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wisteriabookss · 5 years ago

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Why Nesta Stans Stan Nesta: For The People Who Don’t Get It.

I think one of the biggest misunderstandings towards Nesta fans is that we don’t acknowledge or understand that she emotionally, mentally, and verbally abused Feyre. We know. We very much know. And if you come across a fan who doesn’t, then please educate them! I’m not afraid to say that this past week I was educated on this as well.

I think a lot of anti-nesta’s focus on Nesta in ACOTAR, whereas Nesta stans see the progression of her character throughout all three books. Nesta stans see her potential to grow, learn, and change. This in no way makes her past actions excusable. Nothing can do that. But clinging to the idea that someone isn’t able to evolve will cause more harm than good, especially in cases like Nesta’s where they have shown they have the ability to evolve (examples coming later in the post).

Not all abusers can learn from their mistakes; some are just too far gone and don’t see their actions as wrong. But some can, and I believe Nesta is one of those who can. My reason for this belief comes from reading ACOWAR.

1.) Nesta holds herself back from saying something insulting to Mor after she says something in a rude tone to her, and instead approaches Feyre. This shows that a) She’s learning to hold her tongue instead of saying something stupid, and b) She says something nice to Feyre, which she wouldn’t have done two books ago. I’m not saying her being nice to Feyre makes up for how she acted towards her before, but the point is to show that Nesta is now uplifting Feyre instead of tearing her down.

“Where is he?”

“Who?” Rhys crooned.

“Cassian.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one. And Nesta had been … pacing in the foyer.

As if she was worried.

I opened my mouth, but Mor beat me to it. “He’s busy.”

I’d never heard her voice so … sharp. Icy.

Nesta held Mor’s stare. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed, then tightened—as if fighting some battle to keep questions in. Mor didn’t drop her gaze.

. . . . .

“Mor was watching both carefully—the warning she’d given my sister ringing silently between them. And Nesta, Mother damn it all, seemed to remember. Seemed to rein in whatever words she’d been about to spit and just approached me.

And nearly made my heart stop dead with shock as she said, “You look beautiful.”

2.) Nesta didn’t know Feyre couldn’t read, so if I see one more post using “Nesta didn’t teach Feyre how to read,” as another example of how Nesta abused her, I’ll scream. There are a lot of other examples to show her abuse, but not this one. Nesta clearly wanted to teach Feyre how to read if she knew she couldn’t.

“I didn’t know you couldn’t really read,” Nesta said as she paused before a nondescript section, noticing the way I silently sounded out the words of a title. “I didn’t know where you were in your lessons—when it all happened. I assumed you could read as easily as us.”

“Well, I couldn’t.”

“Why didn’t you ask us to teach you?”

I trailed a finger over the neat row of spines. “Because I doubted you would agree to help.”

Nesta stiffened like I’d hit her, coldness blooming in those eyes. She tugged a book from a shelf. “Amren said Rhysand taught you to read.”

My cheeks heated. “He did.” And there, deep beneath the world, with only darkness for company, I asked, “Why do you push everyone away but Elain?” Why have you always pushed me away?

Some emotion guttered in her eyes. Her throat bobbed. Nesta shut her eyes for a moment, breathing in sharply. “Because—”

2b) The reason why I highlighted the last part is because I think Nesta is showing shame here. I think she is ashamed of what she did, and she can’t be ashamed of her actions unless she knows her actions were wrong. Like I said up top, an abuser who can’t change is one who doesn’t see their actions as wrong; Nesta sees her actions as wrong.

3.) When they’re running from the Ravens the King of Hybern sent to kidnap Nesta, we see a moment of trust between the sisters that I don’t think we’ve ever seen anywhere else in the entire series. I love this because it highlights their growing trust in one another.

“I gripped Nesta’s fingers in my free hand. She glanced at me.

I need you to trust me, I tried to convey to her.

Nesta read the emotion in my eyes—and gave the barest dip of her chin.”

4.) In that cabin, Nesta basically left Feyre to fend for herself. In this excerpt of them escaping the Ravens, you see Nesta not wanting to leave Feyre.

“Run toward the light,” I breathed to Nesta. “I’ll hold them off.”

“No.”

. . . . .

We didn’t have time—for whatever was down here to find us. We didn’t have time—

“Run,” I breathed. “Please.”

She hesitated.

“Please,” I begged her, my voice breaking.”

5.) So many people try to shit on Nesta for trying to cross the wall but not actually crossing it because she couldn’t find a hole, which I think is so stupid cause it’s not her fault if she couldn’t find one. You can tell from this quote that even the simple act of trying meant the world to Feyre, so I hate it when people try to diminish what she did.

“Rhys stared her down. But Nesta looked to me—and I could have sworn fear shone there, and guilt and … some other feeling. “You told me to run.”

“You’re my sister,” was all I said. She’d once tried to cross the wall to save me.”

5b) An extra scene from ACOTAR to show ya’ll just how much this meant to Feyre:

“My hands slackened at my sides. “You went after me,” I said. “You went after me—to Prythian.”

“I got to the wall. I couldn’t find a way through.”

I raised a shaking hand to my throat. “You trekked two days there and two days back—through the winter woods?”

She shrugged, looking at the sliver she’d pried from the table. “I hired that mercenary from town to bring me a week after you were taken. With the money from your pelt. She was the only one who seemed like she would believe me.”

“You did that—for me?”

Nesta’s eyes—my eyes, our mother’s eyes—met mine. “It wasn’t right,” she said again. Tamlin had been wrong when we’d discussed whether my father would have ever come after me—he didn’t possess the courage, the anger. If anything, he would have hired someone to do it for him. But Nesta had gone with that mercenary. My hateful, cold sister had been willing to brave Prythian to rescue me.

“What happened to Tomas Mandray?” I asked, the words strangled.

“I realized he wouldn’t have gone with me to save you from Prythian.”

And for her, with that raging, unrelenting heart, it would have been a line in the sand.

I looked at my sister, really looked at her, at this woman who couldn’t stomach the sycophants who now surrounded her, who had never spent a day in the forest but had gone into wolf territory … Who had shrouded the loss of our mother, then our downfall, in icy rage and bitterness, because the anger had been a lifeline, the cruelty a release. But she had cared—beneath it, she had cared, and perhaps loved more fiercely than I could comprehend, more deeply and loyally. “Tomas never deserved you anyway,” I said softly.

My sister didn’t smile, but a light shone in her blue-gray eyes. “Tell me everything that happened,” she said—an order, not a request.

So I did.

And when I finished my story, Nesta merely stared at me for a long while before asking me to teach her how to paint.”

5c) Remember how in the beginning of ACOTAR Nesta insulted Feyre’s paintings? A couple hundred pages later she just asked Feyre to teach her. Nesta was already progressing (albeit at a snails pace I know) in ACOTAR, before anything had really happened.

6.) Back to ACOWAR, in this excerpt Nesta is asking Feyre why she didn’t hesitate going into the Battle of Adriata. I think the reason Nesta asks this question is because in the cabin, Nesta thought Feyre was trying to help their family in order to gain power over them, rather than an act of selflessness. It forces Nesta to think about her actions in the past, and, in the hopes of doing better, she decides to go to the High Lords meeting with them to fight alongside them. Feyre’s selflessness inspired Nesta to do better, and Nesta took the opportunity to do so. This is growth.

“Nesta only spoke when I rose to my feet. “You’re going to that meeting in two days.”

“Yes.”

I braced myself for whatever she intended to say.

Nesta glanced toward the front windows, as if still waiting, still watching.

“You went off into battle. Without a second thought. Why?”

“Because I had to. Because people needed help.”

Her blue-gray eyes were near-silver in the trickle of morning light. But Nesta said nothing else, and after waiting for another moment, I left, winnowing up to the House for my flying lesson with Azriel.”

. . . . .

“I felt Cassian’s attention slide to us, felt them all look as Nesta said, “I’m going with you.”

No one said anything.

Nesta only lifted her chin. “I …” I’d never seen her stumble for words. “I do not want to be remembered as a coward.”

“No one would say that,” I offered quietly.

“I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. “It was some distant thing,” she said. “War. Battle. It … it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means … telling them what happened.”

“You’ve given enough,” I said, my dress rustling as I braved a solitary step toward her. “Amren claimed you were close to mastering whatever skill you need. You should stay—focus on that.”

“No.” The word was steady, clear. “A day or two delay with my training won’t make any difference. Perhaps by the time we return, Amren will have decoded that spell in the Book.” She shrugged with a shoulder. “You went off to battle for a court you barely know—who barely see you as friends. Amren showed me the blood ruby. And when I asked you why … you said because it was the right thing. People needed help.” Her throat bobbed. “No one is going to fight to save the humans beneath the wall. No one cares. But I do.” She toyed with a fold in her dress. “I do.”

7.) In front of the entire IC and all the High Lords, Nesta makes it clear that she wouldn’t have survived those years in the cabin without her sister. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is the first time she’s ever even acknowledged or spoken about it.

“She looked to Kallias and Viviane. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent.” She shook her head. “But beneath the wall, I witnessed children—entire families—starve to death.” She jerked her chin at me. “Were it not for my sister … I would be among them.”

My eyes burned, but I blinked it away.”

8.) When Nesta senses something wrong at the High Lords meeting, she comes so close to saying she cares for Feyre, and cares for her safety. Cause really, the only person there who she would admit to caring about would be her sister (I know Cassian is there but she wouldn’t have admitted that lets be honest lmao). Also, in the first book Nesta was very selfish and only cared (outwardly) about herself and Elain. We see her being selfless here.

“Something is wrong,” Nesta insisted.

“I’m not doubting you feel that way but … If none of the others are picking it up—”

“I am not like the others.” Her throat bobbed. “We need to leave.”

“I can send you back to Velaris, but we have things to discuss here—”

“I don’t care about me, I—”

9.) Book one Nesta wouldn’t pick up a pinky to help anyone or anything, but in ACOWAR she basically becomes a medic. She gets her hand dirty.

“No, Nesta only made sure that Elain was dozing in her tent, and then offered to help cut up linen for bandages.”

. . . . .

“How do I fix it?” she asked. Her hair had been tied in a loose knot atop her head earlier in the day, and in the hours that we’d worked to ready and distribute supplies to the healers, through the heat and humidity, stray tendrils had come free to curl about her temple, her nape. Faint color had stained her cheeks from the sun, and her forearms, bare beneath the sleeves she’d rolled up, were flecked with mud.

. . . . .

“I helped with the wounded long into the night, Mor and Nesta working alongside me.“

10.) When Nesta was pacing outside of the tent waiting to hear about Cassian’s condition, Mor attacks her again for literally caring about his well being. And Nesta, again, bites her tongue, says nothing, and walks away. I’m currently working on another post that goes in depth about the relationship between Nesta and Mor, but the point of this excerpt is to highlight how Nesta’s immediate response is to no longer bite back when someone comes after her. That being cold and bitchy all the time isn’t worth it (although I do think Nesta would be in the right here to say something back if she wanted to).

“I squinted at the watery light—the very last before true dark. When my vision adjusted … Nesta stood by the nearest tent, an empty water bucket between her feet. Her hair a damp mess atop her mud-flecked head. Watching us emerge, grim-faced—

“He’s fine. Healed and awake,” I said quickly.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged a bit.

She’d saved me the trouble of hunting her down to ask her about tracking the Cauldron. Better to do it now, with some privacy. Especially before Amren arrived.

But Mor said coldly, “Shouldn’t you be refilling that bucket?”

Nesta went stiff. Sized up Mor. But Mor didn’t flinch from that look.

After a moment, Nesta picked up her bucket, mud caked up to her shins, and continued on, steps squelching.”

11.) When the sisters slept beside each other after Elain was saved, Feyre points out how different they sleep now. Instead of fighting with one another over the space, they held onto each other. This symbolizes their growing togetherness and how before, they were against each other, and now, they’re a team.

“A moment later, another warm body nestled on my left. Nesta’s scent drifted over me, fire and steel and unbending will.

Distantly, I heard Rhys usher everyone out—to join him in checking on Azriel, now under Thesan’s care.

I didn’t know how long my sisters and I lay there together, just like we had once shared that carved bed in that dilapidated cottage. Then—back then, we had kicked and twisted and fought for any bit of space, any breathing room.

But that morning, as the sun rose over the world, we held tight. And did not let go.”

12.) Nesta tells them to use her as bait to get the King of Hybern away from the cauldron. Literally a suicide mission. Probably the most selfless act she’s done this entire series.

Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.”

I blinked at the same moment Cassian said, “No.”

Nesta ignored him. “The king is probably waiting beside that Cauldron. Even if you get there, you’ll have him to contend with. Draw him out. Draw him far away. To me.”

13.) Nesta doesn’t stop fighting the King of Hybern after already spending all her power trying to do so. She starts to lure him away from Cassiand and the cauldron in order to buy Feyre more time.

“Nesta rushed to him, kneeling.

Not to comfort.

But to pick up his Illyrian blade.

Cassian tried to stop her as she stood. As Nesta lifted that sword before the King of Hybern.

She said nothing. Only held her ground.

The king chuckled and angled his own blade. “Shall I see what the Illyrians taught you?”

He was upon her before she could lift the sword higher.

Nesta jumped back, clipping his sword with her own, eyes flaring wide. The king lunged again, and Nesta again dodged and retreated through the trees.

Leading him away—away from Cassian.

She managed to draw him another few feet before the king grew bored.

In two movements, he had her disarmed. In another, he struck her across the face, so hard she went down.

Cassian cried out her name, trying again to crawl to her.

The king only sheathed his sword, towering over her as she pushed off the ground. “Well? What else do you have?”

Nesta turned over, and threw out a hand.

White, burning power shot out of her palm and slammed into his chest.

A ploy. To get him close. To lower his guard.

Her power sent him flying back, trees snapping under him. One after another after another.

The Cauldron seemed to settle. All that was left—that was it. All that was left of her power.”

14.) Do I even have to say it?

“Nesta surged to her feet, staggering across the clearing, blood at her mouth from where he’d hit her, and threw herself to her knees before Cassian. “Get up,” she sobbed, hauling at his shoulder. “Get up.”

He tried—and failed.

“You’re too heavy,” she pleaded, but still tried to raise him, fingers scrabbling in his black, bloodied armor. “I can’t—he’s coming—”

“Go,” Cassian groaned.

Her power had stopped hurling the king across the forest. He now stalked toward them, brushing off splinters and leaves from his jacket—taking his time. Knowing she would not leave. Savoring the awaiting slaughter.

Nesta gritted her teeth, trying to haul Cassian up once more. A broken sound of pain ripped from him. “Go! ” he barked at her.

“I can’t,” she breathed, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

The same words Rhys had given him.

Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands—to cup her face. “I have no regrets in my life, but this.” His voice shook with every word. “That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.”

She didn’t stop him as he leaned up and kissed her—lightly. As much as he could manage.

Cassian said softly, brushing away the tear that streaked down her face, “I will find you again in the next world—the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.”

The King of Hybern stepped into that clearing, dark power wafting from his fingertips.

