#ford shudders every time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mynameismckenziemae · 6 months

Text

Unbroken

Part 8

(previous part here, next part here)

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x You

Summary: You fall for Bradley more and more with every day that passes. Someone from your past shows up.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Smut, p in v, brief oral (m receiving), fooling around while driving (again), asshole ex-boyfriend, a sprinkle of violence, fluff, etc.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

Days turn into weeks and the weeks pass quickly. Soon the days get shorter as summer fades to fall. Your feelings for Bradley keep growing stronger with every moment spent together; which isn’t nearly as much as you’d like with your packed schedule and Bradley’s early mornings.

You’ve only been able to spend the night together once since the night of the rodeo with you being on-call and Bradley on the carrier training, so to say you’re excited for the long Thanksgiving weekend off is an understatement.

Charlie: You and Bradley want to go to Buck Wild tonight with us? There’s a band.

Emma: I suppose. You do realize it’s going to be a high school reunion, right? Everybody’s home for Thanksgiving and everybody goes out the night before. 🙄

Charlie: Perfect time to show off your hot boyfriend 😉

Emma: Oh. That’s true 😏 What time?

Charlie: 7ish.

Emma: Perfect. Just a heads up-I’m blaming you if I’m hungover tomorrow.

Charlie: That’s fine. Ruth loves me, you know it’ll somehow be Jake’s fault though, right?

Emma: Exactly 🙂

Charlie: Being the only child wasn’t always so bad.

You laugh and get back to work.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

“Hey sweetheart, sorry I’m late,” Bradley says, giving you a quick kiss before opening the door to the Bronco for you. “The last hop went longer than expected.”

“It’s okay, I was none too early, I just finished getting ready a few minutes ago,” you reply, pausing as you buckle in. “You know, we could just take my truck,” you smirk, unable to resist teasing him.

He scoffs, taking your seatbelt to finish buckling you in. “Nope. The Bronco is just fine. I still don’t get what you have against her.”

“It’s a Ford, Bradley,” you reply with disgust. “Back in the day, driving a Ford was a dealbreaker for me. You’re lucky I’ve gotten lenient in my old age.”

“I am pretty lucky,” he chuckles as he reaches for your hand to place a kiss on the back.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

The place is packed as expected but Jake and Charlie snagged a table in the corner.

“How’d you manage to get a table?” You ask over the noise once you make your way over, drinks waiting.

“Willie gave us a reserved one when I told him you were coming,” Jake responds with an eye roll as he hands you both a beer.

You catch Willie’s eye behind the bar and blow him a kiss, laughing when he catches it before placing it on his cheek.

“Must be terrible not being anyone’s favorite,” you tease, jabbing Jake with your elbow.

“Whatever,” he huffs. “I’m Charlie’s favorite,” he says as he puts his arms around her.

“Ehhhh…I don’t know about that. You were until your socks missed the hamper-hey! I’m kidding!” Charlie laughs when he tickles her sides.

“Drinking tonight?” You ask when you count four whiskey shots on the table.

“Yeah, the last pregnancy test was negative but I figured it would be since Jake was on the carrier this month when I was the most fertile, according to the app at least,” she replies as she pushes a shot glass over to you then Bradley. “I’m not worried though, it hasn’t even been 2 months. We’re also having a lot of fun trying.”

“Gross,” you blanch before clinking your glasses together. “Cheers.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Charlie tells Bradley when he sets his glass down, shuddering at that burn of the whiskey.

“Hope so,” he laughs.

“Almost forgot,” Jake says, producing a cowboy hat from the chair beside him and handing it to Bradley. “Gotta have one of these if you’re gonna live in Texas.”

“Thanks,” Bradley smiles, putting it on and turning to you. “What do ya think?”

“You look good,” you reply before leaning in. “Might steal it later.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks as heat flashes in his eyes.

You bite your lip as you nod. You both have been so desperate for one another that you haven’t tried many positions yet, always so eager to get him inside you. But with Bradley taking the lead you were getting more comfortable and confident.

Taking him for a ride in nothing but his new hat sounds like a great idea.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

Just as you’d expected, it’s like a reunion in the packed bar. Thankfully, you’re able to avoid a lot of the small talk when the music starts

Soon you’re feeling good; drinks are flowing and the band is playing songs everyone knows.

“I’m stealing Emma to pee!” Charlie yells to Bradley as she grabs your hand.

“Girls can’t pee alone,” you explain when he gives you both a puzzled look.

He looks to Jake who’s just as confused as he is but they just shrug before following you off the dance floor to head back to the table.

“Oh my gosh, Emma! Hi!”

“Hey Britt,” you say, turning around with a fake smile. “Go agreed, I’ll be there in a minute,” you tell a dancing Charlie.

You nod as the old frenemy prattles on, not letting you get a word in edgewise before she leaves you to find someone more interesting to talk to.

The men’s room door swings opens as you walk past and you bump into the person coming out

“Oops, sorr-“

“Hey Em,” the man interrupts and your blood runs at his voice.

“Chet,” you nod curtly as you move around him but he grabs your arm.

“Too good to say hi?” He says, pulling you close. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.

He’s drunk, and he’s always been mean when he’s drunk.

“Yeah, Chet. I am. I’ve always been too good for you,” you spit, trying to pull your arm free.

But he’s stronger and he pushes you against the wall before crowding you against it.

“That’s rich,” he chuckles darkly, “weren’t good enough to keep our baby alive.”

Your eyes close as the weight of his words sink in. While it hurts, it doesn’t crush you like it would’ve in the past.

You’re healing.

Before you can respond, he’s on the ground, knocked out cold.

“Ow,” Charlie mutters with a grimace, shaking out the hand she just clocked Chet with.

“Holy shit, Char,” you gape at her.

“I’m sorry-he was in your face, and then he said that about you not-about the baby,” she stutters. “I just saw red. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Don’t be sorry, he deserved it,” you say, holding your arm out for her to take while she steps over his snoring body. “Let’s go before he wakes up.”

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

“Tabs paid?” You ask when you reach the table.

Jake nods.

“Okay good. ‘Cause we have to go. Like right now,” Charlie says, turning for the door.

“Everything okay?” Bradley asks as he follows them out.

“Uh…,” you stall until you get outside in the fresh air, feeling like you can finally breathe. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

“What happened in there? You look like you saw a ghost,” Jake asks, leaning against the bumper of his truck.

“I ran into a girl I knew from high school on the way and told Charlie to go ahead while we talked for a minute. I was headed to the bathroom and ran into Chet as he was coming out,” you sigh. “He’s drunk and he started saying stupid shit-“

“It was awful. He said she wasn’t good enough to keep the baby alive,” Charlie says quietly, tears heavy in her voice.

“Oh Em,” Bradley says, wrapping you in his arms.

“He’s fucking dead,” Jake growls, rising to head back in, but you stop him.

“I’m okay. I promise. I know it’s not my fault. He’s drunk and gets off on hurting me,” you say. “He’s gonna be the one hurting tomorrow though.”

“I dunno, I might too,” Charlie laughs, looking down at her hand. “It’s not broken but it’s gonna hurt for a few days.”

Jake rushes to her side to check her hand out. “What the fuck happened?”

“I came out of the bathroom and heard the horrible things he was saying…the next thing I knew he was on the ground,” Charlie explains, as if she can’t believe it either. “I’ve never punched anyone before. I must’ve gotten got lucky and hit him in just the right spot in the jaw.”

“Well, you did something right. He was out cold,” you say, leaving Bradley’s arms to hug her. “Thank you.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat, Em. I love you,” she murmurs.

“I love you too,” you reply with a sniffle.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

“I’m sorry for tonight,” Bradley says on the way home after saying goodnight.

“Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your fault,” you reply.

“I know, I just feel bad that you had to see him and that he’s still trying to hurt you. I should’ve gone with you,” he sighs as he puts his hand on your knee.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you say. “If you would’ve hit him, he would’ve pressed charges and you’d be in trouble. There’s no chance in hell he’s going to tell anyone he got knocked out by a woman; if he even remembers it in the morning,” you laugh. “I’m not gonna lie; what he said hurt. But it didn’t suffocate me like it would have in the past.”

You can tell he’s still beating himself up when he nods, so you reach over to pluck his hat off and place it on your head.

His lip quirks and his hand on your knee slides up your thigh. “Still wanna give me a ride tonight?”

“Mhmm,” you reply, placing your hand over his to guide him between your legs. Your head drops back with a sigh when he rubs over the seam of your jeans. “Been thinking about it all night.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Hell, I’ve been thinking about it since the last time we were there and you rode the bull.”

“When you hid to the bathroom ‘cause you got hard?” You tease breathily.

He nods, fingers still rubbing you through your pants. “You looked so good up there. Then the way you kissed me outside after? Fuck, I couldn’t think straight until I back to the hotel and finally jerked off in the shower.”

“God,” you sigh as you picture him. “That’s so hot.”

By the time he pulls into your driveway, you’re soaked.

Inside your bedroom, you help him out of his clothes first, nipping and sucking at the flesh you expose.

“W-wait,” He chokes, hands flying to your hair to pull you off when you suck on the head of his cock. “I’m too-I don’t wanna cum yet.”

You smile as you straighten up and gently push him onto the bed, keeping your eyes on his as you strip down to nothing but his hat.

You grab a condom and crawl over him, tipping the hat back to kiss him deeply, pulling back with a bite to his lip to tear open the condom.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he breathes as he watches you put it on.

“So are you,” you murmur as you line him up to your entrance.

You mean it too as you look down at him laid out beneath you; skin flushed, chest heaving, desire in his eyes.

The sounds of your harmonized pleasure fill the room as you sink down on him.

“You’re so big,” you whimper when he bottoms out.

“Doing so good, sweetheart,” he praises, bringing his hand between your legs to circle your clit while you take a second to adjust, grunting when you clench around him.

“Keep-keep going, I’m close,” you gasp when you feel your orgasm approaching rapidly.

His free hand reaches up to pinch a nipple and that little bite of pain pushes you over the edge with a surprised cry.

“Fuckkkkk,” he groans desperately, trying not to thrust his hips up, “you’re squeezing me so tight.”

He’s still trembling with restraint when you come to.

You plant your hands on his shoulders and begin to move your hips; tentative at first but quickly growing confident.

“Feels so good,” you whimper before you lean down for a filthy kiss, murmuring against his lips. “You’re so good, Bradley.”

His eyes close and his hips stutter at your words; he likes being praised too.

You bite your lip to not smile as you tuck that information away to use later.

You’re getting close and you can tell he is too by his breathy sounds and the way his fingers on your clit are getting sloppy.

The hat falls off your head and is quickly forgotten as you lean down to kiss him while your fingers trace over his chest as you toe the edge.

When your fingers find his nipples and pinch without warning, he groans shamelessly against your lips, filling the condom.

A satisfied moan leaves you when his release triggers yours and to shiver at the overstimulated whimper he lets out as you contract around him.

He presses a kiss to your hair as you recover on his chest.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

Not long after, you fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat in the same position.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

A/N: Can you tell I hate Fords? 😂 Chet had it coming and I couldn’t resist letting Charlie bring the one to give it to him.

Also…I wrote the majority and edited this from 2 AM to 5 AM when I couldn’t sleep 🥴 so if something doesn’t make sense or there’s errors, let me know!

As always, any interaction is appreciated but I love hearing what you think in comments/reblogs!

Tagging (please let me know if you want to be added/removed!):

@mamamaystbr

@its-the-pilot

@dizzybee03

@sweetwhispersofchaos

@shanimallina87

@blindedbythelightt

@getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth

@lexixstewart

@phoenix-rising-starbird-one

@mrsrobertfloyd5

@charmedkim

@k-k0129

@bellaireland1981

@hookslove1592

@amiets2

@nero4te

@eli2447

@atarmychick007

@vixenobrian

@86laura11

@hisredheadedgoddess28

@dempy

@angelbabyyy99

@buckysteveloki-me

@djs8891

@mizzzpink

@daggerspare-standingby

@mrsevans90

@littlezee80

@emma8895eb

@jessicab1991

@devil-angel-winchester

#bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradsaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #top gun #top gun smut

88 notes · View notes

joelswritingmistress · 6 months

Text

Camp Crystal Lake: Chapter 1

Requested by @yellowjacketsbuzzbuzz

Joel Miller x f!reader (romance/horror)

Setting: Camp Crystal Lake

The reader is taking on the position of a camp counselor at the infamous Camp Crystal Lake. While she begins to enjoy her summer, even crushing on the camp director Joel, a killer lurks in the woods unbeknownst to anyone.

Every town in North America has a ghost story. Some are well kept secrets, and others are so notorious that the sins of those tales have spread far and wide, to every dark corner of the earth. Crystal Lake was a sterling example of such a place. It had a typical sounding name, really, for a fresh body of water in the middle of the New England woods. But the stories surrounding the area were anything but typical.

