muscles yet." Mabel scrambled up and ran to Stan, holding out the hammer in front of her. "Can you do it?"

"I do too have muscles," Dipper grumbled, sitting up. "But no one can expect to hold up the forty pounds of sequins on your sweater and your giant head!"

Mabel stuck her tongue out at her brother. Stan laughed and took the hammer from her, ruffling her hair.

"No sweat, Pumpkin. Let a real man take over." He couldn't ignore the way Mabel's smile grew wider at the nickname. It had been almost a year since Stan got his memories back, but it seemed any little reminder that he was recovering still made his family happy. It was weird, in a good way, to see people care about him so much. And if he made sure to call Mabel by her nicknames even more than her real name, well sue him.

"You could just get me a stepladder," Dipper grumbled, shuffling to his feet.

"Ugh, then I gotta walk all the way back downstairs," Stan picked up a bent nail off the floor. "I'll just get it over with now. Besides, then Mabel can whip us up some lemonade while I work."

"Ooooo can I make Mabel-ade?"

Stan shrugged. "Sure, knock yourself out."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Mabel was squealing and running down the stairs. In the silence, Stan shifted on his feet, giving Dipper an awkward sideways glance.

"I haven't...had Mabel-ade before, have I?" he whispered.

Dipper smiled. "Nah, don't worry. That's a whole new horror you get to experience first hand."

Stan chuckled. "Right." He made his way to the wall, squinting at the wooden beams to try and figure out where he could safely sink a nail in. It's not like the place was structurally unsound, but he also hadn't had any sort of building inspection in uh...ever.

"So," Dipper started. "Why'd you want Mabel out of the room?"

Stan smiled. "Perceptive. Good job, kid." He lined up the nail on the beam that had the least amount of termite holes. "You're not in trouble, just wanted to warn ya. Speaking of 'puberty muscles', your Pops called. Apparently he thinks you still haven't had The Talk yet. He told me to keep an eye on ya and that he'd explain everything when you get home."

Stan slipped the edge of the poster under the nail, resting his elbow against the poster to hold it in place while he started hammering.

"Had himself all worked up over it. 'Oh Uncle Stanford, Dipper's a teenager now, he might start to get ideas'," Stan laughed as he finished hammering. "So just, ya know, when you see him pretend I didn't tell ya about the birds and the bees already or anything. Some dads get weird about that. Apparently, he wants to be the one to tell you himself." Stan put his hands on his hips and admired his handy-work. A little crooked, but what wasn't in this place? He nodded and turned to Dipper, who was looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together.

"But...Grunkle Stan, you didn't have that talk with me," he murmured.

"Ha! There ya go," Stan grinned, punching Dipper on the shoulder. "You're gettin' better at lyin' kid."

"But I'm not lying."

"Wow, I almost believed you that time!"

"No, Grunkle Stan," Dipper grabbed Stan's hand before he could leave the room. Stan looked down at Dipper and realized the boy's face had turned from confusion to distress. "You really didn't."

Stan frowned. "Whaddya mean I didn't? Don't tell me you forgot. I still remember having that talk with my old man." He shuddered. "Not the sorta thing you forget."

Dipper gripped his arm tighter. "How well do you remember having that conversation with me?

"Kid, you were making a face like I was about to pull your teeth out the whole time and you screamed, like, a lot. You couldn't even look at the diagrams in my Why Am I Sweaty? book."

"Grunkle Stan...none of that happened."

Stan froze. "But I remember it."

Dipper gently pulled the hammer out of Stan's hand and set it on the ground before grasping his other hand. "Have you...has this happened before?"

"Has what?" Stan could feel his heart rate picking up.

"Remembering things that aren't real."

"Alright kid, whatever joke this is, it isn't funny." Stan ripped his hands from Dipper's hold, rubbing them against his pants as his eyes darted around the room. An old habit. Looking for an exit.

Dipper held up his hands as if approaching a wild animal. "Stay calm. I can get Ford, maybe he can help figure this out. Maybe the memory gun just...um..."

"Just what?" Stan could feel his voice going shrill. "That gun was supposed to take stuff out of my head, not put stuff in!"

Dipper was beginning to look as panicked as Stan felt.

"Oh God," Stan muttered. "What else did it put in there. Dipper? What else isn't real?"

"This is the first time!" Dipper began to pace. "Unless...has Great Uncle Ford said anything? On the boat, did anything like this happen? This conversation?"

Stan shook his head, his breathing starting to feel funny. "No. But apparently asking me to remember stuff isn't exactly trustworthy - "

"He would have told me," Dipper said with certainty. "Great Uncle Ford would have told me if something happened. So it didn't. So this is the first time and, and, and, we can fix it! Right?"

Stan just stared at Dipper. They shared the same frightened eyes. For Dipper's sake, Stan nodded.

"MABEL-ADE IS READY! YOU WERE OUT OF CHERRIES, SO I USED MARBLES!"

Dipper and Stan glanced towards the stairs.

"Let's get you something to drink first," Dipper muttered, walking slowly towards Stan to take his hand again. "Then we can figure everything out."

"Sure, kid," Stan whispered. He didn't let go of Dipper's hand until they reached the kitchen.

***

They decided it was best not to tell Mabel. After all, it didn't seem like the sort of problem that the scrapbook could solve, and it wasn't worth causing her distress until they knew what they were dealing with. Instead, Dipper had been tasked with distracting Mabel while Ford and Stan commiserated in the kitchen. Stan really wasn't sure how good of a job they were doing of fooling Mabel. She had given him a weird look when he gave the kids money to go get ice cream in town. He couldn't blame her. He'd even thrown in a couple quarters so she could get sprinkles.