And even the Cauldron seemed to pause in surprise—surprise or some … feeling as Nesta looked at the king with death twining around his hands, then down at Cassian.

And covered Cassian’s body with her own.

Cassian went still—then his hand slid over her back.

Together. They’d go together.

I will offer you a bargain, I said to the Cauldron. I will offer you my soul. Save them.

“Romantic,” the king said, “but ill-advised.”

Nesta did not move from where she shielded Cassian’s body.”

15.) Nesta killed the King of Hybern. Killed their biggest foe, the person who was going to rip apart their entire world. I know Elain stabbed him, but as she herself put it:

“Elain fell into step beside me, peering at Lucien. He noticed it. “I heard you made the killing blow,” he said.

Elain studied the trees ahead. “Nesta did. I just stabbed him.”

16.) And finally, Nesta walks in side by side with Feyre into the treaty meeting. This also symbolizes the bond they’ve been forming with each other, that goes beyond just sisterhood.

“I offered my hand to my sister. “I want you here for this. With me.”

Nesta considered that outstretched hand. For a moment, I thought she’d walk away.

But she slid her hand into mine, and together we walked into that room crammed with humans and Fae. Both parts of this world. All parts of this world.”

All these examples show a different Nesta than the Nesta in book one. She has become selfless, more aware of her own actions, and grown up.

To close this out, it was so painful reading ACOFAS because of the regression of Nesta and Feyre’s relationship when they were going down such a good path. I think the reason why SJM made Nesta go down an even darker hole than Feyre (not trauma wise, I’m not comparing the two, but recovery wise) is because she wanted to show another example of how trauma can have an effect on people.

All of the IC are still healing, but they’re all healing relatively the same way, ie. surrounding themselves with each other and going about business as usual. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, if it works for them then thats amazing.

But it’s disappointing when I read people vilify Nesta for not healing the same way, and not wanting to interact with the IC, or for distancing herself from her sisters. Like, it’s obvious she’s hurting, and I don’t even think she knows how to heal herself or knows what to do. People who are severely depressed don’t know how to get out of it, so calling her a bitch for not wanting their help is so tone deaf and narrow minded. No one is a terrible person for pushing people away. The girl has just literally become a shell of herself.

When people say Nesta stans are “glorifying abuse” because they like Nesta, it’s sad because they really just relate to Nesta’s depression. They relate to her feeling devoid of feeling, and relate to how she pushes those closest to her away because she doesn’t know how to deal with her pain. Most importantly, they saw all of the examples I listed when reading, and saw Nesta growing and evolving, and they want to see her become a better person. They want to see her fight and confront her own demons.

It’s not about discarding her abusive behavior. It’s about confronting it and hoping she learns and grows from it.

#nesta #nesta archeron #acotar #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #feyre #acosf #a court of silver flames #sjm

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lovehotelreservation · 4 years ago

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(Demons 'tween her thighs come and make them stand-Powerwolf) Band rivalry between you and Belial has always had underlying sexual tension. Headlining at the same event after Belial makes yet another flirtatious you finally snap. Dragging him back to your tour bus, you pin him and give him exactly what he wants (something about Belial just really make me want to top him idk man he’s so thirsty)

Headlining at Auguste Music Festival.

It was the dream for any rock band in the current day and age to realize into existence.

And yet, even after you sang your heart out to a sea of attendees who paid top dollar to enjoy the festival, you were pissed.

You couldn’t have asked for a better performance from yourself or your bandmates. No technical glitches, the crowd was lively and full of fans who knew the lyric to every song you performed--even the unreleased tracks that you played just for the fun of it.

Social media was ablaze with the name of your band trending across the world.

But it wasn’t merely because you put on one hell of show.

Rather, it was because Belial, the lead singer of Paradise Lost, was live-streaming himself standing to the side of the stage while you performed. From bluntly uttering out vulgar comments when you would so much as bend over while singing out to the crowd or twirl the microphone in your hands, to hungrily licking his lips when you would tug at the collar of your top to relieve yourself from how warm your body was becoming, he held not a sliver of shame while spectated by thousands of his fans and onlookers who hopped on once they saw his face on the trending page.

After all, it was a well known fact that there was a rivalry between your band and his, since the both of your groups began your rise to acclaim at the same time. You never hid your disdain when interviews would bring up Paradise Lost, especially as a means to compare your music with theirs, all while Belial--seemingly thrilled by how annoyed you were--would go on and on of how he prided himself on being an inspiration of sorts for your music.

HLAGHLKAGLHKA BELIAL REALLY NOT GIVING A FUCK OMGGG WE STAN A KINKY KING!!! AUGUSTE GIVING US THE DRAMA WE DESERVE!!!

It was one of the many comments that was displayed on your screen as you scrolled through social media on your phone.

Having since retreated from the stuffy Auguste heat of the open-air mainstage to the enclosed chilled air of your tour bus, you did what you could to bring yourself down from the rage that spiked through your blood upon realizing what was going on online.

And shutting up Belial was the first step towards some much needed tranquility.

Not even making it to one of the tour bunk beds, you had him sprawled upon his back on the floor. With your thighs on either side of his head, you kept him pinned beneath you while your hips pressed down against his face, your dribbling core planted right over his awaiting lips. One of your hands kept a firm grip on his wrists while anchoring them to the ground, the fingers of the other swiping through your timeline to like and share fan photos, videos, and comments.

As much as an arrogant, shamelessly depraved individual that he was, at least Belial wasn’t lying from all those encounters where he would purr into your ear on how he knew how to put his tongue to good use.

For every touching fan comment you read that made your heart swell, the quick circling of Belial’s tongue circling around your clit made your breath hitch.

“Enjoying the appetizer, baby~? Just wait until we get to the main course~”

The swipes against your core came to a pause, with those words just spoken to you hummed against your inner thigh. You could feel a shift beneath, which--with a glance back--was due to Belial eagerly bucking up his hips, having your eyes shift to the large bulge that had formed and was protruding through the intricately designed leather of his pants.

Your phone still in hand, you reached to grab at a handful of his hair as you readjusted your hips, planting more of your weight against his face. Ignoring his pitifully delighted groan, you huffed out, “Don’t get any ideas. This is just to shut you up.”

He obliged, the drags and licks of his tongue far more frequent and eager, seemingly enthused by your taking charge.

As your back arched against his mouth, you released his hair to continue searching through social media.

The next post you encountered was a screencap of Belial’s livestream, of him grinning to the camera while he made a heart with his thumb and index finger while you were in the foreground, all with the caption of “i wish these two would get along :((( they could be so powerful together if they collabed!!”

You turned your head back towards his hips, your gaze lingering on his stiff erection, which just looked so constrained within his pants.

Your mind weighed the options of having his body on yours after years of rejecting his stupid boldly flirtatious ways.

Switching off your phone, you set it on the ground before you released a contemplative sigh as your fingers reached for the hem of your top.

“...If we do more than this, you better shut your mouth forever.”

Belial grinned.

Like he could ever bite his tongue around you.

#belial #belial (gbf)#granblue fantasy #gbf #reader insert #Hoechella #super freaknasty writing #Anonymous #management will return in a queue minutes

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octoberobserver · 4 years ago

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I saw where someone else had made a post about that vine video where the one guys wakes the other up but then a 2nd guy was in the bed as well and no one knew. yea that for adult reddie

Hi nonnie, so sorry for the late reply on this! Thanks for this fun prompt, I had a blast. It ended up being 60% Hanbrough tbh, but I had fun with it ^_^

Read on ao3 Wake Up Call for Mr Tozier

Richie and Eddie weren’t subtle.

They were handsy.

And flirty.

And drunk.

But for someone able to concoct such elaborate stories (albeit with horrible endings) and create beautiful sentences (albeit among gore and horror), Bill Denbrough wasn’t always what the Losers would call…intuitive. At least not when it came to badly-kept secrets.

Common sense isn’t all that common, Eddie would shrug.

Dumb as a sack of hammers, Bev would reply.

King of the Himbos, Richie would conclude.

Which was how, on the eve of their second annual reunion, when all the Losers, (plus Patty, Don and Adrian - all officially new members) eventually retired to bed, where they were staying with Bill and Mike in his giant, seven-bedroom L.A. home, he failed to notice Richie and Eddie’s sleeping arrangements.

He watched, bleary-eyed, as the two ‘helped’ each other up the stairs, each as drunk as the other, doing more stumbling than anything, like two hammered Bambis. Suppressing his chuckle, Bill wound an arm around Mike’s waist as leaned in close, following his eye line.

“Did we put enough pillows in the guest room for Eddie?”

A slow smile spread across Mike’s face as he watched dumb and dumber stumble on the stairs, giggling like the two perpetual middle-schoolers they were.

“Something tells me he won’t need ‘em, Bill,” he murmured before planting a kiss to the side of his boyfriend’s head.

Bill frowned, turning to Mike, opening his mouth to ask why not.

“Come to bed.”

Bill’s mouth snapped shut, transforming into a grin.

~*~

Like with endings, (at least the literary kind), mornings were not Bill’s forte. But it had to be said, waking up next to Mike Hanlon, definitely helped.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” a deep, low voice mumbled into his ear, a huff of breath causing him to shiver.

With a groan, he turned over and snuggled into the furnace-like warmth of the man beside him, burying his face in his shoulder, a pleased hum escaping his lips as he felt a strong arm wind around him.

“Do we have to make breakfast for everyone?”

His question was muffled and more than a little sulky, but Mike laughed all the same.“

We wanna be good hosts, don’t we?”

Bill groaned again, his head making its feelings known on that last shot of tequila he downed because Richie had dared him. (Maybe he was still a bit of a middle-schooler too.)

“I guess so.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Mike’s tone was warm, teasing, and alluring enough that Bill just had to look up and kiss him, right on the lips, morning breath be damned.

“Don’t talk about spirits,” he mumbled against his mouth, “my head hasn’t forgiven me for last night.”

Mike raked his palms up Bill’s sides, squeezing his hips. “No sympathy,” he grinned, eyes twinkling, “all self-inflicted.”

With that he gave a hearty smack to his ass, beginning to push him out of the bed. “Go on, you go wake up the kids. I’ll get breakfast started.”

Bill moaned, and not for good reasons.

“I hate having to wake Richie. He’s like a bear in the morning.”

Mike swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching, his sleep-shirt riding up and revealing a sliver of the very tantalising skin above his belly button, making Bill freeze mid-step.

“I feel like it’s my duty to remind you on Richie’s behalf that he is not a bear, he’s a...sea lion?” Mike paused, scratching his stomach, “No, that’s not right. An otter? Beaver? I don’t know man, something that swims, I think. Adrian was trying to teach me all the different kinds of gay—mmph!”

Bill cut him off with a kiss, leaning up and dragging him down into it.

“I love you, you giant, sexy nerd,” he grinned as the kiss broke, running his thumb under the hem of Mike’s sleep-shirt.

“I love you too,” Mike winked, smacking Bill’s ass again, “but don’t think it gets you out of waking the Losers. Start with someone easy, like Eddie.”

There was something in Mike’s voice, in his smirk, that had Bill’s suspicions flaring, but he sighed, pecking his jaw before resigning himself to his fate. Out of all of them, Eddie was one of the earliest risers, usually. It was a tie between him, Ben and Stan, most of the time. Ben, a frequent morning jogger, and Stan, an avid bird-watcher. So really, Bill knew Mike was right, starting with him.

Shrugging nto his slippers and robe, he dragged a hand through his bed-head and shuffled down the corridor, making a bee-line for Eddie’s room.

“Eds?” he called out quietly as he knocked. “Mike and I are making breakfast if you’re interested?”

Silence rang out. With a frown, he turned the handle and gave a quick glance around the door, eyes falling on the empty bed, so neatly made up, it looked like it hadn’t been slept in. Huh. Eddie must already be up. With a shrug, Bill closed the door with a snap and decided that it was best to just rip the bandaid off. Richie was going to be the one that gave the most pushback, so he may as well start with him. If he was his usual grumpy self, Bill could always move onto everyone else then loop back around.

With Richie though, he’d have to try a different approach than with Eddie. Something loud and annoying to get back at him for his part in Bill’s hangover. Quickly, he got fished out his phone from his robe pocket, turning to the guest room where Richie was staying, directly opposite Eddie’s.

Counting down from three in his head, he hit record and flung the door wide open, spotting Richie asleep in one of the twin beds. Stifling his laugh, Bill switched on the light and yelled, “Wake up, Sleepyhead!”

He watched gleefully as Richie, with a serious case of bed-head, jumped, grumbling something like, “Whoa, what’s goin—”

“The fuck, man?”

Bill blinked as Eddie suddenly popped up from behind Richie, his arm very noticeably thrown over his hip, both men very, very shirtless. The three friends stared at each other. A beat of silence passed.

Two.

Three.

Shock shot through Bill, his brain scrambling to make sense of this picture, a borderline hysterical laugh escaping his throat. He found his brain vividly flashing back to various moments, touches, shared smiles between Richie and Eddie and…oh. Then, with exactly zero input from his brain, his feet turned him around and led him right back out the bedroom door, a louder laugh bursting from him and carrying down the corridor, no doubt enough to wake the rest of the Losers.

Good. That gave him time to spill the beans to Mike.

Richie and Eddie blinked at the closed door that their friend had just bolted through.

“Well, that’s one way to tell him,” Eddie sighed, letting his head fall back onto the pillow, his arm tightening around Richie’s waist.

“Yeah, you popping up all Whack-A-Mole-style and scaring the crap outta him was one way to go, Eds,” Richie chuckled, turning around to face him and kissing him on the forehead.

“The man fought a murderous space clown. Twice,” Eddie grumbled into his neck, “I think he can survive seeing us in bed together.”

Richie snorted, settling a hand on his lower back, pulling their bodies closer together, he already in danger of falling out of the far too small bed.

“You know there’s a double in your room, right?” he murmured into Eddie’s hair. “Remind me again why we ended up squeezed into this tiny twin bed?”

Eddie poked him in the chest, prompting him to lean back to look him in the eye.

“Rich, we were so drunk, we’re lucky we didn’t end up trying to make these into bunk beds and sleeping in them, or something worse.”

Richie smirked. “That tub was looking appealing last night, not gonna lie.”

“And besides,” Eddie poked his chest again, softer this time, “I wanted to push the beds together to make a double. Like we did in middle school. But, you know, the tequila—”

“Ahh, the tequila,” Richie sighed wistfully, before leaning down and pressing their foreheads together.“Guess the cat’s outta the bag now, huh?”

Eddie rolled his eyes before letting them close.

“All the others already know. Bill was just being slow on the uptake as usual.”

Richie bumped their noses.

“Told you, Eds. He’s a himbo.”

“King Himbo, I think you said.”

They shared a laugh before closing the short distance, their lips meeting in a gentle kiss. Richie hummed into it happily, (still tickled that Eddie apparently wasn’t as opposed to morning breath as he thought), brushing his tongue along Eddie’s bottom lip, the kiss deepening. Just as things were getting good, far too good for two people who were just called for breakfast, Eddie stilled, pulling away, his cheeks flushed, lips plump, and his eyes wide.

“Wait, was he recording us?”

