#but Stanley's nightmare stayed in his mind for a while even after that

[lexumpysfunland]

Camping

they're just sleeping... at least I'm sure Stanley is.

it's no normal intruder...

I admit Walter's absence caused Stanley to have a nightmare...

it's alright now

[the-universal-sun]

in NEED of some sad little stan with ford comforting him.. maybe him telling ford about his past being homeless and regressing from talking about the memories

Thank you for the request and very sorry it took so long to get to it, I hope you're still here to read it! I enjoyed writing it very much, even if Stan doesn't regress until about halfway down. I do have some drabbles in the works that are lil' stan all the way through though...Enough about that, thank you again for the request, I hope it lives up to your expectations! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was a good prompt and I thank you again, Anon, for the ask! Sorry if the tone seems to flip flop around, I took a long break to finish up some chores when writing this.

As always, I'm open to helpful comments and advice, please enjoy!

TW: Stan talks a little about his time in the back of a trunk, but it's essentially just Stan describing his feelings and dropping when telling Ford. If you want to void that paragraph, it starts at "It was about the time I spent in Mexico" and ends at "get his words out without blubbering. "

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It was a rough night for Stan. There was a storm going on out on the water and the violent rocking of the Stan O' War made him stumble and burn his tongue on the still hot stew was made, then he just couldn't find the right position to sleep in, his back hurting on his side, his front, when he was laying back on his orthopedic pillow, nothing was right. And when he did finally manage to get to sleep, nightmares and memories he wishes stayed forgotten clawed at his mind all night, finally jerking him awake too early in the morning for anyone to function. Anyone but Ford, that is, who seemed well rested and eager to start the day. Stan swears his brother was whistling a tune while he made coffee he was just that damn chipper. Stan wasn't. He wanted to sleep, but he knows even if he could, nightmares would find their way back in, and he cannot deal with those right now, not with how close he was to dropping and regressing-which he honestly wasn't in the mood for right now, his body and mind to anxious and exhausted to focus on that allure. Instead, he just grunted when Ford asked him about how he slept. And he only gave short one word answers throughout the day, his mood souring further and further as the humid sun beat down on them. He thought he was doing well in hiding it from Ford until, around late afternoon, his brother turns to him, arms crossed and an expression that was identical to their mother's when she got annoyed with their attitudes, and demanded an explanation.

"Stanley, what is the matter with you today? You've been crochety and grumpy all day, and it's starting to get on my nerves." He stands there, waiting for Stan to respond. Jesus, can't Stan have a bad day without it being turned into a big deal? He heaves a sigh after a few moments, not wanting to get into an argument with the way he's feeling.

" 'S nothing, Stanford, just had a rough time getting to sleep, s'all. Nothing for you to worry about." He shrugs, trying to keep it casual and not alert his brother to just why he had a hard time sleeping. Stan hopes he'll drop and they can go back to setting up fishing lines. Stan doesn't think he can keep a good grip on his pole today, so he's got the rail grip out for it. He just wants to sit back and relax and not think about bad dreams and phantom body aches.

"Hard time sleeping? Was it the storm, Stanley? It was pretty rough last night, but it ended around 2 am and I've seen you sleep through rougher. Though I do recall hearing you complain and grumble about your back periodically throughout the night..." Stan, knowing his brother will reach some sort of conclusion on his own, whether accurate or not, just sighs again and starts putting up their fishing gear. Once Stanford got started, it took a while for him to finish, and once he comes to his conclusion, whatever it is, he's going to insist Stan go and get some rest or, god forbid, talk about it. Yeesh, just thinking about it made his whole body cringe. He's finished packing everything up and is halfway to the door back inside before Ford pipes up with his conclusion as to what Stan's problem was.

"You had a nightmare! Probably of a memory that just came back to you! Why didn't I see it before! You're always in a dour mood when you have a memory come to you in this form, it should've been my first thought, really! I was too absorbed in writing down my latest findings...that...I..." Ford stops, wincing at the sight of Stanley's blank stare from the doorway, eyebrow raised. Stan only rolls his eyes up, earning another wince, before he gestures to the open door. If they're going to have an emotional talk, Stan would rather do it in air conditioning. He leaves the box of fishing gear by the door and heads to their room, he'll need the comfort of his teddy bear if Ford's going to make him talk about his nightmare. And trust him, Ford will make him talk, probably by sheer annoyance and pestering. He grabs his Teddy and heads to the kitchen, bypassing Ford loitering in the door way and ignoring the stare aimed at him. He doesn't need to feel like he's going to regress to have Poindexter, the stuffed toy has been a comfort for him since he was 19, and it's still one now, no matter his headspace. He settles in the kitchen, grabbing a diet Pitt Cola, more for something to do with his hands and mouth than desire to drink it. He adverts his eyes when Stanford settles down in front of him, staring silently.

"Stanley, you know we need to talk about this, if it was a memory, it needs to go in one of your memory books, just in case you have a lapse. You also need to talk about it for your own mental health, you know what Mabel says, bottling your emotions will only lead to explosions." Stan loves his great-niece, he truly does, but she was all on abord with his brother when he got into his "caring about peoples (Stanley's) emotions and helping them with their mental health." phase, which is seeming less like a phase every day.

"Yeah I had a nightmare, it was about an incident during a drifter days. It was sucky and I hated it, and I'll write it down in the Bad Memory journal later. There, we talked about it, I'll go rest now. We done?" Stan starts to get up from the small table.

"No we are not done! You actually have to talk about it, Stanley, share the details of your nightmare with me. And I know you won't write it down! So we are going to sit here and you are going to talk. And trust me, I can play the waiting game. I can play it all day." Dang it, Ford's stern about this, and Stan knows he means it, waiting for him to talk. He's done it before, they sat there from sun rise to almost sun set before Stan gave in and talked. He sighs, cracking open the soda and setting his bear next to him at the table, talking more to it than to Ford, not wanting to see the disappointment in his eyes. He takes a while to gather his thoughts, to think about the best way to get through this. He grabs his teddy with his free hand, just to hold and pet so his nerves can calm down.

"It was about the time I spent in Mexico, there was an-uh-incident and," Stan blows some air out of his mouth, wondering why it was so hard to talk about this particular memory with Ford. "I had to chew my way out of a trunk." He still refuses to look at him, staring down at Poindexter, his worn but well loved Teddy who's been with him through everything. Stan's amazed he's never lost the poor thing, with how many times he's been on the run and in jail-thankfully they keep the stuff you had when you went in and kept your car impounded if you were in for less than 3 years, so no one was able to throw him away. He keeps his grip on Poindexter tight as he talks about his nightmare, how terrified he felt and how he truly believed, for the first time in his life, he was going to die. He recounts the experience, and not without a few barbs and poor tasting jokes, going from holding Poindexter to hugging him tightly, needing his comfort. Stan can feel his headspace creeping up on him, already so close to dropping and getting even closer to it the more he talks. He doesn't even realize he's started rocking until he knocks into the table, startling him into silence until Stanford quietly urges for him to continue talking about his nightmare, his brother writing down his words in a memory journal. Stan starts slipping further and further as he gets to the part where had to chew through the harsh metal of a car trunk, he can feel the tears sting his eyes, but he can't worry about them, too focused on being able to get his words out without blubbering.

He finishes telling Stanford about his nightmare, was it really a nightmare if it was a memory of his, with a joke about his dentures. Stan doesn't know if it didn't land because of the situation or because it was actually bad, he's still refusing to look at Ford, burying his face in Poindexter's fur, feeling so close to dropping, he's teetering over the edge, and so upset about his nightmare. He wishes he never remembered that situation, he could've gone the rest of his life clueless and he would have preferred that. He flinches when he hears Ford get up and sit next to him, is he going to tell Stan what a disappointment he was for getting mixed up in such a bad crowd? Will he sigh and say he should've taken better care of himself? Stan doesn't know, and he's scared to find out.

"Oh, Lee," Ford sighs next to him, a six-fingered hand curling through the strands at the back of Stan's neck, his gentle touches breaking away the last of the dam holding back his tears and pushing him over that edge. He curls into Sixer, clutching his sweater and sobbing, sobbing over how scared he was, how scared he still is, the nightmare's affects lingering throughout the day. He never wants to think about that moment ever again. Stan's finding it hard to breathe his how hard he's crying, coughing harshly every couple of minutes. His brother slaps his back to dislodge his coughs, rocking Stan's body with his own. He sniffles, wiping his face on Sixer's chest, and wraps his arms around him, making their rocking go faster. Stan likes it when his brother rocks him, it's better than his rocking, it calms him down way faster, too. They just rock together for what feels like eternity, he's stopped crying at some point, but he still clutches Sixer, enjoying the touch and the sensations, the nice a comfy warmth he brings. His brother always knows how to chase away his scary feelings and thoughts, he really loves Ford.

Stan panics when he feels Ford pull away, clutching at his sweater and whining, he's so scared he's going to leave him again, Stan doesn't want to be alone, he wants his big brother to hold him and rock him!

"Lee, it's alright, I'm just getting a warm cloth to wipe your face, alright?" Stan just blinks at Ford, not really understanding what he said. He just stands when his twin stands, he doesn't want to be alone, he has to follow Sixer. Stan holds his hand as tight as he can and follows Ford to the bathroom, he cries when the lights get turned on, they hurt his eyes, they're too bright! He flicks them off, rubbing his eyes, they sting and burn even more now. Stan just wants to go and get out of these itchy clothes and cuddle Poindexter, but Ford's got to be in the bathroom for some reason, which means Stan does too, even though he doesn't have to go potty now. He flinches when the cloth touches his face, it's got but it does feel good, Stan hums and lets his brother pat his face with it, lightly rocking on his feet and clutching his stuffy to his chest.

"There we are, the hot water might help soothe some of the irritation in your eyes from crying, but if your eyes start to swell, I've got an ice pack in the freezer if you're amenable to that." Stan doesn't know what Sixer's talking about, his head's too fuzzy to pay attention to all the details and the big words his brother's using. He hums again as Ford smooths his hair back, he loves it when his hair's played with, it makes his body feel just like jelly-or is it jam that jiggles and falls down? Stan doesn't know, but he smiles at Sixer, he's still rocking away, but it feels nice to do, it's a nice rocking, a happy rocking, not a bad and tight tummy rocking. His brother looks, now that his glasses are back on, sad and all frowny, and Stan doesn't like that, so he lets Poindexter hug him, that's sure to cheer him up. Poindexter's hugs always cheer Stan up, why wouldn't they work on Ford.

"A-ah, thank you, Lee and Poindexter, for the hug. I appreciate it very-um very much." Ford rubs the back on his neck, giving the toy a hand armed hug and hesitant tap on it's "back", still unsure about hugging a stuffed animal.

His brother always looks so awkward when he hugs his stuffies, but, and Stan gives him a big hug, too, he looks happier than before, so Stan was right, as always, his friends hugs cheered up Sixer! His brother is the one grabbing his hand this time, walking them to the bedroom, Stan swinging their joined hands together between them for the short walk. "Lee, how about you go pick out some comfortable clothes while I fix the bed up. I'll help you get dressed when you've got them picked out, yes?" Stan understood enough of that to know that Sixer wants him to get some jammies out, he already knows which ones he's going to pick, his absolute favorite pair. He nods and gives a little salute, giggling when Ford tickles his chin, moving his face to escape the tickling but the hand keeps following him until he pushes it away, wanting to get changed. He watched his brother go to his bed, staring at it for some reason, before he goes to his dresser and pulls out his Special Jammy Drawer, the words capitalized to show how special and important this drawer is; it had all his fun and comfy pajamas and socks. Stan doesn't even need to look for his jammies, his favorite pair is right on top. It's a pair of fuzzy brown footies and it has a hood, but even better than the hood is the ears and tail on it, they look like a bears! Now he matches with Poindexter when he's got them on, that's why they're his favorite! Sixer always gets a kick out of it when he roars and rolls around on these, too.