"Didn't Dipper mention some sort of brain scanner?" Stan offered. "I don't really like the idea of you poking around in there, but would it help?"

Ford shook his head. He was pacing the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back. "No. Project Mentem is broken. And even if I were to fix it, all I could do with it is see and or encrypt your memories. There would be no way for me to discern what's true and what's false since your mind interprets all of them as true." He stopped his pacing to take another swig of his Mabel-ade. Stan liked to give Ford grief about his coffee intake, but at this rate he'd be willing to let Ford have a couple cups of Joe if it meant he'd stop ingesting whatever sour, spicy, glittery drink Mabel was trying to pass off as lemonade. He was pretty sure Ford's eyes were starting to shake.

"So, you had no memory of this talk with Dipper until your phone call with his father?"

"Right."

"And when the memory returned, did it feel like the rest of them? Think hard, was there any difference in sensation?"

Stan shook his head. "Nope. The same sort of itch I always get."

Ford hummed. "Fiddleford told me once that some of his returning memories would get scrambled. Two puzzle pieces fitting together that shouldn't. For example, he swore there was a Christmas that I spent with him and Emma Mae, but it turned out he was combining his memories of Christmas with her with our own holiday celebration in the lab. Can you think of any other conversation with Dipper you could be mixing up? Anyone else you would have been having that conversation with other than Dipper? Perhaps your mind replaced your real conversation partner with Dipper?"

Stan frowned. "You think I just go talkin' about the birds and the bees with everybody?"

"Stan, just think."

He shrugged. "The only people I talk to who would even be young enough for that would be Soos or Wendy. There's no way I woulda given that talk to a girl, and I'm pretty sure Soos's abuelita woulda ripped me a new one if I had done anything to take away Soos's 'innocence'. I have enough self-preservation not to do that."

Ford nodded. "Alright. I feel comfortable with that reasoning." He took another swig of Mabel-ade. "However, then we're dealing with the more uncomfortable reality of the memory being completely fabricated."

"If you keep drinking that stuff, you're gonna start hallucinating too."

Ford's glass slammed down onto the table. "You've been having hallucinations?"

"No. I mean, not that I know of at least. Have I been?"

"Not that I've seen."

"Alright, then no."

Ford sighed and sat down in the chair across from Stan. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and hands clasped together.

"I don't like hearing you do that," Ford murmured.

"Doing what?"

"Doubting your mind." Ford looked up to Stan, his eyes that horrible mix of calculating and pitiful that tended to appear these days.

Stan shrugged. "Why shouldn't I? We know I'm just making stuff up now. Heck, if Mabel didn't have pictures of all the crazy stuff we got up to last summer I'd probably think that was made up too."

Ford's eyes narrowed. "Hm. That might work."

"The scrapbook?"

"No, physical stimulus." Ford stood from the table again. "You said that when you had this conversation with Dipper you used a book to show him diagrams and such, correct?"

"Yeah. Why Am I Sweaty?"

Ford blinked. "You still have that thing?"

"Ma mailed it up back when she was cleaning out the house. She said she had a whole bunch of 'old science books' she thought her 'little scientist' might want before she donated 'em. I said I'd take 'em 'cause I was hoping some of them would be able to help with the portal. Turns out it was just a bunch of textbooks I stole from the high school and that thing. Came in handy though." Stan shrugged. "Maybe."

"Where is it?"

"If it wasn't destroyed it's probably still in my office. Why?"

Ford left the room without a word, coat billowing behind him. Stan took the opportunity to dump the rest of Ford's drink down the sink. He had a hunch he was about to have the full attention of a scientist on him for awhile and he'd prefer if that scientist wasn't vibrating like a beehive.

"Here we are!" Ford announced as he entered the room. "As I was saying, a physical stimulus might -" he stopped, staring at his glass. "My drink."

Stan shrugged. "I got thirsty."

Ford squinted at him. "Hm. Try looking through the pages of this. Maybe it will help ground you."

"But, won't that just make the fake memory more real?" Stan asked, flipping through the pages. The Pituitary Gland.

"That!" Stan shouted, pointing at the diagram. "Dipper screamed at that!"

Ford frowned. "That seems unlike him."

Stan groaned, dropping the book and putting his head in his hands. "I know but...I swear I can see it Ford. It feels so real."

Stan could hear the sound of Ford getting out of his chair, and there was suddenly a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"We'll figure it out, Stanley," he said softly.

"I just don't get why my brain would choose that memory to make," Stan mumbled through his hands. "Not that I want a buncha fake memories, but I could have at least come up with something cooler. Like winning a prize fight or kissing a mermaid or something."

Ford chuckled. "Well, I - " he was interrupted by the sound of the Shack door slamming open, frantic footsteps racing toward the kitchen. Stan lifted his head from his hands, leaning back to adopt a more nonchalant position in his chair. Ford gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!" Mabel burst into the kitchen, two small paper cups in her hands. "The ice cream lady said I could have two free samples, so I got two old people flavors! They're melted, but you can drink them. Who wants Butter Pecan and who wants Rum Raisin?"

Dipper shuffled in behind her, Mabel's enthusiasm waning as she took in the tense atmosphere of the room.

"What's wrong?" she asked hesitantly. "Do you guys not like those flavors?"