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my fanfiction #prompt fill #Anonymous

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kyoukamiiz · 10 days ago

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obsessing over my own AU 🫡🫡

i literally have NOT stopped thinking about them and this AU i may be going crazy

#I've been crazy about fiddlestan actually #ESPECIALLY when its fiddlestan yuri omg dont even play with me i love fiddlestan yuri sm...#this au just made me even more insane over them #Criminally Yours AU #gravity falls au #gravity falls fandom #fiddlestan #fiddleford fanart #stanley pines fanart #detective fidds #sliver tongue stan #fanart #yuri #art

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ramblesanddragons · 4 years ago

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On Your Shoulders

A very late birthday (might as well be a holiday gift) for @lemonfodrizzleart

I saw something and immediately went “That would be amazing with Jackie and Stan.” 10 internet points to anyone who guesses what it was.

Read it on AO3 or under the the read more.

Summary: Stan gains the eye of a visitor and Jackie has to save him.

Jackie slid to a stop at the edge of the forest and gathered all of her nerves. Ford and Fiddleford were still at the house trying to think of the best plan to save Stan but by the time any rescue robot could be built Stan would be gone.

Whisked away to where ever the hell faeries come from.

Hoping that that they hadn't made it too far Jackie ran full sprint into the forest. She dared any gnome or shadow creature to mess with her today. Her hunch could be wrong but she had a feeling the band of faeries that had kidnapped Stan were headed to that large ring of mushrooms Ford had found earlier in the week. That had been around with the new folks had shown up. For a guy that studies the supernatural he apparently couldn't tell someone was some sort of fae by looking at them.

Jackie had know something was up though. The head guy's movements were so graceful, Unnaturally so. He had a sharp wit and sliver tongue. At first there was a thought that it was just jealousy because of how obvious it was this guy was into Stan but she ignored the feeling. Now she wish she had gone after the guy with an iron horse shoe.She grew closer to the clearing and thanked whoever was listening that her hunch was right. There was the guy with his friends. He was leading a dazed looking Stan by the hand into the ring.

Now this was the part where the farm hand probably should have paused to think of a plan but the absolute fear at the idea of losing the love of her life drover her forward. With all of her might she crashed into the strange man with a scream.

The past few days felt like a blur to Stan. It started when this group of five guys showed up one evening. Weary travelers asking to stay in the barn for a night or two and willing working around the farm in exchange . Normally Stan wouldn't have felt comfortable with the idea. There was something about these folk that seemed a little off but whatever hesitations melted away as he listened to the leader of the group talk. He was tall with the greenest eyes Stan had ever seen. His dark hair reached midway down his back when it was not braided. Without really knowing why Stan found himself wanting to spend every free moment with this stranger. Something in the back of mind kept yelling at him that something was wrong. That he wanted to be with Jackie and his family but he couldn't fight it. He couldn't fight it as this man and his minions took what they wanted from the house. the group walked unopposed into the woods with several large bags of items that ranged from home spun yarn Jackie had made from the wool, several jars of homemade jam, some of Ford’s books, the good silverware, and the nice dress Jackie had sown for herself. As the visitor took Stan's hand and guided him through the words he whispered into Stan's ears. There were promises of riches and a life where he would be waited on hand and foot. All Stan needed to do was give his name. Give over his name and an eternity of comfort was waiting for him.

He wanted eternity with Jackie.

Even in the middle of the woods it was like he could hear her.

She was yelling. Why was she yelling?

Wait was that a yelp of pain?

The haze lifted. Fear and anger gripped him and he spun to see this random weirdo tossing a frantic Jackie off of him and tumbling into some roots. He began to walk toward her. Instantly Stan lunged but was held back by two of the others who suddenly looked a lot less human than they did a minute ago. Ever the fighter Stan took the heel of his boot and kicked back hard getting one in the shin. With the other he swung his head back as hard as he could and got them in the nose. Now free Stan charged towards the guy over Jackie but he just tutted and snapped his fingers. Vines erupted from the earth and ensnared Stan. With a roar he tore himself free of the earth but the vines clung tight around his arms in legs. A few frantic hops forward and Stan toppled to the ground.

The fae creature smiled at Jackie as she got to her feet.

“I’ve never met a human dumb enough to try something like that,” he said in a silky smooth voice.

“Yeah well you pissed me off!” She yelled back trying to hide the fear she felt shaking her to her core.

“How so?”

“The fae are tricky," Ford had said earlier this week. "Never be specific with them. The vaguer you are the better.”

“Oh you know why. You took my shit! I worked hard on a lot of that and God knows I’m not paid enough for it.” She tried to ignore the crestfallen look on Stan’s face. She refused to look at him. There was no way she was going to tip this guy off.

“Paid?”

“Yeah this yahoo is my boss.” If Stan was trying to pull this off Jackie bet that he wouldn’t feel so sick to his stomach like she did. He was a smooth talker. Charming. A lot like this guy but way less creepy.

“Tell you what human. Your antics amuse me and I wish to return home with my new consort as soon as possible. For your bravery...and to get you out of my hair how about this? You can have back whatever you can carry on your shoulders out of here. The items are just amusing trinkets after all.”

Jackie though for a moment then smiled.

“Whatever I can carry? Do I have your word?”

“You have my word.” She felt the fae’s words in her very bones and knew that some sort of deal was struck.

“Well alrighty then.”

Without another word she walked over to Stan who had struggled to a standing position. She looped and arm under his legs and balanced him as best she could on her back. With a deep breath she lifted with all of her might.

“Jackie stop! You’ll hurt yourself!”

“Babe just trust me here,” she said through grit teeth.

Slowly but surely she began to walk. Stan was heavy but that didn’t matter. If this had happened when she had first been hired on she might have been screwed but working on the farm had made her stronger. She didn’t spare the group of fae another look as she walked back to the edge of the forest. (Later Stan would tell her that the smug bastard who tried to take him seemed to be struggling between angry and impressed. Each of the guy's friends held their mouths open in shock. For once in what was probably a very long life the guy had been conned. Apparently as they walked out of sight Stan even flipped them off.)

Once the mushroom ring was out of sight Stan moved to get down but Jackie just clung tighter.

“No. I’m not dropping ya until we’re out of the forest.”

"But..."

"Stan I love you but shhhhh."

A moment passed in silence and Jackie sighed. Even on her back she could tell Stan was about to burst."What do you want to say?"

"Honey I'm so sorry. You know I would never want to leave you right? That guy out some sort of spell on me and I should've fought it harder. God you could have been hurt of killed and this is gonna break your back. I'm not wor..."

"Stanley Pines if you’re about to say you’re not worth it I will drop you on your head when we’re out of here!”

“Okay then I wont. But I will say the was reckless. I'll also say damn proud of you.”

“Reckless but makes me proud is a good descriptor for you too you know.”

Stan chuckled a bit at that. Jackie could see the edge of the forest. Her back ached and her legs burned by this point but she could do it.

“Besides. You’ve rescued me from enough weird shit ‘bout time I...rescued...YOU!”

They two of them crossed the treeline and the moment Jackie felt free she tumbled. They both ended up flat on their backs. Stan scrambled to get himself free if the vines and next to his love’s side. He smiled as he wiped the sweat off of her forehead.

“You’re amazing you know that? Even when I was under that creep’s spell I was still thinking about you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Gently Stan scooped the aching woman off the ground and into his arms. He was saying something about a chiropractor but Jackie was so exhausted she started to drift missing most of what he was saying. What she didn’t miss with the frustrated but amused fae watching them go from the edge of the woods.

Just like Stan she flipped him off until they were out of sight.

( Ford later puts wards around the farm which come and handy later when a pretty woman comes across Jackie and Stan working in the field and both of them go gaga for a minute. Ford ends up dragging them away from the bemused fae women muttering under his breath.)

#Gravity Falls #Fanfiction #Mystery Farm AU #attempted faenapping #My writing #stanxjackie #apparently all #my brain can do #is short stories right now

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 5 years ago

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in the afterlife part two

Summary: can you do a part 2 to the “in the after life” where the reader wakes up after the neibolt’s destroyed and realizes that either she’s back where she died and gets a second chance at life, or that she wakes up outside the house and spend the rest of her life with the losers club?

God himself must be having a field day laughing at you and all the life decision you made to get to this point. The air surrounding you is so dark and impenetrable it’s almost tangible, eluding you to think you might be in heaven or hell. Then your leg kicks out and rams a broken piece of glass in the flesh, twinging an electrifying pain stab conjugated in the back of your mind, and you think assimilate, oh, it’s been a while since I felt that. You’re obviously not an expert in heaven or hell matters, but you do have enough presence of a mind to understand that pain is not something that supposed to be felt in the afterlife. Not dead in that case.

A dust particle flows in your throat, irritating it so hard you undergo a massive coughing spree to get rid of it. In turn, you bring your hand up to cover up your mouth and knock free a rooftop plate, the tiniest sliver of light worming through the opening. You stare at the back of your hand integrating the way it looks clearer somehow, more then it did while inside Neibolt, and then mind reelingly come to the conclusion that you just pushed something away. You touched something, and discerned the material of said thing under you hands, and not ghosted through.

Your throat bobs, putting a lid on your enthusiasm because you don’t want to get let down when the inevitable punchline tales. With a firm shove, something else topples over and the sunlight from outside illuminates your face. It’s warm and the sun burns a streak on your face, but the outside air is so fresh and crisp you can’t even focus on that, to busy holding back tears. Sitting up proves to be an effort, but you manage, albeit with a small huff, and then you’re seated on the runes of the old house that held you captive for twenty seven years.

The details surrounding this are a little hazy, worn down by the incredible and emotionally draining changes taking place, but you can see the boy, Bill, and his friends of misfits clear as day, better friend than you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

A car zoofs by, and the drives, on older male, leans in their seat to stare at you for as long as they can, judging you, but never slowing down or stopping to offer up any kind of help. The man disposed of a can of soda out his window, ricocheting against the pathway and luring your attention there.

It looks appealing, but a snide of apprehensiveness holds you back. You’ve tried to leave the house multiple times, but each time had ended with a hand grissing your leg and prise you back inside like you weight nothing, Pennywise savoring the wails of despair.

But you’d never been able to flick anything before either, and with Pennywise dead, who knew the possibilities that laid ahead of you?

Hesitantly, the tips of your toes cross the curb, your breath lodging in your throat as anxiousness compels you to step back equally as hurried. No hand grasps you back into the house, not that there is one to go back to, and no pain shocks prickle every nerve in your body, so you try again, propping your whole foot across this time. A halted breath releases at the painless sensations swooping your body, and gathering all courage, your swing your body to the other side.

You let out a punched out laugh, giddy that you’re no longer bound, hysterically laughing because if you don’t you’ll start crying. ‘I’m free.’

When the adrenaline and the utter amazements wears off, you’re left standing in front of a collapsed, the house no longer of any value to you but a place you’ll avoid for the rest of your days. You have no idea what to do next, it’s been twenty-seven years, you can’t out of bleu show up at your parents doorstep, if they even still live there, how would you explain where you’ve been for so long? And the lack of passing time?

No matter the answer to that question, you decide to set track to your old home regardless, the sight of the silhouette will be enough.

You’re walking with a noticeable limp, tracking the leg the glass stabbed you with behind like a cripple, and your clothes are covered in rubbish and are outdated, yet no one in Derry regards you twice, just turn up their nose when you pass them on the streets.

‘Fuck this town, and fuck these miserable people.’

The cursing of the town works you up so bad you’re lost in engulfing yourself in the new things renovating Derry, an arcade coating the old skaters rink you abolished every day, and mister Keens pharmacy updated with a new layer of white paint. Your own home, close to the pharmacy, is one of the many buildings renewed, so completely unrecognizable you doubt for a second if this truly is the house you grew up in.

‘Hey? A-a-aren’t you the girl f-f-from Its layer?’ Bill’s sauntering on the street, trailing his bike with him but not riding it, staring at you from afar. He’s cleaned up, washed away the grime from the sewer water and the red around his eyes has faded away, but it’s definitely the leader of the losers club. Bill speaks softly, as to not attract any more attention than necessary, which is stupid, since no one in Derry cares for anything but themselves.

‘I- yeah I am, my names Y/N, by the way,’ you walk on over to him, nodding your head and coming ot a stop a few feet from him.

‘H-h-how did you get here?’

‘I don’t know, I guess when’, a person passes and you fall silent, starting back up when she’s gone. ‘When Pennywise died I got set free.’

‘You’re h-h-hurt’, Bill observes, glancing at the injure you obtained. Strangely, you’re not bothered by it at all, you like the sting of it, proving that you can actually feel things again now.

‘If you w-w-want, you can come with me to our c-c-clubhouse? My friends are on their way and they’ll h-h-help us.’

Your house being demolished carves room for a nagging feeling, a feeling that tells you don’t belong anywhere anymore, and you have many places to be now anyway, so you agree. Hopping on the carrier of Bills bike, you swoop your legs up and enjoy the inkling of movement ripped away from all those years for a stupid mistake you made.

---------

The clubhouse is bigger than you imagined, and is filled with life. The others haven’t arrived yet, but based on the poster and gadgets scattered all over the place, it’s obvious they have a lot of personality to share.

You meddle with everything, savoring the textures of different objects and in turn accidently knocking some things over. You smile sheepishly at Bill as an apology, but he doesn’t respond and simply watches you as you go on. At one point, a splinter sticks in your thumb, and like a toddler you show it to him.

The latch unlocks and the other losers all stream in to take their place in the cottage, halting as they spot you.

‘Holy shit,’ Richie, Bill told you all their names before they arrived, says fidgeting with his glasses.

‘I f-f-found her on t-t-the streets w-w-wondering around, she n-n-needs our h-h-help.’ What their leader proclaims is what happens, and they all scramble to help you as fast as possible.

Eddie disinfects your wounds, Ben, Mike and Stan go digging for books on the subject matter, Bill and Richie distracts you from the ache, and Beverly retrieves clothes that allow you to blend in perfectly.

They’re all very sweet and considerate, attending to you and being friendly while they’re at it, kinder than your best friends at the time had been towards you.

‘You got a second chance in life, it’s a miracle’, Mike concludes after the last book on his stack in cleared.

‘That’s really cool actually. What do you plan on doing with your new found freedom?’

And endless sea of possibilities with waves drowning you and fluctuating you up awaits in the unknow stage of life, but it’s intimidating to start that life with no one behind your back to support you.

‘I don’t know yet. I had a plan before I died but I’m not sure I’m going to pursue that now. In all honesty I have no idea what to do.’

‘Here’s a glorious idea from the smartest kid in the room, your height is the same as ours, you could totally fucking pass as a twelve year old.’

Eddie snorts, the fizz bubbling out his nose, all the while shrieking.

‘Hey, come to think of it, maybe you and Eds should pretend to be siblings, you’re both small for your ages.’

Eddie’s laughter dies out in hurdles, and when he’s done he raises and eyebrow to dare Richie to say anything else. ‘That’s not fucking funny.’

‘You were laughing before though’, Richie proudly answers, his smile positively beaming.