As a young child, I remember hearing his name being said on the playgrounds at school. Jason. It didn’t take me long to insert myself into conversations in an attempt to hear the details of whatever version of the story the older kids were spreading. Back then it didn’t matter if they were fact or fiction. I stayed up late, wide eyed staring at every dark corner of my bedroom after hearing tales of Jason Voorhees. Now, at 22 years old and about to enter the summer as a counselor at Camp Crystal Lake, those distant, childish memories made me grin; though when my rusty, Jeep Wrangler bounced down the uneven road past the wooden Camp Crystal Lake sign, the hairs rose just a bit on the back of my neck.

“I thought you outgrew superstition,” I said quietly to myself as a song ended on my playlist, leaving me in a few extra seconds of silence to take in the wooded surroundings.

Jason Voorhees. The name still creeped everyone out. Yes, there had been a tragedy that happened decades earlier. Jason Voorhees was real; but after several attacks on counselors and residents alike, a boy named Tommy Jarvis managed to put Jason to rest permanently.

I shuddered and reminded myself that that was decades ago. I wasn’t even alive when it all happened. And this new camp wasn’t anywhere near the original location of the attacks on that Friday the 13th back in the 80’s.

I saw a pale yellow VW Bug parked up ahead next to a blue Ford pickup truck. On the opposite side of the truck was a Bronco with about as much rust as my Jeep. I began to wonder what my coworkers would be like. Would they be my age? Younger? Older? Local? I was about to find out.

I parked in the clearing beside the VW and stared out at the lake a few hundred yards away. There was a small beach with a towering, white lifeguard stand in the center and a wooden raft floating too not far from the patch of sand. If nothing else, it would be a great summer gig with a view. The campers wouldn’t be here for several weeks and I knew getting the place ready would call for some physical labor. I never minded hands-on work, and I was sure it would give us all time to bond.

When I exited the vehicle, a breeze hit me from the water and I shuddered, despite the temperatures nearing eighty degrees on the late June afternoon. My eyes scanned the trees on all sides and I suddenly wondered where everyone was. I let farfetched ‘what-ifs’ filter through my mind for a second before smirking to myself.

Grow up, I scolded myself lightheartedly. The imaginative part of me still enjoyed the folklore, no matter how juvenile it felt.

I popped open the back of the Jeep and reached in to grab my suitcase, an oversized gym bag and a backpack that housed the majority of my clothes. I had a few stray boxes with makeup and hair products, among other toiletries, though I decided I’d come back for them later.

Again, I took in my surroundings. For some reason I half-expected to see a group of young people out-and-about in the immediate area upon arrival. The silence was beginning to hit my psyche harder than I’d like to admit, and so I stared up at an oversized cabin with wooden paneling and headed in that direction.

A hammock swung empty on a giant front porch that was littered with chairs and small tables in between. Above them hung metal lighting fixtures, some of which were swinging in the summer breeze.

And then I heard a sound I could only compare to clicking. It was like a clock, almost. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I set my suitcase down near the bottom step and shrugged the gym bag off my shoulder so it rested beside it, leaving my backpack on. And then I followed the sound.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

What is that?

I swallowed hard as the noise grew louder. It stopped for a second and then there was a louder noise. A faint bang. And then a pause. Another bang.

What the hell is that?

I rounded the side of the two-story cabin and peeked my head around to see if I could get a glimpse of whatever, or whoever, was responsible for the sound. Visions of Jason Voorhees and his menacing hockey mask left my mind immediately when the truth revealed itself.

A muscular man in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows swung an ax, connecting with a giant log of wood. It split into two, sending little shards flying into the air. He wiped his forehead with his arm and then reached for another.

I wasn’t sure if I should tiptoe back to the front porch or interrupt him, but my mind was made up by default when he slowly turned in my direction. When he smiled beneath a mustache, I blushed and glanced at the open area of his chest where a few buttons were undone.

“Hello.” He gave a wave and wiped sweat off his forehead again before removing a pair of work gloves.

I raised my hand and swallowed hard. “Hi.”

The man approached and extended an arm in my direction. I stared down at his hand for a second before joining mine to his in a handshake. Our eyes met and I felt my eyebrows raise unwillingly.

“I’m Joel Miller,” he introduced himself, slightly out of breath. “I did the phone interview with you back in March and a second one in April. (Y/N), right?”

“Yeah.” I nodded and cleared my throat with a smile.

“I’m the camp director,” he informed me with a nod.

“Nice to meet you.” My hand was still in his and finally they parted.

Joel nodded in agreement. “I’m just finishing up here. I think we have one more person to arrive today before the rest come in the middle of the week. You can get yourself settled in whatever room is still available and I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” I nodded, “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

When he smiled again I might as well have turned to stone. Who knew my boss for the summer would be such a.. hunk.

Well shit. It’s thirty seconds into the summer and I’m already crushing on my boss. I added, what a lovely predicament.

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER

@cattt777 @gissellec1

147 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 1 year

Text

Chapter 16 of human Bill has taken an "I'm not locked in here with you, you're locked in here with me" approach to being the Mystery Shack's prisoner (title TBD), featuring:

Also featuring: Ford and Mabel bonding... until things go very, very wrong. Thanks Bill.

####

October 2012

As Stan turned the corner, he paused to let his eyes adjust as he came out of the blinding evening sun into the shadows of a tight, unobtrusive street, then shuffled up to where Ford was waiting. "All right, I think we shook the cops," he muttered. "The were-rats should keep 'em distracted. Smart move, splitting up to lead them to each other." He rummaged through the bag of ("borrowed") groceries that had caused them all this trouble, looking for a stick of cured meat he'd had his eye on.

"Mm." That was all Ford said.

Stan looked sharply at Ford. "Hey, you okay? The rats didn't get you, did they?" He glanced over Ford for any torn clothes or blood.

"No—sorry, I'm fine. Just..." He gestured at the storefront across the street. "Distracted."

Stan followed his gesture. He couldn't read the language on the signs, but he didn't need to: the pictures in the windows—tarot cards, palmistry charts, a hand-painted poster of a crystal ball, all surrounded by unlit neon tubes shaped into stars—made it clear enough just what kind of shop this was. Stan laughed. "Hey, it looks like what Ma did with the pawn shop after Dad passed. When we're back in the States, I oughta find a picture for you. Or maybe Shermie can 'e-mail' us one, I think his kid was 'digitalizing' the old family photos..." He trailed off as he saw what Ford was really staring at.

Amongst the other dark neon lights, there was a single larger one, just over the name of the shop: a triangle with an eye.

Stan shuddered. "Ugh. I'm never gonna be able to look at those things the same way again, are you?"

"I haven't been able to for over thirty years," Ford said. "It's funny—in most civilized dimensions in the multiverse, that symbol is incredibly taboo, because as soon as it's drawn it becomes his eye. I only ever saw it used as the direst warning in places tainted by the Nightmare Realm—places he could already see."

Stan snorted. "Coming home must've been a rude shock, huh?"

It was true—Ford saw Bill peering from every dollar, winking slyly at him from strangers' gold rings, standing solemn vigil over graveyards from the headstones. Ford remembered the first time he'd returned to his study: of course he'd known that all his art of Bill was still there, but he'd been stunned by the sheer quantity of eyes watching him, ready to welcome him home. He'd awkwardly hidden himself beneath a bedsheet like a ghost to keep Bill from staring at him as he went around the room, covering every tapestry, drawing, and statue with black curtains. He hoped Bill hadn't been actively watching then. He knew he'd looked stupid.

"You don't know the half of it." Ford nodded toward the psychic shop. "Looking at that face now feels like seeing a toxic waste warning sign."

"Do you think she knows?" Stan asked.

"'She'?"

"The psychic!" Apparently, Stan had decided the psychic was a woman. "D'you think she knows what that is? Did he slip her prophecies to start up her business? Or is it just a spooky magic symbol to her?"

Stan was probably expecting Ford to vaguely speculate—but instead, he eyed the symbol critically. "It's got a slit pupil, which is always a worrying sign," he said, "but that could just be an aesthetic choice. If it had his clothing or limbs, I'd know for sure it's meant to be him, but without..."

As they'd spoken, the evening had crept on and the shadows in the alley had deepened; and now it was dark enough that someone inside the shop flipped the neon lights on. Multicolored stars danced around the window. The triangle lit up bright yellow. The pupil and top eyelid had burned out, so now it looked like the Eye of Providence was perpetually asleep, eye shut.

Stan and Ford both shivered.

"That's probably a coincidence, right?" Stan said. "That's—that's just bad luck."

"There's absolutely no scientific reason why Bill's death would cause depictions of his face to—um—malfunction," Ford said. "It's definitely a coincidence." He said it like he was sure.

"Right," Stan said. "C'mon, we should head back to the beach before someone finds our boat." He turned away from the shop. As he walked, he fished his wallet out of his pocket, rifled through the money until he found some American currency, and squinted at it to make sure Bill's eye was still open.

Ford didn't move. He was still staring at the triangle.

Did she know, he wondered? (She or he or whoever owned this shop.) Did Bill have a worshiper here? Perhaps just another distant believer who'd been recruited by one of the micro-cults Bill left in his wake, five degrees and fifty years removed from a former "student" that Bill had "inspired" and then abandoned?

Or had Bill met them in their dreams? Had he been summoned up to give them inspiration and knowledge of the future? Did they remember Bill as the central figure in a visionary dream that now made up the core of their spirituality? Maybe he'd visited them more than once, while trying to decide whether they'd be useful to him? Perhaps he'd been grooming the fortune teller into his minion, feeding them lines he wanted to pass on to a local politician or scientist? Did he ever play board games with them?

Did they worship him still?

Did they know their god was dead?

Stan called from the end of the street, "Ford?"

"Coming." Ford tore his gaze away from the dead face. "I kept expecting it to blink."

Stan laughed nervously. "Yeah, real funny."

Stan and Ford watched each other from their peripheral vision as they turned the corner, to make sure neither of them tried to glance back to check.

They returned to their boat, set sail, and had dinner. And when Stan went to bed, Ford sat out on the deck, looked at the stars—and wept.

He'd cried when he'd thought his brother had lost his memories forever. He hadn't cried in the month and a half since then. He didn't want anyone to watch him grieve the worst monster he'd ever met.

####

There'd been an ache in Ford's chest for over thirty years—an empty pit that once held awe—a dark void that used to be filled with starlight. Ford knew now that, metaphorically speaking, the divine light Bill put off had never been anything but optical illusions with flashlights and mirrors. But even so—even so, nothing and nobody had inspired such sublime wonder in Ford since.

During his lowest moments out in the multiverse, starving and exhausted and despairing, he'd irrationally wondered if the unimpressable depression left in Bill's wake was evidence that Bill had been truly that great, too great for a human like Ford to understand, and the shadow cast on Ford's life in Bill's absence was the natural consequence of turning away from something godlike.

Ford had gotten over that. He'd recovered, he'd grown. He understood the truth: Bill's parlor tricks had dazzled his eyes so thoroughly that now he couldn't detect the subtle glimmer of the truly wondrous. He wondered if his eyes would ever adjust to the dark again.

Whether he liked it or not, he missed the way mind-blowing awe felt. He missed being dazzled.

There were days when he wasn't sure what he resented Bill for more: vomiting so much glittery garbage into his soul, or stopping.

####

June 2013

When Ford went looking for his briefcase to make a trip to Portland, he found it opened in the kitchen. He shouldn't have left it in the kitchen. His five-page copy of the text from a purportedly-extraterrestrial prehistoric cave painting was spread out across the table.

The mysterious, unintelligible alien text had been fully translated.

With purple crayon.

Into a second alien language.

Ford could have strangled Bill.

And what made him angriest was how excited he was over this new puzzle.

The original cave panting had consisted of hundreds of tiny symbols in an unknown language from an unknown species, painted on rock, the text faded over time. He hadn't even known whether all the symbols were recognizable as their originals. He'd suspected there'd never be a translation in his lifetime, if indeed there ever was. Bill's translation implicitly said, yes, there is a knowable translation. Said, and you can know the translation too. Said, I've made it into a fun game for you. Said, all you have to do is play along.

He would not play along.

He stuffed the papers back in his bag where they belonged, added the stack of notes he'd made for his trip, slung the briefcase over his shoulder and against his back, and went looking for his great-niece.

####

"Hey Grunkle Ford!" Mabel waved from the living room table. "Wanna play fairy chess?" She was wearing a black-and-white checkerboard-patterned sweater with a blue fairy on her chest. Apparently, this was her plan for the day.

Ford paused outside the living room. "What's 'fairy' chess?"

"It's like normal chess, but you get to decorate the chess pieces and give them weird new rules. Look! I made a princess and a unicorn!" She held up a queen piece with a yarn ponytail and a knight piece with a clay horn. "Wanna play? You can make up any kind of piece you want and I can decorate it for you! Or I can give you the rook with the dragon wings!"

Ford laughed. "That sounds fun. Where did you come up with fairy chess?"

Mabel hesitated, her smile slightly flagging.