"Have you got your clothes out yet, Lee? I've got the bed all fixed up with your special blankets and special pillows on it. I've even laid out a heating pad, it should be warm enough to feel once you've gotten dressed." Oh boy, Stan's special blankies are his favorites, and he gets a heating pad! He's got an achy back, so he sometimes needs a heating pad if it gets real bad, his special pillows are for his back and neck, too-Sixer likes to say something about "proper support" but Stan just likes how it makes his body feel like he's a giant laying on hills. But his blankets he can't rest without. One is a giant and heavy blankie with dinos on it, but the other is his tip top absolute favorite. It's a big and warm quilt with so many different patches and patterns-Stan added some teddy bears to it himself and they only made it look better-and some nice old lady gave it to him when he was really cold at a shelter once, it was just before he got Poindexter, which means it's also been with him forever and ever and he doesn't know what he'd do without it.

Stan's snapped out of his thought when his brother takes Poindexter out of his arms, Stan cries out and tries to follow him but calms down when Sixer puts him on the bed, right, he needs to get dressed and can't hold his friend to do that. "Steady now, Lee. Hold on to me." Ford always helps him get dressed, scared he'll fall and hurt himself, it's only ever happened one (or thrice or five times), but Stan likes it, it gives him a warm gooey feeling in his chest and tummy, he likes that his big brother wants to take care of him and soothe his ouchies when he gets hurt from falling. "Step in one leg at a time, Lee, we don't want to fall. Left leg in, perfect. Right leg now." Ford's voice is soft, so are his movements, he gently holds and guides Stan, helping him step in the legs of his jammies and threading his hand through the sleeves, zipping him up almost all the way but not to the top, Stan doesn't like things zipped up or buttoned up all the way, it makes it hard to swallow. "There we go," His hood is flipped up, the bear ears sticking out, "one Big Bear ready to lay down and rest easy." Stan does a little "roar" and makes claws with his hands, but he doesn't think it scares Sixer, his brother just laughs and rubs his head, which makes him pout before a tummy poke brings out his ticklish giggles.

"Alright, lets get tucked in to bed now. Ah-" Ford tuts at Stans returning pout, tapping his lips to usher it away, "You don't have to sleep, Lee, but I just want you to lay down in the quiet, okay?" Stan can do laying down, maybe not quiet, but he can 100% lay down in a comfy bed surrounded by Sixer and Poindexter and his blankies. "Perfect, let's get your glasses...alright, let's get you settled, Lee." As Ford tucks him and Poindexter in, Stan wonders if Ford will get in with him if he asked. Is Ford going to stay with Stan? The thought of Ford leaving makes him whimper, clutching his brother's sleeve. He can't leave, Stan needs him here with him! To protect him from any scary dreams or memories or monsters!

"Lee!? What is it what's wrong?" Ford panics, thinking something, another memory perhaps, caused Stanley's panic. His face crumples when all he gets his a whispered and broken "stay" and teary whines, did Stanley think he would leave? After what his memory was about? He gets on his knees, the joints cracking, before he speaks:

"Oh, Lee, I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to stay right here by your side, I always will be by your side, for the rest of our lives. So please, don't cry, I'm not going anywhere." He rests his forehead against Stanley's, one hand holding his, the other grabbing the pacifier he laid on the side table, bringing it up to his brother's mouth-which immediately latched on and began to chew, the repetitive movement obviously soothing, his body goes lax soon after.

Sixer said he'd stay, he always says that and he always stays, so Stan settles back down, chewing on his pacifier and hugging Poindexter, and lets his brother finish tucking him in, the blankets tights around him, the pressure is soothing. He keeps his head turned to face his brother, needing to see him, to make sure he's really going to stay, snuffling when his hair gets soothed back, the hand resting on the top on his head. Stan doesn't feel tired, not sleepy tired at least, but it feels nice to let his body relax against his bed and brother, just letting himself float in his fuzzy headed feelings, not really thinking of anything, just existing.

It felt nice.

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 4

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

CH.4

"If we’re going to get to the pit of this peach we gotta get some variables outta the way first. I need a scan of his brain and yours. While conscious.”

“Mine as well?”

“You said he’s your identical twin - he should be genetically the same as you. We can use a scan of your brain as a comparison to see if there’s physical damage on the organ itself, because brain damage is the most common cause of amnesia.”

“I do have the technology available for an in-depth scan, but… ”

 “But what?”

“It’s in the shape of a ray gun, but like a traditional MRI whoever is getting scanned has to stay completely still.”

“I don’t s’pose in the time it took me to go into town and get supplies, you managed to reconcile with him?”

“Reconcile? He’s still convinced I’m a mad scientist out to harvest his organs, 'or worse turn him over to the IRS'- don’t ask about that second part. If I point anything gun-shaped at him, he’ll freak out.”

“Can’t say I blame him…”

“Hush, Fiddleford. There’s an easy way we can get him to hold still.”

“Stanford- Stanford put the tranquilizing doohickey away. We both know that concoction of yours wasn’t formulated with humans in mind. Surely you have less caustic means of sedation.”

---

“Stanford, anyone can tell that bottle’s been tampered with.”

“I have a theory that this persona of his is so self-destructive he’ll still drink it.”

“Y’know, this bottled water tastes suspiciously like two crushed Ambien tablets.” 

*Stan keeps drinking it anyways*  

“I am impressed, but I also hate that your theory was correct.”

*Ford undeafens the cell*

“Stanley, if you think there’s zolpidem in that, why are you still drinking it?”

“You think two Ambien is enough to take me down? Guess again, I’ve used this stuff to cut coke. You’re gonna have to try harder than that, PhD.” 

“Hmm, so we should have used Coca-Cola instead of water…”

“That ain’t what he meant by- how did you survive by yourself out here?”

---

“Hello there …Stan?”

“Sup babe.”

“Don’t call me that. I was wondering - you’re so handsome already, but it’d surely tickle my fancy a bit more if you put on this here necktie.”

“Hell no.”

“Do you not know how to tie one? I’d be happy to-.”

“I know how to tie a tie, specs. But I’ll never wear a necktie ever again. Not after Colombia… I still can’t shave that part of my jaw without nightmares.”

“I beg your pardon?”

---

“I couldn’t convince him to put the mind control tie on.”

“Fiddleford, why are you staring a thousand yards away?”

“He was explaining to me his time in Colombian prison, then he went on a tangent about necklaces and now I don’t think I can change a tire without thinking about it ever again.”

“... Interesting. We’re not resorting to the tranq gun yet?”

“This is your own brother you’re talking about.” 

“There’s only one thing we can do. The only thing that will 99.99% work on my brother. I didn’t think it would have to come to this so soon. But it’s our only unharmful option left.”

---

“Stanley.”

“Doc.”

“I will give you twenty dollars if you stay still for thirty whole seconds.”

“On one hand this is a set up… On the other hand, I’ve done worse for twenty dollars.”

“You what ?”

“Ten bucks up front.”

To be continued...

[by-wronged-hands]

HIHI I saw you write for gravity falls :) I was wondering if we can get something with Grunkle Stan?? Maybe a NB reader? :0

Night of the Undead

( Stanley x GN Reader )

TW: A bit of angst

A/N: I apologize for taking so long, but I hope you enjoy it! I really like this episode, and Stan looks undeniably good.

Running your fingers through his soft hair, Stan’s head balanced as he tried to stay awake. You helped him stumble his way to the bed, after he once more fell asleep in the office.

Lately, organising the income of the Mystery Shack turned into a nightmare. Firstly, he tried with Wendy…of course, she failed in her task. Unfortunately, he then tried with Mabel, which went worse than expected. Abraham Lincoln did not enjoy glitter over his face.

After staying up night after night, he became cranky during the day. Fights would spark out of the blue, and you’d calmly end them. Usually, you could remind yourself that he was simply exhausted. Other days, it was considerably harder. For example, today.

You began to recall every time he simply exploded. Not once, nor twice, nor thrice.

Each time, he simply shut his mouth quickly and then turned around. Storming out of the room was not the best way to stop a fight, but at least it worked…you simply accepted it. You felt hurt, of course, but you didn’t wish to be another problem for Stan.

Tonight, when you curled up in bed, it was cold. The sheets were smooth, not a single wrinkle. You missed his face, his skin over yours and his warmth. The bed felt too big without him, merely empty. You waited for him, but then one hour went by, and then two.

Shivering, your legs moved across the Mystery Shack. Searching him in the place you knew he’d be, you pushed open the door. Turning the knob slowly, so as to not disturb him. Lucky enough, Stan was just staring at a myriad of dollars. Not doing much other than looking rather tired.

That’s how you ended up having to assist him to bed. But you did not mind much—you would do far more to be able to snuggle between his arms into his chest during those freezing times of the day. But nothing mattered anymore. The fights didn’t exist any longer, every scream, every hostile look. You began slipping into sleep while listening to his heartbeat, holding him close and tight.

The sudden burst of a sunbeam awoke you hours later, but for your liking, Stan’s voice was the first thing you heard.

“Today, it’ll be different. I promise,” raspy and deep, it made you blush, “the party will go well.”

Immediately, the word party alarms you slightly.

“What—what party?” Foolishly, you asked.

Stan chuckled in response, and as his face approached yours, you stopped caring. His lips were placed, and his hands softly held your face.

“The grand re-opening for the shack, remember?”

He then proceeded to unwrap his arms around you, and stretch lazily. Dragging his legs out of the sheets, his expression remained fixed upon the door. You were curious why he looked exhausted, even after sleeping in for two hours more…

“C’mon, get up,” the man pulled your arm along with your whole body, “we have to prepare everything”.

And, as he just had stated, Stan did not waste a single second. Cleaning, rearranging, and buying food. Of course he did none of these, he was too busy with money. You began feeling fed up with it, yet you bottled it up. After all, there was not much to do—Stan only wished to keep proper order within the shack for the first time in ages.

You took upon yourself to clean, meanwhile the twins decorated everything. Well, Mabel did. Dipper was a bit too distracted with Wendy, but you couldn’t do anything but look at the painful, embarrassing conversations between them.

Couple of swipes and shiny stars after, the Mystery Shack was finally ready. And, as the sun set, you began admiring how quickly people filled up the empty space.

Still, something nagged you. Something was ticking you off, and there was no way you could enjoy the party without figuring it out. But as you investigated, the only unusual things you found were empty chairs. Except, Wendy and Dipper were supposed to stay sited all night long in those chairs. Leaving the lonely table, you wandered around. In an attempt to catch a glimpse of the two teenagers, you stumbled upon an outside window to Stan’s room.

Standing near it, you crouched near the floor. What if Stan was there? What was he doing? …is it weird to be spying on your partner?

You allowed your curious mind a peek. But, to your surprise, the only interesting thing within were the two teens you had initially been searching. Although Stan was there, his frown indicated anger. Yelling confirmed your suspicions, as well as Dipper sprinting through the door. Wendy looked remorseful, but there was nothing to be done.

Stan’s eyes travelled to the window, and your eyes met his. As for now, luck was not on your side.

He seemed displeased, and to worsen the situation furthermore, his sigh was your last straw. This morning, he promised a thing, and in a matter of hours, he had thrown it all away.

You stopped crouching down, and simply stood up. Slowly walking backwards to where you came from, his nostrils widened with fury. As his mouth you once kissed twisted, your heart begged you to run. And, so you did.

At this, Stan realised his mistake. Though, it was far too late.

Knees against your chest, and back against a tree trunk, you hid away. Unable to process your own thoughts, breathing became harder. The party loudly roared in the distance, but nothing could bring you back inside.

The night turned suddenly darker, and a goosebump crawled over you. The moonlight shined through your lids, and forced your eyes open. That same feeling, something was wrong again. Though, that time, you wished it had been Stan’s attitude…

From beneath the ground, a filthy, thin hand reached to the sky. Landing around your ankle, your instincts help you kick it off your skin. Moments later, dozens if not hundreds more began digging themselves up. Catching a few breaths of the cold night air, the undead desperately struggled through.

Soon enough, an odour drove them deep into madness. Flesh, fresh and warm. Jumping to your feet, you sprinted through the infinite trees. The further you went, the worse it looked.

Finally, you stood in front of the Mystery Shack. A gruesome scene unfolded before your very own eyes. A dreadful scream helped you snap out.

The twins were trapped upstairs, and judging by their frightened expressions, neither of them knew how to stay alive. Neither did you, but you would do anything it took to keep those kids alive. So you ran, and nothing could stop you.

Entering the house, and sailing your way through the rotting bodies drenched in dirt, you reached the stairs. Staring down at your ripped clothing, you thought of Stan. You thought of how badly his suit must look now. You thought of his messy hair, and manic eyes. His trembling hands, or the cold sweat dancing down his throat.

