#Push-to-Talk Over Cellular

[ict-123]

According to the report, the global push-to-talk over cellular industry generated $3.43 billion in 2019, and is projected to garner $6.95 billion by 2027, growing at a CAGR of 9.4% from 2020 to 2027.

[healthcaremmr]

Push-to-Talk over Cellular Market size is expected to grow at 10% throughout the forecast period, reaching nearly US$ 9.68 Bn by 2030.

[heavenbarnes]

@abcdbleh you little beauty 🫶🏼 this is in the “cellular-device-universe” | p1 p2 p3 p4

you had managed an incredible feat, what with bringing your older bf!simon around to the idea of sex over the air waves.

you’d effectively achieved the impossible.

well, something you’d thought impossible given who he was as a person. some guy, simple guy, practical and not remotely interested in anything he doesn’t think worth his time.

that’s the thing- when it comes to you?

everything is worth his time.

you could tell him that you’d booked an all expenses paid couples trip to the fucking moon and he’d have your bags in the car before you’d even finished speaking.

he likes that look on your face when you’re happy.

you’d imagined that getting him to send you videos whilst he stroked his cock would be difficult, but now your hidden folder is bursting at the seams.

you had no idea how easy it’d be to have him send you photos in just his briefs, tattooed arm barely illuminated by low light as his large hand gripped himself through the fabric.

but here you were.

laid back in your bed, awfully roomy without a hulking great simon to take up three quarters of it, your phone was pressed to your ear.

“what y’mean, love?”

the deep, rolling rumble of his voice would probably do it if you tried hard enough. you could have him read the menu from the local chinese takeout and make do. he just had that effect on you.

“i mean- i want you to touch yourself and talk me through it, si”

you could hear the way his breath caught in his throat, a stuttered little exhale and a crackle over the line. he was in the middle of nowhere (far as you were concerned) but he could still find it to keep you satisfied.

simon would never have you settle for less.

the quiet you could hear on his end wasn’t nerves, you knew him well enough to immediately detect- inexperience?

there was very little simon didn’t know how to do in the bedroom but bring any virtual factors (like a cellphone) and he just needed a couple directions.

he needed an order.

“si, i want to get off to your voice, the sound of you touching yourself- i want you to cum and i want to hear about it in excruciating detail”

you could hear how scratchy his military grade blanket was, woollen and likely older than you, being pushed down his body.

no shuffle of clothing, he was already stark naked in his cot. he’d been with rest of the 141 long enough, you just assume they’ve all seen each other in their entireties. sharing rooms, sharing showers.

you can’t think about that kind of thing too long. the implications that come with it.

the sound of simon spitting in his palm drags you out of steam filled visions, kyle asking your boyfriend for help getting his back, johnny watching wide-eyed but waiting for his signal.

anyway- anyways, the sound of his large palm dragging along his cock had you back in the present for good. you could almost picture the way his foreskin would be rolling down the head.

“already s’fuckin hard for you”

“i bet”

a bet that’d make you a billionaire.

you could count on simon for a lot of things but as sure as the sun rises in the east, that man would be hard for you.

you’d say a gentle breeze would do it. he’d say only if you were blowing.

cheek of him.

faint sounds, faint sounds of his hand tugging on himself but you needed more. you needed it fucking filthy and unmistakable across the line that he was doing one thing.

“more spit, si- need to hear it”

and you could, spit mixed with the leaking pre-cum that was running from his head. soon the sound was circling your eardrums as he worked up a steady rhythm.

“been lookin’ at y’little pictures”

deep sigh as he said it, like he was thinking back to you in compromising positions. you could almost see him with his eyes drifting shut, phone between his ear and shoulder whilst both hands preoccupied by his cock and balls.

“can’t hardly wait to get home to you”

as one hand stroked along his length, running his fingers over the head, the other would be cupping his heavy sack as he rolled them both in his palm.

“y’been teasing me, sweet’art”

large feet would be planted on the threadbare mattress, his thighs tensing the more he tugged himself off. you knew he’d be imagining you in his lap, doing all the work for him so he could focus on running his mouth.

“jus’y wait till i get m’hands on you”

your heart was in your throat with every word he said, you’d no doubt he’d stay true to his word. you had visions of him throwing the front door open and telling you to run.

finding you crawling across the bed to duck down the other side but his grip tightening around your ankle before you could get away.

you had to leave that feeling in the pit of your stomach before you got lightheaded but, as usual, simon knew you better.

“what’s goin’ on in that pretty head f’yours? thinkin’ about all the nasty things i’ll do t’you?”

a squeak of a moan slipped out of you, back arching in the bed as simon chuckled down the line. he always knew exactly what he was doing to you.

calculated man, comes with the territory.

“first thing i’m gonna’ do is stuff my cock in’y, got a couple’a loads saved up just f’you”

you couldn’t imagine how, all the filthy videos he’d been sending you. thick load after thick load spilt over his chest, his thighs, the shower drain.

but, then again, you’ve yet to find a thing he wouldn’t do for you.

“gonna’ keep y’in that fuckin’ bed till y’begging f’mercy”

you could hear it on his voice, the strain that was behind it. he was close, closer than ever but you couldn’t stop him once you got him going.

whenever he was on that precipice of bliss, the things that’d come out of his mouth could turn you inside out.

“gonna’ cum f’you, sweet’art- need you to-“

the blood was rushing so hard in your ears you nearly missed his words as they tapered off into broken moans. nearly missed.

“what d’you need, si? tell me, whatever you need it’s yours”

distant filthy sounds of a wet palm sliding along his cock was ever present in the background of the call. a long sigh drifted from his lips as he spoke.

“tell me t’cum, please”

jesus fucking christ.

there’s no coming back from the sound of simon riley begging.

“cum f’me, simon- need to hear you- make a mess f’me, baby”

the sound that left his chest was filthy, a deep groan intertwined with the sounds of cheap mattress springs. breathy stuttered moans broke through, your name a constant on the tip of his tongue.

he sounded desperate, no doubt still stroking himself even as his hips lifted off the cot. he wasn’t about making it easy on himself.

everything he did was for you.

listening as he rode it out, you could hear him still muttering between the other debauched sounds.

“fuckin’ take it, s’fuckin’ good f’me”

anther broken cry of your name only confirmed it. in simon’s eyes, he wasn’t pumping his cum across in his chest, he was pumping you full of it.

he’d gone too long without the feeling of you wrapped tight around him, only knowing the rough drag of his palm. he’d give anything to be in his bed, buried to the fucking hip in you.

simon’s breathing evened out, broad chest rising and falling with a sticky sheen across it. you could even make out the sound of his head hitting the pillow.

“fucking ‘ell, sweet’art- how was that?”

nothing if not an overachiever.

“perfect, si- you did absolutely perfect”

if he was with you he’d been keening into your touch, a soft side of him that only you were allowed to see.

softening further in his afterglow, you wrapped up with praises and promises to be waiting for him soon as he got home.

your entire body felt like it could sink through the mattress as you curled into his side of the bed, letting the scent of him overwhelm every part of you.

eyes shutting on their own, you’d nearly hit sleep when your cellphone buzzed on the bedside table. a little bleary eyed, you reached for it in the darkness.

“si sent a photo”

your heart sped up, teeth digging into your lower lip as you slide the message open. your screen went from light to dark in an instant.

thick thighs spread apart, toned barrel chest, tattooed arm, and a slightly scarred chin in the shot. in this light you could see it, so faint but still there, the streaks of cum dripping down the lines of his stomach.

the grip on your phone was so tight you wouldn’t have been surprised if it had shattered in your hands. in the corner of your screen, those three dots were taunting you.

your phone buzzed, you could almost hear it in his voice.

“could really do w’you here to clean me up, sweet dreams sweet’art”

[darlingdaisyfarm]

takin’ what’s not yours (ford x reader x stan)

chapter 2 | chapter 1

someone please whack me with a rolled-up newspaper like a misbehaving dog so i actually finish my fics on time. also i think this chapter is mega boring but i have no more brain cells to fix it because im very tired

tags for this chapter: death mention (i mean a dog’s death, and this is a little self-indulgent, but i just wanted to write it exactly like that), gore (not so much), panic attacks, child abuse, alcohol, flashbacks, unreliable narrator

Stanley, who has never met a terrible situation he couldn’t defuse with a joke, lets out a breath. “hey, bro, you planning on hunting something tonight or just ready to, i dunno, take out some deer in the backyard ”

Ford blinks once, but doesn’t lower the crossbow. “Already did,” he answers calm as you please. “for an experiment.”

You and Stanley go silent at the same time. The crackling of the old lightbulb above you fills the space where words should be. Somewhere outside, a tree branch scrapes against the roof, snapping you out of trance.

“. . . What,” you say finally, because someone has to.

“I needed to analyze the cellular structure post-mortem, it’s relevant to my research.”

Stan lets out a laugh, which sounds a little too loud in that awkward silence. “Oh, sure. Yeah. Right. Because that makes total sense, totally normal thing to do. Real brother-of-the-year shit.”

“Science isn’t about sentimentality, Stanley. Besides, it was already injured when i found it. I only expedited the process.”

Expedited the process. Jesus Christ.

You glance at Stanley, who is staring at Ford with such confused face, seeing something he doesn’t recognize , doesn’t have name for, which is funny, because you’re pretty sure he’s seen a lot of versions of Ford by now. Except this this one, who’s holding conversations with himself in his own head, this one with the dark circles and the too-quick explanations.

However, you were Ford’s assistant, his best friend too, so you know how his brain works, although even right now you can’t find explanation for. . . whatever this is.

You take a careful step forward. “Ford, why do you need dead animals for your research?”

“That’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

He exhales through his nose, apparently annoyed. “ Certain anomalies leave biological imprints even after death and I hypothesise that these imprints could be harnessed. Imagine, for example, an organism imbued with interdimensional properties—“

“Okay, okay, no. Stop.” Stan holds up both hands. “literally no idea what you just said, but it sounded fucked up. Also, you're still pointing that thing at us, genius, mind putting it down before i start thinking you’re planning on adding people to your little science fair project?”

Ford blinks again, then looks at his own hands as if he just now realized what he was holding. Carefully, he sets the crossbow aside.

“It’s not like that,” he mutters, pushing his glasses up, looking away.

“Great,” his twin says. “good talk. Totally reassuring.”

There’s another silence, because Ford doesn't answer that. You dont know what to say too. And the shack gets colder with every minute. Ford’s back is turned now, and you don’t know if he’s done talking or if he just doesn’t care if you’re still standing here.

You glance at Stanley again, silently telling him to say something, to do something, that's his own brother after all, damn it! But he ignores your request and folds his arms over his chest. What a moron. . . And because you hate this kind of silence, you try again. “Ford,” but much softer this time. “seriously, are you okay?”

Ford doesn't answer right away and that's the part that worries you the most. “It’s not as morbid as you’re making it sound. I needed to study the decomposition process in controlled conditions. It’s for science.”

Which is possibly the worst possible answer he could have given.

Stan scoffs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, nervous, but trying to hide it. “Yeah, that clears it right up. Real normal hobby you got there, Poindexter.”

Stanford just ignores that.

Then, out of nowhere, as if to shake the whole tension, Stan shivers, “Oh man. Do we have any tea or something? I’m freezing.” he says it offhand obviously, but it’s the perfect excuse for you.

So you seize it immediately. “Yeah , i’ll— i’ll go make some,” you say, already turning toward the kitchen.

Ford barely acknowledges you leaving, but Stan does. You notice the way his brown eyes flick toward you, the silent thanks he tells you. You both need a second to breathe.

The kitchen is cold when you light the stove, set the kettle on, press your hands to the counter and think. Ford is weird, you knew that, but this is different. The last time you saw him, he wasn’t like this, his skin wasn’t so pale, his eyes weren’t so dark.

He was paranoid. . . Maybe, okay, he sure was, but there used to be some kind of. . . purpose, excitement behind that paranoia. Now, it just looks like wild fear.

A deep, sinking feeling twists in your gut.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Stan’s stomach growls and the sound is too loud, making Ford glance at him. “You should eat something.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “thanks for the life advice, doctor sixer.”

“It’s just an observation.”

“Yeah? Well, what are you, taking a role of an older brother now?” Stan mutters, leaning back in his chair.

Ford doesn't answer, just stares, not knowing what to say to that. In the kitchen, the kettle starts to whistle as you shake yourself out of your thoughts. Pulling out some old mugs andgrabbing the first container of tea you can find, you turn your head to the cookies are on the counter and without even thinking about it, just grab a handful and pile them onto a plate.

When you walk back in, Stan’s sitting stiffly, arms crossed, visibly uncomfortable, while Ford is in exactly the same position as before, hasn’t moved an inch.

You set the tray down with a little too much force. “Ford, i hope you don’t mind i stole your cookies to feed your brother.”

But he barely reacts. Stan, though, eyes the plate, two seconds away from breaking down in gratitude.

“You are actually a lifesaver,” he says, grabbing one immediately.

You pass Ford his tea, but he doesn’t drink right away. Stan, on the other hand, takes a sip, exhales long and slow. “ God , finally, something warm.”

The moment almost feels normal until Ford lifts his mug, opens his mouth and spills the entire thing down his front . You freeze , feeling the cookie stuck in your throat . Just. All of it. No attempt to sip or at least to adjust , looks like a full-body failure of basic motor skills.

The room goes dead silent as Stanley and you stare again.

Ford doesn’t react, just sits there, drenched in tea, holding the empty mug like nothing happened.

“. . . Bro,” Stan says finally. “what the fuck was that.”

You’re gripping your own mug tightly, nervous. “Ford?”

Ford blinks, looking down at his soaked clothes, he slowly touches the fabric, not understanding what went wrong. “I guess I miscalculated.”

Stan throws his hands in the air. “Miscalculated? Miscalculated what, basic human function?”

Ignoring his twin again, Stanford doesn’t answer, still staring at the tea, clenching his fingers. You bite your lip. yeah. Something is wrong. Something’s really, really wrong.

Stan makes a strangled, baffled noise, shoving a hand through his hair, trying to process what he just saw. “Sweet Moses, Sixer, you just malfunctioned. You just— what the hell was that? You need a reboot? A software update?”

Ford, to his credit, keeps his fa c e expression calm as possible. Only brushes a hand over his soaked clothes with a blank face. “It’s nothing, Stanley, a minor lapse in coordination.”

“A minor lapse?” Stan repeats, looking to you for backup. “ Are you one year old?”

You want to laugh, because this is fucking ridiculous because Stan is damn right, but the feeling that’s been pooling in your stomach since you stepped foot back in the shack only deepens.

Ford isn’t acting normal. Not weird normal. Not his usual ‘I’m smarter than everyone and i know it’ normal.

“Ford,” you say quietly. “are you sure you’re okay? This is getting weird.”

Stanford turns to you like he just now remembered you were here and the second your eyes meet, you immediately want to look away as if your body is trying to tell you something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet. Get out.

“Of course i am, why wouldn’t i be?” you're not sure if you imagined it, but the intonation sounds rather sarcastic.

You don’t get to answer as you hear something crashing outside. Stan nearly chokes on his tea while you jolt so hard your own mug sloshes in your hands.

Ford is the only one who doesn’t react.

“Shit,” Stan hisses, immediately craning his head toward the window. “what the fuck was that?”

Your heart beats faster. You don’t know why, but suddenly the only thought in your head is—

“What if it’s a yeti,” you whisper, deadly serious.

Stan whips his head toward you. “Why the hell would it be a yeti?”

You glare at him. “Ford literally just admitted to performing illegal backwoods taxidermy. Why wouldn’t it be a yeti?”

Stan thinks about your words and his expression changes. “ Yeah , okay, fair point.”

Suddenly you hear another noise, but this time it’s a sharp rattle against the window.

Stan nearly jumps out of his skin. “oh fuck, it’s the cops.”

Ford finally sighs, tilting his head to glance toward the front door. “It’s not the police, it’s the wind.”

You and Stan exchange a look. Ford is right, the storm outside has picked up hard as the wind is howling through the trees, snow slamming against the shack in heavy sheets.

Stan exhales, realizing that he probably doesn't have a chance to get out of here in his car, the roads are so damn clogged. He runs a hand over his tired face. “Great, just fucking great.”

You glance toward the door, slumping your shoulders. “Yeah. Looks like i’m staying the night.”

Ford doesn’t even hesitate, happy with your words. “You can take the spare room.”

Stan raises an eyebrow, surprised at how fast his brother offered. You are too, honestly. Does that mean . . . you don’t get to finish your thought when Ford turns to Stan. “You can stay too, Stanley.”

At first, Stan doesn't react at all, thinking that he misheard, but then his brother's words gradually sink in. He's wary when he clears his throat, rubbing at the back of his neckawkwardly, obviously not used to that. “Uh. Yeah. Okay, thanks.”

Ford steps past him, when he passes his twin, though, he stops and leans in. “don’t worry , im not dad, i won’t throw you out.” just like that, he keeps walking, leaving Stan standing here wide eyed and frozen.

You stare after Ford, then back at Stan .

“Oh, um,” you say. “what the hell.”

Stan looks down. “yeah, no shit.”

***

The shack at night is a different thing, you knew this already, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things. You’ve stayed the night here before, back when things were normal, back when Ford was normal and the silence always calmed you, unlike right now. When you hear your own heart beating and the whole house is listening.

Stanley is asleep, dead asleep. Sprawled across the couch in a tangle of limbs and blankets, snoring faintly through the storm’s howl. Good for him, it's the first time in years he hasn’t had to sleep in the backseat of a car, curled up around himself like a stray dog in a storm drain. It doesn’t matter that the couch is stiff, that the room is freezing, this is the best sleep he’s had in years.

***

Summer, 1960-something. Kids. Kids with scabby-kneed, sunburned noses and wild hair.

The harbour always smelled like salt and fish.

Ford’s hands shake when he sees the bruise. So deep, ugly, purpling against Stan’s cheekbone, swelling beneath his eye.

“What happened?”

His brother was sitting on the curb, resting his arms over his knees, staring at a crack in the pavement.

“Dunno, pa just gets mad.”

The words felt like someone had dropped a rock right into Ford's chest, as it just sank to the bottom of his stomach, too heavy to breathe around.

Stan must’ve noticed, because he grinned. He actually hated that look, hated seeing his own twin with that kind of expression, because that made Stan know exactly how he looked when their old man had really lost it.

“But hey, hey, least now i look tough, huh? Bet all those bullies are gonna be real scared now,” he grinned, nudging Ford with his elbow.

Ford’s hands curled into fists. “thats not,” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “that's not gonna help, Stanley!”

“Eh, maybe,” he shrugged. “but it sure looks cool, huh?”

It didn’t. It looked awful.

Ford's chest was too tight. He looked at his brothers bruised eye, at the careless shrug in his posture, and suddenly the words burst out before he can stop them.

“We should run away.”

Stan opened his mouth, surprised, Ford, sixer, being this bold? And a second, he almost looked serious, considering it.

Then he laughed loudly. “and go where, genius?”

“Anywhere! Somewhere better. We could, we go up north, where it’s colder, where nobody knows us.”

Stan squinted at him. “but what about ma?” Ford hesitated, looking down. Stanley's smile faded as he rubbed his bruise. “look, Sixer, i appreciate the whole dramatic rescue thing, but we’re kids. Where’re we even gonna sleep? In a box?”

“We’d figure it out, you'll never be homeless, we'll never he homeless,” Ford insisted. “we’re smart—“

“You’re smart,” Stan corrected, no bitterness, just a fact. “im just a guy who can throw a good punch.”

Ford hated that he said that, so he didn’t give up.

“We could take a boat,” he tried again. “work at a dock, make some money—“

“You’d get seasick in five minutes.”

Ford scowled. “i would not.”

“Yeah, you would,” Stan teased, nudging him again.

Ford didn’t answer, because he hated the way Stanley took it all as some kind of joke. He was serious. He meant it.

But Stan just sighed again, stretching his arms over his head. “nah. don’t worry about it, Poindexter. Ain’t no big deal.”

It was a big deal. But Ford didn’t say anything else. Just sat down next to him, wrapping his arms around his knees, staring at the same crack in the pavement.

They were kids, they thought like kids. Ford just wished they’d stayed kids. Stanley wished the same.

***

Ford is in his bed, but he's not sleeping. Or maybe he does, technically.

He shifts, twists, rolls to his side, then to his back, then to his stomach, then repeats the cycle, stuck in a loop. His body doesn’t want to be still, doesn’t know how to be still.

He can't really control it, can’t open his eyes no matter how much he wants to.

It’s the same dream every time. Ford and him, sitting across from each other, playing chess, if Ford could call it that because every move Ford makes is a lie, and every move Bill makes is a trap.

Ford can’t win no matter what he does, no matter how many times he tries. Bill moves a piece. Ford counters. Bill moves another. Ford moves in response.

And when Stanford blinks, they’re already back at the start, the pieces damn reset and the game begins again.

“What do you say, Sixer? another round?”

Ford clenches his jaw, it’s not like he has any other choice. He just moves the first piece.

Every time their game ends with same, when Ford sees the door to his childhood home. It's already happening, every night.

He sees his brother standing there, staring in at their father with hope in his eyes, waiting for him to change his mind.

Ford sees his father’s mouth moving and even though can't clearly hear the words, he doesn't even need to hear them. He knows what happens next.

It’s already happened.

It’s always happening.

You aren’t asleep, either. Your head is too full, your body is too restless . Your thoughts won’t quiet. Ford, you cant get him out of your head. What you saw hours ago is sitting heavy on your chest, making it hard to breathe properly. Something is wrong with him and the whole shack, it doesn’t feel like it should.

You don’t know why it bothers you so much, but it does. Ford has always been intense, sure, his brain works faster than everyone else's, you've always known that.

You shake your head, taking a deep breath. No use going in circles. You have to talk to him tomorrow, ask him. And let him deny your questions as much as he likes and look at you like you're crazy, you'll get your way.

As soon as you close your eyes, finally sinking into sleep, the lights go out, and the whole room plunges into an all-consuming darkness. Fuck.

You immediately sit up, gripping the blanket. It can't be that bad.

It's fine, this is fine. You know where you are, you're in the shack, the storm outside is brutal, but that's normal. The generator will probably kick in any second now.

. . . Any second now.

. . . Any damn second.

The darkness does not change. You swallow. No use waiting, there should be candles somewhere in here, just to keep you sane and. . . would word safe fit here? Honestly, you just want to make this place feel like somewhere, instead of nothing at all.

Pushing the blanket off, you slip out of bed, feeling the cold floor beneath your feet.

Ford keeps candles somewhere, you know he does because it was a Christmas gift from you, years ago. So it should be easy to find them.

You put your hands out to feel for the walls as you move slow, trying not to bang your shin into anything, listening to the creaks of the house around you and footsteps. Wait.

Footsteps, exactly. Your whole body goes rigid.

Someone else is awake. Your heart pounds as you pause, listening hard.

Okay, they're not rushed, you take a note of that. Not stumbling or uncertain. Not. . . What was his name? Stanley? Yeah, probably not Stanley's, he would be louder, sloppier.

Meanwhile these sounds too slow, intentional.

Your fingers shake as you reach out, feeling along the shelves. Goddamn, you need a candle. Just one. Just enough light to fucking see.

Seems like luck is not on your side because just when you take another step, you damn trip, your hands shoot out, grabbing wildly for balance, but before you can fall and hit the ground hands catch you.

And they're not yours. Your breath stops. Someone else’s. You barely have time to react before you feel them close around your waist, digging into your stomach, your hips, moving fast, searching, checking. So strong. Coming from behind.

They trace higher, gripping as they move up to your chest. The air rushing from your lungs, your body tenses as a jolt of shock slams through you. The hands don't let go, not letting you pull away as they hold you in place. You try to yell, but before you can, you hear someone's voice right in your ear.

“Shouldn't you be asleep?”

Your blood runs ice fucking cold, but hands don’t let go.

If anything, they tighten. Painfully gripping you, grasping keeping you there, locked in place. A rush of panic clouding your senses before you even have time to think.

And it doesn't help th at the darkness is so thick, so you can't see who's behind you, can't even get a glimpse

Long fingers trailing slow over the curve of your sides, the dip of your waist, the softness of you beneath them. They follow the shape of your hips, press into the plush of your thighs.

You gasp when you feel your back pressing against someone’s broad chest. But your thoughts don’t fully settle on who or what it can be because your body is screaming louder than your mind. Sharp panic coils in your gut.

Your mind is too scattered, clouded with adrenaline. You thrash. Or at least you try to. Your muscles tense to push, to shove, but the hands don’t budge.

Panic overrides everything, making it impossible to think and breathe. Your body tells you one thing: get away .

But the fear floods your veins like ice, so much so that you can’t even count the fingers on the hands holding you.

Five. Six. Which is it? You should know. But sadly, your mind is too frantic, your skin burning too hot where those fingers press, where they curl. You don’t even realize you’re shaking.

And when they let go, all at once, the air rushes back into your lungs as your body stumbles forward, and you don’t wait or look back, letting your feet carry you .

You don’t remember running back to bed.

You don’t remember pulling the blankets over yourself, heart hammering, breath coming too fast, too shallow.

All you remember is pressing yourself into the mattress, squeezing your eyes shut and whispering the first prayer you've ever said in years. Not that it helps

So instead, you think. You force yourself to think.

Because fear is useless to a scientist, it is irrational, fear clouds judgment, fear lies.

And if you let it win, it will consume you.

You feel. . . violated. That’s the word, isn’t it? Or was it something that could be explained away as a trick of the mind?

Was it someone? Yes. Someone grabbed you. Someone touched you.

Your stomach lurches and you swallow it down, gripping at the blankets while your brain tries to work through it. To think. To rationalize.

This can’t be. Logic has to win, but the feeling is still there.

The ghost of hands on your body.

And you don’t sleep.

***

There's dirt under your fingernails, packed tight in the creases, clinging to the skin of your palms. Your hands hurt a little. Dug too deep. Pressed too hard. The grave was small, no headstone, although you wish you could, just a little wooden marker Ford helped you to carve.

Somewhere in the trees, hidden in the thick summer-green leaves, cicadas chirped. It was so warm, the grass beneath you was soft, a little overgrown, tickling against your arms.

Your throat still felt tight, and your hands, fisted in your lap, felt hollow.

Your voice came out rough. “it’s stupid to cry over a dog, right?”

Ford turned his head toward you, furrowing his brows, not sure if you were joking.

“What?”

“I mean,“ sniff. “its just a dog.” you rubbed at your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until all you saw was red behind your lids.

He stared at you, and you could feel it. His gaze rested on you, assessing, he was trying to figure out if you meant it or if you were just saying it to make yourself stop feeling.

Ford was not good with emotions too. You knew this. Logic, facts and equations neatly filed thoughts.

“You loved him, why wouldn’t you cry?”