"Ah." Of course. He would teach her made-up chess varieties. Ford cleared his throat. "Actually, I'm planning to visit Portland today. There's a weird-looking shop I saw while Soos was driving Stan and I from the airport, and I've been meaning to visit it."

"Oh." Mabel's smile wilted completely. She placed her princess and unicorn back on the chess board. "Yeah. That's fine. I could ask Dipper if he wants to play. Unless he's going with you..."

"I was actually going to ask if you'd like to come."

Mabel's head whipped toward Ford, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Sure, it seemed up your alley! I'm going to a crystal shop—"

"WHAT!" Mabel was on her feet and bounding across the room. "Shut up, I love crystals! They're like jumbo glitter for adults!"

Ford laughed. "I thought you might be interested!"

Mabel went on, "And you know those gift shops with all the shelves of glass and crystal sculptures? I love looking at those! I've always wanted to get one, but my parents think I'd break it. They're probably right."

Ford flashed back to the devastation Mabel wrought on the gift shop snow globes last summer. Well. Maybe her parents had a point, but. "You just have to be careful with it during transport! I got one of those souvenir glass statues during my roadtrip from college to Gravity Falls, and it survived all sorts of gnome invasions and eye-bat battles. I wonder where Stan put it?"

"What did it look like?"

"Mothgar." Did they still make Mothgar movies? "She's a beautiful, heroic moth—who's been radioactively mutated into a giant fire-breathing monster. I consider her one of my heroes. Her flame breath held her statue in the air."

"That sounds awesome!" Mabel bounced on her feet excitedly. "I'll be right back! I've gotta change clothes before we go." She pounded up the stairs.

Ford wondered if Mabel would like watching Mothgar, or any of the other Lizilla monster movies. He and Stan had practically grown up on those films; it would be nice to pass his love of them on to someone else in the family. Maybe she'd find them boring. It sounded like kids these days were more into computer-generated movies...

His train of thought gently derailed as he slowly became aware of a dangerous predator watching him.

He looked around—living room, kitchen, hallway, front door. Nothing. He looked up. Bill was standing in the shadows of the attic stairway landing, leaning against the corner where the stairs turned, peering down at Ford.

Ford scowled.

Bill grinned. "Crystals, huh?" There was a mocking edge to his smile. "Doesn't that sound fun. I bet she'll just love that."

That was the idea, yes. "What are you getting at, Bill."

"'Getting at'?" Bill repeated innocently. "What's there to get at? I just think it's nice of you to do something nice for her."

"Uh-huh."

"Especially after all the time you've spent favoring her brother."

There it was. And the dig struck home, too. Ford's stomach twisted. He'd never forgive himself for only confiding in Dipper about his history with Bill or the danger of the rift—and in the process, setting up Mabel to be the next one Bill tricked and exploited.

And as much as he wished he could say otherwise, he hadn't done much better in the months since then. Shortly after arriving home, Dipper had started having nightmares about Bill possessing or harassing him. When Dipper had those nightmares, usually Ford was the first person he called. He didn't want to disturb his parents or sister more than necessary, and he knew Ford kept odd hours in odd time zones and might be available at 3 a.m. California time—and most importantly, Ford had had more restless nights than he could count, waking up on strange worlds from nightmares of Bill. Ford was the only one who could understand what Dipper was going through: that unique sanity-shaking terror that came from knowing it was a dream, but still not knowing whether it was real.

Those late-night reassurance sessions and the conversations he'd had with Dipper after he calmed down had brought both of them closer. Ford was glad that when Dipper had most needed somebody, Ford was able to be that person—but he hated that in giving Dipper that support, he'd only widened the gap in the attention he gave Dipper and Mabel.

But she had her own life, with friends and school and hobbies—so many hobbies—Dipper had told Ford, laughing, about how she'd had to juggle her parkour lessons with library craft classes—and Ford didn't have excuses to talk to Mabel the way he did Dipper, and so what could Ford do about it? (What could Ford do about it? He actually didn't know. He'd always been abysmal at socialization, even just keeping up with friends and family. And that was before he'd gone thirty years without steady human company.)

Ford had hoped he could make it up to Mabel this summer.

And then Bill happened.

He was smirking down at Ford like he knew he'd hit a bullseye.

Ford wondered how much Bill knew—if he'd assumed that the way Ford neglected Mabel last summer had continued, or if he'd had some way to spy on them over the past school year... or if she'd told him. "My family's none of your business, Bill."

Ford could almost see the gears in Bill's head turning—no doubt mentally trying out various retorts to find the most cutting—but when he spoke again, he simply changed topics. "So hey, what'd you think of that translation? Helpful at all?"

Dryly, Ford said, "You mean the one you translated into another alien language?"

"Wrong-o. I translated it into an alien writing system. It's a human language."

"What?" Ford rummaged through his briefcase for the "translated" pages. "Which language?"

"C'mon, Fords—Ford, where's the fun in just telling you? I want to see if you can figure it out yourself," Bill said. As Ford's scowl deepened, Bill added, "Give you a hint: it's a language you've studied."

A language he'd studied... Did that mean only second languages, or was English an option? No, if English was a possibility, Bill probably would have said "it's a language you know." Unless he was trying to distract Ford from the possibility it was English. He'd keep English on the list. He ought to start by counting up the number of distinct letters, if Bill had used a simple substitution cipher that might rule out some options...

He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the first page of the crayon translation when he heard the attic bedroom door open. Mabel came bounding downstairs in a hot pink sweater that said "YOU ROCK!" over a drum kit. "I used to have a sweater with a crystal heart on it but I think I left it in Piedmont! This'll have to do..." She slowed at the landing, giving Bill a questioning look, and then stopped when she saw Ford looking up at them. "What's up?"

Before Ford could speak up, Bill said, "I was asking Stanford about an alien translation I helped him with this morning, that's all! I don't think he's too grateful. Hey—crystal shop, right?" He beamed at Mabel. "Bring me something fun!"

Mabel beamed back. "Ok—!"

"No," Ford said.

"No," Mabel immediately repeated. "Nope! Nuh-uh, crystals are off the list of acceptable prisoner amenities."

Bill sighed deeply. "All right, fine. I guess I'll just go without the simple pleasure of a cool-looking rock in my final days."

Mabel laughed. "You're such a whiner. I'll draw you a stupid rock." She hopped down the stairs. "See you later!"

"Hey, Shooting Star," Bill said. "Stay safe out there, okay?" The way he said it like a warning, and the way Mabel immediately paused mid-step, made the hair on the back of Ford's neck stand on end.

He held open the door, glared up at Bill, and said calmly, "We'll be back by dinner."

Bill didn't reply. He just smiled.

The moment the door shut, Mabel looked up at Ford, brows furrowed. "Sooo... what was all that about an alien translation?"

Ford showed Mabel the papers. "He rifled through my bag when I wasn't looking, put a translation in a cipher, and dared me to crack it."

"Ah!" Mabel's puzzled look evaporated. "I knew he was up to something! At least he's just being a jerk instead of a supervillain." She laughed.

Ford smiled in relief. He hadn't lost her yet. "This time, anyway."

"This time!"

As they walked around the shack to Stan's car, Mabel tentatively took Ford's hand. He squeezed hers back just a little too tight.

####

Part of Mabel was nervous to hang out with Ford—just Ford, without Dipper or Stan there as well. He loved her, of course—she knew he loved her, and she loved him—but they didn't simply hang out. Last summer, she'd usually been the one to talk to him first, and they rarely spoke over the school year unless it was part of a family call. She got it—last summer he'd been busy with Bill stuff, during the school year he'd been busy with adventuring, and this summer he was busy with Bill stuff again—and Ford and Dipper had more in common to talk about—so it was fine, really. She understood. But even so, being alone with him kinda made her feel like she was in trouble.

But she'd had nothing to worry about. As they hit the road, there'd been a few minutes of awkward small talk—the kinds of questions adults always asked kids when they couldn't think to ask anything else, so, what kinds of classes are you taking next year—but once they hit common ground the conversation got rolling. Mabel had agonized over whether to join the yearbook or take art class, since she only had room in her electives for one, and had finally settled on art; Ford revealed that one year in high school he'd only taken biology and physics and passed up chemistry so that he could take an art class, had kicked himself over it when taking college chemistry courses, but now decades later he was glad he'd made the effort to preserve his artistic side even as he cultivated his scientific mind. Somehow, even though she'd spent all summer looking over Dipper's shoulder at Ford's illustrations in Journal 3, it had never quite dawned on her that being a scientist didn't mean Ford wasn't also an artist.

They talked about their preferred drawing tools—Ford liked the precision and detail of pencils and pens, while Mabel preferred the smooth drawing experience, vibrant hues, and color-blending potential of crayons. They talked about what they liked drawing—Ford typically drew from life, but said he greatly admired Mabel's creative imagination. Ford talked about blueprints and engineering diagrams like they were artwork, talked about protractors and compasses and rulers like they were art tools; and Mabel figured that blueprints were like very angular versions of the intricate star, swirl, and squiggle patterns she liked filling page margins with, so maybe that was a kind of art. They agreed that the greatest artistic masters of the modern age were the people who made those crazy paintings for the covers of fantasy paperback novels. They both couldn't stand watercolor painting and didn't understand how people could control the paint well enough to make it look good, rather than just sort of leak faintly-colored puddles around the page—although Mabel, at least, was willing to give watercolors another shot.

And from artwork they moved on to talking about Mabel's hopes for high school and Ford's memories of that time—the good and the bad. (Ford asked Mabel to have mercy if the class nerd ever awkwardly attempted to flirt with her at a school dance; she could tell the nerd "no" if she wanted, just please don't pour punch all over his suit.) And then they talked about music (they were surprised at how many synth-poppy new-wavy favorites they had in common, and Mabel was heartbroken to learn how much of the 80s he still had to catch up on), and then about all the new technology Mabel thought Ford had probably missed out on and the equivalent technology he'd encountered out in the multiverse, and then some of the adventures he'd had and people he'd met out in other dimensions...

And Mabel kept expecting Bill to come up, but he never did.

The hour drive from Gravity Falls to the outskirts of Portland consisted mostly of wide flat roads self-consciously hustling through forests, as if the cars were embarrassed visitors who'd stepped into the wrong room. Low wooden buildings clustered together in twos and threes beneath the trees like dogs sitting at their owners' feet. The occasional A-frame house peered curiously down at the road through the pines and firs. Mabel peered curiously back.

In the distance, hazy blue mountains bristling with trees tried to bite the sky. Sometimes, Mabel could imagine an X-shaped rip in the sky vomiting colors onto a distant mountain. Not for the first time, she wondered what Weirdmageddon had looked like from outside Roadkill County. She'd searched online, but never found any pictures.

They passed a bright red shop with dozens of wood-carved statues of bears and Bigfoot in the parking lot, and a cute little white house with a metal sculpture of an ostrich sitting in the front yard, and a teeny tiny shack next to a chop-your-own-Christmas-tree farm—"You hack it, we'll pack it". Seeing a gas station beside a trailer-sized drive-thru coffee shop felt like stumbling upon a carnival. Eventually, the trees peeled back to reveal a strip of colorful but run-down local shops lining either side of Route 26; which bloomed into a proper small town, houses painted cloud white and sky blue on one side of the road, a hunter green motel-style apartment building on the other side, though Mabel could always see the trees waiting just a few streets beyond the main road; and then another small town, which beat the trees back even further; and then their surroundings gently became the suburban outskirts of Portland as they got on the highway.

"The crystal shop was somewhere on the north side of the highway," Ford said, gesturing to the right. So far, all that had gone by on the right had been trees, warehouses, and distant clusters of houses. "I didn't get a long look at it, but it had some mystical-sounding name and it was in a row of storefronts with a pole sign next to the highway. The sign had a cutout in the middle for a stained glass window shaped like a diamond."

"Oooh, fancy."

"And very distinctive. We should have no trouble finding the place again."

The highway ran elevated above the homes and businesses below. After a few miles, a railroad wove up alongside the highway. Ford glanced at the railroad with a puzzled frown. Mabel asked, "Should we have passed it by now?"

"I'm... not sure. I thought we would have—when we were traveling the other direction, I seem to remember I didn't see it long before we exited the highway—but..." He trailed off. "We can't possibly have missed it. That sign stood out like a sore, bejeweled thumb."

Mabel made a mental note to try bedazzling her fingernails. "Are you sure it was on this side of the highway?"

"Positive. I saw it to my left as we were traveling east and considering asking Soos and Stan if they'd mind exiting the highway to visit it, but I decided that would take too much time since it was on the wrong side of the highway and we'd have to do a U-turn. So now it should be on our side of the highway." He gestured demonstratively to the right. "I'm sure of it."

"Okay." Mabel propped her chin in her hand and stared out the window again. A wall of concrete and trees rose up along the right side of the highway, and Ford's frown deepened.

When they reached the exit for the airport, Mabel finally had to admit to herself that there probably was no crystal shop.

Her stomach flip-flopped as Ford silently exited the highway, pulled into a strip mall parking lot, and parked. He stared out the windshield, frowning in deep thought, staring into the distance.

