#this might just be the saddest take

[mydairpercabeth]

:(

[fiona-fififi]

Call me homophobic, but I don't actually think it's great representation to stick a complex, dynamic, newly-realized bisexual character permanently with a flat, boring, underdeveloped love interest just because that was the first guy who showed interest.

[kennyomegasweave]

Great's sad little shocked face when Tyme took his mask off and let him know it was him who attacked his brother?

That shit hurt.

[mercymaker]

she was never given a choice on how her life ended. claimed, like an object, a jewel, yet another victory in a long line of conquests. yet, maleane did not intend to let go of control so quickly, resign to a fate meant for tragedies and sad tales. no, she still had claws underneath that pretty mask, sharp fangs behind a smile of adoration, a dagger hidden under the silken sheets of their shared bed. she could still claw her way to the top. and how could she dream of a different outcome, when she was already high above everyone else? and only a single chess piece above her. a figure easily moved by carefully crafted words, swayed by honeyed praises. mal might've missed the more sinister parts of astarion before it was too late to save her life, but she knew the rest of the tapestry. his whims, his wounds, his aspirations. her voice could coax him, enrage him, and then... soothe him. like a boy king who could never see the leash coiling around his throne.

the non-sad version of 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓 & 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐓

[inseasofgreen]

Who gets the saddest ending in your book and why?

I'm going to answer this for only POTO and not the whole series because while I have a general idea of how it ends there's still a lot of things I'm leaving to figure out once I get to later books. Gotta keep somethings a mystery even for myself ya know? 💀

Day 6 of Askmas!

big spoilers for POTO and also content warning for suicide and domestic abuse

POTO taglist

@lord-fallen @inkingfireplace @rhikasa @leahnardo-da-veggie @satohqbanana

@real-fragments @the-inkwell-variable @tildeathiwillwrite @oldfashionedidiot @heycerulean

@sonnetery @wyked-ao3 @fifis-corner

Orahi easily has the saddest ending. He's a horrible man who is abusive to his wife and daughters and actively covers up and often excuses the Emperors more sadistic nature. Though Zevetta, Orahi's wife, often turns the table and lashes out at him. Leaving them in a vicious cycle of being hurt by each other and trying to get "even".

Through out POTO Orahi is trying to cling to his status within the court as many High Lords and Lords come to him in hope that Orahi will control Xorulth, the emperor. Orahi finds himself in a very dangerous position when the start of a rebellion is brought to his attention and he doesn't alert Xorulth immediately. He does however tell Zevetta totally unaware of Zemorri's true parentage and how this information is vital to Zevetta's whole goal - get her son on the throne.

Zevetta proceeds to poke the bear and angers Xorulth and slowly gets more bold in her actions around the royal family. Xorulth grows tired of Zevetta's deliberate attempts at seeing how much she can get away with and tells Orahi to "control" her or Xorulth will do it himself aka kill her.

Orahi manages to get Zevetta to back down. Orahi develops a sense of paranoia but isn't really sure what or who he is actually terrified of.

One of the council members falls ill and his only surviving child is sent for - a bastard fighting in Nivra. Rhiari arrives and is legitimized by Xorulth. Orahi and Rhiari chat for a bit and this is when things really go down hill for Orahi.

Rhiari tells Orahi he should prepare for a war and send his wife and daughters out of the capital. Rhiari says he met Zemorri and knows Zemorri has high ambitions and will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Moments later another war dragon appears in the sky and lands with a severally burned High Commander on it. Orahi and Xorulth are both demanding answers but the dude dies before he can say what happened. Orahi and Xorulth have a disagreement over how to respond, Orahi claiming the guy could've been a deserter which Xorutlh doesn't buy. Orahi says he'll get to the bottom of it to appease Xorulth.

Orahi then goes home to Zevetta and asks if she planted the idea of rebellion in Zemorri's head. Zevetta proceeds to drop a baller line "He is as he's always been, a rebel at heart. The fire inside him was not my doing. It was lit the moment he took his first breath, and every breath since has fanned it. ... Who will you chose, the monster you've enabled or the man you helped shape?"