You let out something between a laugh and a breath. It shook a little. “yeah,” you wrapped your arms around your knees. “yeah, i did.”

A scientist, you were a scientist, scientists weren't supposed to get that emotional over things that had clear, defined ends. Things that had lifespans. It was biology. Living things died. It was just how it worked.

But god, he was your dog. He'd slept at your feet when you stayed up too late, followed you through the woods, knew exactly when to curl up against you when you were sad.

“He was a really good dog.” Ford said eventually.

“He was so stupid,” you stared at the dirt. “always running into things. Remember that time he stole your sandwich?”

“He didn’t steal it,” Ford corrected. “you gave it to him.”

“After he tried to rip it out of my hands.”

“He was very persistent,” he admitted.

“You were so mad, i think that’s the first time i ever heard you swear.”

“I did not swear,” Ford said, scandalized.

“You did. I remember. And remember that time when he came back covered in mud?”

Ford smiled. “mud and skunk pray. You had to him, what, three baths?”

“Four,” you smiled back. “and he still smelled. I had to sleep with all the windows open.”

“You let him on your bed anyway,” Ford pointed out.

You huffed. “of course i did.”

Silence again. You leaned to the side, lettingyour head rest against his shoulder.

He didn't pull away. Only stiffened for half a second, like he always did, because he still wasn't sure what to do with touch. And then his hand came up and rested lightly against the back of your head.

The sun dipped lower, turning the sky honey-thick, melting into the trees.

“I’m gonna miss him,” you whispered.

Ford’s fingers curled slightly against your hair. “i know. Me too.”

You let out a breath and closed your eyes, feeling the tears again.

Ford's hand stayed in your hair.

***

Morning comes slow, at least the storm has settled. The sky outside the window is still covered with a gray haze, the snow is still falling, but the howling of the wind has subsided.

You don’t feel rested, but you’re awake and you need answers. You hate to admit it, but you're scared. And your thoughts don't paint the best picture for you.

You move careful, quiet, slipping out of the spare room into the main part of the shack.

And the first thing you hear is loud, unrestrained ridiculous snoring, coming right from the couch.

You blink, glancing towards it.

Stanley. Sprawled across it in the most undignified position possible. On his side, curled slightly inward, arms tucked close against his chest. Just a little, but poor guy is shivering. Like some pathetic, scrappy little street dog curled up against the cold. The blanket barely stays wrapped around him, but he clutches at it, seeking warmth in a place where he’s used to none.

For a brief moment, he looks. . . well, he looks cute. But you shake the thought away. You have bigger things to deal with. You need to find Ford.

The lab is quiet, but inside his head, it isn’t.

Ford is slumped in the corner, collapsed into himself with his knees drawn up, his hands tangled deep in his own hair, like he's trying to keep something from leaking out, all six fingers curled so tight against his scalp that his knuckles are bloodless. Moving his heavy head in small, restless jerks, shaking side to side, wanting to shake it out, but it’s not working, it never works, IQ, you fucking idiot.

Sixer's body tense with horrible, restless energy as if he’s still trying to wake up even though he never truly slept.

Dark, bruising exhaustion hollows out his eyes, pulling his features tight with sleepless strain. His glasses have slipped low on his nose, the bridge smeared with fingerprints, hes been pushing at them, rubbing at his own skin, trying to wake himself up.

Bill was always there.

The same dream. The same game. The same endless, maddening chess match. And the same loss.

Over. And over. And over.

No matter what move Ford made. no matter how many times he tried to outthink the demon, Bill always won.

And at the end it was always the same. Stanley, who's looking at his brother standing in the window, framed by the curtains

Stanley's eyes

Ford never forgot his eyes. The way they looked at him.

The way his brother had searched his face for some answer, at least some kind of explanation, begging. Stan's eyes so big, so damn wide, the pupils blown dark with confusion, desperation, with a hurt that had no words.

And his voice so small, so weak.

“Sixer?”

Ford shudders. Vomit rises in his throat. His hands tighten in his hair.

Gosh, he feels sick.

His stomach twists, coils, knots so tight it feels like it might rupture.

The sticky notes around him are everywhere, scattered across the floor, plastered against the walls, some even stuck to the sleeves of his shirt.

MISS ME, NERD? 
FEELIN’ RESTED? 
DOESN’T MATTER! I’LL SEE YA TONIGHT ;)

DON’T WORRY, POINDEXTER!

I’LL ALWAYS BE HERE FOR YOU! HAHAHA!

HOW’S STAN, BY THE WAY?

HE’S STILL MAD ABOUT, Y’KNOW. THE WHOLE… THING

REMEMBER WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE? YIKES.

He wants to rip them down, burn them, but they've dug their way into his skin.

But his body won’t move because his mind is somewhere else now.

Ford remembers the deer. Or what was left of it.

Half dead in the snow. Legs moving, jerking in agony. The crack of stiff joints.

Something that shouldn’t be alive rose from the ground, black tar pooling from its mouth. The ground beneath Ford's boots was damp, the scent of rot curling sharp in his nostrils.

Patches of fur are missing, peeled away, exposing the raw, rotting flesh beneath. Its ribs jut out in jagged angles, parts of it look eaten.

But the worst part is the eyes. Empty sockets, gaping holes where its eyes should be.

Ford ran, but forest was too big. Too many trees, too many shadows and sounds.

His feet slipped on something wet and Ford knew he shouldn't have looked down

Bones scattered across the ground, half-buried in the damp earth. And awfully glistening organs strewn across the ground. Dark red. Raw. Rotting.

A smell so thick, so rancid it shoves itself down his throat, makes him gag. His shaking hands flew to his mouth to stop the ill-fated piece of vomit that threatened to burst out.

You did this.

You did this.

You did this.

Ford screamed, falling to his knees, dirt and blood staining his clothes.

The sound that ripped from his throat didn’t sound human.

His throat closed, air wouldn’t go in, wouldn’t stay.

Ford opens his eyes. His body jerks , thrashing against the floor, his hands shaking, fingers clawing at his own skin, trying to tear something out of himself.

He can’t breathe. His throat is tight, closing, closing, his lungs burning, his vision swimming.

His stomach twists, nausea rising fast, his head spinning so violently he doesn’t know which way is up.

He can't breathe. He can't breathe. Ford is dying

His hands claw at his own chest, digging his fingers into fabric, into skin.

He barely registers the sound of someone entering the room, running to him, moving, hands grabbing his arms, gripping, holding.

“Ford, Ford. Hey—”

The deer.

The deer, the deer, the deer—

“ Ford!”

A voice he barely hears, hands on his shoulders, hands on his face, hands gripping him.

Not his.

Not Bill’s.

Yours

But Ford can't move, his body feels tight, contorted as if something is twisting him from the inside out. The color of his face is wrong. He’s so pale, every shadow and hollow stark under the overhead lab lights. His lips are parted, his mouth trembling, and his eyes, so wide, bulging, glassy with tears, but not focused.

Not seeing you.

He makes a noise between a choke and a gasp, his fingers digging harder into his own arms, his whole body starting to shudder .

You're on your knees in front of him.

“Ford,” you grab at his arms. “it’s okay, you’re okay, it’s me, i’m right here—”

Ford jerks, his hands flying out, shoving at you with a sudden burst of fear and he screams. “Go away!”

You stumble back, watching him wrapping his arms around himself, his whole body curling inward

“Go away,” he gasps again , “go away, you— you monster —”

“Ford, it’s me, i swear it’s me, look at me.”

But he won’t. His lips are moving, forming broken, faltering words, but nothing comes out.

He’s not here.

His mind is somewhere deep, somewhere dark, somewhere you can’t reach him.

“Ford,” you say again, softer this time, but firmer, shifting closer on your knees, “you’re having a panic attack, okay? you need to breathe, you’re safe.”

His scared eyes snap up to you, still wide and glassy and it doesn't take long for him to cry. Ford gasps so hard he thinks his lungs might collapse.

Your arms are around him, pulling him against you, pressing his face into your chest, holding him, feeling the way he trembles while he clutches at your arms in return, his hands fisting in your shirt, clinging to you.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, “I promise, i’ve got you.”

“thirty-two point eight megahertz— quadrants , electron spin—”

What?

At first, it’s so soft you can barely hear it.

Your brow furrows . “Ford?”

“Event horizon c-collapse, field equations— metric tensor—”

You tilt your head to see him, but he just hunches further into you

“Warp theory— symmetry breakdown — proton decay—“

You squeeze him. “Ford, hey—“

He shudders and his muttering falters. Closing his puffy eyes, he buries his face deeper into your chest.

His mind registered it last, but his body recognized you first.

And you hold him, stroking slow, careful circles between his shoulder blades, your fingers weaving up into his hair, carding through the brown strands.

You try to breathe together with him. Slowly, letting him hear it. Letting him match it.

“I’m here, Ford, im right here, i swear you are okay.” you feel how his hands clench, then loosen, then tighten again.

His body still shakes, but the sharp edges of it start to dull, the tremors turning softer, his breathing slowing.

But his face stays hidden.

“Ford , i—” you swallow. “i’m worried about you.”

His shoulders stiffen. You keep going.

“This isn’ t. . . isn’t normal. You’re not okay, Ford. I think maybe,” your fingers twitch in his hair. “i think maybe you should talk to someone, to professional?”

The moment Stanley bursts through the door, his eyes widen at the scene before him. His brother, still trembling, lost in the fog of his panic attack, and you, crouched on the floor with your arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him close

Stan’s face immediately changes into that familiar, protective mask, although it's even more concerned now

“What the hell is goin’ on here?”

You turn your head to meet his worried gaze, your own heart still racing in the aftermath of what you just witnessed. “He just had a panic attack, Stan.”

“A panic attack?” Stan repeats, raising an eyebrow, clearly not sure how to process it, “jesus christ.”

You don’t say anything.

Your hand is still on Ford’s arm as you still feel the tremors running through him.

Stan huffs a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Then, with a deep breath, he squats down next to his twin, trying to make himself appear less intimidating. “Hey, sixer,” he says, making his voice a little gentler, “what’s goin’ on? you . . . you talkin’ to anyone about this? is there somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me? why the panic attack?”

Ford is still silent, his breath still ragged, as if he can’t find a way back to normalcy. He lifts his head, peering up at his brother, but it’s clear that whatever’s plaguing his mind, he’s not ready to share it.

“C’mon, Sixer, you can tell me. what’s really goin’ on, huh?”

Ford doesn’t answer. Stan looks at you, his gaze is questioning, but you don’t know what to say either. How do you explain something you don’t even understand?

Ford is not going to talk too, whatever it is that has him this scared, he wont say it aloud. He better keep it to himself, this deep-rooted and unspoken truth has to stay buried, even if it tears him apart to keep it locked in.

“Ford, it’s okay,” you murmur, squeezing your fingers lightly at his sleeve, “you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Stan lets out a long, deep sigh, rubbing at his jaw, his eyes still on Ford. And, of course, because he can’t help himself, because he’s Stanley, because it’s how he deals with things, he tries to joke. Tries to break the tension the only way he knows how

“Shit, you look like you just saw a ghost.”

Ford stiffens.

Stan notices. And he . . . does that thing he always does, when things get too serious, when he doesn’t know what to say

He deflects.

Leans back, shakes his head, lets out a short chuckle.

“Or damn, maybe even worse. Like. . . i dunno. Like you just realized the government’s been spying on you through your radio or somethin’.”

Ford’s whole face twitches.

“Stanley,” you glare, warning him, and he immediately holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“What? What’d i say?” but his face betrays him. He knows what he said. He knows it was a bad joke. But he also doesn’t take it back, because that’s how he deals with things, isn’t it? Laughing when he’s scared. Pretending he isn’t worried when it’s clear as day that he is. And you don’t have time to unpack that, not when Ford is still sitting there, unresponsive.

“Just not now, okay?”

Stan grumbles, but doesn’t argue.

Ford hasn’t moved, at least his breathing sounds a little better, less sharp, a little more even, but he still looks. . . tired, so damn tired.

You soften your voice again.

“Ford, hey. . . i know you’re exhausted. I know you’re not feeling good, but maybe a shower would help? Get you cleaned up, get some of that tension out of your muscles.”

His eyes blink at you slowly, dazed you'd day, trying to process the words, but he just doesn’t have the energy.

“C’mon,” you coax, “you’ve got those bags under your eyes. You need some rest.”

There’s a long pause before Ford gives the faintest nod. And so you help him up, carefully, and he lets you, barely meeting your eyes, ashamed that you saw him like that but following your lead, disappearing down the hall toward the bathroom.

You exhale when you hear the water running.

Your body slumps just slightly, hands still tingling fro m holding onto him for so long. But you push through it, stretching out your stiff legs, then step toward the kitchen, glancing over your shoulder as you go, noticing Stan following you. Not that you're not used to it, after all, back home, you've got a little shadow on your own.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you open the fridge, moving through the motions of finding something quick to make that Ford will actually eat without you having to argue with him over it.

Stan watches you like a cat staring at a fish tank. Or maybe more like a dog staring at a steak.

“I can hear you drooling,” you say without looking.

“I am not drooling.” you turn and yeah, no, he’s definitely eyeing the food with his whole damn soul.

“Uh-huh.”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I see food, I want food. You gotta get used to it if you’re cookin’ around me, sweetheart.”

“Noted.”

You keep working, stirring something in a pan, and Stan shifts against the counter, watching you for a second before glancing toward the hallway.

“Well, i gotta say,” he grumbles, back at eyeing the kitchen counter like a starving animal, “you really know how to make a guy’s day.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, rolling your eyes as you pull out the ingredients for a quick meal. “yeah, yeah, i don’t cook much, but i figured he needs something. Gotta take care of him.”

Actually you’re not much of a cook, but right now, it feels like the only thing you can do. You’re not a doctor. You’re not a therapist. You can’t fix Ford. But you can make him something to eat.

“So, what’s the deal with you two, huh?”

You pause mid-stir, glancing at Stan. “what?”

“You and Sixer. What are you? Couple? Friends? Lab partners? Secret government spies?”

You clear your throat. “we studied together.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “just studied, huh?”

“Yes, Stanley,” you say, exasperated, turning back to the pan. “just studied.”

He watches you for a beat longer before humming, noncommittal. “Huh. That’s funny.”

You glance at him again. “what is?”

“That Sixer never mentioned me. I mean, you two were clearly close. Close enough that you’re still here, takin’ care of him. So why the hell didn’t he ever tell you about his own damn brother?”

You shake your head. “he doesn’t talk much about his past or his family. Especially after one situation where i saw a photo of his dad and said he looked just like him. Ford didn’t take it well.”

Stan chuckles. “Yeah, that’d do it, he doesn’t like the family thing much. None of us do.”

You glance up at him, raising your eyebrow, but before you can ask, Stan shrugs, not going to explain any further. “Sixer’s got his own baggage. We all do. Just gotta leave it at that.”

“He really doesn’t like talking about it. About his family or his past, i mean, i get it, but—“

“Hell yeah, sweetheart, family’s a hell of a thing.”

At end, Ford did eat what you cooked. Barely spoke, though. Sat at the table, moving food around with his fork, his own goddamn thoughts were so heavy he couldn't lift his hand right. You weren’t sure how much he actually tasted of what he was eating, but at least he got it down. You had to remind him to drink some water, push the glass a little closer when he forgot it was there.

Stan, on the other hand, jesus, the way he looked at the food, you almost felt guilty. Like some starving dog watching through a window. And yeah, he made a joke about it, about you running a charity kitchen or something, but you told him to just eat already. No need to act like a starving orphan from a dickens novel. He didn’t argue, eating fast, as if he might lose it if he didn’t.

It was easy to forget about what happened this night, the power cutting out and that moment of frozen, breathless fear in the dark. All of that got buried under your worry for Ford, who looked like he was about to pass out.

Ford was still pale, what made you want to press a hand to his forehead, check if he had a fever. You tried to ask, tried to get him to talk about it, but. . .

“You sure you’re alright?”

And of course, he just waved you off, mumbled something vague.

“It’s nothing.“

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I’m fine.”

Stan chuckled, muttered something under his breath what made you shoot him a look before he could say something worse.

Ford didn’t want to talk, that was obvious. But that was the thing about him, right? Always acting like he was fine, even when he was so clearly not.

Stan had been quiet, chewing and incredulously looking around the house like it might spit him back out. He didn’t belong here, wasn’t supposed to be here, and was just waiting for the moment Ford would make it clear.

So, he cracked a joke instead. About how he should probably leave before Sixer turned into an even bigger grump, about how he “wouldn’t wanna overstay his welcome.”

“Soo yeah, guess I better be hittin’ the road.”

You frowned at him. “why?”

Stan gestured loosely. “i dunno, i just figure, y’know. Not exactly mr. Welcome here. ‘sides, your guy here looks like he needs his beauty sleep.”

“He’s not my guy.” you answered, but that didn’t stop the way your stomach twisted. Damn, you didn’t wanna leave Ford alone. Not after everything you’d seen. But . . . your dog. You had to get back. Had to feed her, take her out, make sure she wasn’t tearing up your furniture.

Ford didn’t respond. Just kept looking at his plate, barely eating anymore.

You hesitated. The thing was, you didn’t wanna leave. Not when Ford still looked like this and you knew something was wrong, but he wasn’t saying.

But you had a dog waiting for you.

Ford told you it was fine. That you could go. That he “preferred being alone right now. ”

And you hated that. Hated the way he always did this, how he always thought he had to go through everything alone, even when it was clear he needed help.

You promised him you’d be back tomorrow.

“I'll come back tomorrow. i’ll come back, and we’ll talk, okay?”

Ford didn’t answer right away, j ust stared at his plate. “okay.”

You didn’t like how he said it, like it was better if he was alone. Like he wanted to be alone even when he clearly shouldn’t be. And it made you sick, the way you left. Like abandoning a ship you knew was sinking, stepping away from a person you knew needed help. You hated it. Hated the way Ford always pushed everyone away, even when he was fucking drowning.

You and Stan stepped out into the cold, your breath coming out in little clouds into the biting winter air. It was getting dark already, sky looked gray and heavy, as always. Stan stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. You pulled your jacket tighter as you shivered, rubbing your arms.

“Cold?” he glanced over at you.

“Genius observation.”

The streets of Gravity Falls were quiet. Before long, you were near your place, the porch light shone warmly in the early twilight. You turned to Stan, about to say goodbye, but then you got a good look at him.

The dirt on his jacket, he probably hadn’t had a chance to properly wash it. The exhaustion on his face. And you remembered th e way he’d been staring at food all day, watching Ford eat, practically salivating.

“So uh, you have a place to stay?”

Stan blinked at you. Then scoffed. “‘Course i do.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I do!”

“ Oh, okay. Where ?”

“Uh, y ’know. The— uh. The, uh . . . ‘lakeview inn.’”

You stared at him. “Well. . . okay.” and Stan seemed relieved that you weren’t pushing.

He coughed into his fist. “yep, great place, real fancy.”

You sighed. You didn’t have it in you to argue. Not right now. You just exhaled, gave him one last look as you told him to take care and stepped inside.

Your dog was waiting for you, so excited, wagging her tail. You knelt down, ran your fingers through her fur, whispered, “missed you too, girl.” Fed her, sat with her on the floor, talked to her, absentmindedly, about Ford. About his brother. About the way Stan was kinda . . . cute.

Meanwhile, across town, Stan climbed into the front seat of his car. He was cold. He curled his jacket around himself, stuffed his hands under his arms, tried not to think about how long it had been since he’d last had a real bed.

Or a real meal.

He should’ve expected this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before. Sleeping in cars, parking lots, the occasional cheap motel when he could swing it. But somehow, after that meal, after you, this felt worse.

He stared up at the ceiling.

He thought about Ford. About how he looked tonight, half a breath away from collapsing. What kind of shit his brother had gotten himself into?

And then Stanley thought about you. You, who offered him food, just like that, like it wasn't some big deal. You, who told him to eat and watched him at the dinner table.

He exhaled, breath fogging up the air.

Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

***

The dorm is a disaster zone, but it always is when the three of you get together for all-nighters. Coffee cups, half-empty energy drinks, a plate of toast that no one’s touched in hours, and papers. . . so many fucking papers covered in chicken scratch equations and half-finished blueprints.

It was past three a.m. now. The window was cracked open a little, letting in the fresh night air, but none of you noticed the cold, too deep into the work.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Fiddleford said, running a hand through his hair, “if we don’t take quantum decoherence into account, this whole thing’s gonna be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.”

“Decoherence isn’t the issue,” Ford shot back sharply and impatiently . “if anything, it’s the entanglement equation that needs work. if we—“

“Oh my god, would you two shut up and let me think?” you groaned, gripping your hair. “you're both wrong. so wrong. like. fundamentally flawed.”

“Oh, is that so?” Ford pushed up his glasses, squinting at you. “care to elaborate?”

“Not really,” you muttered, blinking slow, yawning.

Fiddleford chuckled. “looks like we’re losin’ you.”

“Honestly, i think i’m about to collapse on myself. I need something stronger than coffee. Anyone got any adderall?”

“University rules strictly forbid unauthorized stimulants—“

“Fidds has moonshine in his bag,” you cut Ford off, grinning. “saw it an hour ago. Was wondering when he was gonna crack it open.”

Fiddleford looked deeply offended for all of two seconds before sighing. “Knew i shouldn’t have let you rifle through my things. . .”

You flashed him a grin before reaching for your tea, now stone cold and bitter as hell.

Fiddleford nudged his glasses up his nose and look ed over at Ford’s notebook, squinting at the formula again. “Alright , maybe you got a point there, buddy.”

Ford let out a smug little noise, proud of himself, but before he could open his mouth and gloat, you yawned again, barely muffling the sound with your sleeve. “Shit, i’m crashing.”

You tried to keep up, you really did, but god, your eyes were so heavy. That's why you took the right decision, somewhere between staring at Ford’s notes and trying to comprehend whatever the hell he was writing, you leaned, without even thinking.

Your head found his warm shoulder and that made him stiffen as if he’d been electrocuted.

Fiddleford went completely silent, stopping drumming his fingers against the table.

It was funny, really. You’d spent the whole night laughing with him, throwing paper balls, joking and teasing Stanford. Now, the moment your breathing evened out, everything got real quiet.

Ford. . . didn't move. Didn’t push you away, even though his shoulders were tense, his pencil hesitated, but then he just kept writing, like nothing happened. Just let you stay there, pressed against him, breathing softly in sleep.

Fiddleford didn’t stop staring, observing Ford's reaction, not in the way he expected.

He looked at you first, your face half-buried in Ford’s sweater as you sighed in your sleep, how easy it was for you to just fall into him like that.

And then he looked at Stanford. At his handsome face, which somehow seemed even better in the lamplight. The furrow in his brow, the six fingers wrapped around his pencil, so concentrated.

Fiddleford looked at all of it. Ford was a genius. A goddamn once-a-generation mind, sharper than a blade, but completely fucking useless at anything to do with feelings. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see things the way other people do, the way Fiddleford does.

Ford must’ve felt the stare, because after a while, he sighed and glanced up. “what?”

Fiddleford shook his head, smiling slightly. “nothin’, just thinkin’.”

“About?”

Fiddle ford took a sip from his flask and it definitely wasnt coffee. Something stronger. He swirled it, watching the liquid catch the light. “love, i guess.”

Ford scoffed, going back to his notes.“love? shouldn’t you be thinking about our project?”

“Oh, c’mon, ain’t you ever thought about it? bein’ in love? how it feels? ”

Ford didn’t answer at first, just kept writing. “love is. . .” he started, trying to find the right words. “it’s complicated. Distracting, even.”

Fidds hummed. “but good, no?” he grinned, taking another sip. “s’pose you think it’s all just chemical reactions, huh?”

“Well, technically, it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, dopamine, oxytocin, blah blah blah,” Fiddleford waved a hand. ”but it’s more than that.”

They were talking quietly so as not to wake you up. Ford didn’t answer as he shook his head, returning to his work.

So Fiddleford kept going. “i guess it feels nice, y’know? havin’ someone who understands ya, c ares ‘bout ya. Even when you’re difficult.”

Ford stopped writing again, listening intently to his friend's words.

“It’s when you’d do anythin’ for someone, even if it doesn’t make sense. When seein’ ‘em happy makes you happy. When you’d give up everythin’ just to keep ‘em safe. ”

Ford gave him a tiny smile. “you’re being sentimental,”

“Eh, maybe. Or maybe i just get it.”

Stanford finally turned to him, frowning. “get what? ”

“Doesn’t matter.” Fiddleford leaned back, stretching. “s’pose it don’t make much sense for a guy like me to be talkin’ ‘bout love anyway.”

Ford frowned deeper. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

Fiddleford shrugged, suddenly looking a little too interested in his flask.

“Are you saying you don’t think anyone will love you?”

“Oh, i know i ain't exactly a prize catch, Stanford.”

Ford settled his pen down. “that’s not true.”

and that made Fiddleford's eyes fill with hope “yeah?” he quirked a brow.

Ford hesitated, surprised at his own words and initiative, but then, because he was a good friend, because he meant it, he nodded, “You’re smart. Funny. Resourceful. You’re one of the most brilliant people i know and you're—“

“Handsome?”

That made Ford smile. “sure, yes! handsome, even.” Fidds thought he had imagined it. Did Ford really find him so? “so, im sure you'llfind someone. You’ll probably settle down, have a family. A kid, even.”

Oh. . . oh, okay.

And that’s when Fiddleford knew .

His smile did not drop, but he took another s ip of alcohol, letting the warmth burn his throat .

Ford kept writing, pleased he managed to lift his friend's spirit, while you doze quietly against his shoulder. He doesn't even notice Fiddleford getting up, leaning in close enough that Ford finally glances up from his notes.

“Yer my best friend, Ford, guess i’ll just love ya forever.”

Ford stopped writing. The pencil slipped from his fingers

But before he could ask, Fiddleford pushed himself up from the chair, stretched and yawned deeply.

He patted Ford on the shoulder, then grabbed his jacket.

“Whew! man, i need a walk. i’ll be back.” and just like that, he was gone, leaving Ford alone with the papers, the cold coffee and with the equations that suddenly didn’t make sense anymore.

Alone with you, asleep on his shoulder.

Ford didn’t move for a long time.

***

The morning air was cold enough to wake you up, even though you were still in the fog of sleep. Gravity Falls wasn’t exactly bustling this early, just a few cars passing, an old man walking his dog, the slow shuffle of someone dragging a garbage bin to the curb.

You pulled your coat tighter, holding your grocery bag. You'd only meant to grab something quick for yourself, but somehow, without even thinking, you'd ended up picking up something for Ford, too. Something that wasn’t just instant noodles and coffee.

He wouldn’t eat properly if left alone. You knew that, you knew him too well. You sighed, adjusting your grip on the bag.