As you let down your guard, the undead begin to notice. Mercilessly, they launch at you. With all their might and hunger, they reach for you. Looking at what seemed to be the ending, your arms covered your face in terror.

One second later, then two, nothing had happened, except the strange sound of a punch…

This time, Stan was not late. He was right there, ripped suit, messy hair, manic eyes, and sweaty skin. Yet, his fists were firm. Not a single tremble, you noticed anything but an ounce of doubt.

“Go! Get the twins!” He shouted, between grunts of effort.

“I will not leave you,” you yelled back.

“Do you trust me?” And, of course, you answered yes.

“Then, go upstairs and wait for me…NOW!” Following his orders, you turned around and followed Mabel and Dipper’s screams.

It only took Stan a few minutes to reunite with you. You could not hold yourself from wrapping your arms around his chest. Holding his face down for a kiss, you forgot about every frown those lips had ever given you. His mouth tasted like rum, and his cheeks were reddish.

“Hey, we get it, both just forgave each other but let’s leave the kisses for after the apocalypse.” Spoke Mabel, with those abominable creatures in mind. You looked at Stan, and he looked back, but no more did his eyes show hate.

One pop song later, the undead’s brains were everywhere. It was a horrifying mess, but the twins and Stan were still perfectly fine. With a few wounds, but nothing serious.

Gazing down at the grass tinted with crimson blood, a pair of hands pulled you closer. Stan’s lips felt welcoming, and the alcohol in them eased your worries.

The twins looked at you both; Dipper seemed uncomfortable, Mabel snatched a photo for her album.

It for sure was a night you would never forget, but now, the only thing you wished to do was drink and kiss away every sense, combing your fingers through his soft hair.

[areallyhappyperson]

Evil gravity falls idea: during the portal scene where Mabel says I trust you she gets sucked in like Fiddleford and swaps places with Stanford

And Dipper and Ford would both ostracize Stan for doing what they see as the stupidest decision possible. This of course pushes Dipper to become much closer to Ford and as the summer continues the brothers Pines don't grow closer together. Stan is kicked out and Dipper takes the apprenticeship.

Seeing no other options Stan goes on the road and tries once again to look for his next biggest idea, but is haunted by the fact that he may have killed his great niece. He is once again fully cut off from his family and while he has the money he received from the mystery shack he is Stan Pines once again.

Dipper follows Ford's footsteps and learns more about Gravity Falls. His parents of course say yes that their child can take a homeschooling with the guy who HAS 12 PHDS. Dipper starts to follow all too well and he begins to delve deeper and deeper. The two start to find more about the Nightmare Realm, but at least it is safe from Bill's hands.... unless they didn't have unicorn hair. While the two are great in their problem solving they were never able to even summon the gate as Grenda and Candy stopped talking to Dipper when he revealed he let Mabel get killed. Dipper and Ford continue to try and work as they cut more and more people out for acting too Bill-ish. Dippers mind is scanned and he is protected from Bill, but there are other dangers to be found.

And finally our dear Mabel. Of course Bill didn't initially know that she was in the Nightmare dimension, but it was only a matter of time before he found out. It doesn't take two braincells to figure out a place called the Nightmare Dimension was probably home to some nasty people. What does take a lot of skill is evading Bill and talking with refugees. With only her will and her creativity Mabel starts to do her best making it along in the nightmare dimension. She grows a hate for her trusting and kind nature as it was the exact thing that likely got her family killed. The portal did exactly what Dipper and her head said it would. She would of course try to stay positive, but how long can you stay positive when, you're pretty sure, no one is coming to save you. She tries to get in contact with people, but after a long time of hoping there is nothing in the end. Ford says it is too dangerous to open the portal again and Dipper never can push himself enough to open it. Not to mention the fuel it requires.

Though bad ends don't just end. The world continues on. Bill realizes just how close he is to getting this portal open. He knows how gullible Mabel can be and so he finally makes deals with the remaining Pines. Mabel was easier. He just had to tell her a half truth of promising he would not open the portal himself or personally invade using the portal if she joined his side and said a few words, but Stan was harder. He was a con man and the world's greatest one at that. Bill would have to do something he never realized was so hard. He would have to tell a whole truth. It was the one thing that Stan would never be able to figure out. He just had to give Stan what he wanted. He wanted to pilot Stan's body for 30 minutes and then he would make Stan a god in Weirdmaggeddon. He would give Stanley everything he ever wanted with no extra cost. He wanted to preserve his own life and make their universe something he thought would be greater.

At the lowest point in his life Stanley finally says yes and the convergence at the Mystery Shack begins. Mabel is ready to slip through and set the portal to the highest setting as Stanley drives back to confront his brother. Bill takes over just outside of the Mystery Shack and disables Ford immediately before threatening to kill Dipper and doing what he needs to to break the dimensional rift.

Is this anything y’all I would love to hear ideas or if I am doing this fanfic thing correctly

[wooden-sails]

An Old Record and a Memory

A/N: hi its me wooden sails and i am making a shameless plug of my ao3 account (linked above). here's something i wrote like a week ish ago, i have a couple other snippets of different fandoms too, and a few longers ones being written right now. feel free to check it out, or don't. thanks!!

Summary: One year later, the twins have come back to Gravity Falls to spend the summer with their Grunkles. While everyone is getting ready for a movie night sleepover, Mabel and Dipper discover their Grunkles' old record collection.