This is it, Mabel thought, ankles twisting together, fingers digging into the bench seat cushion.

Ford said, "We can't have missed the shop. That sign was taller than anything in the area. We couldn't have overlooked it if we'd tried."

Mabel's stomach slowly de-flipped. "Maybe they closed?" she suggested. "Or maybe something knocked the sign down!" In the week and a half since Ford had last come this way.

"Maybe," Ford said dubiously.

Mabel pulled out her phone to search for Portland crystal shops and rock shops. "There's some shops in town, but I... don't see any up here? Maybe they closed years ago and only just took the sign down?"

"Hmm. It seems unlikely, but... I don't know what else could have happened." He glanced at Mabel's phone. "What are you looking at? Do you have the yellow pages in there?"

"Um..." Mabel shrugged. "Kinda?"

Ford sighed. "Well, if we can't find the crystal shop I saw, I suppose we could visit another one. I did promise you crystals. Can you give me directions with that thing?"

Mabel gave him a hesitant, thoughtful look; but then she nodded, grinned, and said, "Sure! You drive, I'll navigate! This'll be easy!"

####

They missed the store four times.

####

The store Mabel had dug up was a general magic shop named Lunar Blessings, on the ground level of a mixed-use building. It was surrounded by apartments up above, a beauty salon to the left, and a tax preparation service to the right. They carefully stowed Stan's car in the parking garage.

"For my thirtieth birthday, I made a trip to Portland and got a cake at a bakery that used to be on this block," Ford said, looking up at the compact brick-like building that now filled the block. "It must have gone out of business." So many little things had changed.

Mabel was treating the sidewalk like a huge hopscotch board as they approached the magic shop, taking huge leaps between each concrete square. As the storefront came into sight, she said, "You know those souvenir shops with trays of polished rocks and little bags you can fill up?"

"The little brown suede bags? Yes, I've seen those. I think they're terrific gifts for young fans of geology." He probably would have gotten one himself as a child, but he hadn't started seeing them until adulthood.

"I have like eight of those bags!" Mabel declared. "I collect them whenever I can! Last summer I tried to talk Grunkle Stan into adding them to the Mystery Shack, but he said they were too easy to shoplift. He let me buy a fake gold nugget for half price, though!" She looked up at Ford hopefully. "A store full of crystals probably has something like that, right? Or at least a few cheap small rocks? Those bags are only, like, five dollars."

Solemnly, Ford said, "Your shopping budget is fifty dollars."

Mabel stumbled her last jump and almost fell. "What! Are you serious!"

"I've been in places like this before. These days you can't get anything decent for five dollars." He offered her a half smile. "Anyway, I missed out on thirty years of spoiling my nephew and my great-niece and great-nephew. I've got to make up for lost time."

Mabel flung her arms around Ford—"Thank you thank you thank you!"—and flung open the store door. "Rockmongers! Show me to your biggest, fanciest crystals! You've got a big spender in the house!" The door swung shut.

By the time Ford made it in, Mabel was saying, somewhat sheepishly, "Show me to your second fanciest crystals." Ford spied her next to an amethyst geode almost as tall as she was and hurried over.

Mabel took his hand and whispered, "You weren't kidding. Fifty dollars doesn't take you far in this place."

Ford grinned. "Funny, isn't it? Considering that you can just dig this stuff out of the ground."

Mabel nodded. "Like potatoes."

Like potatoes. Ford couldn't believe he'd missed out on thirteen years of this kid.

####

The shop boasted books on metaphysics and magic spells; sculptures depicting an undifferentiated mix of global religious figures and fantasy creatures; fake dream catchers with plastic beads and neon-dyed feathers; shelves stuffed with herbs, incense, tarot cards, and more; and most importantly of all: crystals, crystals, rocks, and crystals. Raw stones, polished tumbled stones, carved into figurines and mystical shapes, arranged by rock type in roughly rainbow order around the walls.

It was the kind of place where, once upon a time, Ford would have eagerly spent half an afternoon, browsing the books for something intellectually stimulating amidst the rows of hokey hocus-pocus, scoffing at the promised protections listed on the cards by each type of crystal but still glancing over the crystals themselves for something that might look pleasant on his desk. Not a believer in the melting pot of New Age beliefs being peddled, but still acknowledging he'd dedicated his life to seeking the same things people sought in shops like this.

He was beginning to wonder if he'd ever feel comfortable in a magic shop again.

He'd hardly been in the shop a minute before he saw a gold-foiled pyramid with an Eye of Horus on the side. And then small pyramids constructed out of seven layers of stone, forming an inverted rainbow from purple down to red. "Divine Eye"-brand incense sticks with a brown logo stamped onto each package depicting an uncannily realistic eye on a pyramid. Milky translucent selenite pyramids. Multiple different tarot decks—simple woodcut designs, complex oil paintings, punkish collage art—that featured an eye in a triangle somewhere on the box art. Shiny black pyramids with copper coils wrapped around them. A poster with a psychedelic Eye of Providence. Pyramids in a dozen other colors and stones. With so many hostile triangles around, even the familiar, watchful nazar and eyed hamsa amulets now seemed to stare at him too hard.

It was almost a relief when Ford spotted, between sculptures of Shiva and a severe-looking angel, one sculpture that was unmistakeably Bill himself. He was seated with his legs in lotus position, "floating" by attaching to a wall of flames behind him, with two blue glass flames in his hands. Anything else in this shop left Ford with the nervous uncertainty of whether the artist had been depicting Bill, or just an innocuous Eye of Providence symbol a hundred generations removed from its initial inspiration. But this sculpture, down to the hat and bow tie, left no doubt.

Ford reminded himself that it shouldn't be a comfort to see Bill's face; and he didn't like that he had to remind himself.

He gingerly pictured up the sculpture, surprised at how light it was, and inspected the bottom. It had a logo stamped on it that matched the logo on sculptures of at least a dozen other less malevolent entities in the store; the shop had probably bought them en masse and wasn't affiliated with Bill. But somewhere out there was an artist who was. Ford wondered where they were.

####

"Grunkle Ford!" Mabel bounded up to him, grinning.

Ford flinched when his name was called and turned away from the shelf he'd been inspecting a little too fast, like he'd been caught doing something wrong—but he gave her his full, polite attention. "Yes?"

"Look what I found in the window! It makes rainbows when the sunlight hits it! Like a prism-pyramid! A prismid! A pyrismid?" She shrugged. "Anyway, isn't it awesome! Free rainbows, everywhere, forever!" She beamed at Ford, holding her clear glass pyramid up for him to inspect; but when she saw the look on his face, she slowly lowered it. "What's wrong?"

Ford forced a tense smile. "Oh, it's... I'm sorry, Mabel. You're right, it is very impressive. But—" He winced, glancing away, voice dropping, "Bill happens to be fond of those, too. I used to have—dozens of those."

Mabel's cheeks heated up. "Oh." Now that she thought back, she distantly recalled seeing a similar pyramid in the room with the switcheroo carpet, although she'd never seen it in the sunlight. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Sorry. I can put it back. I saw some pink cats and these resin hearts filled with gold flakes? They were cute."

It took Ford a second to speak; Mabel wasn't sure he'd even heard what she'd said. "He didn't put the idea of getting one of these in your head, did he?"

"What? No!" Mabel said. "Of course not! When would he have even brought it up?"

"You... have been spending a lot of time around him lately."

"Pffft!" Mabel rolled her eyes. "Like when?"

####

"Okay," Stan called from the kitchen, a tray of raw burgers in front of him, "ready to start grilling! How does everyone want their burgers? Your options are 'medium rare' and 'overcooked.'"

Mabel stuck her head in the kitchen. "I want mine with sprinkles mixed in!"

Stan grimaced. "Sweetie, that sounds awful—"

Bill stuck his head in over Mabel's. "I want sprinkles too."

"I'm not making you a burger!"

Mabel chanted, "Sprinkles, sprinkles—" and Bill joined in, "—sprinkles, sprinkles, sprinkles—!"

####

Mabel pointed at one of the cartoon animal drawings on the blackboard. "And the orange one is...?"

Bill, sitting on the living room floor with a notepad and a yellow pencil, raised his hand, even though he was Mabel's only audience. "Teddy Tender!"

"And his job is...?"

"Healing! Uh—doctoring and social reconciliation! He's like a therapist medic."

"Correct! Full points!"

"Yes!"

"And the indigo one?"

Bill squinted at the fishy-looking creature. "The Mystic Dolphin."

"Close enough, I'll give it to you! Misty the Dolphin. Her job?"

Bill frowned. "Psychic powers."

"No."

"Purple has psychic powers."

"No!"

"Who has psychic powers, then!"

"Nobody has psychic powers, man, we've been over this!"

Bill groaned. "Is Misty going to be on the test?"

"Of course she is! We can't just skip over Misty! Indigo gets shortchanged in artistic depictions of rainbows enough as it is!"

"Misty is stupid! She can't even visit the rest of the critters!" Bill chucked his notebook at the blackboard. It smacked it harmlessly and flopped to the floor.

Mabel gave him a stern look. "You'll never grasp the deeper thematic concepts in Color Critters if you can't see that Misty's an equal part of the team regardless of her handicaps."

Bill groaned again.

####

"Hey dudes," Soos said, opening the attic door. "Do you know where my laundry went? I can't find my green t-shirt, and—"

Mabel was wearing Soos's green t-shirt, which went down to her calves like a loose dress. Bill was hot glueing construction paper flowers all over the shirt.

Arms outstretched in a T shape, Mabel said, "I'm the flower queen."

"She's the flower queen," Bill said.

Soos looked between them both, flashed Mabel a double thumbs up, said, "You look beautiful, dawg," and shut the door.

####

Mabel kicked a foot sheepishly. "I haven't been spending that much time with him."

"That was all in the last three days," Ford said.

Mabel winced. "Okay, fine—but—it's all been harmless stuff! Nothing Bill can use to conquer the world or anything! I'm not even letting him use the scissors! And I promise he's not doing anything evil under my supervision. He's actually been really well behaved—"

"That's exactly what worries me!" Ford snapped. He sighed harshly. "Mabel—I'm not surprised he's treating you decently. It's what I expected. I... I've actually been meaning to talk to you about this for a few days."

Mabel immediately went cold. Stay safe out there, okay? "Oh. Yeah?"

"I understand you're just trying to be kind, but considering who we're dealing with here—and how willing he is to exploit and abuse even our best virtues—I'm worried you're not being careful enough around him."

Mabel was never careful enough, was she? Not even careful enough to be trusted with a snow globe, much less anything important. Voice thick, she asked, "Is that why we're here?" She gestured around the magic shop.

Ford hesitated just long enough to give her her answer. "I... didn't think this was a conversation we should have inside the shack."

Mabel looked down at her hands, saw the stupid glass pyramid, and nearly flung it on the floor in frustration. Instead, she set it on the nearest shelf. Don't break anything. Under her breath, she muttered, "Bill said you'd do something like this."

"Bill said? Bill said?! Of course he would, that's just like him. What kind of nonsense has he been filling your head with?"

####

"Honestly, I'm surprised Ford hasn't said anything about you talking to me yet," Bill said, carefully taping construction paper petals together into flowers. "But mark my words—if he's taken this long, it's only because he's waiting for an opportunity to scold you where I can't overhear. He'll probably lure you out somewhere fun—go to the zoo or something. Then he'll let you have it."

"Pfff, come on!" Mabel focused on cutting out the next few flower petals. "He wouldn't 'let me have it.' If it bothered him that much, he'd have said so by now."

"You, my friend, have never seen him get really mad. I have. For the sake of argument, maybe I deserved it, fine—but he's got a tendency to aim that hate at anybody I'm friends with, too. So don't think you're safe."

Mabel paused, then shook her head. "No." She threw another bunch of petals at Bill to tape together. "He wouldn't hate me. We're family."

"If you were your brother, I'd agree with you. As it is, though..." Bill dumped a half dozen finished flowers in Mabel's lap. "Honestly, I can't even tell how he feels about you. Can you?"

####

Mabel flinched. "Obviously what he's filling my head with isn't nonsense, because he was right! You took me all the way to Portland by promising a stupid crystal shop that doesn't exist—"

"What?! Mabel, that's ridiculous! Just listen to m—"

"Why are you yelling! Why are you mad at me, I was only trying to be nice to him!" She let out a sob. "I didn't do anything wrong this time!"

Ford froze. "Mabel..."

She ran out of the crystal shop, crying. Ford watched her go, paralyzed. Mad at her? He was mad at Bill, if anybody. Mad at her?

He turned helplessly toward the shopkeeper, as if the only other adult in the store could help him out. "I'm... sorry for the disturbance."

The shopkeeper shrugged her shoulder in vague sympathy. "She upset over some guy?"

"Not that way." Thank goodness for that. "She's just..." He sighed. "She's been making friends with a very bad influence."