Stanley Pines woke up in hell. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

His entire body ached, joints were too stiff from sleeping in one uncomfortable pose whole night, cold burrowed so deep in his bones that even curling tighter into his jacket wasn’t helping anymore.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, just a few more minutes, ma, please, but the cold gnawed at him, dug under his skin, made every breath feel like ice in his lungs.

He was so fucking tired.

But sleep wouldn’t come back so he lazily cracked one eye open. Fucking hell.

Still the car. Still parked in the same damn spot he’d been in since last night. The windshield was fogged up from his own breath, the windows covered in a thin layer of frost.

“Mmmgh,” he groaned, trying to stretch, but back screamed in protest. God, sleeping in the driver’s seat was not good for his spine.

Cold. Everything was so fucking cold. His toes were numb in his boots, fingers barely flexible enough to work as he rubbed warmth into them.

“Good morning, Stanley,” he muttered to himself. ”what wonderful luxury awaits you today?”

He yawned, running a hand through his brown hair. His mullet was a mess, so tangle d, flattened weird on one side.

First things first, he fumbled for the glove compartment, rummaging through loose receipts and absolute trash until he found the old bottle of cologne. He sniffed it once, it was not fresh. But hey, better than nothing. He rolled it over his wrists, rubbed it against his neck.

Second, he grabbed an old comb, barely dragging it through his tangled mullet before giving up and stuffing it back into the glovebox.

Third, he adjusted the rearview mirror, squinting at his reflection, and groaned again.

“Oof.“

Looked like absolute shit. Dark circles, unshaven, face puffy from sleep. But whatever. Not like he had anyone to impress.

He reached down, adjusting his coat, when—

THUMP.

A hand. A fucking hand slapping against the driver’s side window.

“GAH!” Stan jolted so hard he smacked his knee on the dashboard. He panicked instantly, his hands flew to the wheel. “no, no, no, por el amor de dios, madre santa, no me lleves!” he spat out in rapid-fire spanish, already prepared to beg for his miserable life. “lo juro, no tengo nada, no me arresten, por favor, dios, maria, nadie, por favor!” his mind was a blur of oh shit oh shit oh shit, picturing cops and maybesome pissed-off local ready to drag him out, picturing—

Someone was writing on the window, through the fogged-up glass, a finger traced out two slow words:

It’s me.

That made him froze as he squinted suspiciously, still gripping the wheel tight. Hesitated. then, slowly, he rolled the window down.

You stared at him.

“So,” you said flatly, flicking your gaze between him and the car. “this is the lakeview inn?”

Stanley looked around, hoping a better answer would suddenly appear.

You crossed your arms.

“Technically,” he started, “i do live here. You ever heard of a little thing called, uh, mobile homes? Very trendy and, um, modern.”

”Uh-huh.” your eyes narrowed.

“Alright, alright, fine, ya caught me. I’m actually a millionaire, this is just my vacation home. My actual mansion’s up in the hills, but y’know, i like to stay humble”

“Stan.”

“Yeah?”

“You lied to me.”

“No, listen,” he started, already preparing some dumbass joke to get him out of this.

“You fucking lied to me.”

Stan threw up his hands. “hey, now, let’s not throw around ugly words like—”

“You told me you had a place , Stan.”

He stopped talking, and there was silence between you.

Finally, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “jesus, you look horrible.”

Stan bristled. “hey!”

“And you smell horrible.” not like you were lying though.

“Hey now, hold on!”

“Do you wanna take a shower at my place?”

Stan’s brain short-circuited. “what?”

“Then we’ll get you something to eat,” you continued, ignoring his slack-jawed expression.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken an entirely different language.

You. . . you were offering? Just like that?

“What?”

“You heard me.”

His brows drawing together, mouth pulling into a frown, jaw working as he was trying to find the right words. But it it didn't take long as he smoothed it all over in a blink, replacing it with serious face. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms.

“What, you pity me now?”

“No,” you said simply.

“Pfft, i dont need you takin care of me, alright? Go waste your charity on someone else.”

“Yeah?” you tilted your head. “so if Stanford was sitting in this car right now looking like this, you'd just walk away?”

Stan stared at you, surprised. You restrained yourself from laughing at how fast the smug confidence drained from his face.

“Thats different.” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh wait, wait, wait, i see how it is,” he grumbled. “you got tired of dealin’ with sixer, huh? figured you’d switch to fixin’ me instead?”

“What does this have to do here? Take the offer, dumbass.”

“Nah, i the natural scent.”

“You literally smell like a dumpster.”

“Okay, rude.” Stan putted a hand to his chest, feigning resentment.

But you only waited, waited and waited and that silence made him clench his teeth, grumbling under his breath. So when he finally let out a sharp sigh, dragging a hand down his face, you knew he’d given in. “you got hot water?”

That made you raise an eyebrow and smile. “Of course i have hot water.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “but only ‘cause i got nothin’ better to do and you begged.”

“Right,” you said, unimpressed. He shot you a glare, but you were already walking away, expecting him to follow. And, grumbling all the way, he did.

***

Early autumn. The bus stop bench is cold beneath you and you wish you’d worn something thicker. Clouds rolling lazily in the bright sky, October sun spilling through trees, gold colour caught in Ford's brown hair. He sits beside you, one knee bouncing, a habit of his, nervous tick, always. His hands are shoved deep in his coat pockets, and his breath fogs in the air when he exhales.

You bring the cigarette to your lips and inhale, one leg over the other, foot bouncing absently, meanwhile the tip glows warm for a moment, ember-orange in the afternoon light.

“It’s just a cigarette,” you say, watching the smoke curling from your mouth, but Ford, who's stiff like he's resisting the urge to snatch the cigarette out of your fingers, doesn't seem satisfied with that.

“Yeah and it hurts your pretty lungs.”

Oh. That tone. That damn tone, which means he’s about to start. Again.

He pulls his coat tighter. “Do you know how many carcinogens are in that? the tar alone is—“

You groan, tipping your head back. “oh my god Ford.”

“No, i’m serious. You don’t even understand what that’s doing to your body.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say, cutting him off, waving him away. “you’re acting like i’m chugging cyanide.”

“You might as well be,” his glasses slip down his nose, and he shoves them back up in agitation.

You've heard it all before, the lecturers, the statistics so you roll your eyes, amused, flicking the ash into the pavement. “When i wanna stop, i can.”

Ford scoffs. “that’s what they all say. . . I don't know if you know this, but cigarettes contain over seven thousand chemicals, many of which are—“

You blow smoke into his worried, but serious face and he immediately recoils coughing, waving his hand to dispel the haze. You laugh, reaching over to run a hand through his beautiful golden colored hair to smooth away his frustration.

“Honey,” you barely get time to say before Ford scoffs of. Oh here we go, petnames are back in circulation. You're using the secret weapon, you know exactly what they do to him. “Cant you trust me? when i want to stop, i can.”

Suddenly Ford is twelve years old again and Stanley smells like smoke.

He swears he can hear their dad in the other room, muttering at the evening news.

His brother leans against the windowsill, awkwardly rolling a cigarette between his fingers which he bummed off the older kids at school. There’s a hole in his sleeve. A bruise on his jaw.

“You know dad will smell it! He's gonna know. He's gonna—“

“Yeah, yeah, he'll tan my hide, blah blah.” Stan rolls his eyes, sliding the cigarette between his lips , lighting it with exaggerated flick of the lighter. The first puff is taken in a deep, inexperienced breath before he exhales through his nose. “seriously, Poindexter , would you stop being paranoid? when i wanna stop, i can.”

But he doesn’t, he lies, because Ford hears him cough at night sometimes. Watches him light another in the schoolyard.

He knows it’s bad. But Stan doesn’t listen.

Why does his brother do these things? Why does he always push the limits, cross the lines? Why does he always seem so desperate to do the things he knows he shouldn't?

That day, when they returned from school with large backpacks at the ready, Stanford glanced towards their house. “seriously, Stan, put it out. If da smells it—“

“What, you're scared he'll ground me?” Stanley smirked. “big whoop.”

“Stanley!”

Stan rolled his eyes at his twin's dramatic behavior, but stubbed it out on the pavement, flicking the butt into the bushes what made Ford exhale, relieved.

But the relief didnt last long.

Because week later, their dad does find out.

And Ford watches as his own twin, for all his bravado, gets actually scared. Ford hates that look. He hates it almost as much as he hates the sharp crack that follows.

Ford doesn’t like thinking about what happened next, doesn't like remembering the way Stan screamed. Doesn't like remembering how loud their father’s voice got, making the walls sh ake, how the belt cracked sharp as thunder, how Stan tried to act like it didnt carve its place into his skin.

But Ford remembers. He remembers the way Stan didn’t fight back, how he flinched at sudden movements for weeks. How he hissed through his teeth when he sat down too fast, and how he lit another cigarette anyway.

Ford opens his eyes. He's back in present now, back at the bus stop with you watching him with frustration in your eyes.

“Ford?”

He swallows, shakes his head, forces his thoughts back into place. He doesn't tell you any of that. “just. . . promise me you'll think about it.”

You groan again. “jesus, you sound like my dad.”

Ford flinches and wonders, distantly, if you notice. If you know what that comparison does to him.

“I told you, darling, when i want to stop i can,” you add, caressing his cheek.

He doesn't argue anymore, because he already knows that line. Heard it before. Millions of times. And he knows it's a lie.

***

Stanley Pines doesn't know what to do with kindness. Not the real kind, anyway, where someone takes him out, sits him down and actually pays for his meal as if some random knucklehead like him is worth the damn trouble.

He can't help it; he feels awkward because he is not used to people being nice to him. He's not used to much of anything, except scraping by, finding the next scam and eating cheap food out of plastic wrappers. So when you dragged him to the Gravity Falls diner, promising him a real warm meal, he was suspicious.

The waitress barely had time to finish setting down the menus before Stan barked out an order. “Burger, double. Extra fries. Chocolate milkshake. And gimme some bacon on the side.”

You're an idiot, he thought, the hell are you getting the money for all this?

Your brows shot up, but you didn’t say anything, just smiled and told the waitress to put it on one tab. That’s when Stan’s gaze snap s to you. “One tab? wait, you’re payin’?”

“Yeah, why not?” you answer casually, because it's not a big deal for you, but Stanley frowns.

“You sure about that? ‘cause, uh, i don’t exactly have, you know. . .” he trails off, scratching the back of his neck.

“It’s fine. Just eat, Stan.” and that’s what fucks him up. Because nobody’s ever wanted to spend their money on him before, not unless they were expecting something in return. But you just look at him with those soft, genuine eyes and tell him to shut up when he starts talking about returning money.

When the food arrives, Stanley attacks it like a man starved, which, honestly, he definitely is. The burger disappears in minutes, followed by the fries, then the bacon. Grease smears his chin and he doesn't even bother wiping it off, too busy slurping down his milkshake like his life depends on it. Not a single goddamn cru mb left. You swear he licked it. “Well, shit, if i knew you were gonna feed me like this, id have showed up beggin' at your door ages ago.”

You watch in both amusement and horror at the starved man in front of you, who barely stops to chew, talking with his mouth full .

“Yeah, yeah. You eat like a starving stray dog.”

That makes him choke on his milkshake, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at you while you laugh. “jesus, toots, the hell's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” you wave a vague hand, smirking. “you're scruffy, hungry all the time, you look at people like they might kick you if you get too close.”

“Hey, don't insult dogs like that.” He cuts in, effectively ending the conversation as he goes back to his food, shoveling another bite into his mouth.

“Damn, Stan, you wanna slow down before you choke?” you tease, propping your chin on your hand, watching him shoveling food into his mouth with the single-minded desperation of a man just let out if a cage.

Stan grunts, barely acknowledging you. “’s good.” you notice the ketchup on his cheek and chuckle.

“Yeah, i can tell.”

After couple of minutes, he finally pauses, chewing slower, he swallows hard and taps his finger on the table, avoiding eye contact with you. Leaning back with a groan and patting his stomach with one hand, Stan smears a little grease with other. He exhales, heavy. Then, as if realising how fucking feral he just looked, tries to play it off.

“Whew. Almost forgot what real food tastes like. Jail slop, y'know? Not that I've been to jail. Ha, kiddin.” he pauses and grins. “unless?”

Silence.

You stare at him, blinking. He watches your face, waiting for laugh or well, some kind of reaction that doesn't make him feel like a goddamn idiot , but you just look at him like. What. The fuck.

Stanley throws his hands up. “Okay, tough crowd. Coño. . .” he mutters the last word under his breath, shaking his head

“Was it Spanish?” your eyes perk. Stanley tenses , but you squint at him. “how do you know Spanish?”

“Uh, picked it up.”

“Picked it up where?”

“Places.”

“ Uh-huh, ” you lean forward. “cmon, teach me some.”

“Nah, i aint exactly fluent, sweetheart.” Stan laughs forced.

“But you sounded pretty fluent just now.”

“Yeah, well,” he rubs his neck. “i picked up the good words.”

You let it go, for now, because you notice the way his eyes dart and how how tries to make himself look just casual, enough for it to be convincing.

***

The dorm hallway was too bright and loud, full of students shuffling papers, setting up models and diagrams, nervously practicing their presentations to each other.

Ford stood off to the side, as always stiff and uneasy, shifting his weight from foot to foot, shoulders tight. His fingers fidgeted uselessly, six of them curling and uncurling.

The project was ready. The calculations were perfect. He should’ve felt confident.

Then why did he feel so out of place?

He scanned the room, seeing students, professors, familiar classmates. Goddamn. Ford hated how nervous he was, hated that his mind was half on the project, half on—

“G'mornin’” your lazy voice broke through the noise. “or, well, g’afternoon? god, what time is it?”

Ford turned. Oh, you were a mess with your hair wild, clothes rumpled, eyes heavy with sleep. A coffee cup dangled from your fingers, mostly empty. You yawned, covering your mouth halfheartedly.

Ford gave you a quick once-over, barely holding back a sigh. “you look— “

“Beautiful?” you grinned.

“like you rolled out of bed five minutes ago.”

“Aww, you noticed,” you laughed , stretching. Then, with absolutely no preamble, “so i fell down the stairs today.”

“What?” Ford raised his eyebrows.

“Yup, just,” you made a vague flailing motion with your hands. “ Wham, right down ‘em. It was very tragic. A true fall from grace. ”

You expected him to at least huff a laugh, maybe shake his head or give you that exasperated, fond sigh. But Ford didn’t. Instead, his brows drew together, and his eyes quickly swept over you, scanning for damage.

“Are you alright? do you need to see the nurse? You should’ve told me earlier.”

“ . . . you’re not laughing, ” you pointed out. “normally you at least try to pretend i’m funny.”

“You fell down the stairs, and you expect me to laugh?”

“Well, when you say it like that—“

“Are you hurt?”

That care, honestly, took you by surprise. “uh,” you looked down at yourself, then shrugged. “probably? i dunno, i was too tired to check. ”

Ford exhaled slowly, clearly trying not to engage, but you just kept going.

“Man, i am not ready for this presentation,” you groaned, rubbing your eyes. “seriously, i have no idea what i’m gonna say. But hey, i’d do anything for my two lovely nerds. even stand in front of a bunch of judgmental geniuses and pretend i know what i’m talking about. Right, Ford?”

Nothing.

“ . . . Ford?” you waved a hand in front of his blank face. Obviously, he wasn't listening, judging by how distant his gaze was, he was somewhere else entirely.

“Hellooo? Earth to Sixer?”

Ford blinked, snapping back. “What? Oh, sorry.”

You gave him a look. “man, you’re the one who’s supposed to be all focused and sharp. i m the one running on three hours of sleep and caffeine fumes.”

He barely heard you. “have you seen Fiddleford today?” Ford asked abruptly.

“What?” you paused.

“Fiddleford. Have you seen him?”

You frowned, thinking. “um. no? now that you mention it, i don’t think i have. But i just woke up like an hour ago, so last time i saw him was when we were working on the project. Why?”

Ford looked away and pursed his lips guiltily. “he said he was going for a walk. I remember he had a drink, said he’d be back. But he never—“

“You don’t think . . .?”

Ford shook his head quickly, Interrupting your thought. “ No. No, he’s fine. He’s probably just, well, late.”

But you both knew that wasn’t like him. Fiddleford was always there on time, cracking jokes and filling the space with his presence.

And now he wasn’t.

The noise of the hall seemed to fade. Ford exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He said your name, nervously slipping a textbook into your hands. “We should focus, he’ll show up.”

***

The ride to the shack is cool, winter sun setting earlier than youd like, same as always. Your dog is curled at your feet, eyes flicking back to Stan at the wheel. He grumbled about the fur at first but you can see it, he likes your dog, likes her a lot. He's just being difficult, pretending, putting up a front.

Stanley drives slowly, you don’t know if he always does, but right now, you wish he’d go faster. You want to see Ford as soon as possible.

But Stan doesn’t seem nearly as excited as you. There’s a knot of unease sitting somewhere inside him, but mostly, he just isn’t sure what to say when he finally sees his brother again.

“Hey, I’m bothering you again because I’ve got nowhere else to go?”

After a beat of silence, you glance at him. “you ever think about calling Ford before he called you?”

Stan's eyes are fixed on the road as he speaks, “thought about it. But i figured he’d just tell me to drop dead.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Yeah?” he glances at you now , twisting his mouth. “pretty sure he told me worse when i got here.”

When you reach the shack, you knock. Wait.

No answer.

You knock again. Still nothing

Stan squints. “maybe he’s sleepin’.”

You huff, shifting your grip on the grocery bags. “actually, i lived here sometimes, so i’ll count it as my home too. And if Ford doesn’t wanna open the door for me, i’ll open it myself.”

Stan smirks. “yeah, that tracks.” but then his smirk fades as he narrows his eyes slightly. Lived here before.

You unlock the door, steeping inside and the first thing you notice is quiet the shack is

“Ford?” you call, but you don't get an answer.You exchange a worried glance with Stan. Ford seems nowhere to be seen.

“Should we be worried?”

“Nah,” Stan says, but he doesn’t sound convincing. “he's probably just. . .”

You step into his room and you see Ford sprawled out, dead asleep, hair a mess, glasses off. He's curled slightly inward, breathing deep and even, absolutely gone to the world.

Stan smiles. “Told ya he’s fine. Nerd just passed out.”

“I'm still worried, should we wake him? ”

Stan eyes his brother. “Nah, let him sleep. Dude probably hasn't in days.” he tells you, already leaving the room.

You nod slowly, still focused, studying Stanford's face. Okay, yeah, Stanley is right. You should let your poor n erd sleep. You turn, stepping back into the hall.

“You shouldn't have come back.”

And that makes you freeze as you quickly turn your head to the sound to see Ford sitting up. Staring at you, his eyes are open now, fixed on you.

You blink, thrown off, eyes flicking to the person sitting in front of you. Then, before you can think about it, you step forward, reach for his hand and—

Picture passes. Ford is still in bed, asleep.

You swallow. A slow, creeping dread curls in your chest. Who or what did you just see?

….

“Nerd looked bad. Needed sleep.”

That was the verdict. So you let Ford be.

“He always was a bad sleeper,” Stan grumbled, stepping past you, glancing around the shack, still having hard time getting used to it. “musta gotten worse over the years.”

Just let the man sleep. He'd wake up eventually.

You had to do something to keep yourself busy. Giving your dog a quick scratch behind the ears as you walked past, you figured she deserved a proper meal after all the traveling.

Stan, though, stayed behind and damn, it wasn't like he was snooping. Not really.

It was just this place felt weird.

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around, taking in the clutter, the books, the walls covered in notes and sketches, and hell, even that weird curtain draped over the entire back wall like Ford is hiding some secret government operation. It's just. . . odd.

“Guess some things never change, huh, Sixer?” Stanley sighs. And that’s when his eyes accidentally land on the lighter what makes him tilt his head.

Since when did his goody-two-shoes, anti-smoking,'your-lungs-are-a-delicate-system-Stanford' brother have a lighter?

Stan picks it up, turning the little thing over in his hand. Metal. Decent weight.

Not some cheap thing, either.

He wants to call out to you, “hey, did you know Ford's got a lighter in here?” but he remembers, at the last second, that Ford is still dead asleep in the other room and screaming that loud would disturb him.

So instead, he just holds it, closing his fingers around it, turning it in his palm, flipping the lid open with a soft metallic click.

Weird.

Stanley's curiosity itches. So he looks around again, just in glance, just to make sure you aren't watching.

Then, his gaze drifts lower to the small pile of books near the armrest.

He chuckles. “Nerd books,” he tells himself, but his hand reaches down anyway.

One of them catches his eye. Heavy thing with a lot of pages.

Gravity's rainbow.

Oh yeah. He’d heard of that one.

Didn't seem like the kinda book Ford would normally read, though.

Stanley carelessly flips it open, barely glancing at the pages. Blah, blah, blah. Too many damn words for someone as impatient as him.

Suddenly, something slips out of page 69.

A bookmark?

Stan makes sure to catch it before it can land, brushing his fingers over the glossy surface before he turns it over.

Huh.

A photo.

It was you and his brother. From college, clearly, you both looked so much younger, holding some kinda trophy.

Some nerd award, Stan assumes.

Ford had that same awkward, stiff stance he always had in photos, but you looked too happy, excited, eyes shining. Laughing, hair a little windblown, standing too close to Ford, who had lipstick mark on his cheek.

What?

Stanley squints, fuck. . . he really needs to buy glasses.

You never really expect to see your nerdy brother like that. Looking. . . well, normal. Young. Happy.

Stan continues to stare. At Ford’s unsure smile. At your beaming one.

He turns the photo in his fingers again and glances toward the hallway where Ford is sleeping.

And then, a hand lands on his shoulder.

“Mierda!” Stanley jumps, nearly throwing the book across the room. He barely had time to shove the polaroid away before he turns, swearing under his breath, “por el amor de dios, you tryna give me a heart attack?”

You, startled, take a step back and raise your hands. “shit, sorry!” then your head tilts, “wait. Was that, was that Spanish again?”

Stan is still catching his breath, clutching at his chest like he just lost ten years off his life. “Si. Yeah.”

“What were you looking at?”

“Nothing.” Smooth, effortless. Completely unconvincing, but before you could say anything, his face twitches as he makes a sharp inhale through his teeth. “fucking hell.”

Your gaze drops to his shoulder, where your hand had landed.

A burn.

“Stan.” he swears he hears the shift in your tone before he even sees your expression. You reach forward, touching his arm again, but softer this time, brushing your fingers against the fabric of his jacket, near the burn. “You never treated it.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “it’s fine.”

“Bullshit. ”

“ It’s. . . oh, damn, it ain't like it's infected. ”

“That's not the point.” you pull, planting your hands on your hips. “you let it heal like that? No treatment at all?”

“Ain’t like I had a whole damn first-aid kit on me, sweetheart.”

You frown. “you could’ve at least—“

“It’s fine.”

And so it goes, the familiar dance of grumbling and resistance, before he finally gives in with a gruff and let you do your thing.

“Okay, fine. Fine. Do whatever.” he sighs, groaning, rubbing his face.

You mutter something about stupid stubborn men under your breath before reaching for the first aid kit on the nearby shelf.

But before you could even open it you hear your dog growling low what made your head snap toward her. She’s staring at the hallway that leads toward the front of the shack.

“Aww, shit.” you hear Stan say.

“What?”

He gestures toward the hallway. “you got ghosts in here, too?”

You give him a look, but your dog won't stop growling and that's when your eyes widen because you just hear the front door creaking slowly. Next thing you feel is a gust of cold air sweeping through the room.

Stan turns, the door is open what made fresh snow carry inside, dusting the floor in uneven patches.

You and him stare at it, realising that neither of you had opened that door.

After a long pause, Stan walks over and slams it shut, clicking the lock in place.

Then turning back to you with annoyed face, “so, anyway, how the hell is everyone in this town so damn weird?”

“What?” Stan plops back down next to you.

“i mean, you know,” he gestures, winces a little when the motion tugs his injured shoulder. “this place. Gravity falls. It’s weird. Fuckin’ weird. Like,” he tilts his head, looking at you, squinting. “theres so much paranormal weird shit here, and i aint even talking about my brother.”

“Now you sound paranoid.”

“See? That’s what i mean!” he points at you, triumphant. “exactly what i’m talking about! Everyone’s just, like, casually fine with all the weird shit, but if you point it out, suddenly you’re the crazy one. ”

As you work, carefully dabbing at the burn, he hisses through his teeth, every touch of yours is met with some kind of protest or mumbled curse or half-hearted complaint.

“You’re a goddamn baby.”

“And you’re a goddamn sadi—“ he doesn't have time to finish as he gasps dramatically again, throwing his head back like you just putted him through the worst pain imaginable.

“Oh, quit it.”

“Quit what?”

“Acting like you’re getting tortured.”

“Hey, you don’t know, you could be really bad at this.”

You press the gauze down harder, and Stanley hisses, jerking away.

“Fuck, watch it, would ya?”

“Oh, sorry, am i hurting you?” you deadpan. “maybe if you’d taken care of this in the first place, it wouldn’t be such a problem.”

“It ain’t a problem—“

“Oh, no, of course not,” you cut in, rolling your eyes. “burns are fine. Totally normal to just leave them alone and hope they magically heal on their own.”

“I was busy.”

“Busy being dumb?”

“Oh, fuck that, really,” he says flatly before he looks away.

You sigh through your nose, gentler this time as you go back to work, cleaning his burn around the edges. Stan's eyes flick to the coffee table and he remembers the lighter he’d found earlier.

“So, since when does Sixer smoke?”

You stop, freezing.

Stanley raises an eyebrow, watching the way your whole body goes rigid. “what?” he drawls. “hit a nerve?”

“Ford doesn’t smoke.”

“Yeah? that his lighter, then?” he gives you a look, nodding toward the thing. Wait. . . The realization hitting you. Fuck. You’d left it here? At Ford’s? “found that lying around. And i know that stick-in-the-mud was always on my ass about it, so unless he suddenly decided to turn into the marlboro man—“

You swallow. “no.”

“Huh.” his smirk widens. “so you’re tellin’ me— “

You scowl. “it’s mine, okay? I used to, but i’m trying to quit.”

After a beat of silence Stanley bursts into shameless laughter.

You glare at him. “what the fuck is so funny?”

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, slapping his knee. “holy shit, lemme guess, did Poindexter give you the whole ‘your lungs will rot’ speech? Went full psa mode?”

Your scowl deepens. “so what if he did?”

“No , no—” he’s still laughing, wiping at his eyes. “it’s just, you sound exactly like me when i was like twelve. Swear to god. He gave me the same fuckin’ speech. Like, word for word. Bet he even did the disappointed sigh.”

“He just cared,” you admit, looking away. “cared about my well-being. I used to think the same as yo u, that he was just being a nerd. But, y’know. Some things never change.”

That shuts Stanley up. So you use that moment when he seems to think or remember something, and clear your throat. “anyway, since you’re his brother, i wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Was he always like this?”