The next day Orahi seeks out Rhiari and asks him what he knows about Zemorri. And begs to know what happened to "his boy" Rhiari tells Orahi that Zevetta married the crown prince in secret and Zemorri was the product of that marriage. That by the laws of god and men, Zemorri is the rightful Emperor and he aims to take back what is his.

Unable to chose a side and not wanting to see what's to come, Orahi interrupts court, stands before Xorulth and commits suicide.

While Orahi is obviously not a "good" guy I still feel bad for him. He spent his whole marriage believing Zevetta's lies and even allowed her to keep what he believed to be a bastard with her and be raised along side their legitimate children. Something that is highly looked down on - no matter the circumstances of who the bastard belongs to or how the bastard came about. Zevetta, in her own way, admits Zemorri is not who he is today because of her. Orahi played a big roll in shaping Zemorri and viewed him as a son he will never have.

It becomes painfully aware Orahi was nothing but a pawn in Zevetta's scheming. And learning that all from Rhiari? This stranger who has no reason to make up a lie, clearly knows Zemorri on some level if he's going out of his way to talk to Orahi and get Zevetta and her daughters out of the capital.

Neither Zemorri or Zevetta trusted him enough to tell him the truth because there was no scenario in their minds where Orahi doesn't betray them. There was no doubt what so ever that Orahi could be anything but an enemy. And honestly Orahi's first instinct to go to Xorulth is enough for him to question it himself. He doesn't know what is leading him to Xorulth, if it's him trying to warn his life long friend, or perhaps try to kill him in an attempt to help Zemorri. And it isn't until he's standing there, all eyes on him that Orahi realizes Zemorri and Zevetta were right not to trust him. He can't condemn them because he knows Xorulth is a monster and that Zemorri not only has the strongest claim but he would be more suited. In the first time for his whole friendship with Xorulth, he admits to himself what Xorulth is. In a mix of shame, anger, grief, and just an over whelming sense of loneliness he makes a split second decision to end it there. The last thing he sees is the boredom on Xorulth's face. The man who's murdered so many innocents because of his fascination watching the last moments of life, and has made Orahi witness these horrible acts. Orahi's last moments leave Xorulth feeling nothing. No joy, no excitement. Not even a hint of shock or grief.

And Orahi's last few moments of consciousness is realizing Xorulth never cared about him either.

[applysome]

Dramatic Synchronicity at Webster Hall - Everything You’ve Come to Expect

for @crandberrysaucewithpulp

Not shown directly after this - introduction to The Meeting Place

Alex: this is a good old fashioned love story, about what might have been

Miles: this one’s for you Hannah, baby…

💙💜🩷

[lordliing]

Gortash your constitution is embarassing bro

[whattheskyknows]

Surprise I have a new chapter of 13 Students ready to post soon

[kimmkitsuragi]

wanna know how deep im in for disco elysium? i watched gomens s2 and i went crazy over it and chewed glass about it etc. but then i was like okay enough of being crazy about this for today. i want my disco time now

[0neirois]

I don’t wanna be too hasty, but finally biting the bullet and deleting my Twitter account(s) is getting mighty tempting 

[thevioletcaptain]

[Screenshot from the 11.04 Baby script, which can be found here]

he’s a maniac

[vaguely-concerned]

My two cents on how much of Mind!Varric is Rook’s mind trying to fill the blank space and how much is Solas actively talking through a convenient blood magic paper doll of the mind: I think it's a mix of both, a truly collaborative psychosocial horrorshow if you would, but waaaay more towards the second. It feels too directed and tactical at times to be anything else. Rook's mind is willing to go along with the denial phase as far as it can fucking carry them to not have to face the grief and regret and does its part in papering over details that don’t make any sense, the way brains will strive to create coherent meaning even out of deeply confusing input, but to my understanding it's a collaborateur in how that plays out, not the instigator or control center. Solas is using it as a path to agency and to gather insight into Rook as a person unguarded as he can't count on in his own guise. (That stoic option that leads to him being like 'oh I see you're cautiously denying me access to your inner life. well. at least you still have Varric to talk to. y'know as an outlet :)'. You absolute BITCH Solas! That alone convinced me that he HAS to have an active hand in it on some level.)