Rating: Teen and Up

Content Warning: Panic Attacks

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairings: Implied FiddAuthor (it's not the focus though)

~~~~~~~~~

Ford smiled, putting the kettle on the stove. It was nice to have the twins back up at the Shack for the summer, hell it was nice to be back at the Shack for the summer. As much fun adventuring with Stanley was, he was glad to have a bit of time to relax and focus on something a little different. Ford started to look through the cabinets. Mabel wanted hot chocolate, Dipper wanted tea (neither his parents nor Stan and him would let him have coffee, especially at this hour) and he was making coffee for himself and Stan. They had decided to have a sleepover in the living room, watching movies all night. Ford was on drink duty, Stan was waiting for pizza to arrive, and the kids were rearranging the living room to make room for a pillow fort. 

After a year had passed, he felt like he could finally start to relax again. The first week after they wiped Bill, Ford had spent the entire time trying to make Stan's memories come back. Theoretically, it could have brought Bill back, but it was a risk that Ford was willing to take. Once he had the chance to fully reflect, he realized how much Stan had sacrificed for him, for everyone. Even if Bill did manage to come back, they'd find another way, they'd be better prepared. 

Being with his brother on the Stan o' War II was difficult at first. After being by himself for so long, Ford found it difficult to be in such close quarters with someone again. It took time, but they eventually started to flow from the rhythm of being distant relatives to the twins that they once were. Obviously, they still argued, bickered, and disagreed on things, but it wasn't as vicious as it used to be. It was... nice. He was glad to have his brother back again. 

He was also glad that Dipper and Mabel's parent let them come visit again. Last year affected them all, even if it didn't seem obvious. The kids seemed to bounce back though. Stan never really liked to talk about it, he wasn't sure if it was because of Stan's memories, or if it was something else. After Ford's mind finally had the chance to realize that it was over, things almost seemed to feel worse. Everything felt foreign. He could finally sleep at a regular schedule, not having to stay alert with the idea of something being after him. He had consistent access to food, it had taken him longer than he'd like to admit to stop stockpiling things like granola bars. He could finally pursue his hobbies without the voice in the back of his head, chiding him for not trying to solve some greater, more important issue. His constant nightmares were finally starting to go away, too. 

It felt like he was finally at the end of the tunnel, basking in the light. 

Ford's thoughts were interrupted as the kettle whistled. He poured some into the two mugs for the kids, putting the tea bag in Dipper's cup, and mixing in the hot chocolate powder into Mabel's. While the tea steeped, he got sprinkles, marshmallows, and whip cream. By the time he finished getting their drinks ready, the coffee pot was done. 

Ford grabbed the kids drinks and brought them to the living room, only to stop as he heard a familiar tune. 

"Grunkle Ford, look what we found!" Mabel said, holding up one of Stan's old vinyl records. Dipper was scanning through a pile of Ford's own records. 

He hummed, "I forgot that we kept these in here. If you find any you like, you can take them with you if you want."

"Not without paying you're not!" Stan shouted from the other room. 

"I'll just take it when he's not looking!" Mabel whispered, winking. She giggled and set the record down. 

Ford smiled and shook his head, handing her the hot chocolate. He set the tea on the table for when Dipper was ready for it. 

"Hey Great Uncle Ford, what's this one? I'm assuming it's yours." Dipper was holding a plain white record sleeve. 

"Ah, I remember that one," Ford blushed a little at the memory, "It's songs that I picked and etched into the record, I was going to give it to... someone but things got in the way."

Mabel gasped, "Seriously!? How did I, the master of romance, not know about your love life? I even got Stan to tell me about high school flings." 

"You don't have to answer that," Dipper looked at his sister, "Anytime I even look in the direction of another girl, Mabel thinks I have a crush on them."

"Well, duh. Like ninety percent of the time you do."

Dipper crossed his arms defensively, "I do not."

Mabel turned back to Ford, ignoring her brother's protest, "Can we play it?"

"I don't mind," he put a hand to his chin, "To be quite honest, I don't remember the songs that I put on there anyways." 

As Dipper switched the records on the turntable, Stan walked in with the pizzas. 

"What's that?" Stan asked, putting the boxes down on the floor, next to some pillows. 

"Grunkle Ford's ROMANCE record!" Mabel shouted. 

Stan sat down in the sofa, "Oh, didn't you make that for Fiddlenerd?" he said, offhandedly, "I wonder what records I still have in there."

"Fiddlenerd?" Dipper said, confused.

Mabel squealed in glee, "You were gonna give it to Fiddleford!? That's ADORABLE!"

Ford gave his brother a look, mildly betrayed. Stan only looked at him and raised an eyebrow, "Hate to tell ya this Sixer, but you two were pretty obvious."

"He was married." Ford crossed his arms. 

"Keyword: was." Stan turned away and continued looking through his old records. 

The record had started playing, and the kids continued looking through the rest of the collection. It was nice to have a good memory leftover from back then. The more time that had passed, the sparser they became. 

After the twins had grown bored of looking at the vinyl collection, they resumed building their fort. Ford helped them attach the roof blankets to the furniture, making sure it wouldn't fall down in the middle of the night. Stan was sent to scavenge for some more blankets and pillows to furnish the inside. After a bit of adjusting and moving, they finally made a fort that would be big enough to fit the four of them. Coincidentally, the record was about to finish the last song. 

He thought about the large section of empty space at the end of the record. He was originally going to record a message for Fiddleford, but life seemed to take him in another direction. 

Mabel noticed him staring at the vinyl, "You know, you could still give it to him."

Ford's smile faltered as the record crackled, another song starting to play. Oddly enough, it was his own voice. 

"So you don't forget." Something seemed off about the way he sounded. After a few moments of silence, the sound of an upbeat piano started to play from the record. He didn't recognize the tune at first. When did he record this?

Then the melody started to play, and "he" began to sing. 

"We'll meet again."

It felt like time started to stop.

"Don't know where."

The air was thickening around him.

"Don't know when."

All he could hear was his voice in his mind.

"But I know we'll meet again some sunny day!"

He was brought back to the Fear-amid. Being a statue. Being trapped.

"Keep smiling through,"

He thought of the Nightmare Realm, where perception was meaningless. 

"Just like you,"

The late nights before the portal was done, constantly exhausted and bruised.

"Always do!"

Waking up to his eyes bleeding, body aching, pushed past its limit.

"Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!"

He could feel himself shaking. 

"I'm going... to go get the coffee," he managed to stammer out. It felt like he could barely walk, every step felt like trudging through sludge. The only thing he could hear was that voice ringing through his head. The chiding, the jokes, off hand comments, arguments. It rattled through his mind. 

He leaned on the counter, he felt like he was about to collapse. It had been so long, why now?

Why couldn't Bill just leave him alone?

Ford continued to stare blankly at the kitchen counter, trying to shove away the voice, the memories. They were overwhelming. They wouldn't stop.

Somewhere, unconsciously, he could feel a hand, gently running up and down his back. Someone else's voice flowed into his subconscious.

"Ford, it's okay. It's all over. He's gone. He can't hurt you anymore." It soothed him, repeating the same phrases. 

Slowly, the fog faded, and Ford felt more present. 

"Ya with me?" It was Stan.

"...Yes." The kitchen was silent. Ford spoke quietly, "Thank you."

Stan pulled him into a side hug, "Gotta look out for my brother, y'know?"

Ford nodded, hugging back. 

They broke apart after a few seconds, and Ford started for the coffee pot.

"Hm. It's gone cold."

Stan shrugged, "Eh, who needs it?"

Ford grinned. 

"Are you still up for movie night?" Stan looked at him. 

"Yes, I'll be fine."

"Good." Stan poured the coffee into a container, sticking it into the fridge, "Oh, and I think the kids decided to handle the record themselves."

When the two walked back into the living room, Ford could see the pair scratching out the ridges at the end of the record. He smiled. Who was he to let Bill ruin the evening?

[tjreidwrites]

Movie reviews for spooky season !

I remember feeling bad for Danny in ‘The Shining’. My first time watching The Shining, a Stanley Kubrick film, I was about thirteen years old then. I remember sympathizing almost to the point of tears for him. All he wanted to do was enjoy this huge lonely hotel that his parents made him go to, and by the end of the trip his father is trying to kill him with an axe. The haunted Overlook hotel left its mark on Danny to say the least.

The movie starts off a few years after The Shining ends. Opening with a nightmare scene of Danny terrorized by his experiences at the Overlook. I was surprised how much of the movie used new actors/actresses to play reprised characters. I liked the decision. Alex Essoe plays Wendy Torrance In these bits, I wouldn't have minded more she was amazing in the role. Her voice was a spot on impression of Shelley Duvall (original Wendy). Dick Hallorann was played by Carl Lumbly. He to was beat for beat like the original Hallorann, Scatman Crothers. We see Dick Hallorann make a very impressive monologue to Danny in the beginning of the film. Not only does he eerily remind you of the original character, he explains the plot and gives exposition in a way we can respect, because as the audience we understand young Danny needs to hear these things from Dick. If not for Danny’s shining angel, I believe he would have been a goner early into life.

We skip ahead to a much older Danny Torrance played by Ewan McGregor. We learn quickly that after his mother died in 1999, he lost himself to drinking and drugs as well as bar fights. We see a very violent one that shows no doubt Danny has been in his fair share of fist fights. It becomes clear he doesn't have much regard for anything. He’s haunted by his ‘shining’ ability, both a blessing and a curse for Danny.

After not listening to a vision of Dick Hallorann after a long night of binging cocaine, Danny makes the questionable (at best) move of leaving a toddler boy next to his unconscious mother who looks like she could just be sleeping, but also rather pale and still. Whether its fate or divine purpose Danny soon finds himself in New Hampshire where he settles down in a small town there, with help from his new best friend, Billy.

One of my favorite moments in this film is when Danny stumbles upon the dying man and the ‘grim reaper’ cat at the end of the bed. We learn here that when Danny is in touch with his ‘shine’ he has an uncanny ability to comfort those who are about to pass away. He talks to this man telepathically which calms him down as he says, ‘ you are exactly where you need to be.” Eight years go by as Danny works as an orderly at the local hospice. Staying sober and regaining purpose in his life by helping those who need some reassurance before they pass on to whats after.

While Danny enjoys the day to day with a clear head, Rose the Hat and her crew of...people? They are not quite human. They feed on steam. Steam is what people with the shining (like Danny) have inside them. Rose and the gang are attracted to steam the same way people are addicted to drugs or need food. This results in a good reason why there aren't more people with the shine that know about each others existence. Not only do Rose and her decibels kill those who shine, they aren't eating well and need more. Before they literally turn to dust.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Mike Flanagan helms the director chair well. He wasn't afraid to take chances and it paid off. By the third act of the film we are at the overlook hotel revisiting some memories from the shining. Even though some of that felt like fan service, Flanagan’s choices made it work. The end of the movie ends the same way the first shining book ends, wrapping the two films up in a bow. Doctor Sleep truly feels like a sequel to the movie, and the book.

Casual fans of ‘The Shining’ might not love this movie. For me, it was great because it broadened the idea and opened up a new world of possibilities. It gave Danny Torrence a chance at a new life, and even though it wasn't smooth, it sure as hell was interesting. The score was good, and the editing and cinematography hit all the right notes as far as being its own thing and also being a sequel to a Kubrick film.

[mythomagically-delicious]

Okay so in a better world au ford and fiddleford created the Institute and made up, right? What happened to stan?

The point of that first post about "the twist" was this: what if Stan and Ford switched bodies and stans was sent into the portal with ford inside, and Stan in Ford's body remained behind. Stan immediately tries everything to turn it back on, to no avail. He went thru hundreds of papers and notes trying to understand ANYTHING and he got some general idea that ford had had a research partner out here who knew things- knew ford, knew the portal, he could help!

Stan in Ford's body races to town instead of staying isolated in the cabin for four weeks, and finds fiddleford. Fiddleford looks confused and stranger than the notes suggested but it matches up. He begs fiddleford to help him, and despite the falling out fiddleford has enough fondness for his old friend remaining that he is swayed. He doesn't get his full mind erased by the society bc he isn't abandoned fully and left wandering the town to be targeted by blind Ivan in his power grab.

Fiddleford and Stan (in Ford's body) go back to the shack and stan starts to take him to the basement when fidds starts freaking out, yelling and crying about the world-shattering consequences. About the things he saw, rhe demon, and more. Stan calms him down, takes him back upstairs. He's frustrated to high heaven and back but he knows he could never do this alone.

(He hasn't told fiddleford who he really is. Yet. He will, he just needs some help first. Who would help a loser like stan? But ford has a friend, he can be ford for a little bit to work the angle and get his brother back.)

It takes time. Way too much time, for Stan, but fiddleford slowly recovers enough of his sanity and calms his nerves enough to go down to the basement and not freak out. Stan admits to anything fiddleford asks him about, anything he saw from Ford's notes and makes it convincing that he's asking for a second chance. Maybe they could rebuild it, better? Without demon assistance?

Fiddleford helps tear it to shreds. They mark every part as they dismantle it and fiddleford searches for the reasons it opened a portal to nightmares. He doesn't follow schematics blindly, any more, no more blind trust to his friend. But he does help. Stan is learning on the job. He isn't convincing in the slightest of being a genius but fiddleford is too frazzled to notice. He's got his own shit going on.

They tear it down. Stan is afraid and angry and desperate but he holds his shit together. Fiddleford regains more of himself as they go. Stan learns more about ford and fiddlefords time together as fiddleford recovers memories and tells them to Stan. Stan makes his own notes, of how to Be Stanford Pines.

In time, they get to a stable place of living in the shack together, Stan trying to learn as much as he can about this science shit, pretending he was hit by the memory gun into forgetting himself when fiddleford questions it. Fidds is afraid to go confront the society, and can't remember where they are anyway. Stan doesn't care about it as long as his cover isn't blown. He hasn't told fiddleford yet. He will! But not yet.

They begin to plan a new, stable trans-dimensional vortex. It takes a whole hell of a lot, but they slowly build it anew. Still in the cursed basement, not even a skeleton of the old machine left after they destroyed it the first time.

