#ford knowing that his brother is already gone but still trying to reach for whats left of him

[nenoname]

sometimes i remember about the moment when weirdmageddon is undone and how all the townsfolk and the zodiac members end up in town except for stan

dipper and mabel holding on to each other as the fearamid collapses while ford is stuck watching as an unconscious stan gets separated from them...

[darlingdaisyfarm]

cigarettes after sex

tags: mullet!stan pines, fem!reader, mentions of alcohol and smoking, nsfw, sexual themes, depression, ptsd, drunk sex, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, inspired by cigarettes after sex songs, so I recommend to listen some while reading that :)

Stan hasn't been himself since the portal swallowed Ford up.

His life is ruined, his mind is ruined, everything is ruined. Every single night, he’s hunched over the journals, Ford’s stupid, cryptic notes that Stan can’t figure out, can’t understand, but wants to. It's like trying to read in the dark. He knows there’s something in them, some answer, but it’s out of his reach and every time he thinks about his brother being gone, his chest tightens, that guilt slamming into him so hard he feels like he can’t breathe so he drowns in his own tears. 

Stanley knows he’s not the smart one, never was, and now it feels like he’s lost every chance to make things right. The lab is his prison. The cigarettes are his only escape, one after another until the ashtray overflows, the smell of smoke permanently clinging to everything in this place. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, the bags under them deep and dark and he doesn’t bother to clean himself up anymore. What’s the point? He’s all alone. Again.  

Tonight, something changes. He can’t sit in that goddamn lab for another second, can’t stare at those useless pages with his head spinning. So, he stumbles out into the cold and ends up at the bar down the street — the only place still open this late. 

When he walks in, he’s already halfway drunk and you spot him immediately from across the room. It’s not hard; the guy’s a walking disaster. His coat is rumpled, hair a tangled mess, and his eyes are empty, hollowed out like he’s already lost something far more important than money. You've seen a lot of people sink to the bottom, but this guy sank even lower than most.

Stan doesn’t notice you at first. He barely notices anything as he stumbles up to the bar, hands trembling as he grips the counter. His cigarette hangs loose between his fingers, half burnt and about to fall, but he’s too out of it to care. He leans heavily against the bar, head down like the weight of his own body is too much.

“Whiskey,” he grumbles. “whatever’s cheap.”

The bartender glances at him, sizing him up with a frown. Stan looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, hasn’t eaten much either. It’s written all over him, the sag of his shoulders, the unsteady sway when he tries to straighten up.

The bartender slides the glass toward Stan, but before he even picks it up, he’s already mumbling something under his breath, little grin pulling at his lips. “Don’t think I got the money for this, pal.”

He downs the drink in one go, barely wincing as the burn hits his throat and for a moment, you think he might get away with it. But the bartender’s patience is wearing thin. He scowls, leaning in with narrowed eyes, clearly not in the mood to deal with Stan’s shit tonight.

“I’m not running a charity here,” the bartender snaps. “you pay or you leave.”

Stan grins, and it’s the saddest, most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen. “What, no freebies? Guess I’ll have to put it on my tab.” he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. 

The bartender looks about two seconds from throwing Stan out on his ass and for some reason, you find yourself moving before you even realise it. Sliding off your seat, you walk over. Stan doesn’t notice you until you’re standing right next to him, and even then, his gaze is unfocused, blurry as fuck. 

Before things get ugly, you step in, sliding a couple bills across the counter, “I’ll cover it.”

The bartender takes the money without a word, though you can feel the tension of the situation, he’s definitely bothered and not in the mood. Stan looks at you, bleary-eyed, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or just another hallucination. His mouth twists into that lopsided grin again, but there’s something softer about it this time, like he’s genuinely surprised someone bothered to step in.

He’s too drunk to notice the bartender’s scowl as you grab him by the arm, hauling him to his feet. He stumbles, almost dragging you down with him, but you manage to keep him upright, though just barely.

“Hey, thanks, sweetheart,” he slurs, blinking at you like he’s trying to clear the fog in his head. “didn’t know I’d be gettin’ free drinks tonight.”

He tries to stand up straighter, but the alcohol’s got a firm grip on him. His body sways dangerously so you reach out, grabbing his arm to keep him steady. He’s heavier than you expected, way too much, his body leaning against yours as you pull him away from the bar.

“Come on,” you mutter, dragging him toward the door. “let’s get you out of here before you piss off anyone else.”

Stan stumbles along beside you, his steps unsteady, barely able to keep himself upright. He’s mumbling something under his breath, words too slurred to make out, because he’s so fucking drunk, but you can tell it’s nothing good. Outside, the cold hits you both like a slap to the face. The winter air is brutal, biting through your clothes and cutting through the haze of alcohol that’s been clouding Stan’s head.

“Jesus, it’s freezing out here,” he mutters, blinking against the cold. His breath comes out in visible puffs, his flushed face suddenly looking even redder in the harsh chill. Then he looks at you. “So what, you my babysitter now?

This time you have to shove him back against the wall just to keep him upright. His back hits the cold brick with a dull thud, and he lets out a low, drunken laugh, his head tipping back to rest against the wall.

“Ohh, you gonna pin me here? gotta say, I’m not usually into this kinda thing, but for you, sweetheart, I might make an exception.” his body sags, leaning heavily into the wall as he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. “or are you just waiting for me to do something stupid?”

Your brows furrow at that, irritation flaring in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

He’s a mess, a complete disaster, but there’s something about him that makes it hard to walk away. Maybe it’s the way he’s still trying to crack jokes, even when he’s clearly drowning in his own misery. Maybe it’s the way his hands tremble, even though he’s trying to play it off like he doesn’t care.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes half-lidded as he stares up at the sky. Stan chuckles. “Well, I could just. . . y’know. Throw myself off a cliff. Put an end to all this crap. What’s one more dead Pines, huh?”

He’s not joking anymore. There’s something raw in his voice, he sounds way too hurt, too honest, too broken that makes your stomach twist. You don’t really know what to answer on that. You aren’t that good at supporting people, but supporting drunk guy? He’ll barely hear what you’ll tell him. 

You pull a cigarette from your pocket, lighting it up with quick movements, because cold air stinging your fingers. Stan watches you through half-lidded eyes, his breath visible in the frigid air.

“Hey,” he mutters. “mind if I bum one off ya?”

You hand him a cigarette without a word, and he takes it, his fingers still shaking from cold or. . . as he lights it. He leans back against the wall, the smoke curling around his face as he exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

Neither of you speak after that. There’s nothing to say. You don’t know how to start a talk either. Is it even needed?

Stan’s a complete mess, the kind you don't want to get too close to. But as you stand there, cigarette smoke curling between your fingers, you can’t tear your eyes off him. He’s slumped against the wall, looking like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders or maybe that’s just the whiskey. You wonder why the hell you bothered to drag him out here in the first place. He’s a disaster and his weird comments aren’t helping, they just disturb you.

You take another drag, feeling the bitter taste of nicotine hit your lungs, and for a moment, you think about just walking away. He’s not your problem. You’ve done your good deed for the night and the cold air is starting to bite at your skin. Just leave him here. He’ll figure it out, or. . . he won’t. Either way, it’s not your concern.

But just as you’re about to turn and go, Stan mumbles something under his nose. It’s faint, too quiet to catch.

“. . . should’ve never messed with the damn portal.”

You blink. Portal? The word echoes in your mind, that’s surprising, intriguing. What the hell is he talking about? You glance at him again, but his eyes are fluttering shut, his body slumping further against the wall.

“Hey,” you say, stepping closer. “what did you just say?”

Stan’s lips move, but no sound comes out, he’s completely out of it. Your eyes widen in shock as you say “hey, man” louder to get him back to his senses, but before you can react, his knees buckle and he collapses, dead weight against the cold ground.

“Holy shit!” you drop your cigarette, your hands immediately going to his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. His head lolls to the side, completely out cold

Of course. Of fucking course! He’s drunk off his ass, hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten anything substantial in days. You run a hand through your hair, staring down at him, your mind racing.

You’re not sure what the hell to do with this guy. You don’t even know him. But something in your gut twists, something telling you to stay, to not leave him lying here like this. 

***

He’s strange, sure. But why does that word “portal” keep sticking in your head?

Days pass, but your thoughts keep drifting back to him. That night, his ramblings, the look in his eyes before he passed out. You shouldn’t care. He’s just some guy, a random drunk you stumbled across. But you’ve always been a curious person. You keep thinking about how broken he looked, how utterly wrecked he seemed and you wonder what could’ve driven him to that point.

You’re out in town again, aimlessly wandering the streets of Gravity Falls, and without even realizing it, you find yourself back at the bar where you met him. It’s the same cold winter night, what makes your body shake from chill no matter how many layers you’ve got on.

You stand outside with a cigarette, your breath mixing with the smoke. Your mind’s still on him, on that weird stranger. You can’t help but wonder if he’s alright. Probably not? Guys like that don’t bounce back easy. 

You take another drag, exhaling slowly, your thoughts swirling. You think about how he stumbled around, barely able to stay on his feet, and for some reason you smile. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s such a loser. But there was something strangely. . . cute about it all. God, why are you even thinking about him

Suddenly, the door to the bar swings open, and a familiar figure stumbles out into the cold. You blink, and sure enough, it’s him. That drunk weird guy. Same red jacket, same disheveled look, but this time he doesn’t seem quite as far gone. Still drunk, but not teetering on the edge like last time.

The bouncer gives him a shove, muttering something about not coming back without cash and Stan nearly trips over his own feet before catching himself. He stands there for a moment, muttering insults and then his eyes land on you. His gaze lingers, squinting through the haze of alcohol, and recognition slowly dawns on his face. He straightens up, well, as much as a guy like him can, and adjusts his jacket, trying to look somewhat presentable.

“Well, well, if it ain’t my guardian angel,” he says with a grin.

You raise an eyebrow, flicking the ash from your cigarette. “didn’t know angels had to drag drunks out of bars.”

Stan laughs, but it’s more of a low chuckle. “do I know you? I feel—“ he hiccups. “fuck, feel like I should know your name. . .”

“I never told you, dummy.”

Stan stares at you for a moment, processing that, and then he smiles wider. “Ah, right. Guess I can’t forget what I never knew.” he winks, but it’s sloppy, and you can’t help but smile back.

He takes a step toward you, leaning against the wall beside you. “Y’know, I gotta thank ya for payin’ for me back there. ‘Specially since that whiskey was crap. Worst I’ve had in years.”

You snort, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, and that’s why you drank all of it, right? real convincing, man.”

He chuckles again, running a hand through his brown hair. “What can I say? Gotta give every drink a fair shot. Even the bad ones.”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. The guy’s a mess, sure, but there’s something oddly charming about his complete lack of shame. He’s so human. Flawed and ridiculous, but human. And funny.

For a while, neither of you say much, just standing there under the night sky, the snow crunching beneath your feet as you walk slowly down the street. The cold bites at your skin, but it feels less harsh with him beside you, talking about nothing in particular. He rambles about the bar, about the bartender, about how he’s been kicked out of worse places, but there’s an ease to it, like he’s just talking to fill the silence.

And for some reason, you don’t mind it. His company is strangely nice. Despite everything.

As you walk, you glance over at him, still trying to figure out what it is about this guy that’s gotten under your skin. He’s weird, yeah. Definitely not what you’d call put-together. 

He catches your gaze and smirks, a little lopsided but softer this time. “What, you like what you see?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not even close.”

***

Over time, you start to see Stanford Stan more regularly. It's never planned, never some formal arrangement. He’s just there, outside that same dive bar, smoking under the dim streetlight or wandering down the streets with his red jacket pulled tight against the cold. And every time, you find yourself walking beside him, talking about nothing and everything.

It’s not like you’re close, not really. He doesn’t open up, never gives you much more than surface-level comments or dumb jokes to deflect anything too personal. You only know what he lets slip, and even that feels like more than you should. He insists his name is Stanford, though something about it always sounds. . . off. 

Stanley thinks he’s idiot. It’s a role he’s playing, a mask he’s not ready to take off, won’t take for for the next thirty years.

One night, after you’ve met up for what feels like the hundredth time, you finally ask him why he’s always drunk when you see him. It’s been bugging you for a while, how every time you meet, he reeks of whiskey and stale cigarettes, eyes glassy, speech slurred, sometimes flirting with you or winking dumbly at you. You’ve tried to ignore it, but tonight the question just slips out.

Stan pauses, cigarette halfway to his lips. You think he’s not going to answer, but then he takes a drag, exhaling slowly before speaking. “Helps me think,” he mutters. “keeps the noise out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Noise?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the wall, his eyes scanning the street. “Yeah. The crap up here. Some people got quiet minds, y’know? Not me. Gotta slow it down.”

It’s vague, cryptic. You don’t push for more. You’ve learned by now that pressing Stan doesn’t get you anywhere. He only shares what he wants, and even then, it’s always layered in something else, sarcasm, a joke, some offhand comment that makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s just him deflecting.

Nevertheless, there is something in the way he says it that does not leave you indifferent. The way he looks when he mentions his thoughts, as if there's something more hiding under the surface that booze and cigarettes can't hide. You wonder what’s rattling around in his brain, what kind of shit he’s trying so hard to drown out.

Time passes, and your strange friendship, or whatever it is, continues. Nothing changes. You meet up, you talk, you walk through the streets of Gravity Falls, smoking and trading stories. Stan makes jokes, you laugh, and somehow, despite everything, you find yourself growing more comfortable around him.

But he never lets you in, not really. You can only guess at what’s going on in his life, at what’s driving him to the bottom of a bottle every time you see him. It’s frustrating in a way, how closed off he is, how he seems determined to keep everything buried. There’s a part of him that’s afraid to let you see the real him, afraid to show just how broken he really is.

You start to ask him more personal questions, though he always dodges them with some half-assed joke. Like the time you asked him about his hair. His mullet, to be specific. It’s a mess, now unruly and overgrown, and you can’t help but wonder why the hell he refuses to cut it. 

“Why don’t you change a haircut?” you ask teasingly. “you look like you haven’t touched it in years.”

Stan just grins, flicking his cigarette into the street. “Ah, what can I say? Chicks dig the mullet.”

What you don’t know is that Stan’s too scared to look at himself in the mirror.

The way he avoids mirrors, the way his eyes flicker away if he catches his own reflection for even a second. It’s not about the hair, it’s about something deeper. Every time he sees his reflection, it’s not his face he sees, it’s Ford’s. If he cuts his hair, changes anything, he’s worried he’ll lose himself completely, that he’ll become the brother he’s spent his whole life running from. It’s not something he’d ever tell you, though. That’s way too deep for the guy who lives behind a wall of bad jokes and alcohol.

Stan never talks about his past. You’ve asked, but he always deflects with a joke or changes the subject. The most you’ve gotten out of him is when something goes wrong, he drops something, or his stupid car won’t start, or even when he just stumbles over his own feet. He’ll shake his head, muttering to himself, “Screw-up. Always been a screw-up.” It’s weird, like it’s the only thing he knows how to be.

It bothers you. You don’t get it. Yeah, he’s a mess, but this weird obsession with calling himself a screw-up, like it’s some kind of mantra, doesn’t make sense to you. You don’t know where it’s coming from, but every time he says it, you see a flash of something bitter in his eyes, like he’s heard those words so many times they’ve become part of him.

What you don’t realize is that those words are burned into him. His father used to call him a screw-up, over and over until it became his identity. And then there was Ford, his golden child of a brother, the smart one, the successful one. Stan’s always felt like the lesser of the two, never quite measuring up, always stuck in his brother’s shadow. He’s spent his whole life trying to live down to that title, like it’s all he’s worth. Stan was a kid, who heard those words over and over until they stuck, until he couldn’t see himself as anything else.

You can’t fix what’s already broken. But that doesn’t stop you from trying. Something about Stan makes you want to help, even though you know you can’t. He’s too far gone, too buried in his own mess. Still, you keep coming back. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of some sense of hope.

***

Another night, another round of drinks. The two of you sit at the bar, glasses clinking against the wood, the air is filled with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Stan’s already a few drinks in, and you’re not far behind. You laugh at something he says, probably another dumb joke, but you’re not really paying attention. Your mind is clouded, your body is hot from drinking, and before you know it, your gaze slides over his lips.

It’s stupid. You’re both drunk, and this is Stanford, the guy who can barely keep his life together, let alone maintain a relationship. But the way he looks right now, disheveled and messy, his lips curling into that cocky grin, makes your heart race.

His lips. Your lips. Apocalypse.

The kiss happens fast, messy, without warning. One minute you’re sitting there, and the next, his lips are on yours, rough and dry. It’s not graceful, not soft. It’s desperate, like he’s been holding something back for too long, and now it’s all spilling out at once.

The kiss deepens, but you don’t care. His mouth moves against yours, hungry, needy, like he’s searching for something, like that’s what he needed all those years. Human touch and someone else's warmth.

You’re both drunk, of course. Maybe that’s the only way it could’ve happened. 

Stan tastes like smoke and cheap liquor, the bitterness lingering on your tongue as his hands slide up your back, pulling you in. You can feel the heat of his body, the way his chest presses against yours.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is a mistake, stupid drunk accident. But then he kisses you harder, his hand tangling in your hair and all thoughts of logic fly out the window. This isn’t about fixing him. You don’t care about anything except the fact that Stanford, the complete disaster of a man you’ve somehow gotten tangled up with, is kissing you like the world’s about to end.

His hands are rough, clumsy as they cup your face, and it’s all heat and desperation, like neither of you know what the hell you’re doing, but you don’t want to stop.

You’re not sure how it happened so quickly, one second, you were sitting at the bar, laughing, your lips crashing into his, and now you’re pressed against the cold wall of the bathroom. The neon lights of the bar barely make their way out from under the door, flooding the room with a dim glow as Stan presses you against the sink.

Stan kisses like an animal, like he’s trying to lose himself in the moment, drown out everything that’s weighing on him. Like he’s searching for some kind of escape. The alcohol has dulled his brain, but not enough to make him forget. He needs something more, something real to pull him out of the relentless spiral of thoughts, of portals, journals and the constant gnawing guilt.

Stan needs to lose himself in something, anything else. And tonight, that something is you.

His big hands are on you, one sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair, tugging you even closer as he deepens the kiss. He groans into your mouth and you feel how his hard cock presses through his jeans as he pushes you against the sink in the bar's bathroom. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out, every nerve igniting under his touch, his mouth trailing down your jaw, leaving a scorching path along your skin.

You barely notice when the door creaks open, someone stepping into the small, dimly lit room.

“Bathroom’s occupied, unless you wanna watch, but that’ll cost you.” Stan snaps, irritated as he glares at the stranger. The man stutters away quickly and the door slams shut with a loud bang. 

Before you can say something, he’s kissing you again, hard, desperate, rough, demanding. 

You moan into his mouth, tangling your finger in his brown hair, tugging him closer, and the word slips out between your breaths. “Stanford. . .”

Stan freezes and that name seems to knock all the alcohol out of his blood. It feels like something heavy and wrong between you, Stan's gaze is blank, like he's not here at all. It’s his brother’s name, the one he’s stolen, the one he’s buried himself under. You look at him and see something in his eyes. Regret. Guilt. That endless pain that’s been eating at him for as long as he can remember. You don't know what's going on, but you want to solve this damn mystery so badly. What's wrong with this man?

But then it’s all gone, replaced by that cocky grin.

“Stan’s fine, sweetheart. Trust me.”

His hands fumble with your pants, yanking them down roughly, desperately, his fingers massaging and rubbing you through your underwear. You’re already soaking, practically trembling from his touch, and he groans when he feels it, his fingers sliding through your wetness.

“Shit, you’re so wet for me,” he growls. “fuckin’ perfect, baby.”

You moan, head tilting back, the sensation overwhelming as he slides two fingers inside you, rough and fast. He’s not gentle, not tonight, there’s no time for that, no point for that too. He’s desperate and it shows in the way his thick fingers pump into you, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit in the most delicious way.

“St-Stan—“ you moan, looking down at his fingers thrusting into you.

“Please, don’t say it, don’t say that name,”meanwhile, Stan thinks, hoping your drunken mind has figured it out.

“—fuck me,” your last words make him breathe a sigh of relief. Good girl. And then he’s yanking your panties down as he have you bent over the sink, your palms pressing into the cold porcelain and you barely have time to register the sound of his belt hitting the floor before you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he lines himself up. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, right now. And you’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”

You moan, nodding, pressing back against him, desperate for the stretch, to feel him inside you because your brain can't think of anything else but getting fucked hard in the bathroom of a bar. “Please, Stan— please, use me!”

And he obeys, slamming into you, burying himself deep in one rough, brutal thrust that actually hurts, but your drunk state doesn’t care much. You gasp, his cock fills you so completely you can barely breathe, you cry out, your body arching, but Stan's hand is holding you back, pressing on your back to keep you in place and he groans. It’s overwhelming you, a mix of pain and pleasure and you can’t stop moans that escapes your lips as he starts to move, his cock sliding in and out of you with rough thrusts.

“Huh, oh jesus fuck, baby, yer tight,” Stan grits out between ragged breaths, his voice hoarse. He pulls back only to slam into you again, harder this time, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal rhythm that has you gasping. 

“Staaann—!” you whimper his real name again, your fingers gripping the edge of the sink for dear life, his cock so deep it’s like he’s claiming every part of you. “Oh, fuck-fuck-fuck!”

“my fucking god, baby,” he groans, his dick hitting that spot deep inside you that has your body trembling. His fingers find your clit, rubbing in quick circles as he fucks you harder. “you feel so fuckin’ good, doll, so tight around my cock.”

Of course, there's a mirror hanging over the sink, and Stan glances up, wanting to see your fucked-out expression, how gorgeous your face looks when he's pounding into you like this. But, almost spitefully, his eyes land on himself instead. He wants to look away, he should look away, but something makes him stop. For the first time in years, the reflection staring back at him is someone else. Not his twin. Not his nerdy brother. No, not Stanford. Ford would never end up like this. Never get so fucking dirty.

Stan sees himself for what he is. What he's become. Hair disheveled, drunk, filthy, fucking in a bar bathroom. Ford would never be like this. Stan, you piece of shit, you're a disgrace to your brother's name, Stanley thinks.

But then your moans reach his ears, pulling him back, reminding him where he is. Thank God the bar music is loud enough to cover you. He blinks, realizing he's let the pace slip, and his hands tighten on your hips, his grip hard enough to bruise, grounding himself.

You’re a mess of moans and gasps, your body shaking, your warm walls tightening around him as the pleasure builds. “Stan— fuck, I’m gonna—”

Stan leans into you as much as the position allows, one hand tangling in your hair, tugging hard enough to make the roots sting, though in your drunken haze, you barely even feel it.

“Do it,” he growls, his breath hot against your neck. “Cum for me. I wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

And you do, the orgasm rips through you, your body convulsing as you cry out, your walls squeezing around him what makes Stan groan, his fingers digging into your hips, thrusting harder, faster, chasing his own release. You can feel him throbbing inside you and then he’s pulling out, his hand wrapping around his cock as he strokes himself, his cum spilling hot and thick onto your skin.

***

The days began to stretch into weeks. Time wasn’t something you paid attention to anymore, not since that night. You could still feel him sometimes, his rough hands ghosting over your skin, the taste of whiskey and cigarettes lingering long after he’d left, his groans, the way he said your name. It hadn’t been anything gentle or romantic that night, just bodies lost in drunken hunger. And after that, you hadn’t seen much of him since, not like before.

You couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that night had ruined something between you. Maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he’d felt nothing, and you’d been stupid to think it could’ve been anything more. The way his lips had pressed against yours, hungry, desperate, hadn’t felt like love. He was drunk, did he even know who he was kissing? Your anxiety was growing, your thoughts were fighting one another. It wasn’t love. It had been something else entirely, it was raw and messy. You knew it wasn’t love, just a night. It wasn’t tender or slow; there were no whispered promises of endless love, marriage, kids, whatever “all happy” people have. Just a desperate fuck, not some grand confession of feelings. Whatever had been between you before — it felt like it was ruined, as if that thing in the bathroom had burned everything else to ash.

Stanford had disappeared, leaving you with silence and your own thoughts, and you believed that he regretted it. Maybe it was just too much for him. 

However, Stanley, he couldn’t shake the feeling of your lips on his, the way they were so warm, because no one had ever kissed him with that kind of passion before. He wasn’t used to that, to being touched like that. His entire life, he believed nobody really liked him. Not like this. Hell, even his own family had given up on him at some point. Except for his mom, she’d always tried to love him, even when he couldn’t love himself. 

He tried to ignore the way his chest ached when he thought about you, tried to drown it out with more cigarettes, more drinks, he tried, but failed because nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. Stan was getting attached to you, he knew it, even when he didn’t want to admit it. Even without alcohol, without the nicotine to calm his nerves, he knew he wanted you and your presence. It wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper, something that scared the fuck out of him because he wasn’t used to it. And maybe that’s why he’d been avoiding you. Because how the hell was he supposed to deal with feelings he didn’t even know how to name? Stan always felt that people didn’t love him, they tolerated him.

With you, for the first time in a long time, Stan had felt like he mattered. Like he was seen.

It scared him a lot.

***

Spring came early that year, and with it, the world outside the window seemed to come to life. Gravity Falls blossomed with colors you hadn't noticed before — the world is painted in bright greens and soft pastel tones, flowers made their way through the ground, as if the whole town was shaking off the cold and waking up. And that's when you saw him again.

You weren’t expecting to run into Stanford like this, not here, not in daylight, when spring is blooming around you. He was standing at the edge of the road, hands shoved into his pockets, a slight frown on his face like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be here. But then his eyes met yours and he didn’t look away this time.

There was no alcohol, no bar lights casting shadows on his face. Just sober Stan, the man who had kissed you with so much need that it had nearly broken you.

“Hey,” he called out and you immediately responded with excited “hi!” you smiled, he stood there, waiting for you to come closer. When you did, there was a long pause, neither of you quite sure what to say. His eyes flicked down nervously and you noticed it then, the subtle change, not too noticeable. Had he fixed his mullet a bit? It wasn’t much, but it was. . . cleaner. Neater, like he’d put in just a little more effort. Like maybe he had been planning on running into you.

“Uh, you wanna grab some coffee or somethin’?” Stan asked, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool, but the way he shifted on his feet betrayed him. He was nervous. Actually nervous. You hadn’t seen that in him before. “I figured we could, ya know, talk. Maybe. If that’s somethin’ you wanna do, of course.”

You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

That’s how two of you ended in a small café nearby, the conversation light at first, both of you avoiding that specific term about. . . Doesn’t matter. 

It was much easier to talk about the weather, or the weirdness of Gravity Falls, or how spring had made the town feel alive again. But every now and then, your eyes would meet and you exchanged awkward laughs and smiles.

“So, uh. . . I gotta ask,” Stan started. “did ya notice somethin’ different?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think for a moment before grinning. “Your hair? you mean you actually put effort into it?”

He smiled back at you. “Yeah, well, figured I’d try to clean up a bit. Y’know, look a little less like a bum.”