Stan turned to look at Ford, who had that pinched look around his eyes again.

"Mabel," Ford said gently. "Maybe you should sit down. We have something to -"

He was interrupted by a scream. Mabel had dropped the ice cream cups on the floor, leaving two splats that Waddles wasted no time in beginning to lick up. Stan sat up quickly in his chair.

"Sweetie, what - " before he could complete his sentence, Mabel had grabbed Why Am I Sweaty? and hurled it through the open kitchen window.

"Die childhood killer, die!" she shrieked. She stood huffing for a few more moments, eyes slightly crazed, before straightening up and looking towards the floor.

"Awwww piggy cream!" she cooed, squatting down to pat Waddles' head.

Dipper was the first to break the silence. "Mabel...what was that?"

She glared at Stan from the floor. "An evil book. Is that why you wanted us out of the house? So you could trap us with that horrible book when we got back?"

"You know that book?" Ford asked.

Mabel shuddered. "Ugh, unfortunately. Why do you even wanna read that thing again? It's not like it's hard to forget. Unless..." she frowned. "Were you...showing it to Grunkle Ford? Grunkle Ford, do you not know where babies come from?"

"No, I am well acquainted with a variety of human and alien reproductive systems." This time it was Stan's turn to shudder.

Ford reddened. "Not like that!"

"Wait, Mabel, you read Why Am I Sweaty?" Dipper asked. He looked to Stan, who was beginning to look green around the gills.

"You're the one I read that to?" Stan asked hoarsely. "But that's...that's not for you! I thought I read that to Dipper, you're telling me that I read that to...What?!"

Mabel slowed her petting of Waddles, beginning to look sheepish. "Well...you didn't know it was me. You thought I was Dipper."

Stan's mouth hung open. "Are you telling me my brain was swiss cheese before the memory gun?"

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh," Dipper groaned, slapping his hand against his head. "That was during the whole carpet thing wasn't it."

Mabel nodded.

"Carpet thing?" Ford asked.

"Yeah," Mabel began to scritch under Waddles' chin. "That carpet from your secret room. It made everybody switch bodies. I was Dipper for awhile and he was me. Soos was Waddles and Waddles was Soos!" Mabel grinned, holding up Waddles to stand on two legs. "Just look at this adorable little former handyman!"

"I was also Waddles," Dipper admitted. "A lot of people were a lot of people. McGucket tried to eat Soos."

Ford frowned. "Soos as Waddles?"

Dipper and Mabel shared a look.

"Never mind all that," Mabel offered, smiling tightly. "Let's talk about why Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford were talking about puberty. Do old people do it twice or something?"

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. "We weren't talking about puberty, we were talking about a memory Stanley had of discussing puberty with Dipper. Which Dipper thought wasn't real. Now we know why."

Stan raised his hand. "I would now like to pivot the discussion to Ford not leaving his experiments lying around where small children can find them."

"Wait!" Mabel gasped. "Does this mean that Dipper hasn't had the talk yet?" She leapt to her feet. "Because Mom gave me the girl one when we got home last summer! Does this mean I know the girl one and the boy one and Dipper knows none of them?"

Dipper sighed. "Mabel, I've seen nature documentaries."

Mabel whooped. "I know more about something than Dipper! Like, an actual science thing!"

"Mabel, I still know about - "

"Oh yeah?" Mabel reached into her skirt pocket. "Then what's this then?" With a wicked grin she slapped a bright pink wrapper covered in stars onto the kitchen table. Stan slapped his hands over his eyes. Ford's face went slack. Dipper grimaced.

"Mabel...I share a bathroom with you, I know what a pad is."

Ford cleared his throat. "They certainly," he coughed. "They certainly have changed a lot in the past thirty years."

Mabel frowned. "Were the old ones in black and white?"

Stan groaned. "Can we skip ahead to the part where Sixer burns that carpet and we all celebrate that I'm not actually losing my mind?"

Mabel wrapped her arms around Stan, pulling him into a big hug. "Of course! I'll go grab the lighter fluid!" And with that she fled from the room, snatching the pad off the table as she went. Stan lifted his head from his hands and the three Pines men stared at each other awkwardly.

"Well," Ford clapped his hand back on Stan's shoulder. "Another mystery solved."

Dipper nodded. "Sorry to freak you guys out like that. I don't know how I didn't think about the whole 'body swap' thing earlier."

Stan hefted himself up from the table. "No sweat, kid. Er." The three of them turned to the window where Gompers could be seen chomping away at the pages of Why Am I Sweaty?

They turned to each other. A silent agreement was made. Stan grabbed the popsicles out of the freezer and they began to file out of the kitchen, ready to meet Mabel at the fire pit to send that carpet back to Hell where it belonged. If there was anything they'd learned from last summer, it was that some knowledge was best left hidden.

AN: Sequel to this and this! I may or may not manage to get another one done by the end of Stanuary tomorrow (probably not), but either way, thanks for joining me!

[mamawasatesttube]

nobody even gets koncassie like they exist in my rich inner world. theyre gay/lesbian solidarity. when they dated they just didn't know that. it was never romantic. but they still felt like a kind of haven to each other - they were safe for each other. kon, with all the trauma of being groomed twice over, felt safe with cassie, his friend, his peer, his equal. cassie, under all the pressure of public scrutiny and constantly feeling like she failed to measure up to the wonder girl legacy, was safe with someone who saw her trying to force herself to present super feminine and conform and told her no, you don't need to do that. not for me. i've always thought you're beautiful. like. in a world where they were both in the public eye and crumbling under the pressure, they were each other's sanctuary. like, even if they didn't understand that they weren't actually into each other, the love was so real. do you guys even get it????

