#will post to ao3 later

[kimboo-york]

The Orphans of Yunmeng

It happened so fast, so unbelievably fast, that even as they stumbled through the streets of Yiling, Jiang Yanli was not sure how they got there.

“This way, this way, here…come on!” Wei Ying was pushing and pulling them forward until they were in a dank, old alleyway. A’Cheng recoiled, but she grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. Even being older and (just barely) taller than he was, she should not have been able to maneuver him so easily, but she was certain he was going into shock.

Wei Ying was banging on a door half sunk in the ground, as if it had once been the entry to a basement to a part of a house that wasn’t there anymore.

“Open up, Lao Wang!”

“What the fuck do you want?” An ancient man in a twisted body pulled the door open. Jiang Yanli was not certain he actually had any teeth. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Wei Ying!”

“The fuck?”

Wei Ying groaned in frustration and shoved the old man backwards into the room, pulling on Jiang Yanli who in turn dragged A’Cheng along.

“Hey!”

“It’s me! Wei Ying!” Wei Ying said loudly, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You brat! Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you I got picked up by the Yunmeng Jiang sect, like, ten times already.”

The man looked more like a human yao than a person, wrinkled and bent with watery, clouded eyes. While he bickered with Wei Ying, Yanli stood very still next to A’Cheng, who still did not appear to be entirely present. He had not been entirely present since the panic attack back at Lotus Pier.

“Ying’er,” Yanli said softly, which brought Lao Wang and Wei Ying up short. “Where are we?”

“And who are you?” Lao Wang added, poking a long crooked finger at Wei Ying’s chest.

“I’m Wei Ying!” Wei Ying threw his arms up in the air in frustration.

“I know that! I mean them! Dressed too nice to street rats. I can’t use ‘em.” He banged his cane on the ground and sat down with a loud thump.

Yanli did not like the sound of that.

“That’s not why I brought them here, you wicked old man,” Wei Ying said, rolling his eyes. He turned to Yanli. “ShiJie, this is Lao Wang, pickpocket master of Yiling. I knew him when I was…when I used to live here.” He ended up looking down at the dirt floor and shuffling his feet.

“Oh.” She did not know what else to say.

“Been gone too long, you’re out of practice. Can’t use you either.”

“I’m not stealing for you!” He glanced over at Yanli. “Uh, not that I ever did. Because I didn’t! That would be wrong.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Lao Wang banged his cane on the floor again.

Yanli let go of A’Cheng and stepped forward, not too close, but certainly far closer to a grown man than her mother would have approved.

Her mother.

She bowed. “Lao Wang, I apologize for my brother bringing us to your home. We are in a desperate situation and need a place to hide.”

“ShiJie,” Wei Ying whined softly.

“No, Ying’er, there is no point in lying. Everyone…everyone will know soon anyway.” She held back a sob.

“No!” A’Cheng shouted and broke for the door. Wei Ying, obviously acting on instinct, tackled him to the floor before he could even grab the handle. The boys wrestled on the ground, shouting incomprehensibly at each other. Yanli knew who would win—who always won, and why that had really been such a burn to her mother’s pride. She stood there and sobbed while her brothers bloodied each other, unable to do anything to stop them.

“Ah, shit.” Lao Wang got up, waddled over and casually as tossing kittens around threw the boys apart with his cane and a martial arts move she had never seen before. There was a moment of quiet before A’Cheng broke down in heaving sobs, and Wei Ying scrambled over to hold him tight.

Yanli knew she should do the same thing. She should be strong for them. She should hold them and tell them everything would be all right. All she could do was stand there and cry.

“What happened, child?” Lao Wang asked softly, squinting at the tangle of her brothers. His hands were firmly set on his cane, but there was something soothing about his presence in that moment.

“Father…Sect Leader Jiang found out that my brother and I are not his children. Our mother was an adulteress.” She took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around herself, starting to shake. “He…he kicked us out.”

[cypreus-and-willow]

Broken Promises

Summary: Ryo makes Saki a promise. So does Shuuji. Neither are able to keep it.

In the bleak silence of afternoon, the girl wanders alone. Floramon waiting impatiently back home for her to return. But she needs this. Time. Time to think. Time to grieve.

How fundamentally changed they are. That nothing will ever be the same again. She has real friends now. That's a good thing. Ryo is gone and so is Shuuji. Ryo will never complain about being nagged by him ever again. Shuuji will never have to worry about him running off and causing trouble again. That's a good thing.

Still, she can't get the images out of her mind. Ryo, her constant companion and temporary friend, running towards the hands, pleading and crying for the safety of his mother.

Shuuji, her cowardly protector and one time partner, running away from friends, begging and crying to stop the danger of his father.

Ryo won’t have to be sad anymore. And Shuuji’s dad can’t hurt him again. That's-

Eyes close, breathe in deep. Shakily.

That's a good thing. Right?

Do the others care? Did they even know them?

"I was close to them both," said her fake. Her copy.

Those things, those monsters. They'd taken from her memories. Close? Those two weren't close to anyone. Saki might’ve been the closest they ever got to having a friend.

“What's your favourite ice cream flavour?” She’d asked, out of the blue. Testing the waters of her new found companionship. Ryo frowned in annoyance.

“Don't have one.”

“Everybody has one.”

“I dunno… vanilla.” Liar.

“Vanilla has no flavour. That's so boring.”

“Don't ask then!”

A plain, simple, uncomplicated flavour. He was a little bit like that. His attitude towards everything was simple. He either liked it or he didn't. The notes of his sadness were subtle. The uncomplicated ice cream flavour tucked away in the corner, largely ignored but always there.

“Oi, Ryo. Today’s the last day of camp. Buy me some ice cream when this is over.”

“Alright, alright. I'll get you your ice cream, brat."

The loud ring of the shop bell brings her back to the present. A person smiling at her behind the counter; his grin wide and his cap, pink. "Welcome! What can I get for you?"

"Um…" she swallows the numbness in her throat. "One scoop. Vanilla. Cone please."

Gold and pink hues sparkle over the river, sun setting in beautiful silence. The pink glow of spring, welcoming. Entreating her to remember. Never forget.

The ice cream numbs her lips.

“Shuuji-san, I don't know if I can make it.”

The sun was rising blood red over the water. The two children so unprepared for chaos as to wear plain oxfords and ballet flats. Caked in mud as they crawled their way by the river.

"You will. We're all going back."

Then Shuuji ran and left her behind. She laughs. Typical, he was actually really good at running. Always running, moving ahead, pushing her past her limits, dragging her forward until she couldn't breathe. Dragging her upriver when they should've drowned or been eaten.

So their trail would be broken. So they wouldn't be scented by the wolf thing that hunted them. So they could buy just a little more time.

And they only bought time until sunset.

He never quite shone as bright as the sun but he tried his best to light their way. Even in the dark where light couldn't reach and he needed them more than they needed him.

She looks at her surroundings, vanilla ice cream quietly melting in her hand. Subtle flavours quietly meeting their subtle end.

I'll get you your ice cream brat.

The pink river loosing its hue, now a dull grey. The sun that lights her way home is leaving and she has to go.

We're all going back.

In the end, she can only remember the good.

“Ryo, Shuuji-san. I’m home.”

[mykingdomforasong]

Familiar Faces

This has been on my mind since I made this post months ago, happy dinluke day.

I'm playing fast and loose with Naboo lore and canon here, because that's much more fun

~

There weren't a lot of perks to being the Mand’alor. It was a position Din had stumbled into and continued to stumble his way through.

Ambassadors were usually his real weak spot. He was naturally quiet, and awkward under all the beskar, and to strangers he just seemed imposing and dangerous. That wasn't wrong. He’d blasted his way through most conflicts in his life, but it had been explained to him many times that ambassadors preferred civility, small talk, and large parties. Three categories of things Din hated on principle. Din had scared most of them off planet without much effort at all. A cold shoulder here and there, a stray blaster shot, and a (not at all staged) duel for the Dark Saber in during a diplomatic meeting, and they were off world. 

But the Naboo ambassador wasn't put off by anything Din did or said. He took everything in stride, including an invitation to spar. 

A spar Din nearly lost, which would have been a humiliating moment for him personally, and potentially an intergalactic incident.

It took place on Luke's fourth day on-world, after a long day of politicking. Afterwards, as Luke wiped sweat-slick bangs off his face, he whispered to Din: "I let you win." It was the first uncalculated, uncareful thing Din had heard him say. Under the helmet, he flushed, angry at the insinuation, embarrassed that it might very well have been true, and hot under the collar at the idea of the man actually proving he could beat Din.  

Things between them took off from there.

Luke seemed excited about the prospect of bringing outer rim planets more into the politics of the Galactic Republic, particularly the ones that had been most devastated by the late days of the Clone War. He took a deep interest in the stories Din had to tell, the people Din introduced him to, and the history of the plane's cities, wars, and great leaders.

Luke's enthusiasm seemed to extend past his diplomatic duties and to the Mand’alor himself. Din was surprised to find himself so magnetically connected to the younger man. He had a few friends, but those relationships had built slowly, and usually through the brotherhood of battle. He'd never wanted to just ... walk and talk to someone. It wasn’t long before Din shared his real name, a privilege he’d never extended to other ambassadors. They even messaged each other over the holonet when Luke was off-world.

It was Bo-Katan who informed him that he was in love with Luke.

Din felt like a glass floor had shattered out from under him, and now he was in utter free fall, waiting to find out if Luke was down there to catch him.

The idea that this friendship was love hadn't occurred to Din in the slightest, but he'd hardly had enough friendships - let alone romantic relationships - to compare it to.

He laid in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, turning those words over in his mind.

"I've never enjoyed hanging out with these ambassadors this much before."

"You've never been in love with one of them before."