My guess is that it takes considerable effort on Solas’ part to make Mind!Varric do anything more involved or complicated than seeming to sit up in bed and give casual commentary, and that’s why he keeps having eerie five minute shallow pep talks with you before he announces he conveniently needs a nap aaanyway good luck kid you got this haha. When he’s just spouting NPC lines from his bedrest, I’m ready to believe that could be Rook’s mind being allowed to improv lines for him more freely because it’s less about Solas trying to get something out of them or working an angle and more ‘Still here! Still totally alive and fine and the mentor figure you know and love and trust :) don’t even worry about it! Thankfully there is no war in Ba Sing Sei, as we all know’ upkeep work lol. Rook’s mind is allowed to set the tone of Varric, the outlines, but not always the content. 

AND, on a (beautifully fucked up) character psychology level, I feel like Solas is indulging in actually getting to be the good supportive mentor figure to Rook with one hand to assuage the guilt he feels about what he's done -- and what he's going to do -- to them with the other. Same internal logic as he uses in Trespasser about the Qun. ‘Almost everyone is going to die from the course of action I’m doggedly pursuing eventually. But at least I can make their last years happier and freer and kinder than they would have been otherwise. and that kind of makes up for it right. a little bit. doesn't it. doesn't that make it better at least. I need that to make it better)'. Did I really take your beloved mentor and friend from you if you don’t know yet that I did? Some philosophers would argue not really! So it’s probably almost ok actually. Isn’t it even a little noble that I’m taking all this grief and guilt on myself and shielding you for now. With undertones that I’m not sure he would realize himself (and might be mortified by if he did) that he is so incredibly lonely, and even a dishonest and indirect emotional connection is more than nothing when you’re that desperate. In this setup he gets idk. Both the control he craves so incredibly badly in relationships and over himself, and the scraps, the fading afterimages, of intimacy and warmth and companionship, even second hand. The one thing Solas and Rook agree on deep deep down is that they really wish Varric weren't gone. They're handshake memeing this in the saddest and most creepy way possible.

I think an important element too is that Solas needs Rook and their team to *succeed* —  up to a certain point. He needs someone to hold the two other elven mean girls off until he can get out of here. Ideally, in a perfect world, even do all the hard work of killing them so he can swoop in at the end and do his thing when both sides are exhausted and out of resources to stop him, and then Bob’s your uncle! Same logic as he was using with Corypheus, and after that worked out so well, too! King of choosing to never learn from a single solitary mistake he’s ever made even though i fully believe he could have the capacity to Fen’Harel <3 The underlying idea isn’t flawed, you see, it was just unforeseen circumstances getting in the way. This time for sure it’ll all work out the way I cleverly imagined it in my head beforehand. Cue By Talos this can’t be happening etc. in the form of a statue almost crushing him like a bug. 

So he's providing guidance and forging Rook into a leader from two angles: one Rook might not trust, and one they probably will. Shaping them into what he needs slowly and carefully. He’s helping you hone your team into their most effective state, as he might have done with his own agents back in the day, setting up his chess pieces even if he has to squint through two glimpsed realities to do it haha. Pincer maneuver of an insidious stealth mentor you never asked for. Also… at one point mind Varric gives you a whole little monologue about how Solas' problem is that he’s always seen his interpersonal connections as flaws and see where it’s landed him, all alone and the worst part? it hasn’t even worked. it’s all been for nothing he’s back where he began with nothing to show for it but his mistakes. Like...that has such strong 'uh okay happy to play your therapist from two rooms away here what the fuck kind of traumadump is this' energy to me, I’m not sure Rook like. Thinks that much about Solas as a private person. So much of Solas' self-loathing and futile insights into his own flaws seem to shine through in Mind!Varric's dialogue all the time — I just can't believe that there's no guiding hand behind it as it were. 