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

i just think it would have been neat if if you don't use The Ultimate Salvation of Felassan rune in the boss battle against Elgar'nan. what if you could instead use it to summon a temporary wisp of him a la the Mythal fragment to talk down Solas instead of just relying on Mythal's. there was more than one modern death he regretted is all i'm saying you know. more than one possibly-dead-possibly-not ancient spirit elf he still had ties to who was an integral part of his past and played more of a role in his healing than his harm hmmmmmmmmmmm

[lilacerull0]

Lila Cerullo + Enzo Scanno: Volumetric Analysis Conducted in a Kitchen

text by me | perhaps the world ends here - joy hario | my brilliant friend - elena ferrante | summer kitchen - donald hall | jacebeleran | letters to donald windham - tennessee williams | x | x | x | my tags

[exhaustedpirate]

with a little help from your (best) friend

my first 911 fic, pls be gentle with me! and it's unbeta'd so extra gentle, i'm sensitive! i wanted to fix the breakup and fix whatever the fuck eddie (and the others lbfr) was doing as buck's friend post-breakup, so enjoy!

rating: G wordcount: 1966 also on AO3

summary: “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

(or, what happened after buck and eddie sat down the couch)

Buck knocked at Eddie’s door almost an hour ago. 

They sat down on the couch, silently sipping their beers and staring at the unlit fireplace. Buck and Eddie have been friends for almost 8 years, they know how to exist in silence. 

Buck is just not known for being silent. And yet, there he is, sipping his beer with a far away look while a dark cloud hovers over his head, raining and thundering away at every passing second. Eddie is content to revel in the silence, to appreciate the lightness he hasn’t felt in months, ever since Christopher left. 

Maybe there’s something to be said about taking care of your mental health.

A sharp crack of lightning cracks over his head, bringing him out of his own introspection. He turns to Buck and takes the time to look at him. His best friend’s eyes are red-rimmed and sunken, his hair is a mess and he doesn’t even seem to be enjoying his beer.

“Buck,” Eddie calls quietly and the only reason he knows he was heard is because of the small twitch of Buck’s head. “Are you okay?”

He watches as Buck takes a sip from his beer and then holds the bottle in his hands, elbows at his knees. His thumb rubs against the labels and his eyes trace the movement. Buck’s mouth opens and closes, before he inhales a sharp breath and straightens his back to look at Eddie.

“Why aren’t you wearing pants?” 

Buck asks such an unexpected question that it sparks a malfunction in Eddie’s brain. He can only exhale a chuckle, his eyes going down to his bare legs and putting the dark cloud in his rearview mirror.

“And where’s your mustache?” Buck continues and the smile on his face looks wrong. “I was just getting used to it.”

Eddie laughs. “I got propositioned by a priest.”

“What?” Buck looks at him and it is almost like it lights up his face, like the cloud was never there but there’s still a darkness under his eyes and the evidence of a frown in his brow.

“Well, he wasn’t hitting on me, actually,” Eddie runs his hand through his hair, self-consciously. “But uhm, I went to confession a couple of days ago and I ran into the priest at the juice bar and we talked and he, well, he made me realise that I was punishing myself and not allowing myself joy so I, well…” He gestures down at his body and living room.

“You took off your pants and blasted some music?”

Eddie looks down at his beer, an embarrassed blush creeping onto his cheeks. “When I was a kid I watched this movie with Tom Cruise, in it he dances in his living room without pants and I always wanted to do that.”

“Risky Business.”

“Y-Yeah,” Eddie turns to Buck, surprised at him knowing an older movie. “You watched it?”

Something flickers through Buck’s eyes, something like fondness replaced by pain and longing. He nods once he has hidden away all those big emotions behind his walls. “And the mustache?”

“Ah, the mustache was a mask,” Eddie presses his lips together, fingers rubbing against his bare upper lip. “To hide the fact that I’m a failure.”

Buck’s face softens and he puts a hand on Eddie’s wrist. “Eds, you aren’t a failure.”

“I am, Buck,” Eddie nods but smiles softly. “But it’s okay because I am going to try and be better, I need to try and be better. For me and for my son.”

Buck looks searchingly at him for a few seconds more before he nods. “For the record, you look better without the mustache.”

Eddie laughs but quiets slowly when all he gets from Buck is a small smile. He looks over his best friend again, notices him anew. Notices his slumped shoulders, his restless hands, his watery eyes. He places his hand on Buck’s shoulder and watches as his friend takes a stuttering deep breath.

“Are you okay, Buck?” 

His best friend takes another shaky breath and Eddie can tell he’s trying to hide away, but as the exhale shakes out, his eyes get wetter and he’s shaking his head quickly. “No.”

Eddie watches as Buck covers his eyes with one hand and breaks down, sobs wracking through his body, quiet but strong. Quickly, Eddie puts their beers on the coffee table and pulls Buck to him, one hand running up and down his back and the other cradled at the back of his head as he lets Buck cry on his shoulder.

It’s not the first time his best friend has been in this position and Eddie’s been in it a few times before. They trust each other. Eddie can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t asked, if he hadn’t noticed. If he had let himself get so focused on his own issues that he wouldn’t see Buck’s cry for help. 