Din rubbed his face. In the privacy and dark of his bedroom, it was one of the only times he could do such a thing. He rolled onto his side and held onto one of his pillows. He imagined it was a person. He liked the idea. He imagined it was Luke. Before he could admit he liked that even more, he pushed the pillow away and rolled to the other side of the bed.

But the reality of his feelings only grew, expanding to fill whatever space Din occupied, until it was totally overwhelming.

He couldn't deal with it any more.

Boba was straight forward at least. "You need to tell him. Only way to resolve it."

And so Din resolved to tell Luke himself.

~

The Republic's "dinner" was a week-long affair on Coruscant. Luke had left for it days ahead of Din.

"Naboo is ... a bit more extravagant when we go to these things. We need to figure out our wardrobes."

Din took the time to plan. The space was ideal -- Luke wouldn't feel trapped on Mandalore or pressed into something he didn't want. If it all went badly, they could easily avoid each other. If it all went well, they could easily avoid others.

Finding the nerve was another thing.

Maybe it was the armor. Maybe it was his general dislike of social situations. Or the fact that he never seemed fully understood by others, or seemed to fully understand them. Whatever it was, Din was, and had always been, quiet. Overwhelmingly quiet. In fights, it made him intimidating. At dinners with a well-rehearsed love confession, it made him sweaty. He'd practiced his tone, his posture, his words, even his facial expressions in the mirror (not that Luke would be privy to the last ones). But he couldn't remember if he'd poured his heart out to someone, not even Grogu.

Din would never let anyone call him a coward, though.

And Luke looked so stunning tonight, how could Din resist confessing?

His tunic was some silver material that seemed to glisten light blue as it shifted. It ended at his mid-thigh and cinched in the waist with a thick band of silver metal, almost like beskar. His pants were his usual black with tall boots.

But his hair was different, bigger, more ornamental. Din had seen pictures of Naboo's Queens, senators, and ambassadors sporting similarly lavish hairstyles, but never Luke. It must have been some kind of wig, Din figured, because Luke's hair was not long enough to make the two buns on the back of his head, one at the nape of his neck, one at the near-top of his crown. There was matching silver jewelry that snaked over the top of his head and around the buns, holding them in place.

His face had similar touches of Naboo's traditional makeup - red dots on his cheeks, white on most of his lips and a red stripe down the middle that seemed to point to his chin dimple. Up close, Din rarely looked at or in his eyes, but from a distance, he could see his lids were covered in a white paint, the same, Din assumed, that the Queen wore over her entire face.

Everything about Luke looked just a little different, He felt different, even from across the room. It no longer felt easy and casual to look at him. Instead, Din felt unsettled as he approached him, keenly aware of all the small differences in his friend tonight.

"Would you like to dance?" He asked Luke, flexing his fingers at his side in anticipation of a rejection.

Luke nodded and smiled.

The first few seconds of slow dancing were silent as they found their rhythm. Luke had placed a hand on Din's waist, and Din rested his on Luke's shoulder. Their other hands were clapped together, leading them in the dance.

"I'm very happy with our work together," Luke said. "The Republic is grateful for our successful partnership."

Din smiled behind his helmet. "It has been successful. I would ... like you to stay for as long as you would like to stay." Din winced at himself, but he saw Luke's lips curve into a smile. The makeup made his smile look different, but Din didn't dwell on it. He'd never worn it himself, or been around it enough to understand its strange effects.

"I would like to stay," he said back, diplomatically ignoring Din's syntactical nightmare.

"I'm glad to hear it." Din took a deep breath. "Luke, I ... wanted to tell you," he thought his heart might just leap out of his chest. He kept his eyes on their feet. "I wanted to tell you that you mean a lot to me. Our friendship is ... I've never had a friend like you before. You're very special." He picked his gaze up a little, remembering his lines. He squeezed Luke's hand. "I love you."

There was more he had to say, but he figured it was time to look up at Luke's face. Even avoiding his eyes, he could tell Luke was nervous, unhappy even. 

"It's okay if you don't return the feeling," Din said, his heart sinking low into his stomach.

"I wouldn't say that," Luke added hastily. He leaned in close to Din, dropping his voice to a whisper. "It's just that ... Mand’alor, you have the wrong man."

Luke pulled back from Din and stood up straight. Din finally looked at him, and looked at him well. Luke tilted his head to the side of the room, and then the other side. When Din glanced in those directions he saw two ... no three men in floor-length red and yellow robes, all of their faces hidden under hoods, but all of them about Luke's height and weight. From what Din could see, they all had chin dimples.

"You aren't Luke," Din whispered. His heart raced. He'd confessed to the wrong man. Even worse, he hadn't been able to tell. Din bit at the insides of his lips, hoping to find some way out of this. 

"Naboo's handmaid system is remarkably efficient at preventing assassinations," the body double said. "But they can cause some complications."

The song they were dancing to ended. Din sighed in relief, but it ended quickly when he looked between the three potential Luke’s again, at a loss for which one was his ambassador. Over a round of applause, Din leaned in and asked. "Who is the real Luke?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you." Din should have expected that.

"Please, don't tell him until I can," Din said. He left his dance partner on the flood with no diplomacy in sight.

He looked around at the three other handmaids. He couldn't even be sure one of them was Luke. Luke didn't travel with them on Mand’alor. He'd mentioned them, usually referring to them as his “friends from home,” but he hadn't warned Din they'd be in action tonight. 

Din licked his lips. Maybe Luke didn't want to be with him tonight, then. Maybe he brought in the handmaids just to avoid Din. After all, Luke could easily stop an assassination single handed.

Din rested against the back wall, scoping out all three handmaids. One was still against the wall watching the dancing, one was chatting to a Junior Senator from Naboo, and the third was dipping a bantha dumpling into honey-wine. Din pushed off from against the wall.

Honey-wine was one of Luke's favorites. He'd lick the sticky stuff off his fingers, and then tell the same story about how his mother would scold him if she saw.

The handmaid licked his fingers.

Din was on the other side of the room in a flash. "Can I talk to you?" He asked. The brim of his hood shadowed his eyes, but the man nodded.

"Luke, I need to tell you --" Din scrapped the speech in his excitement. "I'm in love with --"

"Mand’alor, I'm not the ambassador. He's on the dance floor," the man said.

Din froze. The voice was all wrong. When Din finally looked at his eyes, they were more green than blue. He wasn't the right man at all.

"Dank farrik," Din said. He turned around. The main decoy was dancing with some woman from Alderaan. One of them was still in conversation with the Junior Senator. The last one had disappeared.

Dejected and a little humiliated, Din turned and headed out of the ballroom.

He was halfway down the hallway when a familiar voice called out, "Mando!" Din turned to see another handmaid headed his way. The long skirt of his robe was pulled up as he ran down the hall after Din, exposing two concealed blasters strapped to his boots. Before Din could examine him, he was pulled into a small conference room.

"I'm sorry about the disguise, there have been threats ... well, never mind." The hood came off, then the brim. It was Luke, he was sure of it this time. Everything was right -- the hair, the eyes, the chin -- all of it. "You wanted to see me?"

Din nodded. He got ready to start for a third time when Luke's comm beeped.

"Sorry," Luke said. He held up his wrist, projecting a message in the air. "It's from the others. It's not an emergency but --"

"Go ahead," Din said, regretting it as soon as the message flashed. It was backwards from Din's perspective, but he could make it out just fine. The poor Mand’alor ... I hope you find him soon Luke.

That wasn't the first message, then, he figured, about him, about what he'd said. His face felt hot. He flexed and wiggled his fingers at his side. The poor Mand'alor. Din had enough cells left in his brain to know that pity probably wasn't a good sign.

"Is everything alright?" Din asked, trying to be nonchalant.

"They were just ... letting me know you were looking for me. They said it was important." Din couldn't tell what Luke was feeling. Usually he was so expressive, but now he stood still, his face as emotionless as a Mandalorian. Luke was waiting for him to talk, Din realized. Din had gotten so used to Luke having the first word, the last word, and most of the words in between that Din hardly knew how to start at all.

"You mean a lot to me," Din said, "I wanted you to know that. I ..." Luke stepped closer. Din paused.

"You mean a lot to me too." His voice was softer now. Luke was standing close enough that even through the seal of his helmet, Din could smell the fragrance he wore - almonds, mostly, with a little spice of musk underneath. 

"Luke," Din got bold and rested a hand on his arm. "I love you." Tension dropped from Din’s shoulders at the sheer relief of saying it out loud to the right man. 

Luke was smiling, a familiar smile that Din was sure of this time. He felt Luke's hand on his waist on the parts of his flight suit that weren't covered.

"I am," he smiled as he shook his head, letting loose hair fall near his eyes, "so glad." Luke took his hands and kissed his knuckles over the gloves. "I love you too. I've been trying to figure out how to tell you and --"

Din pulled him close and pressed their foreheads together.

"Oh," Luke said. He kept holding Din's hands as he closed his eyes and relaxed into the kiss. "I'm so glad," Luke said again, "that you finally managed to tell the right one of us."

Din pulled away and stood straight up, waves of humiliation crashing back.

"No, no, I'm sorry," Luke said. "It was sweet! And I'm sorry that I didn't warn you! I mean, my own father gets us all confused, you should see it!"

Luke talked quickly when he was nervous, unlike Din, who didn't talk at all. When Din was nervous or upset, he turned away from people. When Luke was, he rushed forward towards those he loved, and grabbed them tight in a hug. Which is where Din found himself now, wrapped in the arms of a Naboo Ambassador/Handmaid.

"I asked him not to tell you," Din said.

"Don't blame them, it's their job to report things back to me," Luke said, his mouth close to Din's ear.

"Alright," Din said. He finally wrapped his arms around Luke in return. 