You laughed, feeling warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a small thing, but it felt significant to you. Like he’d actually cared enough to try for you, impress you maybe. And that meant more than you could say.

***

Nights bled into days and days slipped back into nights. Time seemed to blur together, the moon swapped places with the sun over and over. And here you were, tangled in the sheets of Stan’s bed, staring at the ceiling, while the moonlight filtered through the triangle-shaped window, the soft glow of it lays over your face, feels like the world outside was holding its breath just for you.

Things between you and Stan had shifted in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t quick or loud. At end, Stan let you get closer, but piece by piece, he was afraid you might notice if he let you too far in all at once.

The first time Stanley let you hug him, really hug him, was late in night. You weren’t sure how it had happened, it wasn’t planned, you reached for him first. You didn’t even think about it, just pulled him close. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him carefully at first, waiting for him to tell you to stop. But he didn’t. Stan stiffened at first, because the idea of being held was foreign to him, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do. Then his face buried against your shoulder, and at first, you thought he was just tired, resting, taking what he needed and nothing more. But then you felt it. The dampness against your skin.

You realized with a sinking heart that Stan was crying.

It wasn’t loud. No sobs, no gasping breaths. Just silent bitter tears soaking through your shirt, his grip tightening on you like he was afraid you might disappear, just like his brother. His body trembled slightly, now he couldn’t hide anymore. It broke something in you, seeing him like this, this man felt so small in your arms. 

He clung to you like a child, because no one had held him in years. No one, no one had hugged him like this since he left his family.

You sighed and held him tighter, feeling his tears soak into your skin. Stan wasn’t just crying about tonight, he was crying for all the years he’d spent running, for all the times he’d pushed people away because it was easier than getting hurt. He was crying because, for the first time in so long, someone was holding him, and it wasn’t just physical, it reminded him of what it felt like to be cared for. To not be alone. 

Your hand gently stroking the back of his head, letting him melt into you like the child he probably hadn’t been allowed to be in years. Decades, maybe. For the first time, Stan didn’t feel like the tough man you knew him as. He felt small, fragile, like he was that little boy again, the one who had been left behind, pushed out of his family and told to figure it all out on his own.

Stanley pulled back, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand, embarrassed as he looked down. But you didn't give him time to think again and regret his actions, you didn’t let him feel that shame for long. You reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table, handing one to him without a word. Stan took it and you lit it for him, the soft click of the lighter the only sound in the room.

You sat together in that silence of the night, both of you smoking. You weren’t drunk this time and that made everything feel more real, clear. It wasn’t about the cigarettes, though. It was the quiet between you, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward. Stan wasn’t running anymore, he could finally relax, finally let himself breathe. 

He looked up at the night sky, at the Milky Way stretching above you and smiled then, just a little, but it was there. A real, sincere smile. You hadn’t seen that on him before, not like this. It wasn’t the cocky grin he wore after dumb compliments or the smirk that followed some joke. This was softer. Stanley stared at the stars, his eyes reflecting the distant light and you wondered what he was thinking about. But while he was smiling, you were calm. 

Stanford, real Stanford, he’s always been somewhere up there. In the stars, in the galaxies, in other world, always lost in science and mathematics, in things Stanley never really understood.

Nights passed like this more often, where it wasn’t about the rush of everything. He didn’t have to keep running anymore, didn’t have to keep pretending he didn’t care. He’d gotten soft around you in a way that surprised both of you, but it felt right. He could relax now. He could let himself be vulnerable.

One night, after the smoking had long stopped, after the silence had stretched between you in that comfortable way again, the two of you ended up in his bed. Not in the desperate lust way you had before, but in a way that felt natural. Like this was where you both belonged, in each other’s arms.

Stan was lying on your chest, his head resting against you as you calmingly ran your fingers through his hair, the brown strands slipping through your hands. He let out a long, contented sigh, relaxing into your touch. 

You felt his breath against your skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest in sync with yours, and that made you understand just how fragile he really was. He never was the tough guy he always tried to be. Stanley Pines was was just a man trying to figure out how to feel again.

Stan’s arms wrapped loosely around you, holding on but not out of desperation this time. Just out of comfort. Out of need.

You smiled softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, Stan.”

And for the first time, he believed it and smiled.

***

It wasn’t in Stan’s nature to lay everything out in some big, romantic gesture, not now. This will happen later when he gets older, much older. So there was no official conversation, no ‘what are we now?’ that hung awkwardly in the air.

It happened one evening, at dusk, because at this time of day people always become more sincere and honest, the two of you sitting on the back porch, sharing the silence in the way you’d grown to love. He had that usual cigarette between his lips, the glow of the ember flickering in the dark and you were watching the stars. That's when he said it, which in his language meant “I love you”: 

“I think I like you best when you’re just with me and no one else.”

That was his way of telling you. You didn’t need him to say the word love. You understood him well enough by now to know that what he felt was real and that was all you needed. 

You didn’t ask him to clarify, didn’t push for more. Stan was never someone you could push. Instead, you waited. You knew he would tell you everything in time. He just needed to get there on his own, at his own pace. 

Sometimes he’d disappear into the lab, working on some thing he barely explained, shrugging it off with that typical grumble about science and mathematics. “It’s all bullshit anyway,” he’d say, tossing his hands in the air. “I ain’t ever understood that crap.”

“Not like my brother, he’s the smart one.” Stanley continued in his thoughts. 

Then you started noticing the small changes. The way the bottles that once cluttered his desk and the corners of the shack were fewer now. He still drank, yeah, but not like before. He wasn’t drowning himself in it anymore. It was like he was learning, little by little, how to exist without that forever haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, feelings and memories.

Stan was still scared though. He was scared of a lot of things, scared you’d leave, scared you’d find out something about him and realise you couldn’t stay. And then there were the nightmares. The ones he never talked about, but they were all the same, repeating every time. You’d wake in the middle of the night to find him tense beside you, his breathing uneven, his hands gripping the sheets as though he was trying to hold on to something slipping away. 

That haunted him. The portal, always the portal. He’d never say it, at least not now. He’s not ready yet. He’s terrified that somehow, you’d be pulled into it too, just like Ford. That one day you’d be gone and he’d be alone again, abandoned forever. 

But when your lips touches his in slow kiss, when you brush your fingers through his messy hair and kiss his forehead, all these fears are washed away. You’d hold him close, feel his body relax against yours and slowly, slowly, his breathing would steady as the nightmares faded. There he stops dreaming about portals and disappearances. Instead, he sleeps deeply, peacefully, like a normal human being.

In the mornings, he’d stay in bed longer than you, his eyes still closed when you slipped out from under the covers. He’d stretch, arms reaching out lazily, that rough voice of his so sleepy. “Sweetheart, come right back,” he’d mumble. “i’ve been waitin’ for you to slip back in bed.” he’d smile when he’d feel your warm body next to his.

That’s what made you fall in love with him harder.

The way he was always a bit softer in the mornings, not yet fully awake and not needing to be. He wasn’t running anymore. Not from you, not from himself. For the first time in what felt like forever, Stan was learning what it meant to just be. To exist in the quiet moments. He still smoked, but it wasn’t to escape anymore, it was just a part of him, something familiar, habit. 

Stanley had spent so much of his life running, from his past, from laws, cops, states, from his brother, from his mistakes. But with you, for the first time, he wasn’t running anymore. He was staying.

[soulc-hilde]

Ch. 05 - Locked Down

Pairing: Jey Uso / Josh Fatu x Aries / Ezmeralda Bey

Synopsis: Devoted to her craft and her family, WWE Superstar Ezmeralda has a library of accolades accomplished on her own and by the side of her family like never before. As she leads the Women's Revolution to glory, romance seems to find her at the most unexpected moment... in the ring.

Warning(s): SFW, OC is a black woman, swearing, WWE-canon violence, Non-scripted fights, body shaming, body insecurities, WWE's consistant misogyny is blatant until later chapters, etc.

Cross-posted: Wattpad

Ch. 01 | Ch. 02 | Ch. 03 | Ch. 04 | Ch. 05

Atlanta, GA 

Unfortunately, Ezmeralda couldn't attend Jojo and Eva's housewarming party as she originally planned to spend time with her family and spend some time with a certain man. For the afternoon, the triplets had set out to teach their eldest nephew, Leon, how to drive and out of all the cars they had, Ezmeralda's had to suffer.

And to think, she just replaced the breaks on her Ford F-150. 

The custom painted evergreen and silver accented truck was filled with Ezmeralda, Ezra, Ezekiel, Leon, and their older brother and his father - Elijah while Josh and their other older brother, Emry, sat in the bed. Pulling into the empty parking lot, the boys begin to set up their own course of cones while Ezmeralda turns on the cameras.

Once everything was set, they begin the video with Ezmeralda in the passenger seat as Leon takes over the driver seat. Emry and Josh sit in the backseat while Ezekiel and Ezra sit in the bed of the truck. 

"Alright, nephew," Ezmeralda starts. "If you can drive a pickup truck, you can drive damn near any car on the planet. Now, with my truck, the gear shift is in the steering column. That is known as a column shift, not every car has this design, but the function is universal. You just grab and pull down."

Leon nods, "okay." 

She points at his feet. "There are only two pedals. On the left is the brake which your foot's already on and the gas is on the right." Emry cuts in, "no, the brake's not... what?" 

Josh laughs, trying to appear relaxed. "Nope, she's right. Brake's on the left, gahdamn."  "Yuh," she resumes her lecture. 

"So, when you remove your foot from the brake, the car will move. Not full throttle, but it will roll forward. Go ahead and give it a little, right now." He begins to press on the gas, forgetting to shift the vehicle into drive. The engine revs, its healthy growl was loud and deep as it settles in their bones.

"Oh, it's still in park," Emry notes. "Ok, a little rev. Little rev. How'd that feel though?" Leon laughs, "that felt like it was about to take off."

Ezmeralda shakes her head, "gahlee, you got a heavy ass foot. I know y'all felt that shit." The two men laugh, Josh's eyes widening with fear he tried so hard to play off. "What you mean did we feel that? Hell yeah!"

"Aye, son," Emry leans forward, tapping Leon on the shoulder. "You remember that episode in Spongebob? Where they were like 'big toe. Only the big toe?' You gotta do that, son. Do that, just your big toe." 

"America," Ezmeralda huffs, rubbing her face with frustration. "We gon' die. And I just fixed my truck, too!" 

Ezekiel and Ezra sit in the bed, chewing on honey buns while singing: "Guess who's gonna die, tonight? Uh, die tonight."

Ezmeralda's House

After spontaneously gaining the car back with no markings and unanimously declaring that Leon could not drive until he's reached the age of 40 which is a good age seeing as the whole Bey crew would be dead and gone, Ezmeralda and Josh decided to have a little date night to about, well, them.

"So," Josh starts, sipping some of the peach flavored Moscato. "When you think about us and our relationship, where do you see us? What do you see?"

Keeping her eyes on her plate, Ezmeralda nods and takes the moment to answer. "I can see myself being happy when I think of us. I don't know if it's because of how long we knew each other or what, but there's an unsaid understanding between us. Like, I know what you're thinking or feeling before you even say a word and vice versa."

"Before you, I never thought of myself with someone and felt real happiness and infatuation," her voice falls into a whisper as her face slowly begins to turn red. "Seeing the way you get along with my family, treating them as if they're yours and the way you don't judge me for my career and my looks. I just... I feel loved."

Josh grins, taking a hold of her hand from across the table. "Baby, gon'head and look at me," he coos. Once her toffee brown eyes meet his dark ones, he begins to speak. 

"Ezmeralda, since like '08, you've been my rock. Now, don't tell Jonathan that cause he'll throw a fuss, but from the moment we stepped into FCW and you became our mentor, I'd fallen in love with you." Her eyebrows raise, ellicting a soft chuckle.

He shrugs, "I already had a little celebrity crush on you beforehand, but seeing you in person, watchin' you work in the ring, and getting to actually have a conversation with Ezzie - The Chaotic Beauty instead of Aries - The Future Hall of Famer... I knew I had to make you mine."

"It for sure doesn't help that our families are so connected, girl, you can't get rid of me even if you tried," Josh giggles. "I know being vulnerable ain't your thing and expressing yourself like this is something new, but I want you to know that I see you. I see the effort you put in letting me know that you're feeling me, too. I see you opening your heart for me despite your fear. And I appreciate you, okay?"

A tear escapes down her cheek as she nods. Josh's grin, if possible, stretches even further as he walks around the table and pulls her into a hug. "I appreciate you, boo," he pecks her on the forehead. "And I love you." She whispers in his chest, voice trembling with her tears. "I love you, too."

"Joshua," she sighs, a timid smile taking over. "As a little girl, I've always wanted to find happiness like parents have and that includes their marriage, you know? And for the longest, I could never find it. I never found someone who looked at me like I was something valuable or treated me like so. I was always too masculine or aggressive or looking for too much - hell, there's one who complained that my family and I was too close!" 

Ezmeralda bites her lip, "and for a long time, I believed that my career was going to be my first and my last love. I even made a to-do list of accolades I wanted to do before I retired or died, but meeting Josh was like a blessing, I guess. My first love introducing me to, probably, the love of my life. I'd say that it's very poetic."

After dinner, the two were cuddling on the couch, watching tv. "Since TJ and Nattie's bachelor party's comin' up and we're officially locked in," Josh jokes with a light giggle. "How do you wanna go about the vacation?"

"For one, we can definitely share a room," Ezmeralda hums. "Ezra's bringing Charlene, rightfully taking personal time for themselves from the kids, while Ezekiel's a freak. I'on't, no, we're not kids being forced to share a room anymore." Josh laughs, shaking his head at the adorable yet disgusted grimace that takes over her round features. 

"Okay, what else?" He laughs. She adds on, "we can fly out together. Instead of us meeting down there, you can just bring your bags over here and then we can leave together." 

He nods, "say less. I'll probably start packing either tomorrow or the day after." Josh leans more of his body weight onto her as an exaggerated pout shifts onto his face. "You gon' help me, boo? You know, I forget things. Please?" 

"Yes, yes," she laughs, pushing him off. "All up on me." He kisses his teeth, side eyeing her. "Girl, please. You love when all this delicious caramel is all up on you," he rubs up and down his puffed out chest. 

Ezmeralda snorts, her head falling back as the outburt switches into a hyena laugh. "Get away from me before I kick you out my house, JJ!" He shakes his head, smiling. "Nah, come on and get you some girl. Last night, you couldn't get enough," he begins climbing on top of her as she screams, laughing. 

"Omg! Josh!" She laughs. She wraps her thick thighs around his waist and her arm around the back of his neck, rolling their bodies off the couch. He begins fake choking, arms wiggling as he goes to tap out. "Nah, go to sleep. Take yo' Niquil."

Las Vegas, NV

Touching down in Vegas, both the bride and groom's parties road to the hotel in a shared limosine. As they infiltrate the hotel, rowdy and disturbing the poor patrons, they make their way to Natalya and TJ's room. The room was decked out with a bar and an open space living room where everyone settled for the moment. 

Josh and Ezmeralda sit down at the table as Jojo and Justin check out the shower room with a stripper pole incorporated in the center while Bri and Nikki sit with Bryan, accidentally popping open the bottle of champagne. Ezra and his fiance, Charlene, sat beside, laughing at the chaos that surrounds them.

Nikki starts a quick toast, "oh, here's to boners, shit. Bachelor and bachelorette, yay!" Everyone laughs, joining in. 

After everyone settled into their rooms, they decided to head down to soak in the pool. Ezmeralda was dressed in an emerald bikini with gold accents, the swimsuit came in a set with a sheer skirt, and matching flip flops. Her and Charlene walk side by side, flanked by Josh, Ezekiel, and Ezra. Both of their men kept an arm around their waists, eyeing down any man who dared look their way. Ezekiel, on the other hand, trailed after them mindlessly as his hands rub over his pecs and his torso, hoping he didn't appear ashy. 

The group settles beside Trinity and Jon's shared layout. While Jon, Ezra, and Ezekiel set out for the water, Josh lays beside Ezmeralda, his eyes staring her down. "Look at you," he hums, moving his sunglasses up. "All glowy, girl yeh look goodt."

She laughs, nudging him with her shoulder. "Boy, hush," she playfully scolds. He shakes his head, "you want me to be quiet while you here, lookin' like a full course Michelin Star meal."

He leans over her ear, "I won't lie, though. Some folks got one more time to be starring like they got eye problems or else they really gone need that vision checked." She snorts, smacking his chest, "ignore them. At the end of the day, you the one that finna eat this meal."

"Oh," he leans back, eyebrows raised. "Is that so?" She raises her eyebrows, shrugging. "Depends... if you're hungry." He cheeses, nodding. "Girl, I'm always hungry." 

She shakes her head, "well you just ate breakfast this morning, so you gone have to wait. In the meantime, gon'head and take yo' ass for a swim. You look dehydrated." Charlene snorts, leaning away from them as Ezmeralda lightly pushes the younger Fatu away from her.

Pre-Game | Hotel

Everyone was dressed and back in the party room, pre-gaming before the parties were to separate for the night. Ezmeralda dressed in a dark purple dress that stops at the knee with a cheeky slight on the side, the top of the dress was off the shoulder with thin long sleeves and paired with black booties. They all cheer Nattie to take a shot before mingling.

Trinity, Ariane, Nikki, Charlene, and Ezmeralda sit on the couch beside Bri, talking. "So, are we gonna see Bri Mode, tonight?" Trin asks. The twin smirks, "maybe not tonight," before taking a sip of her champagne. 

Ariane and Ezmeralda laugh while Trinity groans. "She's like, 'maybe not tonight,'" Ariane mimics the Bella twin, the group laughing. 

TJ calls for a toast, raising his pink solo cup. "A toast to Natalie Neidhart, who has definitely kept me level," everyone 'aw's at his moment of vulnerability. "And from flying off the deep end. And, the one person who's the reason I'm still here and still kicking, so..." Everyone raises their glasses, sending their praises for the childhood sweethearts. 

Nikki then stands, walking off to the side. "I'm sorry, but, us girls, are getting ready to go to Chippendale and we can't be late for the show. We love you guys, but you gotta go." 

Josh shakes his head, arms gripping Ezmeralda's waist. "Y'all really kickin' us out, twin." Nikki shrugs, laughing, in response. Josh turns to the older woman, pecking her on the lips repeatedly. "You just gone let her kick us out?" 

Ezmeralda shrugs, laughing, "aye, that ain't my fight, Uce." He playfully glares at her, pinching at her sides. "Girl, shut up and give me my kiss." She does so, laughing against his lips. "Be safe, alright? And call me if you need, I love you."

"I will and I love you," she whispers, gently backing away. She watches as he leaves out the door with the rest of the men, trying to ignore Trinity's bouncing eyebrows.

While Jojo couldn't participate in the activities because of her age and Eva personally stayed away from alcohol, the two decided to just walk around and enjoy each other's company while the others partied and enjoy the show. As the night continues, Bri becomes lost in the alcohol and the music as her, Nikki, and Ariane dance on top of the mini tables in the section. She even ran across the couch with the drink in hand. 

"Oh, Lord," Ezmeralda laughs, shaking her head as Nikki falls off the couch. Trinity shakes her head, "y'all we gotta wrestle next week." 

Before the girls... Bri, could get too far gone, they decided to retreat back to the bachelorette room where they continued to drink and have fun in a safer space. Bri and Ezmeralda sit beside Natalya, noticing that her mood turned dark quick. 

"I don't know what it is," Natalya laughs, "but Brie, Ezzie, please don't get mad at me.  I know you guys are gonna get so mad. But, I honestly can't get Jaret out of my mind. I don't know what it is and what's wrong with me?"

Both women's faces drop, eyes slightly widening at the bomb. They don't say anything yet, allowing the woman to continue. "I don't know why, but I wanna text back and Nicole told me not to text back. But I already have."

"This is your bachelorette party," Brie points out. Nattie takes a seat, "Yeah, I feel so overwhelmed to be honest. I feel like there's nobody on the planet that I love more than TJ. Bit, I feel like I'm not ready for it." Her phone vibrates. 

Brie and Ezmeralda follow her to the master bedroom. "What's wrong with me?" She asks, eyes tearing up. "Like, I wanted to have this fairytale wedding, but part of me is like so scared." 

"When we were seeing the Chippendales, I was not looking forward to it. But when we went there, it was something fun, right?" Brie speaks. "The way the guys looked at you and it was like... ugh and you're just like, 'whoa.' You feel wanted. And you just feel like, 'wow, in these guys' eyes, we're it.' And that's what Jaret's making you feel."

Ezmeralda chimes in, nodding. "Nattie, you and TJ have been rocking with one another for 13 years," her eyebrows raise, "there's some marriages that don't even last that long, but y'all have. You guys have spent so much of your lives with one another, that a part of you becomes jumpy when this new spark of attention is given to you."

"Once TJ had his injury, your relationship took a bump and he wasn't willing to actually hear you. Instead, he kept shoving you onto the back burner. So, when a guy like Jaret comes through and he's saying all these nice things, he's giving you the attention that TJ should be."

Nattie nods, "and it's funny to me because no matter how many times, Jaret tells me all these nice things, at the end of the day, it's just TJ that I love. A part of me, though, feels like, scared to totally seal the deal."

"And you have the right to be," Ezmeralda smiles. "For all these years, you both had the opportunity to leave one another. Try to find someone else to start over with, but you didn't because y'all are meant for each other. With marriage, that's not something you can just get up and leave when things become tough."

Nattie nods, wiping her face. "I think I'm just becoming overwhelmed with everything." Ezmeralda nods, "that's okay, I'ma head to my room with Josh. Have a goodnight, Nattie."

Ezmeralda makes her way out, reaching the hotel room. Unlocking the door with her card, she walks in, trying to be as silent as possible with every step. Just as she turns the corner to the bed, Josh's body flashes from behind the wall as he screams. Her body freezes, leaping in the air as a delayed shout explodes from her lungs. 

"Oh my God," she pants, hand over her heart as it pulses against her ribs. Josh laughs, clapping his hands before pulling the woman into his chest. "I'm sorry, mamas. I'm sorry, I had to."

Calming down as her soul returns to her body, she sends a chop to his chest, teeth gritted together. "Joder tu madre, cabron!" She curses as he laughs, following her to the bed. "I'm sorry, baby!" He apologizes once again, collapsing on the bed beside her.

"How was your night?" He asks, lightly stroking her exposed thigh. She smiles, "it was good. Brie went into Brie Mode, I ain't never seen someone run across a couch with heels on and a full cup of liquor in hand." 

He laughs, shaking his head at the image that pops into his head. "Y'all was cutting up, huh?" She shakes her head, "I was not cutting up, sir. Do not add me into that equation, I was innocent."

He hums in disbelief, pulling her in closer. "However, I ain't worried about all that. Since you back and we both got some energy left, how about that meal I was promised? What's on the menu?"

She hums, making her way to her feet, slowly stripping herself from the dress. "The chef has yet to prepare the food, sir. Not even the meat has been cleaned." He jumps to his feet, "don't even worry about the mean. Salmonella ain't never killed nobody."

"Shut up!" She laughs, backing up for the bathroom. "Just wait, it won't take long, just like 20-30 minutes." He takes slow steps forward, "nah. I want my meal now." He goes to lunge but she evades him, ducking into the bathroom.

As she goes to shut the door, he bursts through, arms wrapping around her naked waist. "Joshua!" She screams as he kicks the door closed. 

◼︎◼︎◼︎

How are we liking the story so far? I've always wanted to do a fanfic based off of Total Divas since I got into wrestling, but nobody was making Jey Uso fics except for like a few quick imagines on Tumblr.

I'm happy that my man is getting his shine in the spotlight; however, it's coming at a great cost because he still has yet to win a solo match for a solo title whereas Baby Fatu is spearheading a main event storyline with Roman, chasing after the title and he's only been in the main roster for about a year, I think. 

Like, what's the purpose of being Main Event Jey Uso if y'all not finna give him a winning chance? He's leaving his family for damn near 5 days a week to put that work in and nothing to say for it except the crowd reception. 

And don't even get me started on the rumors folks have been starting about his marriage. Like, Ms. Takecia has never been one to have her face all up in a camera even before Jey's big solo push. Even at events such as HOF, there's photos on Pinterest of her posing with Trinity and Galina, but there's none of her being caught on live camera because she's not into it. 

But she was there by Jey's side in one of those WWE vlogs, her and both of his sons. Leave that family alone and stop making lies about his marriage because Takecia is that man's high school sweetheart and doesn't owe y'all her damn appearance. She's living her life as a wife and a mother, leave them alone!

[wyn-n-tonic]

I Don't Count

Word Count: 1,479 Warnings: Drinking. Mentions of a car accident (briefly). Soft caretaker baby Will Miller. It's just fluffy. Author's Note: Fully formed this out of my need for a hug and comfort and decided I wanted to write it for the only blonde haired, blue eyed man I'd ever let get in these guts.

MASTERLIST

The Millers still had a landline. Of course they did. Benny’s big brother was very staunch about his boundaries. If he wasn’t going out after work, his cellphone went off as soon as he walked across the threshold. If you needed to reach him for any reason after that, you could call the house phone.

“But it better be a goddamn emergency,” he’d always say.

She bit her thumbnail as it rang, leg bouncing to a nonsensical rhythm. A drumming only she could hear. Once, twice. It was her last ditch effort to reach her best friend, to hear his voice telling her everything is okay. Three times and,

“Hello?”

Not Benny.

She contemplates hanging up, her voice stuck somewhere in her chest. This was most certainly not an emergency no matter what the bottle she’d been nursing had to say about it. But she can’t. Can’t speak. Not to Will, not about this.

Can’t let the phone fall from her ears. Can’t even breathe.

“Shane,” he sounds concerned, “are you okay?”

“I uh—“ the breath releases, “I was looking for Benny.”

A small laugh on the other end, “it’s Tuesday, Sunshine, he’s at the gym.”

Sunshine, his nickname for her. It started out as Sunshane but he got pissed at the autocorrect of his own brain, stopped fighting it after a while.

A sharp sound rings through, a whistle to get her attention.

“You didn’t answer my question,” it’s warm, “are you okay?”

She sniffs, “yeah, Billy—“

Another laugh, both disbelieving and amused, “you can’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

“Just…” another swig, “have Benny call me when he gets home, okay?”

“Are you drinking?” Not amused.

“I’m an adult, Miller, I drink.” It’s harsh.

“Yeah,” another disbelieving laugh, this time at your boldness, “but you sound like shit. Why are you drinking?”

Because I’m forcing my feelings for you onto others and I have the gall to be shocked when it blows up in my face.

“Look,” she’s pacing the kitchen, “just have Benny give me a call when he gets home. I’m really sorry t—“

“Did that fucking boyfriend do something?”

There it is, the sob she’d been swallowing.

“Give me half an hour,” he whispers down the line, “I’ll have my cell if you need anything, okay?” —————

The bottle’s gone when there’s a knock at the door.