It had happened before.

Buck’s sobs slow down to a quiet hiccuping but Eddie doesn’t break the hug, keeps running his hand up and down Buck’s spine with a little more pressure than before, trying to provide comfort.

“He broke up with me.” Buck’s voice is hoarse and it's barely above a whisper but Eddie hears it all the same.

“What?”

“I-I asked him to move in and he broke up with me.”

Eddie takes hold of Buck’s face and pulls him away from his shoulder. He pays no mind to the less than put together state of his best friend’s face as he wipes away his tears.

“I need you to breathe, Buck,” Eddie’s tone is strong, maybe a bit demanding, and he keeps Buck’s gaze as the man does as he is told. One raspy breath, two, three. “Tell me what happened.”

Buck looks away for a moment, his eyes glazing over for a second before he takes another deep breath, and then another. Eddie stops himself from telling him how proud he is of him for that. Buck leans back against the couch, hands spread over his thighs slowly running up and down his jeans.

So Eddie listens as Buck tells him about their anniversary dinner and the surprising connection between Tommy and Abby, who Eddie had only heard stories about until the trainwreck. Tells him about the conversation with Josh. Tells him about their talk at the loft, how he asked Tommy to move in with him but he got dumped instead. By the end, Buck’s breathing is irregular and his knuckles are white from where his fists clenched on his thighs.

“Buck,” Eddie calls after a minute, a minute where he lets him get his breathing under control. Buck turns to him and Eddie almost gasps at the pain in there, it’s been a while since he’s seen it in his best friend’s eyes. “Do you love him?”

Eddie doesn’t want to admit that he expects a more truthful answer than he gave Josh, even with Maddie in the room. It’s a big question. But Eddie knows Buck, probably better than he knows himself. They trust each other. 

So he expects the way Buck opens and closes his mouth as he tries to find the words, and then the way he looks away, the way he runs his fingers through his hair and pulls. And then, Eddie expects the answer - maybe not the words but he knows he’ll get the truth. 

“I think I was starting to.”

“Did you tell him that?”

Buck turns sharply to him. “I mean, no, b-but I think I made it clear, Eddie, come on. He’s the one wh-who dumped me and I’m the one getting t-“

“Oh, he’s being stupid,” Eddie interrupts, almost amused. “He got scared and made a rash decision but,” he continues, holding up a finger to quiet Buck. “What I think Josh meant is that Tommy had to go through it on his own and did things that he isn’t proud of. He wanted you to know that Tommy isn’t perfect but doesn’t deserve judgement.”

“I never needed him to be perfect!” Buck snaps, getting up from the couch and pacing back and forth in the living room. It was almost a dance, really, a way to release emotions. Uh. “I just wanted him, he makes me feel good and happy and I think I made him feel that way too but h-he just left, Eddie! He left me there!”

“Do you want him back?”

“Of course I do,” Buck sighs and his fingers end up in his hair again, the other hand on his hip. “But he hurt me.”

“I’ve hurt you before too,” Eddie doesn’t let Buck’s frown stop him. “You were going through something when you hurt your leg and I was going through something too but I shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did. We love each other and we fought for our friendship, right?”

Buck presses his lips together but nods.

“Tommy loves you too,” Eddie smiles indulgently at the way Buck’s eyes widen. “Anyone can see it, Buck. So why not fight for what you want?”

Buck looks like he’s chewing the words in his brain, a multitude of possibilities and arguments running around in there. Eddie grins proudly when the tension in his friends shoulders eases and his eyes fill with determination.

“Thanks, Eddie.”

“Come here.” Eddie calls as he stands to pull Buck into a tight hug, feeling the lack of tension he felt earlier. 

“Eddie,” Buck whispers as he holds him tight and Eddie hums to acknowledge it. “Please, talk to someone about what you’re going through.”

Eddie chuckles surprised but nods, pulling away to look at Buck’s face. “I will do.”

“Doesn’t have to be a therapist but you really should talk to someone.”

Eddie smiles wider and pulls Buck in again. “I promise, I will.”

“Good,” Buck’s tension eases a little bit more and Eddie warms at his friend’s care. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“Put some pants on.” 

They let go of each other with a quiet laugh and it feels good to see Buck’s actual laugh. His best friend takes a deep breath and nods at himself. No matter what happens, he’s happy to see Buck fighting for what he wants and knowing that he has his family to fall back on.

Maybe Eddie should reach out to Tommy after this. He’s his friend too.

“Tell me how it goes.”

Buck nods again. “Thank you, Eddie, really.”

“Anytime,” Eddie taps Buck’s shoulder before pointing a finger at Buck’s face, a clear recreation of a previous talk. “Go talk to Tommy.”

Buck smiles at the reminder and takes another steadying breath. Eddie feels that pride again. His best friend taps him on the arm before he heads to the door. 

When Buck opens the door, he inhales sharply. Eddie steps to the side to see an equally disheveled Tommy on the other side, fist poised to knock.

“Evan?”

“Tommy?”

Eddie grins and joins them at the door, hands on each of their shoulders. “Look at that, an early Christmas miracle,” they both turn to him with overwhelmed wide eyes. “I’m gonna put on some pants, you two can take my couch,” he points his fingers at each of them. “Talk.”

As the door shuts behind Tommy and he hears them shuffling quietly to the couch, Eddie thinks that if those two idiots are willing to fight for each other, then Eddie can find the strength to fight for his own happiness too. Buck has proved that all he needs is some support from his friends.