"Din I --" Luke hardly ever used his name. He's said before that it felt too intimate, and that he'd worry he'd say it in front of the wrong people if he got too used to it. Luke squeezed him tight before pulling back to look at him. "I was wondering if you'd like to come back to my apartment when the party's over? I have to stay until the others leave, but when it's done --"

"Yes," Din said, his blood already rushing with excitement. "Yes, just ... Please tell me you aren't living with the rest of them."

Luke laughed, his head tilting back as he did. "No, they have their own space, nothing to worry about." Din nodded, hoping he was at the end of any more humiliating mix ups. 

Their moment was shattered suddenly by a round of blaster fire from the ballroom. 

“Nothing, except that,” Luke said, his face scrunched in annoyance as he reached down for his blaster. Din unholstered his too, following Luke out the door and down the hall. Neither of them were the type to run away from blaster fire. 

[okgal21]

I can’t figure out how to do a read more on mobile, sorry! But some speculation right before the episode airs:

***

Buck was still panicking.

They had gotten Eddie out of the van, Hen out of the ambulance, Chim and their first victim into a different ambulance and on their way to the hospital, and Ravi had been fine to begin with, but they still hadn’t found Bobby.

They had even been able to get the driver that caused the collapse in the first place out, but they hadn’t found Bobby.

So suffice to say, Buck was still panicking.

Buck was working with some of the other firefighters and Athena to figure out the best plan to get everyone out, and off the rest of the bridge, when Hen called him over to where she and Eddie were, where she was trying to determine if Eddie needed to be sent to the hospital as well.

“What’s the verdict, Hen?” Buck asked.

“I’m fine, tell him I’m fine.” Eddie, who was definitely was not who Buck was talking too, replied.

Hen scoffed at him, turning to Buck and saying, “Nothing seems to be broken, but he definitely needs to be seen by a hospital. We’ll send him with the next ambulance that’s going out.”

Ignoring Eddie’s indignant face, Buck opened his mouth to reply, before he was cut off by someone yelling.

“DAD!”

All three firefighters whipped around to look at the bridge, and to Buck’s horror, spotted Chris.

“What is he doing there?” Eddie whispered in horror. “He should be home by now, shouldn’t he?”

Buck nodded “Yeah, Carla or the bus should’ve gotten him, since we’re both on shift— Wait,” he turned to Eddie in horror, “Carla is sick and the bus was cancelled today, remember? His friend’s mom was going to pick him after school.”

“And he had practice, so they would have just made it here.” Eddie finished.

Hen broke into the conversation, saying “Guys, it’ll be alright, the bridge looks stable, we just need to get him down.”

As if to spite her, they heard a rumble, and turned back to see the part of the bridge that Chris was standing on with his friend start to collapse.

Buck barely heard Eddie scream, he was sprinting away so quickly. He could make it. He could get there in time. He would brace the bridge with his body if he had to.

He didn’t make it.

He watched in horror as the bridge fell, and Chris with it. He saw Chris’s friend able to leap onto a stable part, but Chris was too far. He disappeared into the smoke near where the ambulance had crashed, so Buck changed course and started heading that way.

He barely registered anyone else around him as he made his way to the rubble. He didn’t see Chris immediately, and didn’t know whether to feel relief that he wasn’t dead on top or terror that the didn’t know where he was. He settled settled on terror.

He started moving rubble and rocks away, finding debris and survivors amongst it. He passed the survivors on to the other personnel around him, and kept digging.

After what felt like seconds and eternity, he found who he was looking for. Both of them.

“Bobby, Chris, oh thank God.” Buck said in relief.

Chris had somehow managed to get tucked under Bobby, and when Buck looked closer, he saw the evidence of Bobby’s fall, and then subsequent dragging himself over to Chris to cover him when he fell.

Chris looked a little out of it, but Bobby seemed lucid enough, if not worse for wear.

“Come on, let’s get you guys out of there, Bobby can you walk? If not, that’s fine, I can carry both of you I’m sure.” Buck started to ramble, when Bobby stopped him.

“Buck, get Chris.”

Buck looked at Bobby in confusion, he could get both of them he knew it. Bobby met his eyes and moved his head back a little to gesture towards his legs. When Buck looked at his legs he had to hold in a gasp.

They were covered in blood.

He looked at Bobby’s face again, and before he could even open his mouth to ask, Bobby answered.

“I fell wrong,” he chuckled sadly. “It looks worse than it is, don’t worry. But get Chris out of here first.”

Buck opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby beat him to it again.

“Buck no, you can get both of us with how I am, get Chris first.”

“But I can get both of you! I know I can, Cap please-“

“Buck-“

“No! I can get both of you, don’t make me leave you, I can’t, please Dad-“

This time Buck cut himself off, not wanting to continue, but not correcting himself.

Bobby softened, saying quietly “Evan, I’ll be okay. Get your kid and get out of here.”

Buck looked down at Chris, looked back at Bobby, and nodded. Leaning down, he gently grabbed Chris by his underarms, and with a warning, he pulled him out from under Bobby and into his arms.

He adjusted his grip, to hold Chris more securely, and looked back at Bobby.

“I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

Bobby just smiled at him.

“I know you will.”

Buck nodded again, and turned away from his captain, his dad and all the ways that mattered, and began to make his way back out of the rubble.

He adjusted his hold on Chris to bring his hand to his radio.

“I need medical personnel to the location of the first collapse! I have located Captain Nash, and he needs medical attention. There is a path to him. I also need medical personnel to my location, I have an injured civilian.”

Buck could do it all. He would get Chris back to Eddie safely, and he would go back and get Bobby. He could do it. He could save everyone. He ignored his heart rate, his racing thoughts, his cold sweat. He ignored the one thing that was clear:

Buck was still panicking.

[miss-americanbi]

was chatting with my brother about gravity falls (again) and i said something like “man, can you believe stan waited and worked for 30 years just for the chance to try and bring his brother back?” to which my brother responded, “yeah, it’s nuts when you think about it. i wonder if stan got trapped in the multiverse instead, if ford would do the same.” HELLO???

[livwritesstuff]

i went on a deep dive of the Steve & Hopper ao3 tag yesterday and and it got me thinking about what would happen if Chief of Police Hopper ran into Steve and Eddie while he was on patrol after pseudo-adopting Steve, and it’s been long enough that Hopper is sort of a safe-person for Steve so Steve goes into full-fledged bitch mode when Hopper tries to pull cop stuff on them, and Eddie (who knew about none of this because Steve is a chronic under-sharer) is so totally baffled.

He’d spent years watching Steve sweet-talk his way out of trouble. Even before they started hooking up it used to drive Eddie goddamn insane, because if (when) Eddie pulled any of this shit Steve gets away with, he’d be totally screwed, but all Steve has to do is flash a sheepish grin and run a hand through his hair once or twice and say, all baleful, “I really didn’t mean any trouble,” and he’s home free.

It has its perks though, or so he's learned during his last few months of hanging around with Steve, so when Steve and Eddie’s make-out session is interrupted by the tell-tale red and blue lights of a cop car pulling up behind where Steve parked the Beemer a few hundred yards down a maintenance road, Eddie’s not all that worried. In fact, he’s got a pretty good amount of faith in Steve’s ability to spin up some story to keep them out of any real trouble, and as Chief Hopper ambles over to them, Eddie prepares himself for a whole show of, “Yes Chief, sorry Chief, it won’t happen again Chief.”

So imagine Eddie's complete and utter surprise when Hopper barks, “Hey, morons! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” and Steve only rolls his eyes and says, “What’s it to you?”

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

“Steve,” he mutters through gritted teeth. He tries to elbow Steve into shutting the hell up, but he misses because Steve has already taken several steps forward to meet Hopper, his face turned up in a kind of defiance Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him before.

“What’s it to me?” Hopper repeats, glowering at Steve, “It’s midnight. I’m on patrol. You’ve got one of the most recognizable cars in this entire damn town parked in a restricted-access zone with this idiot–” Hopper gestures at Eddie (Eddie didn’t think the pointing or the idiot were necessary, but clearly, clearly, he’s missing something here), “–who’s been dragged into my station more times than I could count.”

“The town line, Hop, is over there,” Steve says, pointing at an indiscriminate spot over Hop’s shoulder that may or may not be part of the Hawkins town line, “We’re not even in Hawkins anymore. You’re totally out of your jurisdiction.”

“You wanna know something about jurisdiction, smart-ass?” Hopper asks, “If my report says shit happened in my jurisdiction, it happened in my jurisdiction.”

“Wow,” Steve deadpans, “Way to not sound totally corrupt. Nice work, Chief.”

Hopper’s jaw twitches for a second, and he’s clearly debating if he wants to keep arguing with Steve who, to Steve’s credit, looks like he’s got debate in him for days. Ultimately though, Hopper decides against it and stalks back over to his squad car.

“If you’re not home by one there’s gonna be hell to pay. You hear me, Harrington?” Hopper yells, “One AM. Hell to pay.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve rolls his eyes, “Totally hear you. One AM. Loud and clear or whatever.”

Steve flips the cruiser both birds as it peels away, which Hopper only flashes his high beams at a couple times before he’s gone, kicking up a bunch of dirt and mulch and leaves in his wake, and Steve is wearing an exasperated expression as he turns to face Eddie again.

“God, he’s so annoying. Let’s just go to my house.”

Eddie gapes at him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Huh?”

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie repeated, gesturing wildly towards where Hopper’s car had just been.

“Wha– you mean with Hop?”

“Uh, yeah?!?”

Steve just brushed him off, “Whatever, just ignore him. He’s basically my dad.”

“What?”

[paintedcrows]

Some Fords! (and Martin K Blackwood is also there)

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[leet911]

It starts off small, and simple enough. Pleng writes little notes — practical ones.