She jumps but settles back against the couch, believing it must be coming from somewhere deep within the wine soaked sponge of her brain.

But there it is again, “it’s me, Sunshine,” coming from the other side.

She stands too quickly, blood rushing to her head as her right foot struggles to come back to life. He knocks again, nothing if not persistent.

“Don’t make me bust down this door, you know I can do it.”

She fumbles with the chain lock with wildly inebriated fingers, scratching desperately with her nails to get it through that little fucking hole. It springs free and she’s working at the deadbolt, much simpler, before throwing the door wide to the man on the other side.

“Would you really have busted down my door, Miller?” She slurs out, ever the lightweight.

He shrugs, “yeah but… I would’ve built you a new one so…”

“What's that?” She notices the bags for the first time, swinging idly at his side.

“I figured you were about halfway through the bottle earlier when you called, based on how the swish of liquid sounded on the pho—“

She rolls her eyes, “it's fucking creepy how you do that.”

“—so I brought cheeseburgers.”

She launches unsteadily toward him, wrapping her arms around his midsection.

“May I come in?”

His scent fills her senses, fresh laundry and a hint of Tom Ford as she nods against his broad chest.

Letting go, she stumbles back into the tiny apartment, the couch taking over the entire wall of the living room, and plops back down with her feet tucked under her as she makes grabby hands for the bag in Will’s hand.

He catches her out of his peripheral while he refastens the lock on the door, “can you be patient?”

“Absolutely not,” she whines out, “I'm starving.”

He toes his shoes off at the door and pads to the front of the couch, in front of her, and kneels down. He reaches into the bag and hands her a burger, “I got you two singles because I know you feel self conscious when you try to eat a double. Even when you’re alone.”

“But I’m not alone,” she mumbles through a bite, wrapper torn in half as soon as it touched her hands.

“I don’t count, I’m just Will.”

She almost chokes at that, because he does count.

“I'm really not trying to deep throat a fucking Big Mac in front of my best friend’s older brother.”

“Oh,” he stands and kisses the top of her head, “Is that all I am?”

Absolutely not.

She watches him walk into the kitchen, the clinking of glass and the sound of the tap rushing back out to meet her.

Thoughts swim in her drunk mind, the events of the day—the phone call, the fight, the follow up text messages. Colin’s raised voice still ringing through her ears as he accused her, “I don’t know if it’s Will or Ben but you’re fucking one of them and I’m done!”

“You wanna tell me what happened?” He’s soft, pulling the wrapper from her hands and pushing a glass of water in place of it.

“Um, ya know,” she swallows hard around the lump building in her throat again, “just what typically happens with men in my life.”

He looks defeated, apologetic. Colin’s not the first to accuse her of being with a Miller. It’s been a theme of the last three—Ryan, John, Adam—and this makes four. Four men that William Miller wishes he could add to his confirmed kills list.

That’s not what she wants to hear right now though, no matter how safe his words of protection always make her feel. Because it doesn’t matter.

“I'm sorry,” his heavy hand falls on the bare skin of her calf, sending a bolt of electricity through her body.

She was relieved.

Colin wasn’t right but he wasn’t far off from the truth she’s been hiding.

She’s in love with William Miller.

“Hey, Sunshine” his rough thumb across the smooth skin guides her back, “where are you?”

The alcohol has her still, a looseness in the hurt of her heart that makes up her mind before she fully realizes the words are already coming out of her mouth.

“He’s not wrong, Billy. None of them have really been wrong.”

He laughs, fingers stilled on her leg and she is aching for the movement to return as his stare seeps through her pores.

“You and Benny got something you need to tell me?”

Her breath is shaky.

She trails her fingers along his wrist before placing her palm on the back of his. Now or never.

“I think it’s more like you and I have something to tell Benny.”

He pulls away, blue eyes piercing through her, “you're drunk, Shane.”

“Just enough to not give a shit anymore,” she whispers, lifting herself up to her knees and pressing closer to him, “I know how we look at each other, Will.”

“Benny will kill us.”

She giggles, “I’ve been to his fights, my money’s on you.”

His heart swells as his laughter jumps up to meet hers. This is the first time they’ve been alone together, properly alone, since he realized his love ran deeper than that of just a friend.

When he realized on the last mission that he just really missed the smell of her hair when she gives him a hug. Or the way she laughs the hardest out of everybody whenever he tells a dumb joke.

He came home and, to stop himself from being reckless, made sure that he was only ever around when Benny was. He didn’t want to fuck up Benny’s friendship, that was something his little brother could excel at on his own.

But now, with her full lips inches from his, he decides.

It’s a decision he made less than an hour ago when her name popped up on the caller ID—she’d only called the house phone one other time, a car accident, and that same worry seeped beneath his skin again.

Her fingers run through the soft hair on the side of his head, his lips heavy against hers as he pulls her in and pushes her down.

He breaks away, “Are you sure?”

A question that dies with a crash as she tugs him back to her and he melts against her warmth when—

Her phone vibrates.

Got a figure like a pin-up, got a figure like a doll…

Benny.

TAGLIST: @justanotherblonde23 | @greeneyedblondie44 | @icanbeyourjedi | @princess76179 | @bbuckysbeardd | @notcookiebelle | @knivesareout | @phoenixpascal | @lexi-b-writes | @empress-palpat1ne​ | @starlightmornings​ | @soyelfuegoquearde​

[orangeoctopi7]

They’re Good Dogs, Stan

@forduary Week 2 is Fluff and Angsty, but this is ALL FLUFF! I’ve seen tons and tons of Gravity Falls AUs with Werewolf!Stan, but none with Ford as a werewolf. So I wanted to write one. I could’ve gone for Paranoid, pre-portal incident Ford and all the good angst that’d come with that, but I’m already a week behind, so pure fluff it is! * * *

Mid-September, 2013. Another summer has come and gone, the kids are back home in Piedmont, and the elder Pines twins are preparing for their next voyage. After a busy day of gathering supplies, Stan is ready to take the afternoon off. But Ford wouldn’t be Ford if he didn’t jump at every opportunity to study something strange. He’d gone off on his own, mentioning something about checking on a werewolf theory for Soos. Stan, after confirming that it was still a couple of days until the full moon, decided to stay home and catch a nap on the porch, enjoying the first cool evening in months.

It was now an hour later, and while the sun still hadn’t set, Stan was starting to get a little worried. If the supposed werewolf really wasn’t any trouble, surely his brother would’ve been back by now. Ford may have the tendency to get caught up in his work, but he wasn’t exactly the type to let a conversation or interview drag on and on.

In an effort to distract himself from worrying, Stan decided to help Soos wrap up the last tour of the day. He’d just seen the last bus off when he noticed a large, hump-backed animal moving through the forest. 

"What is that, a moose?" He squinted through the trees, trying to get a better look at it to see if it was something dangerous. It definitely went on four legs, so not a Manotaur. The only other thing that big around here that went on four legs was that Bear-bear friend of Dipper's, and he was a dark brown color. Whatever this was, its fur glinted silvery grey in the late afternoon sun.

Whatever it was, it was moving fast, and making its way towards the clearing that housed the Mystery Shack. In just a few seconds, Stan thought he could make out what it was, but his cataracts had to be playing tricks on him.

It wasn’t a moose. It was a wolf the size of a moose.

The closer it got, the more weird details he noticed about it. He’d never heard of a wolf with curly fur, and was it wagging its tail?

Where the heck was Ford? He’d love to see this. This was probably some giant’s pet woofdle (Half wolf half poodle).

Wait...

Stan looked up at the almost full moon hanging just above the trees as the sun began to set.

He looked back at the running wolf just in time to see it burst out of the trees and tackle him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. 

The wolf licked his face enthusiastically as he tried to catch his breath again.

“Ford, you didn’t!”

The fact that the wolf looked guilty was all the answer he needed.

* * *

When Soos shared his theory that the mailman was a werewolf with Ford, the old researcher had jumped at the opportunity. Here was a man who, from the looks of it, would have been a child when Ford first came to Gravity Falls. 

This meant one of two things: One, there had been child werewolves in Gravity Falls when he first started his research here, and he somehow completely missed it; or Two, this man had been turned to a werewolf in the last 30 years, which meant there had been an increase in werewolf activity while Ford was on the other side of the portal. Either way, Ford was very excited to ask him some questions.

He’d dashed off from the Mystery Shack, barely stopping to let Stanley know where he was going and confirming that the full moon wasn’t for a few more days. 

Once he arrived at the mail-man’s house, Ford knocked enthusiastically. The seconds slowly ticked by as he waited, but no answer came. After counting to 100, Ford knocked again, a little more insistently. He heard something moving behind the door. He started pounding on the door, and didn’t let up.

Finally, he heard several bolts being undone. 

“Hey, you need to leave in the next…” The stout red-haired man flipped open his phone and checked an app, “Two minutes.”

“Oh.” Ford answered with mild surprise. “Well, I’ll cut straight to the chase then! I wanted to know if there was any truth to the rumors that you might be a werewolf!”

The man gave Ford a confused look before answering. “Stick around for another minute and a half and you’ll find out.”

“Really!? But it won’t be a full moon for another three days! And sunset won’t be for another hour and a half!”

“No, but the moon’s rising in about a minute. Seriously, you need to leave.”

Ford’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Would you be willing to let me observe your transformation? It would be an unprecedented scientific opportunity!”

“Nope, too dangerous.”

With that, the man slammed the door in Ford’s face. He heard several bolts and locks being re-done. For a brief moment, Ford was reminded of a less pleasant time in his own life, when he himself had locked himself in his own house like that, both for his own protection and for the protection of the world outside.

The old researcher shook the thought out of his head. This was nothing like that.

Honestly, he just wanted to observe. It wasn’t like he was looking for trouble. He had survived for years in the multiverse, he could just peek through the window of a werewolf!

Luckily there were plenty of windows on the second floor that had the blinds and curtains wide open, presumably to let in plenty of sunlight. Or perhaps to let in plenty of moonlight? That was one of many theories he’d have to ask the man about once the moon had set again. Whatever the case, these windows would be perfect points of observation.

Ford climbed a nearby tree to get a better look into the werewolf’s home. He couldn’t see the transformation from here, but he could see what appeared to be the entire hind leg of an elk hanging by a couple of ropes in one room. Interesting… obviously this man prepared food for his wolf form, presumably to prevent any chance of the werewolf hunting local townsfolk or livestock, but why hang it in such a position? It wasn’t so high that the werewolf couldn’t reach it, but it would obviously take more work.

Well, he wasn’t going to see the transformation for himself from this window. The old researcher readied himself to jump to the tiny balcony in front of the next nearest window. Hopefully he’d find what he was looking for there. 

The old man took a leap-- misjudged the springiness of the branch beneath his feet-- and crashed through the window.

Ford picked himself up off the floor with a groan. That window should not have broken so easily. Surely, the home of a werewolf should be better fortified! He would have to block the window with something if he didn’t want a werewolf loose on the town. He was looking for a bookshelf or cabinet he could push in front of the opening, when he heard a low snuffling sound, followed by an angry growl.

A reddish-brown wolf, twice the size of any Ford had ever seen, with an abnormally large cranium, was standing at the top of the stairs, glaring daggers at him. Ford was torn between reaching for his blaster to protect himself, or reaching for the new journal Mabel had made for him to start writing down observations.

Drat, I missed the transformation. He thought to himself. So it must be a rapid process. I wonder if that makes it more or less painful?

The wolf growled again, hackles raised, and Ford finally pulled out his blaster, being sure to set it to stun. After all, it wasn’t the wolf’s fault he’d stumbled into the wolf’s territory.

Unfortunately, pulling a gun, even a sci-fi looking one, was the wrong move. The wolf lunged at him before he could pull the trigger, fangs sinking into his forearm. Ford yelled with pain, punching and kicking the beast to get it to let go.

The pain of the bite was soon replaced with a strange twitching, rippling, itching sensation, that quickly radiated outward from the wound. He looked down and noticed the hair on his arm growing thicker.

Well, it looks like I’ll get to observe the transformation after all! He thought as he fell to his knees.

* * *

Stan was absolutely flabbergasted by the moose-sized wolf currently pawing at his fridge. It barely fit in the room, and he was pretty sure that wagging tail was going to knock the table over.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re hungry.” Stan muscled his way past the mountain of fur and pulled out an entire container of bologna that hadn’t even been opened yet. “Here.” he peeled the seal off the package and tossed a slice like a little frisbee. Wolf!Ford snapped it up in one bite. He looked expectantly at Stan and gave a pathetic little whine, hoping for another.

“Uh, I dunno if you should even be eatin’ this stuff when you’re like that.” Stan protested. “Pretty sure wolves aren’t supposed to eat people food.”

The wolf gave a little huff, but nodded in agreement. And wasn’t that wild, seeing a curly-haired wolf just make a human gesture like that?

The wolf headed back to the back porch door. He pawed the doorknob, like it was instinctual, but gave a little annoyed grunt when he apparently remembered he didn’t have thumbs. Next he tried to grasp the doorknob between his jaws.

“Oh no you don’t!” Stan shouted. “I don’t want teeth-marks all over my doorknobs! Or wolf drool, for that matter!”

Wolf!Ford shot him another guilty look and whined plaintively. Stan sighed and opened the door for him.

“I just let you in, what the heck do you want out again for?”

The wolf made a series of grunts and groans that were probably supposed to mean something, but Stan didn’t get any of what he was trying to say.

“Whatever, just don’t go too far.”

* * *

The wolf actually rolled its eyes. Stan didn’t even think wolves could do that. Of course, this was a werewolf, so maybe it could do things a normal wolf couldn’t. It dashed away into the forest.

“Hey! I said don’t go too far!” Stan shouted after him. The wolf was already out of sight. The old con man groaned. “Alright, fine, just be careful!” Stan yelled even louder, hoping his transformed brother could still hear him. 

Ford was hungrier than he’d been since coming back to his home dimension, and while the slice of bologna had been tasty, it had been far from filling. Besides, Stan was right. Wolves probably shouldn’t eat processed meats. He was going to have to go hunting!

He took in a deep breath, enjoying all the diverse smells that had opened up to him with his transformation, trying to differentiate the smell of wild game from the smell of Farmer Sprott’s farm animals. 

It’s probably a good thing Mabel took Waddles home with her before this happened. Ford thought. 

He was able to pick out the scent of what he thought might be a mule deer. He snuck through the forest, finding that he could be surprisingly quiet for something so large. He got close enough to the mule deer that he could see the tiny twitching movements of its nose sniffing the air when it finally noticed him. When it finally caught his scent, it bounded away in an instant, and Ford gave chase.

As exhilarating as the case felt, there was also a sense of wrongness to it. He knew instinctively that he shouldn’t, couldn’t hunt on his own, and he found himself wishing desperately that Stanley was with him, even if he knew on some level that his brother wouldn’t want to hunt a deer and probably wouldn’t be much help even if he did.

The wind changed direction and a new scent, strange yet familiar, caught his attention. It was the synthetic, sterile smell of a human mixed with the pungent, musky smell of a wolf, not unlike his own. And he’d smelled it earlier, right after his transformation.

It was the mailman!

Another werewolf, stockier and more reddish brown than silver gray, was running through the forest, scaring the mule deer back in Ford’s direction with a loud howl. Now he wasn’t alone. Now the hunt felt right.

The deer zig-zagged between the two of them before the mailman finally came close enough to latch his jaws into its hind flank. It tried to kick the wolf off, but it had slowed enough that Ford was able to catch up himself, and then instinct completely took over. Before he knew it, the deer was dead on the ground, and the two werewolves were covered in blood, happily sharing the meal they’d taken down together. The one doe wasn’t enough to feed two enormous werewolves, but it definitely put more of a dent in Ford’s hunger than the slice of bologna had.

As they finished off the last of the deer carcase, the other wolf looked at Ford, and although no words were exchanged, a form of communication passed between them.

“You’re the idiot researcher who broke into my house.” The mailman didn’t seem angry, just bemused more than anything.

“It was an accident.” Ford’s tail and ears drooped.

“I told you to leave.” The mailman’s ears flattened and he gave a small annoyed growl. “But it is nice to go hunting with someone. I usually just hang up an elk flank for my own enrichment, so the local farmers and hunters don’t throw a tizzy, but this was much more fun!”

“I agree!” Ford wagged his tail, and his ears perked up again. “I’m still hungry, let’s find another deer!”

The two wolves continued to hunt together for another hour or so, taking down one more deer and finding a large nest of ground squirrels that finally filled them up. Eventually, dusk passed into full night, and the time that deer were the most active had passed.

“Well, we’d better do our best to cover our tracks and clean up after ourselves.” The mailman stretched and began burying the remains of the ground squirrels. “The local farmers and hunters will throw a tizzy fit if they realize there are a couple of wolves in town.”

“Is that why you usually lock yourself in your house?” Ford asked.

The other wolf nodded, and Ford was reminded that this was a man most of the time. “I’ve been chased by an angry mob a couple of times. Even shot at with silver bullets.”

“Really? Is there any truth to those old legends?”

“Well any bullet will kill you if it gets you in the heart or the brain.” the mailman replied with a growl. “Silver bullets will force you to transform back to normal, so as long as it’s not a serious injury, you’ll just heal while your body rearranges itself. I got shot in the hind leg, so the bullet just fell out as I transformed.”

“Faciniating! What is it about silver that causes the change? Is it just contact with silver in general, or does it have to be a bullet?”

Ford hadn’t realized that wolves could give blank stares like that. “No clue. I’m not rich enough to have access to pure silver.”

“Oh, it’s actually quite easy to precipitate out of Silver Nitrate, which you can purchase through most industrial chemical catalogs!”

* * *

It was getting late, and Stan was getting tired, but he was not going to bed until he knew Ford was safe. His brother had run off almost an hour and a half ago, and Stan had seen enough monster movies to worry what would happen to his brother if he ran into anyone else.

Unfortunately, following the wolf through the woods in the dark seemed more likely to get Stan into trouble than to get Ford out of it, so he decided to just keep vigil on the porch for now. He’d heard a few howls in the night, but nothing that sounded like a wolf in danger. He was just going to have to trust that his brother could take care of himself.

It was nearly midnight when Ford finally trotted out of the forest and into the light of the Mystery Shack’s back porch, dragging a mostly picked-clean deer carcase behind him.

“What the heck did you bring that back with you for!?” Stan exclaimed in disgust, looking at the trail of sineu, bones, and skin that now led up to the porch.

Ford looked expectantly between Stan and the carcase, nudging a bit of ribs that still had some meat on them closer to his brother.

“What are you thinkin’!? I’m not eatin’ that!”

The wolf actually did a double-take, as if he was just now remembering that his brother was a human who ate cooked meat that had already been butchered and prepared and sold in a supermarket, not the raw, still bloody remains of a deer that had been alive just three hours ago.

“I hope you realize, I’m not letting you in the house while you’re filthy like that.” Stan gestured to the dark brown dried blood that was flaking off Ford’s curly gray fur. 

The wolf looked thoroughly shamed, and began licking the blood from his paws and muzzle, but there was a lot he couldn’t reach on his own. Stan rolled his eyes and grabbed the hose. It was way too late for this.

Ford gave a surprised yelp when Stan turned the hose on him, and he looked absolutely pathetic as he sat there and took it, the water making him look much skinnier and bedraggled. He whined pitifully as Stan placed his thumb over the end to increase the water pressure, and did his best to power-spray the remaining blood and dirt out of his brother’s fur. When he was finally satisfied that no deer guts would be tracked inside, he nodded with approval and turned the hose of.

The wolf’s tail hung low as he climbed up to the porch.

“Serves you right! You had me worried sick!” Stan reprimanded him. “And I should’ve been in bed two hours ago!”

The wolf gave another sad whine and tried to lick Stan’s face. He pushed his brother off, but also gave him an affectionate scritch behind his ear.

“Yeah yeah, it’s hard to stay mad at you when you’re a big fluffy dog.” He opened the door and let Ford back inside.

As soon as Stan closed the door behind him, Ford gave a tremendous shake, sending water flying everywhere, and absolutely soaking everything in the entryway, including Stan. 

“Oh, I see how it is! You were just faking bein’ pathetic to take your revenge, huh?” 

Ford wagged his tail and huffed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

Stan stomped up the stairs to take a shower, while Ford picked his way towards the laundry room. The wolf pulled a towel onto the floor and rolled around on it to finish drying himself off. He would help clean up the entryway, but he didn’t have any opposable thumbs, so there wasn’t much he could do.

* * *

Stan went to bed immediately after getting out of the shower. It had been an exhausting day. He’d deal with Ford’s stupid werewolf escapades in the morning. Hopefully, his brother would be back to normal by then.

He’d just been about to drift off to sleep when he felt something huge and hairy flop down on the mattress next to him. Apparently, werewolf!Ford didn’t want to sleep alone, and honestly, Stan was too tired to try and shove him off, so he just snuggled into the great mound of fur and drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later, a loud cracking sound, like someone popping all their joints at once, woke Stan with a start. It was still dark out, although the first few rays of light were appearing on the horizon. Stan realized he was suddenly colder too, as though someone had pulled a blanket off him. He suddenly realized that the giant furry mass that had been sleeping next to him all night had been replaced by plain old human skin and bones.

“Ford?” Stan asked, squinting in the twilight to try and see if his brother had indeed returned to normal.

“Ugh… ow… It’s like having all your joints dislocated and then relocated at once… Ah, so I’m fully capable of human speech again!” The old researcher stretched and felt himself over. “Oh dear… I seem to have left my clothes back where I first transformed!” He pulled Stan’s blanket over himself.

“S’not like I can see you anyway.” Stan yanked his blanket back. It was cold this morning, especially now that the living space heater werewolf form was gone! “Go back to your own room and grab your PJ’s.”

The bed creaked as Ford climbed out of it, and Stan saw the blurry silhouette of his brother pause in the doorway.

“Stanley, I… I’m sorry.”

“Didja get hurt?” Stan asked sleepily.

“No. In fact, it was an incredible experience!”

“Then I ain’t even mad. Just lemme go back to sleep, ok?”

“It’s just… I know I worried you. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Great. Apology accepted. Go to bed.”

* * *

After the craziness of last night, Stan didn’t wake until almost 10:30 the next morning. He stumbled into breakfast the next morning to find the kitchen table absolutely covered in Ford’s notes, and his brother in the middle of recounting his experience to Soos.

“... And I’m not sure if it was some sort of telepathy that all werewolves share, or if my inner human consciousness was just translating the wolves body language and pheromone communication, but we were able to communicate perfectly, even about complex concepts like chemistry and legends and angry mobs!”

“Oh, hey Stan!” Soos greeted him cheerfully. “Turns out I was totally right about that mailman bein’ a werewolf!”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” Stan rolled his eyes and grabbed a packet of oatmeal.

“I promise, I only went there to observe!” Ford assured him, “I had no intention of turning into a werewolf myself. But now that it’s happened, I’ll actually be able to observe and study werewolves first-hand! Which is perfect, because there’s still so much we don’t know! Obviously, it doesn’t have to be a completely full moon to trigger the transformation, so how full does it have to be? How is the transformation transmitted from one person to the next?”

“How are you gonna take notes while you’re a wolf?” Stan pointed out.

Ford opened his mouth to answer, but quickly realized he didn’t have one.

“Oh, dude we should get you one of those sound boards like that one dog on the internet has!” Soos suggested. He pulled out his phone and showed them a video illustrating his point.

“Hmm, I’m sure I could ask Fiddleford to rig up something like this, but a full keyboard!” Ford nodded as he watched the video. “I’m still myself as the wolf, so I should be able to spell out what I want to say. We could even connect it to a computer, so I can type!

“If you’re still yourself, then why the heck did you try and bring me back a deer last night?” Stan asked grumpily.

“Ah…” Ford blushed. “Well, I still retain my typical level of intelligence, it just seems there’s quite a lot of wolf instinct that gets superimposed on top of that.”

“Great.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, I get that you’re excited to learn more about how werewolves work and all that, but what about after that? Are you just gonna stay a werewolf forever, or is there a cure?”

“Well, last night, the mailman mentioned that getting shot with a silver bullet in the leg will change you back without doing any lasting harm.”

“Yeah, I’m not shooting you every time your transformation is inconvenient.”

“But he wasn’t sure if just any contact with pure silver would do the trick. That’s just one of many things I’ll have to research in the future!”

Stan swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal. “We’d better call the kids. I can’t wait to see the look on Mabel’s face when she finds out you transform into a giant silver poodle under the full moon!”

[anistarrose]

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. ���And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - February 16th

This is the day when the Fellowship leave Lothlórien and begins their journey down the River Anduin. Quite a lot fits into the day, so I’m going to track it chronologically.

First, in the morning as the Fellowship is packing up, elves of Lothlórien come and bring them lembas and elven-cloaks. Both are an example of the value and dignity of practical crafts within elven society; Galadriel personally works on making the cloaks of Lothlórien (“she and her maidens wove this stuff”), and of the nature of “elf-magic” being tied to their close relationship with the natural world (“leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love”; and “grey with the hue of twilight under the trees they seemed to be; and yet if they were moved, or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves, or brown as fallow fields by night, dusk-silver as water under the stars”). It’s quite possible that this is the first time non-elves have been given lembas since the time of Túrin Turambar, and the second time in all Elven history.

After having breakfast, the Fellowship are preparing to leave the site where they have camped for the last month. Haldir comes to meet them as their guide (he’s come a lomg way from the borders, so it’s likely that the “guide” thing is an excuse and he’s come to say good-bye). He tells them that “The Dimrill Dale is full of vapour and clouds of smoke, and the mountains are troubled; there are noises in the deeps of the earth” - likely consequences of the battle between Gandalf and the balrog.

As they walked through Caras Galadhon the green ways were empty; but in the trees above them many voices were murmuring and singing. They temselves went silently. At last Haldir led them down the southward slopes of the hill, and they came again to the great gate hung with lamps, and to the white bridge; and so they passed out and left the city of the Elves. Then they turned away from the paved road and took a path that went off into a deep thicket of mallorn-trees, and passed on, winding through rolling woodlands of silver shadow, leading them ever down, southwards and eastwards, towards the shores of the River.

They had gone some ten miles and noon was at hand when they came on a high green wall. Passing through an opening they came suddenly out of the trees. Before them lay a long lawn of shining grass, studded with golden elanor that glinted in the sun. The lawn ran out into a narrow tongue between bright margins: on the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering; on the left and east the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark...One the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there was a hythe of white stones and white wood. By it were moored many boats and barges. Some were brightly painted, and shone wuth silver and gold and green, but most were either white or grey.

New word for me: hythe. Even my 1950s OED doesn’t know it! Fortunately, Google knows everything, and tells me it is an “archaic” word meaning “a small harbour or landing-place,” which is what I expected from the context.

There are thee boats for the Fellowship, and elves provide them with rope, to Sam’s satisfaction. The Fellowship practice with the boats by rowing a ways up the Silverlode. They meet Galadriel and Celeborn in a great swan-ship:

The water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck. Its beak shone like burnished gold, and its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stones; its huge white wings were half-lifted.