####

The entire crystal shop trip was initially one super long chapter that I cut in two. They would have been about equal length if I'd ended this chapter after Ford saw the Bill statue. I decided not to do that. I did that to be mean. ♡

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #mabel pines #grunkle ford #(he's not in the art but he's costar of this chapter)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

314 notes · View notes

todayontumblr · 1 year

Text

Friday, June 30.

Indiana Jones.

For Dr. Jones, every day is a good day for thumpin' Nazis. But some days it just hits particularly sweet. And would you look at that—it's only Friday, June 30, 2023, which can only mean one thing: it's the release of Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny! Yay!

*cracks knuckles, whip*

Well, it's not just thumping Nazis that's on the cards, but nostalgia. Coming 15 years after the, well, best-forgotten fourth installment, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the latest film in the #indiana jones canon will in fact be the last. Or the curtain call for Harrison Ford as the iconic character, at very least. His daytime lecturer and night-time archaeologist Dr. Henry Walton "Indiana" Jones, Jr. is reluctantly thrust back into the action after seeking refuge in the quiet life of academia. After, *takes deep breath* Nazis and the Ark of the Covenant, The Thuggee Cult and the holy Sankara Stones, the Holy Grail and the Nazis (again), the Soviet Union and the Crystal Skull (*shudders*), Indiana is set to take up the fedora against the Nazis once more in search of the mysterious dial of destiny. This fifth film is in 1969 and finds an elderly Indy contending with the knowledge that the US space program has former Nazis in its ranks. Well, better get thumpin', friend!

That's it, folks. Happy weekend. Enjoy #indiana jones, the occasional thumpin', and enjoy the good things while they're there x

Ba-ba-ba-baaa, ba ba baaaaaa...

#today on tumblr #indiana jones #temple of doom #raiders of the lost ark #dial of destiny #harrison ford #george lucas #steven spielberg #dr jones

249 notes · View notes

cipherswilldatabase · 3 months

Text

Event: Beautiful Dreamers

Chapter 01 - Gideon Gleeful

Chapter 02 - Pacifica Northwest

Chapter 03 - Dipper Pines

Chapter 04 - Wendy Corduroy

Chapter 05 - Stanley Pines

Chapter 06 - Jesus Ramirez

Chapter 07 - Mabel Pines

Chapter 08 - Fiddleford H. McGucket

Chapter 09 - Robbie Valentino

Chapter 10 - Stanford Pines

Dreams are something of a mystery. No one, not a single scientist, knows why we dream. Are we simply filtering through memories as we sleep? Are our subconscious trying to tell us something? Or are we tapping into a realm beyond our reality?

=============================================

While Ford has always had sleeping issues – mostly due to mild insomnia and overnight studying, both Stan and Fiddleford could testify – his stint with Bill and dealing with multiverse horrors had given the six-fingered man a fear of sleeping.

It was as vulnerable as you can get, both in the physical and astral/mental plane.

It took the joint effort of Stan and Ford to get the latter some well overdue rest weeks into their boating trip. Granted, Ford would sometimes be stubborn about it if something he was fixated on got his entire attention. But, if there was a sign of Ford getting sleepy, Stan would talk his brother into their room to take a nap on Stan’s bottom bunk.

▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

Ford had taken notice of the different changes to his dreamscape.

His first time there was that of starry space, marked by words and equations and a plethora of books, when he first encountered Bill Cipher. It wouldn’t be until sometime later that he learned this was just the upper half of his mindscape.

On ground level, there was golden wheat as far as the eye could see. In the sky, endless stars, constellations, and galaxies.

After the creation of the portal and the entering of said portal, he could no longer see the starry sky above, blocked by the oppressive smog that coated the skies. He was also surrounded by three reminders of his greatest failures and mistakes: A broken dream, a torn bond, and the loss of a friend.

Now…after everything…things were different.

The broken down portal was still present in the distance, but it no longer casted a looming shadow in Ford’s mindscape. The sky was no longer obscured, revealing the brilliantly starry sky, somehow much more vibrant than before, the original Stan o’ War was repaired, and small blue flowers decorated the swing set. There are a few new additions.

In the starry sky are constellations, but not the classic 88 ones Ford recognizes from his home dimension. And already lined, too. He still needs time to study them, but of the ones he could decipher…A six-fingered hand, a needle (?), a nautical compass, a pen (or pencil), a cube…and a triangle with an ‘X’...

In a spot within the wheat cleaned away for a couple of shelves containing numerous books and a table containing a DD&MoreD board and a chair with a vibrant sweater hung limply.

While Ford was enjoying the new look…he couldn’t shake off a sense of unease.

A black book fell from one of the shelves. Ford approached the fallen tome and went to pick it up and put it back. The moment he touched black leather, an ice cold chill surged through him. He turned the book around and – in the middle of a triangle – a crimson eye opened on the cover and stared directly at him.

He dropped the book like it burned him and it opened itself and the pages flipped from an unknown source.

Ford looked at his hands – sources of his pride and disdain – shaking and black veins were becoming visible as small, triangular particles manifested.

He can feel the veins spreading in his body, like a parasite…

More crimson eyes made themselves known around Ford. Each and every one of them looked at him.

The air around grew dark…the sky above turned red and cracked…the eyes continued to stare…

And he regrettably stared back and shuddered as he somehow saw himself within the black of a slitted pupil.

Those black veins have reached his face…

He was just as red as all of the eyes…

And…his right eye…the white turned black and his blue iris a deadly crimson and slitted…

And bleeding?

▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

After having a nap of his own on deck, Stan went to their room to check on Ford.

The elder twin was still sound asleep and Stan was just going to leave it at that. Every moment of rest was precious for them. That is until Stan noticed a look on Ford’s face, as he was facing away from the wall.

There was a look on Ford’s face, his forehead and brows bunched together, his nose would twitch, and there was a faint hint of a snarl curling his upper lip. Whatever Ford was dreaming…it wasn’t pleasant.

As much as Stan wanted to wake Ford…he felt he shouldn’t. The scientist had already gone through an all-nighter and Stan didn’t want to interrupt this sleep. Instead, he tip-toed his way to the bottom and carefully - as best as he could - lowered down to take a seat on the mattress and hope that the shift in weight doesn’t wake Ford. Stan reached over and started carding his fingers through Ford’s dark gray curls and prayed that this would soothe his brother’s mind.

Stan felt both pride and relief when he heard Ford’s breathing even out and his face relaxed. Stan closed his eyes, still stroking his brother’s head and just enjoying this silent moment.

A small drop of blood trickled from Ford’s right eye and stained Stan’s pillow.

=============================================

X QXPQB LC TEXQ FP QL ZLJB.

#gravity falls #cipher's will #event records #stanford pines #ford pines #grunkle ford

16 notes · View notes

historia-vitae-magistras · 1 year

Note

You got anymore fics or hc of Alfred being a good brother to his 8ft tall beanpole?

'tis garbage I wrote about 20 years ago and is poorly recycled but here! enjoy if you can lmao. TW for poorly written ptsd, references to beheading and axe murder and snuggles.

1920, Quebec City.

"I'm fine." His baby brother said, even as he looked like he desperately needed to lay down.

"Matt, that cough does not sound good,"

"It's fine," He said, stifling another fit with a harsh swallow. Alfred grimaced and jogged to keep up as Matt strode ahead on the rain-battered sidewalk and took the umbrella with him, like speeding up would disprove the implication he wasn't at perfect 100%. How could it sound like he'd been gassed recently?

"You sound miserable,"

"It's fine," Matthew said again, shrugging and knuckling his chest as he struggled to keep his breathing even. "It's just the weather. Tell me about the new Ford coming out,"

"Oh it's a beauty, they're even going to come out with other colours than black," Alfred said, longing to reach out and squeeze Matt's shoulder and steer him inside. "But it will mostly only affect internal market goods.

"Interesting. What are the implications with free trade?"

"Don't try to distract me. I know you don't give a shit about economic law unless you're being forced,"

"If it interests you, it interests me,"

"You can't force yourself to be quiet through this,"

Matt rolled his eyes. "I'm not dying,"

"You kind of sound like you are,"

"Then I'll die!" Matt shrugged and gave one of his rare, frustrated Gallic shrugs. "C'est la vie! And honestly, it'd be nice to sleep without waking up coughing. Wake up and go to work tomorrow with more than an hour of sleep behind me,"

Alfred frowned, a surge of helplessness as he watched Matt press on through the rain as if determined to outpace whatever was wrong. Alfred lengthened his stride to keep up and get back under the umbrella, snatching it from Matt’s hand to make him slow down.

“Come on,” He said, steering them both down the path towards the subway stop.

Halfway down the park hill, he couldn't stifle anymore and ended up clinging to a tree branch, doubled over and coughing so hard veins corded at his forehead and throat and when he breathed, he shuddered through another bout so hard Alfred thought he was going to throw up all over the park path. He sucked in air and the wheeze that accompanied it was so horrific Alfred grabbed his shoulders and steered him to a bench as Matthew tried to get his breathe. Air coming in and out rapidly and almost uselessly like Matt was breathing through shredded black smiths billows. Alfred pulled him upright.

Two neatly dressed couples threw them dirty looks like Matt was some infectious consumptive polluting a public park. Alfred glowered right back. He might have flirted with the one who’s dainty green dress that was fashionably short to show off shapely legs but now he was just frustrated.

"Go fuck off to the circus if you want to gawk at something!" He yelled and the men sped along, dragging the women with them. Matt made another face gesturing for Alfred to stop but couldn't get words out as coughing wracked him all over again.

It was another five minutes of Matt coughing and coughing and coughing before he stopped and collapsed on Alfred's shoulder, heaving.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," Alfred said. “You sound like you’re dying.

"I’m not—" Matt heaved air, it caught in his throat and he hacked out another pounding cough that left him spasming and shivering against Alfred. "It comes and goes,"

"Are you sure it's not consumption?"

"Yeah, Dad made them x-ray me three times during demobilization, I'm just like this now,"

"What? Chronically asthmatic?"

Matt shook his head. "I’m not chronically anything. It’s just a bad day every now and and again."

"Is that what doctors say?"

Matt nodded and leaned more heavily onto him, panting again.

"You're burning up," Alfred could feel it against his coat. “Mattie…”

Another nod. “Like I said, it comes and goes.”

He sighed, getting them to their feet. “Christ, Matt.”

“Oh, don’t look so sad.” Matt rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, the supply of your favourite whiskey isn’t about to dry up.”

“Is that what you think? Fuck you.” Alfred scowled. “You’re such a–” Realization dawned on him and he turned to his brother, grabbing his shoulder again. “You little shit. You’re trying to piss me off so I leave this alone, aren’t you?”

Matt blinked, taken aback. “Fuck me, you finally figured that one out?”

“You little asshole,” He laughed. “That is so manipulative.”

“Hardly. You’re so self righteous usually all I have to do is mention Dad and you’ll leave me alone for a month. What is this? Character development?” He laughed, and the coughing started again.

This time, Matt didn’t argue when Alfred insisted they go home. The grey stone heart of his brother’s first city, into the stone houses behind the stone walls the English and the Americans had besieged more than once. Behind slate walls, warm wood greeted them as they passed through the red door with the same iron hinges, squashed between what had once been the apothecary and the bakery. Matt had once been stingy with the firewood but now he had electricity and the coal fired boiler in the basement that heated the house beyond the parlour with its polished brass fire grate and brick hearth.

"Sit," Matth said as he leaned against the wall. He threw aside his damp coat and propped himself against the worn wood. Scrubbing his damp hair off his forehead, he sighed. "I guess I should make coffee and sandwiches or something."

“Will you bite my head off if I offer to make something?” Alfred asked, cautiously toeing off his shoes.

Matt gave a wry sort of look, almost amused. “No.”

“Hallelujah.” Alfred replied, throwing his hands above his head.

“Don’t push it.” Matt said but his face was light.

Alfred chuckled and headed to the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets, with all the fine little details of grapevines heavy with fruit and swirling knotwork that reminded him of Aunt Brighid’s embroidery. He thumbed one and wished she was there. She wouldn’t put up with this. He put on water to boil, dug a slightly dessicated chicken carcass out of the fridge, tore it apart to make sandwiches, put the bones on to make soup and returned to the living room with a mug and a plate for each of them.

Matt was sprawled on sofa, his face pink. Alfred didn’t want to wake him up, they both spent so much time ignoring the other’s nightmares these days. He still looked like Matt when he was asleep, sweet and still, like the man the cherubic baby Matt should have grown into rather than the wraith that had to shake off their father or the trenches. But he was feverish and Alfred made himself wake him.

“Here,” He said, handing Matt tea and the sandwich.

“Thanks.” Matt said quietly. He drank the tea eagerly but set the plate down next to him.

“Eat that.” Alfred said, taking a bite out of his own and throwing himself onto the leather chair. “You always do this when you’re sick. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to bother anyone, don’t want to admit you feel like ass. Just like Dad. It’s fucking annoying.”

“No one said you have to be here.” Matt glared, but he had picked up the sandwich and taken a decent bite. “Happy?”