I left you dinner in the fridge.

We're out of eggs.

I packed you some lunch. Enjoy your day!

She signs them “Pleng”, of course, maybe with a little smiley face for punctuation, and she doesn't think about it at first. It seems natural to her, familiar, they've done this all before. And they have phones too, so Pleng could send text messages, but this feels more personal, more private, like it's just for the two of them — a little square of paper they can both run their fingers over in turn, feeling the grooves left by the pen.

And Pleng isn't around when Wan gets those notes. That's the thing with leaving notes. So Pleng doesn't see how Wan’s heart almost stops each time she finds one. She doesn't see how Wan glances at the door each time, how she opens a dresser after reading them, just to be sure Pleng’s clothes are still there.

One time, Pleng finds the drawer where Wan keeps all the notes, and she almost cries. Every single one she had written since moving in, no matter how mundane it had been, all those little scraps of paper with her scribblings on them. And at the very bottom of that drawer, is an envelope that Pleng remembers all too well. The envelope has yellowed over the years, the stain patterns on it expanded, and Pleng knows that those are from tears.

She does not open the envelope. That would feel too much like snooping. Besides, she can still recite all the words from that letter.

But Pleng understands that day the importance of her notes, and they take on a different character.

Just stepped out to pick up dinner, I'll be right back.

I work tonight, so I won't be there when you get home.

I work late tonight, don't wait up. I'll see you in the morning.

She makes it a point to say that she'll be back, that she'll be here, that she's not leaving. And maybe it's a small thing, but it feels right to her. Sometimes, she signs them with a little heart next to her name. And maybe it's in her mind, but Wan seems to smile more after that too. Sometimes Pleng comes home to find Wan asleep on the couch with those little notes still in hand.

Pleng watches the desk drawer fill up over time. More notes get added to the pile, then the pile gets rearranged, then stacks are formed with paper clips, then envelopes and folders appear to hold the stacks. But that one yellowed envelope from thirteen years ago remains. More than once, Pleng thinks about taking it and just throwing it away, hiding her shame, seeing if Wan would notice. That letter isn't them anymore. It was so long ago.

But Pleng isn't brave enough for that. Besides that would be too much like those old times, when it seemed like Pleng made the decisions for Wan, and Pleng doesn't think that would be fair to Wan.

So she redoubles her efforts to leave more notes and bury old wounds. She writes grocery lists and song lyrics; she makes movie and TV recommendations; she writes little diary entries that she leaves lying around for Wan on the days where their schedules just don't line up and they're in and out at different times.

She writes Wan pages and pages over the months, until one day the desk drawer is emptied, and everything is gone.

“Did you throw away all the papers?” Pleng asks that evening.

Wan shakes her head. “I put them in a box. It was getting too much for the desk.”

Pleng avoids meeting her eyes. “Even the envelope?”

“Yes, I haven't opened it in a long time.”

Pleng nods. But Wan moves, sitting very close to Pleng and staring until they finally lock gazes. Wan’s eyes are intense, but they soften almost right away. There's a whirlwind of emotions that swirl through in an instant, and when she speaks, her voice is small. “Don't leave,” Wan whispers, and suddenly all her usual confidence is gone. And Pleng knows they’re not talking about today, about right now. Instead, it's like they’re seventeen again, and Wan might be dying inside, but she would never tell Pleng. She wouldn't want Pleng to worry.

“I won't.” I never wanted to leave you, but Pleng doesn't say that. She doesn't even know if that's strictly true. But they were teenagers back then, and they both did stupid things, so Pleng hopes that none of that matters anymore. “I won't run away again, not from you.” She takes Wan’s face in her hands, kisses her upper lip. It's slow, and gentle, and they have done much much more in recent months, but this is different. This is I love you and Please love me all wrapped into one. This is everything Pleng has never managed to say to Wan, every song she thought about writing but never did. This is an apology thirteen years in the making.

A lone tear rolls down Wan’s face and she goes to rub it away, but Pleng catches her hand. “I won't leave, I promise. You don't have to be perfect for me. You don't have to be strong all the time. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

And for the first time in a long time, Wan finally lets herself cry. But Pleng holds her, wraps Wan in a tight hug, and Pleng tells herself that this time, she will never let go.

Wan is going to develop some sort of PTSD about Pleng leaving notes before disappearing. Years in the future she sees a slip of paper with Pleng's handwriting and almost has a heart attack just for it to be their grocery list or something

[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

[strawbubbysugar]

The base Y/N design for my soulmate AU!!

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[tswwwit]

Cipher's Personal Portable Portal

'How they meet' won the poll!

So just to make things fully contextualized, as far as they're gonna be - here's the full first chunk of this stupidly long fic I'm writing.

I hope you enjoy!

Standing in the wreckage of the burnt-out building, Dipper wishes he didn’t know who did it.

Anyone else would have left some trace sign. A scrape of blood, a hint of burnt hair. A friggin’ decent eyewitness report, even.

But here, like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that - there's absolutely zero traces. No video footage, nobody around at the time of the crime. Not even footprints.

Dipper kicks one of the remaining supports, sending a puff of charcoal up from the impact. 

If he knew the bastard’s name, he’d curse it all to hell.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Dipper sits on a chunk of scorched foundation. He pulls his shoe off to tip the ashes out of it; there’s enough that the resulting cloud leaves him coughing. 

Around him, the scoured west wing of the museum is silent, still, and empty. A grey-black skeleton of its former self, filled with dust and charcoal.

This arson is yet another one in a very, very long line of crimes. They’re not just ‘unrelated incidents’, or ‘bizarre coincidences’. Dipper’s not ‘being paranoid’ or ‘coming up with some pretty weird conspiracy theories’. 

There’s only one person who could manage this. The same guy who turned a bank upside down - literally -  and the same one who impaled a mob boss on an oversized silly straw and gave tails to half of a household last week.

It’s all connected.

Each crime is marked with the same style, mostly by how remarkably weird they are. Along with a thread of magic, distinct in its composition. One so distinctive that it's almost a flavor. Though admittedly, without certain magical analysis, it’s pretty hard to detect. 

And if other freelance magicians would take the time and look at Dipper’s notes, maybe one of them would help find this asshole.

Dipper stalks through the burned building, fists balled in his pockets. He stumbles over a fallen support column, and nearly trips before he makes a hopping retreat back. 

Though the culprit has been at his game - whatever ‘game’ that is - for a good half a year now, this is the most destructive ‘incident’ so far. Nobody was hurt, since it happened in the middle of the night. The one relief from a terrible crime, that only objects were obliterated in the process - 

But the ashes speak for themselves.

Here, there’s nothing left.

He breathes in slowly. Then regrets the attempt at calming himself as he coughs again.

Whatever the culprit’s initial motive was, it hasn’t lasted. He’s grown not only in ambition, but also in his abilities. Things are escalating at a rate Dipper doesn’t like to think about.

Someone has to get to the bottom of this. Before it’s too late. Dipper’s got his number, metaphorically speaking, so. Well, might as well be him. 

And when he proves that all of this chaos was created by the same person - 

Well. A little boost to his meager reputation couldn’t hurt. Maybe a few medals and accolades. There isn’t a trophy for best monster hunter, but he can imagine standing on a podium and -

Dipper waves that thought off, swearing under his breath. Stupid. He has better things to focus on.

He’s the only freelancer on the case. Definitely the only one taking this seriously, the only one who thinks it’s the same person to begin with -  and even he’s starting to have some doubts about ever finding the bastard. 

Six months of tracking this guy down, and what does he have to show for it? A ramshackle compilation of incidents, a vague feeling of magic, and a description that could fit any bottle-blond actor with bad fashion sense. Scraps. He might as well pin them up and connect them with red string for all the good it does him.

Another kick sends Dipper hopping back, clutching his foot with a swear. He winces at the hole in the tip, he nearly punctured his foot on a nail.

Just his luck. Wrong place, wrong time, always just barely avoiding disaster. Dipper shows up whenever there’s an event, he’s got the means to follow the guy - but he’s always just a little too late.

Even worse, lately the guy’s been picking places… not at random, exactly. More like he causes trouble wherever it’d be the most annoying to follow.

The culprit must know someone is on his trail. But he’s not making it impossible to keep up, or even majorly difficult for a determined pursuer. Just really, really irritating, like making moves at three in the morning, or pausing just long enough for someone to catch up, then heading right back where he came from. At one point Dipper had to trudge through a literal swamp, only to find that bastard had sauntered in by baking himself a neat little trail right through the damn thing. There wasn’t even footprints to follow.

It’s a repeated point in Dipper’s notes. Whoever this is, they’re a total, absolute dick.

With a sigh, Dipper runs his fingers through the ash on the museum’s floor. Not a single thing is left beyond the shattered glass of some display cases, and the charred remains of the building. Even the enchanted metal tools have been melted into slag. 

The day before yesterday, he could tell something was up. Building energy, something that felt like it was made by the culprit. Something with the twinge of a powerful curse, coiled and being wound up like a spring. 

Dipper spent that evening convincing - okay, maybe also bribing, thank you Stan for the idea - the museum to let him borrow materials. The day after that, he spent all night, morning, and most of the afternoon running around slapping up anti-curse emblems. The entire south of the city warded, in a fine careful net of spellcraft. The work was exhausting. Both in running around, and in the amount of magic he’d needed to use.

But it was worth it. That evening, in the quiet and very uncursed city, all the emblems activated. Dipper would have sworn he sensed someone in the distance, cursing his own name. That night he went to bed with a smug sense of satisfaction, floating on a cloud of triumph.

Which is probably why the bastard burned down the museum next.

With another sigh, Dipper tucks his notebook back into his knapsack. He’s gleaned all he’s going to for today; in the fading evening light, searching more is pointless.