This matches the description of the swan-ships of the Teleri that Fëanor stole and destroyed, described in the Silmarillion: “Their ships...were made in the likeness of swans, with beaks of gold and eyes of gold and jet.” Galadriel’s mother is Telerin, and so the ship, as much as her song of lament (“What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?”), is a sign of her homesickness.

The Fwllowship, Celeborn, and Galadriel return to the green lawn at the angle of the two rivers for their parting meal. It is a fitting place: still within Lothlórien, but looking across the rivers to the mallorn-less shores beyond its southern and eastern borders. Galadriel seems changed to Frodo, and it may be not only his perception, but the result of her choice, refusing the Ring, to “diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel”:

She seemed no longer perilous or terrible, nor filled with hidden power. Already she seemed to him, as by men of later days Elves still at times are seen: present and yet remote, a living vision of that which has already been left far behind by the flowing streams of Time.

Celeborn gives the Fellowship advice on their onward journey, speaking of the Brown Lands and the Emyn Muil, of the rapids of Sarn Gebir and the falls of Rauros, of the Dead Marshes and the plains of Gorgoroth, of Rohan and the Forest of Fangorn. Since all this territory is likely familiar to Aragorn, this is likely as much for the reader’s benefit as the Fellowship’s. He warns them not to become entangled in Fangorn, “a strange land, and now little known”; with the spread of Men across the plains of Rohan, it is likely now many years since the Elves and the Ents have spoken.

Boromir, showing more warning signs, though subtler than the previous night, dismisses the stories of Fangorn as “old wives’ tales, such as we tell to our children”, and then digresses to brag/complain about his difficulties in reaching Rivendell: “A long and wearisome journey...and it took me many months, for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that journey, and the road I have trodden with this Company, I do not much doubt that I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fongorn too, if need be.” He is clearly feeling both proud and aggrieved. Notably, Aragorn, with far broader experience and travel of Middle-earth that Boromir, says no such things.

Galadriel then gives gifts to the Fellowship. To Aragorn, a scabbard overlaid with tracery of leaves and flowers of silver and gold, with words in gemstones spelling out that it in Andúril, reforged from Narsíl, the blade of Elendil. And along with this, the Elessar, the elfstone, which Arwen gave her to give to him: “a great stone of a clear green, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings.” The Elessar is, from some versions of Unfinished Tales, an enhancement to healing abilities; the fact that Galadriel gave it to Celebrian and Celebrian to Arwen suggests that Celebrian and Arwen may both have used healing abilities as well. (Arwen, as Elrond’s daughter, would be particularly likely to be trained in it. Wouldn’t it be neat if the gemstone she gives to Frodo at the end, to help him in times of sickness and ill memory, was one she made herself, a combination of jewel-craft and healing?)

And, for all the fandom focus on how many people Elrond has lost, it’s worth remembering here that Galadriel is parted from her father and mother, her brothers are long dead, and her daughter departed for Valinor terribly ill and broken-spirited after having been captured by orcs; and unlike Elrond, at this moment she does not know if she will ever be able to see them again. Elrond at least knows he will see his parents and his wife again, in time. Galadriel also knows she is going to lose her granddaughter; indeed, she had a hand it it, practically matchmaking Aragorn and Arwen on the occasion when they became engaged.

Galadriel’s gift to Sam, of the earth and the mallorn-nut, is particularly touching: she knows from his vision in the mirror that the Shire will likely not be untouched by the war, and that the loss of the trees in particular distresses Sam; and she gives him a gift that can amend it.

And Gimli, of course, asks for a strand of Galadriel’s hair, and recieves three. I could say more on the interactions between these two, but I’ll try to keep it to this: in all the language concerning Gimli and Galadriel, Galadriel’s beauty is not used simply or even mainly to mean physical appearance, but to stand in for goodness, kindness and understanding. Gimli’s answer for what he would do with the hair is “treasure it...in memory of your words to me at our first meeting,” when she understood and defended the dwarves’ love of their home and spoke their place-names in the dwarf-tongue. Similarly, when he demands Eómer “acknowledge Galadriel as the fairest of ladies” if ever he sees her, he is responding to Eómer insulting Galadriel’s character, not her looks. Beauty here means something more than beauty.

And to Frodo she gives the Phial of Galadriel, holding the light of Eärendil’s star that is the Silmaril; a parallel and inverse of the Silmaril, a gift to be given rather than a possession to be clung to; and fitting for the end of the Noldor’s presence in Middle-earth, as the Silmarils drove their arrival there.

The Fellowship at last departs from Lothlórien, and Galadriel’s song in Quenya flows down to them on the wind.

So the Company went on their long way, down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away as the River flowed without a sound. No voice of bird broke the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl. Then it faded into the West, and dusk came early, followed by a grey and starless night.

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Rewind Chapter 7 - Mistakes are Made

Oh jeez, I mean to post this days ago but I totally forgot! Whoops.

As you might have noticed, updates are coming pretty slow at the moment. This fic is getting hard to write, due to personal circumstances and shifting hyperfixations, but I will continue it once I’m able to get invested again. Until then, updates will probably be slow. Rest assured, this fic will be completed!

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)

_______________________________________________________________

After a few more necessary hours of sleep, which for Ford were deep and dreamless, the construction itself began in two different corners of the lab. On one side Fiddleford dove into making a working prototype of the gun, while on the other side Ford began cooking up ammunition.

Few things could kill a dream demon. Protective unicorn magic could halt one, and the right concoction of ingredients could harm one, but working together they might just be able to kill one. Therein lay the rub – how could the two be combined into a single shot? Luckily, Ford didn’t have his three PHDs for nothing, and he was nothing if not persistent.

:readmore:

By mid-morning he had worked out the necessary ratio of ingredients for the most effective attack power. By afternoon he had created the first prototype, and by late afternoon he had a dish full of them.

The final bullet design had a pill-like appearance, spherical in shape and filled to the brim with cloudy, iridescent magic. They made a glass-like tinkering noise as they dropped into their dish. Ford took a pair of tweezers and lifted one to the light, admiring its shine.

“That looks cool.” Stan said hesitantly from behind him – how long had Stan been being him? Ford yelped and fumbled, nearly dropping the capsule. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sneak up on me when I’m working!” Ford snapped. He hurriedly placed the ammunition back on its tray before it could get broken and turned to frown at his brother. Stan, for his part, looked suitably ashamed. “What are you doing down here anyway? I told you, you’re not allowed in the lab.”

“I know, I know!” Stan’s shoulders were around his ears and creeping steadily higher with each second that passed. “Just – I thought you and Fidds would be hungry? You’ve been doing your science thing for ages and I made food, so…”

“Oh.” For the first time, Ford comprehended the tray in his brother’s hands. “Well, thank you. You’re still not supposed to be down here though.”

Stan stood on his tiptoes to lift the tray onto Ford’s workbench. The normally exuberant boy seemed unusually down, stepping back and rubbing his arm after placing down his load, and a twinge of guilt went through Ford. Okay, maybe a little more than a twinge. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Look – Stanley. I need to apologize for my behaviour earlier. I shouldn’t have gotten short with you.”

Stan shrugged and did not meet his eyes. Ford crouched to be at his brother’s level.

“I. Um, those dreams you told me about. Did you have any more last night?”

Stan stared at his feet and mumbled, “No.”

Ford took a deep breath, but before he could speak Fiddleford called out from across the lab.

“Stanford, I could use a hand over here!”

Ford straightened and hurried over to where his partner was soldering parts together. The gun was beginning to take shape on his workbench – maybe the size of a small hunting rifle but thicker, runes scratched into every inch of shiny metal and shimmering with Bill-proof magic. Fiddleford lifted his soldering mask to wipe his damp forehead.

“I already added yer magic wards and the last of that shiny hair stuff, an’ I gotta finish the magazine. Hold the thing steady for me, will ya? It’s delicate and we’re all outta unicorn hair to make another one, so for god’s sake be careful.”

“Of course.” Ford slipped on a pair of heat-proof gloves and steadied the rifle while Fiddleford lined up the parts. He made sure to avert his eyes from the glow of white-hot metal as his friend worked.

“Watcha doing?” Stanley called from across the lab.

“Attachin’ the last piece.” Fiddleford called back, not taking his eyes off the rifle. “Don’t get to close, or ya might get burned.”

“What bit is that?”

“It’s where the ammunition is stored.” Fiddleford explained.

“Oh! Like the shiny things Ford made?”

“Exactly.”

Once the soldering was complete Fiddleford lifted his mask to inspect the job, squinting through his glasses. He nodded to himself.

“Could use a bit a’ fine-tuning, but I’d call that almost done.”

Footsteps sounded as Stanley approached cautiously. Fiddleford grinned at the child, who stretched onto his tiptoes to see the project. “Whaddya think?”

Stan’s eyes lit up. “That looks so cool! This Bill guy isn’t gonna know what hit ‘im!” He looked between Ford and Fiddleford. “Whaddya do with it now?”

“We gotta make sure everythin’ runs smoothly before anything.” Fiddleford pulled off his soldering mask and wiped his sweaty brow. “Ford, would ya get the ammunition? Once this thing cools down I wanna make sure the dimensions are right.” He began pulling off his thick gloves.

“I can do that!” Stan scurried over to Ford’s workbench, ignoring Ford’s cry. He grabbed the dish of capsules and trotted back with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever playing fetch. Ford let out a hiss.

“Be careful with those!” He snatched them from his brother’s hands, heart racing. The ammunition seemed unharmed, but you could never be too careful, especially when there was a child around. Especially when there was Stanley around. He acted so thoughtlessly sometimes, that was the reason Ford hadn’t allowed him down here in the first place!

Stan looked sufficiently ashamed. “Sorry, Ford.”

Ford placed the bullets down very carefully next to the cooling rifle. “Why don’t you go upstairs? This is delicate work.”

“But you guys seem really busy. I can help!”

“No, Stan. This is very important work and you might break something.”

“No, but I’m good at stuff!” Stan protested. “I can carry stuff, and punch people, and get unicorn hair! I can be useful. You wanna move this to a bigger table? I can do it, see?” And to Ford’s horror he grabbed the gun off the table. Ford snatched for it, but Stan had already yelped as his bare hands came into contact with scorching metal and the rifle slipped from his grip.

Fiddleford dove to catch it. He crashed chest-first into the ground and only barely managed to snag it before it was dashed against the floor as well. The ammunition was not so lucky – the dish overturned in the scuffle and pellets skittered every which way, disappearing under surfaces and around shoes. Stan fumbled to try and collect them, but he was only making it worse, knocking them away in his panic.

“Sorry, sorry sorry sorry-”

“I said no!” Ford roughly grabbed his brother’s arm and yanked him away from the workspace, ignoring Stan’s yelp. “Every time, every time I think we’re past this you just have to go and mess everything up again! Are you not capable of doing what I say for once in your life and just leaving well enough alone? I told you not to touch anything! You could well have destroyed our one chance at getting rid of Cipher once and for all!”

“I’m sorry, okay?!” Stan whined and tried to pull away – dodging responsibility once again, just like always. Ford growled and held him in place.

“Now, Stanley, you– quit squirming! – you will sit down and be quiet and not touch anything else, is that understood?”

“Ford, leggo!” Stan squeaked.

“You are to stay away from Fiddleford and I while we work. I will not have you sabotaging me again, not like you did at the science fair-”

Stan punched him in the face.

It was a weak blow from a tiny fist – it barely hurt – but the shock at having his brother strike him made Ford freeze. Stan ripped from his grip and stumbled back with a whimper that sounded dangerously like a sob.

…oh.

Ford didn’t even have to look at his brother’s pale, tearstained face to realize that he had, perhaps, gone a little overboard.

“Stanley-” Ford couldn’t think of anything to say. What was there to say? Stan looked terrified, and Ford supposed he cut a rather intimidating figure to such a small person. He reached out but Stan jerked away violently from his hand.

Why wasn’t Stan getting mad at him in return? The Stan Ford knew would have yelled right back. Ford could handle anger, but he had no idea how to handle fear.

“Stan, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

He reached out again, helplessly. The instant his fingertips touched Stan’s shoulder the child recoiled, throwing his hands up as if to defend himself. But surely he knew Ford would never hurt him?

“No! No no no don’t touch me leave me alone! Go away! I hate you and I don’t ever wanna see you again go away!”

Ford flinched, and Stan took the opportunity to spin on his heel and bolt for the stairs. Ford froze, torn between chasing after him and staying to clean up the mess.

“Ford, a little help!” Fiddleford yelped, and Ford made up his mind. He whipped around and hurried to help his friend lift the rifle back onto his workbench. As he took the weight of the rifle Fiddleford snatched his hands back, wincing at the bright red burns that seared across his palms. “Ouch.”

Ford was careful to keep away from the hot section of metal as he lifted the gun back onto the table. When it was secure he was finally able to take a breath and turn to his friend.

“Fiddleford, are you alright?”

“Ah’m fine, just gotta get these in some water. Where’d Stanley go?”

“I – I don’t know.”

Fiddleford’s eyes widened. “If he goes outside the barrier-”

There were more words, but Ford had stopped processing them. He bolted for the stairs.

 Stan was such an idiot.

He hadn’t even stopped to put on shoes before running into the woods, and he already couldn’t feel his toes from the stinging cold. Well, who cared anyway? He just had to get away.

Stan’s numb foot caught on a root and sent him hurtling to the ground, grating his face and hands on frigid, snowy dirt. He let out a squeaking wheeze as the air left his squashed lungs, letting out little hitching coughs and sobs as he struggled to regain his breath.

Shut up shut up shut up, stop being such a wimp. He pushed himself up on shaky arms and sniffled, rubbing at his nose with a pathetic whimper.

Okay. So, everything was crashing down around him. That was fine. Everything was just fine. He still had – um.

What did he have?

There was something in his fist. Stan sniffed and uncurled his fingers to reveal a tiny shimmering pearl resting in his palm. He stared at it, blinking tears from his eyes.

“What the heck are you?”

Oh, wait. It was one of Ford’s bullet things. Stan’s grip tightened around it, that stupid little ball that was so important to his brother.

He placed it on the ground, climbed to his feet, and lifted a foot to stomp down on it.

And hesitated.

Because it was stupid, but Ford seemed to think these were so important, and Stan just couldn’t crush something that meant that much to his brother. He hiccupped and growled to himself.

He couldn’t do it.

Stan shoved it in his pocket and headed further into the woods.

 Stan wasn’t in the house.

A quick, desperate search revealed Ford’s home empty. Luckily a fresh layer of snow lay on the ground outside – a trail of footprints disappeared into the woods and he bolted after them, snatching his coat on his way out. Of all the places to go! The forest wasn’t safe, Ford had to get his brother back inside the barrier where Bill couldn’t reach them-

His foot slipped on wet snow.

Ford barely had time to flail before his legs slipped from under him and his head hit a tree trunk with a decisive clunk.

[thelastspeecher]

The Six Senses - Chapter 4: Ugly Things in the Darkness

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   AO3

It’s been three years since I posted Chapter 3 of this fic.  And now, I’m finally finishing it!  I had a lot of ideas and plans to do more than just four chapters, but inspiration is a fickle mistress, and I ran up against basically a wall.  Not to mention, while I was working on this last chapter, my Word doc kept freezing, so I think the Universe is trying to tell me to end the fic here.

Enjoy.

---

Summary: The assault on the company.

Ugly things in the darkness Worse things in store In the declining years Of the long war - The Mountain Goats, “In the Craters on the Moon”

——————————————————————————————

              Shermie’s van came to a stop outside a small, cozy cabin. Stan, Ford, Fiddleford, and Shermie got out.  Ford eyed the cabin.

              “Really?  This is where the kid lives?” he asked.

              “I think it looks lovely,” Shermie said. “Small, but homey.”

              “It’s the size that’s throwing Ford for a loop,” Stan explained, leaning against the van.  “The place is barely big enough for Dan’s voice.”  Shermie frowned.  “You’ll see.  Let’s head inside.”  The four headed for the cabin.  Just as Stan raised a hand to knock, the door opened, revealing Wendy.  Wendy beamed up at Stan.

              “Uncle Stan!” she chirped.  Stan scooped her into his arms with a playful growl.

              “Hey there, little gremlin,” he cooed.  Wendy giggled, throwing her arms around his neck. “Where are your parents?”

              “Mama’s in bed.”

              “And your dad?”

              “Right here,” a voice rumbled from behind the men. The men turned.  Dan Corduroy stood there, apparently just done with his work, judging by the dirty axe hefted over one shoulder.  “And ANGEL is STAYING in bed.  GOT IT?”

              “Angel?” Shermie asked.  Dan scowled.

              “My WIFE.”

              “Ah.  Yes. Is that- is that her name?” Shermie asked, clearly trying to be polite.  Dan’s scowl deepened.

              “It’s her NICKNAME.  Ever HEARD of one?”

              “Ah.  Okay.”

              “Good to see ya again, Dan,” Fiddleford said, holding out a hand.  Dan shook the offered hand.  Shermie goggled at how Fiddleford’s hand was dwarfed by Dan’s.  “How’s m’ sister doin’?”

              “All right, but NOT involved with THIS,” Dan said firmly.  “Doc says she CAN’T have more STRESS.  She’s staying OUT of this.”

              “Understood,” Ford said with a nod.  Dan sighed heavily.

              “But I can’t stay out of it,” he said somberly. Stan raised an eyebrow.

              He doesn’t use his inside voice very often.  He’s serious about this.

              Yeah, no shit, Ford said tartly.  Stan glared at him.

              Get outta my head, Sixer.  Ford rolled his eyes.

              Fine.

              “What do you mean, Dan?” Stan asked.  Dan sighed again.

              “These people…they’ve gone after my wife. They’ll go after my daughter, too. I can’t let them.”  He met Stan’s eyes squarely.  “Whether you like it or not, I’m coming with.”

              “We’ll be glad to have your help,” Ford said. He looked at Stan.  “Stan?”

              “Yeah, with Dan as backup, our odds are even better,” Stan confirmed.

              “Why do you think the company will go after your daughter?” Shermie asked.  Dan looked at Wendy, still in Stan’s arms.

              “Show ‘em, SWEETIE.”  Wendy nodded.  She closed her eyes.  Stan began to float off the ground.  He hovered for a few seconds before slamming back down onto his heels.  “Started happening LAST WEEK.  ANGEL says that’s how SHE started.”  Dan gripped his axe so tightly his knuckles turned white underneath his ginger hair.  “They WON’T do to Wendy what THEY did to my WIFE.”

              “No, they won’t,” Stan said firmly.  Dan looked at him.

              “Do you…KNOW?” he asked.  Stan reached for the information.  After a moment, he nodded.

              “Wendy’s safe.”  Dan’s shoulders slumped in relief.  “But only if we rescue Shermie’s grandkids.”  Dan grinned viciously.

              “Sounds GOOD to ME.  My AXE gets sick of TREES sometimes.”  Shermie, Fiddleford, and Ford blanched.  Stan, however, set Wendy on the ground.

              “Hey, kid, did you hear what your husband just said?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth.

              “Yes, I certainly did!” the kid shouted from inside the house.  “And I’m not happy he made that sorta joke in front of people who don’t know his sense of humor!”  Stan smirked at Dan.  “You better all come inside so I can catch up with my family and scold my dear spouse!” Stan ruffled Wendy’s hair.

              “Go get your mama, sweetie.”  Wendy bolted inside.  Stan looked at Ford.  “Let’s go see our little sister.”  Ford smiled.

              “But of course.”

-----

              Dan’s pickup truck came to a stop inside a wooded clearing a little under a mile from the company’s headquarters.  Stan practically fell out of the car in his haste to be away from Dan’s distinctive body odor.

              “Do you ever shower?” Stan choked out.  Dan got out of the truck, scowling.

              “ANGEL likes it.”

              “Yeah, I don’t understand her sometimes,” Stan muttered.  Ford and Fiddleford got out as well.  “So, we all understand the plan?”  The other three men nodded.

              “We should go over it quickly, though,” Ford said. “We will break in by stealing some of the uniforms worn by the workers.  While Fiddleford causes a distraction, Stan and I use the map to track down Mabel and Mason.  Fiddleford leaves after causing his distraction, Stan and I leave after rescuing the infants, and we all meet up here with Dan.”  Everyone nodded.

              “If you NEED me, you can…”  Dan grimaced.  “You can get INSIDE my HEAD, Stanford.”

              “Really?” Ford asked.  Dan nodded.

              “I might HATE it, but it’s the EASIEST and FASTEST way to contact ME.  Can’t waste TIME with these PATHETIC worms.”

              “Usually I use more four-letter words to talk about the people who work for the company, but ‘pathetic worms’ isn’t bad,” Stan remarked. Dan grinned.

              “I just HOPE your CITY-SLICKER BROTHER takes care of my WIFE.”

              “Shermie will take great care of the kid and Wendy,” Ford said smoothly.  Dan nodded. Stan took a steadying breath.

              “We better go soon.”

              “Do our odds get worse if we wait?” Ford asked.

              “Yeah.”

              “Any particular reason why?”

              “‘Cause I’m gonna lose my nerve if I have to think about it much longer.”

-----

              One strong mental blast from Ford was enough to knock out the three guards by the back door.

  ��           “You’ve gotten better at that,” Stan remarked as he removed the guards’ uniforms.

              “I’ve been practicing,” Ford replied.  Stan handed him a uniform.  “You’re physically much stronger than I am.  I have to be able to protect myself somehow.”

              “Yeah, yeah, I get it.  It’s just a bit surprising to see three men drop when all you did was look at them.”  Stan tossed a uniform to Fiddleford.  “Get dressed. We’ve gotta move fast.” Fiddleford nodded.  The three men pulled on the uniforms.  To Stan’s relief, the uniform included a full-face mask. Stan opened the door.  “All right, Fiddlenerd, go make us a distraction.” Fiddleford nodded and ducked inside.

              Stan and Ford waited a few minutes, then entered as well.  The moment they stepped into the building, Stan swore softly.

              “They’ve got dampeners up.”

              “We don’t need our ESP for this, though,” Ford said.

              “If everything goes right, we don’t,” Stan corrected.  “But that’s not what I’m worried about.  Mabel and Mason are babies.  The company’s already got power dampeners up for them, at this age?  Even the kid didn’t get dampeners until she was a toddler.” Ford stilled.  Stan couldn’t see Ford’s expression, but knew the blood had to be draining from his twin’s face.

              “Shermie’s grandchildren must be something special, to warrant such protection.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan shook his head.  “We can’t think about that right now.  We’ve gotta focus on getting the kids outta here.”

              “Absolutely.”  Ford pulled out the map.  He inspected it closely.  “I know which way to go.”

              “Well, age before beauty,” Stan said, gesturing for Ford to lead the way.  Ford huffed slightly, but began to walk.

              The company’s facility was different than Stan remembered.  He wasn’t sure whether it was because they had decided to switch up the design after relocating, or because he hadn’t seen it much when he was in the facility, since he had spent so much time locked in blindingly white rooms.

              Clearly, they haven’t changed their favorite color. The tile floor, walls, and even chairs and tables they passed were all white.  Would it kill them to have one piece of furniture that doesn’t look like it was bleached?  In the sea of white, a bright yellow plaque on the wall caught Stan’s attention.  He came to a stop in front of it.  Luckily, Ford noticed before he had walked very far.

              “Stan, we have to move,” Ford hissed, backtracking to where Stan stood.  Stan gestured at the plaque.

              “Apparently, this place has an actual name,” Stan said quietly.  The plaque proudly listed the names of donors that paid to construct the new headquarters of the Cipher Paranormal Studies Corporation.

              “I’m not surprised,” Ford whispered.

              “We were never told the name.  That’s a dick move.”

              “Stan.”

              “You’re right, this is the least dickish thing they’ve done.  But I still feel like we shoulda been told the name of the place we grew up in.”

              “Stan, we need to move fast.  We don’t want Fiddleford’s distraction to go to waste,” Ford insisted.  Stan nodded. He followed Ford away from the plaque, but glanced back at it briefly, a strange feeling in his chest.  Almost like his dampened clairvoyance was trying to tell him something.

-----

              “Here,” Ford whispered, coming to a stop in front of a closed door.  A sign on the door read “Subject Incubators”.

              “Damn, that’s a creepy way to say nursery,” Stan muttered.  He pushed open the door.  Like everywhere else in the facility, the room was bright white.  The furniture was the same color, including two cribs tucked against the back wall.  “There!” The brothers rushed over to the cribs. Stan’s heart sunk.  Only one crib had a child in it.

              “This must be Mabel,” Ford said, gently lifting the baby and nestling her in his arms.  Mabel giggled loudly.

              “But where’s-” Stan started.  The door opened behind them.  They spun around.  Two employees stood in the doorway, one carrying an infant.

              “Who are you?!” one of the employees snapped. In lieu of a response, Stan bolted across the room, tackling the employee who wasn’t carrying a baby before they could raise the alarm.  He kicked the door shut.  A jolt of pain accompanied the movement, making him gasp.

              Fucking hell.  My age is catching up to me.  The employee he’d tackled quickly recovered, shoving Stan off.

              “They said nanny duty was easy,” the employee spat.

              “Well, whoever told you that was lying,” Stan retorted, grabbing the front of the nanny’s uniform and pulling them in.  He then grabbed the nightstick attached to his hip as part of the uniform and whacked the nanny over the head with it. The nanny dropped to the floor, unconscious.  Stan got to his feet, prepared to attack the second nanny.  Instead, he saw Ford holding both babies and standing over the second nanny’s unconscious body.  “Huh.”

              “Please take one of the infants,” Ford said, panting. Stan took Mason from him.  “Thank you.”

              “Good work, Ford.”

              “Save the praise for after we’ve left the building,” Ford said.

              “Fair enough.”  Stan opened the door.  He caught sight of movement at the far end of the hall.  “Shit, more nannies are headed this way.  We gotta go.”  Stan and Ford sprinted out of the room, running until they had left the nursery far behind.  They came to a stop, breathing hard.  “Okay.” Stan gently cradled Mason in his arms, muscle memory from Wendy kicking in.  “We got the babies.  We got away from those evil nannies.  Now what?”

              “You’re the clairvoyant,” Ford snapped, holding Mabel close to his chest.

              “I can’t really do the clairvoyance thing if they’ve got power dampeners going,” Stan snapped back.

              “Fine, fine.”  Ford looked around.  “Should we go the way we came?”

              “Wh- you’re the one with the map!”

              “…I dropped it,” Ford mumbled.

              “You dropped it?!”

              “It was either the map or Mabel.  I chose to drop a piece of paper over our infant relative,” Ford said snidely.  Stan rolled his eyes.  “You helped to draw the map.  Do you remember anything from it?”

              “Not really, no.”  Stan looked up and down the hall, yearning for the familiar sense of churning in his guts to guide him.  “Maybe…that way?”  He turned left, going up the hall.  Ford followed.  “If the power dampeners weren’t up, this’d be a piece of cake.”

              “We might rely upon our powers too much,” Ford said quietly.