And he has more support now than he ever had before. He’s sure it’s faster to take a helicopter to El Paso and well, Tommy owes him.

[beneathsilverstars]

i love themes. i love when i'm writing and i'm like ughhh i have to come up with some filler bullshit details to go here because it's necessary to the rest of the plot but not actually very relevant to it, and then i'm like wait. i know how to make it relevant. i just have to make the details echo the overarching themes of the piece. and suddenly it stops being filler bullshit and starts being, like, foreshadowing or allegory or some cool shit like that ^w^

[aliceorenemies]

Shelter

3k words Content Warnings for Light Horror, Dubcon Transformation, Threats, Violence

It always seems to rain on the one day you don't check the forecast. By the time the downpour reached its apex, you were just far enough to make turning around seem pointless. So, onward it is. Running steadily, trying your best to ignore the holes in your shoes letting the flood in. Trying to ignore the burning in your legs as the rest of your body absorbs the sky-born numbness.

It's hard to make out in the inclemency, but you see a small point of respite from one of the nearby shops; an overhang that gives you just enough room to catch your breath. Your brain, deeply in survival mode, urges you to ignore it. What good would it do you to rest right now? The storms going nowhere, you're not getting any warmer. But... something tugs you towards it, the tiniest hope of a reprieve. You skid to a stop in the shelter of the awning, heaving lungfuls of frigid air.

You're safe now. Just relax.

The thought feels odd to you, but it's not an unreasonable one. You wouldn't call a storm like this necessarily dangerous. Then again, fight or flight always made your head feel funny afterwards. Eventually you start observing the area, trying to place exactly where you are, and how much further you'll need to run to make it home. Based on the other shops you can see, you're maybe 20 minutes from home, 15 if you can really push yourself. The thought fills you with dread, causing you to slump against the shop door behind you.

... It is a shop, isn't it? You don't recognize this building at all, now that you think about it. The nearby buildings are mostly familiar to you, you pass by them nearly everyday. Where you're standing though, it feels like you've never seen this place before. Curiosity gets the better of you as you try to warm your sodden flesh.

You couldn't quite see the sign from underneath the awning, but a dim interior was visible through the small window on the door. An odd assemblage of goods littered around haphazardly; bottles, jewelry, stationery, antique tools... toys? Definitely some kind of shop. More toys than you'd expect from a shop like this. It feels silly but maybe you could find an umbrella in there? You're here already, it wouldn't hurt to look inside. An umbrella would make the journey home even easier.

Icy fingers clasp around the doorknob, somehow warm despite the surrounding chill. A foot takes you across the threshold, a bell above the door chimes. An almost intrusive thought strikes you as you close the door behind you-

Dripping water everywhere, be sure not to make a mess.

Your feet feel oddly heavy at the thought. Best to stay in the entryway. Still, you don't want to just leave without something to keep the rain off you. You're just about to call for some help when someone rounds a corner.

The figure is dressed daintily in blacks and whites. Her ankle-length dress, long sleeves, and abundance of frills and lace make her feel like she stepped off the cover of a storybook. She... at least you assume she's a girl based on attire. The lack of lighting makes her face indiscernible to you. She performs, to your amateur understanding, what you would describe as "the best curtsy you've seen in your life." Poised, practiced, precise.

"Hello, dear customer. Welcome to this humble-" she stops dead as her eyes finally raise to meet yours.

A flurry of emotions washes over her face. Joy, confusion, apprehension, trepidation, and then suddenly she's right beside you at the entryway with the lightest touch upon your shoulder.

"This o- sorry. You should go. Please." Her voice barely rises above a whisper.

You can finally make out her face at this range. She's pale, so pale, nearly bloodless, was her face drained from fear, is that just makeup, what is that ticking noise coming from her?

"I... what? I'm sorry, I thought you'd have an umbrella or something. I have money, I can pay," you fumble for your wallet, not completely soaked yet, producing a few damp bills. "I'm just so cold, I'll stay right here, I won't make a mess I promise."

She pushes your hand away, the brief contact with her skin sends your mind reeling, even with how cold your skin is, hers feels even colder and so smooth and- "The cost is too high, please. It may already be too late if you..."

She catches you just staring at her. Her eyes widen as yours remain stuck in place. You feel like you could look away from her but why would you? She's talking to you and you should be listening. If she asks you something, you should answer. Listening is the first step to beco-

She shakes your shoulders vigorously, pulling you from the haze of thought that was starting to coil around you. "Stop that. Stop it!" Her words are choked and trembling, but never rise above a whisper. Her fear seeps back into you, the calm heartbeat of a moment ago ratcheting higher and higher.

"Listen. Obey. Don't Lie." she whispers and suddenly the haze returns feels good you must listen you must- "How do you feel right now?"

The words seem to slowly bubble up from within you, taking their sweet time to escape from your lips. "... Calm... Relaxed... So... Sti-"

Her finger presses on your lips, shushing you. "H-how..." You're distantly aware that she just choked back a sob. "How did you feel a minute ago?"

The first question felt so easy to answer, but the second has you reaching deep, deep within your head for a response. The haze feels so solid on the edges of your brain, sinking in more and more. But... you see it. The answer. You hook a finger into it and rise rise rise to the surface.

"A... I... was. A-afraid. I was. Afraid." This time, the words scatter the stillness inside you, slowly but surely.