‘I can’t be a twelve year old. I flat out refuse to go through high school again, no thank you’, you shiver, the memories of highs school horrific.’

‘J-j-just stay h-h-here until you f-f-figure it o-o-out then.’

‘Finally, a true genius talking.’ Richie flips Stan off at his words, sticking out his tongue for good measure.

‘Really? You would let me do that?’

‘Well, us losers got to stick together.’

#x reader #my writing #the losers club x reader #the losers x reader #young losers #bill denbrough x reader #stanley uris x reader #eddie kaspbrak x reader #richie tozier x reader #ben x reader #Mike hanlon x reader #beverly march x reader #part two

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hoe-imaginess · 5 years ago

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replies!

tried to put older ones at the top.

ALSO: I got a lot of requests in the last few weeks and just wanted to post a general reply in reminder that my ASK BOX IS CLOSED! Not accepting any requests right now, sorry! I delete any that come in

i BEEN A YEEHAW BINCH SINCE DAY ONE GORLLL. we stan 4am whataburger in this house

I do!! I used to have gold but it got kinda expensive in comparison to what I was charging for ko-fi’s. If you don’t have that extra $6 a month it’s not worth it boo ):

Ahhh congrats! Sorry I’m so late!! I think it’s always worth it to stick with the original blog since you’ve accumulated followers there, and you never know if they’re going to miss out on the transition to your new one. It takes some time to restructure a blog but it’s definitely worth it to keep the original

the amount of HIM’s in One Piece is unbelievable I whore for everyone

I’m doing ok!!!! I go a little crazy indoors but I’m keeping myself busy <3 my immune system is shit so I’m on utter lock down, but better safe than sorry

@thychi

I keep up sporadically with the manga!! I stopped watching it when I caught up a few months ago, think I ended on Whole Cake? I know what’s happening currently but I haven’t read too into depth in the Wano arc. I usually just... pop into the spoilers tags... to see Law... bc I love him...

@ithecrystaldragonheart

Mito and Hashi are a powerful duo. Mito has a lot of brains cells she has to share with Hashi but that’s ok!!!! I do think Tobirama and Mito would get along too!

Basically tbh he sees one thing out of place and he must destroy

i’D HEARD IT WAS A REALLY BAD CHAPTER. this is a late response but MANGA READERS THAT ONE WEEK... we were all a mess (and no I haven’t watched but I’ve been recommended to do so quite a lot so I’ll hop on it soon!)

Hmm!!!! I actually find a *shorter* first chapter is a good way to hook the reader without making them claw through too much writing to get a sense of what’s going on. Like, if I see a first chapter is reallllly long I sometimes have to do it to em, and scroll a bit to the middle to see what’s going on, and to double check that it’s a fic I want to take the time to read

1300 words isn’t too much though!!! Omg I’ve written much longer first chapters lmao. If you feel weird about it you can maybe find a good place to split that 1300 into two chapters?? But definitely make sure it’s split in a good place. It’s always good to leave the reader wanting more. If you can end on a short cliff hanger or a tense moment, that’s 10/10

That being said it would probably be wise to make the rest of the chapters of a similair average length. I’ve read fics that have shorter or longer chapters and it’s not bad (unless I’m grieving because it’s too short AND I REQUIRE MOREEE) but it might help you with actually planning your plot

I DON’T!!! But I want his ninja dick so bad. Maybe i’ll whip something up for him soon. For the culture

When you sent this a while ago it actually inspired me to pick it up again!! I’m fixing it so it comes up with more accurate (?) results since I think the first one was so messed up. Everyone kept getting Madara sksksks. It’s still in the works but I wanna post it again! They’re super fun to make

AHHHH THANKSSSSS!!!

It’s so hard trying to keep a character that you love IC because... i want him to not be as much of an asshole as he is in canon... so unfortunately I gotta let him be an asshole sometimes. On the other hand, fortunately he’s such a minor guy I get some room to explore w him and I really hope it pays off, so thank you!!!

Girl, eye—someties

did Itachi Uchiha send me this

(i love u too)

RIGHT!!! i would have never guessed. Like, if Kishi could see us... he’d be fucking floored....

Queen!!! I do!!! I don’t have much up rn but I got 234232 Word docs with WIP fics that I hope to post at some point, ty ilysm

https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoSkelly

@any59 ty ty!

Ahhhh!!! thank you!!! It was my biggest project to date <3

(HxH spoilers below vvvvv)

I don’t really think Feitan is... so far removed from his emotions (Like Meruem) that he would really need to change that drastically for someone if he really liked them—that being said, he’s not going to change, either. If by change we mean he’s suddenly as enamored and endearing with them as Meruem is with Komugi... then I don’t think that’s going to happen regardless. We kinda see Feitan being a good and decently considerate comrade to the Troupe, so that would obviously extend to this girl/boy, maybe with a sliver of extra fondness if we’re talking romantically. But otherwise, Feitan seems like a “you get what you get” type of guy, that would inherently be *tender* with someone he liked, but not so tender that he’d have to have a whole philosophical/personality change

Ok now I’m confusing myself aksjdhfkjs. Basically:

Meruem had to like, undergo some existential shit to get where he was Komugi. I think Feitan already has the capacity to care for someone, even if his way of caring isn’t exactly rainbows and butterflies. So it’s not like he has to change. He just has to find the right person that doesn’t 1) get on his nerves and 2) get on his nerves enough that he’s gonna kill them

Feitan is a simple man. You piss him off. You die. You don’t? Ok. He’ll be nice

I did!!!

Thank you for accepting me I’m glad to be here

akjdhfakjshfsj i know this was a serious comment but when i first read it I wanted to laugh asdhfkasjhf the “ap lit” inclusion sent me. What was so horrible about ap lit that this girl thought she was dying? Ap lit will really get you

(But I know!! I’d forgotten I’d taken it that morning! I have one of those cute pill organizers and I thought I’d taken it out but did not...)

Forgive me!!! I felt dumba fterwards hence why I deleted the post. Do not worry! This is the dose I was prescribed. I figured I would get some really manic reactions when trying a new dosage so now I know that’s not gonna work lol

ajkshdfkjshfjksa izuna wants tobirama’s death to be as quick and natural as possible

thank you!!!! I didn’t think you guys would like them so much <3

@blackstrawberrynightmare

It’s been so long since I watched Psycho Pass or even looked into anything about it so pls take my thoughts with a grain of salt but:

I’m gonna say probably not? He’s one of those typical antags that have such strong ideals that... I don’t think even if the corrupt system was taken down he’d be entirely absolved of his ideals, or at the least, of the journey he’s taken in pursuit of those ideals. I don’t think a guy like him could ultimately settle down once the dust clears, and especially not with a lover or a family or anything like that. If he did want to lead a normal life it would probably be in seclusion

Thank you!!!!!!

skjhasjkdfhajkhsd they would never. Only room for one tongue on that body and they’ll fight for their tongue rights

Ahhh yeah my master post is so bad I swear I’m gonna fix it one day—I don’t think I have one of Madara!

I do not ):

@cacauatecacauate thanks for the kind words!! I’m not accepting requests right now though! I am planning on posting more to that story though, just not right now!

(I think this was in response to when I missed your ko-fi about the bakers) thank you! and thanks for supporting!

#replies #hxh spoilers #kinda?

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home-halone · 5 years ago

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Weight of the World

AO3 // Being called the Warrior of Light carries a burden no one could ever fully grasp— save for one.

This one’s for the tiny pool of content for Ardbert stans, so here’s my contribution to the ghost bf.

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As soon as she had the solitude and privacy of her own quarters, Caesia shut the doors behind her and slumped against them for support.

“Oh, fuck,” she exhaled, sinking onto the floor.

Her carbuncle leapt onto her lap and curled up in her arms. She glanced down at him, scratching his ears lightly.

“We’ve really got it going for us now. Twelve fuck me.”

Despite the warmth and kindness shown by the elusive Crystal Exarch, Caesia felt as though she held her breath from the minute she had arrived. She set Crouton aside and attempted to gather herself, but found that her knees buckled underneath her weight. The journey might have left her worse for wear, but it was her mind that wore her down.

Too much had been said too quickly, too casually for her to process. That an eternal nightless sky hangs aloft. That her friends yet live. That she had been designated the savior of a star unknown to her. That the flow of time may or may not be on her side while Eorzea is without its champion. It was in these moments she found herself missing friends she trusted implicitly.

But in the First, she had no one.

Her impulse was to set out and search for the Scions—some of whom had not seen her in five summers. The time she had possibly thought them at death’s door on the Source could not even compare to the twins’ twelvemoon on this shard. And yet Caesia had lost countless nights of sleep all the same. But there was no telling what could happen and how much time would pass if she would stay for a reunion, much less stay to rid the First of its ails.

The cutting tension between the Alliance and the Empire had frayed what little peace could be found in Eorzea. And each passing moment she spent away threatened to sway it in Garlemald’s favor. Everything she held dear could be lost in a war in her absence.

She pulled her knees to her chest. The very thought made her wince.

The entire ordeal had been so draining and disorienting that she had taken everything at face value. Who could even say that the Exarch had been truthful at all? Betrayal was not a foreign concept to her. Would it not be a wiser choice to fight for something she knew to be true? And what if hewere truthful? For someone to reach across time and space to enlist her aid, only for her to spurn his cause. Could she turn away at the expense of people he intended to save? For all her selfishness, she could not make a decision so cruel.

Caesia was roused from her thoughts when Crouton nipped at her blood-red robes. She returned the gesture by crouching down to stroke his fur. Her breath caught in her throat as she closed her eyes. If anyone could see her now, they would not recognize the ineffable Warrior of Light stripped of her confidence.

“I need some air, is all. Go on, get some rest.” She smiled weakly, nudging him in the opposite direction.

The carbuncle bumped his head against her leg a few more times, before retreating to a place out of sight— a location betrayed only by the sound of soft pitter-patter against the tiles.

Caesia finally took notice of the Exarch’s accommodations. Though not the most luxurious, it was perhaps the most inviting and comforting an inn room had ever been for her. A table with food and a flagon of ale prepared beforehand was a welcome kindness. And she needed every bit of kindness she could get.

“At least I get all this space to myself,” She sighed, crossing the room to the windows.

She fumbled with wresting the iron frames open, desperate to be rid of the suffocating thoughts. But with the sight of the swirling, bright “night” sky, the crushing weight in her ribs had not abated.

“Great,” Caesia laughed wryly. She gestured at the sky to no one in particular. “Really can’t catch a break today.”

But before she could pass a second more wallowing in her dilemma, an eerie distorted voice called out from behind her.

Immediately, Caesia whipped around, hand outstretched, arming herself with a spell. ‘Voidsent? Or would it be an Ascian?’

“…You…?” The aether violently swirled and warped into a humanoid form.

She had seen enough that neither seemed to fit the bill, but she could not take the risk. Caesia held her defensive stance until the swirling aether had parted and unveiled a familiar face.

“I know you…” He said, ”You’re the Warrior of Light from the Source!”

Caesia’s arm went slack, and she tilted her head in recognition, her raven hair following in a sweeping movement. It was, after all, a small blessing to find an ally of sorts in trying times.

“…The Warrior of Darkness? So you have made it home.” She scoffed, grinning for the first time since arriving. “Gods, don’t you know how to make an entrance.”

“What?” He seemed alarmed by her response, which in turn, alarmed her.

“…What do you mean ‘what’? Do you not recall, in Dravania—”

“Did you just… You can hear me!?” His eyes grew wide.

“Of course I can hear you, I’m speaking to you aren’t I?” She placed a hand on her hip. It was uncertain where this conversation was heading.

She had always thought he was a bit of an oddball with his unkempt hair, bravado and flair for drama. That had been her first impression of him, despite the dangers he and his friends had posed. Yet in the end, she could not help but empathize with their plight. They too served Hydaelyn as Warriors of Light, and they too wielded a strength and passion that changed the fate of their home. It was for that parallel that she found a softness in her heart.

“Oh, gods, how long has it been…?” He sighed heavily.

And as if suddenly remembering she was still in the room, he lifted his head and met her gaze.

“…Aye…aye, that was what I called myself in your world… The ‘Warrior of Darkness.’”

Caesia sucked the air through her teeth, clicking her tongue. “Yeah, that’s a mouthful. I don’t know if that’s going to cut it for me. I recall your friend calling you Arbert?”

He shook his head sheepishly.

“My real name is Ardbert.”

“Oh, misheard that one, then.”

“No… Not quite. I used an alias in the Source. A daft one, looking back…”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice and Caesia smiled in return.

“Alright, ‘Ardbert’ it is.” She said, seating herself within reach of the basketful of bread, breaking off a piece to snack on.

“And please don’t call me the ‘Warrior of Light.’ You know damn well how exhausting it is to be called that.”

He chuckled. “A fair point. It’s certainly an epithet I’d never asked for.”

“Nor I. Besides, even if you’d chosen it, the ‘Warrior of Darkness’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it either, no.” She said, brandishing the morsel in his direction as a gesture. “’So it’s Ardbert for you, Caesia for me.”

“Caesia, then.” He responded with an uncharacteristic fondness.

The ragged weariness in his voice was not lost on her. She furrowed her brow, as something in the way he spoke resonated with her, despite the lightness it carried. She knew too well the weight of his duty and how it had unfolded. Ardbert cast a long look out the window. He remained in silence, thoughts seemingly elsewhere though his gaze was fixed skyward.

“If you recall my tale, it was my comrades and I who caused the Flood.” He said quietly. “We thought our home doomed. And so we listened to the Ascians— let them guide us to the Source and tried to hasten their godsdamned Ardor.”

“Ah, that’s when you and your lot showed up. I won’t lie, you gave us one hell of a fight.” Caesia took another morsel to her lips.

“Well, I remember when we fell, defeated by you and yours.”

“You’re welcome,” She said, and gave him a bow, comical enough to elicit a half-chuckle.

“…And I remember our audience with Minfilia— how she listened to our pleas and returned our souls to the First.”

“Yes, that was the last I saw you. And here you are, on the First.” Caesia looked right at him, then off to the side. “Say, Ardbert, where is everyone else?”

“The Flood was poised to swallow Norvrandt… Minfilia and my friends, they…” He trailed off and broke eye contact.

It quickly occurred to her that it might not have been the best thing to ask. The heavy silence that followed said as much.

“They… surrendered what little they had left to hold it back. Just faded away.” He said. “Leaving me to bear witness.”

Caesia covered her mouth. Her thoughts turned to Minfilia. She and Urianger had suggested as much, and said as much would happen, but hearing it again after the events had unfolded made it real. She had hoped to find her again, somewhere, somehow perhaps with another audience with Hydaelyn, but that may not— would not— come to pass. Minfilia had faded away. Caesia understood that what had remained of the First— and the survival of those who thrived on it— was their doing. That everything yet existed, was because of them. Then her thoughts turned to Ardbert. She had lost a friend, but he lost four. What could she ever say that would make a difference? She watched him stare at the reminder of all their deeds hanging in the sky. His shoulders were tensed with resignation and the burden of his past. A burden he now carried alone.

He turned back to face her, as though something had occurred to him.