              “You might be right about…that…”  Stan trailed off.  They had reached a dead end.  A single, open door was in front of them.  Through that door, something was glowing.

              “What is that?” Ford asked.  He walked into the room.

              “Stanford, we’ve gotta get these kids outta here!  We can’t waste time trying to figure out whatever bullshit the company is doing now!” Stan hissed.

              “Oh, my god,” Ford whispered.  Stifling a groan, Stan entered the room.  His jaw dropped.  The room was massive.

              Well, it’s gotta be, to have room for…that. There was an enormous structure in the middle of the room, an upside-down metal triangle.  A circle was cut out of the center of the triangle, bordered by strange symbols.  Two metal circular platforms stood in front of the triangle.  An identical pair stuck to the ceiling like stalactites.  The platforms glowed a faint blue, as did lines of lights along the edges of the triangle.

              “What is that?” Stan asked.

              “My ride out of here,” a voice boomed.  The door slammed shut.  Stan and Ford spun around.  They were still alone.  “And you boys, as well as the other members of your deliciously powerful family, are my ticket.”

              “Okay, first, it’s gross as hell to call babies ‘delicious’,” Stan said.  “Second, who the fuck are you?”

              “I’ve had many names,” the voice said vaguely. Ford elbowed Stan.  When Stan looked, Ford pointed at a loudspeaker on the wall, from which the voice was coming.  Stan nodded.  “But the one you’ll recognize is Cipher.”  Stan’s blood ran cold.

              Cipher.  Cipher Corp.  The company’s real name.

              “Cipher,” Ford said.

              “That’s right!” Cipher said cheerfully.

              “Are you the boss of this whole fucked up shindig?” Stan asked.

              “Obviously,” Cipher scoffed.  “I have to admit, it was a delight to watch you grow up.”  The ice in Stan’s veins was promptly replaced with fury.

              “You stole us from our family!” he snarled. Cipher sighed.

              “I took you in,” he said, sounding disappointed in Stan.  “Your parents didn’t want you.  They didn’t want either of you.”

              “You-” Stan started.  Ford put a hand on his shoulder.

              “Cipher, what do you want with us?” he asked.

              “I already told you.  You’re part of my triumphant return home.  You, your twin, those darling children you’re holding, and even that young lady you think of as your sister are part of this.”  Stan heard a hitch in Ford’s breath.

              “Leave the kid alone,” he snapped.  “She’s been through enough!”

              “I’m not sure that she has,” Cipher said. Stan opened his mouth to shoot a retort, but before he could, there was a loud explosion.  Ford stumbled back a few steps, nearly falling.  The loudspeaker crackled.  Stan knew what had happened.  He knew.

              “Cipher’s gone,” Stan said confidently.  Ford looked at him.  “He probably went to find out what happened to knock out the power dampeners.  Now, let’s get the hell outta here before he comes back.”

              “We don’t have the map.”

              “We don’t need one now.”  Stan furrowed his brow, focusing as hard as possible on what route they should take to get out.  “The shortest route has a bunch of guards.  Looks like you’ll get plenty of chances to practice that telepathic attack of yours.”

              “At this point, I’ll take anything over more physical exertion,” Ford muttered.  “Lead the way.”

-----

              Exhausted and sweaty, but still alive, Stan and Ford finally arrived at the clearing Dan was waiting in.  Fiddleford was already there, pacing back and forth anxiously.

              “We’re here,” Stan croaked, removing his mask. Ford removed his as well. Fiddleford and Dan’s heads shot up.

              “Oh, thank the Lord,” Fiddleford said, resting a hand over his heart.  “I was startin’ to get mighty worried.  Did the distraction help ya or was it too late?”

              “It was perfectly timed,” Ford said.  He and Stan walked over to the truck. Fiddleford sighed in relief.

              “Good.  I had some issues tryin’ to decide how to set up the distraction.”

              “It worked out great,” Stan said.  Fiddleford grimaced.

              “Not really.”

              “What do you mean?”

              “He DROPPED the doohickey he made with my WIFE’S magic,” Dan rumbled.  Fiddleford glared at Dan.

              “I told ya, that ain’t how the lil tie I made works!”  He looked back at Stan and Ford.  “But…yes, I did drop it in the chaos.  Ya don’t think that’ll be a problem later on, will it?”

              “Of course it’s gonna be a fucking problem!” Stan burst out.  “You just handed over the kid’s powers to the company!”  Fiddleford quailed.  Ford put a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

              “Stanley.  It’s okay. That’s something we can deal with at a later point.  Right now, we need to be glad that everyone got out unharmed.”

              “Yes, how are the lil ones?” Fiddleford asked.

              “Surprisingly quiet,” Ford said.  Mason abruptly began to fuss in Stan’s arms.  “Never mind.”

              “They had power dampeners on for these little gremlins,” Stan said quietly.  Fiddleford cocked his head.

              “Well, ain’t that just their policy?”

              “Not for babies.  They put in the power dampeners when they decide that someone’s ESP is getting strong enough to cause problems,” Stan explained.  “Your sister only got power dampeners when she was a toddler, and you know how powerful she is.”

              “So these lil sweeties ‘re goin’ to have some strong ESP,” Fiddleford remarked, peering at Mason and Mabel.

              “That would be the logical conclusion, yes,” Ford said.  Fiddleford grimaced.  “We can finish this conversation at Dan’s place, I think.”

              “Yeah,” Stan said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the company decided to start combing the woods looking for us.”  He felt a nudge at the back of his mind and let the knowledge wash over him.  “Yep. They’re already coming.  Let’s get outta here.”  Dan got into the truck.

              “Took the WORDS out of my MOUTH.”

-----

              Shermie and Wendy cooed over Mason and Mabel, who were buckled into carriers, ready to be brought home to California.

              “They’re so little!” Wendy gushed.  Shermie smiled at her.

              “Yes, dear, they’re newborns.  When your younger brother is born, he’ll be as small as them.”  Wendy’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

              “Whoa,” she whispered.  Shermie chuckled.

              “Hey, uh, Sherm, can we talk to you in private?” Stan asked.

              “Sure,” Shermie said.  “Fiddleford, Dan, mind keeping an eye on the babies?”

              “No problem,” Fiddleford chirped.  Dan nodded.  Shermie followed Stan and Ford outside.

              “What’s going on?” Shermie asked.  Stan crossed his arms.  He looked at Ford, waiting for him to start the conversation.  Ford sighed.

              “The company already installed and turned on power dampeners for Mason and Mabel,” he said.  “Power dampeners are expensive to maintain, so they’re only turned on when necessary.  The fact that they’d already turned them on with Mason and Mabel being so young…” Shermie paled.

              “They’re going to be particularly powerful, aren’t they?” he whispered.  Stan and Ford nodded.  “Oh, no.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’ll- I’ll have to warn my son and daughter-in-law.  But even with the warning, I don’t know how well they’ll be able to handle it.”

              “I’m going to go to California,” Stan said. Shermie stared at him.  “Ford and I realized that one of us should stick near you and the kids, to keep an eye on them, and we decided that I would.  I don’t really have much of an attachment to any particular place.  Not to mention, I can see danger coming from a mile away.”

              “Stan, that would be fantastic,” Shermie said, audibly relieved.  Stan shrugged.

              “It’s important to look out for family.”  He smiled.  “Even if you’ve only just met them.”  Shermie smiled back.

              “Still.  Thank you.” He glanced back at the cabin. “What about Wendy and her mother? They could probably use some protection. I know that Dan is rather formidable, but…”

              “I’ll be staying in Gravity Falls,” Ford interjected. “Stan and I saw something in the company’s facility that concerned us, so I won’t just be staying to keep an eye on Wendy and the kid, but also to find out what I can about what we saw.”

              “What did you see?” Shermie whispered.  Ford shook his head.

              “I honestly don’t know.  But it can’t be good.”

              “If I get any bad vibes or if Ford or the kid give me a call, I’ll head up to help out,” Stan said.  He grinned at Ford.  “But Ford proved he can hold his own today, so I think I can leave him here without too many problems.”  The door to the cabin opened.  Wendy sprinted out.  She tugged on Shermie’s pant leg.  Shermie looked down at her.

              “Yes, dear?” he asked.

              “Mr. Shermie, the babies laughed!” she enthused. Shermie’s eyes widened.

              “Well, that sounds like something I should be there for!”  He looked at Stan and Ford.  “Are you going to come inside as well?”

              “In a moment,” Ford said.  “Stan and I need to have a quick conversation.”  Stan nodded.

              “All right,” Shermie said mildly.  He took Wendy’s hand and went inside with her. Stan and Ford looked at each other.

              “Do you really feel comfortable being on your own in California with Shermie, Mason, and Mabel?” Ford asked quietly.

              “I’ll figure it out.  I don’t foresee any big problems,” Stan said.  Ford sighed.

              “Still.”

              “What about you?” Stan asked.  “Are you sure you can handle the kid and Wendy and the company?”  He scowled. “Or, I guess, the Cipher Corporation?”

              “I’ll be fine.  Like you said, the second there’s any issues, I’ll contact you for help,” Ford said smoothly.  Stan felt a nudge at the back of his mind.  When the information came, it made him raise an eyebrow in surprise.  “What?”

              “This town has more secrets than just the company. You better be careful.”

              “I will,” Ford promised.  Stan snorted.  He turned around to head back inside.

              “Ford, I don’t need clairvoyance to know that you just lied through your teeth.”

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CXXXV (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: :c

Words: 4,500

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

The group divided in two and she was leading Ron, Luna and Ginny without having a clue of where to run next. 

Rodolphus Lestrange suddenly appeared ahead and she silently raised her wand, shooting a bolt of purple lightning directly into his chest.

"You know nonverbal spells?" Ginny panted.

"She can do that since our third-year," Ron responded. "Don't stop running! — Stupefy!"

"And you decide to use them until now?!"

"I've been using them all the time!" Mel argued, shooting towards another Death Eater. "But I'm obviously not going to walk around announcing it!"

She cleared the way and pushed Ginny and Luna through the door, then Ron pushed her and before he could close the door a dark something hit the side of his head and the boy stumbled back. Mel slammed the door close as Ron fell flat on the spot, she kneeled beside him.

She shook his shoulders but nothing happened. Ginny shouted something about footsteps getting closer. Mel pointed to his chest and used a reviving spell to bring him back, Ron's eyes sort of cleared, but only for the briefest moment, he stared at her with a stupid smile.

"Haha... Mel," He giggled. "You have two heads..."

"Great," She groaned. "He's been confunded... At least he's awake — We need to move."

"You go ahead, Luna and I will carry him," Ginny replied, grabbing her brother.

Mel advanced carefully and as quickly as she could, a new pair of death eaters ran into the room and started to throw curses. One charged up to her, caught off guard by his sudden actions, she fell backwards and cut her face with the edge of a table.

"Get off!" She shouted, placing both hands on the man's chest. A burst of energy sent him flying across the room. Mel wasted no time, the other death eater was fighting with Ginny and Luna.

"Reducto!"

The shelf next to him exploded, giving the girls enough time to push Ron out of the way. Mel grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the next room, closely followed by Ginny and Luna.

The group ran all together into the next room. Mel suddenly felt her feet being lifted from the ground.

"Space," She gasped.

But this couldn't be the real thing, since she could breathe and the planets were all her size.

"Avada —"

"Petrificus Totalus!" shouted Luna.

Ron was floating around and having a laughing fit; she pushed to get closer to the boy and shield him. A planet exploded a few feet away, she landed on top of Ron, who laughed louder.

"My foot!" Ginny growled behind her.

Mel pushed the hair out of her face.

"Take Ron, you three keep going —"

"But —"

"Do as I say!" Mel yelled as she lifted Ron from the ground with Luna's help. "I don't need to use my wand!"

Ginny ran to the door, broken ankle and everything. Mel forced Luna to walk out of there with Ron, and with both hands, she conjured a stunning spell strong enough to hit the three remaining men. She didn't wait to see the results and turned around, rushing out of the room and slamming the door close.

"Ginny?" Harry's voice took her by surprise. "What happened?"

Ginny fell to the ground and held her leg tightly, Mel walked up to her and crouched.

"Ferula!" She exclaimed, Ginny's ankle quickly got wrapped in bandages.

"I think her ankle's broken, I heard something crack," Luna explained. "Four of them chased us into a dark room full of planets, it was a very odd place, some of the time we were just floating in the dark —"

"Harry, we saw Uranus up close!" said Ron. "Get it, Harry? We saw Uranus — ha ha ha —"

"What happened to you?" Erick asked when he saw her. "You have a huge cut on your —"

"Doesn't matter," She moved his hand away from her face.

"It does matter!"

"Everyone here is hurt!" She replied harshly. "You have a massive cut on your lip — Neville, dear Merlin, Neville's got his nose broken and — What's wrong with Hermione?" Mel walked up to her unconscious friend.

"And what about Ron?" Harry asked them, holding Ron so he wouldn't fall.

"I don't know what they hit him with," said Luna, "but he's gone a bit funny, I could hardly get him along at all... Mel woke him up — It's been lucky that she was with us, she took down three of them at once."

"Harry," Ron snorted, "you know who this girl is, Harry? She's Loony... Loony Lovegood... ha ha ha..."

"We've got to get out of here," said Harry. "Luna, can you help Ginny?"

"Yes," said Luna.

"It's only my ankle, I can do it myself! Mel fixed it!" But even with all the fixing, Ginny couldn't stand on her own.

Harry tugged Ron's arm over his shoulders. Neville pulled Hermione closer and Erick quickly approached to help him. Mel was the only one left who still had no extra weight to carry.

An invisible mantle had fallen onto her unexpectedly, now it was her duty to make sure everyone would leave this place in one piece. She almost wanted to fall to her knees and cry like a baby, she knew that people would eventually need her to lead, but it had been too soon, too sudden.

"There they are!" Bellatrix yelled.

Mel lifted a big magical division between them.

"GO!"

Harry kicked another door open and went inside, closely followed by Erick, Neville and Hermione. Mel started to walk backwards as Luna helped Ginny move forward, trying to maintain the spell for a bit longer. Two figures appeared on her sides, Erick and Harry were back in the room, helping her keep the protection. As soon as they reached the door, Erick yelled 'Now!' and the three of them ran for it.

"Colloportus!" Harry shouted, just in time to hear the adults crash into the entrance.

"It doesn't matter! There are other ways in — WE'VE GOT THEM, THEY'RE HERE!"

"Decide quickly!" Mel yelled. "We can seal all the doors or run, but we have to do it now!"

"We keep going, but we seal half of these first. You and Erick watch over the others," Harry said. "Luna — Neville — help me!"

The three of them tore around the room, sealing the doors as they went: Harry crashed into a table and rolled over the top of it in his haste to reach the next door.

"Colloportus!"

There were footsteps running along behind the doors; every now and then another heavy body would launch itself against one, so it creaked and shuddered. Luna and Neville were bewitching the doors along the opposite wall — then, as Harry reached the very top of the room, he heard Luna cry, "Collo — aaaaaaaaargh..."

"Get Potter!" Bellatrix shouted.

"Stupefy!" Mel said, hitting another death eater across the chest.

"Hey!" said Ron, somehow he'd escaped Erick and Mel's protection. "Hey, Harry, there are brains in here, ha ha ha, isn't that weird, Harry?"

"Ron, get out of the way, get down —"

"Honest, Harry, they're brains — look — Accio Brain!"

"DON'T—" Erick started, but it was too late.

"Ha ha ha, Harry, look at it —" said Ron, watching it disgorge its gaudy innards. "Harry, come and touch it, bet it's weird —"

"RON, NO!"

"Harry, look what's happen — no — no, I don't like it — no, stop — stop —" The tentacles wrapped around his arms and quickly crawled up his chest.

"Diffindo!" yelled Harry.

"Harry, it'll suffocate him!" shouted Ginny, before she could reach her brother a spell got her and she fell unconscious on the ground.

Erick did one swift movement with his wand and the death eater who'd gotten Ginny flew back against the wall.

"STUBEFY!" shouted Neville. "STUBEFY, STUBEFY !"

"Immobulus!"

Mel got the brain around Ron's torso. The thing stopped at once and fell limply on the ground, but Ron was half-gone already. Only Mel, Erick, Harry and Neville remained.

"We cover," Mel said. "You and Neville run."

"But —"

"I can do more than you," She said tensely. "Protect that bloody orb — Do what I say."

Harry and Neville ran while Mel and Erick shot at the adults all the curses they could remember. Some of them bounced on the walls and she realized how dangerous this could be for her fallen friends. She had no option but to follow Harry and Neville so this room could be left alone.

They were back in the room with the stone archway, Harry stumbled down and Neville was nowhere to be seen, the terror in Mel's body started to show through her magic, thin dark lines started to spread around the back of her hands.

"Children, your race is run," Lucius Malfoy pulled off his cloak. "Now hand me the prophecy like a good boy..."

"Let — let the others go, and I'll give it to you!" Harry panted.

"You are not in a position to bargain, Potter. You see, there are ten of us and only three of you... or hasn't Dumbledore ever taught you how to count?"

"There's ford obf us!" Neville shouted from the top of the stairs.

"And I can assure you Dumbledore taught me way more than just numbers," Mel replied, holding her wand firmly.

"Neville — no — go back to Ron —" Harry urged desperately.

"STUBEFY!" Neville shouted, trying to take down as many people as possible, "STUBEFY ! STUBE —"

One man launched over him and seized his arms behind his back.

"It's Longbottom, isn't it? Well, your grandmother is used to losing family members to our cause... Your death will not come as a great shock..." Lucius started.

"Longbottom?" Bellatrix asked in delight. "Why, I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents, boy..."

"I DOE YOU HAB!"

"Someone Stun him!"

"No, no, no... No, let's see how long Longbottom lasts before he cracks like his parents... Unless Potter, Dumbledore and the traitor want to give us the prophecy —"

"DON'D GIB ID DO DEM!" roared Neville, she would've been proud hadn't been for the fact that they were all about to die. "DON'D GIB ID DO DEM!"

"Crucio!"

Neville fell to the floor in agony, Erick tried to curse Bellatrix, but four different death eaters attacked at once. Harry and Mel managed to protect him from most of it, but he doubled abruptly, blood staining his uniform.

"That was just a taster!" said Bellatrix. "Now, Potter, either give us the prophecy, or watch your little friend die the hard way! And eventually the rest of your friends. The nasty traitor will bleed out, and nutty will join us to be the Dark Lord's little pet..."

Harry and Mel stood side by side, it didn't matter how strong she was, she couldn't fight ten people ready to kill. Harry hesitantly stretched out his hand, but before Malfoy could grab the prophecy, the doors burst open and Sirius, Lupin, Moody, Tonks, and Kingsley entered the room.

Harry grabbed her wrist and yanked her down, she seized Erick and dragged him too. The three of them crawled all the way up to Neville.

"Are you okay?" Harry shouted.

"Yes," Neville said shakily.

"That was really brave!" Mel cupped his face, examining his injuries. "And really stupid, Neville! You were supposed to stay close!"

"And Ron?" Harry asked them. "And the girls?"

"All out," Erick panted, he was holding onto the side of his body and was getting paler with each passing second. "But alive."

"I don't know how to heal cuts that deep," Mel said in worry. "Stop moving!"

Harry suddenly got lifted onto his feet by a man.

"Give it to me! Give me the prophecy —"

Neville stood up again and stabbed the man's eye with Hermione's wand. He let go of Harry and Mel shouted: "STUPEFY !"

Harry yelled 'Thanks!' as he stood up, but he slipped on Moody's eye, who was now unconscious a few feet away. Dolohov stared at them with a nasty smile.

"Tarantallegra!" He yelled at Neville, making him lose balance. "Now, Potter —"

"Protego!" Harry shouted.

Mel lifted Erick's white shirt that was now sticking to his body and did the first thing she could think of: She cauterised the cuts.

Her friend screamed in pain, she apologized hurriedly and kept going as Sirius and Dolohov fought behind her. When she finished, Erick was no longer conscious. Harry helped her stand and stared at him worryingly.

"He's not bleeding now," She tried to dry her tears, but only managed to smear Erick's blood across her face.  "I can't do anything else — I don't know if he'll live..."

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry yelled over her shoulder. Dolohov fell backwards.

"Nice one!" shouted Sirius forcing them to lower their heads. "Now I want you to get out of —"

Tonks fell a few feet away from them.

"Take the prophecy, grab Neville and Erick, and run!" Sirius ran towards Bellatrix.

"Can you stand?" Harry asked Neville.

"Hang on," Mel pointed her wand towards Neville's legs and ended the jinx.

"Put your arm 'round my neck," The boy told Neville, then turned to her. "You're sure you can take him?"

She pointed at Erick's limp figure and made him float a few inches above the ground.

"I don't need brute force," Mel said, pushing her friend's body forward.

Just as they started moving, Malfoy launched himself towards Harry and both fell onto the ground. Harry kept his hand up in order to not crash the prophecy, Mel let out a growl.

"The prophecy, give me the prophecy, Potter!"

"No — get — off — me... Neville — catch it!"

Harry flung the prophecy across the floor, Neville spun himself around on his back and scooped the ball to his chest. Malfoy pointed the wand instead at Neville, but Harry jabbed his own wand back over his shoulder and yelled, "Impedimenta!"

"Round up the others and GO!" Lupin yelled, standing in front of Malfoy to keep him from attacking.

Neville approached her.

"You grab dis," He handed her the prophecy, surprisingly warm at the touch. "You're a better dueller."

"You're okay?" Mel asked.

"I'b fine," He said fiercely.

"Come on!" Harry yelled.

Neville pushed the Slytherin's floating figure, Mel looked down at the prophecy and froze.

'S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D'

She recognized the initials.

"That's how he knew..." Mel whispered. 

"Mel!" Harry yelled.

The prophecy was dangerous and they had almost let it fall onto the wrong hands... but there was a way to make sure this wouldn't happen, and it didn't necessarily mean both sides would lose.

She held the orb firmly and smashed it against the ground.

"NO!"

A white misty figure appeared wearing a pair of glasses that she knew all too well, a triumphant expression appeared on her face while Harry rushed back to her side.

"Have you lost your mind?!"

Her hand now had pieces of broken glass encrusted, but she couldn't feel pain, the adrenaline kept her working, the strange dark lines were slowly spreading across her skin. Harry looked down at her hand and shook his head, still unable to believe what she'd done.

"Let's get out of —"

"Dubbledore!" gasped Neville.

"What?"

"DUBBLEDORE!"

Mel's heart went from being in the depths of despair, to high above the clouds, now they had a chance to leave the Ministry in one piece: Albus Dumbledore had arrived, and he was angry.

It was an impressive display of power. A few death eaters ended up tied and wandless in a matter of seconds. Sirius and Bellatrix continued fighting, not noticing the battle was almost over.

"Come on, you can do better than that!" Sirius taunted.

"He shouldn't be here," Mel pulled a piece of glass out of her palm. "Sirius shouldn't —" 

Before she could finish, a spell hit him right on the chest. Sirius' eyes opened in shock as he stumbled back. 

Mel was vaguely aware of Harry as he ran down the steps, her body went numb as she witnessed the man falling further into the veil. She couldn't see his face from where she was standing, but she saw his body fall, not quite touching the material hanging from the archway. The veil moved slightly, and then engulfed him.

"SIRIUS!" Harry screamed. "SIRIUS!"

Lupin caught the boy before he could go too far, Mel's fists tightened and she felt the pieces of glass piercing deeper into her skin. 

"There's nothing you can do, Harry —"

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

"It's too late, Harry —"

"We can still reach him —"

"There's nothing you can do, Harry... nothing... He's gone." 

"He hasn't gone! SIRIUS! SIRIUS!"

"He can't come back, Harry, He can't come back, because he's d —"

"HE — IS — NOT — DEAD! SIRIUS!"

Something inside Mel snapped, the glass shot out of her palm and she walked back into the fight, attacking every dark shape her eyes would encounter. 

She wanted to hurt, to make them regret Sirius' death. Dumbledore slowed down her movements when he realized Mel had lost it, the girl looked down just in time to see faint, black lines vanish from her forearms.

Mel wouldn't remember much of it afterwards, all she knew was that her wand was extremely warm once she'd finished with the remaining death eaters and her fingers had a grey mist coming out of them. 

"What..." She stepped back clumsily, crashing against her great-uncle.

"I warned you," He said quietly. 

"Harry? Mel?" Neville had reached the place where Harry was standing, the boy had an absent look on his face, and he was unable to look away from the archway. "I'b really sorry... Was dat man — was Sirius Black a — a friend of yours?" 

Harry nodded, looking completely lost. Mel realized someone had managed to slip away from her outburst: Bellatrix was still fighting with Kingsley. Anger rose up to her chest once more, but Dumbledore didn't let her move forward.

"Let me have her!" She yelled.

BANG!

Kingsley fell flat on the ground, Bellatrix tried to run for it and Dumbledore threw a spell, but she was fast enough to avoid it.

"Harry — no!" 

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS!" Harry ran. "SHE KILLED HIM — I'LL KILL HER!"

Mel pushed Dumbledore aside and shouted 'Protego!' before anyone could try to stop them. They ran across the brain room and into the room full of doors, but this time neither Mel nor Harry had time for guessing.

"Where's the exit?!" Harry shouted. "Where's the way out?!"

The door behind them opened and they reached the elevator just as Bellatrix was leaving, Harry pushed the button to call a second lift and once inside Mel crouched, struggling to breathe. She didn't know how she still had the energy to do all this, but she didn't care as long as they could end that woman. 

Bellatrix was in the middle of the entrance hall, she threw several spells their way but Mel made them bounce away with flicks of her wrist. However, a potent spell pushed her back, and Harry dragged her behind the fountain before Bellatrix could take advantage of the momentary slip.

"Come out, come out, little kiddies! What did you come after me for, then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin! You were doing so well downstairs, you nutter!"

"We are!" Harry yelled.

"Aaaaaah... did you love him, little babies?" Bellatrix let out a peal of manic laughter. "Well, you're not the little babies, that filthy newborn is! Lucky for us we killed the father before he could ruin it! If we kill the mother too, we could raise their bastard on the right side of the family!"

Mel's stomach dropped, how did Bellatrix know about the baby? Where was her mother?

"Crucio!" Harry stood at the same time as her.

Mel once again lifted a protection spell around them, but this one came out slightly weaker. 

"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" Bellatrix was now talking to them more like equals and less like infants. "You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain — to enjoy it — righteous anger won't hurt me for long — I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson — Crucio!" 

Mel pointed her wand to the woman's feet and the ground exploded, causing her to lose balance and stumble back.

"You cannot win against me! I was and am the Dark Lord's most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little children, can never hope to compete —"

"Stupefy!" 

"Protego!"

Mel and Harry only had time to crawl back behind the fountain.

"I am going to give you one chance! Give me the prophecy — roll it out toward me now — and I may spare your life!"

"You're in no position to bargain," She said, the same way Lucius Malfoy had done it. "And we have bad news for you —"

"— You're going to have to kill us because it's gone!" Harry said, and he glanced briefly at Mel before wincing in pain. "And he knows!" 