“Never happy when you’re miserable.”

Matt snorted. “Oh, that’s bullshit.”

“Stop.” Alfred sat forward, hands on each of the chair’s arms. “Stop, okay? God. I know you’re–”

“Know I’m what?” Matt took another bite of the stupid sandwich and there was a flash of something flinty and dark behind his eyes Alfred didn’t like.

“Like how you always are after a war,”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you get good at killing and keeping everyone alive and–”

“And what?” Matt said.

“You get shit at everything anything else.” Alfred desperately wanted a cigarette but it felt a bit cruel. “Bring back Gilbert’s head like some sort of fucked up barn cat, sure, you’re great at that. But lay down and act like a human being? God forbid.”

“Oh don’t you–” Matt sighed through his nose and ate more, and too Alfred’s bewilderment, smiled. “You know how often I tell Dad something like that?”

Alfred stared, but leaned back, holding his coffee. “You back talk the old man?”

“Bringing Gilbert’s head back like a fucked up barn cat gave me some leeway.” Matt said, the sly smile on his face fading into something more serious. “But yeah. By the end, by the hundred days, we talked. About what I did. About what he didn’t stop. And I told him to shove it up his ass sometimes. He’s a hypocrite and so am I.”

“Sometimes.” Alfred responded. “You’re still a pretty good brother though.”

“Thanks.” Matt said. “I try.”

“I know.” Alfred said. “And I’m sorry I don’t sometimes.”

Matt shrugged. “Not your job. You don’t have to waste your time if you don’t want too. I’ll live, the overpriced booze will keep flowing. I shut up and do my job, everyone benefits. It’s fine.”

“We’re brothers.” Alfred said. “We’re supposed too… I don’t know.”

“You’re a rising great power, I’m the favourite knife of the British Empire. We have our roles. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want too.”

“Matt–”

He’d drooped against the arm of the sofa, breathing ragged, unable or unwilling to reply.

“You with me?”

“Yeah.” He responded, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Is this from the gas too?”

“Yeah,” He didn’t off anymore of an explaination and Alfred shook his head.

“Dumbass,” He stood, and crouched to reach out. He gently placed the back of his hand against his brother’s forehead. “All you have to do is ask for help and, fuck, I think you’re warmer.”

“Just tired.” He murmured, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Mattie…” How many times in a day could he let denial slide before it was stupid? Matt was trying to rally himself, push Alfred off and reach for the tea, muttering about how he was fine when there was a loud crack. The windows rattled and suddenly he had his arms full of his brother, shaking like the last maple leaves on the trees, eyes screwed shut and mouthing something in French Alfred couldn’t make out.

“Hey,” Alfred laughed nervously. “Hey, you cold?”

“They’re coming.” Matt said, and the fever flush had disapeared. He looked bloodless. “They’re coming.”

“Hey.” Alfred suddenly understood. “Hey it’s okay. I’m right here. Matthew, I am right here. Nothing’s wrong. It was a car backfiring, not gunfire. No one’s coming.”

Matt leaned in more, burying his face in Alfred. “You don’t let anything happen to me.”

“Never have, never will.” Alfred rested one cheek on Matt’s feverish head. He held on tight, feeling the tremors that sprang through Matt until they stilled. But Matt’s breathing was still fast and shallow. He hadn’t been this close in a while, and the path of Matt’s spine showed through his layers, and he’d had that pinched up look half his life.

“Come on.” He said, gently. “Bed.”

“No.” He burrowed against Alfred more tightly, like he was four, barely spoke English and it was a cold morning he didn’t feel like greeting just yet. He’d always had a streak of stubbornness.

Eventually, Alfred got him up, got him to change and horizontal. He was a little delirious, shivering between the sheets and coughing until he was curled in a ball and muttering about how he needed his axe. But he didn’t get up to get it. He breathed through a split lip and rolled around trying to get comfortable. Alfred fed him pills and glass after glass of water, and somewhere around the seventh, Matt seemed to pass out into real sleep. Alfred sat on the bed and pressed his hands to Matt’s cheeks and was relieved to find it a little cooler.

Matt rolled over towards him, hugging his side, demanding warmth and making a contented sound when Alfred let him with a snort. “You always were a snuggly baby.”

#the ask box || probis pateo #Ideas || i should write this someday #hws canada #hws america #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders

114 notes · View notes

from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 11 months

Text

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Unfinished Tales lately and always get stuck on Théodred—the uniquely horrifying circumstances of his death, the big brother-little brother bond he had with Éomer, the fact that Éomer doesn’t really get to mourn him in any sense because there is so much other chaos happening. (We’re talking about the book here, where Théodred is much older than Éomer and dies far from home without a funeral. Don’t be fooled by the gif below, which I just had to include as one of the only existing visuals of them together!). So, anyway, I wrote this.

A Life Interrupted

As he approached the door, the twinge in Éomer’s chest slowly increased from the dull ache that had accompanied him everywhere for the last few months to a sharper, more insistent pain. It was finally time to grieve an enormous loss, one that he had so far been unable to really experience in its fullness because of the urgency of other needs, other battles, other losses. But no such distractions remained now, and he was at last ready to reckon with the death of one who had been a brother to him. He turned the knob and entered Théodred’s room.

Everything remained exactly as Théodred had left it, the room frozen in time on that February morning when the prince of Rohan had ridden off toward the fords with his men. Dirty boots sat in a corner, waiting for a spare moment to scrub them free of mud, and a bridle with a snapped noseband rested on a work table, mid-repair. A half empty glass of water sat next to it. Everywhere Éomer turned, there was evidence of a life unexpectedly interrupted, things put on hold in the expectation that they would be taken up again and finished later but now were just collecting dust.

The windowsill was covered with small pots and containers planted with the flowers and herbs that Théodred had always loved to tend, his long, strong fingers just as adept at coaxing life from seeds as they had been at taking lives in battle. No one had watered or pruned the plants in months, and most by now had dried into withered leaves and brown, brittle stems, yet more casualties of the war. Éomer took a pot with a single stalk that somehow still bore a few green shoots and placed it by the door to take with him when he left. He had no particular talent with plants, but he would nurse that little shrub with water, light and fresh soil until it was thriving and would keep it thereafter on the windowsill of his own bedroom for many years.

He came back and sat on the edge of Théodred’s bed. Sleep clothes were slung casually over the tangle of blankets, resting wherever they had fallen when Théodred had dressed on his last morning there. Éomer tried to imagine what Théodred might have been thinking that day as he prepared himself to leave…whether he knew that the first stroke from Isengard was about to fall and that a great battle would be joined. Whether he had thought about the possibility that he would never return to make his bed or care for his plants. He surely could not have expected that every foe on that battlefield would have a single, overriding mission—to kill the heir to the throne of Rohan at all costs—and Éomer shuddered to think of the horror that must have settled over Théodred when he realized that wave after wave of the enemy was bypassing closer, easier targets in order to charge directly and unceasingly at him alone.

This image of Théodred’s terrifying final moments at last brought forth the tears that Éomer had been holding back. He curled up in his cousin’s bed, clutching the sleep clothes to his chest, and sobbed. Without the inhibiting presence of other people, he finally allowed himself to do what he needed—to cry out and to whimper, to heave with wracking, ragged breaths and to lie still, to weep until his eyelashes were heavy with tears and the pillow beneath his face was saturated. He gave himself over entirely to his grief.

When the sobs eventually ran their course, he began to come back to his conscious mind and regain his awareness of his surroundings. He could smell the warm, woody scent of fresh stable hay carried onto the pillow from Théodred’s hair and clothes but mixed with a light, floral fragrance that surely had come from Eadlin, Théodred’s bride to be. Whether she had been here after Théodred was killed or the scent was left over from a distant day when two lovers had spent a lazy morning draped in each other’s arms, Éomer did not know. Eadlin had left Edoras shortly after Théodred’s death to return to her own family in Aldburg, unwilling to remain here where her memories of him were so numerous and vivid.

He turned his head and studied the rows of books that lined a shelf on the far wall. He could read and write in basic Westron, as was required for all members of the royal family, but he had never taken to reading as Théodred had. While Éomer spent much of his free time galloping the fields with Firefoot or trading jokes and stories with Háma, Théodred often was absorbed in a book, and he had acquired many volumes of lore from distant lands, treatises on the plants and animals of Rohan, and works outlining the history of the line of Eorl.

As he scanned the titles, Éomer’s eyes landed on a series of books on the bottom shelf. They were bound differently than the others and bore no identifying marks on the spines beyond handwritten numbers. He stood and walked over to the shelf to pull one out. Flipping it open, he found page after page of Théodred’s sprawling, unruly handwriting with notes and thoughts from days spanning all of the year 3014, five years ago. There were summaries of training exercises, reminders to re-shoe his favorite horse, and updates of news from the East and West Mark, but also fretful concerns for a friend who had recently taken ill, ideas for a birthday present for Éowyn, and sketches of a plan for a new flower garden. One entry from October of that year recounted a recent visit to Aldburg, where he had met a beautiful, witty woman who he could not wait to see again.

Éomer smiled and replaced the volume on the shelf, skimming his hand over the other journals in the series until his fingers rested on the one marked 3002, the year that his parents had died and he and Éowyn had come to live with Théoden and Théodred. He slid it from the shelf and opened it to an entry from just two weeks after his mother’s death.

“My cousins arrived this morning, and it pains me to see them in such a state. Sweet Éowyn cries easily and often (as could only be expected for one so young and so touched by tragedy) but Éomer puts on a brave face and seeks to comfort her as though he has not also just lost everything he knew and loved. Elfhelm’s wife will come for a time to help look after Éowyn, as she is too young to always be in the stables or on the training grounds, but I will try to keep little Éomer by my side as often as I can. He’s a brave boy with a kind heart, and I can already see that one day he will grow into a good man. I hope only that this early misfortune will not mar his chances for the happy and blessed life that he deserves.”

Éomer blinked back more tears. Blessed. Éadig. Yes, he had been blessed. With a happy childhood rescued by Théoden and Théodred from the wreckage of that calamitous year. With a prosperous kingdom that was now his privilege to rule in their stead. With an extraordinary woman who would become his wife and help to extend his family to another generation. Blessed indeed.

He slipped the journal back onto the shelf and walked to the door to pick up his little shrub, his fellow survivor. Then, taking one last look around the room, Éomer Éadig stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

#eomer #theodred #rohirrim #lotr fanfiction #fan fiction #eomer fanfiction #eomer eadig #i’ve got SO MUCH more to say about theodred!

47 notes · View notes

anysin · 1 year

Text

Fic: Endless Adventure

For an anonymous requester, a Billford with a twisted honeymoon theme! Post-show AU where Bill won and Ford chose to be with him.

Endless Adventure

Bill keeps his promise about sparing the Earth. He doesn't spare anything else.

"Look, a new planet!" Bill tightens his arms around Ford's waist, his eye blinking right behind Ford's head. "Give me your estimation, Sixer. How long will it take for us to finish that off?"

They float in the space together, looking down at a small blue planet down below. It resembles Earth, to an extent Ford's heart brims with nostalgia as he gazes down at it; he wonders if it's inhabitants are human-like, or something completely different. During these travels with Bill and his creatures, Ford has discovered the universe is full of incredible, wonderful things, some of them straight out of his old science fiction books, many of them beyond his imagination. He has watched so, so many of them get destroyed.

And he will watch more, and one day he will go into another universe and watch that get destroyed too, and it will keep happening until- well, time doesn't exist anymore, so it all comes down to whether there is an infinite amount of things or not. Ford shudders at the idea, but he leans against Bill, placing his hands over the small black hands clutching his waist.

"You made time meaningless, Bill," he says, just because he wants to. "But I suppose three months. It doesn't look like it will require much effort."

"Oh, that's cold, Fordsy. I love it." Bill laughs, and this time he loosens his hold on Ford, turning Ford around in his arms until they are facing each other. "And yet I can sense a smidgen of compassion from you, still. So let me ask for another estimation: how long will it take me to snuff that out for good?"

Bill takes Ford's hands, his eye turning into a mouth as he brings them up to his lips. He kisses Ford's knuckles, all six of them, and despite himself, every little kiss sends a tremor of pleasure running through Ford's body, his cheeks turning redder with each one.

"I hope forever," he says.

"Ha! You are not sure." Holding onto Ford's hand, Bill spins him away for a second and then back, yanking Ford against himself. "I have to admit though, I'm not sure if I wish for that or not. Seeing you so mournful puts a dent in my mood, but at the same time feeling pity for lesser creatures is so you, Fordsy."

Bill kisses him, almost gentle. Ford can't help himself; his arms fly upward, winding around Bill as he returns the kiss, his fingers digging into Bill's sides. He wishes he was ashamed. He wishes he wasn't happy that he chose this.

He draws back, his eyes wet, staring at Bill whose lips are parted, revealing the eye in his mouth. His lips are curved upward, and his eye is full of mirth.

"Yeah," Bill says, laughing. "I love you too!"