"Yes, yes! Please, grab hold of that. Don't let it go. Focus on it as hard as you can, and then you need to run, run right n-"

"My oh my, a visitor?"

The new voice seems to bring a silence upon the world for a moment, before the rain pattering against the door fills the empty space again.

The girl in front of you freezes. Eyes full of terror.

Your eyes flicker to where that voice should be standing but... like thread that won't quite slip into the eye of a needle, your eyes glide past each time you try to look at her. There's clearly still someone there, they're tall at minimum, wearing long flowing clothes, the voice was a woman's, why can't you just-

“Oh, a poor thing coming in from the cold. You need help, don’t you?”

Her voice carries this strange resonance that lingers between your ears for so long, it’s so nice to listen to. So calming. Weren’t you supposed to be doing something though? Oh, of course, she asked you a question.

“Y-yes. Yes, um, I do need help. Can I please buy an umbrella, or something, Miss?”

That word simply danced upon your tongue. As you say it, both eyes looking upon you widen. Dread and desire, in perfect mirrors of one another. The girl steps away from you stiffly, moving out of her path, hands folded perfectly in front of her.

A finger alights upon your chin. She’s next to you now, you barely noticed her move, and yet she’s here and she’s close and you think you’re supposed to be afraid right now but why would you be? Why feel so tense when you could just relax? The barest suggestion of pressure forces your eyes up to hers, finally you’ll be able to see her, finally you can-

…

Her hand disconnects from your skin. Wasn’t she… weren’t you looking at her? Trying to recall what just happened sends your mind spinning away in a fruitless pursuit. She’s Miss is walking away now, while you remain frozen in place.

“Certainly, dear, I have just the thing for you. Doll, pour the poor thing some tea while I fetch something for it. A drink will make you feel so much better.”

And with that, she vanishes around the corner, deeper in the shop.

The girl slowly returns to movement, and begins collecting things from a nook in the wall. Your feet finally begin to take you forward into the shop proper, and to a table that was definitely present a moment before, you’re sure of it. It’s decorated so quaintly, a lace tablecloth, a candelabra in the center, chairs and settings perfectly spaced about the table. You even see a few ragdolls sitting limp in their chairs about the table. It then finally clicks for you.

A lovely tea party.

For lovely dolls.

Although, no one at the table but you seems to be smiling.

A tray bearing a tea set is placed before you by the girl. It sets out one saucer, then another. One teacup, then another. It lifts the teapot gently, and pours for you into the first cup. Your sluggish reaction time prevents you from immediately grabbing it, as it then takes up a small carafe. The cold water it pours into the second cup pales in comparison to the allure of the warm fragrance wafting towards you from the first cup.

“This one is terribly sorry for her earlier behavior. It was not able to protect you. Good dolls listen. Good dolls obey. Good dolls don’t lie.”

The refrain is like honey upon your tongue, as you repeat it without thinking.

“This one listened to her witch. This one obeyed, and poured the tea. This one will not lie, as it says you were only told to drink.”

She sets the carafe down, and once again curtseys perfectly.

“This one asks, no begs you. Drink the water. You will have fulfilled the request and you can leave. Listen, obey, don’t lie.” It turns slightly as the distant sounds of movement echo through the shop. A flash of determination crosses its face. “This one will try to distract Miss. Please do not drink the tea.”

It walks away, leaving you staring at the teacups. The other dolls at the table all seem to be staring at you now, but it’s hard for you to process that. Your fingers lazily reach for the beverages, still numb from the frigid rain that soaked through to your core. You’re so cold, so empty, begging for a little relief from the chill. You grip the table with what little strength you have and try so, so hard to grasp the second cup.

 But…

What if, perhaps, you just held the first cup. Let the warmth into your fingers first, let it lend you strength to drink the icy water. That would surely be fine, would it not? The cup feels so good in your hands, the delicate porcelain comfortably warm against your fingers. And when you hold it so close to you, you can actually smell the tea, goodness you haven’t had tea in so long, and it has that perfect blend of spice that would warm you right up.

Just a sip is fine.

And then the water. The cold water that will let you go home leave this wonderful place.

A single taste.

It would be rude not to.

…

…..

………

The warmth of the tea enriches you, burning so pleasantly down your throat, deep into the recesses of your body. It’s the best you’ve ever had, unlike anything you’ve ever drank before. It’s just what you need before you drink the water.

But just as your lips leave the cup’s rim, the heat fades away. Your insides feel even colder than before, the contrast too wide. The thought of trying to make yourself even colder with plain water nearly makes you feel ill.

Surely another couldn’t hurt, then. Just to fortify you. A deep breath before the icy plunge. Looking before leaping, as they say.

The fire burns inside you for but a moment before being blown away, and the cold returns even faster.

Another then.

Dainty little sips, as your fingers stiffen more and more.

Proper posture is so important for a tea party, so you straighten up for the next drink.

Your arm bumps against the table’s edge with a hollow thunk, but you don’t concern yourself. Good dolls don’t worry about such things.

You’re just finishing with your second cup when a faint crash is heard from deep within the shop. Oh dear, someone’s made a mess. You try to rise but your body feels so heavy and isn’t it nicer to just be still for a while?

Oh, but you should make sure no one needs your help.

“Miss?” your voice comes out so hollow. “Can… I… help?”

A flurry of footsteps approaches you. 

The nice doll who poured you tea earlier is back! Maybe it can help you!