So much for all the magical artifacts. Most of those had come in really useful in messing with the guy. 

…How the hell did the culprit know where they came from, though? He’d need a near encyclopedic knowledge of artifacts to know which ones Dipper used, then track them back to their origin. 

Or maybe he just searched on the internet. It’s hard to tell.

Dipper just wishes there were more clues. But just like every other incident, the guy up and freakin’ vanished.

No human can disappear like that without some very irresponsible use of power. That hope is one Dipper’s hanging his hat on. After six months? He has to be reaching his limits. He’ll burn himself out before he can manage too many more incidents. Maybe Dipper will find him by stumbling on his withered, dissolving corpse.

Whoever this is is pretty strong, but no power is infinite. He can’t hide forever.

It can’t be too much longer. Won’t be. Dipper has a plan, he’s gotten really close, and - He’s good at his job, damn it. He knows he is. 

Taking a deep, slow breath, Dipper lets it out. Patience is the name of the game here. He’s just gotta keep moving.

One day, he’s going to catch up with that bastard. He’ll see the guy in the flesh. Then he’ll grab that stupid dick before he can escape, again, and wipe that presumably smug look off his probably ugly face.

Turning around one last time, Dipper surveys the destruction, stuffs his hands in his pockets - and pauses. 

A speck of light glints in the pile of ash. The last bit of evening sun, shining off a metallic surface.

Alert with surprise, Dipper scrambles over to the pile. Kneeling down, he brushes the dust carefully aside, careful not to disturb anything fragile that might shatter if handled wrong. 

One thing did survive. Thank fuck, it’s not an absolute total loss. Just, uh… Ninety-nine percent of it.

He scuffles through the still-warm ashes, cupping his palms underneath the lump and lifting it from its bed. The motion sends white puff rising up as ash slips away from the artifact.

A small black, squarish thing rests on the pile, a bit larger than both his palms put together. The material is faintly warm from residual heat, insulated by the ash it laid in - and there’s not a mark on it. Not even a scratch. 

Dipper turns the artifact over in his hands with a frown. The shining black surface reveals no obvious buttons or secrets. Just a kind of phone-ish shape, though more square and squat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say a guest dropped it on the rush to escape. 

The fact that it’s still intact though. Nearly glowing with magic, a tremulous feeling under his palms - this is not dropped by some clumsy tourist. Not even Ford could put this together.

 Wiping at the object with his sleeve, Dipper manages to clean off most of the smooth surface. On one of the sides, dust clings to the thinnest of engravings. The very faint outline of an equilateral triangle. No runes or other magical scribing, just… a shape.

Dipper thinks back but - no, he doesn’t remember seeing this in the collection. A quick check online reveals…

Basically nothing. There are - were - a bunch of stone and metal slabs in the archives, all described so poorly as to be useless. Some are even bunched up in groups. ‘Magical slab 1-24’ and ‘Metal artifact 1-78’, no description involved.

Not surprising. Probably dug up in some mass excavation site, transported here, then never really looked at again. The bulk nature of the shipment means it was overlooked, its magical properties never discovered.

After today, he’s just glad that even one item escaped this onslaught. 

The other artifacts must not have had much to them. But some magical property in this artifact’s making must have saved it from the blaze. Fireproofing, perhaps? Against weird fire? That’s unusual. Maybe even unique.

As the only survivor, it really needs investigating. 

Dipper glances over his shoulder, then around. With everyone evacuated, it’s quiet in the rubble. Nobody here would notice if, say… a clue wandered off.

The artifact slips easily into his pocket. The shape conveniently looks just like a phone, even if the shape’s a bit off. Not something that would attract any attention.

Whistling nonchalantly, ducking out of the way of local law enforcement and any onlookers - Dipper makes his escape. 

Another day of pursuit. Another scene of disaster, the culprit there and gone in the blink of an eye. 

He’ll be up to something new, next. Never the same thing twice, never in the same place. 

Dipper will follow in his evil tracks, of course. But for tonight - his fate is another crappy hotel room. 

He ditches his backpack by the door, slumping against the wall and its chipped paint. He could start going through his notes, and the pictures of the arson. Put in more work, find further connections - 

But it’s been a long day, and he’s tired. He might be magical, but he’s only got so much to work with. A reasonable night’s sleep, if he can manage, will make the task loom less horribly over his tired brain.

With a sigh, he drops back on the mattress. There’s some bounce to it, springs squeaking like they’re full of mice. Hell, maybe they are. The type of room he can afford isn’t exactly decadent.

That, though, should be temporary. Dipper’s career is only just starting; freelancers in the ‘solving magical problems’ scene don’t get great rates. Especially as a beginner. Definitely without a partner; it makes him look super young. Like he’s just starting out, fresh-faced and not having any inroads.

Because this field is really stupid, and doesn’t pay attention to results. Dipper’s been fine on his own for years, and he’s done really cool things without that ‘networking’ crap. 

All by himself. Totally cool with that, because Dipper’s a cool guy, sometimes. If Mabel hypes him up enough on one of their phone calls, he almost believes it too.

Though it would be nice to have some backup, it’s hard to find someone who really gets the job. Or does it in the way that Dipper goes about it. The number of people who are willing to take long treks in hyper-magical territory to search for an obscure clue, or set up really complicated traps for  dangerous monsters, or talk over high-level magical theory while sitting in the rain all night just to get one body-snatcher are…

Well, besides Ford, who recently retired, there aren’t any. Only Dipper himself.

One day, things are going to change for him. All his effort will pay off. If he keeps solving mysteries, and fighting monsters, he’ll forge a reputation as someone who always gets the job done. No matter how hard it is, he can handle it. The work is picking up, too. The last six months have shown the biggest series of magical incidents in decades. 

And he’s gonna be the one to get to the bottom of it.

Dipper Pines, the guy who proved it’s all connected. He’ll have it laid out in facts and math, all the evidence. They’re all gonna see that he was totally right.

Once he finally gets this guy, everything’s going to start looking up. 

The sheets rustle as Dipper settles back, holding the artifact up over himself. He stares into the black surface, and a slightly distorted reflection narrows its eyes back at him. 

A good mystery always intrigues him. This one should take his mind off the other, irritating one for a while.

The only remaining object from the fire is clean and smooth. A mysterious creation, of unknown purpose. Clearly riddled with magic, too; Dipper feels it running just under the surface like a rapid current. It gives the artifact a weight that has nothing to do with mass. 

Power.

Did the criminal see this artifact, still intact after all the other magical objects were gone? Did he try to destroy it too, and fail? Or simply not notice he’d missed one out of thousands?

Whatever it is, it’s got a lot more going on than meets the eye.

Dipper casts a quick identifier, which comes back with nothing. He’s not surprised. That’s the first thing anyone would try. If it was that simple, he’d already have the full description off the site. 

With a shrug, he traces another set of runes, his own version, adding a little more oomph behind it - 

And the magic leaps back instantly, with the bizarre sensation of a bouncy ball hitting concrete.

“Huh,” Dipper says, thoughtfully. He sits up, hunching over the slab in his hands. “Now that’s new.”

A more subtle approach, then. Tracing the lines of energy with the barest brush of magic upon magic reveals something deeply complex. Thin layers twist together deep under the surface, building an entire circulatory system. Dipper has to put it down for a moment, suddenly worried that it is organic. 

When a cautious prod doesn’t get a response, he relaxes. Not fleshy, just complicated. Which also proves he was right earlier - the artifact’s just as powerful as he’d thought. The spellcraft is unlike anything he’s ever seen. 

Dipper rubs his hands together, starting to smile. 

Even if he doesn’t find the guy he’s after, figuring this out could be a heck of a win.

Several attempts later, he’s beginning to get why this bastard brick got tossed in with all the other junk. 

Nothing here is working. It simply deflects. Standard spells poing off of it like rubber, while giving his magical senses an odd, back-of-the brain afterimage of a circle with a slash through it; a firm ‘nah’. 

Dipper nearly chucks the thing across the room in frustration, before shutting his eyes and taking several, calming breaths. 

Okay, weird thing, weird enchantment. The ordinary stuff won’t work. The magical logic is… twisted in a way that leaves it incompatible with most everything. He’ll have to find a different approach. 

“What are you?” Dipper says, low and frustrated. He gives the artifact a shake, as if he can knock the secrets out like a rock from a shoe. “What secrets are you hiding in there?” 

No response, not that he expected one. With a wry smile, he taps the sleek surface with a finger, twice. “C’mon, man. Talk to me.” 

Huge yellow letters flash onto the black surface. 

HEY

Dipper throws the artifact, a bit awkwardly since he’s lying on his back. It sails in the air in a high thin arc, landing with a thump between his legs. He scoots rapidly backward, sheets pulling up behind him. 

The artifact lies where it landed, an unmoving brick.  There’s magic in the air now, but no sense of any spell building, ready to unleash power to blow his face off. The latent spellcraft of the artifact has just been activated.

More text displays on the surface, bare except for the glowing letters. 

To the jerk that’s swiped my private stuff: You got some nerve! I expect this back by interdimensional mail in a week, or trust me - there will be consequences.

Dipper waits a full minute before he lets go of the headboard. Tentatively, he kneels near the…

 Is this a phone? 

Clearly it’s a communication device of some sort, with the freaking text messages. A phone is the obvious equivalent, only - he thought it looked far older than that, something way before mobile phones. Possible ancient. Is that a coincidence, maybe, or is it secretly modern?

Dipper taps the ‘screen’, just below the glowing words. To his surprise, there’s actually a keyboard, what the hell. This thing keeps getting weirder.

Since it hasn’t already thrown a horrible curse at him, or burst into flames - it’s reasonably safe to assume that it’s simply ‘on’. Not ‘explosive’. 