Stan is flying less by the seat of his pants. Taking a leaf from Ford's book and staying up to radically terrible hours of the night studying and trying to understand all the science and math shit to make this work, to keep stringing fiddleford into helping him. Fidds takes time for his own projects and Stan doesn't bug him about it, saying if it makes money to split it, and when fiddleford hits a big invention that also happens to patent well and spread? They use the money to help their new portal.

It takes ten years to do it, but they recreate the portal, this time to a place they can control thru careful calibration. Fiddleford writes a scientific paper about it, publishes it with ford as a co-author, and they get international renown. Stan knows how to work a crowd and he uses their leverage to get people invested in investing, so to speak. It's not cheap to fund the energy required to turn it on, so they expand the building and create the Institute of Oddology, given enough time and building and circumstances lining up just right.

Fiddleford runs the teams and the day to day stuff. Stan handles finances and resource allocation and scheduling tours, interested parties, rivals, anything business side. He and fiddleford go to the first stable dimension together , though, and Stan uses all of the science gizmos at their disposal to search for ford while they're there.

He doesn't find him. He still hasn't told fiddleford. Its been too long at this point, right? What if he takes the money and fame and everything and kicks Stan out for lying? He mostly rode fiddlefords genius to get here, there's no way he'd not be mad about this.

They go to many dimensions. Stan takes samples and learns scientific process thru osmosis over the years and contributes to publishibg written works to the greater scientific community.

He looks for Ford. He finds nothing. He tells no one his true purpose for everything he's achieved to that point. He lies and wears Ford's face and shakes hands and is a sham.

One day Fiddleford races to his office, frantic and eyes wide and hands shaking slightly like Stan hasnt seen in years. It's been 30 years since ford was lost to the portal. And fiddleford comes to him and says there's a parallel you, Stanford, in conference room B, we need to send him on his way immediately, you remember what happened to Ernie on that trip 8 years back?

And Stan ignores this, heart pounding, and knocks fiddleford out, locking him in the office, racing to conference room B.

He bursts in, and sees a version of his brother. One he doesnt see in the mirror. A real Stanford Pines, 30 years older than the kids they were when they fought beside the portal. Apparently no universe is fair, if ford ends up inside in multiple dimensions.

Stan is speechless. The portal!ford is on the defensive, but interest is clear in his face. He keeps his distance, cognizant of parallel!fiddlefords warning from before. Of counterparts meeting in a dimension of origin. Annihilation.

Stan cries. Ford looks shocked to see his own self in such a state. He doesn't know what to do. Stan surges forward for a hug and Ford tries to dodge, afraid of the consequences. Stan traps his hands to his sides and sobs on Ford's mysterious black coat, calling him brother. Ford's inner alarm bells go off even as he clenches his eyes shut against the incoming total destruction.

When nothing happens except for a wet patch to grow on Ford's clothes, he opens his eyes and studies himself. They look scarily similar, truth be told. His counterpart heartier than he, an interdimensional fugitive. That makes sense. Parallel ford is apologizing into his jacket and clutching him hard enough to leave bruises.

Ford dodges out of the grapple his counterpart has him in. He demands answers in a clipped tone. Stan does his best to reign it back in as he confesses what transpired in this dimension to this dimension traveling ford. How he hopes his own brother, trapped in stans body, is still out there, still surviving, still where Stan can find him.

Ford starts a fight. Stan defends himself but it gets physical and he doesn't have the same instincts to take down he did when he was younger. He remembers the last fight he had with his brother, and doesn't want that to happen again.

Fiddleford eventually gets free of the office and runs in to see parallel ford beating the shit out of his ford. He stuns ford with a device on his belt and brings things back to some semblance of order, getting a first aid kit out to tend to them both. P!Ford's knuckles, mainly, and stans face.

The truth comes out, ugly and stained and fiddleford forgives Stan immediately. He turns to parallel ford and helps him out of the room, promising help with his weapon and more, later.

Stan is left with the knowledge that all these years later, no matter what he does, his brother hates him.

Fiddleford helps ford with his weapon. If ford can destroy bill cipher, more dimensions will open up to be explored. If his and stans ford is still alive out there, they'll have a better shot if Bill is out of the picture. They send parallel!ford off a few days later. Fiddleford goes to Stan that night and calls him by a name that hasn't been spoken in 30 years. Stan can barely look at him. Fiddleford gives him time and space, but tells him he understands.

A month and a half later, a ripple is felt thru thousands of dimensions at once, the death of Bill cipher in every iteration is making its way thru the multiverse. Celebrations are happening as people cheer and laud thr name of the one who saved them, spread in a cosmic understanding by some greater power. Stanley Pines, shatterer of Bill Cipher.

4 years later, they find Ford. Ford in Stans body is old, ragged. He's missing an eye and an arm and so much more of who he used to be. But they bring him home. He doesn't want to switch bodies back.

Stan feels guilt eat at him, but ford is different than the other traveler they'd met. He's more settled. He thanks Stan for finding him. Doesn't blame him for how long it took. Didn't think he'd be come for anyway.

It's strange and rocky but slowly strides are made to bridge the gap of decades and become people they want to be, again. Brothers, friends, explorers. They never body swap again, but they settle into themselves and own who they are.

[little-diable]

Penny Lane Café - Tom Holland (smut)

Totally inspired by the Beatles song. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: They had met at the Penny Lane Café, had fallen in love on a gloomy afternoon, months before she’d break his heart. Now, years later as she is asked to interview him, they seem to fall back into their routine, falling in love all over again.

Warnings: 18+, smut, sex, some flashbacks that are a bit angsty (but it’s pretty fluffy, at least for my standards lol)

Pairing: Tom Holland x interviewer!fem!reader (around 4.3k) 

She was running late.

Her breaths were falling short, heels clicking against the floor as she ran through the busy streets, cursing herself for going to bed that late at night, not able to find any rest. Not once would her mind stop spinning random scenarios, thinking of all the embarrassing things that could happen to her, all the words she could get twisted up. And now - a good few hours later - she felt just as exhausted and tired as she had yesterday evening.

London’s busy streets had never been her favorites, the crowds she’d have to push through - careful not to spill her coffee - the tourists that would stop and take pictures wherever they’d go, it was a true nightmare. Though today she couldn’t concentrate on them, it was her own damn fault. She was about to turn up late to one of her most important interviews of the year.

Tom Stanley Holland, the celebrity she had tried to erase from her memory was currently waiting for her in his lovely home, sipping his tea while watching the minutes fade by. It must have been years since they had last seen one another, bodies pressed together as the sun was rising above the horizon, lips swollen and bruised from all the passionate kisses they had shared.

A fling that played out as most of them did, one of them had caught feelings while the other one had decided to run away, with her mind focused on her career, not wanting to lay with a celebrity, not wanting to hear accusations of his fans spreading rumours that she was only successful because of Tom. So, she began to avoid him, not caring about her own broken heart, trying to put on a brave face as she began to build herself a strong career.

Maybe it was a sick joke fate was playing on her, pushing her into his life once again, giving her a chance to interview him, to chat about upcoming projects and the roles he was trying to get comfortable with. But maybe it was simply her bad karma, punishing her for being that selfish and egotistical, for breaking his heart without thinking twice about the consequences.

They hadn’t talked ever since, both didn’t know how to react to seeing one another again, how to act around one another, so, as she was lying awake in her apartment, staring at pictures of him, Tom was trying to come up with any words he’d say to her, asking for another chance, another shot to act on his feelings. He had always been too kind-hearted, supporting her decision no matter what, even if it meant getting his own heart broken in two.

Drops of sweat began to pool on her forehead, palms just as sweaty as she finally reached his home, patting her skin dry with a tissue she found in her bag. (Y/n) tried to put on a calm expression, lips pulled into a smile, she could do this.

The sound of her ringing his doorbell echoed through his home, followed by the sound of Tessa’s barking, paws scratching the floor, eagerly waiting for Tom to let the stranger in. He cleared his throat before he opened the door, he could do this. 

As his eyes met hers he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for her, pulling her flush against his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. How he had missed her, the feeling of her body oh so perfectly pressed against his, the arms she’d wrap around his neck.

“Hi,” his breath crashed against her skin, allowing (y/n) to tighten her grip around his neck, repeating the word. Deep down it felt as if they had never parted ways, as if she had just returned from another hectic day at work, ready to wind down with Tom by her side, head placed on his chest, listening to his calm heartbeat.

“I’m sorry, come on in.”

A chuckle left him, closing the door behind them before he helped (y/n) out of her coat, watching her crouch down in front of Tessa, greeting the one that had stuck to his side for months by now. Lone nights would be spent with Tessa cuddling into his side, carefully studying an exhausted Tom, barking in approval as he’d practice lines. She was always right there, ready to lift his spirits before he’d lose himself in the darkness.

He had barely changed his home, a few new pictures were gracing his walls, next to new awards. The sight put a proud smile on her face. Tom watched her with curious eyes, trying to drown out the feeling of his rapid beating of his heart rumbling in his chest or how his blood rushed through his veins, cheeks already dark red and warm.

To make it easier to forget about her Tom had tried to downplay her beauty whenever he’d talk about her, though now as she was standing so close though yet so far he couldn’t stop himself from admiring her, wondering how she had ever given into his flirting, how she had ever settled for a man like him.

“Do you want some tea?”

(Y/n) didn’t spare the trembling of his voice a thought or perhaps she hadn’t picked up on it, too focused on her surroundings, the home she had last seen years ago.

“Yes, please.”

As the water was boiling they were trying to catch up, mindless small talk got shared as their minds took them back to the time they had spent together, the secrets they had shared as the moon was standing high, protecting all the secretive words that would roll off their tongues.

By now (y/n) couldn’t even remember why she had decided to leave him in the first place, how stupid and naive she had been, sidetracked by the lies she’d come up with to protect her own heart. Falling for a rising superstar hadn’t been her smartest move in the first place.

“Shall we start?”

She followed him into his living room, plopping down on the sofa they had made love on numerous occasions, leaving marks on her skin, sinking his teeth into the spot where her neck would meet her shoulders, a cheeky way to mark his territory. The woman he never got to truly call his own.

Tom shuffled closer, watched her reach for the tablet she’d protect with her life, scribbling down a few words before her eyes would find his, asking her first question. As if he was still the blushing teenager he had been years ago he stumbled over his words, clearing his throat as he got lost in her eyes, the pupils that told more stories than he ever could.

Her gaze would linger on his lips, writing down his answers without double-checking what she was perpetuating on the digital paper. She needed to savour the moment, needed to hold onto all the words he was softly speaking, not knowing when she’d get another chance to speak to him again.

It was rare for her to interview celebrities in their homes, she would always prefer to meet them in their office. But with Tom, she seemed to forget about all the rules she chose to live by, the guidelines she had set for herself.

Tom Stanley Holland had always been different.

“Was it worth it?”

His words lingered in the air, not giving her a chance to avert her eyes. Like a fish she kept opening and closing her mouth, gasping for air, the room was closing in on her, forcing her to answer the question she had dreaded, forcing her to admit to her mistakes.

“No, it wasn’t. I-” a shaky breath spilled from her lips, fingers stroking a strand of hair behind her hair, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you just like that.”

(Y/n) was waiting for his anger to spread through him, he had every reason to hate her, to punish her for being that foolish and stupid. But the only emotion that crashed upon him was yet another wave of sadness, wondering if the past years could have played out any different with her by his side. Tom had always loved with his whole heart, he would die for the one he chose to be with, even if they wouldn’t go to all the lengths for him.

But she would, she’d give her all for the man she had broken, she’d do anything to change the past, she’d give her all to start fresh, to meet him again as the rain was pouring down on them.

“Here, we can share if you want.”

The boy smiled at her, tilting his head towards his arm, waiting for her to link hers with his. Rain kept falling from the sky, adding to the gloomy atmosphere that lingered in the streets of London. He opened his umbrella, careful to shield her from the rain, protecting her from getting her clothes wet.

Wordlessly they seemed to understand one another, moving in the same direction, following the street, watching the dark clouds dance across the sky. She didn’t seem to notice how she unconsciously pressed herself closer to the boy that smiled at her, gladly wrapping his arm around her middle.

Both had met one another weeks ago, they’d visit the “Penny Lane Café” at the same time, staring at one another from afar, smiling as they bypassed one another’s table. Not once had they worked up their courage to actually begin a conversation, trying to communicate through their flirty glances.

Up until now.

“Do you want to stay for dinner? Harrison’s coming over, we could watch a movie together?”

Tom watched her struggle with her words, mind racing, debating whether she should give in if she should allow herself to stick around for a tad bit longer. But with a small shake of her head, she rose from the sofa, packing her bag, trying to avoid having to look at the heartbroken expression he wore, the way he pulled his lips into a tight line.

“I, uhm, there’s some work waiting for me, I’m sorry.”

“Of course,” he muttered his reply, helping her into her coat with a heavy heart. She fumbled with her fingers, took a few breaths till she finally lifted her gaze, staring at the man she’d dream of, the man whose picture was still gracing her phone background, even after all those years.

Both had been forced to grow up, all on their own, following the rapid changes of lives, but their emotions for one another hadn’t changed one bit and they probably never will.

Too many words were burning on her tongue, stomach cramping, working against the instinct to fling herself into his arms. She couldn’t break his heart again, didn’t deserve another chance just for her to mess with his mind again.