Ford thinks he wants Bill to shut up now, so he kisses his smiling mouth again.

#my fic #gravity falls #billford #cw: dark

36 notes · View notes

gfanlocalcryptid · 1 year

Text

BillFord - Inktober 2023

Stanford looked over his shoulder, only to realize that the mysterious voice was coming from above. He raised his head to the sky, as so many scholars and great minds of the past had done before him, but there was nothing except a few solitary constellations. -Or maybe you suspected that you would wake up directly in the other world after ingesting that SHIT? But how can you blame yourself, between being ostracized because of your fingers and suddenly becoming an only child after your twin RUINED YOUR LIFE? Stanford shuddered. That voice had nothing human about it. It was terrifying, cold, and every time it emphasized a word the young man felt a shiver run down his spine. -How do you know these things about me? Show yourself!-He shouted, drawing out the last breath he had left in his body. A strong wind shook the landscape, and nearly knocked Ford to the ground. All the flowers lost their petals, the fog thickened, the stars were darkened. The Moon remained the only distinguishable thing in the surrounding area.

Surprise! Guess what I'm working on?

I won't be able to write 31 one-shots in 31 days, so I'll do the prompts:

Dream

Path

Map

Golden

Drip

Fortune

Wander

Castle

Dagger

Demon

Chains

Celestial

Beast

Sparkle

Fire

The above is a sneak peek from the first prompt, Dream, already written and ready to be published!

I hope some of you will be interested. Under the cut you'll find a link to my AO3 account, the tags, rating, etc...

See you in October

@Esther_GravityFalls

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence

Additional Tags: Canon-typical violence (which may vary from nose blood to torture); I'll warn you when chapters will have smut (not so many), body horror or violence; still deciding whether to add Ciphord/Bord or not.

#billford #gravity falls #bill cipher #stanford pines #ford pines #gravity falls ship #gravity falls fanfiction #inktober 2023 #inktober #billford inktober #my writing

14 notes · View notes

arrowmoose · 6 months

Text

The Fall Excerpt #1

An excerpt from my WIP story The Fall. It’s not the most polished, but any comments or constructive criticism is welcomed!

BACKGROUND: Walsh meets with Cameron after Christmas break to apologize for all that he’s done.

**TW: Implications of abuse**

———————————————————

IT WAS dusk when Cameron showed up in the sludgy, deserted parking lot, pulling up in a silver 2007 Ford Cobalt that shuddered every time he turned it off and on. He parked across from me, a few spaces to my left, got out, and stood next to his slightly dented driver’s side door. He wore a heavy, black down coat over a hoodie, with worn blue jeans, and scuffed and soiled tan timberlands. My eyes reached his face, and everything seemed healed save for a yellow, now slightly crooked nose. His blonde hair was parted to the left, but the chilly wind that blew gently that night pushed his hair to the middle of his forehead and mussed up what order it had. His cheeks were blotched red from the cold, and his lips were slightly parted in order to gulp in the thin air. The bright blue eyes that had looked at me with such emotion before were grayed by the oncoming night, and he stared at me with a hardened expression. But I could see by his gently furrowed eyebrows and the way he toyed with his keys in his pocket that he had been more than ready for this. He had a sharp look in his eye that knew why I had told him to meet here.

We stood in silence for a moment that felt like forever and a day, studying each other motionlessly. Even after all the practice and reciting I had done leading up to this point, I still hesitated. I hesitated, even when the proof was more than concrete. Everything I had read, everything he had said——it was truth.

And yet, a small devil on my back spoke lies into my ear. The lies that he was still feigning innocence, that Natalie could’ve been confused, or making everything up to save her own skin. The lie that everything that I now know to be true is in fact just a well-fabricated hoax.

I kept opening and closing my mouth as I looked at him, trying to find the right way to start everything I had to say to him. Everything I had to apologize for. Why was this so hard?

“Well? You gonna say something or what?” Cameron called at me. His voice inflected annoyance, but I could tell he was becoming more and more contused with each passing moment of my silence. I searched his face for a moment longer before shoving my hands in my coat pockets and making my way closer to him. I stopped in front of the nose of his car, staring at him one more time before hanging my head and looking at my boots in shame.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and spoke in a low voice that cracked the longer I went on. “I…I’m sorry. And I know sorry won’t cut it, but…what I did to you was awful. I was awful. I…I have no excuse for what I did. You don’t have to forgive me. I’m…I’m so fucking sorry, man.”

I looked back up at him, and I could feel my eyes burn from more than just the cold. I shivered as I stood there like a dog with his tail between his legs, waiting for him to say something, anything.

I could see in his visage that he was fighting for a response and yet——

There it was again.

Empathy.

Following what seemed to be an internal battle, he spoke slowly. “It’s…going to take me a while to accept that, you know.”

I nodded solemnly and looked to the icy sludge under my feet again.

“But… do you understand now? Everything I’ve been trying to tell you?” He leaned forwards earnestly, trying to catch my gaze. I raised my head, and I could feel a hot tear slip down my cheek as I clenched my jaw and nodded, more vigorously this time. I stared deep into those eyes. They were filled with such pain, such hurt. But it confused me——it wasn’t pain that I had caused.

After a deciphered moment of culmination, derived from all of what Natalie had written and the silent implications from Cameron, I finally understood. I couldn’t help but smile through my trembling lower lip, and another burning tear singed my cheek. Empathy, empathy. And now I understood why.

“She was a bitch, huh?”

#writer #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writerscommunity #my writing #my work #fiction writing #fiction #original story #original writing #original work #enemies to lovers #arrowmoose #realistic fiction #the fall AM

5 notes · View notes

thelastspeecher · 2 years

Text

Part 2

Should I try to come up with a title for this, since it's actually the first part of a two-parter (and the second part will be posted tomorrow)? Perhaps. But I'm sick so I'm not gonna expend the effort to think of a title. And also, no summary. See: I am sick. So here. Shining Armor AU thing. Enjoy.

Oh, and Happy New Year's.

——————————————————————————————

There was a knock on Stan’s bedroom door.

“Your Highness?” a familiar voice called. Stan grinned.

“Come in!” he called back. The door opened. Stan’s personal knight and secret wife, Angie, slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Stan got up from where he’d been sitting at his desk, going over maps of potential new trade routes. He walked over to Angie and embraced her tightly. “What brings my knight here on a day she’s supposed to be training the new squires?” he whispered in her ear.

“Grave news,” Angie said in a shaking voice. Stan stepped back, suddenly worried.

“What is it?” he asked. His eyes widened. “Your family? My family?”

“Um…” Angie anxiously played with the wedding ring Stan had collected from a magical creature for her. As her marriage to Stan was not to be known to other than a select few, she kept it on a chain around her neck, tucked under her tunic. “Both, I s’ppose.”

“Huh?”

“Stan, I…” Angie took a deep breath. “I’m with child.” She met Stan’s eyes. “Your child.”

“I- I would assume,” Stan sputtered, trying to overcome the dread that had promptly filled his every inch. He dragged his hands down his face. “Son of a- we only did it one time! How did this happen?”

“I apologize,” Angie mumbled. “I followed the instructions I knew of to prevent pregnancy. But even those failed in the face of my fam’ly’s fertility. I should have known better. Pa says we were blessed by a fae to have many children see adulthood.”

“We’re gonna talk about that fae thing later,” Stan said. “Right now, we- we’ve got to figure out what to do.”

“Agreed.” Angie shuddered. “My Ma, she’s told me of methods that can be used to halt a pregnancy. I can go to the apothecary to get what I need. Of course, Sir Banjo purchasin’ those herbs would raise questions and perhaps rumors.”

“You want to get rid of the baby?” Stan asked in an undertone.

“I don’t know what other options we have, Stanley! I can’t exactly bear a child without bein’ found out!”

“What if you go back home?”

“And return to my post once I give birth?”

“…Yes?”

“That causes more problems than it solves. Fer one thing, you’d never be able to see yer child! Is that what you want?” Angie demanded. Stan shook his head. “I- I don’t want to lose this child. But I don’t see other options.”

“I mean, I could always fake my own death,” Stan said with a shrug. Angie’s eyes boggled. “Ford’s the heir anyways. You’ll say you want to stop being a knight ‘cause you’re so broken-hearted by my death. We leave and settle down somewhere no one will know who I am.”

“The whole reason I dressed as a man to become a knight was to avoid that sort of life,” Angie said. “I didn’t want to be stuck in a tiny village, keepin’ house and makin’ children.” She covered her face with her hands. “I still don’t want that.”

“Fine, then what are we gonna do?”

“I- I don’t know!” Angie rubbed her eyes. “I wish there were more options than just those few. But those are the only ones we can think of.” She paused. “Though perhaps someone else could help us think of more.”

“Whom? Our brothers?” Stan asked. “They wouldn’t have a clue.”

“No.”

“Well, we definitely can’t tell my parents. You’d be allowed to live long enough to give birth, but beheaded right after. And I’d be banished from the kingdom.”

“I was thinkin’ we could talk to my parents, but thanks fer that lovely prediction,” Angie said. Stan shrugged again.

“I’m just being realistic.”

“Hopefully it ain’t our reality,” Angie said quietly. “My parents, they’re much smarter than you’d expect from commonfolk. My ma, she was actually the one who taught us all how to read. She even taught my pa.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“We’ll need to come up with an excuse to visit my fam’ly.”

“No problem.” Stan went back to his desk and picked up one of the maps, which showed the kingdom’s southern border. The town Angie grew up in was so close to the border, it was practically in the neighboring kingdom of Lirone. “Father’s been wanting to establish trade routes with Lirone for ages. I’ll say we wanna do a scouting expedition, just the two of us, to check out the border.” He looked back at Angie. “Is there a time limit on the herbs?”

“They can be used before the quickening.”

“And how long does that take?”

“About five months.”

“Good. That’s plenty of time.” Stan set the map down and went back to his knight. “I’ll start working on the trip plans right away.” He wrapped his arms around Angie. As he squeezed her, he imagined hugging not just his wife, but his unborn child, too. He kissed the top of Angie’s head. “We’ll figure it out.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m a prince, remember? What I say goes.”

-----

Stan looked at Angie, who was riding her horse Daisy sidesaddle as they entered the small hamlet Angie had grown up in, Gumption. She didn’t often ride sidesaddle, given that she wasn’t often dressed like a woman. But once they had put some distance between themselves and the castle, she and Stan had changed their clothes to ride without attracting attention. For Angie, that meant wearing one of the dresses she kept at the castle in case she needed to drop her disguise of Sir Banjo. For Stan, that meant wearing clothes from one of Angie’s brothers. Stan asked if he should wear a hooded cloak to cover his face; after all, it was almost identical to Ford’s face, which was on currency. Angie, however, said that it would just attract more attention.

She didn’t seem worried about someone realizing I’m related to the royal family. Kinda weird, since she worries about literally everything else. But at least it means she’s wearing the cloak. It was a cold, early morning, and they had already been traveling in poor weather for two days.

“Angie?” said a young woman sweeping the front step of a bakery. Angie forced a weak smile.

“Hello, Leighanne.”

“What brings ya back to Gumption?” asked Leighanne. Her eyes landed on Stan. “Is he yer betrothed?”

“No,” Stan interjected. “I’m her husband.” Leighanne’s jaw dropped. Angie groaned softly. Stan bowed his head. “Sir Stan.”

“Angie!” Leighanne gasped. “I overheard your ma and mine discussin’ that a knight had begun to court you, but I didn’t realize you were already wed!”

“Yes, well, that’s why we’re visitin’,” Angie said in a tremulous voice.

“Please stop by once you’ve talked to yer parents. I’d love to catch up. Maybe hear some stories ‘bout castle life.” Leighanne smiled at Stan. “And meet yer husband, too.”

“Of course, Leighanne,” Angie mumbled. Leighanne went back inside the bakery. Once the door closed, Angie glared at Stan.

“What?” Stan asked. “You said you’ve been sending letters about a knight courting you, so that your parents would stop trying to set you up. I just went with that.”

“No, you didn’t! You didn’t say we were courtin’ or even betrothed! You said we were wed!” Angie groaned again, louder this time. “Word moves fast in small towns. We need to pick up the pace if we want to avoid any confrontations.”

-----

They managed to get to their destination without any further interruptions from curious townsfolk. Stan hurriedly dismounted his horse, Shanklin, then went to help Angie down from Daisy.

“I’m more experienced at horseback than you,” Angie snapped.

“You’ve also been dizzy the entire time we’ve been traveling,” Stan retorted. “Last night, you almost fell on your face dismounting.” Angie glared at him. “I’m not gonna let my pregnant wife get hurt.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Angie took the offered hand. Stan noted silently that she did seem to be a bit off-balance as she set foot on the ground.

But since she’s already pissed at me, it’s probably not a good idea to say “I told you so.” Stan mentally thanked the hard work his tutors had put into teaching him how to keep his mouth shut instead of putting his foot in it.