Mel couldn't feel this, probably because she was already hurting as well.

"Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it's gone!" He panted. "He's not going to be happy with you, is he?"

"What? What do you mean?" 

"Mel smashed it! What do you think Voldemort'll say about that, then?"

The girl raised her injured hand and waved it around.

"See? I crushed that thing until there was nothing left!"

Her hand stung badly and she lowered it to rub it, smearing more blood on her skin. 

"LIAR! YOU'VE GOT IT AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME — Accio Prophecy! ACCIO PROPHECY!" 

"Liar?" Mel spoke over Harry's insane laughter. "I'm a nutter! Crazy people never lie!"

"Nothing there!" Harry shouted. "Nothing to summon! It smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your boss that —"

"No! It isn't true, you're lying — MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME —"

"Don't waste your breath!" Harry continued as Mel tried to heal her hand. "He can't hear you from here!"

"Can't I, Potter?" 

She still remembered him from her visions, but it was nothing compared to the live version.

Tall, thin, and black-hooded, his terrible snakelike face white and gaunt, his scarlet, slit-pupiled eyes staring... Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle of the hall, his wand pointing at Harry who stood frozen, quite unable to move.

Mel knew then that she would not survive, she was starting to feel tired.

"So you smashed my prophecy? No, Bella, they're not lying... I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind... Months of preparation, months of effort... and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again..." 

His eyes moved to Mel, she used the remnants of her strength to keep him out of her mind and closed her eyes tightly, breathing heavily, Voldemort let out a quiet hiss. 

"Miss Dumbledore, how nice to finally meet you... I see the rumours are true... Unfortunately, you're too young to be a real threat. Since it's been you who destroyed my prophecy, I'll have to kill you, but at least I'll make it fun to watch..."

"Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the Animagus Black!" Bellatrix kneeled down in front him, Mel found the scene revolting. "Master, you should know —"

"Be quiet, Bella. I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling apologies?"

"But Master — he is here — he is below —" 

"As for dearest Potter," He continued, ignoring the woman. "I have nothing more to say to you. You have irked me too often, for too long. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

[...] The headless golden statue of the wizard in the fountain had sprung alive, leaping from its plinth, and landed on the floor with a crash between Harry and Voldemort. The spell merely glanced off its chest as the statue flung out its arms, protecting Harry.

"What — ? Dumbledore!" 

Mel's uncle was standing in front of the golden gates.

The statue of the witch ran at Bellatrix, who screamed and sent spells streaming uselessly off its chest, before it dived at her, pinning her to the floor. Meanwhile, the goblin and the house-elf scuttled toward the fireplaces set along the wall, and the one-armed centaur galloped at Voldemort, who vanished and reappeared beside the pool. 

For some reason, none of the statues charged towards her, and Mel had the strange thought, that it was because her uncle knew she was done fighting.

"It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom," said Dumbledore. "The Aurors are on their way —"

"By which time I shall be gone, and you dead!

Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the spell that emanated from it was such that Harry, though shielded by his stone guard, felt his hair stand on end as it passed, and this time Voldemort was forced to conjure a shining silver shield out of thin air to deflect it. 

"You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore? Above such brutality, are you?"

"We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom. Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —"

"There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!"  

"You are quite wrong. Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness —" 

[...]Fawkes swooped down in front of Dumbledore, opened his beak wide, and swallowed the jet of green light whole. He burst into flame and fell to the floor, small, wrinkled, and flightless. At the same moment, Dumbledore brandished his wand in one, long, fluid movement — the snake, which had been an instant from sinking its fangs into him, flew high into the air and vanished in a wisp of dark smoke; the water in the pool rose up and covered Voldemort like a cocoon of molten glass —

For a few seconds Voldemort was visible only as a dark, rippling, faceless figure, shimmering and indistinct upon the plinth, clearly struggling to throw off the suffocating mass —

Then he was gone, and the water fell with a crash back into its pool, slopping wildly over the sides, drenching the polished floor.

"MASTER!" cried Bellatrix.

The girl tried to walk towards his uncle, Harry moved out of the statue's grip. 

"Stay where you are!" Dumbledore ordered.

Both froze, waiting for something, anything... Then Mel's body burst into flames.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle

[rizlowwritessortof]

Never Look Back

Bethany Rae Cooper didn’t realize when she met the Winchesters in her family’s bar and grill that her life would never be the same. But she’s always believed that everything happens for a reason, even if it’s not exactly what you were expecting…

“Bethany Rae!  Get your butt back in here!”  Beth heard her stepfather’s voice clearly through the front door as she strode angrily away from the bar, her long dark ponytail swinging with each step.  "Beth!  I mean it!“

"I’m out of here, Rick.  I’m done.  See you around,” she shouted back, unlocking her dingy-white beat-up ‘65 Ford Fairlane and climbing behind the wheel, slamming the door.  She threw up a cloud of dust as she backed up and tore out of the dirt parking lot, fishtailing a little as she hit the main road.

Her thoughts flew furiously as she drove.  Seriously!  Did Rick and her mom think she was going to let them treat her like a child forever?  She was twenty-freaking-five years old, and they had the nerve to try and tell her who she could go out with!  The guys that left about a half an hour before her were both–well, hot, with that sense of danger around them that seemed to draw her like an alcoholic to his whiskey.  And when the one who introduced himself as Dean had asked her to leave with him, her mother had come unglued and ordered them out of the bar.  Actually, unglued was an understatement–she had never seen her mom so upset, and accusing her of overreacting just made things worse.  Dean had slipped her his cell number as he left, winking, and she had stuffed it into her pocket so her mother wouldn’t see.  Beth reached for her pocket–the scrap of paper was still there.  She smiled defiantly to herself, then reached for the ipod and cranked some tunes, driving a little too fast as usual and letting the music wash over her, fitting her angry mood.

She came to a screeching stop in the driveway of their faded two-story house, slamming her car door and walking with determination to the front door.  She took the stairs two at a time, grabbing a suitcase from her closet and throwing clothes into it with abandon.  She filled a duffle bag with more, then grabbed a box and added her CD’s, laptop, a few books and pictures, and anything else she could think of on the spur of the moment.  She had threatened before, but this time she was really leaving, and she wanted to be gone before her mother or Rick had a chance to catch up to her.  She loaded her car quickly, then left her small Midwest home town in her rearview mirror, not even caring about a destination.  All she cared about was getting away.

She thought with frustration of the two years she had been gone from home, free, pursuing what she wanted to do with her life.  It had been two–no, three years now.  Nursing school.  She did well, too–and then her mom had the heart attack, and she came home to help out, then let them guilt her into staying to help run the bar and grill.  Gave up her dream to help her family, and in return they tried to run her life.  Well–no more.

It was already 1 a.m., and she knew she needed to find a motel room for the night.  Hopefully they wouldn’t follow her out of town.  They’d think this was just a tantrum, and by the time they realized differently, they hopefully wouldn’t be able to find her.  Not that she didn’t plan to let them know she was all right–just not for a few days.  She spotted the motel sign, lights partly burned out, about 30 miles from Lovell, just on the edge of Greybull, and pulled into the parking lot.  She walked into the office, reaching for the cash in her pocket, and stopped dead as she met the green gaze and wide smile of Dean Winchester, who was standing near the front door.

“Well–look who just crashed our party, Sammy,” he said, his voice husky and warm.  "Beth, right?“

Beth felt herself blush a little, nodding with a half smile.  "Yeah.  And you’re Dean, and you,” she said, turning towards the taller man, “are Sam.”

“Right,” Sam answered, nodding with a friendly smile.  "I take it you continued that shouting match with your mother after we left.“

"You have no idea,” she answered, shaking her head as she stepped up to the desk.  "Single room, please.“  She registered and paid for her room, then turned to face the brothers, who stood waiting for her to finish.  Dean’s smile was gone from his face, and she looked at him quizzically.  "Something wrong?”

He shook his head, squinting a little as he looked at her.  "Look, I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you.  Didn’t even know that was your mother, in fact.  I hope you’re not burning any bridges here.“

She looked back at him, one hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans.  "Don’t worry about me.  This has been coming for a long time.  Tonight was just the last straw.”  They walked out of the office together, grabbing bags from their vehicles and heading for the doors to their rooms, which were next door to each other.  

“Want to come in for a drink?” Dean threw the invitation over his shoulder as he entered their room, then turned to wait for an answer.

She stared at him, tempted for a moment, but then smiled and shook her head.  "Look, no offense, but I don’t really know you guys.  But thanks for the offer.“

The smirk was back on Dean’s face, and it made her heart falter a little.  "Smart girl,” he countered, and Sam smiled as he waved goodnight, closing the door behind them.  

Beth entered her room, throwing her bag on the bed and shaking her head at the hideous early-70’s decor.  She dead-bolted her door and headed for the shower, hoping it wasn’t too disgusting.  She was pleasantly surprised at the cleanliness, which helped somewhat to make up for the ugly.  She put on an old threadbare t-shirt and a pair of shorts, brushed through her long dark hair, and crawled into bed, sighing with relief and exhaustion.  It didn’t take long for her to drift off to sleep, deciding that morning would be soon enough to figure out where she was going.

A loud crash jolted Beth from a deep sleep, and she lay there, not sure if she had really heard it or if she had been dreaming.  She squinted at the alarm clock, which read 4:23; then another crash and a muffled shout startled her completely awake, her heart pounding.  The sounds were coming from next door, Sam and Dean’s room, and she scrambled out of her bed, heading for the door.  She stepped outside, planning to knock and ask them if they were all right, but the door was standing wide open.  She moved aside barely in time to avoid being flattened by a body flying out of the opening, and stood open-mouthed as Dean looked up at her, his face bloodied.  "Get back to your room!“ he ordered harshly, launching himself up from the ground and rejoining the chaos inside.  Beth backed up, her eyes wide, and did as she was told, listening, horrified, to the noises coming through the walls.  

A few seconds later, it seemed as if the silence was deafening in contrast.  Beth debated with herself, but concern for the men next door won out, and she left her room again, going to their door.  Sam was slowly getting up, while Dean was–holy crap, he was pulling a knife from the body he knelt next to on the floor.  A small sound escaped her lips, before she had time to clap her hand over her mouth.  Dean’s expression as he looked towards her frightened her almost more than the scene before her, and she turned and ran back to her room, Sam’s voice calling out her name behind her.  She grabbed her phone, shaking with shock, and heard Sam calling her name, banging on her door.  "Beth, please–just let me talk to you.  I need to explain what’s going on.”  He sounded very calm, but she was scared out of her wits.  

“Leave me alone!  I just saw your brother stab someone!  I have to get the police!”

“No, Beth–please.  Just let me explain.  Please.”  She was hesitating, and she didn’t understand why.

“How do you explain him pulling a knife out of someone’s body?”

The next voice she heard was Dean’s.  "Beth–open the door.  We need to talk.“

"No freaking way!  You are not getting in here!”  The door flew inward with a crash, and Beth backed away with a small shriek, dropping her phone and backing into the wall.  The panic she felt was so intense she was seeing spots before her eyes, and she could hear Sam’s voice trying to calm her.

“Beth, please listen.  We’re not going to hurt you.  Just calm down and let us explain.”  Sam walked towards her slowly, stopping to pull a chair out from the small table nearby.  "Please, Beth.“  He nodded towards the chair, and Beth peeled herself from the wall and perched there, ready for instant flight.  She glanced, terrified, at Dean, who sat on the bed next to his brother, staring at the floor, the muscles in his jaw working.  He picked that moment to look up, and she was relieved to see that the murderous, chilling expression he had worn earlier was gone.  He looked frustrated and tired, and he spoke softly to her.

"Beth, I know this is going to be hard to believe, but what we just killed in there–they were demons.”

Her dark eyes widened in disbelief.  "Demons.“  She turned her gaze to Sam, who looked back at her calmly, and nodded as he answered.

"That’s right–demons.”

“Demons?  Like 'The Exorcist?’”

Dean’s voice was quiet but tense.  "Yeah.  Demons.  Head-spinning, pea soup-spewing, pain-in-my-ass demons.“  His cell phone rang just then, and he grabbed it roughly from his pocket, standing and moving to just outside the door of her room.  "Bobby–got anything?”

Beth looked at Sam again, her mind reeling.  "Sam, seriously?  Those things are real?  I mean, I thought they were, but not here.  In hell.  Where they belong.“

"They’re real.  Unfortunately.  And their boss is kind of pissed at us.  He thinks we have something that belongs to him, and he wants it back.” “Satan is pissed at you?  That’s great.”

“Not Satan.  Crowley,” Dean answered as he entered the room.  "Bobby’s got nothing right now, Sam.  But he’s working on a better way to hide us from them.  Apparently he’s found a way around our hex bags.“

"Crowley?!”  Beth’s voice was incredulous as she stared back at Dean.  "Hex bags?  You guys are seriously yanking my chain.“

"No, we’re not.”  He met her gaze full-on, and she almost flinched.  "I know how crazy this sounds, believe me.“

"If those are demons, why don’t they disappear when you kill them?”

“This isn’t 'Charmed,’ sweetheart.  They don’t disappear.  At least the bodies they’re possessing don’t.  What we have in there,” he nodded towards their room, “is what’s left of the poor sons of bitches they possessed.  Most of the time the only thing keeping the bodies alive are the demons inside.  They just wear them like a rental tux for the prom.”

A single tear was making its way down Beth’s face, and she brushed it angrily away.  "You’re telling me that those things can get inside anybody?  Every person I meet could really be a demon?  They just stroll around up here like they own the place?“

"Look, we’re not trying to scare you, Beth.”  Sam spoke in a soothing voice, but she looked at him, eyes wide with fear.  

“Really?  You’re scaring the crap out of me.  Good job.”

Dean approached the table, pulling the other chair out and sitting down in front of her.  "Beth, I’m sorry.  I wish you had never seen any of this.  But you have to believe us, we are the good guys.“

"How do you know those things aren’t going to possess you?  How do you…”  Dean’s hand went to the neck of his t-shirt, and he pulled it down to reveal a symbol tattooed on his upper left chest.  She looked over at Sam, who was doing the same.

“Anti-possession symbol,” Sam answered quietly.  "We had amulets, but we figured in our line of work, we needed something more permanent.“

"And what exactly is your line of work?” Beth asked, her voice shaking a little.  She looked up into Dean’s green eyes, and was surprised to see a brief flash of vulnerability, quickly masked.

“We’re hunters.  We hunt demons, and monsters, and ghosts.  Whatever evil thing we run across.  We try to save as many people as we can.”  He looked back up at her, unflinching, waiting for her reaction.

Beth stared back at him, her eyes wide.  A few seconds passed before she shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment.  "You guys have to be crazy.  That’s the only explanation.“

"Well, darling, I suppose you could be right.  But what they just told you is the truth.”  Beth almost fell to the floor as she leapt from her chair and whirled around to see where the sarcastic voice was coming from.  Dean’s chair hit the floor as he stood, an angry sneer on his face.

“Crowley!"

"Good.  You know me, and I know you.  Now tell me, who is this charming new friend of yours?”

“Where did you come from?” Beth stammered, backing up by the headboard, as far as she could get away from this new threat.

“Hell, darling–and I need to get back.  You can’t find good help these days.”

“Then you should go, don’t you think?” Dean growled.  "And she has nothing to do with this, or with us.“

Crowley’s brows raised, and he threw a disbelieving look Dean’s direction.  "Really?  Seems like you were all getting rather cozy together.  Breaking the ice, as it were.  And she does look like your type, Dean.”  After a few seconds of silence, he sighed impatiently.  "All right.  I can see we’re getting nowhere like this.  Why don’t you just tell me where it is, and we can avoid any more unpleasantness for the time being.“

"Screw you,” Dean ground out between clenched teeth, barely getting the words out before Crowley sent him flying with a wave of his hand.  He crashed against the far wall, landing with a thud and a grunt of pain.  Sam took a step towards the demon before Crowley spoke again.

“Really, Moose, do you think that’s wise?”  He looked towards Beth, who was still cowering by the bed.  "You try to raise them right, teach them how to behave, and this is the thanks you get.“  He twisted his hand in the air, clenching it into a fist, and Sam cried out in pain, dropping to his knees on the floor.  

"Stop it!  What do you want?!” Beth screamed at him, running to Sam’s side.  Crowley flashed an evil smile, and released Sam, who leaned back on the bed, breathing heavily.

“I like her, she’s got spirit.  Hope she can keep it.”  Crowley folded his arms and continued.  "Now, boys, I grow tired of this little game.  Where is the Colt?“

Dean was sitting up slowly across the room.  "We don’t have it, you brain-dead dick.  Remember a couple of years ago, the hunters that killed us and sent us to heaven?  They cleaned us out.  Haven’t been able to find them since.”

Crowley sighed again.  "Lovely.  I think you Winchester boys had better get your priorities straight.  I need that gun.  And you need me to take you off my most wanted list.  Sounds like a fair exchange, don’t you think?“  He tilted his head and grinned, then focused on Beth, who still knelt next to Sam.  "It’s been a pleasure meeting you, ducks.  I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.  I look forward to it.”  As she gazed back at him, quaking with fear, he vanished.

“Sam, are you all right?” Beth asked quietly.  Sam nodded, and she rose to cross the room, kneeling next to Dean, who was leaning back against the wall under the windows.  "Dean?  How about you?“

Dean looked at her, his brows drawn together in frowning disbelief.  "I’ll be fine.  Sammy, my shoulder’s dislocated again.  I could use a hand.”

Beth stood and moved away as Sam came to help his brother.  She grabbed the ice bucket from the dresser and headed out to the ice machine a few doors down from their rooms.  She was only gone for a moment, but as she drew near her door with the ice, Dean came flying out towards her.  A look of pure relief crossed his face, followed by another frown as he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room.  "What the hell were you doing?“

"Getting some ice for your shoulder!  Why the hell are you yelling at me?”  She jerked her arm from his grasp, her dark-lashed eyes spitting fire back at him before she turned to go to the bathroom for a towel.  She made an ice pack and, despite her anger, positioned it very carefully on his shoulder.  He raised his other hand to hold it in place, glancing up at her with an abashed expression.  

“Thank you,” he muttered, then fired off a glare at his brother, who stood behind Beth, trying unsuccessfully to smother a grin.

“You’re welcome.”  Beth’s voice was short, but her hands were gentle as she put them on his face, tilting it to one side, then the other as she examined the cut on his forehead and one on his lip from the previous demon fight.  "These need to be cleaned,“ she murmured, turning to go back to the bathroom for the first aid kit and a clean cloth.  Sam cleared his throat, and Dean shot him a murderous look, but his brother turned his back, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, as Beth approached.  She took the warm washcloth and cleaned the cut on his forehead, then his split lip.  He spoke softly as she dabbed antibiotic ointment on his forehead.

"You clean up after a lot of bar fights?”

“A few.  And I went to nursing school for a couple of years, just didn’t get to finish.”

“Dean.”  Sam’s voice held a warning, and Beth looked down at Dean’s face in time to catch a leering grin.  

Beth looked at him sternly.  "Really?“  But the corners of her mouth teased at a smile in spite of her efforts to stifle it.

"Could have used you in a couple of hospitals I’ve been in,” Dean teased, and Beth shook her head as she gathered up the first aid supplies.  "So, when do I get my sponge bath?“  That earned him a wet washcloth in the face, and Beth walked to the bathroom to put away the kit.

Sam shook his head, a disgusted look on his face.  "Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean retorted, tossing the wet rag at him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - How A Star Is Born ch.XI

A Hercules AU, founded by @evaroze, whom this fic is a gift for. This is the last chapter, so I truly hope you all enjoyed this fun AU, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support! 

(Also, a small cameo for @lemonfodrizzleart is in here, so I hope you enjoy!)

ch.X

AO3 link

~~~~~~~~~~

Stan could feel the familiar pressure on his chest when Dipper and Mabel defeated the monster. He did everything he could to keep it at bay until the kids left; they would have stayed, and Bill would have won. Ford might get hurt, so Stan made sure they didn’t know and that they left him.

The second they were gone a powerful wave of pain flared his chest and he sank. Pacifica helped him lie down comfortably against some smooth boulders, unsure if it was safe to move him, and held his hand as he had to endure another heart attack.

Stan’s mind was hazy, but he reminded himself that he was okay with this. He was okay. Dipper and Mabel were gonna in. They got to see each other face to face! Dipper would get to meet Ford, and one day he would get to be with them forever. Heck, Stan even got lucky enough to meet his niece, who he already loved just as much as he loved Dipper. And Ford… he might have been a huge jerk, but he would have liked to see him again. Oh, well. It’s not like Ford would want to see him again.

The old trainer winced and groaned as he could feel his breath being taken away.

Mabel had Gompers go as fast as he could back to Thebes. She, Ford, and Dipper were terrified of what they would come to, but they had to see him again, they had to!

Gompers stopped right where he had picked the young pair of twins up for battle and were distributed to find Stan lying down, he never lied down! Pacifica turned to them, shaking her head and moving aside so they could see how deadly still and pale Stan was.

Ford instantly collapsed onto his knees by his brother’s side. He shook his head, refusing to believe it, and carefully took his hand. “Stanley,” He muttered quietly. “Stanley, it’s me, your brother.”

Mabel was on her knees next to Ford, trembling like a leaf and already crying. “G-G-Grunkle Stan… please…” 

The ruler of the gods scooped his brother up and was distraught when his head fell limp to the side. Ford helped his head lay on his strong arm, tearfully begging and holding his twin close to his fast-beating heart. “Come on, Stanley. P-Please! Wake up! Stanley!” He sobbed and bowed his head, cradling his brother and distraught to find him already cooling down. Ford had never been there for his brother when he needed him to be.

Mabel took Stan’s free, limp hand and kissed it through her tears, then rubbed Ford’s back as he cried freely. Stan appeared much more pale in comparison to the gods that held him close, who shined and glowed like gold. Ford freed an arm to bring her niece closer, and the two held the family member they had so desperately wanted to be reunited with and now would never have a chance to.

Dipper was standing right behind them, shaking with his fists clench. He turned away and sniffed, trying to keep it together, a tiny toxic voice telling him to keep it together and be a man. But the fact that the ruler of the gods was sobbing his heart out behind was enough to help Dipper shed a tear or two, but he couldn’t help but cover his eyes with a hand.

Pacifica hesitated, and then patted his shoulder. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Dipper.” She croaked and glanced back at the broken family. “There’s… some things you just can’t change.”

Scowling and determined with fire in his eyes, Dipper lifted his head and dropped his hand from his eyes. “Yes I can.” And he and Pacifica were gone before Ford or Mabel could realize they were going and they were too busy to notice their disappearances.

~~~~~~~~~~

“WE WERE SO CLOOOOOSE!”

Bill was on a rampage. Now completely alone with no allies and only a sad underworld for his lair, he released his fury by blasting everything in sight with fire. Gideon was well hidden and letting his boss let his anger out, getting fed up of being under the triangle’s thumb and looking for a way out of this; If Pacifica can get her freedom, maybe he can, too.

Bill floated to a window overlooking the underworld, cooling down, but still furious. “We were so close, we tripped at the finish line, WHY?! All cuz that worthless conartist had to teach that twerp a thing or t-...”

The doors crumbled at the punch of the young hero, accompanied by his little tour-guide, Pacifica, who scowled at the demon with a gleam in her eye. “Where’s Stan?” Dipper growled.

Bill smiled at his visitors. “Ah, Pinetree and Llama, underworld’s a great place for a date, isn’t it?”

“Let him go.” Dipper demanded, charging at the demon and grabbing him by his stupid black toga.

Bill rolled his eye and plucked the human’s hands off him. “Get a grip, kid. Here, lemme show you around. C’mon.” And he had a hand on Dipper’s shoulder and walked with him out of Bill’s study, with Pacifica and Gideon curiously following them.

Bill took Dipper to a river of green death, with hundreds of thousands of souls swimming around. Towards the top, was Stan. Peacefully sleeping in his armor and cape, his soul torn and war-worn, but there he was.

“Stan!” Dipper called and reached for him, but the green liquid made his hands burn and age.

“Ah ah, you can look but you can’t touch.” Bill laughed. “You see, Stan’s got a new place here. He’s gonna be in this river, floating for eternity.”

Dipper did some quick thinking, watching Stan float farther away, and an idea came to him and he glared at Bill. “You like making deals. Take me in Stan’s place.”

“Hm.” Bill poked his face as he mockingly gave it some thought. “The great-nephew of my hated rival trapped forever in a river of death.”

“Going once…”

“In exchange for an old man who’ll probably die again next week.”

“Going twice…”

“Okay!” Bill interrupted. “Okay, okay, okay. If you can get him out, he can go, but you have to stay. Good luck, hero.”

Dipper looked back at the river he could easily step into. Stan was farther away now, almost around a riverbend, so the brave young man took in a deep breath and cannon-balled into the River of Death and swam for his uncle’s soul.

“Oh, you know what slipped my mind, you’ll be dead before you can get to him.” Bill called after him. “That’s not a problem, is it?” He cackled.

Dipper knew Stan was right, but if this would give Ford and Mabel a chance to be with him, if only for a short amount of time, so be it. Twins shouldn’t be separated forever.

The instant he jumped in, Dipper began dying rapidly. Not even aging, having a moment’s peace of being in his thirties, forties and fifties. His body seemed to instantly jump to his sixties and then slowly crawl upward. Stan was still so far away, but Dipper kept pushing, thinking of his family crying over Stan’s body. He had to do this. This had to work. Now aged to a hundred-year-old man, frail and at the brink of death, he reached for his uncle’s hand, just as they turned a corner on the river, hidden by a cavern.

Bill grinned at his victory, but his joy was short lived. Bright golden light shined. Bill’s eye was wide with horror and he watched as a true hero walked on the River of Death, carrying his trainer in his arms. “This… This is impossible! You can’t be alive, you’d have to be…”

“A god?” Pacifica and Gideon asked.

Bill roared in fury as he turned red, small and child-like as he kicked and screamed in the air.

Dipper’s skin now glowed golden, like his great-uncle and twin sister. He was sure and determined, clever, and healthy and youthful. And though he was grateful to have his godhood restored, he was still focused on getting his family together.

“Dipper, stop! You can’t do this, you can’t…” And Dipper punched Bill so hard in the face that his eye fell inward into his triangle body.

Bill recovered shortly, popping his eye back into place and chuckling nervously as Dipper walked away. “Okay, I deserved that. Pinetree, can we talk? Your uncle, Sixer, he’s a fun guy! Y’know, m-maybe you can put in a good word with him and we can just blow this whole thing off, huh?” Not seeing any reassurance, Bill went for his last desperate attempt to save his bricks. “Eh, Stan. Stanie, c’mon, talk to your kid.” And he cupped the soul’s cheeks.

At that, Dipper lost his patience and punched him so hard that Bill flew right into the river. Souls instantly latched onto him, and at his annoyance, he was dragged into the depths of death.

“Oh, he’s not gonna be happy when he gets outta there.” Gideon fretted at the edge of the river.