“Do you still have the same number?” Not once had he deleted her contact from his phone, still graced by the small red heart next to her name, reminding her of the day he had offered to escort her back home as rain was falling from the sky.

With a small “yes” leaving her she hugged him, inhaling his comforting scent, whispering  goodbye as she left his house, not looking back once.

--

Hours later he had finally reached for his phone, texting her with trembling fingers, asking (y/n) if he could see her again soon. Like an anxious child, he’d toss and turn in his bed, groaning into his pillow, passing time till she’d reply. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of him tapping his fingers against the dark screen of his phone, eyes not leaving it once.

20 minutes and 43 seconds later (y/n)’s reply had alighted his screen, Tom stared at the heart next to her name for a good few moments before he unlocked his phone. While he was reading her text over and over again she was typing away on her laptop, putting their interview into words, trying to switch her focus away from her phone.

Her heart had roared in her chest as his text had reached her, she couldn’t stop herself from giving into his begging, asking if they should meet up at their old coffee shop. Penny Lane, the beginning of their story.

(Y/n) could clearly picture the way Tom had looked as she had first seen him, still so young and oblivious, wondering what life would offer him, not able to guess what the upcoming years would bring, allowing him to live his dream. She had instantly been hooked, staring at the boy with dark eyes and brown hair, reading another book each time she’d see him, not feeling his curious gaze on her.

Another text of his came back to her, telling her that he’d wait for her in front of the shop on Tuesday morning, 9 am.

---

The days didn’t seem to fade by, dragging on for hours, mocking her for checking the time every few minutes, growing more nervous and anxious as Tuesday was creeping closer. Another chance life was offering her, allowing her to make things right, begging her to finally give in, to mend his broken heart back together.

On Tuesday morning she rose with a bright smile on her lips, making her way to the Penny Lane with her favorite music blasting from her earbuds, hyping her up. He spotted her frame from afar, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes hidden behind a dark pair of sunglasses, perfectly matched to his baseball cap.

“Morning,” he pressed a kiss to her cheek, hands squeezing her sides, admiring the gorgeous woman right in front of him. Like a flower that had just shaken off the dew that stuck to her petals, she beamed at him, following him into the café, ready to order the same coffee she had been drinking for years.

Tom had voiced out her order before she could part her lips, grinning at her with a smirk pulling on his lips, proving to her that he still knew her like the back of his hand. Every little detail about (y/n) had been burned into his mind, a curse and a blessing he chose to live with, appreciating the random memories that would find their way back to him in the most unfortunate moments.

“Should we go for a walk?”

A comforting calmness lingered in the air, allowing the two of them to bask in one another’s company, hiding away from any fans that could recognise him, making their way through small streets only locals would use. Somewhere along the way, he’d reach for her hand, interlocking their fingers, scared that she’d slip right through his grasp once again.

Slipping away just like she had done years ago.

“I need to go, I’m sorry.”

Hastily she threw on her clothes, blinking away the tears that welled up in her eyes. Tom stared at her with a confused expression, trying to reach for her, to pull her back into his mattress. Seconds ago he had asked her if she would finally give in and be his girlfriend, staring at her with his dark eyes. She had ripped herself out of his grasp, fleeing from Tom and the words he had spoken.

“What’s wrong? (Y/n), stop, please.”

She jogged out of the room with Tom hot on her heels, crying out her name, not understanding why she was acting as if he was about to burn her alive.  

She had been scared, caught up in the moment, blindly falling for the man that was too good to be true. For months she had allowed herself to live with the lie she kept on distracting herself with, limbs getting tangled with his, living with Tom by her side.

But while Tom was ready to express his feelings, to bind himself to her (y/n) was ready to take her next step, to leave London for another job, finally getting a chance to prove her worth in the industry.

“Don’t leave, talk to me-” Tom pulled her back into his chest, feeling her tears drop onto his skin, body shaking from the sobs that wrecked through her. (Y/n) pressed a kiss to his shoulder before she softly pushed him away from her, no longer caring about the tears that ran down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry.”

He asked her about her time overseas, the jobs she had worked, the people she had interviewed, ready to soak it all up. Tom was patient with her, not as oblivious to her internal struggle as she may have thought, perfectly understanding the signals her body was sending him.

(Y/n) hadn’t expected Tom to be this understanding and accepting, deep down she had hoped that he’d finally lash out on her, to let his emotions run free, telling her how much she had hurt him. But he didn’t, he treated her like he had done from the moment the first syllable that had left his lips, shielding the beautiful girl from the pouring rain.

Another chapter of their story had just begun, allowing them to look for new words to make their readers forget about the way they had parted years ago, turning their backs onto one another, silencing every phone call that would echo through the night as tears would glisten on their cheeks.

For years it had felt as if there was no healing as if his heart would forever be broken in two, not able to find somebody else to keep his soul protected. But maybe it had always been her, maybe it was her destiny to mend his heart together once again, another try to let their heart rumble in sync.

And so, as the weeks passed by both managed to make themselves comfortable in one another's life, meeting up as the sun was saying goodbye to the day, falling asleep wrapped in one another’s arms as reruns of old shows played on his tv, tuning out the soft breaths that would spill from their lips.

Somehow most of her clothes would find their way back into his dresser, allowing (y/n) to stay overnight without having to worry about rushing home before another eventful day at work would wait for her, giving her an excuse to stay cuddled into his side as her eyelids felt heavier than ever.

Tom was strumming on his guitar as (y/n) watched him from the other side of his sofa, thoughts racing, head hurting from the memories that clouded her mind. Late at night as she wouldn’t find any sleep she’d be forced to think of the weeks, months, and years without him near, cursing her own decision, cursing her head for drowning out the soft words her heart would whisper, begging her to stay close to him.

“You’re staring,” Tom didn’t open his eyes, kept on playing with new chords he tried to master, smile spreading as she kicked his knee with her foot.

“Can I ask you something?”

Finally, he opened his eyes, brown pupils finding her wide ones, carefully placing the guitar down as he reached for her, pulling her into his side. (Y/n) tried to find the right words, figuring out how she should word out the question that has been bugging her since the morning of their interview.

“Why are you doing this, Tom? You shouldn't forgive me, not for leaving you just like that.”

How should you ever explain to the person you love that no matter what you’d always come back for them? How could you ever put into words the feeling that even if the world was ending you’d always run to them, to spend the last seconds in one another’s arms?

Tom let go of her hand and cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her skin, getting lost in the moment for a few seconds. He pressed his lips against hers as she parted them to ask Tom if he was alright, taking her breath away with the feeling of him kissing her. 

She had almost forgotten what kissing Tom Holland would feel like, how he’d brush his lips against hers, tongue running along her skin, begging to explain to her how he was feeling, doing what his words didn’t manage to do.

Their shared kiss felt like another punch to her stomach, how had she ever survived without feeling him near? Tom was like a drug she had been addicted to for years, no matter how long she’d manage to stay clean, no matter how long she’d turn her back on him, she’d fall right back into her old habits the seconds she got offered another taste.

“Does this answer your question?”

With a chuckle rumbling through him he pulled her with him, he ran his hand through her hair, not wanting to let go of her. They shared a few glances as they kept on stealing kisses, engulfed by a bubble of their own happiness. As if they were living through a cliché rom-com they couldn’t stop touching one another, falling deeper and deeper.

The second they rose from the sofa, stumbling into his bedroom Tom had her pressed against the door, kissing her breathless, pouring all emotions into the kiss while (y/n) tried to drown out her thoughts, the instinct to run before she could hurt him once again. But Tom didn’t give her a chance to even debate taking off, kissing his way down her throat, sucking on the spots that would send shivers down her spine.

“I’m sorry for hurting you.” She mumbled her apology against his lips, hands disappearing beneath the fabric of his shirt, tracing his sculpted abs. He shuddered, body arched into her touch, fingers running through her hair, “This is your chance to make it up to me, darling.”

A carefree laugh bubbled out of her, eyes squeezed shut as she allowed the moment to wash over her, tugging on his shirt to explore his body all over again. (Y/n) took her time, allowed herself to take him all in, like on the first night they had ever shared together, getting lost in one another’s touch.

She was writing a love poem with her hands, appreciating every inch of his glorious body, making up for all those years that had gone to waste. Tom gave her the time she needed to fall back into their own routine, hands getting impatient, trembling as they helped one another out of their clothes.  

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Tom murmured against her neck, shoving (y/n) back against his mattress, hovering above her. His eyes traced up and down her now naked frame, kissing his way to her hardening nipples, sucking on them just the way she had always liked. How he had missed her moans, the soft breaths that would leave her as he’d push his hard cock through her wet slit, covering his skin with her arousal.

He ground his middle against hers, coaxing one sound of pleasure after another out of her. (Y/n) reached for his hand and placed it between them, cupping her sex, the aching spot that asked for his touch, the soft fingers she needed to feel on her clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves.

“Need you, please-” her words were falling short, eyes fluttering close. Once again he pushed his cock through her folds, smirking as an almost painful expression tugged on her features, impatiently waiting for him to give in, to stop his teasing. “What do you want, darling? Talk to me.”

Words kept on flooding from her lips, incoherent syllables filled his bedroom, trying to voice out where she needed him the most.

“Fuck me, Tom, ‘need to feel you.” She stopped him from reaching for a condom, telling him that she was still on the pill, blindly trusting the man that held her heart in his hands. Without having to think twice he pushed into her, walls swallowing his heavy cock, tightly gripping him. Their touches felt all too familiar, kisses got shared that reminded them of all those times they had locked themselves in this very room, fucking for hours on end.

His hips snapped against hers, burying himself deep inside of her, groaning as her tightness pulsed around him, begging him to fuck her into oblivion. Tom followed her movements, hands finding hers, lips connected as he began to pound in and out of her, making love to her as he had dreamt about all those years.

Both couldn’t worry about moving too fast, about ignoring any unspoken confessions they desperately needed to talk about. In this very moment, both could only care about their pleasure, the feeling of their bodies connecting this intimately. Waves of safety and appreciation rocked through them, pushing them closer to the edge.

A small whimper left her, teeth piercing into his lower lip, holding onto him as she let go, cumming on his cock. Her walls spasmed around him, pushing Tom closer into the arms of his own orgasm, relieving himself into her tightness, painting her walls white. 

Both didn’t dare move, scared that the magic that has kept them in their hold would let go of them, pushing them back into reality, reminding them of all the problems that needed to be spoken about.

“Promise me you won’t run.”

Tom rolled off her, instantly pulling (y/n) into his chest, kissing her sweaty forehead. She didn’t reply, only let out a content hum, tilting her head upwards to meet his eyes. Another kiss got shared, fingers tracing marks on one another’s body. No longer did she feel the need to run, no longer did she hear her inner voice speaking to her, asking her to run before she could hurt him again.

For the first time in her life (y/n) felt safe and protected, ready to spend her days by his side, loving the boy she had met at the Penny Lane Café.

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[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 12

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

CH.12 

“Are you working on another one of your ‘conceptual’ death ray schematics, Fiddleford?”

“I didn’t have the easiest time with Psych as a subject because of its abstract nature, I thought that if I could connect it to something more tangible maybe I could understand it better.”

“So you made a psychology gun?”

“Conceptually, think of it more as a memory gun. Most of our memories are stored in our hippocampus and temporal lobe - if I could create a device that interacted exclusively with those structures, and only for memories…”

“You could restore them?”

“Right now I’m focusing on the opposite - destruction.”

“What, Fiddleford, we’re-.”

“Don’t blow a gasket. I’m not intending to erase any more of your brother's memories. This is reverse-engineering, in a way. If I can understand how memories can be suppressed in the first place, I could perhaps understand how to bring them back.”

“Okay…”

“I know, in your own emotionally constipated way, you’re just worried about him. I’d be worried about my family too if any of them up and forgot everything. But I promise you, I’m not trying to harm either of ya’ll.”

“I trust you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, I know it ain’t easy for you.”

“Any breakthroughs during your sessions?”

“I can only possibly isolate an event happening about a year ago, but he can’t specify what type of event it was. He may have been suffocating in some way? All he could say was that he couldn’t breathe.”

“...”

“Stanford, do not go into your own head about this. What happened- whatever happened, it wasn't your fault.”

“Yes… I suppose you are right, old friend.”

“In fact, I had a question about y'all's upbringing.”

“What about it?”

“Did you two share a room growing up?”

“Yes, our home was very small because our family was low income. We shared a room until he was- until he left. Why?”

“I checked your security feed and noticed something peculiar about his sleeping pattern.”

“Were you really watching my brother sl-.”

“Don’t you start now. I sped the footage up. You spend an awful lot of time down there, right?”

“Of course, it is my laboratory after all.”

“And he sleeps a bit, you’ve noticed? Quite soundly?”

“It is not that different from when we were younger.”

“Here’s the interesting bit. The other times he sleeps - when you aren’t in the lab, he doesn’t get high quality or quantity of sleep.”

“What do you mean?”

“I expected this - he’s been in unsafe, unstable environments for the past decade. He has difficulty falling and staying asleep; he wakes up frequently throughout the night, and when he is asleep he looks like he has nightmares, because he tosses and turns, and panics himself awake sometimes.”

“I didn’t know that…”

“Of course you wouldn’t. If he falls asleep while you happen to be in the lab, it doesn’t happen. At first, I wondered if being alone put him out of ease. But one night I was down there running a few tests, and he was still waking up hyperventilating every other hour.”