With hands that are definitely not shaking, he picks it up, and types,

Who is this? 

His own text pops up in blue. A strange contrast to the yellow, but he’s guessing it’s for convenience - there’s no bubbles to tell who’s said what otherwise.

A few seconds of nervous waiting later, there’s a response. 

Oh hey, you answered! Well, human - You’re talking to the one and only Bill Cipher, Dream Demon, all-powerful master of the Mindscape! I’d say it’s nice to meet ya but you’re not supposed to have a direct line to me!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. 

Now that’s one hell of an introduction. It might even have been interesting, if it didn’t smell of complete bullshit. 

Complicated spellwork, sure. Incomprehensible architecture? Maybe. Dipper can admit it; he’s never seen anything with a web of spells on it this complex, in such small of a package.

But the idea that Dipper just stumbled onto a demonic artifact of all things. One that wasn’t instantly detected, recorded, then ritually destroyed is…

Someone’s fucking with him. 

Dipper rolls his eyes as he types back,

Really? Demon? You can’t expect me to believe that. 

What, you calling me a liar? ‘Cause I am, but not about this! I got better things to mislead mortals about. This is my property, not something for your grubby mortal mitts.

Dipper snorts. Guess this person’s sticking with the bit. Obviously whoever created this would want it back - but too bad. Whether they’re delusional, stupid, or just a flat-out liar, they’re really good at enchanting. It’d be a waste not to study their work. 

He lies back on the bed as he replies.

Sure, have fun roleplaying, or whatever, it doesn’t make a difference. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

ARE YOU CALLING ME A LOSER. MORTAL.

Hmm, I’m detecting a certain amount of ‘crying about it’, so. Yeah. Suck it, loser.

Smirking, Dipper settles back - then his half-smile drops, as he holds the ‘phone’ a little further away from himself. 

Though the blue fire building up in the screen looks like a bad sticker effect, the artifact’s also getting a alarmingly warm. It vibrates in his hands - then suddenly stops, cooling down. 

Ha! Alright, alright, I admit - you got some balls.

Maybe you’ll change your tune once you REALLY know what you’re dealing with! Might wanna check the connection, if you’re even capable of it! Mortal magic doesn’t reach across dimensions!

With a grimace, Dipper taps his fingers on the phone. It’s slightly cooler now, but still worryingly reactive to… whatever happened on the other end. 

Damn. Whoever this is, they’re not only really really good at enchanting, they’re also pretty confident that tracking them down won’t spoil their game. The confidence exuding from this ‘Bill’s’ words feels genuine.

Honestly, though, the suggestion is a good one. Dipper should have tried to trace the call the second he knew someone else was on the line. 

Maybe ‘Bill’ thinks he won’t manage to find him. Joke’s on him, though; Dipper’s amazing at finding stuff. He’s the best tracker of magical anything in years. Maybe decades. With a solid, stable connection right in front of him? Hell, he could do this one in his sleep. 

Time to call the bluff.

He casts the tracing spell, though it takes longer than usual. A few gestures and muttered ritual aren’t gonna cut it; he has to improvise around the strange construction of the enchantment. Even trailing along the magic seems harder than usual, like it resists mixing with his own, and it takes him a few attempts to match the signal. 

Once he finds the right way to tune it… the lead snaps along the already-existing connection, and zips away to find its source.

The line extends out from the shabby hotel room, a plucked string in Dipper’s senses. It twists around the phone, rising slowly. Invisibly passing through the walls and the - 

Ceiling? Dipper looks up on instinct, even though nothing is visible.

From there it swirls around in the air like a silly straw on steroids, and then - out, very far, in a way that isn’t up or down or left or right, just  

Away.

Dipper has to cut off the tracing spell before vertigo has him reeling. The swirling sense of standing on top of a skyscraper is followed by a flip in his stomach. That he’s using a device he barely understands that reaches out into something even more incomprehensible.

He drops the phone-artifact, trying to clear his head by shaking it rapidly. 

That’s not nearby. Not on this planet. Possibly, genuinely, not even in this dimension. 

Shit. Bill wasn’t bluffing.

Dipper wipes sweating palms on the sheets. To pick up the phone again takes an effort, willing himself to grasp it in unsteady hands.

A demon. 

All the monsters he’s fought, curses he’s broken, years of work tucked into his belt, and he’s never seen one of those. 

Demons are dangerous, evil, and very, very powerful. Consorting with them is by all accounts a terrible idea. He should never have picked this up. He should hang up, and throw the damn artifact out the window, hoping that nobody else makes as dumb a mistake as he just did. 

On the screen, there’s a long long scroll of yellow letters, filling the entire surface. ‘HA HA HA HA’ over and over and over again. 

Before he can think better of it, Dipper starts a response. He’s halfway through a sentence - what the fuck, that’s not funny- before he pauses.

Terrible evil monster. Stupid powerful. Probably Bill sensed the tracing of the connection, like he did with Dipper’s other testing. Bill wanted the result startle him. Because he thinks it’s funny.

Dipper grits his teeth, and glares at the screen. 

Actually, screw this guy. Dipper’s keeping the stupid phone. If for no other reason than spite. This ‘Bill’ guy seems pretty full of himself, like he’s totally above some human. He’s in for a bad time, then, because Dipper’s not going to let one little surprise scare him off.

Besides.  The average guy would get into horrible, even deadly trouble, whereas Dipper… sort of knows what he’s doing.  No, he is good at his job. Finding secrets, solving mysteries, thwarting evil jerks who think they’re oh-so-hilarious, the whole shebang. He does it all.

Taking another breath, hissing through clenched teeth - Dipper lets it out. Losing his temper isn’t going to help deal with an extradimensional being. He has to be careful.

He thinks for a long moment before he responds. 

Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Maybe. Then you should know I didn’t steal your… whatever this is. I found it lying around, and I just. Got kind of curious. 

HA HA HA! Of course you were! Careful with that impulse, kid, it kills more than just cats!

A jerk who definitely thinks he’s hilarious. Dipper rolls his eyes, then, rather pettily, decides to ignore that statement. 

More pressing questions take the lead. Like what the fuck he’s holding right now, and if there are any other nasty tricks in store. A little bit of him, bubbling under the surface, wonders what being a demon is like. What they get up to, common habits. Ways they could be tracked down and, y’know, defeated, maybe. 

Theoretically, he’s got a line to a bunch of innocent, totally not-thwarting-related information that could be super useful to someone trying to, maybe, be a super cool monster-fighter.

Dipper backspaces a bunch over some poorly thought out questions. First things first. Like what the hell he’s holding right now.

So. What is this?

Good question! The gadget you’re poking at with your sweaty meat-paws is paired to the one I have here at my place. A little one-on-one communication assistant, if you will. Once you started groping around with your magic, it wasn’t hard to tell someone had picked it up!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. Though he already has an idea… a little confirmation never hurts. 

Like, you got a notification? Or literally felt?

The latter! Kinda like smell, but by touching things with your eyeballs. And with all your prodding around you might as well have been stinking up the place! Your spells aren’t real subtle!

Hey, they’re subtle! Having weird extra senses is just cheating.

Sucks to be human, then! In that you suck at everything! What’s a LOSER like you gonna do about it?

Dipper nearly throws the stupid artifact again - but he holds back, gripping it tight. Instead he sits up, leaning down and hauling his backpack up from the side of the bed. 

Maybe Bill thinks he can’t do anything. That he’s some ignorant nobody, who doesn’t have any real skills or talent or doesn’t have any friends - but he’s got that wrong. Dipper’s not a loser. Bill’s not getting away with that bullshit.

One quick unzip and a bit of rifling around later, he finds what he was looking for. Carefully, Dipper bounces the heft of a flashlight battery in his hand. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on crafting a quick working.

Magic is all about energy, and its direction. Focusing power, conveying it from one place to another. Pushing anything across dimensions would take impossible amounts of energy, stuff Dipper doesn’t have. If it weren’t for a very convenient connection, already in his hand.

Dipper has nothing on hand to actually exorcise the guy - he’s not sure that’s even possible when Bill’s where he should be - but retribution is in order.

More text lines appear on the artifact. He ignores them. Changing this up to work with the demon device is a challenge, but after figuring out how to alter the tracking spell changing this one up isn’t hard. He adjusts the flow of magic this way, into the tangle of not-veins in the device that way, finishes the chant-

Then touches his tongue to the battery.

The jolt passes through him painlessly, following the spell. It zips along his nerves, down into his hand and from there - into the artifact itself. 

Where it should, theoretically end up right at that bastard.

Dipper tosses the battery back into his backpack. Picking up the ‘phone’, hunching over to stare at the screen. 

That worked. He felt the energy move… unless he got the math wrong. Or a detail of his spell. Or maybe demons are immune to electricity, and he just did something totally pointless. 

God. It might even prove Bill right, and wouldn’t that be the worst - 

The next line of text comes in. 

What the hell? A joy buzzer? That’s some real petty prank stuff! You seriously pulled that bullshit? And across dimensions?

A tense pause. Dipper taps the phone, checking for it heating up again - but another line pops up after a few seconds.

Y’know what, kid? I think I might actually like you! You’re FEISTY.

Dipper nearly does a double-take. 

But no, that - what? Aren’t demons supposed to be vengeful? He was half-sure he’d have to chuck the phone out the window before it exploded in his hands. 

In fact, you’re in luck! ‘Cause I’m pretty bored, and I can totally show you how to improve that jinx of yours! If you can keep up with a little theory, that is.

Because that’s not suspicious or anything. Conversation with a demon can only lead to ruin and disaster. He should absolutely, definitely stop this right in its tracks.

Still, Dipper shrugs, and types, 

Try me.

[idliketobeatree]

to Charles, an Edwin Payne poem.