“Caesia, do you know the year? How much time has passed since we caused the Flood?”

Her heart sank. Does he not know? She knew very little of the First and had few answers, but this was one she wished she did not have. Not when there was a sliver of hope in his voice that things might change. She looked down.

“Uh… a century, give or take.” Then she quickly added, hoping to soften the blow somehow. “At least, that’s what I’d heard.”

“A hundred years…” His voice cracked. “A hundred long years…”

Not one for verbal apologies, she poured him a cup of ale, and set it on the table for him. He had watched her do so, but his expression simply grew more defeated.

“I thought maybe you might need one. I know I do.” She poured herself one as well, and began to down it. Gods help her.

He remained at a distance, watching her drink and no doubt thought about her more somber expression despite her attempts at humor. She surmised as much, knowing her face well, and how easily her emotions were laid bare. He made his way towards his cup, locking eyes with her the entire time. His hand simply passed through the cup of ale.

Caesia’s eyes widened. “You can’t…?”

“No,” He shook his head, staring at his gloved hand.

“My hands find no purchase. My gestures catch no eye. And my pleas, be they whispered or screamed, reach not a single ear…” Ardbert lamented. “I am a shade, cursed to do naught but drift. I feel as if I’ve been walking forever… ”

“For a hundred years… Truly? Without ever interacting with anything or anyone. How have you not lost your sanity?” Words or tact were never her strong suit, but her voice carried her deepest sympathies. The pain she had imagined could never compare to his reality.

“Truthfully, I hardly noticed when my mind and body began to fray at the edges.” He lifted his head and gave her a wry smile. “Then ‘bang’, my senses were sharp again. I felt like a fish being reeled in and before I knew it, I found myself in this room.”

“Oddly enough, that accurately describes my harrowing day and how I’d found myself here.” Caesia shrugged and began to down the cup meant for him, wiping the corners of her mouth.

“But why is it that you can see me?”

“I want to say, ‘Perhaps our destinies are now intertwined.’” She said, batting her lashes. ”but it’s almost certainly because we’re both Warriors of Light. It’s a little tough to think about, given all our connections to each other.”

“I don’t know how you do that, back and forth, all serious and now sarcastic.” He said, gesturing to her. ”What are you even doing here, come to that?”

“In the least amount of words, supposedly, this figure called the Crystal Exarch had been attempting to conjure me out of thin air and successfully pulled me from The Source to the First. If you recall my companions, they too had been pulled here, though purely on accident. He hopes I would fight to preserve what remains of the First. I know naught of his intentions, but…”

“You were summoned to save the First? A waste of time.” Ardbert crossed his arms, and looked at her thoughtfully.

“Not when there are those who yet survive.” She offered.

“No, this world is beyond saving— like those who try to save it. Muddled as my mind may be, I’ve not forgotten that.” He said quietly. “But if fate has brought me to you—“

“Intertwined destinies, baby.” She said, taking another swig.

He paused in the middle of his thoughts, looking at her with a flat expression, while she smiled back.

“But if fate has brought me to you— the one person in this gods forsaken world who can see or hear me— then perhaps there is a reason I endured.”

“Perhaps. I’d like to believe you have a purpose, even if it is tied to me somehow. Because the alternative is, you’re just a ghost haunting my bedroom.” She snorted into her cup.

The thought occurred to him, and he frowned. “…Must you put it that way?”

“Hey, I don’t like it either.” She shrugged. “I’m saying you must have a purpose. Truly. I believe it.”

“If I can find out why I was left behind then maybe… maybe I can bring this journey of mine to an end…”

And it was all he could hope for at this point. For his weary soul to find rest after a century of wandering and bearing the guilt of the Flood. She could not help but feel mournful for their fates, his above the rest, though she had not known them in life.

“You will. I’ll make sure of it.” It was an outlandish promise to a man long gone in a land ravaged by light, but it seemed to be something she could set right. And she felt it to the core of her being.

“Well, I’ll be watching, Caesia.”

“Let me know if you do. At least I’d know it’s you when I feel like I'm being watched.”

He gave her a faint smile and turned to leave. “Do me a favor. Be careful out there. This world has had its fill of heroes.”

Before she could get another word in, he was gone. She drummed her fingers on the table, staring at the two empty cups for a moment, then refilled one of them halfway.

“Not if I can help it.” She muttered, taking a generous sip. She wondered if she had found clarity and purpose.

#proxi writes #wol x ardbert #i haven't written in SO L O N G #like.... 2 years? whatthefuck #maybe 1 year but like TOO LONG

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eddiesnapback · 5 years ago

Text

if you’re all alone, pick up the phone || streddie

a gift for @darkwingdukat for the @itfandomprompts secret santa! i hope you like it!

Summary: Stan is in love with his best friends. It's a problem. Or is it? Ship: Streddie Warnings: light angst in the middle, something sort of along the lines of a panic attack, but everything turns out okay

also on AO3

Stan wasn’t entirely sure how he’d found himself tucked between Richie and Eddie on Richie’s tiny twin bed, a stack of VHS tapes balanced precariously on said boy’s bedside table, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. There was no reason to complain at all, in his opinion, despite the fact that Richie’s bony elbow was digging into his ribcage and Eddie’s head was heavy on Stan’s left shoulder.

Eddie flipped the page in the comic book he was reading, rolling his eyes. “Can you just pick a fucking movie, Richie?” he asked, lifting his head from Stan’s shoulder to glare over at Richie.

“I’m workin’ on it, Spaghetti,” Richie said, shooting Eddie a bright grin. He shoved his glasses further up his nose with the back of his hand. “But no one is giving me any opinions.”

Stan heaved a theatrically large sigh and leaned away, letting Eddie flop against the pillows. “Let me see,” he said, tugging a trio of tapes out of Richie’s hands. He flipped through them, eyes skimming the back covers, as Eddie scrambled upright. From the corner of his eye, he could see Eddie sprawling over Richie’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

Stan’s stomach flipped with jealousy. “Ghostbusters,” he said, glancing away from the boys. He tossed said movie towards the foot of the bed. “We’re watching Ghostbusters.”

“Again?” Richie asked, gently disentangling himself from Eddie to put the movie into the VCR. “Fuck, I know you’ve got the hots for the Stay Puft guy, Stan the Man, but jeez.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Beep fucking beep, Richie,” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

He could feel Eddie’s eyes on him, staring at the side of his head, but resolutely stared forward. He didn’t want to see those stupid brown puppy dog eyes full of concern, staring into his soul the way that Eddie always did. He hated it.

Richie turned to look at him, a frown settling across his face, and Stan had to look away from him too. The light reflected off of his glasses to cut some of the worry on his face, but it wasn’t enough to hide it completely. And Stan hated that too.

They shouldn’t be worried about him, was the thing. There was no reason. They should be throwing him out of this room in disgust, actually.

Because what kind of messed up best friend was Stan to be in love with his best friends who were dating each other? Just the thought made Stan’s stomach roll, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Are you okay, Stan?” Eddie asked quietly, his voice small in the dim light cast by Richie’s lamp.

Stan bit his lip, staring resolutely at the wall above the television. There was a picture tacked onto the wall there, one that he could just barely make out. Richie, with his arms thrown over Stan and Eddie’s shoulders, grinning cheesily at the camera. They were maybe fourteen at the time. Stan knew that because Richie had still braces, and the thick frames of his glasses were taped together in at least three places; Eddie was wearing a crisp blue polo shirt from back when his mother still choose what clothes he wore; and Stan himself had a tight-lipped smile that was hiding braces of his own. He was turned towards Richie and Eddie, rather than the camera, and the look of complete adoration in his own eyes was enough to make Stan flush red even four years later.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, wincing at the sharp way the words slipped from his tongue. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to not be in that room anymore. He stumbled clumsily to his feet, following that desire. “I’m going to get popcorn.”

With that he hurried across Richie’s room, barely slow enough to pick his way around the maze of discarded clothing and comic books that littered his floor. His left big toe narrowly missed one of Richie’s school notebooks, which had papers filled with equations spilling onto the wood floor.

He closed the door tightly behind him with slightly more force than necessary and squeezed his eyes shut. “Pull yourself together, Stanley,” he mumbled to himself, before setting off downstairs.

As a kid, Stan had always liked coming over to the Tozier’s house. It was bigger than his own, and messier, but in a lived in way that didn’t make his hands shake as much as it should have. Richie’s older sister, Rebecca, had never seemed annoyed when Stan had slipped away from the noise of his friends on occasion, and had always been willing to let him revel in the quiet of her room. She’d said on occasion that Stanley was like the little brother she’d never had. (Richie had always sputtered indignantly at that, but his eyes gave away his smile.) Stan been just a little devastated when she went away to school when they were twelve.

And if Bex Tozier was a surrogate sister to Stan, the Toziers were a second set of parents. Went and Maggie were busy, but they were always willing to open their home to Stan and the rest of Richie’s friends. Maggie, especially, was always willing to lend an ear to him if he needed it.

Stan padded into the kitchen on autopilot, easily locating the popcorn (second cabinet from the fridge) and sticking it into the microwave. While he waited, he slid into one of the stools at the breakfast bar and crossed his arms in front of him. He lay his head in his arms and closed his eyes, only keeping half an ear out for the popcorn to slow in its popping.

“Something on your mind, Stanley?” Maggie Tozier’s voice cut through the gloom fogging up Stan’s brain, and he jerked upright.

Richie’s mother stood on the other side of the breakfast bar holding the bag of popcorn between her thumb and forefinger. She had one eyebrow raised, and her glasses low on her nose so that she could peer over them. “You almost burned the popcorn,” she added, raising the bag as if to illustrate the point.

“Sorry, Mrs. Tozier,” Stan said sheepishly, sliding off of the stool and moving to take it from her. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

She hummed knowingly. “About Richie and Eddie?” she asked, pursing her lips.

Stan flinched, taking an involuntary step backwards. “What?” he asked, his jaw falling open just a little bit.

Maggie smiled softly. “I don’t know anything,” she said, voice light. She was lying - Stan knew it. He just didn’t know what about. “You know, my son cares about you an awful lot, Stanley.”

“He’s my best friend, Mrs. Tozier - both of them are,” Stan replied. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he felt distinctly like he was being dissected. Those dark eyes were so much like her son’s, and between the slight head tilt and the narrow look, she reminds him startlingly of the way that Richie stares right through him sometimes, like they were trying to read his mind. Whatever she was looking for she must have found, because suddenly Maggie smiled softly and nodded.

“I know that, Stanley,” she said, moving to pass him. She pats him on the shoulder, a gesture he’s seen her do to Richie a thousand times. Something half-recognized and motherly, comforting in a way that almost overwhelms Stan in a way that he didn’t expect. It was then that he remembered this woman had known him for fourteen years, since he was just four years old and scrambling after Richie on the playground. “Do what makes you happy, honey.”

With that cryptic message, she was gone. He could hear her footsteps down the hallway, headed towards the study that she shares with her husband.

Stan shook his head to clear it. With a glance at the stove’s clock, he realized that he’d been gone for nearly seven minutes, much longer than it should take to make popcorn. If he didn’t hurry, Richie and Eddie would come looking for him. He didn’t want that.

He hurried to make a second bag and dump both of them into a large bowl that is reserved just for movie night snacks, carefully picking it up and beginning to ascend the stairs. For a terrifying moment, he nearly tripped over one of Richie’s discard sneakers. The pile of popcorn wiggled in place precariously, but he managed to make it to Richie’s door without spilling a single kernel.

The door was open now. The television was paused on the opening to Ghostbusters. Eddie sat in the middle of the bed, staring hard at the picture above the TV with his eyebrows furrowed. There was no sign of Richie.

Stan carefully picked his way across the room, far slower and more carefully than when he had left. “Where’s Rich?” he asked, the nickname slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it. Eddie looked up, looking surprised to see Stan, but didn’t comment.

“Bathroom,” he said simply. “What took you so long?”

“Maggie stopped me,” Stan explained, his cheeks turning inexplicably red. If Richie were here, maybe he’d make a joke about it, but Eddie did nothing but frown a little.

His eyes drifted back over to the picture on the wall. “Do you remember?” Eddie asked, nodding towards it. “That day, I mean? It was, like, Mike’s birthday, right?”

Stan nodded, carefully placing the bowl of popcorn in the small sliver of space left on the bedside table. He frowned at it’s precarious perch, and set about rearranging the junk on the table, happy for something to occupy his hands. “His fifteenth, I think,” he agreed. “Because we all would have been fourteen at the time.”

Eddie glanced back at him. “How do you know?”

Stan sent a cursory glance back up to the picture. “You stopped wearing that shirt in sophomore year,” he said. “And Richie’s braces are that horrible neon green.” He paused, wincing. What kind of friend would remember that stuff? Eddie probably thought he was some sort of freak, now.

To his surprise, Eddie didn’t comment, simply turning back to that picture and staring for a long time. It was weirdly silent in the room, quiet in a way that Richie Tozier’s bedroom should never be. Stan almost thought that they were done with that line of questioning, when Eddie spoke again.

“I’m gonna ask you a weird question, and I don’t want you to freak out,” he said.

Stan stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing up. “You can’t just start a sentence like that and expect me to not freak out, Eddie,” he said, forcing his tone to stay light. Casual. Don’t let Eddie know that he felt like he was about to have an asthma attack, and he didn’t even have asthma.

“Did you have a crush on Richie?” he asked. Stan’s heart felt like it stuttered to a halt in his chest.

He laughed uncomfortably, taking a step back from the now-neatened sidetable. “Where did you get that idea?” he asked, still staring at the table. He won’t look at Eddie. He refused. His cheeks were hot and probably bright pink. The walls felt like they were pressing in on him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, Stan, wait,” Eddie said, and then his voice got closer. Fingers encircled Stan’s wrist, gently pulling him back against a small chest that was so much shorter than him. “Breathe. It’s okay, I was just asking.”

“I don’t like Richie.” Stan knew he was the one saying it, knew that was his voice, but he had no control over them as they left his mouth. “I don’t like you either. Not like that. It would be weird, wouldn’t it? You’re my best friends and you’re together and-”

“Jay-sus Christ, Spaghetti, what did ya say to th’ poor bastard?” Richie’s shitty Irish Cop voice cut through the room. Stan refused to look up at him, curling his hands into tight fists at his sides. There were footsteps, and then Richie whispered furiously to Eddie. One of his hands, calloused in weird places from so many long hours spent playing SNES games instead of doing homework, gently came to rest on Stan’s elbow.

Stan hated the way that he couldn’t help leaning into the touch.

“You okay, Stan the Man?” Richie asked cautiously, voice far too gentle to someone who’d gotten the nickname ‘Trashmouth’ at eleven years old. “Eddie just wanted to know.”

So Richie knew, had maybe even put Eddie up to it. That maybe made it worse. It was like they making fun of him. Maybe they were making fun of him - he wouldn’t put it past Richie, but he thought Eddie was nicer than that.

“Why?” Stan managed to gasp out, biting hard enough on his lower lip that it brought tears to his eyes directly after.