Most of all. I feel like people underestimate the degree to which Solas is incredibly funny. As in, he has a very consistent and recognizable sense of humour. It’s one of my very favourite things about him. We must remember — it is crucial that we always keep in mind — Orlesian accent and wig Solas from May The Dread Wolf Take You (my beloved, the explanation for why I love this dude even with the. All of the everything else. No one does it quite like him). He is not at all above doing things or adding little flourishes for his own obscure amusement, in fact that seems to me to be one of his most consistent traits. The Randy Dowager Quarterly comment Varric has? The ‘Maybe this is the Dread Wolf’s revenge. Forcing us to house sit for him’ thing? To Me this is 100% Solas amusing himself in his boring Fade jail surrounded by the screaming hellscape of all his regrets. Source: it came to me as divine revelation through pure vibes trust me bro 

If nothing else I find it much more narratively interesting personally if the connection between Rook and Solas really is that defenselessly intimate and entwined (and so unbalanced!), and the sense of violation and invasion and betrayal afterwards consequently all the more nauseatingly intense. Even if you kept him at arm’s length in the open, he’s been under your skin the whole time, looking around, gathering what he needs to destroy you, wearing the face of a friend. Regretfully, probably, but choosing to do it every step of the way anyway. (Sound familiar, Inquisitor? Solas doesn’t have that many tricks when you actually look at it, he keeps returning to old tried and true ones like a dog with a bone haha.) Maybe he even genuinely meant some of it as mercy, which only makes it so much worse. It makes his sin against his own core principles of autonomy and the freedom of all beings in mind, spirit and body so much more juicily grave if it’s something he pursues actively and consistently, rather than it half-falling into his lap as a happy accident mainly orchestrated by Rook’s own subconscious. Solas, too, is at his very lowest point, the closest to giving in and becoming his own antithesis fully that he’s ever been, and it makes the choice of whether you still reach out your hand to him one last time or not all the more impactful and difficult.

[lizzieheartsfanclub]

The most effective thing about Ever After High is that every student has their own personal struggle that adds another element to just how life-ruining the destiny system is.

Apple is so terrified of what will happen to her if she doesn’t follow her destiny, that she is willing to compromise everyone else’s happiness to make sure it happens. This disregard for other people is only encouraged by the influential adults in her life.

Ashlynn has to be a servant to an abusive family and live knowing that the ultimate end to her supposedly happy ending is dying to set the stage for her daughters traumatic backstory, starting the whole cycle over again with no chance for any of them to escape.

Blondie feels so pressured to fit in to a deeply classist/monarchist society and ashamed of her parentage that she constantly presents a fake version of herself to everyone she knows, even her best friends.

Briar has to spend her whole life waiting for the moment her destiny comes and she falls asleep for a century. She knows that when she’s woken up, she will be forced to marry a boy dozens of years younger than her who she’s never met and live knowing that everyone she ever loved is dead and gone, the very things that she watched cause her mother’s emotional breakdown.

Cedar’s father was so afraid of watching her repeat his mistakes that he overcorrected, making it impossible for her to ever learn lessons for herself. She is also forced to share incredibly personal details with anyone who asks her questions, and can’t be trusted by her friends with any of their secrets, and it’s all because of her father’s past trauma.

Cerise has to hide who she truly is and never gets to see her family together and happy despite the fact that her parents have potentially the most healthy and mutually beneficial marriage in the whole franchise.

Daring was groomed from birth for a destiny that ends up not actually being his at all, leaving him aimless, feeling as though he has no purpose and has wasted his entire life.

Darling is forbidden by patriarchy and destiny to become a knight, the only thing she really wants, and at which she would be better than both of her brothers. She has to hide who she is and what she loves from everyone she knows

Dexter lived his whole life never knowing what his destiny would be but also knowing that whatever it was he’d have to commit to it forever the moment he discovered it at Legacy Day.

Duchess has spent her whole life knowing that the story she’s commited to living out ends in tragedy for her, and then had to watch the very people she’s been jealous of for years because of their seemingly happy endings give up those endings, while Duchess, loyal and rule following Duchess, is still stuck with her tragedy.

Faybelle tries so hard to commit to what she sees at her destiny that she’s never had a real friend in her life. Even still, no one recognizes her for all that effort and all she’s given up to be a suitable villain. Everyone is more afraid of Raven, who doesn’t even want to be evil.