“Like what?”

“You know. Paranoid. Weird. Off.”

He gives you a look. “uh, i met the guy for the first time in ten years, like, yesterday.”

“Oh. Right.”

Stanley scratches his chin. “but, i mean, i dunno. When we were kids, he was always kinda anxious. Worried about grades, the future, that kinda shit.”

“Yeah. He was the same in college.” you nod, something clicking into place.

You fall silent, rubbing your chin, thinking. If even Stanley, his own twin brother, has no idea what’s going on with Ford, then who does? Who the hell would know what happened to make him like this?

There had to be someone. Someone who saw him a lot during those years, who knew what changed, who was here when that happened. Who knew what had made him—

Your eyes widen.

“Fiddleford.”

“Who?”

“Fiddleford. Fiddleford McGucket. Our good friend and Ford’s old lab assistant, he quit before everything went to hell, but if anyone knows what’s up with him now, it’s him.”

Stan stares at you. Then his entire body shook with laughter.

Ignoring that, you snap your fingers as smile appears on your face. “right! he should know!” you look at Stan, pausing. “what?”

“Fiddleford,” he repeats, grinning widely. “holy shit, that’s his real name?”

You cross your arms. “Yeah?”

“That’s fucking hilarious.” he shakes his head. “Ford and fiddle. Jesus.”

You shoot him a glare. “are you done?”

“Nah, nah, i need a second,” he chuckles, wiping his eyes. “Fiddleford. God.”

You ignore that dumbass, grabbing the phone, its rotary dial familiar under your fingers. You dial the number, tapping your fingers against the table, pressing it to your ear as the static hum of the line comes to life.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end is unmistakable and it makes you smile, hearing your friend again.

“Fidds , it’s me,” you name yourself.

There’s a pause. Then, carefully, he repeats your name.

“Yeah! listen, i know you said you wanted to forget whatever happened when you were working with Ford, but—”

You don’t get to finish, because across from you, Stanley starts laughing again, shaking his head like he just can’t believe what he’s hearing.

You glare at him.

“Fiddleford,” he says under his breath, wheezing. “holy shit!”

You roll your eyes, bringing the phone back to your ear. “so, anyway— “

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Fiddleford cuts in, confused. “who’s that?”

Stanley, still grinning, leans in toward the receiver and says, loud as hell: “your parents named you what?!”

“Who in the sam hill is laughin’ at my name?!”

You turn away from Stan, pushing him. “ignore him.”

“Who’s laughin’?”

“Nobody.”

“I'm gonna die. Man, your name is awesome. And here i thought my parents had zero imagination.”

“Uh,” Fiddleford sounds even more confused.

“Don’t listen to him.”

But Stan just keeps laughing. “Nah, seriously, what kinda— “

You hear Fiddleford's voice going defensive. “now listen here, i’ll have you know Fiddleford’s a perfectly respectable name—”

You sigh, rubbing at your temple. Jesus christ. This was gonna be a long conversation.

Ford sleeps like the dead, the weight of exhaustion so complete that he might as well be a corpse until his chest lurches followed by painful gasp, his whole body jerking upright, pulling him back into the waking world.

His breath is coming too fast and shallow and Ford can't quite catch it. His heart is beating as if it wants to burst out, no longer belonging in his body. Cold sweat clings to his skin, dampening the sheets beneath him.

Another fucking nightmare.

Ford drags a hand down his face, through his hair. Inhales slow, exhales slower and forces himself to move.

The floor is cold when his bare feet touch it, but even that doesn't ground him, reminding him that he’s here, in the Shack, with him watching his every move.

He needs water, so he stumbles towards the door until he steps on something that makes too loud a sound.

Squeak.

Ford looks down.

A dog toy, a bright, rubbery, ridiculous thing, right there beneath his heel.

Oh he knows what it means. Happened quite a lot. You're here. And you brought your dog.

Ford sighs. Deeply. He sets the toy down on his desk and finally steps out into the hallway.

He hears your voice, unmistakable, and Stanley’s.

And then he hears a voice he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

[randomfoggytiger]

do you have any gossamer specific fanfic recs?

Collector's Edition: A Gust of Gossamers

I do, indeed! :DDD

Decided to pick authors who have crossover with each other, be it collaborations or dedicated mentions.

**Note**: There will be typos-- will edit them out later.

Loose chronological order below~

msk's

Home by Another Way

Neither of his parents had offered to come, so she'd stayed in North Carolina though it meant a run in with Blevens.

"You should have been with your family. Not hanging around my hospital room."

Truth be told, part of her hadn't wanted to come home and face the sadness.

Post Beyond the Sea Mulder and Scully bond over their fathers.

Final Arrangements

He'd insisted on bringing her home from the hospital, even though her mother had offered. Scully had sensed that it was important to him and had suggested her mother spend some time with Bill before he had to return to California.

Post Redux II Mulder finds Scully's pre-Gethsemane funeral plans.

The Brixton Witch by Kel & msk 

She paused for a moment, one hand on the car door and waited for the lightheadedness to fade. Her hesitation wasn't lost on Mulder, who shot a concerned glance in her direction....

It wasn't as if she could order her body to hustle that cellular repair because she was tired of feeling cold all the time. If it wasn't for her silk-blend long underwear, she'd be shivering in the late October breeze.

She firmly shut the car door, and strode toward the shop. Mulder overtook her, reaching around to push the door open.

Post Redux II Scully and Mulder investigate a haunted bakery.

And So It Goes

I sat up, heart pounding, gasping for breath as Mulder stumbled into the room. His hair was sticking up in the back like a rooster's comb, and if I wasn't having a breakdown, I would have laughed. "A bad one?" he asked.

"I give it a nine." I ran a shaky hand through my hair as Mulder brought me a glass of water from the bathroom.

"Yeah, but I bet you can't dance to it," he quipped as he handed me the glass and sat next to me on the bed. I took a long drink and wondered why people bring you water when you're upset. He rubbed my back as I took deep breaths and felt my heart try to escape my chest. "Which one was it? The one on the examining table?"

I bitterly regretted telling him about that particular horror show.

Post One Son Scully and Mulder investigate another abductee case.

Mezzo Luna

"I think Carmela's emotions were carried through the food she cooked to the people who ate it. She was angry when she made the ravioli, and the people who ate it became enraged." He sat back and folded his arms, as if daring her to take her best shot.

Scully took a sip of her club soda and fought a smile.

Mulder and Scully investigate a town embroiled with heightened emotions (and confront a few of their own.)

"The Freedom Squad Birthday by Kel & msk 

"He wants a Freedom Squad Battle Fortress."

"I'm sure he'll like that mitt just fine."

Mulder was grinding the ball into the glove, forming the pocket. Which really wasn't necessary, but still, that's what a guy does with a new glove.

"I went to World O' Toys and Big Box Toys in Alexandria. I called a couple of stores in Arlington. I didn't get very far."

"He didn't give you much notice," Doggett said. As in, maybe if you talked to him more than once a month, you would have known earlier.

AU-- Post Existence Mulder is unstable, flaky, and constantly in and out of Scully and William's life.

mimic117's

Supermarket Sweep

Why don't they include this in the training? Especially for guys. It's gonna come up at some point. It's inevitable. You get comfortable with each other. You trust each other. You'd even die for each other. So why shouldn't you do this one little thing, too? Easy, right?

Wrong.

There's too many choices.

S1 Mulder is sent on a period shopping expedition.

One Another's Best

"I miss her, Mulder."

He places his hand on her sleeve.

"I know."

Post Paper Clip Mulder understands why Scully is snappy at work.

War Stories

How do you burn a ring inside a shirt cuff? He just smirked when I asked about that one.

He does that a lot. Never really explains anything, just shrugs or smirks.

Post Bad Blood Mulder's dry cleaner is used to regular damage.

Imperfect Penance

It's a dangerous assignment, I won't kid you about that. I knew what I was getting into from the start, although I wasn't happy about going in without backup. Still, Skinner was right. I couldn't risk the operation just because I feel naked without her next to me. But she found out anyway. Wish I could have seen her worming the details out of Skinner.

Pine Bluff Variant Mulder is glad to have Scully on the "in."

Getting By

It took a moment to achieve upright and stable, but once she did, Scully found she could shuffle with the best of the octogenarians. She'd made it around the bed, on a steady course to reach the door in under twenty minutes, when she remembered two things. One, there was someone in her apartment. Chances were really good that it was just her mother, who'd called the previous night and used her maternal radar to deduce her child's state of health. But two, she couldn't be sure of that and her gun was safely locked away in her end table. She turned and looked. Way back there. On the other side of the bed.

She swiveled slowly toward the door again and caught sight of the baseball bat standing in the corner.

S6 (or S7) Scully is very sick... and very loopy.

Jersey-deviled

"So *anyway*.... I'd just gotten close to the door when it opened again. The woman standing there yelled, 'Hey! Come on in!' and hauled me into the room."

"Did you get her description?"

"I already told you I didn't. It happened too fast, and once I was inside the room, I was mobbed."

"Right. I forgot."

Mulder and Scully, on the road with concussion stories.

Jaded

"Well, you're not upsetting me, Miss, uh..."

Ms. Cool Cucumber doesn't like it when Hotshot has to remind her of my *real* last name. Wish I could see the look she gave him. She's the one in control here and she seems to think I'm hiding something.

First Person Shooter's Jade Afterglow has thoughts after Scully and Mulder's interrogation.

Coming up Roses

"Look on the bright side, Mulder."

"Is there a bright side?"

"Of course there is. This time you weren't hurt enough to need drugs, so I won't have to listen to your snoring at night."

"Sez you. And I do not snore."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't."

Mulder is scratched up by rose bushes.

Chip Off the Old Block, Chip Off The Old Block 02 - Serendipity, Chip Off The Old Block 03 - Veracity, and Chip Off The Old Block 04 - Duplicity

Trading glances with Mulder, Charlie took on the task of deflecting his sister's annoyance. "We were almost mugged coming out of the gym, Sis. No big deal. We just didn't want to worry you."

"Yeah." Mulder dove through the loophole he'd been handed. "It was just some hop-head trying to score a little cash. We got the bad guy, the cops took him away, and we're both fine. End of story."

Glaring from one man to the other, Scully crossed her arms and lowered her brows. "Why do I get the feeling there's something else you're not telling me?"

AU-- Post Existence Mulder, Scully, and William are awash in Charlie Scully misadventures. (Turns out, William's little powers are genetic.)

Emily Sim's

Aeviternal

He closed the door and scooped up his jacket and a sweater he'd left on the couch. They joined other discarded parts of his wardrobe on his bed. Good to know the bed was good for something.

Post Fire Mulder ruminates on the word 'love'.

Softly

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. It thrums through his body with every beat of his heart, with every step that he takes towards her hospital room. How many times over the years has he done this? He’s only been gone a few minutes to grab some food for himself, but he can’t shake eight years’ worth of hospital visit paranoia from his shoulders.

Existence Mulder keeps watch over Scully and their son in the hospital.

Satchie's

Dancing with Mephistopheles

"You've sustained an injury to your left anterior cerebral artery, which has caused some hemorrhaging into your brain. That's why you're having speech difficulties and the weakness on your right side. We're going to repair the damaged artery and evacuate the clot."

Brain surgery? You've really outdone yourself this time, Mulder.

Post Demons Mulder realizes that it was Scully's blood, not her tears, on his shirt.

Renaissance de Mal 

Scully glanced back at the abandoned vehicle. "Don't move. I'll bring the car over here and get you situated. Then we'll go to the emergency room."

Mulder gingerly flexed his limb. "Nah. I think it's okay. I just need to work out the kinks. Probably twisted it funny or something."

"Uh huh. It's the 'or something' that worries me.

S5 Mulder adds another injury to his list while chasing after a demon dog.

Claimed

Scully frequently volunteered to handle this unpleasant task, but his misplaced guilt prevented him from accepting her gracious offer this time. For crying out loud, he nearly died simply because he went to an out-of-town basketball game. It was so senseless and humiliating. No, he would fight this battle alone.

Mulder's insurance company has no mercy.

In Extremis

The worst part of my decline is having to face my trials alone. So many times I've debated whether or not to tell Scully about my illness, but I can't seem to arrive at a decision. For crying out loud, she's a doctor. Sooner or later she's bound to notice the subtle clues of my deterioration. Do I honestly believe I can keep this from her until the bitter end? No matter how I check out, she's going to be heartbroken.

AU-- Pre-Requiem Mulder is too afraid to tell Scully about his brain disease.

Jenna's

IOU

We spend the next few hours reliving the past 22 years through my eyes. I tell her everything, but mostly about my time spent with Scully and all that has happened to us over the last two years. She finally has gained the nerve to ask "the" question.

"This Scully, is she is a "partner?" Or is she is a "partner, partner?"

AU-- Mulder and Samantha root around in their parent's attic.

Amy's

Where are You, China Blue?

"Listen to me."

He looked off, annoyed.

"You're not listening."

"Yes, I am."

"Then stop it, Daddy. Just hear me out. I don't care anymore. I don't care. It used to be fun. It used to be this great game. 'Don't get caught, Sammy', you'd say. It was great. My whole life was great. Until last week, I thought it was going to be that way forever."

AU-- Post Redux II Samantha is sick and tired of the games.

Through the Mist

You approach my body. I expect to find shock, horror and sadness etched within every line of the face I know better than my own. Instead you are smiling, you approach me as you have every other day of our friendship, your eyes take in my body with reverence, a small smile is dancing on your lips. Your arms are held behind your back and as you approach the bed I can see the little game you have intended to play. A date. The remembrance of the word is almost unbearable. Your smile grows as you present my corporeal self with the bouquet from behind your back. I can hear you lightly mocking me, laughing at the fact that I had said that fortunes would come between us and normality. You are out to prove me wrong, not out of vengeance or spite, but because that is how you and I grow and move forward.

AU-- Scully's spirit watches a broken Mulder take her body home.

The Sybarite Collective's Jabberwocky

Mulder's eyes moved from Sybil to Scully. "Fro--Melvin said you had information. What's up?" he asked, the lack of expression in his voice expressing the utmost suspicion.

Sybil leaned forward, and the lazy drawl was nearly gone from her voice. "I think the company I work for is running insurance scams with the undead."

Post Bad Blood Scully and Mulder find themselves-- courtesy of the Lone Gunmen-- investigating another suspicious Texan town.

Tesla's (Site)

Get Up, Mulder

He rolled onto his side. He still had his gun. What was the problem? He felt blood trickling from his scalp. Someone must have sapped him. He was such an idiot. He wiggled his fingers, tried to send a message to his feet. They moved. Good. Houston, we have movement.

"Scully?" he said, tentatively. He was in a parking deck. Something about a suspicious sale of fertilizer. Great. Wonderful. He knew Kersh wanted to kill him, but he had thought it would be death by boredom.

FTF and S6 Mulder's many "passing out" adventures.

After the Ship

"When a man has to start all over again----when a profiler, who sees evil everywhere, has to start over again- ---how do you rejoin the world?"

Black's eyebrows twitched once. "Ah," he said. "But I have a connection to the world. I have my daughter."

Mulder grimaced.

Black reached in his pocket for a couple of dollars. "Yes, Agent Mulder, I'm luckier than you. You have to find your way back without a lifeline."

Post Three Words Mulder remains disconnected, dully wondering if he's a clone.

Kel's No Longer at Ease Here

He looked over at me, nodded, and turned back to look out the window.

"If that's true, you have my deepest sympathy," he said.

If that's true. Like I'm a liar.

"Squamash, Pennsylvania. Sound familiar?" I asked him.

That got his attention.

Vienen Doggett tells Mulder about his own experience with death.

Kmom's How I Want The X-Files To End

"Scully? You awake?"

"Sure, Mulder, I'm awake." The voice is deadpan. "I'm always awake at... uh... 3:35 am."

"Well, I was wondering... "

"What else is new? Make it quick."

"Do you think it's possible for dinosaurs to still be walking the earth somewhere?"

Post Existence Mulder and Scully have an early morning conversation about reinstatement.

bcfan's

Party Line

At Mulder's hurt look, Scully swallowed and closed her eyes. Get a grip, she scolded herself. You usually love his brilliance and energy. Thinking back to yesterday's discussion - childhood report card comments - Scully remembered she'd shared "plays well with others." Mulder had countered with "has a low tolerance for repetition."

That's the key, Scully decided. I have to find a way to pull us both out of this miasma of snarkiness. I have to give Mulder something new and different to think about.

Post Firewalker quarantine slumber party.

Wired

"I'm enlisting your help on a field assignment, but it's going to be undercover. Can you get away unofficially for a few days?"

"Well, I have some back vacation time coming. Agent Scully, might I ask-"

"No. I'm on an unsecured line. Drop off whatever paperwork you need to fill out and meet me in your own car - not a Bureau car, Agent Pendrell - at the food court of the Key Mall in Frederick. It's about 40 miles from D.C. Do you know where it is?"

"I'm sure I can find it. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Scully nodded. She still had one friend in the FBI.

Wetwired Scully is on the run, calling up Pendrell for help and fleeing to her mother's.

Bon Voyage with an Open Book

"No, I'm thinking about early humans. It must have been confusing for the first people to dream - to go somewhere without going."

"I never thought of that before."

Mulder throws his arm over his eyes and murmurs. "I don't want to go somewhere anymore, Scully. It's too hard."

"Mulder, I'm coming over."

Post Paper Hearts Scully drops by with a present.

Hanukkah

Scully spotted it on a dusty shelf at a gas station QuikiMart, propped next to boxes of tinsel and faded red and green ornaments. A quick decision later, the miniature menorah was tucked into her plastic bag with sunflower seeds and a lottery ticket promising 38 million dollars.

Mulder looked surprised as he examined her offering.

"For good luck," she murmured.

Post Kaddish Scully buys Mulder a menorah.

Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation

"Perfect timing, Mulder. No haircut, but I just got rid of three days worth of beard. How are you feeling?" Scully again held the water to Mulder's lips as she spoke.

"Better," he quietly replied, then gestured weakly with his hand. "Roses?"

"From my mother. Don't worry, she signed my middle name on the card. I knew they were for you, though."

Mulder smiled, and Scully's heart turned over.

"I've been dreaming. Good dreams. You're in them, Scully."

Amor Fati Mulder recovers in an old folks' home.

The Breakfast Club

"I'm cooking this morning, Mulder. Do you have a toaster?"

"Of course. This place has all the accoutrements of civilized dining."

Scully stepped into the kitchen. "Where is it?"

Mulder squeezed around her and crouched low, fishing with long arms in the back of a bottom cabinet. "Ta da." He held up an avocado clunker from the 1970s, covered in grime.

Post Amor Fati Scully keeps Mulder well-fed during his recovery; and he begins to return the favor.

Pine-scented

The funny little Charlie Brown Christmas tree looked almost lovely if he squinted and turned his head sideways. Lights sparkled in the windows and soft music caressed the room. It was beginning to look a lot like happiness realized.

Will climbed on Mulder's lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor, taping wires to the branches so the baby couldn't pull on them. Will drooled on his shirt and grabbed his nose. "Gah."

Post Existence Christmas, with poop and romance.

Obfusc8er's

Mandates from Heaven by Obfusc8er & Xtreme Unction 

Mulder leaned against one of the columns, casually crossing one ankle over the other, and squinted. He was trying to make out the textual message in the shimmering, as he is wont to do every time he visits the Lincoln Memorial. As usual, the epistle hidden in the water eluded him. He and Samantha used to play this game as children, making up imaginary Pentateuchal directives during every visit to the national mall. He smiled at the memory of some of the more ridiculous mandates from heaven they pretended to see.

AU-- Pre-S1 Mulder sees a "happily ever after" doppelganger.

Spending Time

I close my eyes briefly, trying to blink away the encroaching fog. I bite my lip until it bleeds. Even as I fade, I want her badly. She winds her hands together and shoves rhymically on my chest in a futile attempt at resuscitation. How lucky I am that my doctor is the pathologist who never says die.

Post Dod Kalm Mulder and Scully swap music requests after a night of nightmares.

True Reflections

Over here! Don't forget me! Mulder shouts silently.

"Okay. If I'm leaving anything behind, I'll just come by tomorrow to pick it up. I'll leave you alone now." She turns to leave.

He cannot take seeing her walk away right now, and he swallows hard.

"I don't want to be alone."

Post Grotesque Scully stands by her shaken partner.

Russian Roulette by Obfusc8er & bcfan 

The next time he awakens, Mulder bites his lip hard to keep silent, but he can't prevent the shakes.

Terma Mulder's stint in the Russian gulog.

Kiss and Makeup

"I got here as soon as I could. You sounded...lonely."

He lowered his eyes before saying the last word, unable to meet her gaze. She nodded at him, noting that he was no longer making an effort to pretend that his visit was anything but personal. She backed away a couple of steps, leaving the door wide open. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He stood fidgeting with the cuff of his trench coat, waiting for a cue, for a hint of what she needed from him. He was willing to do anything for her.

She wanted to let him hold her, but a lump was growing in her throat. She was busy trying desperately not to cry in front of him.

Pre-Gethsemane Scully and Mulder have a frank conversation about her health.

Reverto Ad Noctum

I can smell your fear.

Detour-- the Mothman's perspectives.

Convergence

Everything is running smoothly, and it all results in a living being, itself interacting with other beings in much the same way the wandering atoms within it do. The organism moves, communicates with, and manipulates members of its own and other kinds to become a part of an always-jostling, writhing whole conglomeration clinging precariously to a tilted, rolling rock. The system is humming along nicely, taking care of itself quite well.

And then something goes terribly wrong. The steady fluid pressure inside the organism's network of blood vessels rises slightly, the heart pumping frantically. The adrenal glands release endocrine and adrenaline into the bloodstream, causing the blood to become a much more efficient oxygen carrier. The protein hasn't made it back to the lungs yet. The combination of speeding heartbeat and frantically pumping lungs makes the entire system shake and vibrate with anticipation.

Monday, and one of the many days Scully lived through.

Deus ex Machina

Her partner was staring at the low tree stump upon which Legere had been splitting wood. She walked toward him, stopping when she saw the subject of his inspection. The face of the stump was sawed off with a smooth surface. The gray weathered grains were stained black and brown in a starburst pattern. Scully leaned closer and squinted. The stain was more recent and thinned around the edges, revealing its true pigment. It was red.

"It's blood," she stated, mostly to herself.

S6 Scully (and Mulder) come face-to-face with a demon on one of Kersh's patrols.

Papercut

"Don't move, Mulder. I'm not yelling. You have a concussion...among other things."

He winced as he felt fat raindrops falling on him with stinging force. Everything before him was a blur. He waited, and Scully's form slowly took shape.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

He looked at her, but his thoughts were clouded by pain in his head.

"Yeah. Fingers."

Scully finds her partner after he narrowly escapes a tornado.

One Man's Journey

I sense a wave of trembling pass through her frame as I marvel at the implausibility of our circumstances. Her head rests against my chest, against the very place where someone, or something, split me open and tried to remove my faith in her. When they realized they could not have that, they took everything else?

Post Three Words Mulder is desperate to keep Scully around while (temporarily) helpless to re-situate back to "normal."

Waddles52 and Little Bullit 89's Spectacular Lights and Chili Nights

"The injection should make you sleepy. I'm going to talk to the manager and find out where the closest medical facilities are. You need to be seen by a doctor."

"You're a doctor," he said sleepily. The phenergan was beginning to take effect.

"That's true, but in case you haven't noticed, the vast majority of my patients are dead.

AU-- Mulder and Scully, emergency appendicitis, and an important "I need you."

bellefleur's

Kiss of an Angel's Wings

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face. It's been like this for months now, maybe years, but never like tonight. Never like this. The memory of those baby blues riveted to him is seared into his soul.

Post Tempus Fugit Pendrell's last, besotted thoughts.

Iced

After the fact, it was hard for Scully to describe just what had occurred since it all happened so quickly. Ernie had just finished a rousing rendition of "Rubber Ducky," and as the music changed, the other characters emerged from the curtain, one by one, for the final number. Her focus, of course, had been on Big Bird, hoping for his sake that the show could end without incident. But as she watched him glide gracefully along behind Elmo in the long line of figures circling the ice, suddenly he broke formation and made a beeline for Oscar. With a dive at the garbage can, he and the Grouch slid toward the center of the rink, in a mangled pile of feathers and fur.

Post Detour Mulder and Scully are sent on an FBI undercover mission... as Sesame Street characters on ice.

When Cows Fly

Scully froze. She stopped breathing altogether, hoping that complete lack of motion would prevent him from waking further so that she could surreptitiously pull herself away. Slowly resuming her breathing, she began to plot another run at the alarm clock when a nearby rumbling startled her.

"If you wanted to cuddle you could've just asked."

Rain King Scully is flustered by Mulder's oblivious consumption of her space.

42 Flavors

Scully turned at Mulder's voice to see him pull up alongside her, and then she followed him out the door. One of the tables they had passed on the way in was now vacant, so they took their places in the wrought iron chairs flanking the matching round table.

"So, was it a good birthday, Scully?"

"Best one I've had in six months."

Post The Unnatural Mulder whisks Scully away to get gelato.

Combustion

She and her partner had faced this situation too many times, with one possibly losing the other permanently. Had this become almost mundane for them? To someone who had never faced this trauma before, the occasion magnified lost moments and things left unsaid. But for Scully, such thoughts had not even occurred to her, until now. Was it possible that she may never see Mulder again and never have the chance to express how she truly felt about him?

Mulder survives a bomb blast cave-in; and reunites with a relieved Scully, ready to take the next step.

In Heels

You'd think by now I'd be used to getting ditched, but with Mulder, it was never about gender. Sure, he was trying to protect me from taking the same stupid risks he was, but not because he thought I was a liability. That doesn't mean it didn't piss me off, but this--this one was a personal insult. And I don't like being insulted.

Mulder's swollen ankle prevents him from joining Scully and a misogynistic detective on the field.

Mother Love

Scully had invited him to join her and her mom for brunch that Sunday, but he politely declined and explained simply, "There's something I have to do." She accepted his excuse without question, perhaps understanding, or simply respecting his need to open up to her in his own time.

Post Sein und Zeit Mulder visits Tena Mulder's grave for Valentine's Day.

Triple Returns

"The Son."

Scully and Hughes both turned to look at Mulder who had now moved into the living room and was standing over the tape outlining where the body had fallen.

"Pardon me?" Hughes inquired.

"The Son. Daniels was the only son in his family, just like the second victim of each trio before. The original killers saw themselves as an unholy trinity, and they killed along the same pattern."

AU-- S7 Mulder and Kristen Kilar meet again.