Eddie’s soft fingers, the ones that weren’t still circling his wrist, carefully pried Stan’s lip from his teeth. They came to rest on his chin, gently cradling his face. “Breathe,” he whispered again, and Stan squeezed his eyes tight as he tried to follow the instruction.

He could feel Richie and Eddie staring at each other around him, could almost feel the words they were exchanging silently, even if he didn’t know what they were. A sob escaped his throat that he didn’t even realize had been building. “Fuck, Stan, calm down,” Richie said a little desperately. “I can’t explain if you don’t came down.”

With great effort, Stan managed to force his breathing back to something almost considered normal. Eddie carefully pulled him towards the bed, and Stan’s knees bent to sit down without his acknowledgement. He felt the bed dip on either side of him as they sat down, but still refused to look up from a spot on the floor that he had deemed safe.

“Okay now?” Eddie asked carefully, one hand coming to rest on Stan’s back. He didn’t know why they kept touching him, but he wasn’t going to be the one who made the stop. He managed a shaky nod. “Good.”

“Why?” he asked again, licking at his dry lips. Stan didn’t trust himself to say anything else, for fear that he would start sobbing again. He was humiliated enough as it was.

“God, isn’t it fucking obvious?” Richie said, his voice louder than Stan expected. “We’re fucking in love with you, you idiot.”

Stan flinched. “That’s not funny,” he snapped, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that were suddenly pricking at the back of them. “Beep fucking beep, Tozier.”

Richie let out a huff and his voice lowered again. “It’s not a joke, Stan. I wouldn’t joke about that,” he said. His voice was a little pained, like he was genuinely hurt that Stan would think such a thing.

Eddie’s however hummed a little. “Well, actually, you definitely have before. Not… not like that, but I think I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve proposed to Bev or Bill. Or Mike. Or… any of us, really.” He paused, seeming to consider the next thing he had to say. When he next spoke, he was back to sounding gentle, carefully reaching out to thread his fingers with Stan’s. “It’s not a joke, though, Stan. We… We really like you. I think I’ve probably had a crush on you since we were kids.”

Richie cleared his throat. “Mike’s fifteenth,” he said. “I realized then. I made a stupid joke and you just kind of looked at me like I’d grown another head, and I was like ‘oh fuck, I’m in love with this stoic motherfucker.’”

Stan felt a little like his head was spinning. Like he’d just gotten off the Tilt-A-Whirl at the summer festival - which he always rode with Richie because Eddie didn’t trust the festival rides and all the others got nauseous, but Richie was too chicken to ride alone. “But… you guys…” he said, forcing back the bile that was rising in his throat. This was too much. He felt sick.

“Love each other, yeah,” Richie said. Eddie squeaked a little, and Stan could almost hear the fond way that Richie would roll his eyes in response. “Oh, like you didn’t spend half of last night-”

“Beep beep, Chee,” Eddie snapped. Stan knew that if he looked up, Eddie’s cheeks would be almost as red as his own.

“I thought I was just a creep,” Stan admitted quietly. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“What does that mean?” That was Richie, his hand gently squeezing one of Stan’s.

“I have to spell it out?” Stan asked, his cheeks impossibly red. He was met with only silence as his answer, and huffed out a frustrated sigh. He wanted to wipe at his teary eyes but with one hand caught in Richie’s and one entangled with Eddie’s it was impossible. “I’ve had crushes on both of you for years.”

Stan’s admission was met with silence, and he almost thought that maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this was all an elaborate joke, and Richie and Eddie hadn’t expected him to go along with it. He opened his mouth to stammer out an apology, to say something that could recall the words and their meanings, but then Richie was gasping and threw himself at Stan, knocking both of them sideways into Eddie.

Richie wiggled against him, working himself halfway into Stan’s lap as he lay across him.Eddie was laughing underneath them, shoving at Stan’s shoulders in an attempt to force them upright. “Chee, give him some room,” he was saying, giggling in the way that Stan knew made his nose crinkle up. Richie sat up immediately, dark eyes scanning Stan’s face, but there was a huge, ridiculous grin crossing his face.

“Do you want to be our boyfriend, Stanley the Manley?” Richie asked, letting go of Stan to fold his hands together pleadingly. There was a red flush creeping up his neck, the only sign that he was embarrassed or concerned about the response.

Stan glanced at Eddie, who shrugged sheepishly. “Only if you want to, Stan,” Eddie agreed, but there was hope in his eyes as well.

Stan bit his lip and forced the anxiety coiling in his stomach away. Maggie Tozier’s words echoed in his ears. Do what makes you happy, honey. “Yes, please,” he said after a long moment of silence.

Eddie’s smile could have given Richie’s a run for it’s money. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, and Stan had barely managed a nod before the other boy was surging forward, pressing his lips against Stan’s. It felt right - like warmth and like home. Like they were made for each other.

And then Richie was pushing Eddie out of the way, staring deep into Stan’s eyes - dissecting, just like Maggie had - before he too leaned forward. If kissing Eddie felt like home, kissing Richie felt like safety.

When he finally pulled away, Stan’s cheeks had faded from brilliantly red to a far more subtle pink, and he couldn’t stop the smile that slowly slid across his face. There was a moment of silence where the three of them just stared at each other, smiling like losers in the dim light of Richie’s room. The buzz of the television caught Stan’s attention, and he poked both of them in the knees until they stopped looking so much like a pair of lovesick puppies. (To say nothing of the fact that Stan, too, had the same lovesick, starstruck look on his face.)

“Ghostbusters?” he reminded them gently. “I love you guys, but the Stay Puft guy is my dream man.”

“Stan the Man gets off a good one!” Richie crowed, cackling far louder than the mediocre joke deserved. Eddie and Stan locked eyes and shared a fond smile, shaking their heads in amusement at their boyfriend’s - boyfriend, the word felt like a dream to think in conjunction with them - antics.

The trio curled around each other on the bed, Stan tucked safely in the middle of Richie and Eddie with the popcorn in his lap. Richie took a piece of popcorn and kissed him on the side of the head. Eddie pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

As the Ghostbusters battled ghosts, Stan curled against his boys, content and warm and happy.

#secret santa #ham speaks #it fanfiction #streddie #richie tozier #stanley uris #eddie kaspbrak #i hope you like it!#itfandomprompts #fic rec #ham writes fics

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alliooup · 6 years ago

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Clementine & Louis – After the Fire

sooo this has prooobably already been done, but i’m a basic bitch so here: a drabble that takes place following the events in S4E3 if you romance Louis but save violet. clementine tries to apologize to louis for everything that happened to him. she finds him at the piano. welcome to angst city, i’m your mayor. also i stan criticism and feedback sooo yep. here she is.

She waited, hand poised so her fingers barely grazed the metal handle of the door. Clementine had faced countless dangers, countless threats, countless losses, but none of them made her feel quite like this. In the past, there was finality, in some morbid degree at least. Her guilt over Lee would remain latched to her for the rest of her life, probably even beyond it if Tenn was really onto anything with his pictures, his places after death, but she wouldn’t ever face him with that regret hanging on her shoulders.

It hurt.

It all hurt.

This was just another kind of hurting, a new breed to file away amongst the others she’d become acquainted with during her short life. Only this time, she’d have to face it.

The gold handle was scuffed, cloudy from lack of polishing, stained by ash from the fires left behind when Lilly tried to haul them all away. She felt like she’d been punched in the chest. Her hand fell away from the doorknob.

How was she even supposed to begin? Even attempting to explain why she did what she did felt like an insult. She’d saved Violet. She’d saved Violet and let them take him. At the time she thought it was the best choice. Violet was tactical, better than Louis in a fight. Clementine thought saving Violet would be her best chance at saving everyone, at saving him.

And look what it had gotten him.

AJ had said Louis would forgive her if she tried to ‘atone,’ it. Clementine bit the inside of her cheek. She’d smiled at the time, weakly, but couldn’t bring herself to say anything in return. She didn’t want to worry him, but she could tell he was concerned for her. He tried to cheer her up with the smallest things, anything really. It could be a ladybug crawling on a spear of grass or a new picture scrawled out with colored pencils.

Clementine had talked to Violet about it one night. She was the only person Clementine felt like she could really speak to about it, but even then, everything just managed to come out in fragments. She just never seemed to be able to find the right words. Staring up at the stars, Clementine had asked, “could you have forgiven me? If…” She trailed off, silence pooling in the void of night that filled the space between them.

Violet was quiet, dirt crackling beneath her palms as she shifted her weight.

“Honestly,” Violet began, her voice soft, eyes hitched on the stars above. Clementine could see her sadness reflected in them, the same sadness that sat in the hollow of her own chest like a heavy rock. “I don’t know.”

Clementine wondered what she was even doing there, standing in the doorway like she even had a right to speak to him, to apologize, to try and make it right. She could never bring back what he’d lost, what had been taken of him because of her.

She may as well have been holding the knife that carved the tongue from his mouth.

Her fingers squeezed into her hand, nails burning in little half crescents on her palm. She could do it for Louis. He deserved more than this, so, so much more. But this was all she had, all she could offer. What he did with it…that would be his choice. She would accept that. She had to.

Sucking in a deep breath, she pushed open the door. She remembered a time where even a crack in that doorway would send music flooding into the open hallway. Now there was only silence.

The door creaked on its hinges as Clementine entered the room.

Louis sat alone at the piano bench with slumped shoulders and arms hanging limply at his sides. He stared at the keys, lips slightly parted. The blood had been washed from his face by the time she’d made it back to the school after the fight on Lilly’s boat. He’d thrown his arms around her then, the words that would have tumbled from his mouth contorted in the gargled yelps and cries as he clutched her to his chest, his face buried in her shoulder.

They’d hovered around each other since then, like two planets locked in orbit together, but they’d never spoken about it. Not since Clementine had been thrown in his cell and she first saw what had been done to him.

He almost looked normal with the golden light splashed across his face, at least, if you didn’t know him. He would have been smiling before. He smiled so much back then.

Louis looked up at her, mouth opening out of habit and a flicker of noise echoing at the back of his throat before he clamped his lips shut and looked away from her, brow knit as he turned back to look at the keys.

Clementine’s eyes dampened, but she blinked her tears away before they could even begin to fill her eyes. She approached him, pausing just beside the piano bench. “Can I join you?” She asked, words coming out so much more tightly than she imagined them.

Louis’ head twitched down in response as he scooted to make more room for her on the bench, but he didn’t look up at her as she slowly sank down beside him.

The wooden bench wheezed beneath her as she sat. The sound of it was agonizing in the overwhelming quiet of the room, in the silence between them. Her knees were pressed together, hands resting in her lap as she left a sliver of space between them. She didn’t want to push him too far too quickly. She didn’t want to put him in that position. Even if he’d hugged her before, that had been different. It was…intense. Neither knew what had happened to the other, if they’d even survived, if they’d been captured again. She’d understand if things weren’t…the same anymore. If they never could be again, even if the thought of it left her heart twisted in knots and a lump balling in her throat.

Her eyes drifted from Louis to the piano. She couldn’t believe that it had survived after everything. In the yellow light, she could see the initials she’d carved, her pathetic and lumpy excuse for a heart.

It became so hard to breathe, lungs seeming to shrivel inside her. Her arm twitched to reach out and touch it, to run her fingers over those coarse ridges -as if that would pull them back to before, back to when she could stop this from ever happening to him at all- but it was only for an instant. More of an instinct than an act.

But Louis had noticed. While her eyes had been pinned to the carving, his eyes had been pinned to her, shifting only to see where her eyes fell.

The knit in his brow softened. Tentative fingers crept across the seat of the bench, seeking her out, pausing only when his fingertips brushed hers.

Breath hitching, Clementine turned to look at him and was met with desperate eyes, eyes that ached with a thousand things to say but no means to communicate. His jaw looked so tight, like it had been wound tightly with the wire cord of a trap.

“Louis,” she breathed, voice wavering. “I’m just… I’m so sorry-”

He cut in with a guttural sound, jerking his hand away with a thrash of his arm. Frustration twisted in his features, lips pulling into a grimace as he slammed his hand down on the keys with a shrill bang.

Clementine flinched back in shock, watching in horror as Louis’ face shifted from anger and frustration, fingers pushing through his locks as he squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his lips together but didn’t open his eyes. A single teardrop brimmed at his lashes, catching the light for an instant before dripping down the edge of his cheek.

Louis, Clementine thought, loosing a single, ragged breath. Tears pushed at her eyes, but this time she didn’t hold them back. She let them fall. She ached to reach for him, but her bones felt as though they had been filled with lead, unable to budge them from her sides. So she looked down at her hands, splotched with dirt. Pain swelled in her chest and she pressed her eyes closed in response, teeth pinching down on her bottom lip.

The air was punctured by the sound of the piano, familiar notes he’d played for her before. The music was gentle yet it raked across her heart.

Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine,

Clementine rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her vision as it began to blur with tears. Louis looked back at her, his own cheeks wet and eyes shining as his bottom lip wavered.

Clementine offered him a faint smile, but it soon melted beneath the swell of grief that roiled in her chest, grief, and love for him. She knew he felt it too, it echoed in each chord of the piano, she could read it in his eyes.

Clementine let her forehead fall on his shoulder, her fist balling in the leather sleeve of his jacket. Her shoulders began to shake as she tugged on the sleeve. No words.

The music stopped, seat creaking as Louis twisted towards Clementine and enfolded her in his arms. She could feel his tears dripping onto her skin, rolling down her own cheeks, but he held onto her all the same, his grip so tight it pushed the air from her lungs.

And in the golden light, they felt warmth.

#twdg #twdg spoilers #louis x clementine #clouis #louisentine #violet x clem friendship af #my writing

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divagonzo · 6 years ago

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Hello, I peruse your blog at least once a day even tho I don’t have tumblr anymore. However I love Ron Weasley and I love romione more than any love I’ve ever read about. How about em’ romantic subplots am I right? You post good shit. Anyway I saw some post about em watson and how she treats people a certain way according 2 their status? Can u elaborate please? I love hot tea. I’m not personally a fan of her on the count she has a job she is incapable of doing and that pisses me of

Evenin’ Nonnie. I’d offer a bite of dinner but I don’t think you’d enjoy gluten free buffalo chicken pasta (second day leftovers at that.) (Quite mushy at this point.)

First of all, thanks. Secondly, I do enjoy some particular writing tropes and some just hit my wheelhouse.

I think I’ll put the bulk of this under the cut, just to make it TL;DR for those on mobile and those who do appreciate her acting

So when I mention Eyebrows (because her acting style seems to incorporate them more than any other facial gesture) (and those who stan her can do so without it showing up in a search or tags)…

There have been plenty on Tumblr who have run into her, worked as extras on movies with her, radio shows, etc and all have one particular theme through them all: she’s a diva and doesn’t treat others who aren’t upper class well. She claims she was growing up destitute after her parents divorced but… well, the schools she attended don’t seem so pedestrian to me. Maybe having some less and claiming you’re poor seems like a pretty big insult for those who did grow up on benefits, who lived in council housing (or still does) and has had so many opportunities, professional and otherwise, that aren’t afforded to just anyone.