Hunter has to constantly go against his moral compass to fulfill his destined role as a Huntsman and to try and make his father proud of him.

Kitty has been taught over and over again to value her Mother’s approval over all else, even at the expense of her friends. Her destiny is to create mischief, but how much more mischief can a dissolving world take before it’s too much?

Lizzie finds it almost impossible to express love or care for anyone else due to her mothers excessive conditioning that’s nearly akin to brainwashing. The saddest thing might be that her mother is actually, in her own way, trying her best to prepare Lizzie for a world that will only ever see her one way—as a villain. Now she lives in Ever After, princess to a kingdom that might not even exist for much longer, having given up everything for a destiny that may soon be impossible.

Maddie is a refugee forced from her home into a world she barely understands at a tender age. But she cannot express any angst or negative feelings about this circumstance, because to do so would go against her character. She lives in a world obsessed with destiny and stories while not even knowing if she’ll ever be able to return home and live out her story.

Raven is judged by almost everyone around her for her mothers crimes, many of which were required of her by destiny in the first place. She is nearly forced to commit to becoming a tyrannical megalomaniac (and almost falls into it herself, several times) who would be sentenced to lifelong punishment and torture for committing acts that weren’t even her idea in the first place, and the one punishing her would have been the very girl who begged so often for her to stop being so difficult and just follow her destiny.

[dceasesd]

why juni ba’s the boy wonder has my favorite jason characterization of any contemporary comic run: a needlessly in-depth analysis (pt.1)

oh boy oh boy am i excited for this one buckle up boys it’s gonna be a long one. analysis under the cut (WITH PICTURES!!)

i, like many others, have many thoughts and opinions about juni ba's the boy wonder that i'd like to express. i was having trouble formatting my rant, though, so i decided that it was easiest to just address some of the common complaints i've seen about the comic and jason's characterization and insert my ramblings throughout it. so far i've seen three main complaints:

the typical boiling down of jason's character to "the angry one"

his lack of strategy going into the fight with the demon is out-of-character

the neighbor's kid interaction

to start with the first one-- when introducing jason's character, in both the second and first issue, ba uses the descriptors "coarse", "bitter", "hardened", "brash" and, of course, "rageful".

so, yes-- i understand where people are having issues with this characterization. however, even if it's overplayed, it's still important to remember that jason is angry, and is driven, in part, by his anger at bruce and the joker. and, as ba highlights, he deserved to be! completely erasing jason's anger is just as bad as defining him with it.

i also don't think it's wholly accurate to say that ba is boiling jason down to just his anger. it might seem like that when only considering the dialogue and narration, but jason's behavior in the comic doesn't perfectly align with how the narrator describes him. while the narration describes him as "rageful" and could be an instance of generalization, jason's actions throughout the comic are more aligned with two other emotions/motivators: fear and despair. we never see jason get actually, properly angry; the closest we get is when he's seemingly annoyed by damian (which i believe could be performative) and when he becomes violent, accidentally hurting damian.

even in this instance, though, he is not driven to this violence by rage, but rather fear. so, while ba states in the narration that jason is driven by his anger, he contradicts himself by highlighting how jason's sadness and terror motivates his character. this could be interpreted as lousy writing on ba's part, but i'm not going to attribute the paradox to that inference. to me, it actually represents a critque of the "jason is the angry robin" generalization, because it calls to attention the discrepancies between how one is described versus reality, an issue that jason both faces in the comics (bruce using him as a cautionary tale when dying WASN'T HIS FAULT) and outside of the comics, as mentioned previously.

furthermore, this highlights the difference between what jason believes about bruce's perspective and bruce's actual perspective (according to damian). jason believes himself to be a "failure", but damian refutes this by describing his conversation with bruce concerning jason, a conversation that does not align with jason's belief. if you couldn't tell by now, perception versus reality is a BIG theme in this comic (and for jason's character in general!)

i was really fascinated by ba's take on jason, because it veered pretty far from a lot of contemporary comics, most of which do, unfortunately, play with the angry robin jason generalization. they've been doing a bit with his fear, too, which has either been pretty fun or the most awful thing ever (i'm looking at you zdarsky. gotham war was fucked up), but what makes ba's jason stand out to me is how he grapples with his grief.