“Have you quickened yet?” Stan asked softly. He placed a hand on Angie’s stomach, which had a slight swell to it. Thankfully, her armor covered any hint of the pregnancy so far. According to Angie’s estimations, she was a little over four months along; it had taken Stan longer than he wanted to set up the trip and get approval for it. He’d been tempted to just take the trip without getting permission or even letting anyone know. But the whole point of the trip was to avoid being noticed. A prince and his knight disappearing would cause chaos throughout the entire kingdom.

“No,” Angie replied, just as quietly. “But any day now, it should happen.” They had stopped at an apothecary a few towns over, so that Angie could get the herbs in case they decided to end the pregnancy. Stan swallowed nervously.

“Then we better get this over with.” They walked up to the door. Angie knocked. While they waited, Stan took ahold of Angie’s hand. He squeezed comfortingly. Angie squeezed back. The door opened, revealing a middle-aged man with Angie’s nose and warm smile.

“Banjey!” the man exclaimed. “It’s such a delight to see my lil girl!” Stan let go of Angie’s hand so she could embrace her father. “Oh, have ya put on some weight?”

“Pa!” Angie protested.

“I ain’t opposed to that. You’ve always been so thin! Ya get it from yer ma’s side, y’know.”

“Yes, you’ve told me ‘fore,” Angie said, rolling her eyes. Mr. McGucket turned his attention to Stan.

“This must be the young man you’ve wed without my blessin’,” he said, his voice still cheerful, but his eyes threatening.

“Wh- how’d you know?” Stan asked.

“I warned you,” Angie said. “Word travels fast in a small town.”

“We told one person.”

“And she was the worst possible person to tell, if’n ya wanted to keep it a secret fer a bit longer,” Mr. McGucket said. “Leighanne’s a nice young lady, but she tells her ma everything, and her ma can’t keep a single word to herself.”

“Great,” Stan muttered.

“Please, come in from the cold,” Mr. McGucket said, gesturing for the two to enter. “Banjey, yer ma is in the kitchen. We can discuss whatever ya wanted to discuss there.” Stan followed Angie into the cozy but cramped house. She led him into a kitchen, where a middle-aged woman was putting a kettle on the stove. The woman turned to see who had entered. It was immediately obvious that she was Angie’s mother.

Angie might have gotten her nose from her father, but she got everything else from her mother, holy shit. They look almost identical.

“Sweetie, what a delightful surprise!” Mrs. McGucket cooed, wrapping her daughter in a warm hug.

“It was a surprise until Leighanne’s ma told ya, at least,” Angie muttered.

“Yes, I think we need to teach yer husband how these things work in small towns.” Mrs. McGucket frowned. “Banjolina, yer not with child, are ya?” she asked pointedly. Stan broke into a cold sweat. Angie, however, didn’t bat an eye.

“Ma!” she exclaimed, sounding scandalized.

“Sorry, my intuition’s just soundin’ off, sweetheart. And I can count the number of times my intuition’s been wrong on one hand.” Mrs. McGucket looked at Stan. “…My intuition’s tellin’ me somethin’ else, too.”

“Can we at least sit down?” Angie asked.

“Oh, of course!” Mrs. McGucket kissed Angie on the cheek. The kettle began to whistle. “I’ll pour some tea.”

“Thank you,” Angie said. She and Stan sat down at the kitchen table. It was sturdy, if visibly old and used. Stan ran his fingers along a name scratched into the wood. “My brother Harper did that.”

“I wish I was allowed to write my name on the table,” Stan muttered. Mrs. McGucket placed a cup of tea in front of him and another in front of Angie.

“Oh, he weren’t allowed. He got in big trouble when we caught him,” she said firmly. She placed two more cups of tea down across from Stan and Angie. She sat down. A few moments later, Mr. McGucket came into the kitchen and sat down next to his wife. “If’n ya don’t mind, darlin’, I’d like to start.” Angie and Mr. McGucket nodded. Mrs. McGucket’s eyes met Stan’s squarely. “Are ya a legitimized child?”

“Oh, great,” Angie muttered, rubbing her forehead.

“It’s an important question! I understand yer husband is a knight already, but if he’s legitimized, then there are a lot of things we need to discuss.”

“Ma, it’s not-”

“What do you mean?” Stan asked. Angie looked at him wearily.

“My ma thinks what everyone we’ve come across has thought.”

“Which is…?”

“That yer a child of the king through an affair,” Angie said. Stan’s jaw dropped. “If yer an affair child, normally ya ain’t allowed to be in line fer the throne, but if the king decided to legitimize ya-”

“I’d be a potential heir, yeah, I know,” Stan said. He looked at the McGucket parents. “I wasn’t legitimized. ‘Cause I didn’t need to be.”

“Elaborate, please, son,” Mr. McGucket said.

“I’m not Sir Stan. I’m Prince Stanley.” Mrs. McGucket gasped, her hand covering her mouth. Mr. McGucket turned pale.

“A prince married a scullery maid?” Mrs. McGucket squeaked.

“No. A prince married a knight,” Angie said. It was Mrs. McGucket’s turn to go pale.

“Banjolina Quinn McGucket, you didn’t,” she scolded.

“I did.”

“You-” Mrs. McGucket stood, her hands resting on the table, fury in her eyes. “I explicitly told ya not to pursue knighthood! A young lady don’t belong anywhere near that nonsense!”

“Like I’ve ever cared where a young lady do or don’t belong!” Angie snapped, standing as well. “It’s over and done with, anyways!”

“Sally, Angie, sit down, please,” Mr. McGucket said. His wife and daughter slowly sat. “We won’t resolve anything like this. And I don’t think we’ll make much headway askin’ more questions, neither. We need to let Angie and her husband tell us the whole story.”

“That’s gonna be the way to go, yeah,” Stan agreed. He looked at Angie. “Should you or I start?”

“Yer the prince,” Angie said cheekily. Stan rolled his eyes.

“Fine.” He turned back to the McGucket parents. “It all started a few years ago, when I jumped out of my bedroom window to sneak out…”

#I have been avoiding mentioning this particular major plot for the AU #bc I wanted it to be a surprise when I finally got around to writing it #so yeah! surprise! this big thing happens in this AU!#Shining Armor AU #Stangie #Stanley Pines #Angie McGucket #Gravity Falls #ficlet #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

12 notes · View notes

joelswritingmistress · 1 year

Text

Oh Captain, My Captain: Chapter 5

You began to wonder what kind of car Joel drove, anticipating a pickup truck. Something about the image of him in a rusty, old Ford with his arm hanging out the window gave you a pleasurable shudder.

"You alright?" Joel asked. It made you blush. You hadn't realized how visible the reaction to was to an overall innocent thought.

"Yeah." You grinned.

"Come on." Joel smirked and reached for your hand. It made your body feel both electric and content at the same time.

You swallowed hard and sighed through your nose. Again, you wondered if you were already in over your head. Logically, you knew you shouldn't be having intense feelings like this right away.

Or should I? You thought. The first phase of any kind of attraction or relationship was infatuation. It left your brain chemically magnifying every little thing. Maybe it *was* normal. You weren't sure which side you favored.

When Joel towed you past a row of cars and empty parking spaces, you looked around.

"Where's your car?" You asked.

"Oh, I live right up there." He motioned with his first finger up a wooden staircase between a thin layer of trees.

An oversized cottage with brown siding and a balcony overlooking the dead end road that led to the docks hovered overhead. It sat behind a little restaurant that sold burgers and hotdogs and hung over the top a bit.

"That's where you live?" You asked.

Joel looked at you and grinned again. "Mmm-hmm." He gave a head nod, "Not a bad commute."

You smiled back and allowed him to pull you out of sight and up the staircase that exposed you to his property - a modest yard with a grassy area big enough to house a small firepit with six chairs. Beneath the overhanging balcony was a small patio with a grill.

"My parents owned the place and I bought it from them. I live on the top level and I rent out the bottom to some friends. It's an attached apartment."

"That's cool." You nodded and looked up at the beachy estate. "The view must be amazing."

"Well, let's have a look. You can see for yourself." Joel continued to smile wide. As he slipped the key into the lock at the front door you saw a little shake in his hand. It made you smile as you curiously wondered if he was nervous, too; or even just excited as excited as you were.

The interior was more or less what you expected from a cottage on the Vineyard. Hardwood floors, pale, sea green walls with horizontal panels, a high top table that sat by a light, open kitchen and looked out a set of French doors. There were little hints of imperfection in every corner that brought the place charm - nicks in the cabinets, scuff marks on the bottom of the doors, a sectional couch that looked as if it had as many memories as the house, itself. Hanging on a wall in the living room was an oversized swordfish. You couldn't tell if it was real or just a piece of plastic decor.

"I love this." You gawked at Joel's living quarters.

"It's not much, but I call it home." He exchanged a look with you and winked. Joel nodded toward the back doors that lead outside. "I swear the balcony is safe." He gave a laugh, "But I'm going to have to invest in some money to replace it soon."

You followed him out back and smiled when the sea air hit you again. Your sandals paced the uneven floorboards and you rested your hands on the chipped paint of the wooden railing.

"I could so wake up here every day." You meant it, but after letting it process in your mind how the words came out you whipped in Joel's direction. "Like, I mean-"

He laughed to cut you off. "I know what you mean."

"Like the view and the chill atmosphere here." You laughed lightly now too. "You know.."

"I know." Joel nodded and looked outward. "I'll be here forever, I think." He shrugged. "Honestly, I can't picturing living anywhere else."

"I could paint the sunsets from here." You made a rectangle with your fingers and held your arms straight out toward the horizon. "Even in winter."

"It's quieter then." Joel turned and you shared a closed-mouth smile.

Right then in that moment you felt that intense infatuation kick up a notch. You weren't trying to get ahead of yourself but you really, truly felt at ease and at home in Joel's presence. His living space was just an extension of him. You wished you could ditch your family for the rest of the week and just hang out there.

Take about ten steps back, you warned yourself.

"So.." Joel took a step in your direction. "Why don't I get you settled with a cocktail?" He waited until you gave a little nod, "And I'll just hop in the shower quick. Then we'll hit the town."

Now that you were in Joel's house you didn't even want to hit the town. You could've stayed right there talking, sipping beers, watching a movie and whatever else transpired the entire night. Still, a night on the town with Joel didn't sound too bad, either. It was a win-win.

"That sounds good," you told him.

"Great. You can either hang out here," he motioned to a little patio set, "Or I can set you up in front of the TV."

"Out here is nice," you said with a nod.

"I thought you'd say that."

In a lull in the conversation it felt like there was some magnetic force that pulled the two of you together; because once the conversation ended, your lips found his again. There was no discussion necessary. Body language said it all. You could ravage Joel, or let him ravage you. A part of you wondered, as you made out on the balcony of his empty house, what you were waiting for.

Joel abruptly pulled back, though kept his hands against you. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Help yourself to a beer or whatever you want. I can make you a drink."

"A beer is fine." You breathed the words aloud, unable to fully hide your desire. As bad as you wanted him to pull you down the hall and throw you on the bed, there was something so addicting about the wait; about the anticipation.

Joel reluctantly separated himself from you and you found yourself accepting a Kona brew from the fridge.

"I'll be right back." He smiled and popped the top of the beer before wandering down the hall.

A part of you wanted to explore his home, but not for the purpose of snooping. You were simply curious, but you would never intrude on Joel's privacy like that.

When you heard the shower go on you wandered back out onto the balcony and let your elbows kiss the railing as your arms hung over, drink in hand. Things felt right. Right there with Joel Miller. You felt a little uneasy because you barely knew the man; but on the same note you had never felt so naturally at ease and drawn to anyone in your life. Already, being with Joel and breathing his air was easy.

I need to ask him what he wants from this, you knew. The more time you spent with him, the harder it would be to be let down. And you knew this could turn into some fling that didn't last the better half of a week. Deep down, your intuition knew it was more than that - or at least it had the potential to be.

You pushed that all out of your mind for a moment and sipped the beer to relax. Things were good. Right there in that moment they were good. There was nothing wrong. You were happy. Joel seemed happy.

It was time to live in the moment and enjoy a night on the town - on Joel Miller's arm.

The temptation to remain in Joel's house almost caused your impulses to will you to ask if there were any good take out places in the area. You managed to refrain.

When he emerged from his room in a white button down shirt, cuffed just below the elbow and cargo, khaki colored shorts ignited another lustful fire inside of you.

"Show me somewhere.. fun." You smiled and couldn't help but wrap your arms around him.

Joel snickered against your lips and linked his fingers through yours. "I do know a lot of those kind of places."

"Take me." There was double meaning to your words, and you could tell Joel knew it from the little squint his eyes made when the locked in with yours.

"Alright, let's go."

You could feel in your bones that this was about to be one of the best nights of your life - the kind you would tell your grandkids in your older years, while leaving the intimate parts to yourself, and giving them the cheesy details about how you met their grandfather.

Joel was already causing you to see a future with him. And that scared the hell out of you.

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 6

61 notes · View notes