Her feminism is geared towards white upper-class women - aka far from truly intersectional - and has said quite a few problematic things over the years, especially towards powerful black women who are wholly comfortable with who they are and in charge of how they present themselves in the media and arena.

@headcanonsandmore has more on his blog (and you can peruse the tags better since I don’t tag it to keep it out of a search out of courtesy et al.) including how many people have spoken on how rude she is to other people - or the fact that she does the bare minimum for media when it’s not Disney (and even then it’s pretty scripted.) I recall hearing about a radio interview she was doing - as a call-in and she was 2 hours late, only did 10 minutes for it, and almost all of the audio footage was rubbish.

I won’t even get into the UK laws of how she kept money off-shore in Panama to avoid paying the ridiculous tax amounts required of someone who is upper class. That’s why she was dropped quietly from the UN Ambassador program: for not paying her fair share of taxes in the UK. I’m sure that her PR firm had to hustle when that information broke and probably had to pay a Solicitor some serious pounds to settle such an issue with the British government. she probably could have kept that going for years but since she was outed, it’s bad PR when the UN is dependent on those tax receipts coming in to keep things funded.

Her professional work, since she’s gotten older, is up in the air. I’d previously given her benefit of the doubt but when so many are saying the same things about her behavior, skipping out on media appearances or doing it half-arsed, well, where there is smoke, there’s probably a fire burning somewhere.

I’m sure that she’d be a lovely person if she were working an 8-5 job making ends meet and not under the fishbowl camera of the media and more but… some choices made require the work to do the job right. If you’re going to be under the harsh spotlights, being a pain in the arse towards others speaks on your character when the lights are shut off. Character is who you are when no one is watching. Character is who you are towards others when they can do nothing to repay you for it. Treating people like Dragon Dung long-term will not help you Make friends and win over influential people.

As a ‘Puff (and a cranky Dragon) she fails, completely, on the fair play and hard work aspects.

Maybe instead of hobnobbing with the President of France, she could, oh I dunno, learn to treat regular people with a sliver more respect and civility.

#Enoughteaspilled

Or maybe losing out on a few prime roles would encourage her to work on her craft and either get better or be relegated to a has-been flash in the pan.

Last time I checked, the only one who could get away with having an Acid Tongue towards others was Karl Lagerfeld - and now that he’s shed his corporeal existence…. well…..

#Anonymous #Dragon asks #Dragon listens #Dragon speaks #Dragon talks XXX #Dragon talks eyebrows

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sirkkasnow · 6 years ago

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05 Favors Always Come With Strings Attached

Ao3 link

For reference: Bend, Oregon is a little town with a funny name and a world reputation for quality bike trails.

07/08/13 Monday - 07/12/13 Friday

Stan slept nearly until noon the following day. A check in the mirror revealed the shadow of a bruise blossoming below the left eye, nothing major. It’d fade in a day or two. He draggled downstairs – he’d gotten around to getting fully dressed, out of consideration for their guest – to rummage for breakfast leftovers, turning up a wedge of egg-and-vegetables thing and a couple slices of toast.

He wandered down to the living room with his plate, homing in on the only source of conversation in the Shack at the moment, a low but intense exchange between Ford and Clary. They were set up at the dining table, maps overlapping in a scatter of topographical lines and trail markers.

“I just don’t see why you can’t keep to the lake trails.”

“The lake trails are all for foot traffic. I want to take the bicycle out and surely there are some options that aren’t so on the beaten path as it were.”

“Mornin’, you two.” Stan dragged up a chair as Clary tugged a couple maps out of his way. “What’s the problem, Ford?”

Ford gave him that look, the one that said you know perfectly well what the problem is. “It’s dangerous,” he declared flatly, throwing his hands up. “These are deep woods, Clary, certainly there are trails and some of them might even be all right for a skilled rider, but I’m hesitant to suggest that you head out there on your own without a guide.”

A flicker of surprise creased her features. “I do know what I’m doing, Ford, I’ve been up and down most of the major and minor bike routes in Colorado.”

“This isn’t Bend,” said Ford, pitch rising a notch. “Gravity Falls is wild country. There are things in these woods whose path you should not cross.” Clary drew back a little in her chair, jaw tightening by tiny degrees.

“Ford, take it easy.” Stan nudged his plate away as he killed off the last bite of toast. “It’s not like the kids haven’t been all over the woods close to the Shack. She’s an adult, she’s capable.”

“I’m right here,” Clary said with a touch of acid.

Stan waved a flattened palm at her under the table’s edge in what he hoped would pass for the universal ‘relax, I’ve got this’ signal, and she folded her arms and hushed resentfully. “Between you and me and Dipper we can figure out the better stretches for ridin’, right? It’ll be safer if she stays off the most common paths anyway.”

There was a grudging sigh and a crinkled lip, but Ford finally tugged a pencil from his breast pocket and bent over one of the maps. “Can you carry that bicycle?” he asked critically.

“Yes. Please don’t ask me to climb any sheer cliffs with it.”

“I must insist that you carry a tracker and something you can be contacted with. I have something in the works which should be ready in another day or so.”

Clary opened her mouth, then caught herself. “Right. Twelve doctorates. Magnet gun.” Ford clicked his tongue at her in reproach but Stan could see the line of his frown easing.

The pencil loosely outlined a stretch of what Stan knew was the less risky part of the local forest, skirting manotaur territory among other things. “Start here. This trail is relatively level and should have a long slope back down towards town, if I recall correctly. Dipper and I will do some closer review to identify a few other options. Fair?”

“Perfectly. Thank you.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed as he took a truly solid look at Stan for the first time since he’d joined them. “...where the heck were you two last night anyway?”

“Errands,” said Stan and Clary in unison.

Ford blinked at their matching poker faces for a moment, then pushed back from the table with a shake of his head. “I can see that line of inquiry is going nowhere. Clary, do talk to Dipper should the opportunity arise. He knows these woods better than any of us, I believe.”

Clary watched Ford go, and her defensive posture relaxed by degrees. “He’s the older one, isn’t he.”

“And how. Fifteen minutes and he’s lorded it over me ever since.” He eyed his empty plate. “Don’t suppose you can make another one of those coffee cakes?”

“Sure. How’s your face?”

“It’ll be fine by tomorrow, thanks.”

Ford’s objections to the whole exercise eased up somewhat once it turned out that Clary had one of those fancy video action cameras, something she hadn’t even gotten out of the box yet. The two of them spent over an hour going through the instructions and fiddling with the wireless connection, Ford muttering about hooking the whole thing into his remote communications net, or whatever the hell he and McGucket had been playing with since Ford’s return to town.

Stan settled in at the Fairlane, methodically digging into the engine’s guts and incorporating the parts they’d lifted last night. Ford and Clary’s conversation was indistinct but soothing background noise as he worked.

“Hey Grunkle Stan!” Mabel marched over somewhere in the vicinity of lunchtime, dragging a lawn chair and a personal cooler. She reached up to pass him a Pitt so frosty his fingers ached to hold it. “How’s it look in there? Are you going to get her car fixed anytime soon?”

Stan cracked his cola open and tipped his head back to drink about half of it in a series of long grateful gulps. Mabel waited in expectation; he pursed his lips, thought it over, and obligingly burped the first couple bars of the Star-Spangled Banner to her cackling delight. “Not sure, sweetie, I’m fixin’ all the obvious stuff. Won’t really know ‘til we fire it up.”

Mabel whipped out her phone and took a lightning snapshot of him leaning against the Fairlane’s front grill, then perched on the edge of her lawn chair. “So how much of a hurry are you in, exactly?”

“Uh.” Stan frowned in confusion, squinting over to where Ford and Clary were testing out her camera. “She’s got places to go, Mabel. As quick as I can get it done? It’s our fault she’s stuck here and you know about her mom.”

“Are you suuuuure? I mean, it seems to me that she’s having a pretty good time.”

“Well, yeah, I guess at least she’s not bored. I think Ford’s gonna turn her into a field researcher at this rate.”

“She gets along pretty well with Grunkle Ford, but I’m just getting ‘nerd friend’ vibes there. On the other hand, she’s really gone out of her way to spend time with you.” He knew that grin. That grin on Mabel always meant trouble. Her eyes tracked over towards the Shack, then back again.

Stan glanced over to the porch. Clary looked up at the same moment. Their eyes met and she smiled, a quick spontaneous flash that lit up her features. Stan whisked the towel he’d been using to mop up sweat out of his back pocket and swabbed his brow as he turned back to the engine, knowing damn well that he’d just gone bright red.

“I mean, sure, she’s smart and pretty gutsy, but neither one of us is lookin’ for, uh, personal complications, pumpkin. We both got obligations. I’m goin’ back out to sea soon as the boat’s up and runnin’ again.”

Mabel’s wide smile hadn’t budged even a sliver. “Okay,” she replied cheerfully, hopping down and folding her chair. “I’m glad we had this talk, Grunkle Stan! Good luck with the engine!”

“Mabel, don’t - “ He wasn’t sure what she wasn’t supposed to be doing, actually, but it was way too late to slow her down. She bounded off towards the Shack. Clary and Ford were just heading inside, talking with gestures and laughter about who knew what.

Complications, Stan thought glumly, and pressed his face into the towel for a long few moments.

It took a day and a half before Ford was satisfied with his tracking rig. The kids and Stan gathered in the morning to swap out the tires again and check out the results, Clary ready to roll in her biking gear and a sunny orange bandana snug at her throat. Ford fussed over the straps on a sturdy webbing-and-canvas half-vest. The camera was latched in above her sternum, a compact battery pack sporting a couple of antennas at odd angles high on the back.

“For the last time, I’m not letting you mount anything on the helmet.”

“You’ll get better shots,” Ford wheedled, tugging at a tension buckle.

“Come up with a smaller camera and we can talk. Dipper, are you receiving?” Clary pressed a couple of buttons on the camera’s edge, and Dipper tapped at his much-modified laptop.

“Looking good, Clary!” He turned it to show off the screen, which displayed a nice crisp video image of Mabel, Dipper and a slightly cranky Stan cradling his coffee mug side by side on the couch.

“Got your tracking signal?”

“Got it.”

Ford plugged a narrow cord into the battery pack and passed up a lightweight headset, which Clary hooked into place over one ear. She flipped down the tiny microphone. “Testing.” Dipper flashed her a thumbs-up and she grinned wide, almost dancing back to straddle her bike. “Ford, are you happy now?”

“You’ve got your map?” Ford paced a half-circle around the bicycle, frowning as he tapped his chin. “You’ll stick to the trail we agreed on?”

“Yes, and yes.” Clary popped on a set of rakish safety glasses and buckled on her helmet. “I am outta here.”

“Fly, Clary! Fly to freedom!” Mabel waved her off from the edge of the porch, Clary waving back over one shoulder as she set feet to the pedals and angled off towards the pines.

“Check in every half hour!” Ford called after her through cupped hands. There was another wave, this one less enthusiastic, as rider and bicycle swerved onto a narrow trail and vanished rustling into the brush. “Good heavens, I hope she’ll be careful.”

“She’s a survivor. She’ll be fine.” Stan threw back the last of his lukewarm coffee with a wince, then rose to stretch and pop his back. “Keep me posted, I guess, though I’m bettin’ it’ll be a drama-free trip. C’mon, gremlins, what’re you up to today?”

The novelty of the whole exercise had worn off by the time Clary made it back to the Shack by mid-afternoon, grubby, winded and glowing with satisfaction. She uploaded a bunch of footage and snapshots for Ford to peruse and demolished two sandwiches. Ford had been happy enough with his tracker’s performance and the call-ins, though crackly, were reasonably clear. He was cranking out new prototypes and more compact ‘uplinks’ for the kids by that evening.

That Clary’s ride the next day was longer, more challenging and subtly deviant from the agreed-upon trail didn’t surprise Stan one bit.

That everything had gone sideways by early afternoon the day after that was a surprise, though really, knowing Gravity Falls, it shouldn’t have been.

“What the hell do you mean the kids are already at home.”

Stan stomped along the trail, dripping sweat in the leaf-filtered sunshine and grateful beyond words that he’d left the jacket back in the car. The earpiece Ford had given him for the trek was uncomfortably slippery. He’d slung the accompanying battery pack at the back of his belt, where it kept jabbing him in the kidney.

“They’d just gone out for the short loop and forgot to take along the uplinks. So they’re safe and sound! Where are you?”

“Just rounded, uh, whatsit, the double waterfall. The one with all the rhododendrons. Might be ninety minutes out? Are you sure there’s even somethin’ we need to rescue them from if they weren’t already home and in one piece?”

“I may have jumped the gun a little.” Even on the sometimes-tenuous voice connection Ford sounded defensive. “But there’s definitely something up in the deep woods. All the wildlife’s been heading down towards the lake. Clary, how far along are you?”

There was a click as she toggled her microphone, words coming in spurts between gasps. “I think I may have passed those same waterfalls ten or fifteen minutes ago. Should I double back?”

“You’re off the track again as it is!”

“I found a really good downslope and got carried away. I’m sorry.” Stan snorted to himself. If she was trying to be contrite she was doing a pretty poor job of it.

“Just keep heading down the trail you’re on. Take the right fork, the one marked with a slashed square….”

Stan tuned them out as he kept on plodding, swabbing at his brow with one sleeve, then paused.

“Clary, you haven’t seen anythin’ glittery today while you’ve been out, have you?”

“That should drop you - wait, Stanley?”

“What do you mean, glittery? There was something shimmering maybe half an hour back but I thought it was just water through the trees.”

Oh, boy. “Because there’s a crater just off the trail here and it’s covered with more pink sparkly crap than a Mabel macaroni original.” Stan worked his way over to the shallow dent in the earth. The grass was blown flat from a center point, ground blasted bare for a good two feet in the middle, everything encrusted in a liberal coating of pinkish crystalline dust.

“Did you remem - “

“Yes, Sixer, I brought the sample jars.” Ugh, even through the faint static he recognized the eager note in Ford’s voice. Stan bent, carefully scraping up a teaspoonful of glitter into a tiny glass jar and capping it off.

“Well, grab a sample and then get the heck out of there! Both of you! I don’t think I’ve ever observed this directly but - “

“Ford?” There was actual concern in Clary’s tone this time. “Ford, there are a couple of...grapefruit-sized pink bubbles floating over the ridge here. I’m getting a quick shot for you, okay?”

“Clary, you should really just get out - “

“I’m fine, this’ll only be - “

The boom! that came through the earpiece was deep, a faint thunderclap arriving like an echo half a second or so later. Stan half-staggered in surprise, catching himself with one hand flat just inside the crater’s edge. Glassy fragments of dust nipped at his fingers and rose in a chalky puff. “Son of a bitch. Clary!”

“Clary!” Ford’s voice tightened, the connection crackling loudly. “Stan, she’s close to you, you’re going to have to go find her - “

“ - fine. I’m fine, I swear, I’m just flat on my back. That’s one heck of a concussion grenade.” Clary’s laugh was high-pitched and shaky through clicks and hiccups of feedback. “Definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge. It’s all downhill from here, Ford, I’m just going to take the most direct route I can find.”

“Stan, you’ve got to get going, too.”