[miasmaghoul]

sooo.. how do we feel about swiss fingering transdew in the passenger seat

"Why me?"

Swiss tilts his head, spinning a heavy set of keys around one finger.

"Why not?"

Dew raises an eyebrow, gestures at the guitar in his lap, the papers spread out on his bed.

"Oh please," Swiss scoffs, pushing himself away from Dew's doorframe and striding into his sunlit room. It's a gorgeous day, early spring, the sweet scent of the rose gardens wafting in on the breeze. "You're tellin' me you'd rather practice than go for a joyride?"

Dew snorts, crossing his ankles and adjusting his beat up old acoustic. It's true that he's been at it for a while now, since just after breakfast, but this solo has been giving him shit and he's determined to nail it before their next group session.

"I don't think taking Sunny and Lus to the grocery store counts as a joyride."

Dew strums out a few chords while Swiss flops into his desk chair, leaning it back onto two legs. It creaks under his weight.

"Maybe not," Swiss concedes, unbothered, "but you could still come keep me company."

"What, the girls not enough for you?"

"They would be," Swiss replies with a shrug. "If they didn't spend every trip making out in the back seat."

Dew snorts at that - Swiss has a point, Sunshine and Cumulus are not ones to keep their hands off each other in any context. Still, he grumbles.

"C'mon, Sparky," Swiss goads, scooting his chair closer so he can rest his elbows on the mattress, propping his chin in one hand and prodding at Dew's knee with the other. "Don't make me beg."

"But I like it when you beg."

Dew throws Swiss a wink, and Swiss reciprocates with his best puppy dog eyes. Big and wet and completely irresistible. Dew sighs, throws up his hands in mock defeat.

"Fine, fine," he grumps, setting his guitar on the bed. "But I'd better get something outta this."

Swiss grins, delighted. Pats Dew on the thigh as he stands, shoving the chair back under the desk.

"I'll tell Lus to buy that spicy jerky you like," he offers, and Dew gives him a little ooh.

"The cheese too," he insists, shuffling to the edge of the mattress and reaching for his boots. "The one with the habaneros."

"Yeah, yeah," Swiss chuckles, heading for the door, "but warn me before you eat it, I'm not sleeping with you on cheese night again. I learned my lesson."

Dew hurls a pillow at him, and Swiss scampers into the hall with a boisterous laugh. The little ghoul works on lacing up his boots, and makes a mental note to never tell Swiss when it's cheese night.

Twenty minutes later they're on the road, and as the breeze blows through his hair Dew wonders why he was so reluctant in the first place.

It's a gorgeous day, sunny and hot, but not enough to need the a/c. They're flying down the highway in Copia's ancient whale of a car, the windows down and a Judas Priest cassette blaring through the speakers; Swiss belts out the chorus to Breaking the Law while Dew taps out a matching rhythm on the outside of his door. In the back, Cumulus provides backing vocals while Sunshine dances in her seat, and Dew can't help the massive grin that splits his face.

It's a 45 minute drive to the nearest grocery store - the one downside to the abbey being so remote - but the trip passes quicker than he expects. They're trundling into the parking lot before Dew knows it, Swiss killing the engine and groaning through a solid stretch. Dew flips down the visor, looks in the tiny mirror and makes a displeased sound at the state of his hair.

"Okay," Cumulus pipes up from the back seat. Dew peers at her in the mirror, not missing the fresh hickey just below her ear. "I have the list, I have our allowance, I have..." she pats at her chest, searching the pockets of her denim vest, "ah, and I have my phone!"

"You got my snacks on that list?" Dew inquires, working at his knotted ends. Cumulus makes an affirmative sound.

"Sure do," she lilts, leaning forward to dangle the paper in his face. "Jerky and cheese, as requested."

"Get some of that chocolate I like too," he mumbles, "the dark stuff, with the salt." He turns his head to give her outstretched hand a quick peck. "Please."

"You got it, sugar," she giggles, tucking the list away. "You two coming with us?"

"No boys allowed," Sunshine and Swiss say in unison, and the lot of them chuckle. It's a known fact that Dew isn't a fan of crowds and that Swiss can't be trusted around free samples, so in the car they will stay.

"Besides," Swiss adds, leaning across the bench seat to throw an arm around Dew's narrow shoulders, "I got good company right here."

He nips at Dew's ear and the little ghoul elbows him in the side, hard enough to make Swiss yelp. It turns into a quick little slap fight, a moment of playful stupidity that Dew will never admit to enjoying as much as he does.

"Play nice, kids," Sunshine chides when they break apart, resting her chin on the back of their seat with a toothy grin. "Or mommy won't bring back any treats!"

"Gross," Dew complains, but settles anyway. Goes back to working the kinks from his golden locks. Sunshine leans over the seat to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek and Dew squawks in protest.

"Aww, but you I thought you loved calling me that!"

Dew shoves her away, suffers through a chorus of snickers while his cheeks go pink, and resolutely avoids looking over as Swiss. The girls get their things together and then they're clambering out of the car; Sunshine glues herself to Cumulus, laces their hands together, and together they stride across the parking lot to the hulking monolith that is the grocery store.

"Mommy, huh?" Swiss pipes up moments later, and Dew groans.

"Shut up," he grouses, giving up on his messy hair and slouching down in his seat. "It's her thing, not mine," Dew lies. "Besides, I've called you worse."

"Can't argue that," Swiss lilts, stretching his arm along the back of the bench seat. "Remember that time you called me Mr. Army?"

Oh, does he, and Dew really doesn't want to think about that right now. Thick fingers tease their way into his tangled hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp.

"You were the one that put me in a schoolgirl outfit," Dew huffs, crossing his legs for reasons totally unrelated to that particular memory. "I can't be held accountable for anything I said."

"I just never thought I'd get anyone but Rain to call me that," Swiss murmurs, a lascivious grin sliding onto his face. Dew looks at him from the corner of his eye, unwilling to lose the pleasant pressure of Swiss' hand in his hair.

"Rain? Really?"

"Oh yeah," Swiss says, converational. His hand moves to cup the back of Dew's neck, and oh is that lovely. "Wanted me to spank his ass raw and tell him what a naughty boy he was while he said it. Poor guy went off against my thigh before I could even get him on my cock," he sighs, wistful. Swiss turns his head, fixes Dew with that vulpine smile. "You were a nice surprise."

The little ghoul rolls his eyes, and really hopes Swiss doesn't notice him squeezing his thighs together. He has nothing further to say on the matter - or, at least, nothing that won't get him into trouble - so he stays silent. Enjoys the way Swiss' thumb rubs the spot just behind his ear while he watches humans mill about the lot. Families and individuals both, with arms full of paper bags holding untold goodies.

For what it's worth, Swiss doesn't keep talking either. He's not quiet, still humming out a tune Dew recognizes but can't quite place, but it's comfortable. The sun's hanging high in the early afternoon sky, a gentle breeze flowing though the still open windows, and Dew would be lying if he said this wasn't a nice way to kill time.

"What's on your mind?" Swiss asks a handful of minutes later, giving his neck a squeeze. "You're never quiet for this long."

"Oh you're one to talk," Dew chuffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't remember the last time you shut up for more than five minutes."

"Pfft, sure you can," Swiss insists, that large hand dipping into the collar of Dew’s t-shirt, callused fingertips drifting over his skin and dragging a soft sigh from his lips. "I'm pretty sure I don't talk that much when you're sitting on my face, spitfire."

Dew scoffs despite the tingle the words force through him, a warm feeling settling into his belly. He turns his head to give Swiss a look, an incredulous eyebrow raised.

"That's the only example you can think of?"

"No," Swiss shrugs, "it's just the one I'm thinkin' of right now." The other ghoul licks his lips in a very intentional way, and that tingle hits again. "I guess deepthroating Mount counts too, but -"

"So the only thing that keeps you from yapping is having someone's junk in your mouth," Dew interrupts, nodding sagely, "noted."

Swiss laughs, loud enough to get the attention of a few people loading their car nearby. Dew shrinks in his seat.

"Like you're complaining."

He shifts in the seat, scooching closer. Dew squints at him, suspicious, but doesn't protest. Not even when Swiss gets close enough for their thighs to touch, for the other ghoul to drape an arm around his neck and let that huge hand rest on his chest. For Dew to soak in his spicy cologne and for Swiss to rest his chin on a bony shoulder.

"Besides," he rumbles, nosing at Dew's temple, "we both know you love my yapping."

"Love is a strong word," Dew mumbles, tilting his head when Swiss nuzzles his neck nonetheless.

"Mm, I don't think so," Swiss hums against his jaw, stubble scratching at his skin in a way that makes Dew's eyelids flutter. "Don't think I missed that little leg squeeze when I was talkin' about Rain, baby."

Dew groans, gives him a little shove. Far from enough to dislodge the other ghoul, more of a nudge than anything else. Token protest. Swiss huffs out a soft laugh, kisses his cheek.

"That's what I thought," he coos, licking at the shell of Dew's ear to draw out a shiver. The hand on his chest finds a nipple through his shirt, and Dew has to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. Curse Swiss for knowing every one of his weak spots. "Can't hide from me, Sparky."

Dew hates that he's right, and hates even more that - even in a place like this - Swiss can get him riled up with so little effort. Dew bounces his leg, takes his lower lip between his teeth while he scans the parking lot. There are people everywhere, but none close enough to see them - a fact Dew is very thankful for when Swiss sucks his earlobe and gives one of his nipple piercings a tug. Any closer and they might hear his moan.

"Fuck," Dew grunts, squirming in his seat, "ugh, you bitch."

"Such language," Swiss taunts, tracing the tip of his tongue along Dew's pulse point. "Lucifer, you're so easy."