“No, no no no, no! Why did you drink it?” Its hands reach under your shirt and you hear the same little clink of when your teacup comes to rest upon the saucer. It recoils, and then suddenly pushes its hands underneath your arms to force you to rise. “Please, please. Good dolls listen, good dolls obey, good dolls don’t lie. Listen, obey, don’t lie. Run. Run. You have to run” she’s dragging you as best as she can, but you just lie limp, smiling blissfully.

You sink to the floor together. It's making odd noises. It looks like it’s ______, it’s… what? You feel like you know what it’s doing, hands covering its face, breathing raggedly, there’s a word for it but good dolls don’t do that anyway, so what does it matter?

Still, you feel like you should do something to help it. The last reflexes left of something deep inside you has you reach your hand out to it. You squeeze its hand, and then lace your fingers with its own. The maneuver is clumsy, as your fingers no longer have any squish left in them. It looks at you despondently, a million words behind its glassy eyes.

All it can say is “Sorry.”

You both lay there for a few moments.

When she returns, her step is filled with thunder.

“Why are you dolls on the floor? Get up!”

The order fills you with such a zeal, the need to obey filling your head and creating an almost painful pressure. Both dolls rise from the floor, nearly a perfect mirror to one another.

You try to match the other dolls curtsy, but the wet clothing stuck to your cold hard skin makes it difficult.

“Hmph. Well, your becoming happened quickly at least. Let’s see if your quality is up to snuff.”

Suddenly, her hands are upon you. Warm hands grace the cold surface that is now your flesh. She lifts your arm until it’s perpendicular to your torso, you beg your neck to turn, turn and let you witness her perfect hands. Yet you remain staring forward. A twist. A pull. A lack of sensation where sensation already wasn’t present before. Your arm is in front of you and shining in the glistening half-light.

Some remaining vestiges of panic try to flare up within you but that now familiar haze in your head tempers it down. You are but a doll without a part. Nothing to be concerned with. From the corner of your eye the other doll flinches. The witch runs her hands all along your severed limb, muttering notes to herself all the while.

“More than satisfactory, dear, almost impressive. No wonder the enchantments brought you in here. Just one more thing to check, then.” 

With a flick of her wrist, you suddenly feel yourself twist and bend terribly until your hollow shoulder socket is pointed straight up. She peers inside, quiet to let your clockwork speak to her. She listens for so long that you feel yourself nearly trembling from the tension in your fragile body, the position held in such a way that you nearly feel a different joint about to pop. But good dolls obey, so you endure until finally she sets you back to your perfect posture.

The entire time, your face held the prettiest smile. Just for her.

She firmly places your arm into the waiting hands of the other doll, along with something you hadn’t seen your witch carrying yet: your new uniform, a perfect mirror to the one next to you.

“Get it dressed, doll. Show it its new duties. That’s an Order.”

The doll bows. “Yes, Miss, it shall be done.”

As it straightens up, the witch grabs its face in one hand, lifting it until it can look her evenly in the eye. It doesn’t struggle. It doesn’t flinch. It can’t cry out.

“And if a certain something ever tries to interfere with me or my work again, it will find itself smashed to pieces and tossed under the floorboards like all the rest. Am I understood?”

“Yes miss. Perfectly understood miss.”

“Good. Then let me leave you a reminder.”

In a flash, the witch slashed a single nail across the doll’s face, cracking its porcelain just enough so it wouldn’t fall apart. She forcefully set the doll back upon the ground, and with a flourish of robes, vanished.

The other doll stood silently for a moment, before turning away towards the deepest corridors of the shop. “Follow this one, please.”

You listen, like a good doll should.

You obey, like a good doll should.

Both of your footsteps fall into a matching rhythm as it leads you into your new home.

The last drips of your humanity coalesce into a single question.

“Will this one be happy here?”

It doesn’t lie, like a good doll should.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I don’t understand it when people say that Carrie was also the problem bc she was anxiously attached bc like …. maybe she had a moment or two but for the most part it was absolutely Big being such a selfish prick and then justifying it w “ohhh I have commitment issues bc my last marriage fell through” umm ur a 45 year old BABY actually

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Jaskier never makes promises. He literally never says the word “promise”, and he swears no oaths.

It’s a subtle quirk. It takes Geralt years to notice. When he points it out, Jaskier says with false levity, “I guess I don’t.”

From the bard’s body language, Geralt can see he doesn’t want to talk about it, so the topic is dropped.

Years later—after Geralt screams his fury at Jaskier—the bard says in a broken voice, “Don’t worry, Geralt. I promise not to bother you anymore.”

The promise sears itself onto Geralt’s soul like a brand. One made of chaos, and he can feel it become binding.

Geralt whips around, but Jaskier was gone.

There are a few moments of confusion before Geralt realizes what just happened. Jaskier had promised, and that promise was sealed with chaos. Only the Fae have such an ability.

YESSSSSSS i love this Geralt has to track down Jaskier and prove that Jaskier doesn't bother him, and thus the promise is still ringing true, even as they continue traveling together

[beedragony]

coping with my grief over Elodie’s death by writing her alive and well in a silly little jerejean au

[tiktowafel]

do you ever think about how all you used to draw when you were 10 was ponies and that you should still know how to do that, then get an idea and proceed to draw something like these in nearly one sitting and it turns out better than any drawing you've done in the entire past month

sooo anyway does anyone have cutie mark or pony name ideas for them?? lol

[imminent-danger-came]

There is a distinct difference between "something good with flaws" and "something bad that's almost good" me thinks