“You mean,” Pacifica gently elbowed her old working buddy and asked slyly, “If he gets out of there.”

Gideon lit up and grinned. “If… If is good.”

“You know,” Dipper said coolly, and the two looked at him. “I think this place is gonna need a new ruler of the underworld. But I think it should be someone who knows just how important life is, so death becomes more comforting.”

Gideon gasped and had an idea, so excited about it he swatted Pacifica’s arm and yelled, “OH! Oh oh oh oh OH! C’mon, c’mon!” And he dragged Pacifica to a special section of the underworld.

Dipper followed behind with Stan still in his arms and Gideon took them to the throne room. Years ago, Gideon watched Bill press a stone on the left side of the door to reveal where he kept a small amount of poison to turn gods mortal. Today, Gideon felt around for a stone on the right side of the door that could be pressed. After a few seconds, he found it, pressed, and a door opened to reveal a cave much like the last, except for oozing purple poison, a bottle of golden elixir awaited them.

“I knew it!” Gideon grabbed the bottle and held it out to Pacifica. “Here! Take it! Be the new god of the underworld!”

“What?!” Pacifica pushed the outstretched bottle back. “No, not me…”

“I think you should.” Dipper reassured. “You helped save my family twice today. You helped those kids. You clearly value life the way you should. I think you’d make a great goddess.”

“And I’ll be there to help you!” Gideon volunteered. “I know a lot about this place, I just… erm, let’s just say I’ve proven to be an awful boss in the past, k’?”

Pacifica played with her hair nervously, still unsure, but the smile from her friends was just enough, and so she snatched the bottle and took a swing before she could change her mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dipper carefully walked back to Thebes with Stan’s soul in his arms. He was reminded of so many times when Stan would pick him up from the dining table full of work and take him to bed. Stan had been his family for so long, that to know they were blood was actually very exciting. On top of which, if Dipper understood the rumors correctly, Stan was once a god, ubt lost his godhood, too. If Dipper can get his back, there must be a way to get Stan’s back. Even if he was a god now, Dipper was determined not to leave Stan’s side until he also earned his godhood. Family sticks together.

Mabel and Ford were still holding onto Stan, just as Dipper left them. Mabel was the first to notice the footsteps, to look up, and to gasp at not only Stan’s soul, but the fact that Dipper glowed like gold, like she and Ford did. She squeezed Ford’s shoulder and he finally took notice, gasping at his nephew.

Mabel scooted back a little bit to give Dipper some space, but Ford refused to let Stan go. He merely loosened his hold so Dipper could gently place the soul down onto the body, and then they waited with Dipper on one knee and Mabel scooting closer again.

It only took a moment. Stan took in a deep breath and let it out far easier than he had in years, and his color returned far brighter than before. Dipper gasped at how he sparkled and shined, and Ford and Mabel grinned to know their hope was proven correct.

Stan blinked once or twice, confused, but beyond amazed to see his entire family surrounding him. He quickly noticed the tears and sat up a bit, concerned, “Whoa, hey, is this an audience or a mosaic?”

“STANLEY!” Ford cried out and threw himself into his brother so hard they both fell into the ground, but neither cared. Stan chuckled nervously and tightly hugged his twin while Ford began to cry again. “St-Stanley! I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! I should’ve…”

“Aw, c’mon, Sixer,” Stan rubbed his shaking back. “It’s okay, it all worked out.”

“I almost lost you…”

“Well, you didn’t.” Stan loosened his grasp to better look at his nephew, and Ford turned to grin proudly at him as well. “Thanks to that knucklehead. HEY! Wait a minute! You jumped into the River of Death?! That was stupid, don’t you dare lemme catch you risking your life for mine, kid! I’m old! I go first!”

Dipper laughed and gestured to Stan. “That’s never gonna happen.”

Stan looked down at himself and flexed his arms and hands, his eyes wide. “Whoa hey! Kid, you did it!” He looked back up at Dipper, finally noticing that he was also glowing, and he jumped to his feet and cheered. “YOU DID IT! You’re a true hero! I trained a true hero! We’re gods again!”

Mabel jumped into Dipper’s arms and hugged him. “I’m so proud of you guys! I KNEW you could do it!”

Ford chuckled warmly and helped his twin up to his feet. “Come, let us go home.”

Mabel whistled and Gompers lowered himself so the family of gods could ride the giant goat back to Olympus.

At the mountain top, just inside the newly repaired gates, the gods and goddess awaited to congratulate the newcomers. Fiddleford blew his trumpet loudly with joy; Hazel, the goddess of spring, tossed flowers every which way; Jackie, the goddess of Summer and Romance, winked at Stan, who ran a hand over his gray hair and threw her a sly smile; Pacifica and Gideon were there, too, Pacifica glowing a peaceful light-blue color to go with her white tiara and baby-blue dress with white sash. Dipper couldn’t help but smile at Pacifica; maybe someday she could earn his trust.

The gods entered their new home and Mabel caught something happening to the night sky. She gently elbowed her brother and pointed up to the sky, and their uncles also looked upward. The Faiths had manipulated the cosmos to tell the new story, and they all watched as the stars formed into the shape of a dipper, the exact same shape on Dipper’s forehead. Beside the new constellation, a shooting star graced the dark inky sky.

“Hey, that’s Stan’s boy!” Hephzie, the goddess of autumn and harvest pointed out.

Stan blinked his eyes dry and let Mabel hug him around the neck from behind, patting her hands. Ford put a hand on his left shoulder, and Stan pulled Dipper into a soft noogie. Together, the loving family watched the beautiful sky.

Just remember, in the darkest hour, Within your heart's the power For making you A hero too!

So don't lose hope when you're forlorn! Just keep your eyes upon the skies! Ev'ry night a star is, Right in sight a star is, Burning bright a star is born!

[mo12mo29]

Queen of Dreams  Chapter 3: First Words

Carla is babysitting Emma while the boys are out doing their own thing.

Notes: I honestly am a little salty with Carla after that one specific episode (not gonna say which one) so I am gonna do a little bashing on her. I'm also gonna add in a bit of Emma's point of view since she is a little older to the point where she can decipher whether she likes someone or not.

A year has gone by and Emma was already getting so big. She was only one and she already knew how to walk, thanks to Stanford teaching her. Stanley never thought he's see the day when his own twin squealing like a girl and jumping up and down in excitement when Emma first started taking her first steps. Stanley was excited too, but not as excited as Stanford was. He guessed that being accomplished in teaching a one year old how to walk brings out that kind of reaction. Today, Caryn and Filbrick were out of town, leaving Stanford and Stanley to take care of Emma. The boys still needed some help since their parents were gonna be gone for two weeks so they called their older brother Shermie, who came into town a month ago, and he said that he would come over to help out. He still had a few hour drive and the boys had to leave for their after school activities. Stanley had to go to boxing practice and Stanford had to go to his science club. Luckily, Stan's girlfriend, Carla said that she would babysit Emma for a while.

Which brings them to the present. Emma was playing on the floor with her toys while Carla was on the phone with one of her friends. If Emma was being honest with herself, she didn't really like Carla at all. Whenever she was around, she would take all of Stanley's attention, give her disgusted looks when she looks at Emma's hair, and say nasty things about her under her breath when no one is listening. Plus, Carla was no fun! She wouldn't even play with Emma whenever she came over! She would just brush her off and either flirt with Stan, or be on the phone all day. Tonight was gonna be even worse, while Emma was playing with a block, she heard Carla talking on the phone with someone, but the sound of the voice didn't sound feminine at all, it sounded like a male's voice.

"Yeah...Yeah, he's gone and they won't be back in an hour. Don't worry about the baby, she's only one, she's a dumb baby." 'Dumb baby'!?  Emma wanted to bite Carla's fingers off. She knew enough words to know that those words were insulted. Just because she was a baby it does not mean she was dumb.

"Be here in ten minutes, don't forget to bring the cigarettes okay? Love you." Woah, wait! A stranger is coming over!? Carla just invited a complete stranger over! Emma did not like the sound of a stranger coming in the house.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Carla picked Emma up from the floor, ignore Emma's struggle to get out of her hold, and went to open the door. There was a man with blond hair and looked close to Carla's age

"Tim, you're here!" Carla reached up and kissed him on the lips. Emma was confused. Why was Carla kissing another guy? Didn't she love Stan? When they parted, Tim looked at Emma and said,

"Carla, I don't feel comfortable smoking in front of a baby. Can't you put her in a crib in another room or something?"

"Oh, don't worry, it's about time for her to go to bed anyway." Carla said as she went upstairs, but it was difficult with Emma squirming and whining in her arms. Finally having enough, Carla just went into the room beside her and opened a closest door.

"Now listen here you little brat." She snarled as she placed Emma down into the closet, "You are gonna sit right here like a good little girl and stay quiet." After that, Carla slammed the closet door on Emma, leaving her in a tight dark space. Emma couldn't see a thing and it was frightening being in a dark place all alone. She stood up the best she could and placed her little hands on the door and started banging her hands on them as she cried out. But it did not seem like anyone was gonna hear her so the only thing she could do was sit and wait. She sat back down and sobbed quietly.

"I want my big brothers." She thought to herself.

After waiting in the dark for almost an hour, Emma was about to doze off when she suddenly heard a voice.

"Where's my sister!?" The voice sounded angry, angry and....familiar, wait...wasn't that?

"Stanny!"  Emma stood up and started banging on the closet door again. She stopped after her hands got sore. After a few minutes of silence she heard footsteps coming towards the closet. The door opened and once Emma adjusted to the light, she saw a face, a face she thought she would never see again.

"Emma! Are you okay!?" Stanley asked as he picked her up from the closet. Emma just clung to Stanley as she cried. Stanley started to inspect her for injuries, and saw that she has minor bruises on her tiny body that were possibly from all the objects pushing against her body. He also saw that her hands were a little red from banging on the door so much. Stan wanted to be pissed, but right now he had a sister to comfort. No doubt that being in the dark for so long in a tight space was not comforting to a one year old. With that, Stanley hugged her tightly and patter her back.

"I know, I know. What did she do to you? It will never happen again." Emma believed every word. She knew that she was safe

As it turns out, Stanley, Stanford, and Shermie all came home earlier and when Stanley saw Carla in the hands of another man, he was pissed at first, but then he realized that someone was missing. After he realizing that Emma was not present, everything about Carla was thrown out the window. He became angry for another reason Which lead them to the present, the guy that Carla was with left the house, which leaves Carla, Stanley, Stanford, and Shermie. Emma was in Stanley's arms, Shermie was lecturing Carla, and Stanford was off to the side, glaring at Carla.

"Carla, we are gonna call your parents and have them know what happened and we will be pressing charges." Carla looked at Shermie in disbelief.

"You can't do that! They'll never let me leave the house again, they might even force me to spend the night in jail!"

"Should have thought about that before shutting our sister in a closet for hours." Carla stared at Shermie for a second before turning to Stanley.

"Stan! You're just gonna let him do that to me!? Look, if this is about that guy, he's nothing." Stanley just gave Carla a cold look, then he scoffed.

"Carla, I am not your dad. I can't tell you who you can and can't be with and honestly, I don't care. What you did was crossing the line. As soon as you're gone, you better stay gone. I don't know what gave you the idea of stuffing a one year old in a closet. Emma's just a baby."

"So you're gonna just choose your sister over me?!" Carla shouted.

"Choose? Carla, I never had to choose because my sister was always gonna be important to me, she is always gonna be my number one gal because unlike you, she's loyal! Another thing, who smokes around a baby!? You could have gotten Emma sick! I want you out of our house, and out of my life because she-" Stanley pointed to Emma, who was hiding her face in his neck, "Is the only girl I need in my life." Tears were streaming down Carla's face as her eyes were wide with shock, then she turned and walked towards the door. When she opened it, she slightly turned.

"You're gonna end up a lonely man if you keep choosing your sister over everything." Stanley's scowl only deepened as he answered.

"Then I rather be a lonely man than be with someone who hurts my family." Seeing that he was done talking, Carla went out the door, her sniffling getting louder as she disappeared from view. It was silent in the house for a few minutes until Emma started crying again. Stanley patter her back as he tried to console her.

"Its okay Emma, big brother Stanny is here now." Suddenly, Stanley heard a small voice near his ear.

" 'tanny." Stanley's eyes went wide as he looked at Emma. He then looked at his brothers who both had the same look of shock on their faces. He looked back at Emma was was looking back at him.

"Emma, say that again." Emma tilted her head to the side in confusion for a second, "Come on Emma." Stanley then had a thought

"Wait, that's right, she'll probably want me to be specific."

"Emma, who am I?" Emma eyes brightened at Stanley's question and smiled.

" 'tanny." It almost sounded like Stanley's nickname, but without the 'S'.

"Stan, I think she's trying to say your name!" Stanford exclaimed. Stanley was silent, slightly shaking as tears of joy started to run down his face. He felt as if Emma was the only thing that mattered. As if she was the reason why his life is suddenly perfect. He was suddenly taken out of his thoughts when he saw that Shermie and Stanford were staring at him. He quickly wiped his eyes with his free arm and cleared his throat.

"Don't look at me like that! I wasn't crying, I just had dust in my eyes!" Shermie just smiled at him with a smug expression.

"Stan, Ford told me that you cried when you first saw her." Stanford only shrugged.

"I had to tell him, it was the first time you ever cried about something so small."

"Shut up!" Stanley exclaimed. Emma only giggled at the interaction, Stanley turned to face her.

"That didn't give you permission to laugh little missy." But that only made Emma giggle some more.

"Alright boys, that's enough. It's late, it's been a long day, and a certain little sister needs to get some sleep." Shermie said. But when he tried to reach out to take Emma out of Stanley's arms, she whimpered and clung tighter to Stan. It seemed like she didn't want to let her Stanny go.

"It's alright Shermie, I'll take her." Shermie nodded as Stanley took Emma upstairs to bed.

It took a while for Emma to stay in her crib, she kept fussing every time Stanley tried to put her down, but as soon as she fell asleep, Stan went into his shared room where he saw his twin take a five dollar bill out of his pocket. He then turned to Stan and gave it to him.

"A deal's a deal. You win." Stanley looked at the five dollar bill for a second, then he gave it back to Stanford.

"Keep it, I don't want it anymore." Stanford looked at his brother, confused.

"But Stan, the deal was-"

"The deal, doesn't matter anymore. I'm just glad our sister is safe.'"

"Even if it means losing your girlfriend?" Stanley scoffed.

"Oh please, after what she did. I don't even consider her my friend anymore. Honestly, my sister only showed Carla's true colors. No one hurts my sister and get's away with it. Karma will kick her in the butt later, and I will be laughing when that happens." Stanford looked at his twin in surprise. This was the first time he had heard Stanley say something so...mature. Having Emma around really changed him. She made him more compassionate on the outside then he was on the inside. Stanford smiled as he climbed up to his bed.

"Whatever you say, 'Stanny'." Stanley groaned as he sat on his bed.

"You are never gonna let me live that down are you?" Stanford only laughed

"When you get such a cute nickname from a cute baby, how can I?"

"Well knock it off, only Emma can call me that." And he meant it too.

[sillyrabbit81]

Her Heavy Cross

Summary: Three years after tragedy hits, Lana she decides to start dating again. She meets Will through a dating app and they begin an online romance. After months of constant requests, Lana relents and agrees to meet and go on an irl date with Will. But is Will who he says he is? Lana is quickly pulled into an intense relationship forcing her to confront her tragic past. Will Lana face it or will she close her heart forever?

Pairing: OMC x OFC

Word Count: approx 3k

Warnings: swearing, mild smuttiness

Authors Note: The story started as a Henry Cavill fanfiction but I changed it to be an original character, but shades of Henry are still there. Hope you enjoy the story and thanks for reading.

Part 9 Part 11

Part 10

We eventually got up. We showered and dressed. I fed Perrin, and we ate breakfast. I asked Liam what his plans were for the day.

"Not much. I thought I would stay with you until you kick me out." He winked. "What are your plans?"

"Well, I have to kick this guy out..." I said with mock agitation. Liam feigned a look of hurt. "Not much until tonight. I'm going to Dave's house for dinner. I'll see my nephews and niece, which will be good. My Mum too, I suppose."

"Dave's your brother, right?" I nodded. "You haven't told me much about your mother. I think this is the first time you've mentioned her."

"We don't always get along. Mum's mellowed as she's gotten older, but she was a bit of a tyrant when I was growing up. She didn't like Andy. Well, she didn't like any of my boyfriends. She always judged them based on their jobs like she wanted me to end up with a doctor or lawyer or something like that. It's like she thought she'd wasted her money sending me to a private school because I found myself attracted to tradies."

"What's a tradie?

"A tradesman."

"Gotcha."

I laughed at a memory. "I used to tell my friends that if a guys hands weren't calloused enough to cause a run in my stockings, then he has no business touching my legs."

Liam burst out laughing. "Are you serious?"

"What can I say? I like a man who is good with his hands." I shrugged before continuing, "anyway, that's one reason why my mum and I didn't get along."

"What about your Dad?"

"He passed away three years ago."

"I'm sorry."

I didn't say anything for a while. I played with the crusts of my toast, breaking it into little crumbs. I think Liam sensed my mood and changed the subject. "You went to a private school?"

"Yeah," I said. "An all-girls, Catholic one at that."

"Well, that explains a lot." Liam quipped, his tone very serious, but his twitchy lip gave him away.

I narrowed my eyes and frowned. "I hate you."

Liam ignored me and cupped my face with his hands. "Kiss me." He ordered. And I did.

We spent most of the morning sitting together and talking. We spoke about the books we were reading. We found that we had similar taste in books when we talked before we met. Liam had recommended a book to me, and I had finished it a few days ago. I showed him my bookshelves, and we compared which ones we had read. He asked to borrow a couple.

Later we just sat on the lounge. We talked, held hands, cuddled, kissed, had coffee, and then some tea. We took turns patting Perrin, who had taken to Liam really well.

It got close to lunchtime, and it seemed like we were both trying to work out a way to avoid the inevitable parting. Neither of us had brought it up since breakfast. Eventually, Liam asked, "when can I see you again?"

Liam was sitting up, and I was laying on my back with my head in his lap. Liam was stroking my hair, sometimes taking a curl and twisting it around his finger. I smiled when I saw him do that since I had done the same to him earlier.

"As soon as possible," I replied. "I'm going to miss your pretty face." I reached up and patted his cheek patronisingly.

He gave me a small smile but didn't say anything. Then his god damned lip twitched.

"What are you thinking?" I asked. "I can tell when your lip twitches that you're thinking something naughty or you know something I don't know."

"My mother tells me the same thing." His lips stretched into a full grin, revealing his Hollywood white teeth.

"Well, I'm not your bloody mother, so tell me."

"I was just thinking about all the parts of you that I'm going to miss."

"You're very cheeky."

"Unfortunately for you, my mother tells me that too."

"You're a fuck knuckle," I said, smirking. "I'll bet your mother doesn't tell you that."

Liam's eyes went wide. "Bloody hell, Sweetheart. Anyone would think you didn't like me." He was smiling though.

"It's because I like you that I insult you. I'm very polite to people I don't like." I said, putting a sickly sweet smile on my face and batted my eyelashes at him.

"You're lucky you're cute." Liam leaned down and kissed me. "You haven't answered my question. When can I see you again?"

"Well, we both work all week. I guess that means we will have to wait until Friday night."

"Do you want to come to my place on Friday after work? Spend the weekend with me?"

"Ok. I'll ask Dave when I see him tonight if he will have Perrin for me. But it shouldn't be an issue."

Liam's face was unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled and kissed my forehead. "I'm already looking forward to it." He sat back and said, "well, I suppose I had better call an Uber."

I sat up and waited for Liam to book his ride. When he had finished, I said, "Call me tomorrow night. After work?"

Liam nodded. He scooped me up and sat me on his lap. "Don't worry, Sweetheart. You won't get rid of me easily." He smiled and caressed my cheek with the back of his fingers. "Now, kiss me."

I threw my hands around his neck and kissed him hard.

Liam kissed me back, his arms wrapped around my waist, and he crushed my body into his. Our kisses became ardent, and I squirmed on his lap. I didn't want to let him go. Not ever.

I wanted him again now, and I cursed myself for letting him call for an Uber. I felt like he was part of my life like I had already given let him into my heart when I let him in this house. This sacred place. Mine and Andy's place. It seemed as though he had just blended into my life and any thoughts of the future now included him.

But I also knew enough to hold back, to remember I didn't really know him. The weekend wasn't real life. It was an illusion. It wasn't the daily grind of work, come home, sleep, do it all again. To make it worse, Liam's life wasn't normal. Would I adjust? Could I adjust? Did I even want to try?

I knew I did want to try, at least. Liam seemed worth it. Worth the risk of another broken heart, another love snatched from my grasp. If I didn't try with Liam, then who would I try with? And if I never tried, then love would be gone from my life forever.

Liam pulled away. "I had better go now, or I think I'll never leave." We got up just as his phone alerted him the driver was less than a minute away. He grabbed his bag, and I walked him to the door, and he followed behind me up the hallway.

We got to the door, and before I could open it, he turned me around and pinned me to it with his whole body. His forehead pushed against mine. He kissed me, forcing his tongue into my mouth. He ground his body against me. "Lana," he breathed. "Lana, I..." He stopped talking, kissed me again softly then pulled away.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want Liam to stop. "I'll call you tonight," I said despite our plans to call tomorrow night. I knew I wouldn't be able to wait until then. I opened the door for him.

As he walked out the door, Liam put his hand on the back of my head. He brought me to his face, and he kissed the top of my head. "As you wish." He winked and pulled the door closed behind him.

The rest of my day felt lonely. I moped around for a bit. I threw Perrin the ball for a while. He was too old these days for more than a few runs, but he still loved it. I did some washing, cleaned my bathroom and put my Ben and Jerry's tub in the bin. I painted my nails.

When the afternoon wound down, I called Riza.

"Hey, Slut!" She said when she picked up.

"Piss off," I said back.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. What the fuck happened?"

"I don't even know where to begin."

"Well, did you fuck him?" I shook my head. If Liam thought I was direct, he should talk to Riza. I didn't say anything. She knew me well enough to know what the answer was by my silence. "'Bout fucking time." She said, and I laughed. "So tell me about him. What's his name? What does he do for work? Where does he live? Boxers or briefs?"

"Uh, his name is Liam. Liam Cross."

"Like the actor? Man, that's weird. I knew a girl once whose name was Indiana Jones. I couldn't do it cause I kept thinking about Harrison Ford."

"No, Riz. Not like the actor, he is the actor."

Stunned silence. Then, "you're shitting me."

"Serious as a heart attack."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I didn't know who he was," I told Riza about the Will/Liam thing.

"You're really not joking. Send me a pic."

"I didn't take any."

I swear I could hear Riza roll her eyes. "Of course, you didn't. You never do!" Then she shouted, "Hey Jen! Lana..."

"Riza! No, no, no!" I shouted.

"Fucked Liam Cross," she finished.

I hung my head. Fuck. I could trust Riza, but Jen, I wasn't sure of. She spent all day on Instagram and Snapchat. I didn't know if she could keep quiet.

"You there, Lansey?" I heard Jen talking in the background. "Hang on a sec, what's that, babe?" More Jen talking. "Oh shit, you looked good on Friday night Lans, no wonder you got fucked."

"How do you know what I wore Friday night?"

"Jen found pics."

"That quickly?"

"Yeah, they're everywhere. Some of you guys at a shop too. Hey, that's the shop near Mike the Butcher, right?"

This was news to me. I knew they took pictures, but I didn't think they were posted. I should have though. Why wouldn't they be? "Fuck."

"Did you just meet him? On Friday?"

"Yeah, why?"

"There's this one picture of you two, and he's touching your cheek. You two look like you're in love," she teased, making love sound like llllooooouuuuv. "Ha! There's Perrin!"

"Is my name mentioned? Do they know who I am?"

"Doesn't look like it. You two look perfect together."

"Tell Jen not to say anything. Please?"

"Yeah, yeah, no worries."

She kept talking, but I'd had enough. "I've gotta get going," I said.

"Lans, you ok?" She knows me too bloody well.

"Yeah," I bit my lip and took some deep breaths. "It's a lot to take in, you know. He's bloody famous, it's like, I don't want that shit in my life."

"Is he worth it?"

"I think so. I mean, he's a sweet, kinda daggy guy who happens to be built like Hercules and sexy as fuck. What's not to like?"

"I always thought he was gay."

Before I could stop myself, I said, "He's definitely not gay. I'd never believe a gay guy could growl a girl out like he does." I've got to learn to keep my mouth shut.

Riza yelled, "yas girl! You got a keeper!"

I laughed. "Fucking hell. Alright, Riz, I've really got to go. Say hi to Jen. Don't say anything!" Riz agreed, and we hung up.

Dinner at Dave and Lucy's was mostly uneventful. I jumped with the kids on the trampoline and played some wrestling on the PlayStation. My mum wasn't too much of a bitch. I forgot about the pictures and didn't think about Liam for a while. I needed that. I felt like the weekend was such a whirlwind and so much happened I needed some time to get back to normality, something familiar.

After dinner, Mum went home, and the kids wanted to watch a movie. I got on the lounge with the two older ones, Charlie and Harry and went through Netflix. Lucy had taken Lilly to bed. I saw Liam's face in one of the movies thumbnails, and I groaned. It was the one where he was a superhero. It was nearly ten years old. Though it didn't seem possible, he was even more handsome now. I quickly flicked past it.

"No, Aunty Lanny, I want to watch that one," Harry said.

"Isn't it too scary?"

Dave called out from the kitchen, "it's their new favourite. They've been watching it all week."

"Then we can watch something else," I said.

Both boys protested. I half relented. "Have you seen the sequel?" It had much less screen time for Liam since he had teamed up with a couple of other superheroes in that one.

"There's a sequel?" Charlie was excited.

So we watched the sequel. I'd seen it before, but it was weird watching it now. I actually enjoyed it more than I thought I would. Although it was obvious that Liam was the actor, it was surprisingly easy to forget him and believe he was really the character.

He looked different to the Liam I knew. His hair was lighter, he was clean-shaven, and even the way he held his face was different. The way he moved and mannerisms weren't Liam's either. His voice was different too. The most apparent change there was the accent. Those harsh American tones seemed so strange after hearing his soft Queens English ones. Although, scenes with his shirt off still made me think of Liam.

After the movie I said goodbye to the kids, and they went to bed. I asked Dave if he would watch Perrin next weekend. I tried to sound casual about it, but Dave knew me better than that.

"Girls weekend?" He asked. I tried to say yeah, but I blushed, and he knew it wasn't a girls weekend.

Dave was eight years older than me, the same as Liam. I adored Dave. I remember following him around as a kid, wanting to do everything he did. As we got older, I watched the same movies he did, read the same books he did and listened to the same music, which is probably why I prefer 90s music to 2000s music.