Dew growls as best he can, human glamour be damned, and it just makes Swiss laugh again. It's a shame he can't argue - Swiss and Aether are the only ones who have such an effect on him, and they both know it perfectly well.

"Aww, gettin' all hot and bothered already?" Dew tries to shake his head, but Swiss kisses his throat and it doesn't get him very far. "Don't lie, firecracker. I can smell it on you."

Of course he can. He always can. Dew sighs as his eyes slip shut, sagging into the seat as Swiss slowly but surely teases the spots that make him start to sweat. Swiss' other hand lands on his thigh, stroking tight denim until Dew’s legs uncross. He walks two fingers up the inseam of the little ghoul's jeans while he trails wet kisses along his jaw, and Dew really can't help the soft sounds it all wrings from him.

Then that wandering hand sneaks under his shirt, lifts it up to expose his belly, and Dew jolts.

"H-hey, wait," he breathes, fists balled at his sides. His eyes crack open despite the way Swiss continues to work his chest, his throat, his ear. He watches Swiss' talented fingers trace his happy trail, dip into his navel and disappear up his shirt, and when Swiss rubs at his bare nipple Dew has to clap a hand over his mouth to hide his moan. "Shit, Swiss -"

It's muffled by his palm, and Dew's eyes dart around the parking lot as Swiss pulls away. Fixes him with hooded eyes and a crooked smile.

"Hm?" Swiss tugs both piercings at once and Dew shudders. "Something wrong?"

"You - oh - fuck, Swiss some...someone's gonna hear, someone's gonna - nngh - gonna see -"

"So?" The hand under his shirt runs ticklish trails down his belly, makes the muscles there jump. Swiss nibbles at his collarbone and Dew makes an embarrassing gurgling noise. "You like being watched and we both know it."

That may be true, but Dew thinks there's a difference between Mountain spying on him through a crack in the door and being fondled in a public parking lot with the windows down.

Swiss' hand finds his belt then, and Dew throbs.

"Fucker," he bites out as Swiss unbuckles him, other hand still expertly working his chest, and Dew flushes at the dark chuckle Swiss lets out.

"Maybe later," he croons, kissing the hinge of his jaw. "I got other plans for you right now."

Swiss wastes no time it getting his belt out of the way, quick to pop the button and tug down his zipper. Dew's narrow chest is heaving by the time Swiss hooks two fingers into the band of his boxer briefs. The other ghoul gives him a cruel smirk, snaps the band against his skin, and Dew sucks air through his teeth.

"Better keep it down, baby," Swiss speaks against his ear, liquid silk. "If you can, that is."

That hand worms its way into his underwear, slips down between his thighs, and Dew clenches his teeth so hard his jaw cracks.

"Mm, what's this?" Swiss glides the tip of one finger through his folds and Dew's thighs tense. "So slippery already. Just from this?"

Swiss tweaks his nipple, licks a nasty stripe below his ear, and Dew really has to work not to choke on his own tongue. His fat little dick throbs against Swiss' palm, and Swiss sounds absolutely thrilled about it.

"Oh, someone's excited," he teases, one thick finger prodding at his hole. "It's already tryin' to suck me in," Swiss sing-songs, and the little ghoul's shoulders sag.

Dew whimpers when he pushes the tip inside, clenching around an intrusion that feels far too good for how slight it is. He can't stop looking at everyone wandering the parking lot, trying to stay on high alert for the slightest hint of undue attention but struggling more and more with every passing second. Swiss wriggles that probing digit further inside, up to the second knuckle, and then there's sudden pressure on it front wall that has Dew's back arching off the seat.

"Fuck, fuck," he wheezes, hands flying to whatever he can reach - one paws at Swiss' shirt, the other gripping his forearm. Feeling the muscles shift as Swiss' finger works him open, groaning at the gentle stretch. "Oh you bastard."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart," Swiss breathes, palming his stiff clit, and Dew's breath catches in his throat.

"Can't believe you're - oh shit, oh - fuck, can't believe I'm letting you - ah!"

Dew bites his lips shut as Swiss curls his finger just right, muting his cry and fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back. Clamps his thighs around that massive hand until Swiss chuckles in his ear, swirling that digit and making the little ghoul's eyes cross instead.

"You're so pretty like this," he rumbles, a second finger tracing around the first, spreading slick. "All shy. Makes you even tighter," Swiss tells him, and Dew clamps down even harder. Why is it so good? "Wish I could get you in my lap right now," his breath is so, so hot in Dew's ear. "Get you to sit on my cock and see how quiet you are then."

Dew shivers head to toe, legs spreading at the thought alone, and Swiss leaps at the opportunity. Pulls his first finger out only to slide back in with two, and there's no possible way he could stay silent through that. He turns his head just in time to sink his teeth into Swiss' shoulder, howling his pleasure into cotton and flesh, and Swiss groans right along with him.

"That's more like it," he praises, kissing the top of Dew’s head while he pants and shivers. "Gonna be a quick one, isn't it?"

Dew nods as best he can, moaning into Swiss' shirt when he rubs the heel of his hand in slow circles over his pulsing clit. Doesn't pull back until he's sure he can control himself, gasping when Swiss crooks his fingers but biting back the whine bubbling up in his throat.

"Y-yeah," he admits, thready. He can't be bothered to look out the window anymore, staring only at the bulge Swiss' hand makes in his jeans. "Fuck, just do it, fuckin' make me."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Swiss lilts, one last taunt, and then the only sound filling the space around them is the wet squelch of skilled fingers plunging in and out of his tight little body.

It's perfect - the curve of Swiss' digits, the pressure against his sensitive little dick, the way Swiss rubs at that one spot inside that has Dew going boneless against Swiss' side. Huffing hot into his shirt, hair falling into his face and wafting in the breeze still flowing through the open windows. He can't stop grabbing at Swiss - his shirt, his arm, whatever he can reach. Skinny hips rolling against his palm in search of more, more, driving Swiss' fingers as deep as they'll go.

"C-close," he spits far too soon, every inch of him on fire and wound tight as a spring. Swiss gives his closes approximation of his usual purr, and Dew's thighs quiver. "Like...like that, just like that, shit -"

"Yeah?"

The hand still torturing his nipples stills, presses flat to Dew's chest. His fingers feel so perfect Dew can't handle it, on edge and covered in goosebumps.

"Give me a squeeze, baby," Swiss instructs, and Dew does. Clenches hard around those two wonderful digits and Swiss seems to predict the sound it'll drag from him, because the hand on his chest flies to cover Dew's mouth and catch his wail. "Fuck, that's my good boy," Swiss huffs, breathless in a way Dew adores even through his haze of pleasure. The other ghoul holds him close, keeps his mouth covered, and Dew scrabbles at the arm working him. "Now let me feel it cum for me."

Dew loses all sense of rhythm as Swiss curls his fingers one last time, hitting something that puts stars in his eyes and wrenches harsh moans from his throat, and with one perfect roll of Swiss' palm against his clit Dew's gone.

He's drooling against Swiss' palm when he comes down from the highest high, sweaty at his hairline and his cunt still snapping around Swiss' fingers. Holding him inside with the little ghoul rides out the aftershocks, breathing hard through his nose and blinking with one eye at a time. Swiss is muttering all sorts of nonsense into his hair, a litany of praise and wonderment that Dew cannot for the life of him understand but appreciates anyway.

Soon enough sensitivity sets in, and Dew hisses against Swiss' damp palm. Reaches up to peel his hand away with shaky fingers, squirming until Swiss gets the message and pulls out with care. There's a gush of warmth that follows, soaks into his briefs, and Dew heaves a sigh.

"Unholy shit," he slurs, collapsing back into his seat like a mound of jelly. "What the fuck, Swiss."

The other ghoul chuckles, and Dew rolls his neck just in time to watch Swiss pop his messy fingers into his mouth. Listens to Swiss suck them clean and groan at the taste of him.

"What?" He licks slick from his palm, exaggerated passes of his tongue that Dew finds himself fascinated by. "You said you wanted to get something outta this, right?" Dew blinks at him, brows scrunched together as he tried to make his brain work. "Just granting your wish, Sparky."

Swiss gives him a wink, and then he's leaning in for a quick kiss. Just a peck, really, before he's fastening Dew's jeans and putting his belt back into place. Smoothing his hair as best he can before he scoots back behind the wheel, lacing his fingers behind his head. Dew's fully back by the time he's done, very aware of their surroundings once more and ever so glad to see their activities seem to have gone unnoticed.

"Just in time, too," Swiss comments, nodding towards the store. Dew squits against the sun and sees the girls just leaving the building, Sunshine's arms full and Cumulus carrying what looks to be a single bag of chips. They're bumping into each other and giggling, Dew can tell even from across the lot, and his own smile curls into place.

"Damn," he laments, sitting up straighter. "Guess you'll have to wait 'til we get back for your turn, huh?"

He turns to give Swiss a playful wink, and finds Swiss looking...he isn't sure. Smug? Maybe? Hard to say.

"What's your problem?"

"Nothin'," he shrugs, eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Just find it funny that after so long you still don't know what you do to me."

Dew blinks as Swiss reaches over to grab his wrist, guiding to his crotch and -

"Oh no fuckin' way."

"Tell anyone and I won't eat you out for a month," Swiss threatens, but Dew's too busy enjoying the sizeable wet spot beneath his hand to care.

"We're ba-ack!" Cumulus calls once they're in earshot, and Dew gives Swiss a squeeze before he pulls back. Licks at his palm while Sunshine loads up the trunk, just to make the other ghoul suffer a little bit more. The back doors swing open and the girls slide inside. "You boys have fun without us?"

"Oh, Lus," Dew tells her, rifling through the cassettes in the glove box with the tang of Swiss still coating his tongue. "You have no idea."