this boy is so sad. ba's jason might actually be the saddest rendition of him i've seen in canon content. we've seen jason grapple a little bit with the despair rooted in his death and resurrection, mainly in lost days, where he cries 3 (?) times, fresh out of the pit and very traumatized.

even in this comic, though, he reacts to his grief with anger more prominently than sadness. that obviously doesn't mean the despair isn't there, though-- anger is just an easier outlet for it (which i could really get into the masculinity aspects of that, but then this would be wayyyyyy too long).

ba's jason, though? that motherfucker is so. sad.

christ he's depressing. AND THAT'S SUCH A FRESH PERSPECTIVE!!!!!!! THANK YOU JUNI BA!!!!!!

now i'm pretty sure some people would argue that this rendition in out of character because he's so sad. to me, though, he's still the same jason; he covers up his sadness with anger and pettiness, redirecting his own insecurities onto those around him to mask his true feelings.

ba quite literally illustrates this in the comic. whenever he is being his snide, normal self, he has his red hood mask on; but when he actually opens up to damian and expresses himself truthfully, the mask is off. ba is highlighting how the classic jason anger and bitterness is, in part, a performance and coping mechanism.

this post is already too long, so i'll go over the two other critques in a different post, which i will link below (eventually). if you guys have any thoughts you'd like to share or discuss, my dms and asks are completely open! if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed my ranting. look out for another post soon! :))

part 2 / part 3

[darlingdaisyfarm]

cigarettes after sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never told you, dummy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Noise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

His lips. Your lips. Apocalypse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stan’s fine, sweetheart. Trust me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

It scared him a lot.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

You realized with a sinking heart that Stan was crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[feathered-serpents]

Lmao my TikTok was too long to upload here so I’m just gonna retype it all out

Chester and Norris: Are they really Jon and Martin?

Wrong question imo! The BETTER question is: How MUCH of Jon and Martin are Chester and Norris?

The fact is these programs have SOME link to Jon and Martin, Jonny and Alex would not be voicing them otherwise, so what it comes down to is how much of a link?

Because it could be that it’s ONLY their voices. Annabelle explained to Jon that the tapes belonged to the Web, and that by “taking his voice” Jon was therefore bound to the Web and the other fears by extension. It’s entirely possible that when the Fears left Archives’ universe, they brought Jon (and Martin as he was also on the tapes) voices over with them, but JUST the voices. Nothing else. It’s just a coat of paint over the entities methods of collection, Chester and Norris aren’t Jon and Martin anymore than glasses are the person wearing them

But I’m not sure that’s the case. There’s a lot of holes there. The main one being: why? If it is just hollow voices, then why? What’s the purpose of the fears using them? It’s only been two episodes, so it might be answered later, but let’s talk about the second possibility

Chester and Norris ARE Jon and Martin, they just aren’t aware. When Martin “cut the tether” in episode 200, he didn’t cut the Fears away from Jon, he cut the Fears away from the world and at that point, as the Pupil of the Eye, Jon was part of the fears. Since Martin was in the panopticon when they went, he went too.

And now we have a disembodied Jon and Martin existing in a dazed but still hungry state. They seek out whatever’s familiar and since there’s no Magnus Institute, they go to the OIAR, get into their system, and read out any “real” statements they can find. Feeding off of them.

In this possibility, Jon and Martin are effectively asleep. They aren’t aware of what they’re doing really, just going by their new instincts/nature. But I think the more they feed, the more conscious they’ll become, and we’ll start to Chester and Norris break script. Stutter over a word. Add words. Things that a text to speech program simply CAN’T do even if glitched to shit

What complicates this possibility is the fact that Alice said they only showed up a year ago when it’s implied the OIAR has existed much longer than that as well as the fears in this world. It could be they move from place to place feeding off what they can, and when that’s bled dry, they move somewhere else? If they’re as intertwined with the fears as this theory implies, they could exist across infinite universes, staying alive like this

I’m not sure! It’s super interesting tho. I think the saddest ending would be if it’s never really answered, and Jon becomes, at least in some ways, a mystery