Visceral

Your focus turns back to the steel pan containing the most poetic of my earthly remains. You place it inside the frame of the scale then write down the weight. You set my heart on the cutting board and pick up a long knife, your actions practiced and controlled, almost mechanical. The blade presses against the mottled epicardium, expressing thick, clotted blood from the vessels. But you pause, held back by something invisible and unspoken, your masterful hands trembling. Turning, you look at my opened body, my innermost self exposed. A few clear drops run from beneath your mask, dripping onto the front of your gown, mingling there with a smear of red.

Post All Things Daniel Waterston selfishly watches Scully autopsy his dead body.

Then Comes Marriage

"C'mon, Scully, it'll be fun. The lights, the magic. There's no other place like it on earth."

AU-- Mulder and Scully accidentally get married in Vegas.

Arms Wide Open

It hits me again: We did it. We made a life. I can't believe it.

And once more I laugh to myself in disbelief and start crying. This seems to be an automatic response for me.

AU-- Requiem Mulder wasn't abducted; and bolts from room after being told the surprise news.

Easter Vigil

All she knows for sure is that he was dead. She held his lifeless body. She touched his decaying flesh. She stood watch as they sealed him in the casket and then lowered him into the ground.

He was dead. And then he wasn't.

He is risen.

Deadalive Scully thinks of her waxing and waning faith in miracles.

Simple Man

The moment was interrupted as Will emerged from his room and rejoined them. It was Mulder who first noticed him, and Scully followed his gaze. Their son was now wearing jeans, a Yankees shirt, a ballcap, and his baseball mitt--the way he usually dressed when his father took him to the park to play catch.

AU-- Post Existence Mulder and Scully discuss his childhood while William changes his Halloween costume.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

Mulder was standing on his desk, holding something above his head, apparently installing...

"Ceiling tiles? Mulder, what are you doing?"

He almost fell off the desk, startled by her presence, but she quickly reached out to steady him. He smiled sheepishly and climbed off the desk.

AU-- IWTB Mulder keeps putting off his doctorate.

truthwebothknow1's

Natiruvaaq

He tried to cut through the fog that left his mind in a painful vice.

Mulder, caught in the fog.

Echoes

Her aunt had been bugging her for months about coming over to spend a few days and finally meet her.

S6 (or S7) Scully vacations in Ireland, where she not only finds her own X-File but runs into her partner.

Enchanted Shores

The soft crunch of feet through wet sand broke her out of her reverie as her partner approached her, grinning like a little boy bringing her a natural sea treasure.

The man with the child in his eyes.

S6 (or S7) Mulder and Scully take a lovely dovey trip to Maine.  

Home Alone

He stood at the lip of the stairs swaying and was feeling quite disorientated when the downstairs phone ringing tore a path through the cotton in his head. His good foot shifted inadvertently onto the first step but his toes could not dig into the carpet enough to stop his forward momentum. A final sway and his crutches slipped from his grasp with a clatter and he pitched forward, too shocked and slacked jawed to cry out. The hall flooring came up to collide with his nose at an alarming speed just as the answering machine kicked in.

Mulder gets into progressively worse scrapes on Valentine's Day, resulting in Maggie's arrival, Scully and Skinner's panic, and a reporter's opportunistic attempt to snap a photo.

My December

And then they found him.

Mainly because the puddle of red stood out in stark contrast to the endless white. Fortunately, they'd spotted his limp body wedged upside-down against a snow-covered rock before the last gimlet slither of light vanished over the next mountain. Only Mulder could render himself trussed up like some macabre raspberry ripple snowball....

AU-- S7 Mulder is wrapped up in barbed wire after a disastrous car accident. With no other recourse, Skinner and Scully prepare to pull it out themselves.

If I Close My Eyes Forever and Vortex

He was so excited at the thought of revisiting his old haunts and he hadn't really come down since. He called it his Oxford beat. Scully had nearly fallen out of the boat, laughing as he said it. They nearly both ended up in the river. Good memories, he was going to need them, they both were.

A sudden slither of melancholy caught her in the ribs. His hand tugging gently at hers brought her out of her reverie.

AU-- Mulder wakes from a dreamworld, nearly debilitated with serious injuries. Scully takes him to England to help him move on from the FBI; and the two-- of course-- stumble across an x-file.

Si la vie est un cadeau

I'm not the Close Encounter hero, but I'm close to something...terrible. I'm Fox William Mulder... the most colossal looser of all time. I am both found and at the same time irrevocably lost to you...to this. And I want...no need to think that I didn't have a choice, ...like Sam, that all this was inevitable for some universal goodness concept, which somehow got lost or derailed along the way. I made the choice Scully, but was it mine to begin with? Was this not ordained long ago by happenstance of my birthright? When I think of what I've cost you...

Maybe I deserve all this; perhaps everything was leading to this, in some divine plan that was kept secret from us. Though I'm sure you would be the first to tell me that, God doesn't use power tools against helpless living flesh.

S8 Mulder recounts the temporary bouts of reprieve he'd feel amidst the trauma of his torture.

BONUS

I can't bounce from this list in good conscience without mentioning Vickie Moseley and Donna and Sheryl Martin and RocketMan and Cecily Sasserbaum and prufrock's love, authors I've put a lot of hours into. However, since Tumblr has limits on links per post, I'll merely suggest you search their names (e.g. #Vickie Moseley) on this blog; and limit this rec to a fic I became reacquainted with today.

prufrock’s love/plenilune’s (Ao3, Gossamer, WBM, colonizationhq)  

Malebolge 

"I'm not eating a bat, Mulder. We don't have any food, no drinkable water, and you've got to be freezing. Better start climbing, partner."

"I wanted to wait until you were awake - to make sure you were okay before I left you." He's on his knees, facing me, very close. I can feel the heat radiating off him in the darkness like an aura and a warm hand touches my good shoulder. "You know I care about you, don't you, Scully?"

Something was very wrong if Mulder was saying this while kneeling on my wet trench coat, half-dressed, in a cave. Maybe he hit his head - that usually precedes declarations of his love.

"I know you do, Mulder. Just go."

"Do you love me?" He'd found my hand, holding it tightly in his.

Bad wrong.

"You know I do. What's wrong, Mulder?"

AU-- Mulder and Scully (and a tour guide) become trapped in an underground cave-in, and slowly realize they're not getting out.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[kashimos-hajime]

—candy | s.r.

summary: "on the other side of the net, atsumu grins."

pairing: suna rintarou x reader

a/n: ohhh miya twinssss save me | part of the undateable series

masterlist

It’s not long before you’re staying late after practices to lock up, curled up between the benches with a bag of abandoned towels and a bottle holder next to your feet, watching, always watching.

Your notebook is filled with volleyball terminology and sketches of rotation possibilities, notes of each player's strength and weaknesses. You build a portfolio for the team, speak to each and every one and take notes with your little pencil that's been sharpened to a near-nub. Suna catches glimpses of the page you're working on when he grabs his bottle from you, your fingers rolling the short pencil distractedly. You don’t even look like you’re paying attention, and he sees mentions of cellular division which is most certainly not related to volleyball.

When you suddenly blink and begin writing a sentence beginning with chlorophyll, he nudges the side of your thigh with his foot. You blink, head jerking up to him, 

“Tired?” he asks. When you don’t answer right away, he jets another stream of water into his mouth to span the silence. Maybe if he gives you time to think…

Nope. It’s like talking to a brick wall.

“I said, are you tired.” This time, he doesn’t bother making it sound like a question, and instead kicks your shoe. It must be what kickstarts the human part of your brain because you slide up the wall and nod. He plucks your notebook out of your hands despite your protest, shaking until the next page folds over to reveal the notes you took from their first practice match of the year. 

Although your writing is neat, he can see where the letters lose their sharp edges, the pen loses precision.

“Give that back,” you demand quietly, and he surrenders it when you try to snatch it from his grasp with a shrug. Your eyes avert to the floor, and the urge to smile takes him by surprise. So does the want to pat your head. Hand twitching, he chews on the inside of his cheek and squeezes his bottle tighter. “It’s fun to watch you play, but you guys stay so late.”

“Tell the captain to end practice early then,” he retorts. “He’s the one keeping us jailed here.” Two gazes go to Kita standing by the net and setting to the spikers, and Suna watches out of the corner of his eye as you shake your head. “Scared?”

“Kita-san likes his routine,” is all you say. Pale eyes fixate on your face, but you’re staring at the captain in a way that makes his stomach turn. It’s uncomfortable, and foreign, and when a soft, faint smile plays at your lips, an unwelcome train of thought stations in his brain. You close the notebook, pushing off the wall and turning to him. 

Almost instantly, the smile disappears. Suna’s almost offended enough to comment on it.

Is he ugly or what?

“Either way,” you continue neutrally, “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“Wasn’t worried,” he replies smoothly. “You just looked dead slumped against the wall.” Your eyes squeeze shut as he flicks your forehead. Then, he grabs your wrist and puts his empty water bottle in your hand. “Refill this for me, won’t you? Thanks, kuri-kuri.”

You frown. “Okay.”

Setting down your notebook by your bag, you give him a look before stepping around him and heading out the gym. Watching you go, he shoves his hands into his pants and the corner of his mouth twists into a wry smile. The nickname burns at the edges of his lips, and he debates about why he had called you that, before shaking his head and heading back onto the court.

It doesn’t matter. Osamu and Atsumu call you that to irritate you and Suna, by occupation, loves to annoy everyone around him. He must’ve just picked it up out of habit.

On the other side of the net, Atsumu grins.

.

The next day is a long one. You’re dragging your feet through the school, trying to ignore the heaviest weight in your stomach at the thought of having to stay late again. But there’s another practice match at the end of the week, and you’re in too deep to say you quit being a manager. If Aran’s pleased demeanor at seeing you so often again is anything to go by, you’re struggling to think of reasons not to go besides how exhausted you are.

Maybe you just need to get used to it. A new routine.

After saying goodbye to Mina, you head for the gym with the sun warm on your face. A slight breeze kisses your neck, and you relish in the feeling of a cool, easy spring that’ll soon be replaced by the smell of sweat and hot gym air.

If you’re at the gym quick enough, you’ll have to start setting up the nets. At least that’s one plus. Lifting everything you need to, walking to and fro with whatever you’re tasked with, means you’re getting the exercise you never got before.

You’re nearly there when you notice the aglet of your shoe slapping against your ankle. Veering off to the shade of a nearby building and bending over, you sigh. Even your fingers feel tired.

How is that even possible?   Untying your shoe lace, you’re about to retie it when something crinkles above you and a dark shadow falls over you. Mouth open, you're about to retort if you can help whoever's blocking your sunlight when you find your gaze filled with a shiny dark brown plastic. You blink, looking up at the hand and arm and body attached to it.

Suna Rintarou closes his school bag, outlined by the golden sunlight. It catches his pale eyes as he shoves a bag closer to your face. “Osamu said you needed these and to give it to you if I saw you.”

Blinking, you stand and take it, reading the front before turning it over. A bag of your favourite coffee candies, unopened. You frown as the boy before you crouches to finish up your shoelaces, pulling the loops into a tight bow. You cock your foot back onto its heel, staring down at his handiwork. 

“Oh.” He rises to his feet. Your cheeks heat up. “Thank you.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, turns, and continues on his way towards the gym.

You watch him go, hand tightening on the bag. The sound of it crackling makes your gaze jerk down. Was that… weird?

Incredibly weird.

“Suna-san, wait.” He glances over his shoulder, disinterest etched into the very planes of his face. You ignore it and jog to catch up to him, smiling politely. “I’m going this way anyway.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Guess so.”

Later, during a break in practice, you pull Osamu aside and hold the bag of candies, smiling. His own smile mirrors yours, and he reaches greedily for the bag, but you yank it out of his grasp, placing a hand on his chest. 

A complain bubbles on his lips, but you only take a step back. “Hold up!”

“What? Where’d ya get those?”

“Whaddya mean, dummy?” You withdraw a candy and he automatically opens his mouth. Rolling your eyes, you toss it into his mouth like a owner giving a dog a treat. “Suna gave ‘em to me. Said you told him to.”

“Suna?” he echoes, pushing the candy into his cheek. His eyebrows knit together, and together, the two look over to where the boy’s fiddling with his phone. For a moment, Osamu looks as if he wants to say something, and you glance at his expression, watching the way his brow furrows, the way his lips downturn.

At length, Osamu finally speaks, the candy clacking against his teeth: “Yeah. Forgot about that.”

[vienssunshine]

Come Over for a Swim, Darling

pairing: Nanami Kento x fem reader nsfw word count: 4.9k author's note: This was the winner from the poll! It was supposed to be bite-sized but the story got away from me. Parts are inspired by our queen lana del rey. description: You take your neighbor up on the offer of his pool on a hot summer day.

He’s such a gentleman, isn’t he? 

It’s been an unforgivably hot July this year, so it was perfect when the man next door offered his pool for whenever you needed to escape the relentless heat.

“Anytime you need, even if I’m not home, you’re welcome to come over for a swim,” your neighbor Nanami had told you at the annual block party.

So as you’re packing a pool bag, fighting through the hot, humid air your busted AC does little to improve, the only emotion you feel is immense gratitude. 

You cross the street to his house, noting that his car is still parked in the driveway. Maybe you should knock on the door? Let him know you’re here?

No, that would probably bother him. He could be busy with things around the house and, since he’s doing you such a huge favor, you want to be as little of a nuisance as possible.

You have his number—he gave it to you at the block party in case there’s ‘anything you might need’—so you pull out your phone and type out a text to him:

“Hey! Thanks again for letting me use your pool, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be there this afternoon.” 

After sending the message, you let yourself into his backyard through the gate in the white fencing. 

Your neighbor never talked much about his work, but it’s clear that it pays well. The backyard is spacious and well taken care of with mowed, bright green grass covering the area, only broken up by the cement surrounding the large tropical blue pool just behind his house. Lawn chairs line the near side of the pool and there’s a garden with a large tree that droops over the water on the far side. 

You place your bag down on one of the lawn chairs and stretch out, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin, though you’re quick to favor the coolness of the pool when you crouch down and swipe your fingers through the water.

Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from your neighbor:

“Of course. Let me know if I can get you anything.”

You smile, he’s so kind to you. A girl could get the wrong idea. It doesn’t help that he’s tall, built, and handsome. Somehow, he’s unclaimed; you’ve only ever seen one car in his driveway.

After pulling off your cover-up to reveal your white bikini, you wade into the pool. The cool water welcomes you, and you lower yourself down to sit on the steps, submerging your poor, overheated body up to your shoulders. It’s refreshing to a cellular level and exactly what you need after a long, scorching summer. You lean back, arms behind you on the stairs and sunglasses resting on the bridge of your nose. 

Your gaze floats around your surroundings, noting that you wouldn’t mind living like this, able to enjoy the luxurious backyard whenever you please, until you catch a small movement in the corner of your eye. You follow it to see your neighbor peering down at you through his upstairs window.

He must be checking up on you, how sweet of him. You push your sunglasses down, eyes locked on his, and bring your hand up to give him a little wave. 

Nanami returns the gesture and softly smiles. You expect him to close the curtain and return to whatever he was doing, but he doesn’t, seemingly having a hard time pulling his eyes from the sight of you enjoying his pool.

How interesting.

You sit up, water dripping off your chest and leaving behind little droplets that make your skin glitter in the sunshine. His eyes flick down to your bikini top, only for one, shameful second, but you still notice. It sends a rush through your veins; you like his attention, and he doesn’t appear interested in taking it away. This could be fun.

His stern eyes follow your hand as you run it up from your stomach, to your collarbone, and finally to one of the white, thin straps of your top. You enjoy how Nanami, whom you’ve deemed a stoic man, appears impacted by your roaming touch, eyes slightly widening as your delicate fingers push the strap off your shoulder. 

You move further into the pool, turning around in the water so your back faces the window, and watch Nanami’s face, determined to soak up any micro-expression the man was willing to concede as you drop the other strap from your shoulder. 

His big hand comes up to the collar of his button-up, pulling the patterned tie around his neck loose. The man’s waning restraint makes you giggle, simply delighted by how your teases are affecting him. 

You submerge further into the pool so the water is level with your collarbone, and the man’s gaze is unwavering as your hands come around your back to unclasp your bikini top. You turn and toss it onto the cement surrounding the pool, but when you look back to the window to see the spectator’s reaction, you find it empty.

The back door slides open. Nanami’s tall body consumes the doorway as he stands in the threshold, tempted but still hesitant, like he’s wavering between worlds and just a step away from fully giving in to you.

He greets you calmly as if the situation he’s in—having his topless neighbor in his pool—isn’t notable or unwelcome in any way. “Hello.” 

You smile at him, coquettish and daring, “Hi.” 

“How are you enjoying the pool?” He leans against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest with a smirk on his face you can only find if you look for. 

“I like it a lot,” you respond, moving to the pool’s edge and leaning on it, the water the only thing keeping you modest. “I’d like it a lot more if you joined me.”

“I think I’d feel the same.”

“Okay, go put on your suit,” you giggle. He’s still wearing his work clothes, long pants and a button-up—attire that’s unacceptable for such a hot day. 

“That will take too long,” he says, “I’m fine in this.”

He walks to the pool's edge and stops, looking down at you. Though you don't know it, with his line of work, it’s always best to approach unfamiliar situations with a level of caution, and something like this has never happened to him.

Only when you call to him, voice silken and sweet like a siren’s, his sorcerer mindset of constant suspicion is forgotten. “Come into the water, Kento,” you say, and it ensures there’s no way Nanami can refuse your request. Compelled, he removes his leather shoes and joins you in the pool, sitting down on the submerged steps and paying no mind to how the water soaks his expensive work clothes. 

You glide over to him and settle down on a step below his so you can keep the veil of water over your chest. He brings a big hand to your cheek, drinking in every feature of your face as his thumb strokes your warm skin. 

“So nice to me,” you hum, leaning into his rough palm, “letting me use your pool.” You rest your arm on his clothed thigh and smirk. “Did you expect this to happen?”

“I didn’t,��� he confesses, “But I’m glad you took up my offer.”

“Me too,” you say, dipping your chin down and looking up at him with your pretty eyes, “Can I show you how grateful I am?” 

He's breathless when he responds, "You may, dear."

Then you're climbing up his built body, water falling off of you, so you can lean forward and press your lips to his. When he processes what’s happening—that the neighbor he hasn’t been able to shake from his mind is kissing him—he melts into it, a big arm wrapping around your waist and the other coming up your bare back, his hand cradling your head and pushing you into him. 

You smile against his mouth, elated by the win of seducing your hot next-door neighbor, and he notices, of course, but just feeling your soft body against him is enough to decide to be as sweet as you are being to him. 

The hand on the back of your head gently tugs at your hair, pulling a gentle sigh from your lips which he uses as an opening to deepen the kiss. Though he’s pushing you into him, with his tongue rolling over yours, you can tell he’s tempering himself. There’s flashes of impatience and desperation, with the way he nips your lips or roughly squeezes the softness of your sides, but they’re actions he quickly suppresses. It makes you wonder if he’s holding back for a reason, if he wouldn’t be able to stop if he were to fully indulge in you. 

“Pretty girl,” he whispers into your mouth in a momentary pause, and the low notes of his gruff voice send the thoughts out of your head and heat rushing to your cheeks.

Then he pulls you from his side into his lap, your wet body—and bare chest—now pressed against his as you straddle his soaked pants. His shoulders are underneath your palms, and you tighten your fingers around them, squeezing the thick, sturdy muscle the wet fabric sticks to; he feels stronger than he looks.

“I appreciate”—he kisses your jaw—“how you express”—then your ear—“your gratitude.” His last kiss is placed on your neck, and you gasp—you’re so sensitive there—and cant your hips into nothing. 

“So needy,” he remarks with a low chuckle, hands traveling down to your sides, conducting electricity through your nerves as they move, “At first, I thought you just needed my pool, but now I think you need more.”

“Need you,” you tell him, almost whining, pulling at the tie loose around his neck, “Now.”

“You need to be taken care of,” he agrees, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your hips. He places a soft kiss on your cheek. “Let me make you dinner, sweet thing. Why don’t you come inside?”

His suggestion, one you’d normally appreciate, seems unreasonable with the painful ache pulsing through you. You lean forward, pressing a wet kiss on his neck that pulls a groan from him. “Kento, that sounds nice, but I want you, not dinner.”

His hands land on your shoulders, rendering you still. “I know, darling, but I can’t take care of you how I want in the pool. Please, let me dry you off and feed you first.” 

You huff, which he finds amusing, but give in to his request, allowing him to help you out of the pool, wrap a warm, fuzzy towel around you, and lead you inside. 

Your body is frustrated with you, wanting release so badly, but he’s right, a pool isn’t the most pleasant setting for sex, and you should eat something as you haven’t eaten since this morning, too distracted with trying to fix your AC. 

Nanami steps away for a moment and it gives you some time to check out his living room. The interior of his house is as impressive as the exterior: spacious, clean, and decorated in a way that invites you in. Interestingly, there aren’t any picture frames around the house, rather, the shelves are filled with books, all academic-looking and on niche topics regarding the supernatural.  

Nanami returns dressed in dry slacks and a short-sleeve button-up. He has a change of clothes for you, a big t-shirt and sweatpants, presumably his own. 

It’s still hot–and you feel like testing him–so you tell Nanami that: “Just the shirt is fine.” You put it on, though it’s more of a dress with the way it covers the first few inches of your thighs, and then pull your bathing suit bottom down and step out of it, leaving nothing underneath the shirt-dress. Nanami stares at you, eyes wide. 

“Can’t stay in my wet bikini,” you say, unsticking the long shirt from your wet thighs. 

“Right,” he says, regaining his composure and taking the bottoms from you, “I’ll hang it up with your top.”

For dinner, he makes you a pasta dish, and it’s delicious, but what you enjoy more is teasing him as he cooks, never letting him forget what you really want from him. You make multiple attempts at convincing him to forgo the dinner plans and head to his room, just so distracted by how his hands move and forearms flex as he prepares the food, but make little headway. 

After the meal and patiently dealing with your quips that were only exacerbated by your glass of red wine, he leads you up a tall staircase to his bedroom. The lighting from the lamps on either side of his bed is soft and warm, and a glance at the dark window tells you that the night has been much longer than you realized.

He shuts the door behind you.

“Finally,” you sigh, leaning up to kiss him, but his rough hand on your shoulder stops you, bringing a confused frown to your face.

He takes his hand from your shoulder and uses it to tilt your chin up, his eyes darker than before. “You’ve been teasing me all night and expect me to reward that behavior?” 

“You’re saying that like you didn’t enjoy it,” you respond, because if this is the game he wants to play, you’ll play it. 

“However I felt does not change the fact that you were trying to work me up.” 

You smirk up at him, guilty as charged.

Nanami puts his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the foot of the bed. Then he waits, staring at you expectantly, so you sit down on the edge of the mattress, making sure the hem of his big t-shirt just barely covers the glistening mess between your legs. His eyes flick down to the tease and his jaw clenches.

“So you’re going to punish me then?” you wonder, thrilled by how riled up you’ve gotten your poor neighbor. 

“I’ll see if it’s possible for a brat like you to behave first,” he says, parting your thighs. The breath he lets out at the sight of you is shaky. “Look at that,” he says, thumbing your wet folds. 

You’ve been left wanting for his touch for too long, so your head falls back at the sensation of his hands against your plump lips, “I like feeling you there,” you admit, your voice breathy.

He hums, pleased, and continues to stroke you, fingers dipping in and out of your wetness, before he removes them and sinks down to his knees so his face is level with your cunt. 

You allow your legs to fall open further, and he places his rough palms on the insides of your thighs to ensure they’ll stay that way. His hot breath fans against your folds, making you quiver with anticipation. When he leans forward and starts to eat you out, the only coherent thought you can think is: he knows what he’s doing.

It’s embarrassing, how you were talking so much talk, trying to woo your handsome neighbor with your honeyed words, and now the only thing coming out of your mouth is a series of whines and gasps as he glides his tongue along your folds. You bring your hand down, knotting it into Nanami’s golden hair, but he’s quick to remove it.

He tsks, “None of that. You’re going to be quiet and sit still like a good girl.” 

Be quiet and sit still? When he’s making you feel so good? Does he know he’s asking the impossible? 

You begin to whine before he interrupts you, “Do you want me to keep going?”

Wanting him so badly for the entire night and getting only a taste of the pleasure he can give you, it’s making the space between your legs hurt. Truthfully, you’ve been aching for him this whole time, and you just want to feel better.

He’s watching you, sharp eyes evaluating what you’ll say next, even though he knows the truthful answer to his question. 

Defeated, you nod. He smiles. “Good girl. Now, stay still for me.” 

He returns to his spot nestled between your thighs and pushes his tongue through your folds once more. The action would have earned a delighted sigh from you if you weren’t trying so hard to keep it in. Your teases must have really gotten to him if his retaliation is this cruel. 

It becomes harder to pretend you’re unaffected by his touch when his tongue begins to close in on your clit, all swollen and sensitive. He’s been circling around the area, never making direct contact until now, when he gently flicks his tongue against it. Your body seizes and your mouth opens wide in a silent gasp. 

He waits a moment, seeing if you’ll crack, but you don’t. 

“So good,” he purrs, and warmth flows into your lower stomach. 

His hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs as he encourages the tornado of heat twisting in your stomach with the gentle licks of his tongue on your clit. You should be given an award for how well you’re holding up, fighting to keep still and letting the man pleasure you how he wants all without allowing the noises your body needs to make escape your lips, which are now swollen from biting into them. 

“Alright, I think you’ve proven you can be good when asked to be,” he says, kissing your clit, “So you don’t have to restrain yourself anymore.” 

You should have learned your lesson by now, it wasn’t easy to stay quiet when all you wanted to do was moan Nanami’s name, but, even so, you're eager to push your neighbor’s buttons a little more. So you lie, saying that it “wasn’t even that hard to sit still.” 

He pauses, which strikes both fear and excitement into your thundering heart, as he assesses your statement, disapproval etched into his sharp features. 

“I didn’t want it to be too much for you the first time,” he says, “But if you want to continue to act like a brat, I’ll just have to deal with you like one.” 

Then, with ruthless candor, he locks your legs in place by circling his big arms underneath them and clasping his hands together just above your lower stomach. His strong forearms are pressing down on your hips, rendering you pinned to the mattress beneath you.

“Kento, uh-wait–ah”

His mouth is on your heated core again, nuzzling the flesh before taking his clit into your mouth and sucking, hard. You buck your hips up, instinctively trying to escape the intense sensation, but his iron grip makes your effort all for naught.

Then his tongue rolls over your clit in his mouth, whiting out your vision. Your lips gasp his name, and then repeat it in a far more strained and strangled manner. He’s being so rough, tugging at you like a loose string in a sweater and unraveling you faster than you can take.

“I thought it wasn’t hard to keep quiet?” Nanami mocks, “I think I’ve heard my name two times just now.” It’s less than a second after he speaks for his mouth to resume the merciless stimulation to your clit. 