Stan sneezed - his hands were dusted with pink and he’d gotten way too much of a whiff for comfort - and, grim, he levered himself upright and set off down the trail at a steady jog. “Don’t have to tell me twice. Got any bright ideas on what’s happening?”

Years of practice had made Stan an expert in picking out only the most relevant parts of Ford’s stream-of-consciousness rambling when he was turning a problem over in his head. There were better things to worry about at the moment, like the marble-sized bubble that drifted past thirty feet to his left, then detonated with the sharp report of an M-80 and left a silver splatter eight feet high on an adjacent tree trunk. Whatever smaller critters hadn’t had the sense to leave earlier were now rustling the underbrush to both sides as they streamed downhill, squirrels and pikas and rabbits making haste to get out of range.

Ford’s babble was speeding up. “ - must be a many-years-long cycle, reproductive perhaps, fungal? Spores? No references in Dipper’s notes - “

Stan upped his pace even though his nose was beginning to itch something fierce, barely registering any of it until a startled “ - wait, that’s the wrong way - “ plucked at his attention, and Clary swooped up alongside him on her bicycle.

“Sorry, Ford, I got turned around somehow,” she said straight-faced as she dismounted. “Stan, run it out with me.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stan half-shouted at her, grabbing the near handlebar and letting the wheels take a bit of his weight. They found a working rhythm with the bike between them as the woods behind them crackled with what sounded increasingly like the rattle of semi-automatic gunfire.

“Like hell was I going to leave you out here,” she snapped back. Having the bike to lean on helped - Stan’s feet were barely skimming the ground as they ran full-tilt, diving into a dense grove of pine that seemed to intercept most of the pursuing bubbles. A branch snagged his earpiece and yanked it and the battery pack away in the rush. They were both out of breath as they bolted out the far side but kept up the pace for another minute before pausing to recover for a gasping moment in a stretch of treeless scrub.

“You are out of your mind, Merrick - “ Stan clapped a hand over his bruised ear, leaning hard on the handlebars’ hub.

“Yes, I know - “ Clary pivoted to look back up the slope. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

Stan glanced over one shoulder and didn’t even have the air left to swear. Bubbles. Bowling ball, basketball, beach ball size, drifting placidly out over the tops of the trees far overhead. Distant enough, but tracking slowly in their general direction.

“Get on,” Clary said.

“What.” Stan had to weigh nearly half again what she did.

“Get on. Butt on the seat, feet up, knees in, hold onto me and do not let go.” Clary swung a leg astride and leaned into one of the pedals, head still tipped up as she tracked approaching glittery doom. “Help me push off. It’s all downhill from here but we have to move!”

He hesitated and Clary glared at him. “Do you plan on outrunning those things on foot?” Oh, god no, was his immediate mental response, and he perched warily on the seat with hands at her hips. Together they shoved off, the trail dropping precipitously out from under them.

Stan’s arms latched tight around her waist as they lurched, struggling to maintain his balance, his cheek smashed into the small of her back. She grunted out a startled oof as the bike wobbled. His feet skated along rough ground until they managed to steady.

Downhill or not, she put everything she had into pedaling – solid blocks of muscle shifted every time she punched down with a foot – and they picked up speed until he was happy to just focus on not tangling up the back wheel. The forest blurred as they whipped down the trail, tiny twitches of her gloved fingers on the handgrips guiding the bike. At one point they passed a doe in full sprint. Birds and smaller critters were dashing for cover to both sides.

They burst out into a wide flower-dense meadow and she aimed right for the weathered bulk of a granite outcropping. The bike’s brakes screeched, sending a shudder through the overburdened frame, and she threw her weight to one side as they angled into the lee of the boulders. Most of their momentum had bled off by the time the wheels went out from under them. Stan yelped as his knee hit the grass. They skidded together into the shelter of the stone.

A distant crump-fweeeeee! sounded far behind them, then others, a series of bone-rattling booms. Clary kicked free of the bike and flung herself over Stan, putting her helmet upslope of his head. The shockwave took another moment to hit, pink-and-purplish windborne glitter flattening the meadow all around them.

Then silence.

Blood sang in his ears as he blinked up at clear blue. He couldn’t hear much, couldn’t move really. Clary peeled herself off and flopped flat on her back beside him, tossing aside the helmet and shoving the safety glasses up.

Eventually he could hear again, and realized that she was laughing.

Stan tilted his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Clary. Flushed, damp with the sweat of effort, hair escaping in wild tendrils from its clasp, laughing up at the open sky.

Had he the strength, he would have rolled over and kissed her.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember how to breathe, and heard her indistinct voice as though from a distance through water. Gloved fingers patted his half-numb cheek.

Reflex took over and Stan sneezed, hard enough to hurt. That seemed to be enough to kickstart everything else. He blinked up again, Clary at the edge of his field of vision.

“ - think he’s all right,” he picked out dimly as sound began to fade back in. “Breathing’s good, color’s good. Yes, Ford, I’m in one piece. A little woozy but for all I know that’s the adrenaline talking. What a ride. Yes, good grief, the camera was running the whole time! Yes, I’ll ring back as soon as he’s coherent.”

A faint click marked the closing of the connection and Clary regarded him with blunt concern. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to convince me that you’re actually all right before I call him back and he mobilizes the cavalry.”

“I’m fine.” Stan put effort into it and managed to twitch the fingers of his left hand. “I will be fine. It’s all comin’ back, just kinda tingly. Hot Belgian waffles, what a mess.” He stared skyward with a groan. “So yeah this would be why Ford was frettin’ so hard about this whole ‘let’s go explore the deep woods!’ thing, kid. Gravity Falls is weird.”

“I absolutely get that now. What was that stuff?”

“Who knows? I got samples, you got video, we’ll let Poindexter figure it out when we get back.” Stan tried again, managed to roll half onto his side, then levered himself up to sitting. “Ugh.” Clary offered her water bottle; he accepted and clumsily unscrewed its cap. “Not so bad, just a little numbish. Had worse out in the Arctic, believe me.”

Stan’s aim wasn’t great, lips a little unresponsive as though he were waiting for novocaine to wear off, and he felt water trickle down his chin as he carefully drank. Her eyes flicked down to the damp edge of his shirt, then up, and she was good at maintaining a smooth expression, sure, but not perfect.

“See something you like?” he teased, waggling his brows.

“Are you even serious, Pines.” She’d gone peony pink, sitting prim and straight-backed, looking anywhere but at him. “Of course I do, it’s you. I’ll find something else to admire if you prefer.”

Stan felt his mood lift a little and rumbled a laugh. “Can’t blame you, I’m irresistible. Y’think I’m not used to the attention? I’ve been Town Darlin’ Mr. Mystery for half my life. You’ve just got good taste, that’s all.”

“Are you trying to make me regret ever having met you?” Clary snatched her water bottle back, screwing down the cap with a wry wince. “No more bubbles since that last barrage. I think we can probably make it back if we walk with the bike for support. Hour and a half, maybe, if we just cut straight towards the Shack? You came in from a different trailhead, right?”

“Or we could just sit here and you could bask in the glow a while longer.”

“That’s it, I’m calling your brother. That sparkly junk has clearly puffed your ego up to dangerous proportions.” Stan nearly tipped over into the grass, chuckling, still wobbly. Clary picked herself up and collected the bike, examining it for damage. “I feel pretty steady on my feet. Think you’re game to try standing up?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on.” Stan made it to his knees before a brief rush of dizziness made anything else feel like a bad idea. Clary rolled the bike over, and the frame’s crossbar provided enough support to clamber the rest of the way up.

She clipped the water bottle back into place and strapped the helmet down to the rear cargo rack. “Good to go?”

Stan took solid hold of one handlebar, Clary the other. “Won’t know until we try it, I guess.”

Clary clicked the mic button on her headset. “Ford? We’re on our feet and heading back in.”

“Got it,” came the faint crackly reply. “We will be tracking you from here. Let me know immediately if something changes in your condition or Stan’s and we’ll come to meet you, understood?”

“Understood. Over and out.” She huffed out a sigh as she let the connection lapse. “At least I’m not trying to haul you back on my own. That’d be an adventure.”

They started out slowly, Stan finding his feet as they went, Clary’s pace steady as they picked their way down the overgrown trail. She kept glancing back and he could hardly blame her. The woods had gone still again, a few brave snippets of birdsong beginning to trickle in.

“Shouldn’t’ve come back,” he said after a while. “This was risky. You shouldn’t be stickin’ your neck out for me.”

Her shoulders twitched with a bitten-back chuckle. “I’ve already been shot at on this trip, Stan. Bit late to be worrying about my delicate sensibilities or for that matter my safety.”

“What on earth were you thinkin’?”

They were both quiet for a minute or two, both weary. He could barely lift his feet and heard her steps dragging.

“You’re my mechanic,” Clary said at length. “You promised you’d fix my car and no way am I letting you off the hook.” He stole a glimpse at her, and a faint pensive smile lingered on her lips as they walked. They closed in on the Shack through increasingly familiar territory. Every now and then she’d lift a hand to her ear, speak briefly to Ford, then go silent again.

When they passed the first of the weathered signs he’d scattered out along the foot trails years ago, her head came up and she laughed. “Guess we’re in range. Are you as wiped out as I am? I can’t wait to get a nap.”

“Drink first, then I’ve gotta get Soos to run me out to the trailhead where I left the Stanleymobile.”

“No rest for the wicked.” They emerged from the trees, picking their way through the long grasses at the far end of the Shack’s patchy lawn. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted across the peaked roof and the heavy hum of insect song threaded through the air. Grasshoppers escaped their tread in long hops as they pushed the bike along.

“Story of my life, kid.” A blotch of red marked Ford at the side door, and Stan lifted an arm to wave. A squeal of glee heralded Mabel coming around the corner with Dipper at her heels. “Hey! Anythin’ left from lunch? We’re both starved!”

“In a minute, Stanley, we’ve just got to be careful of the house.” Ford had his hands folded behind his back and was wearing that stern expression that usually meant he was up to no good.

“Uh huh.” Stan took a closer look at the kids and noted with rising uneasiness that they were doing a poor job of hiding a couple of buckets behind them.

"Well, we're going to have to hose you off before you come inside. Just in case. I mean, look at you!" Ford waved an arm at Clary, who was standing dumbfounded next to the bike. True, both it and she were dusted with a sugarcoating of pink sparkles.

"Wait just a damn minu - "

"Language!" yelled Dipper, who whipped out a garden nozzle, leveled it at Clary and unleashed a firehose blast. She spluttered, most of the impact punching her in the chest and spraying up into her face. From the sudden panic that flashed over Dipper's expression, she was giving him a lethal look, but then she let the bike drop and spread her arms.

"Give me your worst, junior!" Clary shouted, clarion clear. "But rest assured that there will be vengeance! Stan got it worse than I did, by the way."

"ON IT!"

Stan was already half bent over in laughter, so the jet of water whacking him between the shoulderblades forced him to drop a hand to the ground in order not to faceplant. ”MABEL!”

"Sorry, Grunkle Stan! Just following orders!"

Clary flipped down her safety glasses and charged at Dipper, who yelped and fled, firing off defensive shots all the while. The buckets turned out to be loaded with water balloons. Clary commandeered one, stood firm in the face of constant spray and splattered Dipper in retaliation as Stan took off in pursuit of Mabel and her hose.

The battle was brief, fierce and resulted in four drenched and shrieking people in short order.

Stan cackled as he lobbed the next-to-last water balloon after Mabel. Clary slid up alongside him, dripping, a stolen hose in her hand. “I think that’s about enough, don’t you? None of us can get any more soaking wet at this point. Except Ford. Who's been hiding in the house like a coward."

"He always was good at dodgin' crossfire." Stan’s glasses were all mist and droplets, but he could see her wide grin. "Don't worry, we'll make sure to get him back while you're still here."

"Thanks. Of course I owe you one, too." She brought the nozzle between them before he could react and hit him, spffft, with a single shot of water right in the chin. Stan snorted in surprise, shaking his head hard enough to hit her with most of the excess. Clary danced away with all haste, taking the hose with her. "All right, I'm satisfied! Don't go escalating!"

He thought about it, weighing the last water balloon in his hand, but he was tired and the smile she threw back at him was so sweet and open that he didn't have the heart. Stan ambled over to the side door and tapped on the glass, wondering how much aspirin he was going to need after the day’s misadventures. "Ford," he roared. "TOWELS."

"Inside the door," came the call back.

"Bring 'em out, for pity's sake!"

"Absolutely not."

Stan rolled his eyes, leaned in far enough to collect the heap of spare towels that someone had thoughtfully provided, thanks a bunch Ford, and hauled them out to pass around. Clary collected the much-abused bicycle and hosed it off carefully before sitting down with a splat on the edge of the porch.

“So what’d you run into out there? I caught a bit from Grunkle Ford but no details.” Dipper perched next to Clary, squeezing water out of his hat.

“Maybe you can figure it out, because heck if I know. Here….” Clary unclipped the camera from its vest mount, tapping buttons and angling the screen so that Dipper could squint over at it, and they got lost quickly in flipping through the more interesting bits of shaky video.

Stan scrubbed a towel through his hair and helped Mabel out of her saturated sweater. “All good, pumpkin? We were worried about you two.”

“We were worried about you! Grunkle Ford said you both had to run for it from something out in the woods! And you were both covered in that sparkly stuff - oh!” Mabel’s eyes went wide and she grabbed his hands, gasping in complete sincerity. “You ran into glitterbombs!”

Stan blinked, then leaned against one of the porch posts, laughing. “You be sure you call ‘em that to Sixer.” He peeked surreptitiously at the others. Dipper had taken over the camera, asking excited questions as he scrolled through a section frame-by-frame. Clary had ditched the half-vest and its battery pack and was awkwardly peeling out of her sopping-wet jersey, leaving her in a close-fitted and distractingly damp sleeveless shirt, answers muffled as she tried to extract her head from the fabric.

Mabel’s eyes tracked along with his, and she radiated smug approval as he quickly turned back. He arched a brow at her in reproach. “Not a word, Mabel.”

She drew pinched fingers along the curve of her grin, zipping her lips, but was giggling anyway as she headed inside. “I think we’ve got chicken salad left. I’ll make sandwiches for you two!”

“Go ahead and dump all that to your laptop. It’ll be quicker with the cord.” Clary waved Dipper off, wringing out her jersey. She smiled wearily up to Stan as he wandered over. “I’ll be lucky to eat anything before I fall flat on my face. Are you feeling all right?”

“Feelin’ fine, thanks.” Stan offered a hand, she accepted, and he hauled her upright. “Might be off the deep-woods ridin’ for a few days I’m afraid.”

“No kidding. I’ll find ways to stay entertained.” Clary tapped the point of his shoulder with a knuckle as she passed, and after a moment he turned, smiling to himself, to follow.

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Ao3: [00][01][02][03][04][05][06][07][08][09][10][11][12] Clary and Ford glare at each other over the maps.

Crack a lousy lady bicyclist joke to lighten things up.

She can handle it.

Ford’s right, it’s too dangerous.

#Gravity Falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #OClicious #fanfic

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