He was sweet about it for the most part. He even got me alcohol a few times when I was 17 and took me to the pub with his mates when I was 18. He was protective though. Not one of his mates was allowed to touch me. It had made me mad at the time, especially when I had the hots for his best mate Chris since I was 12. So when he worked out that I was probably going to be spending the weekend with a guy, I expected him to freak out. He didn't.

"Is he a good bloke?" Dave asked. "Treating you well?"

"Yeah, he is." I couldn't help but smile.

Dave grunted, "I can tell by the look on your face, you are smitten. Alright then, Perrin can stay."

"Thanks, Dave. Don't tell mum."

"Yeah, Nah. I'm not stupid."

I went home and got ready for bed straight away. I was mentally exhausted, but I still called Liam. Not only because I said I would. I did miss him in my bed already. I felt lonely again. Of all the things about being married I missed, sleeping with somebody else in the bed was high on the list.

When I went to call, I was confused for a minute because I couldn't find his number. Then I remembered he was in my contacts as Will. I changed the name and called him. I hoped I wasn't calling too late.

"Hello, Sweetheart." Liam's voice sent a ripple of excitement through me.

"Hey," I said. "How was the rest of your day?"

"Good. Do you want to FaceTime?"

"I'm in bed."

"Me too." He said, and I heard the ring of FaceTime come through the phone.

I answered. Liam's face appeared. So did his naked shoulders. Sweet Jesus, he couldn't fit in the frame.

"Much better," he said, smiling. "How was your day?"

"Ok, I just hung around at home then saw the fam. Dave said he would have Perrin next weekend," I got flustered thinking about it. I cleared my throat. "So yeah, that's sorted."

"Excellent. I'm really looking forward to it. How was the family? Was your mum ok?"

"Yeah, she was good. The kids are fans of yours, by the way."

He gave a short laugh at this. "Really? Did you tell your family about me?"

I said I didn't and told him about the kids and the movie. "They loved it. I liked it too." I told him about how it was strange to watch him act after actually knowing him, and for a lot of the time, I had forgotten it was him. I just believed the character and enjoyed the story.

"Thank you." Liam seemed genuinely pleased. "That is the aim of what I do."

"I did tell Riza about you. Her wife, Jen, found pictures of us almost immediately."

"Did you see the ones from yesterday?"

"She told me about them, but I've not seen them."

"You ok?"

I shrugged, "it is what it is. I asked them not to say anything about us."

Liam changed the subject and showed me he had started one of the books he had borrowed. Once again, I was grateful that he seemed to know my mood and not push me.

We talked for about ten minutes before I started yawning.

"I better let you go. You're tired, Sweetheart."

"Yeah," I said as a yawn overtook me. "I think you're right." I blinked several times, my eyes watering from the yawns. "Call me tomorrow night?"

"I definitely will. Goodnight, Sweetheart."

"Night, Liam." I fell straight asleep.

Part 11

[aphspain-pure]

Spanish Gold in Moscow

@hetaliamondaychallenge September 28: “Chaos isn’t meant to be understood”. 

Category: Fanfic. 

Pair: RusSpa (Russia x Spain).

Words: 2.073.

Genre: Historical, Drama, angst, shounen-ai. 

Note(s): During the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) the Sencond Spanish Republic was completely ignored by Europe, while the fascist that had rebealed were helped by some militar forces. Spain was basically used as a test game of the military armament and strategy before the 2WW. The only country that gave real help to the Republic was the USSR. To finance the war, the government spent all the Spanish gold. 

1938

With an absolute ill look in his face, Spain, who still liked to considerate himself as the Second Spanish Republic, moved his gaze to the door that opened a few seconds before.

Nations could perceive other nations in a certain rate, so he wasn’t really surprised when the other entered the room; he had sensed him from far away, knowing he was leading to his position. Weary eyes without the so-called typical Spanish shine looked at the other, a little smile crossing his feverish face.

- Buenos días, Rusia.

Right in front of him, heavy, enormous and clearly powerful, the actual leader of the giant Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Russia, stared back at him with his famous sweet smile. Spain didn’t have known him till a pair of centuries ago, but he knew about this certain characteristic even before personally meeting him. He heard from France, England, Prussia, Austria and even Denmark about this “gentle look monster” that was so big and terrifying in the east.

Anyway, Spain didn’t have really hated this guy even once; he was actually grateful for his performance during the Napoleonic wars, though. If it wouldn’t have been for the Russian forces, France’s troops wouldn’t have retired from his vital territory and he wouldn’t have regained his independence. He sighed, trying to get rid of the thoughts of the past.

He was now, currently, going to lose his independence against his own people, in the middle of the worst civil war he had ever have –and Spain was certainly a country that had endured quite some civil wars-.

A strong ache tortured his mind while he suffered a new wave of deaths. Every time his people died, his body would burn and a painful sensation split him in two. They were dying at that very moment, out there, in the valley of the Ebro, killing each other in a battle that had been going on for months. He nearly cried, but couldn’t afford doing it in front of the power that was standing over there, staring at him with a complicated look in his eyes.

After a few moments, Russia, still smiling even if Spain’s looks were terrible, spoke with a calmed voice. – How are your wounds? –he had asked.

A quick smile was formed in the Spaniard’s mouth, quite ironic.

- Well, my right arm has grown up again, so I can’t complain.

Russia stared at the renewed arm, where a few days ago only a stump could have been appreciated. They, nations, received wounds just like humans but their bodies weren’t actually the same. If they were cut, they would recover; if they lost blood, after resting for a while they’d be up again; if they were burn till ashes, they would start to be reborn just like a Fenix. If they were killed, they wouldn’t die.

Only another nation could kill one.

Even if Spain had lately started to question if a nation could kill itself, just like how he was feeling during these days in which he thought he was actually going to be destroyed by his own people.

Russia’s hand reached him and touched his back. He jumped for a moment, sored. He then relaxed, looking far away and not giving attention to the hands that touched his still bleeding injuries. 

When a certain happening was so bad, so traumatic, that it gave the nations nearly-coma state, the injuries would still remain bleeding some time. Sometimes it lasted days, sometimes centuries. Those were produced by the bombing, the Biltz, in Guernica, and they still bleed after a year.

He trembled, just by remembering it. The hand in his back made him shiver in pain, but it was the most comforting thing he could afford to have those days, so he didn’t say anything.

Then, he gained composure and faced the other.  - What are you doin’ here, anyway? I thought you were going back at your place for some bureaucracy stuff.

Russia remained silent.

That silence made Spain worry.

He didn’t hate Russia at all. He was nice to him, and every time they had met he could only see a true innocence behind the brute and scary dude everyone saw. He liked him quite a bit, and he lately, during his few peaceful years with a Republic, found out that he was such an intelligent and interesting chat partner. Thanks to the leftist ideology of his government the relations with the Soviet Union had been pretty good, so they had become nearly friends at this point.

He even had became the only nation helping him in this suicidal situation.

During civil wars Spain, normally, stayed apart and watched his people decide his fate. He disliked choosing between his beloved people, so que stayed aside.

This time, he couldn’t.

He had seen what happened with Italy after the Great War. The fascism grow up and ate Ita-chan and Romano completely. The brutality that came with it made Spain shiver from his position in the neighbour peninsula. He didn’t recognise his cute Italian brothers with those black shirts and that dark look in their face. Then it expanded to Germany and developed into the National Socialism, which happened to be even worse. A virus was expanding all over Europe and even reached his brother, Portugal.

Spain could have seen it coming. He even spoke with a few general of the army and old requetés, he tried to create a flexible government just to evade the incoming clash. But it was all in vain.

The military coup happened, and while it wasn’t effective, war broke out.

It may be pathetic coming from a country that used to be a world power but, this time, Spain feared his people. That’s why he stayed with the republicans. That’s why he suddenly started dying from the insides.

And while Spain was in that desperate situation, Europe didn’t mind at all and, trying to avoid a Second World War, signed a No Intervention Pact in which 27 countries swore not to intervene in his civil war. That had broken Spain’s heart, who found himself suddenly isolated and left apart, left to die alone. It was even worse when, even if knowing it, the United Kingdom looked away while the Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy broke that pact and helped the rebels. He couldn’t believe England’s coward attitude.

But it was kinda worst when he watched his closest friends actually attack him, help the fascist rebels.

First, the Italian brothers; then, Germany, Austria and Prussia under the name of the Third Reich. Portugal also attacked the Republic by sending his Viriatos and even the American self-proclaimed Hero’s Ford Company sent help to destroy him. All his old friends were against him. He, on the other hand, only received some fusils from Mexico and a few airplanes from a very scared France, who refused to send more help. The only one who lent him it’s power was the Soviet Union, or preferably Russia.

He still remembered when he had met Romano in the site of Toledo. Romano had been excited, he spoke about autarchy, about having a great colonial empire, and about things such as war being the way through the future. His golden eyes sparkled when he had, for the first time in centuries, hugged Spain.

If you join us I promise we’ll bring this to an end.  –he had whispered, while speaking about how great it was being a fascist country.

He had been then, suddenly, pulled apart by a giant body that happened to be his ally, Russia, who looked at Romano with electric violet cruel eyes. Spain could have said something to stop a conflict, but, when he looked at Roma, he couldn’t longer see his cute tomato-like crybaby. In the past Romano would have cried and call him to save him but, then, he held his gaze prideful, strong and dangerous in front of the terrible Russia.

A bombing had made them react and, when he came to himself, he was with the International Brigades heading to Madrid.

Remembering all of that made him feel sick and hided half of his face while looking at the floor with a tired smile.  

He suddenly had an urge to vomit, but he managed to stay calm and recover a moment later. – Sorry, I beg you excuse me. My house is total chaos now, no, wait… EUROPE is a total chaos now, haha…! I don’t understand how or why, but it makes me think things a way too much.

- Chaos isn’t meant to be understood.

That statement made Spain stay quiet and, then, he looked with his nearly dead green eyes at the other.

- I’m going to ask again, Russia. –he said, this time, cautious-. Why are you here?  

- You haven’t paid me to help you lately.

And if he had frozen before, this time Spain had lost all the blood of his veins.

He started sweating. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

- Y-yeah, I-I know… It’s just that all the gold that I’ve been keeping in my reserves has been already taken to Moscow, so I-I…

Russia’s voice was sweet but cold as ice. – You’re not going to pay for my services.

The Spaniard’s eyes opened at his full.

- No! Don’t even think ‘bout that! I’ll pay, I swear it! It’s just that, right now, my people are starving, we don’t have armament and the industry it’s all stopped. I can’t now but, when we win, I’ll return what I owe! A-and I’ll even make it double…! I’ll work hard, I swear. But, now, with all my old gold gone, I…

- So you’re not paying.

The calmed voice made Spain feel like if he were to hyperventilate. He felt like crashing. Like glass about to break.

- I’m not. –he confirmed then.

The taller man stood up, and Spain followed him, clearly desperate.

- Y-you can’t leave me, Russia! If I don’t have your help I’m lost! –after hearing those words the Slavic turned around and faced him, with his so-typical smile in his face.

- So you’ll pay me?

The brunette looked away, clearly ashamed. – I have… nothing to pay you with. B-but I promise..!

- Нет. You can pay me. –response that took an ¿hah..? out of Spain. Russia laughed in a calmed way and then, explained. – Even if you don’t have anything you still possess your body, da?

And Spain’s eyes darkened.

Ah, true. Nation prostitution.

It had been a while.

It used to be so common in the past that he didn’t know why he felt so surprised when Russia suggested it. It may have been ‘cause Russia is fairly younger than himself, or ‘cause the times have changed. He had been so accustomed to it even when he was a child that it wasn’t so much of a surprise finding out that some new power wanted to take advantage of his position to appeal to this. Spain could easily remember when he was forced to be Rome’s or the Islamic Empire’s sex-boy, or even Turkey’s or France’s. Well, he had also been like that with some nations; but, well, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and he was also a sinner after all.  

He looked back at Russia and sighed. – Is this old damaged body worth all the gold I could have had afford to pay you weeks before? –and Russia’s aura became surprisingly pink, just like a happy kid’s.

- And much more! I’m happy so I’ll help you.

And leaned forward to kiss Spain’s forehead. Spain rised an eyebrow, but let him be, anyway. He needed help and Russia was eager to help him only receiving some affectionate touches here and there in return. There were worst things he could have had to do.

Another wave of pain drove him crazy sored and let himself drown in the straw bed he had been using before. He took a deep breath. 

Then, when the fever started to be stable again, spoke directly to Russia.

- Well, then, how about a quickie? I have to go back to the battlefield in 30 minutes and I think I could come back quite worse than now, ha ha. –he had laughed, with his shiny –and now tiny- smile.

Russia smiled back, getting rid of his Soviet general military hat while getting closer to the sun-burned skinned nation. He sat, and grabbed the other’s cheeks with a gloved strong hand. That tranquil smile crossed his happy face.

- Let me tell you this is going to be a payment in instalments.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic – Aredhel and Celegorm

Summary: AU where Celegorm and Curufin meet Aredhel and Maeglin when they're escaping Nan Elmoth. They come to Himlad, and Celegorm and Aredhel have a late-night conversation by firelight about how things have been between them and how they perhaps will be.

Wordcount: ~3,000 words; Rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords: alternate universe – canon divergence, fix-it of sorts, reunions, renegotiating a relationship, ambiguous relationship, mentions of sex

A/N: This is a treat fic for this beautiful TRSB artwork by @houndsofvalinor-art​. I use Quenya names in dialogue because Celegorm and Aredhel speak Quenya here.

AO3 link

*

In another world

Investigating the leg and hoof of her horse that had suddenly started limping, Aredhel curses colourfully first in Sindarin and then in Quenya. 'She is lame', she says, straightening up and patting the mare soothingly on the shoulder. 'Shouldn't be ridden, and certainly not at the speed we were planning on keeping.' Maeglin scowls as ferociously as she must be. 'Damned rabbits, they must be plentiful here for the number of holes they've dug. No wonder one of our horses eventually stepped into one.' Aredhel cannot help but let out a crazed laugh. 'Indeed. And it has managed to cripple our journey-making.' A rabbit. 'I did tell you that we should take a third horse –' 'And I told you that that would made the servants suspicious that we were leaving to go further than to visit my cousins in Himlad.' Yet Himlad is as far as they've made it, across most of Himlad, close to the Fords of Aros. They are not that far from Celegorm and Curufin's fort in the Pass of Aglon.

Aredhel asks her son for silence to think and come to the inevitable conclusion that to continue their journey with some semblance of safety, they must go to the Pass and ask Celegorm and Curufin for a horse, or to wait for Aredhel's to heal.

She'd wanted to avoid that. Riding straight to Gondolin would be easier and safer. Eöl cannot follow them there. Just as she's opening her mouth to tell Maeglin that they must set their course north, those of her dogs that have wandered a little way away begin barking – the loud, rapid kind of warning bark – and soon the ones that remained at Maeglin's feet while Aredhel dealt with her horse join in, too. Then they are all barking and howling and making an unholy racket that makes it impossible for Aredhel and Maeglin to determine what it is the dogs are warning about.

Aredhel quietens them with a sharp command and draws her blade. Maeglin has already drawn his. There is no way to hide, not on this grass plain, so they stand and look around and listen and wait. 'We are in the land of my cousins', she reminds her son. 'And they keep it under tight guard. It is unlikely to be orcs.' And indeed, in a moment they hear noises, and they are those of dogs, not wolves or orcs. Aredhel cocks her head and listens closely to the deepest bark. 'Huan', she says, smiling widely. 'Lómion, it is my cousins. Or Celegorm, at least.' She whistles, long and loud, the signal that she and Celegorm long ago used on their hunts to summon the other. At once there is the sound of galloping hooves. Soon another pack of dogs led by Huan rushes to greet Aredhel's, and Celegorm and Curufin and a group of scouts in leather armour rides to surround Aredhel and Maeglin. It is very loud again, all of the dogs greeting and sniffing each other. 'Sheathe your sword', Aredhel tells Maeglin. 'These are my cousins.' 'Írissë! You look well. Pale, though.' With a wide grin, Celegorm brings his horse to a stop right next to her and swings down from the saddle, bending down to scratch the ears of every dog that crowds around him and Huan. 'What brings you to this part of our land?' he asks Aredhel. 'Running back to your brothers, are you, without even coming to say greet us along the way?' It is said more amiably than she'd have expected; as if hundreds of years have not passed since they last saw each other. He was not home when she did try to visit him. 'Írissë.' Here is Curufin too, with his calculating eyes on Maeglin. 'Who is this? Your son?' 'He is.' Aredhel takes Maeglin's arm and speaks proudly. 'Maeglin Lómion is his name, and he is coming with me. Lómion, these are my cousins, Celegorm whom I used to call Tyelko and Curufin who was Curvo, lords of Himlad.' Celegorm and Curufin nod at Maeglin, and all three look at each other warily. Aredhel could hardly have expected more at the first meeting, she supposes. She stifles a sigh of impatience. 'Why did you stop here?' Celegorm asks. 'Though it is good that you did, I must say. I think we'd have ridden past each other without ever knowing it if you hadn't.' Aredhel explains how her horse tripped and became lame, and says, 'We were downwind of you and my dogs smelled yours on the wind, I think. Maeglin and I certainly didn't hear you.' 'And we you', Curufin agrees. 'We were too far.' 'Good thing that it is a windy day.' Aredhel raises her eyes to Celegorm's. He is the one she was always closer to, and the one who she feels she has more to explain to. 'We find ourselves in need of assistance. A fresh horse, or time at your house to let mine recover.' 'It is always windy in Himlad', Celegorm says, a spark of something in his pale eyes. 'Come to the Pass with us, stay while your horse recovers', Curufin invites. 'Our master of horses will have her well soon again.' 'Or stay longer', says Celegorm. Aredhel turns to pat her horse. 'Thank you.' 'Is she well enough to ride?' Celegorm approaches her and her horse. Aredhel swats away his hand when he reaches down to examine the mare's leg. 'No need for that. I can tell that she shouldn't if it can be avoided.' 'That is easy enough. Ride with me.' Easy as anything, Celegorm turns back to his own horse. 'You can ride with me, mother.' Maeglin barely covers his scowling at Celegorm. 'My horse is larger', says Celegorm, and it is, another in a line of massive stallions that Aredhel used to teasingly call brutes even though any horse Celegorm chose and trained was always smarter and better-trained than most horses in Valinor or Beleriand. 'Írissë?' Celegorm prompts. 'Let me run up my stirrups', she says, and to Maeglin, 'It is alright. I am used to riding with him.' Stirrups safely pulled up and fastened in place on her mare's saddle, Aredhel takes Celegorm's hand and swings herself up on his big horse. Behind him – though she found herself in need of 'saving', she is no maiden in distress and does not need to be held by him. Still. She never rode like this with Eöl, chest to his back, trusting him to guide the horse. Oh, Valar, she thinks as they begin their slow journey north to the fortress in the Pass while Curvo and the scouts continue on their planned route. She'd missed Celegorm much more than she has realised. * The two of them sit before the fire in Celegorm's hall late into the night, long after Maeglin and Celebrimbor have gone to bed, Aredhel's dogs dozing at her feet and Huan at Celegorm's. They talk of many things without quite touching on the most hurtful ones, their tongues more careful than perhaps ever before. Aredhel tells Celegorm of her marriage in sparse words that conceal as much as they reveal, though by the look on Celegorm's face he hears many things she does not say. He bites his lip and says little. It must be nearing midnight when Celegorm rises, as abrupt in his moves as he always was, saying only, 'I'll be back soon.' 'I'll be here', Aredhel says. The Quenya words are still a delight on her tongue. She had to keep Quenya buried deep within herself for so long. Here there is no need for it, and indeed Celegorm had told her to speak the language of their shared youth. She settles back in her chair to wait, petting the ears of her most watchful dog who awoke and stood up as soon as Celegorm did. He is a faithful friend. He does come back soon, with a sword in its scabbard in his hand. He drops it in her lap unceremoniously. 'Curvo was experimenting on making more resilient blades – damn, it must be well over two centuries ago now. We hadn't given up hope on seeing you again yet so he made a sword for you too.' Aredhel draws the sword from its scabbard, careful of her curious dog's sniffing nose. The blade glitters even in the low light, reflecting the dying flames in the hearth, as she examines it. 'My weight and length', she remarks. 'A fine weapon, and the size of sword I always liked.' 'In all ways, the sword you always liked. Only the technique by which the blade was forged is different.' Aredhel raises her eyes to meet Celegorm's. He seems uncharacteristically serious, with a hint of that cold fury that took over him when he found out why she and her son were riding their horses ragged as they headed away from Nan Elmoth. 'You kept this for a long time', she says. 'Though you did not know if you could ever give it to me.' 'Things here, with me and Curvo, are the same as ever; you are welcome here with us', he says, echoing his words from when they were riding together on his horse. 'And with you and me?' Aredhel asks, still running her finger down the smooth, sharp blade. 'Am I still your friend? Still welcome in your bed?' He shouldn't be surprised at her forthrightness, but he seems to be. 'Yes, and yes', he says as soon as he recovers, as if both of those things are as simple as that. And they aren't to her, not really though she asked so baldly. Their old friendship that occasionally included falling into bed together feels changed now, however much she wishes it were the same. She stares at the fire, feeling herself slipping from flippant to as serious as he is.

Dear, dear Tyelko.

She says, 'You are…. a constant friend me, Tyelko, when you are not burning ships to keep me from following.' That is an old hurt and an old insult whose edge time and previous confrontations and their enduring mutual affection have worn dull, and without dwelling on it more Aredhel continues, 'Perhaps one day I will knock on your door again, if you are serious; I married, and had a son, and left my husband. And still you say that things are the same between us.' 'Your child has nothing to do with me and is a man grown anyway, and you left your husband, and you are the same as you ever were, Írissë. Your hair windswept and your white hems mud-splattered, running from one thing to another with your howling pack of dogs at your heels. Beautiful and free-hearted and strong-armed.' She can barely look at him when he talks like that. He has always had these moments when he strips himself bare for her: short, fleeting moments when his sincerity is more disarming than his flirting ever could be. 'I have felt a stranger to myself sometimes, this last century', she says. 'Or longer.' 'Perhaps you can rediscover yourself here. Stay and do that', he coaxes. 'Your son will be happy to stay, I know. He seemed to have an infinite number of things to talk about with Tyelpë. I'm sure he and Tyelpë and Curvo will enjoy showing and teaching each other things. They have the same kind of curious, crafty souls.' Aredhel cannot help but smile. 'Lómion does have that. His father claimed it to be all his doing but I always knew he inherited much from the Noldor. We will stay. For a time, at least. Until the spring, perhaps.' They are safe here, both she and her son. 'I am glad', Celegorm replies. 'You are free here, Írissë. Unlike your brother and husband, I know that you are not the kind of bird that can be caged. You will either escape or beat yourself to death against the bars of your prison trying to. Here you are free to come and go as you please, as far afield as you want. I only hope that you eventually come back here. To me.' His sincerity is not yet over for the night, then. Aredhel swallows hard and says, 'I always have so far, have I not?' He smiles with all his teeth but without bite, unless perhaps the kind she always enjoyed receiving and giving. 'Indeed you have', he says, and changes the subject, nodding at the sword still in her lap. 'Since you have no husband to warm your bed here and until you perhaps invite me to there, that will keep you company.' Aredhel snorts. 'No matter where I am, my husband will never again be welcome in my bed, and my dogs make for warmer company than a blade.' 'All the more reason to keep that close, then, though steel makes for a cold bedpartner. More seriously, Írissë, do you want me to deal with him if he comes here?' Celegorm watches her face closely. She shifts in her chair, uncomfortable with the subject though she has been joking about Eöl. 'I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Tyelko, in words or by blade.' 'I know.' His pale eyes are intent on her as he lounges in his chair. 'I asked me whether you want me to. We all have… weaker spots where doing things is more painful or difficult for us than it would be for someone else. I do not mind talking to your husband.' 'By talking, you mean driving him away from Himlad, do you not?' He nods. 'Telling him to leave, and leave you and your son in peace, and never again cross the border to my realm unless he wants to find an arrow in his throat. Every good bird and beast in Himlad knows me and reports to me, not to mention Curvo's scouts and my hunters that are always roaming the land.' He sits there, leaning back in his chair in that indolent, insolent manner that he always had that might mask just about any mood, but she knows that he means what he says and that he could do it: he could shoot her husband without an ounce of remorse. He is already a kinslayer, already Doomed, and always was flint-hearted with those that he did not count as his to protect and yet more so with those he saw as a threat to those he does count as his. He still counts her as his. Aredhel minds it less than she should. She says, 'I know what you mean about weak spots.' Sighing, she allows, 'You may threaten him on my behalf if I do not happen to be with you. If I am, let us do it together.' 'Curvo will be more than happy to lend his support, too, and Tyelpë if you say the least word to him about how Eöl treated you.' Celegorm stands up and stretches, then picks up the poker and pokes at the dying fire. 'It is very late indeed.' He sounds almost surprised. Aredhel is weighed down with exhaustion. From the ride and from the relief of stress and from tearing up both old wounds and new, barely-scabbed ones. She rouses her dogs and stands up. 'I had best go to bed. Let us talk more tomorrow.' Celegorm says, 'Of less serious things, I hope. For example, we have a wolf hunt to plan – you can help with that and come along, and your son, too. I think we covered everything tonight that needed to be cleared between the two of us.' Aredhel hesitates, rubbing the ears of Huan who is again patiently enduring some enthusiastic attention from Aredhel's much smaller hounds. She says, 'Tyelko, I – I asked you very flippantly whether I am welcome to your bed, but the truth of it is that I have slept alone for years now, and I think it will be some time before I want that to change.' 'You were right when you said that I am constant to you.' He scratches Huan's neck, and fleetingly touches her hand. It is the first time he has touched her since they dismounted from his horse. 'And I never wanted anyone half as much as you', he adds. 'I can wait. Any time you want, knock on my door. Leave your hounds in your room, though.' His smile to her feels as much like freedom as the sunlight on her face and the wind in her hair on her way here. Perhaps here in the windswept plain of Himlad she will not need to run away like she did from white-walled Gondolin and tree-shadowed Nan Elmoth. 'I will', she promises. 'Not yet. But someday perhaps.' He walks her to the guest room she's been given, pointing out his own room along the way. It is not far, and neither is Lómion's room. At the door of her room, Aredhel says to Celegorm quietly, 'In another world, a happier one perhaps, you and I would have realised how well we fit together long, long ago. But then I would not have my Lómion; and he is dearer to me than the air I breathe, so perhaps things went as they should.' 'There is no 'should'', Celegorm argues. 'Only our choices. You know', he tilts his head and smiles at her with his eyes only, 'I used not to believe in second marriages. I disapproved of them quite firmly, you know that.' She is very curious about the implications of that sudden statement. 'When did you change your mind?' she asks. His smile grows crooked. 'Today.'

*

A/N: Who knows how things will go from here – how much this changes how things go in Beleriand? I don't really know, but at least in this moment Aredhel and Celegorm are happier than they would have been had they not met again.

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of this story. And reblogs are always dearly welcome.