“No, not–ah–not hard at all,” you say, pretending like you don’t have to rack your brain to be able to respond to him. 

“Is that so? Tell me more.”

He’s asking too much and he knows it; you can’t focus with him touching you like this, each lap of his tongue washing away the start of every coherent thought. You moan as a response, hoping he will let you get away with it. 

He doesn’t. “Darling,” he states. He wants the truth.

It all comes out like a waterfall, with your resolve eroded away by the waves of pleasure hitting your body. “Okay–okay–it–was–hard–to–be–quiet–and–I–I–just–need–you–to–keep–going–please–Kento–I–need–it.”

He presses a soft kiss to your clit as a reward. “That’s a good girl.” Then, he continues to tend to the growing want splitting apart your body with calculated licks and sucks along your ridges.

Much to Nanami’s satisfaction, you allow the whimpers and whines your body wants to make flow out of you, finally finished with being so difficult. He likes how needy and pliant you've become, especially since he’s been waiting to have you like this for a while. Dirty thoughts have been plaguing his mind since the block party when you were wearing a sundress that hugged every delectable curve and dip of your body. He remembers the exact color and pattern of the dress, because he's the type to be observant, which also means he's the type to know when he's getting you close.

“Fuck, Kento,” you gasp.

The way you're squeezing your legs together and quickening your breath tells him to keep his movements consistent, and in doing so, his tongue takes you to your climax in an embarrassingly quick amount of time. A final lap of his tongue unleashes a white-hot river of pleasure that twists around your core, making you gasp Nanami’s name as if he could do anything about it. Your body locks up: hands squeezing his forearms with your fingernails digging into his skin and your head falling back onto the mattress as you endure the sensation. 

He crawls up next to you on the bed, talking you through it as you writhe. “That’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, watching your eyes flutter and listening to the sweet sounds of your pleasure-drunk babbling. “You’re doing so good.”

When your endless moans settle back down to panting, he cradles your cheek, asking you, “Are you alright, sweet thing? Was it too much?” His other hand is stroking your thigh in soothing patterns, delivering gentle pushes of pleasure as the disorienting buzz vibrating through your body fades away. 

Catching your breath, you lean into his rough palm, “M’okay.” He smiles softly as he swipes his thumb along your cheekbone in gentle caresses, a stark contrast to the hard erection pressed to your thigh. It’s funny, how he’s pretending it isn’t even there, but you feel it, warm and throbbing against your leg.

He’s gotten his way, so it’s only fair that you get a turn, too.

Your eyes flick up to his face and your fingers play with the collar of his shirt when you say, “Now I wanna take care of you.” Your hand, still a little shaky from the impact of your orgasm, travels down his warm chest to the bulge in his pants. When you begin to stroke him over the fabric, he hisses and you smile up at him. “Seems like you need some attention, Kento.” 

God, you’re such a tease, even after making you cum so hard you couldn’t see. If anything, it spurred you on. 

He tries to say something, but you squeeze his erection and he’s unable to get his thoughts straight. Taking advantage of his weakness, you push his shoulder back, laying him down on the space on the mattress beside you. Then, you settle on top of him, sitting on his big legs with your hands near the notable outline pressing through his pants. 

“It’s been such a long night,” you coo, unbuttoning his shirt so you can run your palms up and down the planes of his abs, careful to not get too close to his waistband. He watches your fingers as they skim his hot skin, a gentle and unconscious thrust of his hips pressing the clothed aching into nothing. 

“Let me help you,” you offer, eyes lidded. He can’t take much more of this anymore, not after being teased all night and then seeing the face you made when you came on his tongue. 

“Alright,” he concedes, breath uneven as your fingers approach his waistband, a pleased smile spread across your face.

You unzip his pants and pull down his briefs, freeing his throbbing erection and quickly taking it in your hands, running your fingers up and down his length in a loose fist. It twitches underneath your palm. 

“Poor Kento,” you say as you stroke him, “So pent-up and needing to be taken care of.” 

“You did this to me,” he responds through his teeth.

“Then I’ll make it up to you.” You lean forward, your lack of underwear allowing you to align your dripping hole and his cock with ease. And when you sink down on him, taking him deep inside of your warmth and bearing the delightfully painful stretch the movement comes with, Nanami sees heaven itself.

His hands clamp down on your hips as you begin to ride him, stabilizing yourself with his shoulders. The tight hug of your walls squeezes around him as you bounce up and down and make such sweet noises that compound the pleasure tearing through him. 

“Fuck, darling,” Nanami says, eyebrows pressed together, “You feel so good.” 

You smirk, leaning further forward, and capturing him in a messy kiss. The new angle has your clit brushing against the base of his dick as you grind, reinvigorating flames that lick the insides of your stomach. You’re moaning again, now into Nanami’s open mouth as he bucks his hips into you, chasing the release your warm walls are teasing him with. He’s been so disciplined this whole time, waiting to make sure he’s taken care of you before he got to fuck you, and now that he has, he isn’t holding back. 

His thrusts are messy, quite unlike the thoughtful flicks of his tongue when he pleasured you. He can’t think straight when you feel this good. 

“Seems that you like this,” you laugh, voice breathy and coated with arousal. 

“Of course I do, dear,” he says, fingers squeezing at the flesh of your hips, “You’re—fuck—worth the wait.” 

Your grin is victorious as you watch how he falls apart beneath you, chest heaving and a light pink glow spread across his nose and cheekbones. Nanami, who’s been watching your face—it’s his favorite place to look when being intimate—notices your delight. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, but it’s not accusatory, rather, amused.

If ‘this’ is referencing you having your hot next-door neighbor beneath you eagerly meeting your grinding hips and filling you up with his cock like it’s his life purpose, then yes, this is exactly what you wanted. 

“It–ah”—his thrusts have gotten harder—“it is.” 

“Is that so?” he asks, and then his hands wrap around your wrists, taking them from his shoulders and holding them by your sides, pulling you down so he can thrust harder and deeper into your cunt. “Let’s see if you can take it then.”

The wetness and cum from your orgasm have slicked your insides copiously, so it’s the pressure of having him so deep, kissing your cervix, that you’re having trouble adjusting to. Your mouth is gaping in silent gasps, the words fucked out of you, and your eyes are rolled back as he pistons himself in and out, his pace unforgiving. And there’s nothing you can do about it, with your arms pinned to your sides, you’re at his complete mercy as he slams his hips into your wet cunt.

“So f-fast, Kento,” you manage to say, “fuck.”

“I said I would treat you like the brat you are,” he responds.

Maybe this will teach you to not push him so far. 

Or maybe it won’t, because having him so rough with you, pushing you to your limit, fucking you like he’s punishing you, it’s what’s stirring up a second orgasm deep in your stomach. 

“K-Kento, feels s’good, my god–”

“That’s what I thought, dear,” he groans, “Figured you liked it rough. Can feel you clenching around me.” 

He doesn’t sound like the gentleman you thought he was when he talks like this, but you love it.

You throw your head back, forcefully nearing your breaking point as he pulls you into him. His grip crushing your wrists, but the sensation is unfelt when you finally cum all over him.

An unbridled whine rips through your throat as your fingers curl into fists, your body shaking but unable to move due to Nanami’s hold. So all you’re able to do is stay upright as Nanami pulls you down into his dick once more, the contraction and spasms of your walls throwing him over the edge, and empties his load deep in you. His face is contorted in pleasure and he groans as your canal grants him the release you’ve teased him with all night.

The moment his grip on your wrist relaxes, you double over, falling down into the safety of his warm, broad chest. His dick is still inside you, but the sensation is not unwelcome; it feels nice to be connected to him as you cuddle. 

You trace the lines of definition on his chest, his slowing heartbeat calming you. Nanami’s hand snakes underneath the oversized shirt to rub slow circles on your back. “How are you doing?” he asks, soft and sincere. 

You nuzzle your head into his chest. “I’m good, a little tired though.”

“You’re welcome to spend the night.” 

A warm, fuzzy feeling buzzes around your heart.

“But first, please, allow me to run you a bath. I can’t have you sleeping uncared for.” 

You suppose you’ll have to get used to this kind of treatment. 

“Okay,” you smile.

[catboybiologist]

Do you see a future where we can give a trans person a shot and have their body start making the correct sex hormones (eg testes change to make E, or ovaries change to make T)? How far off? What things need to be accomplished to achieve it, and what tools do we already have?

Disclaimer that none of this is gonna be all that scientifically robust, the terms used are gonna be descriptive rather than technical, and that I'm just woke up and these are the ravings of a woman gone mad.

A single shot is ambitious, but I could see a course of several months or a couple years that, after those several months, lasts a lifetime.

How far off? I mean, wildly dependent on funding and focus. Unfortunately, nothing related to trans healthcare is gonna see a serious push I would think. With an actual, serious push, I would give it a few decades of research (if that)(this is blisteringly fast btw) until it's punted over to the FDA. At that point it's outside of my knowledge to know how far things would move forward.

But honestly, it's part politics, part luck of the draw on what people research and push forward. Might happen in our lifetime, but don't hold your breath. Research is grindingly slow.

This is mostly based around the possibility of inducing transdifferentiation. Tldr:

-stem cells are exciting bc they can become any cell type. They haven't "locked in" their cell fate yet.

-most research on cellular differentiation centers around deprogrammed differentiated cells, reverting them to stem cells, and then reprogramming them into something else. The deprogramming is actually well studied (shoutout Yamanaka factors) but I don't see something like this reaching a medicinal, in vivo use soon.

-in extremely rare and induced cases, however, you can force a fully differentiated cell type to become another fully differentiated cell type *without* that intermediate. This is likely way easier to pull off in vivo, even though the initial molecular triggers are much, much rarer and more difficult to study.

Which brings us to the two theoretical dots that we can use here: prostatic metioplasias as a result of testosterone (for transmascs) and the role of DMRT1 for transfemmes.

Broad tldr of each of these points:

-there was a study that studied vaginal lining of transmascs who had been on T for several years and gotten hysterectomies. They found some prostate tissue intercalating the vagina.

-removal of a particular gene (DMRT1) allowed testes to slowly become ovarian tissue and produce estrogens. This gene is responsible for maintaining testes cell fate- keeping the lock, locked.

Neither of these provides a direct basis for actual medication. They show avenues for what will work, however. What's necessary here is to understand the upstream signals that control the expression of genes like DMRT1, which can then be exploited to force expression or stop expression in vivo, in a human.

Basically, the way transdifferentiation would work here is blasting the appropriate cells with enough of these signals, over enough time to ensure that everything actually undergoes TD, to reprogram everything you want to reprogram.

(yes, I know about the crispr transfemme who targeted DMRT1. No, I don't think that's real. I've posted about that before.)

You don't have to bother reading these, but here's the primary sources I'm talking about for anyone interested:

[random-fandom1984]

Hey there

Could I please get some Platonic Yandere G1 Soundwave with a teen reader?

Thanks

Since you didn't specify what the reader's gender is, or you just don't care -- by default -- the gender is a girl. Sorry for my male audience.

Clinging to Sanity, or Embrace the Fantasy

It was nighttime. A full moon lighting up the sky, accompanied by the blissing, shining stars. Pushing up the window in your bedroom, allowing the sounds of muffled arguing to echo outside. You dropped a bag, pieces of metal clanging from within upon compact. You climbed out, your hands gripping the edge of the window before letting go; it was only a small drop.

Grabbing the bag's handles and pulling it on your shoulder as you ran. This was almost becoming a weekly thing now. Your parents would argue for god knows how long ever since you were just a little girl. And when they're not, and you're alone with one of them, they'd talk and rant to you about how much they hate the other, like you're the psychiatrist and not their child.

You would secretly leave and head to your own place of Zen, your place of work that's open 24/7, where you would repair things that people would leave you. It can be a boom box, a radio, a record player, the popular cellular phone, even a cassette player. The company you work for is a big business that they give their employees their own offices/work rooms that are reinforced with sound-proof walls, for both privacy and not to disturb their fellow workers.

Walking down the sidewalk with only the streetlamps guiding your path; the cool, crisp air breezing past you in such a calming way, slowly pushing the fresh memory of the angry, loud shouts from your parents from your mind. You wished your older sister was there, but she's off living her freedom away from that damned house. They haven't even called after they left, not even to you. You saw the neon-glowing sign of the workplace up ahead.

Pushing the door open, a familiar ring-ding echoing loudly to get whoever was working at the receptionist desk's attention. The warm air-conditioning hitting my skin, making me shiver from the stark contrast of the outside. Behind the counter was Vannessa, dyed rainbow tips in her hair, heavy mascara and eyeliner on her face, accompanied by two small, light blue bows, with white bunny heads with "X"'s over the eyes, on both sides of her head (Inspired by teenager! Vanessa made by @chloesimaginationthings, lovely job btw). She's fun to hang out with if she isn't in a bad mood.

She glanced up, greeted me with a small wave, a corner of her lips perking up before it returned to its bored, neutral expression, putting her attention back on her phone. I walked past her and down the corridor where the walls are lined with doors to different offices, a couple bathrooms, and a janitor's closet. Once you approached your door, the backdoor was slammed open and entered Jerry with a box of wares. "FOUNDER'S FRIDAY!!" He happily shouted.

"Hell, yeah!" You exclaimed, this day couldn't possibly be any better. You loved Founder's Friday's and so does about every other employee in this building. It's been around ever since Jerry joined, which was a long time before you were hired. It would be a chance of luck if a day like this happens; Jerry would find random, abandoned wares and junk, and once he gets what is considered enough, he brings it here for the other employees to scavenge in, what they do with it is up to them. The choices are to take it apart and use it for spare parts or keep it to repair it and use for your own personal use.

"Hey, Y/n, can you help me with the doors?" He asked. You're always the one he asks because your door is always the closest to the backdoor. You nodded, closing the backdoor as he walked off to the lounge. You walked past his slow-moving figure and opened the door for him. He walked into the lounge and set it on the table, metal clanging from within. "Thanks. Let me guess, bad day at home?" He asked, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. "Yeah..." You grumbled, already digging into the box. You were good on supplies and parts, so you're looking for something to keep, but so far, nothing has caught your attention.

Then you found something peculiar. It was a tape player, one that seems to play music by looking at the cassette tape in its little window. Its main color was a dark blue, the second main color was white, and highlighted with a purple emblem, one that seems familiar, but you can't put your finger on it. There seemed to be a sticker on the window, a big yellow star.

You walked out of the lounge with the tape player as other employees were approaching, crowding around the table upon entering. You opened the door to your office and sat down at your desk. You opened the cassette and observed the tapes inside. You picked up one and played it, the familiar song plays: We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister. You set it to the side, next to a little robot that is immobile, and got to work on a ware from a client, slightly bobbing your head to the music.

(Time-skip)

It's been about a month since that day. The arguing has gotten worse that you started sneaking out daily, hanging out in your office with your cassette player waiting. It has become your comfort object. The little robot that was mentioned before, you made it to make yourself think you're talking to someone about your problems at home, about how much you missed your sister and you'd wish she'd be here or at least call, about how much you hate your parents arguing, and with them telling you stuff about the other, it started making you hate your parents.

But your parents started getting couple's therapy, and you brought your cassette with you, to listen to as you do your schoolwork. The arguing has almost disappeared. Almost.

As they were arguing, covering your ears with your pillow wrapped around the back of your head, trying to muffle the sounds. You couldn't take it anymore! In a frenzy, you quickly grabbed your bag, forgetting about your cassette. It wasn't until you reached your work, entered your office that you'd forgotten it. It's fine, you told yourself. "I can get it after work..." You muttered, getting to work on a project to take your mind off of the events.

Once you arrived home, you saw a note that they left to their jobs. Crumpled up the note and threw it in the trash, passing by an old family photo, back then when everyone was happy - you think. Your mother had one kid -- a daughter -- before she married your present father. Her name is Carly, and she's currently attending MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology), took after the appearance of her bio-dad, blond hair and pretty blue eyes. And then there was you in the photo, in a swaddle and only had been born a month ago before that very picture was taken. Looking at photos of the past like this really makes you wish things could go back.

You grabbed some pj's from your room and then entered your bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet and took some melatonin. You changed your clothes, tossing the dirty ones in the hamper. You closed the bathroom door behind you, approaching your bed, got under the covers. With eyelids feeling heavy, you closed them, not even catching the sound of something transforming as you drowsed off to sleep.

---

It was supposed to be a mission to get information through someone who was a family or friend of those human Autobots. But it all changed when he had been forced to stay hidden while in your quote-on-quote possession like an everyday object.

You would always talk to that small but adorable looking pile of junk like it were a living being that's lending an ear, while he was right there. Listening. The one thing he wasn't expecting was heart-wrenching info about your personal life at home. How much you'd wish for your dear sister to be around again. How much for peace in the family.

But he can see it as clear as day and knows you do too, but you keep putting yourself in denial, gripping onto that dwindling hope that everything would change for the better. But they will. At least, in the way he's thinking.

When you accidentally left him at the house, it only took a few more minutes before their arguing drifted on about you, negatively. It filled him with fury. Organics or any other living beings such as them don't deserve someone like you. Every time you'd unknowingly talk to him, he can tell that you have a kind spirit, a childish soul that's slowly dying the more you're around their presences. Those kinds of people that are like you no longer exist in the war that going on; So rare that you'd have a better luck at finding little bits of Dark Energon in the darkest corners in the galaxy. They were either killed or they changed, becoming a cold, serious husk of the bot they once were.

So, he made up his mind. He'd take you back to the Decepticon base, put your consciousness in another body -- a Cybertronian body -- and change your memories; you don't need them if they'd bring you such misery. You're better off being with people who would care about you. His minicons kids have already liked you, they find you interesting. They already know about his plan with you and they'd be happy to be the siblings you deserve, unlike that Carly girl.

Once you were dead asleep, Soundwave transformed into robot-mode, carefully picking up your body and left the house. Then he traveled to Cybertron via spacebridge, and had Shockwave start building you a body as you were put in a stasis pod. Once it was done, you were taken out of the pod, but was still asleep, and were put through the transfer and memory change.

---

PART 2 COMING SOON!! It's already in the works.

[dioslesbianwife]

Can i request a platonic team bucciarati with reader who came back as a zombie or a frankenstein's monster kinda thing? They just casually show up as if nothing happened.

sure, hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting <333

Bucciarati

He literally stops breathing.

“...No. No, that’s impossible. We buried you. I closed your eyes.”

Touches your face like he’s making sure you’re real- and flinches when he feels the unnatural cold of your undead skin.

“Who did this to you?” His tone sharpens. “Who brought you back?”

But once he sees you’re still you, still warm-hearted and kind beneath the whole “stitched together corpse” thing, he lets you stay near him again.

Makes sure you’re taken care of. Keeps your bandages clean. Buys you gloves so people don’t freak out.

Still scolds you like a mother hen. “Being undead doesn’t mean you can run headfirst into danger again, Y/N. Don’t make me zip your arm back on.”

Giorno

He senses it before he sees you. A ripple in nature. Something… off.

When you appear, shambling into the hideout with your patched-up limbs and dull eyes, Giorno immediately raises Gold Experience.

“That’s impossible. You died.”

You blink at him. “Yeah but like… I got better?”

Stares at you with that thoughtful mafia prince intensity before slowly lowering his Stand.

“Fascinating. Your soul has returned, but the body- who did this to you?”

Studies you like a scientist. Pokes your stitches. Has so many questions about necromancy and cellular resurrection.

But lowkey… is relieved you’re back. Really relieved. He just doesn’t show it.

Mista

SCREAMS.

“BRO- BRO- SOMEONE GET A GUN- ”

Literally hides behind Narancia. “IS THAT A GHOST?? IS THAT YOUR GHOST??”

When you roll your eyes and flip him off with your slightly-rotting hand, he loses it.

“OH MY GOD THEY ARE BACK. AND RUDE.”

Takes a WHILE to get used to it. He pokes your stitches constantly and asks a million inappropriate questions like “So like, do you still fart?” 

Eventually brags about you to strangers. “This is my bestie, they died and came back. No biggie.”

Narancia

FREEZES when he sees you.

“Wait… no way… no way…”

Runs over and hugs you so tight your arm pops off. 

“AHHHHHHHH I BROKE THEM- ”

Apologizes a hundred times and then refuses to let you out of his sight.

100% treats you the same as before, even if you have to sew your leg back on mid-conversation.

“So like, are you still hungry? Do you eat brains? Can I give you my pudding cup?”

If anyone stares at you funny in public, he yells “WHAT YOU LOOKIN’ AT, HUH?! THAT’S MY FRIEND YOU FREAK.”

Trish

At first: screaming. Then: silent horror.

“...This is a prank, right? A Stand illusion?”

When she realizes it’s really you, she bursts into angry tears. “You DIED. You DIED and no one could fix it.”

And now you’re just standing there. With stitches. With cold hands. But the same smile.

“You absolute idiot,” she sobs, hugging you.

Immediately becomes your undead stylist. “You might be a zombie but that doesn’t mean you can’t SERVE LOOKS.”

Buys you custom arm warmers and makeup to hide the decay. “If you’re gonna cheat death, you better do it fabulously.”

Abbacchio

“...You’re dead.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I got better.”

“Tch.”

Refuses to believe you’re real for days.

“It’s a trick. It’s Moody Blues showing me something I want to see.”

Won’t talk to you. Won’t look at you. Then one day, when you patch up a wound of his and smile, he just sighs.

“Only you would come back from the dead and still boss me around.”

Quietly watches over you. You catch him looking every now and then, like he’s still waiting for you to vanish again.

Secretly grateful you came back. Will never say it. But he brings you hot cocoa sometimes and mutters “Don’t lose another limb.”

Fugo

PANIC.

“No. No, this isn’t right. This isn’t NATURAL.”

Tries to push you away at first- afraid you’re some twisted trap, or worse, a puppet.

“What if this is hurting you? What if your soul’s trapped?”

But when you touch his hand- cold and shaky- and say “I missed you,” he just crumbles.

“...You dumbass,” he whispers, eyes wet. “You shouldn’t be here. But I’m so glad you are.”

Becomes the one constantly reminding you to rest and take care of your gross undead body. Packs you little first-aid kits and spare thread “just in case.”

[sopiao]

König and Ghost fight (kinda) for reader’s attention. Both wanting to listen to music with you. But it fails. (:3_/ )\_

( ^^^ can’t tell if you can see but it’s a little guy laying down :))

(Callsign will be ‘Shark’ :D)

Cellphones, tablets, iPods. Anything that’s a cellular or digital device is prohibited from being brought into any military base. For precautions, maybe information can be slipped or recorded, so naturally there will be rules. But somehow, Captain Price has persuaded and assured that Shark is a good soldier, one of his best and won’t leak or record information. Plus you don’t even care about all that.

So you got to have a cassette player, but only could bring a total of 2 cassette players. So they had to think long and hard of what they could bring, what they would listen to on their free time, training, and on missions, occasionally.

Shark settled on one tape of relaxing noises to help you sleep at night, a mix of soft rain and thunder, 6hz theta waves, and fire cracking. The other tape is more upbeat and energizing music. Rammstein, Rob Zombie, Nine Inch Nails, Godsmack, and Limp Bizkit.

(If you don’t like or listen to any of them, just ignore this and replace it with your music taste ;3)

—

Currently, the group were driving back from a isolated town, back to a safe house where they’ll be picked up and back to base. To rest and recover to get ready for the next mission. Soap was laid out on the farthest back seat, snoozing away, snoring every so often.

Price and Gaz were in the front, Price drove while Gaz talked to him to try and keep him focused and awake since it has been a long long night for the team.

Shark was stuck in between Ghost and König. Even though the vehicle was a good size, not too small, it still felt like the three were in a cramped closet. While Soap got a whole row to himself. If only you were fast enough to shotgun. Ghost kept unconsciously man-spreading, pushing your thighs to press up against König’s.

The tall Austrian looked down and saw the small metal box being fidgeted with in your hands. He decided that this would be a good bonding moment, very small and subtle but still intimate in a way.

“Could I listen with you?” König had his hand out, slightly nervous that you’d reject him. But he was a little more comfortable with you than the others since he’s closest with you most.

You were a little self conscious with your music taste. Your parents didn’t really like your taste in songs so you thought that he wouldn’t too. But you still handed him the black wired ear bud.

König had to slouch down a little so the wire wouldn’t stretch or get pulled out. He wasn’t very surprised when he started to get familiar with your music taste. It was very much like you and your music taste.

Ghost had been listening in on the two’s conversation, somewhat conversation, resting his head on the glass beside him, staring off into the forest. Internally cursing at himself that he hadn’t asked Shark that sooner, he always saw them listening to it but never thought to ask to listen with them.

It irked him a little, his eyebrow twitching when he looked over and saw you and König so close, while innocently listening to music.

“You listen to Rammstein?” He asked excitedly when he heard the opening of ‘Mein Teil’ buzz through the earbud. Happy that he found another common interest between the two. He really didn’t expect you to listen to them since their in German and not the most popular.

Ghost continued to listen in on their conversation, pretending that he’s zoned out or possibly snoozing away like the sleepy soldier in the back. Rolling his eyes whenever König spoke.

“Could I- uh.. Rest my head on your shoulder? It kinda hurts my back sitting like this” König explained, a lie, but he thought that since everything has been going well. He gets to share music with you, find out a band you both like, now he’s testing it further, see his limits.

Eyebrows furrowing when his eyes shifted back down at you next to him. Ghost froze when he sees his comrade resting his head against your shoulder. He was practically cuddling you! Well that’s that Ghost saw. He decided enough was enough and he had to fight back.

Tapping your shoulder to get your attention, he spoke in a softer tone.

“What’re ya’ listening to?” Ghost usually took interest in whatever you were doing, but not in your music. It took you by surprise, but you were more than happy to share your taste with him.

“Rob Zombie. You know him?” Shark asked, hoping that he heard of him or that he’s into that kind of music. But even if he wasn’t known for his music, he still directed good movies. So hopefully he’s the type to be into that.

“Never. Could I listen?” Ghost asked, not really thinking straight when he did. Hoping that he could get closer to you, or find out more about you and your interests that he can later look into and research.

It would be weird if you said yes, cause there’s only two ear buds and the other if with König. If you gave him your earbud you wouldn’t be listening to music with either of them.

But if you said no, it would seem like you were favoring König over him. Too awkward to explain to that you couldn’t. You nodded handing him your bud.

Since he was also quite tall he didn’t hunch over like König did. Instead, he slide to the side to get closer to you since in his mind he wouldn’t wanna stretch the wire of the ear buds, and in a subtle way get physical closer to you. His arm on the car seat, around you, while his side was pressed up against you. Practically smothering you with his strong chest.

Now there you were, sat in between two men who thought were sharing music with you but were really sharing music with each other. But neither of them realized it.

Every so often Ghost or König would make a comment or ask a question about the song that’s playing, so you had to make up an answer as to not make it awkward.

—

Extra:

Both froze in place when a certain song played on the cassette. One song that you forgot you had on there, CPR by Cupcakke. But since it was only Ghost and König was really listening to music, you hoped that no weird songs would play.

‘I’m here to give you customer service. I save d— by giving it CPR’

They both, at the same time, looked at Shark for a reaction to the song. But of course they both are unaware that their sharing musics with each other. So Shark acted like everything was normal and fine.

[hurlingsupport]

Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous (Gender Neutral Reader Insert)

Chapter 1: Camp Cretaceous

Next ->

Who knew that fresh air could feel so stuffy? Not you, that's who. You weren't exactly someone who'd leave the house every day, not enjoying the outdoors. So you couldn't really judge how fresh air could be, but this sea air just seemed too fresh.

Luckily, a 'thunk!' interrupted your thoughts, and then a hand shooed you off the boat until your feet met the gray concrete docks.

Looking around, you surveyed the faces of five other people, all varying in looks. The most notable one to you was the guy standing to your left. He wore a bright green jacket, with a face that resembled a similar color. You felt bad for him; but you would not mix the smell of puke with your own—beautifully non-pukey fragrance, so you'd keep your distance for now.

You shimmied a little to the right, almost bumping shoulders with one of the teens, though you skillfully avoided that using something called spatial awareness.

Another person was this tall girl, with a rather long, black ponytail; who seemed too busy inspecting her surroundings to notice a pink-haired girl sneaking up on her with a cellular device in hand.

Your eyes widen as you realize exactly who this pink haired girl is, which is the famous Brooklynn, of course. You weren't really a fan, but it's hard not to know her, considering her social status.

You tear your eyes off the two girls once the taller one pushes Brooklynn's camera out of her face forcefully. Instead, you focus on the dark-skinned boy in front of you, wearing a yellow jacket with black stripes on the sleeves. He was looking around excitedly, practically bouncing on his feet—no, scratch that, he was. You hold back a chuckle, not wanting to be a creep, and jump when someone elbows you gently.

"So… Jurassic World, huh?" You look behind you when you hear a southern accent directed your way. The culprit is a girl with a pink headband, wearing a black leather jacket.

"Uh, yeah. That's–that's where we are. Haha." You grimace at your attempt at a conversation, though the cowgirl doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she seems happy just at the fact you responded at all.

Before she can speak again, the man who had just been humming a Lady Gaga song and staring at a clipboard finally speaks up; prompting everyone to form a group in front of him.

"Welcome to Isla Nublar, campers!" The man has pale skin and a yellow bandana that forces his hair upwards. He carries a carefree smile and continues talking as he walks back and forth ahead of your group.

"You are the chosen few, the first kids in the entire world to ever experience the awesomeness…" He pauses, and everyone—despite not knowing one another—looks at each other in excitement.

"... that is Camp Cretaceous." He folds his hands behind his back and walks to the left.

"I know—the trip from the mainland was rough on some." He nods his head towards the green jacket teen.

"Hello, Ben."

Said boy turns towards the man to give him a thumbs up, right before spinning back around to barf again over the edge of the dock.

You raised a brow, when had he left the group?

The older man shouts: "But you made it!"

"I'm Dave, head counselor. You heard that correctly—head honcho, big shot."

Dave's interrupted by the sound of screeching wheels, and everyone turns once they notice the dust flying from the vehicle that just pulled up.

The mystery person pushes the driver's seat door open, and a brown-haired woman with sun-kissed skin jumps out.

"Ah, so sorry I'm late!" She has to shout over the commotion she herself had created.

She begins her own introduction as she makes her way towards the group. "Welcome, campers! I'm Roxie, head counselor of Camp Cretaceous." Her words cause a silence to overcome everyone.

You, along with the other teens, stare down Dave with judging eyes.

He fumbles with his words, chuckling with embarrassment. "Haha–well, it's sort of a co-head… counselor sort of situation." His hands point at the air, as if trying to summon something to back him up.

"Is it?" Roxie snickers.

Dave clears his throat, desperate to steer the conversation away from his failed leadership role.

"Anyway, some of you won contests to be here, some if you had VIP invites," During Dave's speech, Brooklynn spins her phone around, recording the area; along with the tall, ponytail girl. The tall girl blocks the camera's view of her face before walking away completely.

Rejected but still determined, Brooklynn instead turns her phone towards the rest of the group, which includes you.

The boy in the yellow jacket gives a double thumbs up at the camera, in addition to a bright smile. The cowgirl then notices the camera and leans over the dark-skinned boy to throw up a peace sign. Even Ben gives a small smile at the camera.

You glance at the camera, eyes widening before giving a quick grin and hurriedly turning the other way. The action causes Brooklynn to raise a brow, but she doesn't investigate further. Rather, she swivels her phone to face Roxie and Dave as they continue their speech, which you now realize you hadn't been listening to.

You pick up on Roxie's words, "As our first campers, we've lined up exclusive behind-the-scenes tours of Jurassic World."

There are varying shouts of eagerness, along with Ben's whines of fear. Roxie goes on to list the various activities you'd all be taking part in before the dark-skinned boy to your right cuts in to shout:

"Dinosaurs!?" His hands are suspended in front of him, balled into fists that shook with fervor.

After a beat of silence, he puts his hands in his pockets and stares down at his shoes. You reluctantly pat his shoulder, offering a small smile when he turns towards you out of confusion.

Lucky for you, he smiles back, because that would've been really awkward if he got creeped out by you touching him or something. You let out a relieved breath from the positive interaction.

Roxie picks up from where she was interrupted, "Yes…" She spares a brief glance at the clipboard in her hands before continuing. "...Darius, plenty of dinosaurs."

"So, ready for an adventure?"

Brooklynn doesn't miss a beat, and immediately responds, "Absolutely!" She looks towards her phone and seems to be a bit dissatisfied at something before turning her eyes back towards the two adults.

"But I'm gonna need that speech a little shorter, and really try to lean into the majesty of this place."

Roxie and Dave stare at the girl with furrowed brows before Dave chuckles and claps his hands together.

"Okay, we're going now. Let's get the seven of you to camp!"

Ben slowly raises a hand in an almost robotic motion, "Uh, there are six of us?" He looks over the group to make sure he isn't wrong before turning towards the red shirt wearing adults.

"Wait." Dave pauses to count heads, verbally announcing names to check off a figurative list.

"Dino-kid, Track-star, Internet Girl, Wordsmith, Barfy, Texas." Everyone gives differing reactions towards the nicknames. He gave you a positive one, at least.

"He's right. Where's seven?" Dave looks around, as if the teen would suddenly appear out of thin air.

Roxie checks the board, most likely for a name, and then scoffs.

Soon after, the sound of a helicopter's rotor blades whirring enters your ears, and you rush to cover them. Number seven really appeared out of thin air, huh?

A grown man hops out, opens the door, and hops back in. Roxie holds a hand out, gesturing towards the aircraft with a well-deserved snarl.

Your group all shields their eyes from dust once again, and you hope this doesn't become a common occurrence. Your glasses can't keep getting dirty because of people's dramatic entrances.

Once the dust clears, you spot a confident-looking guy stepping out, wearing a purple collared shirt and carrying a blue case of luggage. He even sported some black sunglasses, extra much?

"Greetings, my dudes. Kenji is here, so let the party commence!" He walks towards you all, confidence practically radiating off of him.

Roxie sputters at the dust remnants, and it doesn't help that this so-called Kenji throws his luggage at her before saying, "Put this in my room."

"So, what's your deal?" He asks Darius after pulling his sunglasses down in an exaggerated manner.

He's then promptly shoved to the ground by his own luggage, which was thrown at him by none other than Roxie.

"Okay, let's go!" She announces, after dusting her hands off.

Texas climbs onto the trunk of the car Roxie had driven there, while Track-star skillfully jumps over the short wall of said trunk and plopping down next to the other girl.

Ben unwillingly sits near the edge, next to cowgirl, though you usher him away from it because you didn't want to sit near Brooklynn or Kenji; who were going to sit on the opposite side, since your side was full.

"Thanks." Ben mutters, and you nod.

Brooklynn poses and snaps a photo, and Dave pats your side of the truck to an unknown rhythm until he reaches the car door. Darius sits down, facing Brooklynn, likely planning to start a conversation before Kenji intrudes by sitting between the two. He even goes as far as putting an arm around Darius's shoulders despite the annoyed face the poor boy is making.

The engine starts, and everyone screams as Roxie speeds up. Darius buckles his seat belt, causing a chain reaction of seat-buckling.

"I hope you got my mom's note. I don't do well on windy roads." Ben nearly shouts, twisting his body so that he could face the road that the car's driving on.

Your face twists with a grimace as he gags, "Really?" You ask, almost out of annoyance, but you can't really blame him for having such a weak stomach.

He spares you a fleeting look of guilt before hurling, and you grip the back of his jacket because you're not just going to let him fly out of this speeding car.

"What's good, Brooklanders?" Brooklynn says, starting a video as she points her phone to the road and then her own face.

"It's your girl Brooklynn coming at you from the best place ever: Camp Cretaceous!" She throws an arm out, gesturing towards the passing trees.

"Like and subscribe to join me as I unlock: Jurassic World!" She stops and looks at everyone in the trunk, giving you a bad feeling.

"Okay, I need you all to say who you are and a little about yourself." There it is, something you don't want to do but will anyway cause why not.

"And action!" She points her phone at Darius.

He sputters, "Oh! Um…" He thinks for a moment before continuing. "I beat this awesome VR dinosaur game. I'm Darius by the–"

"I'm sorry," the cowgirl interrupts. "I just can't believe… you're Brooklynn!" The pink-haired girl smiles at the attention.

"I'm Sammy Gutierrez, total Brooklander!" Sammy grabs hold of Brooklynn's hand and shakes it with all her might.

She shoots finger guns, ending it with the imitation of gunfire.

She seems to realize that she didn't fully introduce herself, and she suddenly stops. "Oh, also, my family supplies all the beef for the parks, and that's how I got here."

"Great to meet you, Sammy." Brooklynn grins.

Darius looks around, trying to spot confusion on anyone else's face before asking it himself, "Um… What's a Brooklander?"

"Oh, that's just what my online followers call themselves." Brooklyn explains.

"Uh, all 27 million of us." Sammy imitates gunfire again. Kenji's eyes widened in interest.

"27 million? Last time I checked, it was 25 million." You say unintentionally, causing Kenji's already widening eyes to almost bulge out of his head with your contribution, and he excitedly shakes Darius.

Brooklynn furrows her brows at you, opening her mouth to say something before she's cut off by Track-star, who you should really ask the name of.

"Yep, that's why she's the only one who gets to keep her cell phone. She's famous."

Kenji butts in, "Hold on. Rich…" He points to himself, "... and famous?" He turns his hand to Brooklyn.

"Oh, meant to be." He snatches her phone out of her hands, before leaning against her and taking a picture of the two of them.

Ben's still throwing up, and you're still holding onto the back of him. While he takes the attention of practically everyone by grossing them out, Brooklynn takes her phone back from Kenji.

Suddenly, the car comes to an unexpected stop, nearly causing Ben to slip straight out of his seatbelt if it weren't for your hold on him. You both grimace, and he slithers back into his seat while you finally release your strong grip on his jacket.

"Urgh, thanks… again," He pauses, staring at you as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

You take a few seconds to realize he's waiting for you to give him your name. "Oh! Uh, no problem. It's y/n, by the way."

He nods, smiling as happily as one can when you have bile coating the insides of your mouth. "Thanks again, y/n."

He then turns to ask Dave what's going on, holding his stomach while doing so. Hopefully, they have some Tums or something at the actual camp.

"Nothing you need to worry about." Dave assures, though it's not very helpful with the following sentence.

"But you should all definitely stay in your seats."

Ben whimpers, and of course, as soon as Dave says that everyone gets up and crowds around your side of the trunk to see what's happening.

You unbuckle and observe the adults, watching as they wave around electrified sticks with caution.

Ben continues to whimper. Whether it's out of fear or stomach pain, you're not sure. However, you don't take your eyes off the only adults in the area until Darius hesitantly whispers something you can't quite make out.

You turn to look at Darius, then in the direction he's staring, and see some bushes rustling. You slowly grab a hold of the trunk wall in preparation to jump out if needed.

The bushes continue to rustle, becoming more violent, and Darius keeps trying to gain the attention of people other than you.

It's only when something jumps out, and Darius shrieks, that you jump out of the car trunk and watch as everyone else tumbles out; or attempts to.

Though when the screams stop and you realize the culprit of it all is a little compy, you sigh. Then, you turn around and watch as Ben slips in the damp dirt while trying to get onto his feet.

This goes on for about 10 more seconds until it's awkward on both ends and you grab him by the hand and forcefully pull him up. "Tha–"

"Third time. You can't thank me anymore, Ben." He squints his eyes at you out of befuddlement, then squeals when Roxie pounces on the compy that had been standing on Darius.

She aptly wraps the small dinosaur in a blanket, patting it before delicately placing it in a cat carrier.

"Crisis averted." She says smoothly.

She places it in the car's backseat. "These things are always getting out of their enclosure."

Darius climbed over the head of the trunk and gasped, "A real live Compsognathus!"

Kenji scooted into his seat, huffing at Darius's enchantment. "Oh, please. It took a blanket and a cat carrier to catch it."

He sighed. "Boring!"

Darius gives him a deserving side eye, "Scared you pretty good."

The rest of the group giggled at the Dino-Boy's counter, including yourself. Brooklynn took a picture of Kenji's surprised expression, most likely for her blog. Kenji furrowed his brows at Darius in return.

The ride kept on with peace, at least until the car reached the Camp Cretaceous gate and everyone praised the design with sounds of amazement.

You were worried though, sure this was fun, but they couldn't seem to keep their dinosaurs in check. That worries you.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you noticed everyone hopping out of the car. Seems like you reached your destination. You look up and immediately let out a gasp, seeing a humongous tree house that looked to be around 50 feet in the air.

"Seems safe from dinosaurs, at least." You turned to your left, seeing Ben still in the trunk. You huffed.

"It looks like mushrooms." And the conversation was officially over.

"Hey, Brooklanders, check this place out! Is this not the most amazing place you have ever been!?" Then the loud voice of Brooklynn drew your attention. Already recording another video for her channel.

Kenji intrudes as he walks into the camera frame, "If you think this is cool, you should see my dad's penthouse in the main park."

Brooklynn deadpans before lighting up, seeing a girl she had gotten nothing out of yet. "Yasmina!" Oh, so was that her name?

You watch their interaction for a bit before walking off to explore. You assumed you wouldn't die immediately by walking away from the group for now.

You nudge the circle made of short, wooden trunks with your shoe. Looking up when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

"Hey," it's dino-boy. "Um, not really an important thing, but I wanted to say thanks. For… patting me, y'know? Sorry, that sounds weird, actually."

You stare in silence for a few seconds, before realizing he expected you to respond. "Oh, it's fine. Like you said, it's not an important thing. I just kind of felt bad."

He made a face. Oh, that might've come out wrong. "I mean, it's reasonable to get excited by dinosaurs. They're cool, right?" At this, he smiles brightly.

"Yeah! They're awesome. I have so many books on them, figures, MOVIES!" He gasped, almost as if he didn't know he had these things, before apologizing.

"Sorry, if you couldn't tell, I just really like dinosaurs." He rubs his neck sheepishly.

You kick at the wooden stubs again. "Nah, it's fine. I don't mind you going off about them. I have a bunch of books on them, too."

He raises a brow. "Really? What kind?"

"Just encyclopedias, some stories, the usual." Despite you brushing it off, Darius gets excited either way.

"So cool. Maybe we could exchange books sometime. If we're even on the same continent."

You snicker, thinking about being dinosaur pen pals with a teen you just met.

"Sure."

You jump when Dave suddenly yells, "Listen up!"

You look his way, noticing the lazily thrown luggage. Did he really just toss those in any random direction?

"Announcement time from your co-head counselors."

"Psst, still not a thing." Roxie quietly adds, before continuing on her own, seeing as Dave wasn't acting seriously.

"Okay, everyone, there are some ground rules to cover.

She quickly lists them off, "Curfew at 8:00p.m., and lights out at 9:00p.m. sharp."

"What?"

"Lame."

"Fine."

Ben does this stupid-looking fist pump thing that makes you chuckle.

"This is for your safety," Roxie assures. "We are in a dinosaur-filled jungle." You could understand that with or without her Australian accent. Was it Australian though? You could never really tell.

"You must always keep your distance, or you could be seriously hurt, if not worse." You can see Kenji sulking in the corner, honestly how old was he to be acting the way he has?

"Define worse." Ben says in exasperation.

He's ignored in favor of Dave pointing upwards, stating the obvious. "Cabins are up that-a-way."

Yasmina then shouts, "First one there gets top bunk!" She pushes right past Kenji, as if he wasn't even there.

Then everyone else races past, though despite this you keep your speed at a minimum since you couldn't be bothered. There wasn't that big of a difference between top and bottom bunk. You'd probably fall right off the top bunk, anyway.

You briefly look back, watching as Darius ran up to the car. You wondered if you should follow him, but ultimately decided that it'd be weird to do that and went where everyone else had.

You pause once more when you feel a rumbling, and then hurry to meet up with everyone else.

[hello-universe-lovers]

im back lol i enjoyed your answers too much so im here to give you more brainrot

24. (Explore) What’s a moment in the game that disturbed/ freaked you out the most?

25. (Explore) What’s a moment in the game that emotionally destroyed you?

27. (Explore) How did you come across this game?

((Aww thanks for liking my answers. I rarely get asks here so it's a nice welcome. Plz do send me more of this I really love to make my brain think

To the answers (uhh, potential spoilers)

24. Most disturbing/freaked out moment? And 25. Moment that emotional destroyed me?

(Put em together bc these scenes fucked me up as well as made me think)

Uhhh...ok, this one is hard, mainly bc I don't play slay the princess. I got into it via YouTube and Tumblr, so a lot of stuff got spoiled for me before I even watched proper gameplay. There really isn't any personally terrific scene for me. So imma talk about some scenes/routes that make me think too hard.

- The Moment of Clarity, all of it: You have fucked up. Like fr. When you get into the grit of this route out, you get a really fucked up story of how destructive the princess can be. This, to me, is the Princess at her worse. More so than the Razor, to me. And it's all your fault. You saw the red flag with the Nightmare, you didn't take it, and now here you are. Plus the voices in the Long Quiet breaking down and welcome death rather than be scared, and with the option to comfort them, it's...bittersweet.

- "We are a path in the woods": That.was.fucked! I didn't know the Wild existed/what she was before actually watching gameplay and the idea of becoming one on a cellular level, just like what Larry and Shifty used to be? Uhhhh, it tingles my spine in both bad and good ways. But I also LOVE the symbolism of that. How the damage is done, Shifty herself even admits to that, so they inevitably spit, willing or not and it's up to Larry and the Princess to make amends, or end it for good. The wild in general is one of those routes where you would want Larry to be kind...but if he stabs her, it's understandable, rather than being needlessly cruel.

- The Dining Scene from HEA: I don't need to say a lot, as a lot of my points have already been said by others. But that table, it hits a fear of mine, and ironically the Narrator's too, which is a stagnant world where nothing you do matters bc there is no longer value in the time you have on this earth. Sure I see it for what it means in universe, but out of universe, I was left pausing the video i was watching to just...think about it. Think about that fear, the anxiety, the implications of the Voice's power, and the Damsel saying "its finally over..." after being stabbed hit me like a boulder. And really, that's what I like about this game, it makes me THINK.

27. How I got into the game?

Funny enough, I had a StP phase years ago, but I kept it mostly to mutuals and myself bc to me, StP seems like a sophisticated game with a lot to say, and ya gurl who likes the fandom side of things didn't felt like she could add to that conversation. It felt like there were too many things, all good things, to keep track of and what i do would feel like a disservice to the source material. That was until the Pristine cut came out, and suddenly StP was back on my feed. With some probing from friends and some years to personally grow, I am a changed woman now. I felt confident engaging in what you can take from this game with its symbolism and meanings, as well as pushing disembodied voices together like playing house. I love both sides of it and I hope to see more of it. So thanks Tumblr, you got me to warm up to this love story

[theantarwitch]

About medicine in witchcraft: Health spells, Professional Healers and Unprofessional scammers (And two healing spells from me)

Lately I have been seeing a dangerous amount of medical dangerous videos in our usual witchy spaces (specially in Instagram, since I refuse to use TikTok) and that bring me here in one of my long rants who nobody really cares. But, as a healer with lot of medical background, I have to.

First, for the love of your deity, don’t take these damn vids seriously. I’m not a doctor but I know enough that a huge ton of what they put there is medical misinformation dressed as mystical powers.

I’m not asking you to become a doctor, but at least remember: Physical symptoms are NEVER caused by one single illness, and you HAVE to rule out all the possible physical illness before even consider it a symptom of your superpowers.

Yes, some minor things like a random ear ringing or a random tingle on your hand doesn’t need you to run to ER, but at least THINK about mundane causes to it.

Your ear ring? Are you using headphones a lot? Loud music? You shower and water entered on your ear? You are taking meds? Stress? Your neck is stiff and affecting your inner ear? You are neurodivergent?

Your hand tingle? Is the same hand in what you use your phone 20 hours at day? You sleep over that arm? Your shoulder is stiff? You use a mousse a lot? You practice a sport and the nerves are tired? Did you drink coffee or Red Bulls?

And I’m not even mention REAL illnesses, this is just a bunch of mundane causes! So how you dare to believe in more deeper topics of spiritual stuffs, if you have zero critical thinking in something so mundane and basic as your own body? How you plan to be an efficient witch if you don’t even doubt about these things? How you even dare to talk about your deity if you believe anything as a sign?  

An advanced witch bases their path in three big needs:

Need of study (Books or google, spend months or YEARS reading and learning)

Need of critical thinking (Think, think and ask, be curious and compare data, question it)

Need of wise skepticism (Don’t fall into the “The government want me to believe this but I’m smarter” or “Vaccines do harm, people don’t need calcium, there is brick’s dust on ketchup” kind of mindset (Yes, these are things I heard). That’s not skepticism, that’s being a Facebook Boomer Mom. Skepticism is question everything and to always be suspicious, but is neither “don’t believe in anything because I’m so smart that I can see the lies”.

And healers, my beloved healers. As one, I have to say it on the most real way: LEARN SOME MEDICINE. Specially before to do public claiming that can really hurt others.

Why learn medicine? Because as happened once… A lovely lady did a spell to lose weight. She got gastroenteritis and spent a week on the bathroom. She lost weight? Yes. In a dangerous unhealthy way? Yes. She recovers her weight back after go to the doc? Absolutely.

The body is a fine machine, a ton of process, hormones, parts, that you will always ignore and omit.

Another big mistake: “Spell to Boost my Metabolism”. Do you even know what a metabolism is? What it does? Do you even know that it has three main functions of metabolism? (Conversion of the energy to run cellular processes; conversion to building block of proteins, lipids, nucleic acids, and some carbohydrates; and the elimination of metabolic wastes). When you “boost your metabolism”, what you are aiming to do? You even know what your body need of these three…

“Spell to boost my Immune System”… Again, what part? Do you even know that your immune system is “slow” or it is just working against an illness as it should? (Reaction is not the same than an immunodeficiency) Are you aware that your body can be doing great and you will be pushing to get an overactive immune system? (And getting Asthma, Eczema, Hay fever, Food allergy and any other kind of allergy, Lupus, Type 1 Diabetes, Inflammatory bowel disease, Celiac, etc.).

Please, if you use “detox spell” in any way, just stop. Period.

If you are not willing to spend a couple of weeks at least in the damn Wikipedia, or you are in a rush, at least aim big and general, do a classic “Health/Healing spell”, that is focused on that, bring health where is needed. “My body gets healthier. My body gets health where is needed” It can’t go wrong, since you purposely don’t specify where or which part, you just do a “Somewhere I need it, and since I can’t know it, the Cosmos may know it and aid me”. If you need spells to focus a healing in a body part, maybe you need a doc, not a spell…. (Get a doc. If is so simple to not need a doc, then your body will do it without need a spell anyway)

You can also do the same with Physical Strength Spells (again aiming to boost what you don’t know what it needs to be boosted and avoiding to boost something that it DOESN’T NEED IT).

And if you are a Healer who really want to have a 90% of effectiveness on focalized and specialized healing spells, then time to study. You will need to know about hormones, chemicals, physical process, all the systems, nerves, bones, nutrition, meds… And pretty much being able to discuss with you client (to put in a way) about literally all their medical history.

And a gently offer to anyone who actually read all this shit, I give a couple of “simple” ideas for you all:

Regeneration Spell: Just a Healing spell, aimed to “attack” where is needed, but it focusses in a cellular level. General Healing spells usually are so general that include things like disposal of waste, mineral absorption, water absorption, digestion, hair growing, skin growing, muscle develop, and pretty much EVERYTHING that’s happening on your body right now, even including the gut bacteria. A Regeneration Spell will focus in each single cell of your body, from skin to bone, to neurons, to T Cells from your immune system. All. Something that your body do (except with the neurons) but that get slower with the age. This spell focus on restores damaged or missing cells to full function (you can help it to happen better with a good balanced diet, some basic exercise, proper sleep, and trying to reduce stress)

Big warning. BE SPECIFIC “My cells will get regenerated where my body need it to be healthy and in full function” or something like that. Why SO specific if the healing spells are general? Because Cancer.

Yes. Cancer. A cancerous tumor is failed cell of your own body. Our beloved bodies kill around six infected or cancer cells each DAY. Eventually (if you live enough or if your immune system gets weak) one of them will grow your body be on troubles. If you do a regeneration spell without that proper aim, you will also help to any cancer cell to regenerate, hence you can cause you a HUGE DEAL in a future. Will not happen 100% of the cases, many of these tumors can be not cancerous (benign) yet give you problems.

How do the spell? Just as any healing spell. Do your way.

Homeostasis Spell: What’s is homeostasis? Is the condition of optimal functioning for the organism, a state of steady internal physical and chemical conditions maintained by living systems. Is a stable self-regulated process of equilibrium between interdependent elements. In simple words, is the perfect state of full pure health of your body. Is a healing spell without the “but”.  

What it affects? ALL in the most basic small internal way. Body temperature, fluid balance, the pH of extracellular fluid, the concentrations of ions, blood sugar, oxygen, hormones, etc. If the body do it properly, then is balanced, in an optimal functioning, hence healing itself without big issues.

This spell helps specially (or BOOST) the body on regulate itself despite the many changes in the environment, diet, or level of activity. In this case, you don’t need to be specific, since homeostasis seek for health naturally. Do your regular healing spell but like “My body reach homeostasis”.

So. Rant and all made, I think is time for me to shut up. See you around, and check if you need drink water, sleep, rest, stretch, food, meds or hygiene!

[tarithenurse]

Inhuman

Fandom: MCU Pairing: Bucky x fem!reader, eventually Loki x fem!reader, Stucky, more (some canon, some not). Word count: 2821. Contents: A little oopsie…or two…don't piss off Natasha. A/N: Another double posting today! Rejoice! Any questions are welcome. Please comment and like and reblog. Let me know if you want a tag.

Chapter 13

... Reader’s PoV ...

You’ve gotten some sleep, though not a lot because of nightmarish visions of smoking rubbles and people in pain which is why this morning, like many others, has come as a relief. Now everyone’s sitting around a long dining table enjoying breakfast. You’ve not had a chance to talk with Bucky about what’s happened, but you can feel he’s watching you almost constantly as you struggle to focus on the conversation that Bruce and Vision have taken up about your abilities and potential developments.

“In fact…” Vision’s looking at the newest Avenger calmly. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you should be able to sense cellular activity on all levels.”

“Plants, you mean?” You’re returning from the coffee brewer with a new batch for Thor, placing the pot on the table.

“Also. I’m not quite sure what the extend of your ability would be, but I know you can hone it. Control it. At the moment it seems rather taxing on you.” Vision reaches towards you with his palm upwards. “Give me your hand.” Everyone’s paying attention now.

Gingerly, you do as he asks. As if to give you a handshake, he grabs the tremulous hand and places it against the stone in his forehead. It burns cold the moment it touches your skin and you want to pull away, but Vision’s holding on too hard for you to escape.

It’s impossible to look away as yellow-golden tendrils start winding their way along your arm, spreading the cold searing feeling as they move…but no voice escapes you as you try to scream in pain and fear.

It’s spreading over and around chest and neck searching to cover all of you. Everywhere they reach you feel the cells invaded and almost torn to pieces by the strange energy seeping through them.

Next instant it’s over. Vision has let go and you’ve slid off the chair, gasping for air but seemingly unharmed despite the lingering pain that’s keeping you locked in an invisible bubble, cut off from your surroundings which honestly don’t feel important anyways.

Vision’s voice comes from far away. “I am sorry. I was not aware of the sensory reactions this would elicit in a human. I only knew that you would most likely survive due to your healing ability.”

“Most lik– are you saying she could’ve died?” Bruce’s taking your defence somewhere in the distance while Bucky and Steve are getting you back up in the chair.

There’s no damage to see, of course, but it hurts to move despite willing your body to block the pain. Blinking away tears, you resign to simply sitting limply with your eyes closed in search of darkness and the pretty, soothing particles that have become a familiar part of your world. Wanda...her red glitters aren’t confined to her body now. There’s an extra glow of crimson surrounding her, and a couple of tendrils are reaching the heads of the people, moving from one person to another.

One of the glittery tendrils reaches you and suddenly all the other tendrils come swooping too as the witch stares at the panting girl. “You can see me!”

Everyone seems to consider the option that she’s gone crazy, but Vision smiles as you nod. Wanda gasps at witnessing what you see. Glittery shapes with details standing out clear the moment you focus on them.

But you can feel the alien attention in your head, like a finger pushing dry sand around. “You gotta stop. You push too much.”

She does, apologizing as the tendrils leave you in peace.

Bucky still has his arm around your shoulders. It’s the one made of metal and it feels safe, prompting you to lean closer to him, letting your eyes flutter closed again for a moment. “I’m never doing that again...”

“That would indeed not be advisable. Further exposure to the Mind Stone would most likely result in your death.”

Not surprisingly Vision words don’t resolve the tension in the room, but right now you can’t care. All you want is to curl up in a bed and hide for a while, so you carefully get to your feet.

“Just going to lie down for a bit. Sorry.”

You don’t make it very far on the wobbly legs before Bucky resolutely picks you up and carries you away. There, safe in his arms, you see everyone else turn towards Vision with either their arms crossed, hands on hips, or brows furrowed in a silence show of force to will him to explain himself…but you’re not bothered about any of that as you find yourself tugged close to a warm chest, hard with well-developed muscles.

As your rescuer brings you down the stairs, you feel obliged to admit that you probably can walk albeit at a slow pace.

“I know.” That smile. Even with furrowed brows it’s still dazzling.

He brings you all the way into the room, placing you gently on the bed. “I’ll be back soon to check on you, but now get some rest.”

“I thought I was the nurse here...” But you’re grateful for his help and attention. Turning away, Bucky hesitates which gives you the chance to grab his right hand. “Thank you.”

He gives your trembling fingers a squeeze and leaves.

... Bucky’s PoV …

Bucky’s insides felt like they’d been ripped out as the yellow flames flicked across her, making her scream soundlessly in agony and reminding him of the blurry memories from his past. Her terror propelled him out of the chair with a force that pushed it several meters away from the table, but even so she was already on the floor by the time he reached her.

That red-faced bastard! This was a thought that he’d had before although the red face belonged to someone else then.

Gingerly he and Steve got [Y/N] onto a chair and as she leaned against him, still shaking and breathing heavily, he decided then and there to stay by her side. She was limp and if he had moved then she’d have fallen once more.

Lucky for Vision. If it hadn’t been for her warm weight against his shoulder, Bucky would’ve killed him. Tossed him off the building. Something. The feeling of frustration and a consuming wish to protect the woman grew stronger as the ignorant ass babbled on, oblivious to the wrong he’d done. At least he was not the only one ready to tear the guy a new one.

[Y/N] tried to get on her feet, impressing them all with her determination even though she only made it a few steps before her knees gave way.

Now he’s carrying her to her room, despite her weak objections and something inside his chest flutters as he feels her warmth in his arms.

Laying her down on the bed, he’s tempted to lie down next to her, hold her until she stops shaking. I can’t…I shouldn’t. Besides, he needs to find out what the hell all of this was about.

… Reader’s PoV …

Eventually, Steve and Stark stay in New York so it’s just Natasha, Bruce, and you getting on the jet after the goodbyes and farewells have been said. You’ve not had the energy for any good manners and as soon as you’d left the room, you aimed straight for a seat in the corner of the cargo hold. People are going back inside, allowing the other two to get on the plane. You only notice Bucky’s lingering behind as you take off into the grey sky above the city.

... ...

It’s been a few days which, oddly, haven’t included any training. Instead Bruce has started over with all the tests he can think of. Blood tests, radius measuring, body scans while you morph, and brain scans as you observe or heal people (Natasha volunteered as “tribute” for those tests). Most of the results are the same as before with only the radius or intensity of brainwaves having increased after the painful contact with the Mind Stone.

You spend a lot of time trying to learn to ignore all the sensations that bombard you but unfortunately, you’re not very good at it yet because when someone’s injured, you feel the pain regardless of any expectation or lack thereof.

What intrigues you the most, however, are the plants which now stand out with their own range of gorgeous particles and the reactions they show depending on the surroundings. As the weather’s getting colder and the leaves are falling, you observe a clear difference between the plants outside and the potted plants indoors with the ones out in the cold slowing the flow of particles to a thin trickle while in some of the grasses and seasonal plants it’s stopped completely. In the warm indoors, though, the activity’s still intense. Yes, the autumn’s technically over and the plants and animals know it.

Almost every day, you’ve been walking out to where Bruce and you saw the deer. Finding a dryish spot you sit with eyes closed watching the fading, glittery lights all around. A few times you’ve sensed the herd on the edge of radar, but they stay away.

It’s on one of those days that you, arriving home, see Bob the delivery-man walking up to the Bunker with a new package, but by the time you reach the door at a running pace he’s already leaving again. Natasha’s accepted the parcel and beckons you to follow you downstairs to the lab.

Bursting through the door (making Bruce drop a test tube) she slams the package on the table. “He’s sent another one!”

For a moment, Bruce looks absolutely at a loss, which is not that uncommon if he’s interrupted in some experiment or project, then it dawns on him what his girlfriend might be going on about and he starts getting various things out. A crime scene investigator would be envious at the line of powders, brushes, print tape, weird gadgets to measure gods know what, UV-light and goggles, and of course a scanner to check the contents before anyone even opens the parcel.

“Think you got it all?” The arched brow and crossed arms should prove that you’re being sarcastic.

Carefully checking the equipment laid out before him, however, the scientist must have realized something’s missing because he turns to rummage around on the desk where he was busy. Eventually he protrudes a pair of long tweezers.

“I do now. Let’s get started.”

It feels like ages before he announces it’s time to open the outer layer of paper. Inside’s a box which (after more CSI-work) is revealed to contain a jar with an almost magenta, liquid substance resembling...borscht? Looking at it, none of you’re quite sure about the safety precautions that might apply in this situation.

”We don’t expect it to be explosive, do we?”

Both shake their heads, but Bruce’s not looking particularly convincing. Still, there’s only one thing to do and you reach out, grabbing the jar firmly. The other two take a few steps back as you flip the closing mechanism and then pull the rubber ring that’s the seal. There’s a faint plop (but nothing more than that) so the next logical step’s to tilt the lid aside resulting in absolutely no sudden developments.

Joining you again, Natasha carefully sniffs the air above the now open jar. “Yeah...that’s borscht alright...” she admits.

“I guess he really does have it in for us!” This time Bruce would have been reduced to ashes by the look the former spy sends him.

Realizing his mistake, he busies himself with taking samples of the borscht and placing them in a machine for analysis. It’s not going to save him. Arms folded across the chest, leaning against the edge of the table Natasha stands waiting for him to admit the errors of his ways.

“You know...I think I’m…I’m just going to go call Stark to tell him what’s going on...right...ehm...yeah...”

You’re not ready to atone for Bruce’s sins too, so you scurry out of the room.

...

You’ve laid claim to a big, cozy chair in the corner between the window and the fireplace shortly after arriving at the Bunker the first time.

All day, the clouds have been piling up and the temperature’s been dropping steadily so you’ve made a cup of tea before settling down with a blanket and the laptop to go through the files on Hydra-people. There are a lot (even if you ignore the ones marked as “Terminated” with a fat red stamp) because obviously even if the leaders are done for, there have been hundreds of lesser roles played by ambitious and dangerous individuals and for them it’s just a matter of someone taking control and giving new orders, then they’re good to go. The Avengers and SHIELD have so little to go on still.

Holding the teacup in both hands, you sit staring out the window. You’re not really seeing anything specific, just letting the mind wander (resting for a moment on a mouse getting comfortable in its burrow) before getting back to the task at hand.

What do we actually know about ‘our guy’ that I can take into account when narrowing down my search? You’re sure someone else has already attempted this, but it makes you feel less...useless.

Already, you’ve attempted factoring in that he might originally be Russian...or just from somewhere with red beets. That hadn’t been the way to do it. First question to ask became something along the lines of why. Why that place in San Fran? There’d been nothing to tie it specifically to Inhumans, despite his hint at that with the vial he’d sent.

Going through the San Fran authority’s forensic analysis of the explosion you found that they’ve blamed it on an explosive device strategically placed at a gas line. In the file from SHIELD there’s no mention of any device at all though the explosion did origin at the gas line and presumably not by accident.

On the other hand, the report says, there have been no signs of any person causing the explosion either by sacrificing themselves or leaving the site afterwards and none of the survivors that were helped out showed signs of having set off the disastrous event.

If no one or nothing in the building caused it to blow up, then maybe someone or something outside caused it to happen.

That’s why you’d followed a hunch and ordered FRIDAY to adjust a search to match your factors, your stomach making small knots on itself as you pondered the consequences of an Inhuman running amok. It’d taken a long time for you to get used to the idea that you belong in a different category, but now that you’ve come to terms with it you don’t want it messed up by some nutcase.

Outside, the first snow is falling tentatively, testing out the ground before the flakes melt if they land somewhere too warm.

By the time Stark arrives together with Steve, you’re watching the footage from before the explosions on rerun.

Natasha and Bruce haven’t appeared from the lab and you sense that’s where the guys are headed straight away. Getting out of your comfy spot to join them you put a pause to the project, leaving a guy in a car on the screen.

In the lab, Bruce’s concluded his investigations and is now admitting to the others that yes, its borscht; and no, there’s absolutely nothing dangerous about it. For some reason, Natasha looks very smug, but you’re sure it’s better not to get into why. There’s also no help from Coulson, but of course he’s promised again to let them know if his people figure out anything. If it goes like last time, then there should be a new delivery in three days.

The four of you leave Bruce to clean up after his work (which is one way he’s very different from Tony), but at the bottom of the stairs Steve manages to get Nat and Stark to walk ahead as he holds you back until they’re out of earshot he turns to you.

“Is it okay if I give him your number and such?” He’s grinning, despite trying to look detached.

“Who?” You got me into this, so you’ve better do it right, old man. The butterflies in your stomach have taken flight.

“Bucky, silly girl.” He knows that you only pretends not to know. “He’s been asking about you and to be honest it’s so much easier to cut out the middle man.”

“He can have my number. In fact…gimme his now...” Pulling out your cellphone and ticking in the ciphers as he goes along. It’s just a phone number....but it feels much more important than that.

“Just promise me one thing,” blue eyes plead, “be good to him...he’s had a very hard time...”

It makes sense, so how should you be able not to promise that?

[tinynerdz360]

Future Ghost Chapter 9

Edit date 6/13/25

Flashback: In the ghost zone: Far Frozen: Dr. Bonechiller:

After a long fight with ghost after ghost and then Vlad, Danny found himself in the swirling green void of the ghost Zone. He was drifting closer to the Far Frozen. He planned to make a pit stop there before heading home. Dr. Bonechiller would help patch him up. The giant Yeti was a gentle soul.

"Danny, come in," Dr. Bonechiller called, his furry face peering out. Danny phased through the door into the examination room. The good yeti doctor sat Danny down on a medical bed and started patching up his wounds, making small talk as he went.

After his current injuries were tended to, Danny perked up and asked a question that he had wanted to ask for a while but kept forgetting or backing out.  

"Hey Doc. So... about these electrical scars..." Danny held up his arm, revealing the Lichtenberg scar branching from his hand up to his shoulder. "Any way to get rid of them?"

Dr. Bonechiller examined the scar, his large fingers tracing the pattern. "I'm afraid not, Danny. These types of scars are tied to the trauma you experienced. They'll only fade once you've emotionally processed and healed from what happened. Once your core has healed from the trauma that inflected this injury. Technically, there is no surface damage; it’s more of a reminder to you."

Danny's shoulders slumped. "Great, so I'm stuck with them."

"For now, yes. But you're strong, Danny. You'll get through this." Dr. Bonechiller turned and retrieved a small black data chip. "Here, this contains all your important medical information from your visits and extra information I felt you would find helpful. It also contains my emergency contact. Only call me if it’s an emergency. Keep it safe."

Danny took the smooth rock. Part of him wondered if this was some odd joke. Danny decided not to ask how to access the data chip, stone technology, or whatever this was. He felt too prideful and embarrassed to ask. *I bet Tucker can figure it out.* With that thought he tucked it into his pocket. "Thanks, Doc. I will."

Danny unfortunately forgot about the smooth stone in his pocket, failing to ever ask Tucker to look at it.

Enterprise: Sickbay

Danny found himself under the keen gaze of Dr. McCoy. The hum of medical equipment provided a soothing backdrop to the tension that had taken root in Danny's chest.

"Alright, let's take a look at you," McCoy said, scanning Danny with a medical tricorder. The readings were all over the place, flickering between human and some unknown energy signature.

"Fascinating," McCoy murmured. "Your cellular structure is in flux. I've never seen anything like it."

“Yeah…...” Danny mumbled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I guess that’s cause I can switch between two different forms.”

McCoy nodded. "And this ability of yours to switch between ghost and human form...it's fascinating. I'd like to see it in action later, if you're up for it."

"Sure, Dr. McCoy," Danny said, though he couldn't shake the sense of being a specimen under a microscope.

McCoy's eyes fell on the electrical scar peeking out from under Danny's sleeve. He gently took Danny's arm, pushing up the fabric. "Those electrical burns from the accident, too?" McCoy asked gently.

Danny pulled his arm back, tugging the sleeve down. His shoulders hunched, and his gaze dropped to the floor. "Yeah," he mumbled.

McCoy's heart ached for the boy. What kind of parents let their teenage son wander into an active portal unsupervised? He resolved to get Danny the counseling he likely needed.

“Would you like me to treat it?” McCoy afford. “A dermal generator will patch this up in no time.”

"Dr. McCoy, these... they aren't just scars; they're remnants of trauma that echo in my ghost form," Danny began, cautiously opening up about his past injuries. "When I'm in my human form, they're like memories. I was told that technically that they are healed physically, it’s like a physical reminder of my trauma, and they won’t fade until I deal with it.”

McCoy leaned forward; his professional curiosity piqued. "You mean to tell me these are more than physical? That they're tied to your... psyche?"

“Yeah, I guess so, I was told I’d have to deal with it emotionally and mentally…..In the Ghost Zone, where I'm from, we have something called a core," Danny began, tapping his chest. "It's like a heart, but it's the source of our powers. When I got shocked, it...it hurt my core. Left these scars." *Granted, that shock created my core, but I don’t really want to explain that. * Danny thought to himself.

McCoy nodded, jotting down notes on his PADD. "Now, tell me—do these scars cause you any pain?"

“Sometimes…...usually on the day I got it…..like an anniversary. It hurts all over on that day like it did when it first happened.”

McCoy made a note on his tablet.

 “So this core, it's a physical organ?" McCoy asked.

Danny shrugged. "Sort of? It's more like a manifestation of our essence. Our souls, I guess you could say."

McCoy raised an eyebrow at Danny's poor explanation. The kid was clearly no doctor. "Alright," he said, lowering his tone. "Where exactly would this core of yours be located?"

Danny bristled. "That's private," he insisted. "People just don't give that info out."

McCoy squinted down at the teen ensign, his patience wearing thin. "Listen, kid," he growled, "that's what doctors are for—to help when private things get hurt."

"I..." Danny started, his voice shaking. "I don't know if you can even detect it in my human form. But it's under my human heart." He paused, taking a deep breath.

McCoy picked up his tricorder again. "Speaking of your ghost form, do you think you could show me? I'd love to get some readings and see how your biology changes."

Danny hesitated, old instincts urging him to keep his powers hidden. But he forced them down.

"Alright," he agreed, hopping off the biobed. "Just...don't freak out, okay?"

McCoy chuckled. "Kid, I've seen my fair share of strange things in this galaxy. I think I can handle a little ghost action."

Danny took a deep breath, reaching for the familiar chill at his center. A flash of light engulfed him; twin rings traveling across his body as he transformed.

McCoy watched in awe as the scrawny teenage boy was replaced by a white-haired, green-eyed floating teen. His tricorder scanning and recording away.

"Remarkable," he breathed. "Your entire molecular structure has been altered."

Danny rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious under the doctor's intense scrutiny. "So, this is my ghost half."

McCoy circled him, tricorder whirring. "And you can switch between this form and your human one at will?"

Danny nodded. "It took some practice, but yeah. It's like flipping a switch."

Danny transformed back into a human, with a wry smirk on his face. "That's me. Just your average half-ghost freak."

McCoy frowned at the self-deprecation. "Hey, now. None of that. You're not a freak, Danny. You're unique. Also, I’m pretty sure you check all the boxes to be counted as a living being, just cause you all call yourselves ghosts, doesn’t make you any less alive. "

Danny ducked his head, unused to such open acceptance.

"Thanks, Doc," he said softly.

McCoy smiled, resting a hand on Danny's shoulder and gently squeezing it.

****

"First things first, you're going to rewrite your mission reports. Add in the details about when you used your powers. I want a full picture. And the captain will want that full picture as well.” McCoy ordered. Giving the teen work to keep him busy. As well as getting on record any time Danny used his powers on past away missions to help the crew. It would only help the boy’s case, especially if they could confirm the weird energy readings they had recorded were him. Already from McCoy’s scans, he could tell it was the same type of energy reading.

Danny groaned inwardly, hating paperwork with every fiber of his being. "Reports, really? Isn't there something more... hands-on I could be doing?"

"Nope!” McCoy said with a wry grin. "And while you're at it, I'll be setting you up with some educational material. We need to fill in the gaps in your knowledge."

"Education tests? I've done fine in engineering," Danny protested, but McCoy raised an eyebrow at him.

"Son, engineering is one thing. But you skipped high school and the Academy. We need to know where you stand academically." McCoy handed him a PADD loaded with learning modules. "Except for history," he added sternly. "You're blocked from those searches, given your status."

"But...but I know stuff!" Danny protested. "My parents taught me a lot about science and engineering."

"I don't doubt that. But humor me, alright?" McCoy tapped at the PADD.

Danny slumped in defeat. "This is payback for lying, isn't it?"

McCoy smirked. "Consider it tough love, kid. Now, get to it. Doctor's orders."

Danny sighed, accepting the PADD. Writing reports and taking tests wasn't exactly his idea of a good time, but it may be worth the hassle if it meant gaining the crew's trust and understanding.

"Yes, sir," Danny said.

"Hope to it, kid," McCoy grunted, patting Danny's shoulder.

He stared down at the PADD in his hands, trepidation swirling in his gut. Rewriting all those reports, recalling each time he'd used his powers to save the day...it was going to be tough and tedious.

*It's just great! Here I am in space but stuck in a space hospital doing my least favorite thing: HOMEWORK! * Danny mentally groaned to himself.

As he got to work on his assignments, he glanced up and noticed his friend Kas enter his med bay room. At first, he felt happy to see her, but then he felt fearful. *Oh, God, what if she knows?  What if she’s mad? What if she hates me?* Danny hunched his shoulders, not wanting to face the music. He had forgotten the Andorian girl worked in medbay. She might know everything.

Danny was surprised when he felt Kas’s arms wrapped around his shoulder in a side hug. It was a bit awkward with him sitting up in a bed.

“Are you all right?” Kas asked, her big black eyes looking at him with concern. “I saw you got a talking to by the big three! That must have been scary!”

“I’m alright, Kas…...wait, you’re not mad?” Danny asked.

“No! Why would I be mad? Is it about you being underage? Now don’t be mad about how I know that, Daryle might have let that slip…..But I’m sure it will all turn out ok!” Kas rumbled, giving him a tight squeeze.

“Yeah, I’m fifteen…...” Danny wheezed as Kas hugged him tighter. He was surprised at her strength.

“OMG! You’re just a baby!” Kas squealed.

“Oh god! I can’t breathe!” Danny joked. It was only partly true; he’d be fine without breathing, but man, was she hugging him tight.

Kas let go and frantically apologized. She looked a bit embarrassed. “Sorry for being too much, but I just want you to know we can still be friends.”

Danny felt so relieved. “You’re not mad about the hybrid things either?”

“Hybrid? What do you mean?” Kas asked.

“Oh…..I thought……I thought everyone would know since I got caught.” Danny stammered.

“Danny! This is medical; we aren’t going to air your private medical files! But no, I didn’t know.”

“Oh……” Danny blushed, realizing his mistake and how he just outed himself.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to…...that’s private stuff, you know?” Her blue antenna dropped in concern. “But for what it's worth, I don't think any less of you. So, you're a little different. So what? We're all unique in our own ways. And I won’t go around telling people if you don’t want that."

Danny's smile grew a bit more genuine. "Thanks, Kas. I appreciate that. And please don’t tell; it was hard enough coming clean earlier…..."

Kas shot him a sympathetic look before bustling off to attend her duties, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

****

Doctor McCoy was examining Danny again. Danny was getting really tired of being poked, prodded, and scanned. But he was trying his best to be good. Maybe they’d let him stay if he was good.

“Danny, have you ever had someone to talk to about ghost stuff and the accident? Not just friends or family but a professional?" McCoy asked. He was already making a list of potential therapists for the kid to see. A few were already on the ship, and a few were selected for video calls. He was just curious if the kid had ever gone to therapy before.

Danny hesitated, memories of Dr. Bonechiller surfacing in his mind. "Actually...yeah. Back in my own time, I found a ghost doctor who helped me understand my powers and how they affected my body. I’d go to him if I were close by, and he’d help me if I were hurt."

Danny's eyes widened. "Actually! Dr. Bonechiller gave me a data chip with all my information. I completely forgot about it until now. It's back in my quarters."

"Kid, you're telling me you've had your medical records this whole time?" Dr. Leonard McCoy grumbled as he glared at Danny Fenton, who had the grace to look sheepish. His arms crossed, McCoy leaned back against the edge of a biobed in Sick Bay. "And it didn't occur to you to mention it?"

Danny fidgeted, scratching the back of his neck where the electrical scar ended. "I kind of forgot about it, Doc. Everything's been so crazy since I got here..."

"Forgot," McCoy echoed with a huff, shaking his head. Typical teenagers, forgetting important things. "Well, go get it then. Kas can go with you. I’d rather have it than fly blind.”  

Danny nodded eagerly but was also too embarrassed to mention that he didn’t know how to access the ghost file.

Danny rummaged through his belongings in his quarters, searching for the data chip Dr. Bonechiller had given him. After a few minutes, he triumphantly held up the small, black stone. "Found it!"

Kas stood behind Danny, looking around his room, which he shared with Weston. Danny was very relieved his roommate wasn’t in.

Before they could leave and head back to sickbay, the door to the room opened.

The door slid open, revealing Walton Weston. His smile faltered when he spotted Danny. "Oh. It's you."

“Yes, just us, and we are leaving,” Danny said, trying to sidestep with Kas in tow.

Weston blocked the exit by leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Why are you letting him out and about, Kas? He’s dangerous, probably some sort of alien shapeshifter.”

Danny's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I'm not an alien."

“Back off, Weston, or I’ll report you for harassment and intolerance.” Kas glared, getting in between Danny and Weston.

“But I was right, wasn’t I?! He was lying this whole time! He should be in the brig!” Weston shouted.

Kas grabbed Danny's hand and shoved Weston out of the way. “You need to be quiet, and that’s not up to you. Danny is a patient in sickbay, you need to back off.”

Weston glared at their retreating forms.

~Back in sickbay~

Danny held out what looked like a polished, black stone. "Here it is, Doctor McCoy."

"Looks like a paperweight," McCoy muttered, taking the object and turning it over in his hand. "How does it work?"

"Uh..." Danny hesitated, his youthful face scrunching up in concentration. "Dr. Bonechiller just handed it to me. He didn't really explain."

"Of course, he didn't," McCoy said, not quite managing to hide a smile at the teen's befuddlement.

"Let's see if we can't make heads or tails of this thing." McCoy activated his tricorder and passed it over the stone. The device emitted an odd whirring sound, its screen displaying a series of fluctuating energy patterns that were undeniably similar to Danny's unique readings.

"Interesting..." McCoy mused, eyebrows knitting together.

"Yeah, I'm not really sure how it works," Danny admitted sheepishly. "Ghost technology can be pretty weird."

"I bet Scotty would love to take a look at this. Maybe he can figure out how to access the medical data stored inside." McCoy mused.

Chapter 10