“I do not understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“Stanford, what I find most interesting about this; he does not sugarcoat that you abducted him. He has stated multiple times that he believes you are out of your mind, and that your ‘real twin’ is dead and you can’t accept that. But in spite of these things that he says, in spite of all of that; in his most vulnerable, inoffensive state, he subconsciously associates you with safety. Stan says you’re just a stranger to him, but he feels completely safe and at ease with you.”

“...”

“It may seem like we’re hitting a lot of brick walls with him, because ya’ll are just as stubborn as each other. But he remembers you, just not with his waking mind.”

“...I need to write this down in my journal.”

“I know you’re just burying your face into that thing to hide your tears.”

“I believe I have gotten ink into my eyes."

“O’ course you did.”

To be continued…

[hockey-fics]

Two Too Many ~ Jamie Oleksiak 

Summary: Secrets come to the surface after Jamie gets home from two months in the bubble. 

Word Count: ~2,000

Warnings: None

A/N: Unedited and written while I was tipsy so read with caution.

You didn’t expect it. You didn’t expect the way it would feel to be away from Jamie for so long. The dull ache lodged in your chest every time you thought about how he wasn’t there. You couldn’t call him and ask him to come over and watch a movie, couldn’t ask if he wanted to go on an impromptu road trip, you couldn’t invite him to go for brunch with you, hungover after a girl’s night watching reality tv and drinking wine. 

And it wasn’t like you weren’t used to not having your best friend around 24/7. You had gotten used to the fact that travelling was part of his job. That some nights, even when you wanted to be with him, you simply could’t. But it had been two months this time and everyday seemed harder than the last. 

You called, you texted, you FaceTimed. But nothing replaced the way it felt to be wrapped in Jamie’s arms after a hard day at work. To hear him chuckle at a dumb joke in the movie you were watching on the couch in your living room. To see his smile as you climbed into his car late at night after you texted him telling him that you couldn’t sleep so instead you would go for ice cream and sit in his car listening to music and talking about anything and everything instead of trying to sleep. 

You had watched every single game of his. Plus many of the other games during the playoffs as well. Because you had loved hockey even before you met Jamie. But of course with one of your best friends playing in the NHL your love of the sport had only grown. 

You were devastated after game five. You didn’t even want to watch the last few minutes. But you forced yourself to do it, because you knew you had to. You had to support Jamie even when things weren’t going well. You knew how badly Jamie wanted this, how hard the whole team was working, how close they were to the one thing they were fighting for. Once the television switched from Stanley Cup coverage to the late night news you turned the TV off, sitting in your living room waiting for a text from Jamie. Normally it would have been you to send the first text, win or lose. Because you knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to right away and you wanted there to be something on his phone when he finally got to it after a game. But that night, you couldn’t. Because you couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Nothing felt right. So you waited and you waited and you waited. And you didn’t get a text. Instead the first thing you received from him was a FaceTime call, late that night when he was back in his hotel room, showered and tired and tucked into his bed. And you talked for hours in soft and hushed voices till you both drifted to sleep. You awoke the next morning to your phone completely dead and laying beside your pillow, leaving you late for work that day. But you didn’t mind, because truthfully, you would do anything for Jamie. 

The next night you awaken to a racing heart, your eyes open but receiving nothing except the streetlights shining through the edge of your closed curtains. Laying in silence you try to piece together what had happened. You hadn’t had a nightmare, not that you could remember. But just as you roll over, your eyes closing again to try and fall back asleep you receive your answer. A knock at your door. 

Pushing your blankets back you grasp your phone, unlocking it and ready to call for help as you slowly and quietly creep through your apartment. But when you peer through the peephole on your front door every ounce of panic you had vanished. Your fingers are shaking slightly as you fumble with your deadbolt and then the chain, a whole array of emotions and feelings swirling inside of you. It had been a couple days since the Stanley Cup final. With the circumstance you weren’t sure when you would see him, when he would get back.

“Jamie,” you whisper, staring up at him, your hand on the edge of the door as you stare up at him, like you weren’t sure he was really there. It had been two months and it was the same Jamie but he looked tired, looked deflated. And your heart had broken watching Dallas lose game five but this was a whole different type of pain. Seeing him like this and knowing there was nothing you could do. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late. I should have just gone home but-.”

“Jamie,” you say again, this time with intention. “Don’t apologize, you can come here anytime you want.” Stepping forward you lean up, wrapping your arms around his large body, warm and comfortable. 

“I love you,” Jamie whispers into your neck, leaning down to wrap you in a tight hug. 

“I love you too,” you whisper back. It was the truth, in every sense of the words. But you could only assume he was saying it in the way you had said the words to plenty of your other friends before. That he loved you like a family member, like a friend he had grown up with, like a person who you would do anything for, who you trusted with your life. 

Jamie straightens his back, lifting you off the ground as he steps into your apartment, the weighted door falling shut behind you two. “Can you stay here tonight?” you whisper, feeling your eyes fill with tears. And you feel a wave of guilt. Because you shouldn’t be crying, you shouldn’t be upset. You needed to be the rock for Jamie, to be there for him through whatever he was feeling. 

“Of course,” Jamie tells you, gently placing you back onto the ground. “Of course I’ll stay if you want me to,” he adds, looking down at you. “Are you…?”

Giggling you shake your head, quickly reaching up and wiping your eyes. “No,” you lie, sniffling quietly. “I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asks, his arms around you again, his chin on top of your head as he holds you tight against his chest. 

“Nothing is wrong,” you tell him honestly. “I just don’t ever want to be away from you for that long again.”

Jamie pulls back a little, looking down at you with a soft gaze. “Never,” he says quietly. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

Your eyes narrow slightly as you stare up at him, hands still clamped on his arms. “The...cup,” you mumble hesitantly, wondering if perhaps you shouldn’t have brought it back up. But what you hadn’t realized was that Jamie wasn’t burying the loss deep inside, to never have to process it. He was simply so caught up in you that every single other thing and person in his life had faded away for the time being.. That he was so focused on you, on how much he missed you over the last two months, on how much he loved you, that nothing else seemed to matter. 

“Oh,” Jamie whispers, nodding slowly as it all hits him again. How much he wanted it, like nothing he had ever wanted before. To be able to come home as a winner, to be a cup winner. To have something to show after nine weeks away. “Yeah, I…” Jamie trails off and you know it’s because he doesn’t know what to say, how to express how he’s feeling. 

“Are you tired?” you ask even though you know the answer. You know from more than the time of day. You know based on the bags under his eyes, the way his voice doesn’t carry any inflection, how his shoulders are slumped just slightly. 

“Yes,” Jamie tells you without a moment of hesitation. 

Reaching over you turn the deadbolt on the door, reaching over and grabbing his hand as you gently tug him towards your bedroom. “I...the couch,” Jamie mutters. 

Jamie had spent many nights in your apartment and you had spent many nights in his. But one of you was always on the couch. Because you were just friends, and that’s what friends did. “Jamie,” you say quietly, turning around in your dim bedroom, looking up at him. “You’re not going to sleep on the couch, I’m not letting you. You deserve a good night’s sleep...at the very least. We’re both adults, you don’t think we can share a bed?”

Jamie inhales sharply and even though you can barely see him in the dark room you do notice the way every muscle in his body seems to stiffen. “Yeah...yeah,” he finally mutters after a couple seconds of silence. Hesitating you nod, stepping away from him to walk to the other side of your bed. “No,” Jamie suddenly exclaims the second you rest one knee on the edge of your bed. 

Pausing you straighten up, leaving your one leg on the bed as you stare at his silhouette standing five feet away from you. “No...what?”

“No, I can’t share a bed with you,” Jamie explains and you watch him run a hand through his hair. “It’s not okay...not when I love you like this. You think I just see you as a friend and I can’t share a bed with you pretending that’s the truth.”

You slowly pull your other leg onto the bed, crawling across it. 

“Y/N,” Jamie whispers as you stop in front of him, still on your knees on his side of the bed now. 

Reaching up you bring one hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level as you press your lips to his. And he doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second, before he’s kissing you back. It’s gentle and soft as he pushes himself forwards, your own body falling back with his. Slipping an arm around your back Jamie holds you up as you slide your legs from underneath you, lowering you down till your back hits the mattress and he’s hovering over you. “Jamie...Jamie,” you mutter against his lips. 

“Yes?” Jamie asks, pulling back immediately. “Are you okay? Is this...okay?”

Nodding you keep one hand on the back of his neck, the other propped beneath you to support yourself. “Yes, I just...earlier, when you said you loved me…?”

“I love you,” Jamie repeats. “As more than just your friend.”

Pushing your hand harder into the bed you lean up to bring your lips back closer to his. “I love you too, Jamie,” you whisper before pressing your lips to his again. 

And you felt like a teenager again, your stomach alive with butterflies as you let Jamie lay you back onto your bed, kissing you slowly and passionately. His hands remained above your waist the entire time you were making out, till you finally pulled away, your breath heavy as you looked up at him. “You said you were tired.”

“Not for you,” Jamie mutters and you can’t help but giggle. At how cheesy it was. But you couldn’t deny how much you loved it. “What’s so funny?” Jamie inquires and through the soft light streaming in through the window you can see the smirk on his lips. 

“You,” you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “So, are you going to sleep on the couch...or?” you joke. 

Jamie chuckles and slides one arm underneath your body, easily moving you over to make room for himself. Laughing you scoot to the other side, slipping back under the blankets as you roll onto your side, your eyes suddenly heavy with sleep as you watch him peeling off his shirt and jeans. When Jamie climbs into the bed you shuffle closer, feeling the warmth of his body radiating from him even before your skin touches his. 

“Thank you,” Jamie whispers after you settle against him, your chest on his shoulder. 

“For what?” you whisper, your fingers slowly running along his bare chest as you fight against the pull of sleep. For the first night in two months you felt completely content, happier than you had in a long time. With Jamie at your side. With the truth that you had been hiding for so long finally out in the open, to find those hidden feelings reciprocated. 

“Just...being you. Your texts and calls through this whole thing...it just made things so much easier. You...you just make things easier...and better,,.in every way,” Jamie tells you, stumbling slightly through the serious topic. 

Lifting your head slightly you place a gentle kiss against the front of his shoulder. “You make everything better for me too, Jamie. Two months without you was two too many,” you whisper, settling back into him as you quickly fall asleep beside Jamie, for the first time in a future filled with many nights just like this one.

[narrators-journal]

Stress relief is crucial

Oh what a shock, smut for the favored dr stone ship. Stano fans come get ya’lls juice, because I’m working on more of this sort of content lololol.

Warnings: Not much, just some soft sex, massages, unhealthy energy drink habits.

Exhaustion felt like a weighted blanket wrapped around Xeno's body and mind as he pulled into his driveway in the early hours of the day. For three days, three days, he'd been so swamped with preparations for an experiment that he hadn't even come home, let alone sleep more than two hours a night, so he was more than ready to get inside and just flop onto the couch and watch tv to relax. He knew he still wouldn't sleep until maybe noon, since he'd downed some energy tablets and an energy drink before leaving the lab, so he'd have to settle for a show he'd seen through a few times and just relax. Which, as he opened the door to his home and walked in, he was fine with. 

However, Xeno wasn't greeted with the normal sight of an empty couch and dark livingroom when he opened the door. Instead, he found the light on and his room mate and childhood best friend, Stanley, sitting on the couch.              "Why are you up so late?" He asked, admittedly a bit snappy, but the platinum blonde soldier was hardly phased,              "Y'know my sleep schedule is garbage, doll, I either sleep all day or not at all." He snorted, blowing out a puff of smoke as he spoke, "When was the last time you slept though? Because you kinda look like a raccoon with two black eyes." He pointed out, giving another snort when the scientist flipped him off and just decided to go to his room. Stan curiously followed.                "I'm overworked, under-appreciated, and too damned stressed." He muttered as he flopped face down onto the bed and let his friend run a hand through his snowy hair.              "If it'd help, I could give you a back rub?" He offered, running his finger down the back of Xeno's neck and along his back. The shorter man grunted,             "I'm too wired from energy drinks to sleep, so I guess." He knew Stan was giving him a dirty look without even turning his head to face the soldier, but he didn't chide him or anything. Instead, he simply climbed onto the bed and threw his leg over Xeno, straddling him and sitting on his hips. As if to confirm the need for the massage, Xeno's back cracked audibly, making Stan snort. Before the cranky scientist could complain or whine, his friend's hands were rubbing at his shoulder muscles with a calculated and measured grip, earning more little pops as he worked the tension from his body. It felt absolutely heavenly after the hellish few days the NASA scientist had had.              "You allowed to talk about what you were doing to make you so high strung?" Stanley hummed after the man below him let out a combination of a groan and a moan,               "One of my coworkers dropped the ball on his part of preparations, so we had to scramble to pick up the slack and ensure the experiment will turn out right. It was a nightmare and a half..." he mumbled, sighing happily while snaking his hands beneath his pillow while the blonde moved his calloused hands a bit lower on his back. Stan hummed again, as if he were thinking, and put a bit more pressure against Xeno's back so it'd give another audible pop as well as make Xeno give a small cry and he could plant a soft kiss to the back of his neck,              "I know a very quick way to kill two birds with one stone, if you'd like." The offer fanned a small flame in Xeno's stomach and cheeks, fuelled further by the way Stan's painted lips trailed down his vertebrae, leaving a trail of surprisingly arousing, loving kisses. The smaller male stayed silent for a while, just letting Stan rub the stress out of his exhaustion-riddled frame. Every once in a while, Stan would lean down again to kiss at his neck, coaxing the words he knew the awkward NASA employee wanted to say. He really did know the scientist too well. It took the soldier ghosting his soft lips against Xeno's sweetspot for him to finally break.             "mmmm, fine. It would be efficient to do," he agreed, turning a darker red when he felt his childhood friend smile against his pale neck, "J-just nothing too rough...I need to be able to walk." he added with a huff. With that, the soldier got up and tugged at the over-worked man's lab coat and shirt, so he begrudgingly got up and took them and his pants off, trying not to turn a darker shade of crimson as he laid back down. Now down to his boxers. After that, Stan stripped down to the same level of undress, returning to his spot and continuing to rub his hands over the pale man's lower back. Those same calloused hands continued down the NASA scientist's body, this time with more kisses to his neck, mostly focused around that spot that set his veins on fire and drew out whiney little sighs. Mentally, Xeno cursed his friend for having each and every weakness of his seemingly memorized after only one or two hedonistic nights, but he didn't actually stop him from kissing and nipping at that special spot until he was letting out proper little moans. Once he'd gotten those noises, the blonde tugged his boxers off and his hips up just enough for him to at least slip his legs beneath him. With his hips now in his friend's lap, Xeno could feel how excited the man above him was getting, and he couldn't lie and say he wasn't further riled up by the feeling of Stan's member straining against his boxers. The fog clouding his logic was thickened further when the blonde slowly begun to grind against him, his rough hands now on his pale hips to keep him in place while he lazily humped against him while letting out some of his own groans.               "Y'sure you don't want to get railed, doll?" the soldier purred to the the scientist, who was hiding his face in his pillow to muffle his moans and breathy curses that the friction and anticipation pulled out. However, he still nodded, lifting his head long enough to get out,                 "Work day after tomorrow..." So, Stan gave a frustrated and dissapointed sigh, but obliged. Of course, the equally riled up genius had lied. In reality, the primal part of his brain was yowling for him to just call in to work and forsake the ability to walk without a limp, to let Stan absolutely throttle him like he had the day before his first deployment, but his logic stubbornly butt-in. So, the scientist had to make due with filing the demand for rough sex for another day, for now Stanley leaning over to fish the small bottle of lube he knew Xeno had hidden in his side table drawer was enough to make his breath hitch with excitement. Xeno then hummed, biting back the urge to curse when he felt his friend's fingers circling his hole before slipping  a lubricated finger in. Stan chuckling at his shakey breath sent another bolt of pleasure down Xeno's spine, making his member twitch. The excitement was slowly killing the scientist, but all he could seem to manage was mumbled curses and gutteral moans each time his friend thrust his finger into him, gasping a bit when he worked in a second digit in order to warm him up for his length.               "God damn it, Xeno. You should know better than to moan like a whore. What are you trying to do? Torture me?" The soldier groaned, leaning over onto his free arm and forward so he could continue to rub at the scientist's prostate while his breath tickled his ear. The only reply he got was a muffled 'fuck', but it satisfied him well enough. With that, he pulled his fingers out and just resituated the needy man so that he could replace his digits with his dick. They both groaned at the feeling that brought, Stan pausing to wrap his arms around his friend's leaner frame, holding him against his well muscled chest and trap him there before he slowly began to move. The sensation of being filled with warmth was enough for Xeno to orgasm, but he couldn't bring himself to stop the soldier from continuing to lazily hump him. In fact, the sparks of pain simply mixed into the storm of resurging pleasure, further enforced when Stan's restraint would seemingly slip and he'd give a harsher thrust.            "S-Stan!" Xeno gasped, and that's all it took for the ex-soldier to understand. Without an intellegeable word further, he complied, speeding up and getting rougher. After that, the room was quickly filled with their moans and the rythmic slapping of skin against skin until they both orgasmed, the second time for Xeno, and his body felt another powerful wave of warmth flooding into him to heighten the already mind numbing euphoria. After that, Stanley slowed to a stop, but kept his member buried inside the NASA employee even when he rolled onto his side, bringing the scientist with.           "Feelin' better, doll?" Stan breathed, and all the thoroughly tuckered out male could do was groan, already half asleep. Content with his friend keeping himself buried in him so long as he kept his arms around Xeno's pale, tired body and cuddled him.

[3hobbitsinatrenchcoat]

Stanuary 2021 Week 1 - Charm

It’s a little late but here’s my submission for Week 1 of Stanuary! Everyone seemed to want to focus on charm as a personality trait but... I wanted to think about charm as an item. And wouldn’t you know it, rabbits-foot charms are popular for gamblers and the like.

Anyway, please enjoy.

--------------------------

It’s the first thing he successfully pickpockets.

Down on his luck, down to his last dollar, Stan Pines slipped his hand into a stranger’s overcoat pocket and pulled out a roll of small bills tied with twine and attached to… something. He didn’t even realize what he’d got until he was well around the corner and down another street, hand clapped over his mouth as he nearly laughed himself silly at the sight of the fuzzy rabbit’s foot dangling from his fingers.

“Not so lucky for your previous owner, were you buddy?” he asked into the chill night, deftly tossing the fuzzy charm into the air and snatching it again. “Did he not care for you right? Just tied you to his money and hoped you’d work?”

The charm, being a bit of fur and bone and incapable of human speech, predictably said nothing. Stan chuckled and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting it fondly.

“Well, you brought me some luck tonight, maybe things have turned around.”

-------

Things did not turn around. They didn’t get any worse… but they didn’t really get any better.

Stan kept the little charm in his pocket for years. On the worst nights, the bad nights, he would pull it out and run his fingers gently over the soft fur. It was soothing in a way, grounding him to reality when everything else seemed to slip out of his grasp. He could sit and hold his “lucky” rabbit’s foot and think, fingers occupied while his brain was busy.

So maybe it was lucky, in a way. He always made better decisions when he held the charm in his palm, gently petting it with his thumb. It saw him through con jobs and heists and a few harrowing stays in jail. It kept him cool and level-headed when all the people around him were losing their god-damn minds.

It’s what kept him out of Rico’s shadier business practices, though for a long moment he thought maybe the rabbit’s foot luck had run out.

The night Ford’s postcard found it’s way into his motel room, he was contemplating the charm. He owed Rico a hell of a lot of money, had no way of paying it without taking some extremely risky business prospects only offered by Rico. Rico this, Rico that… how the hell had he gotten himself into this fucking situation both caused and solved by some wannabe mafia bastard?

There’s a knock on the door and he nearly drops the charm as he dives for his baseball bat. It’s only the postman and it’s… its only a postcard from his brother, offering him a way out of this mess. At least for the moment.

Stan looks at the fuzzy charm clenched in his shaking fist and decides what the hell, might as well give it a shot.

What else does he have to lose?

Apparently everything.

That first morning after his twin had… disappeared? Vanished? Got sucked into the howling nightmare beyond his freaky glowing monstrous contraption? Something like that.

That first morning alone in what would become his home, Stanley Pines stood in front of control panels he didn’t understand and hung his rabbit’s foot from the switch of a bare-bulbed desk lamp.

Outside he’d have to rely on his own natural charm. But down in the basement… he needed as much luck as he could get.

[alstanfordart]

Bob’s Nightmare. Scene below.

@queenoftheclownsme

@theblackrosegoddess

It awoke. Not particularly rested. Its mind had drifted. Drifted back to the Todash, leaving Its material presence hidden beneath the ground, safely stashed away in a dark crevice of the cave. As Its conscious was violently ripped back into Its avatar of Robert Gray, It could feel the wound. No healing. Something had awakened It.

Not healed. Not healed but awake prematurely.

Confused, It staggers up, focusing Its one eye, seeing only black. Hearing creaking sounds and door slamming. Unable to see a few feet in front of It with just a subtle hint of weak light from an unknown source. It begins to walk and as It does, It hears, at the edge of the darkness, children singing;

'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's, you owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.'

It pauses in Its steps as It sees a flash of yellow accompanied by giggling.

A boy.

The voice of the child causes unease as another blur of yellow dashes past, before the child appears before It, partially obscured by the shadows save for emerald rain boots stark against the midnight and a speck of light in each iris.

What the Hell is this?

Little Georgie Denbrough in his slick rain coat, skin flaps dangling from his bloody stump as he slowly reveals himself as a gentle sound of thunder and rain drift out from behind him.

The boy approaches, neutral expression, standing before It.

"Why did you kill me?" Georgie asks, his round face pale, his eyes rimmed with dark circles as he gazes up. "I didn't do anything. I just wanted my boat."

Georgie holds out his hand, the paper boat sitting on his tiny fingers, blood starting to seep through and engulf the faded paper.

"It wasn't anything personal kid, I was hungry." Robert growls, lip curling up in disgust and taking a step back from this unwelcome mirage.

Like It needs to justify Itself to this brat. He is what led to Its confrontation with the hated ones. Perhaps had It targeted another child...

But maybe that would have lead to an entirely different group of children targeting It.

Maybe the Final Other intended it that way.

And that boat. That fucking boat is what started the whole mess.

It doesn't pursue this train of thought further, as it enrages It.

There's a shift in Georgie's melancholy demeanor and a creepy grin breaks out as he bends down to place his boat on a thin river of blood that has manifested, suspended a few feet above the ground.

Georgie then steps back, his form breaking apart as it evaporates upwards into the darkness as the now crimson-soaked boat starts to glide along as the singing starts up again;

'When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey. When I grow rich, say the bells at Shoreditch.'

Robert stares down at the boat as it starts to move, the blood river carrying it along. The boat's route becomes altered as the river begins to flow out, a small wave lifting it through the air. Robert's gaze follows as a red-haired woman appears amid the swirling ruby.

Beverly Marsh.

"Well, aren't you a sight," she smirks, hands perched upon her hips. "Just as bad as the time I stabbed you in the head. Couldn't sleep that one off, huh?"

The little bitch.

Snarling, quill teeth now jetting out his mouth, Robert lunges, only to have her vaporize as he goes to tear at her throat. Her disembodied laugh echoing around him. The blood river drifts off, taking the small boat along as it disappears into the gloom as a cream-colored wooden door appears. It steadily swings open, revealing a bathroom. Robert refrains from coming closer, but the room appears to envelope him, moving on its own.

The steam cloud blanketing the area barely conceals a dark-haired man slouched in a bathtub.

Stanley Uris, head lolling against his shoulder.

Spotting Robert, he sits up as he holds out his wrists, thin slashes appearing and dripping, inking the bath water red and dotting the white porcelain.

"I got to grow up at least." he says.

Robert gives a contemptuous scoff. "You did that to yourself."

"After you came to me." Stan retorts, lowering his arms slowly, staring blankly at Robert, a little half-smile just barely showing. Robert quickly retreats, slamming the door as it dissolves in a puff of thin smoke.

It is growing increasingly uncomfortable. Anxious. It must get out of here, whatever this is.

A dream. A nightmare.

Limbo? Had It been killed while slumbering?

Robert's head darts around as he searches the area, strange clanking sounds and echos vibrate in the distance coupled with a growing forest of giggling children's voices and the baaing of sheep.

'When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know, says the great bell at Bow.'

Mike Hanlon comes forth, holding up a photo album. Opening it, there are various photographs of black birds.

"We're all afraid of something-even you." he says as the birds come to life and begin to flap their wings and squawk, emerging from the album's pages in droves, growing larger in size as they fly at Robert, pecking at him, their beady eyes glowing yellow. He ducks down and swats at them, growling as Mike fades into the dark.

As the birds swoop away, another familiar male voice appears.

"What's up clown man!" Richie Tozier jumps out, bat in hands as Robert, startled, stumbles backwards.

Ugh, of all the Losers, It had hated this one the most. The insulting little shit.

Richie continues to swing the bat, the wood making audible swooshing sounds that cut through the air.

Roaring, Robert grabs at the weapon, only to have his hands pass through it, tumbling forward as Richie cackles.

"Hey, no! Sorry no cigar! You know this place is worse than that crack house." he says, as he pauses to adjust his glasses.

Another final voice, immediately recognizable.

"He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts."

Bill Denbrough steps forth from the tenebrosity, the boat pinched between his fingers.

"You're not real. None of you are. Old age took you back to the weeds long ago." Robert says glaring at him, his one iris starting to spark as Bill approaches.

Save for Mike. All are gone.

Bill smirks. "We're not real enough for you?" he replies, chuckling as an inhaler rolls out beside his feet. Eddie Kaspbrak reaches down to pluck it up, standing alongside Bill.

Raising it to his lips, he halts. "I actually don't need this anymore." Eddie says as he chucks it casually over his shoulder.

Richie moves to stand by them along with Mike and Beverly, with Georgie close behind, followed by Ben Hanscom, who holds up a piece of a large eggshell, black and shiny. Robert's expression drops at the sight, an angry grimace exposing his razor incisors.

Stanley Uris suddenly joins them, that same barely-smile still there. Almost mocking.

Robert glances around at his former adversaries.

"You should have stayed out of it. All of you, had you just kept to your business, let me have what I wanted, Stan and Eds would have lived longer, happier lives. I would have been nothing more than fragments of a forgotten dream. Amnesia is a kindness."

"We forgot, but you haven't forgotten us," Mike offers. "Have you?"

"We're still here," Bill adds, tapping the tip of the paper boat against his temple. "Can't escape that."

The eight are now bordering around him, with more emerging from behind: Candice Swain, Veronica Dell, the drunk Samuel, Colin and Hank Dobson, Esther, Noah Brady, the Muncy family, Julie, the hateful redhead Heather Taggart, Brandon Wilkes, Emily and her mother and the rest of the newest souls he'd claimed on this planet as well as his victims from Derry; the boys from the tunnel, Derek Stuart and James, Henry Bowers, Patrick Hockstetter decked out in his cartoon cat shirt, features chewed, the other two punks from the Bower's gang whose names he couldn't be bothered to remember, their necks bloodied, ripped open. Betty Ripsom, little Victoria, Adrian Mellon and the faces of endless Derry children and adults, some recognizable, some barely a hint of familiarity, many just a passing blip on his existence like pretty Martha and naive Alison. Many he'd used and killed like Tom Rogan, some that survived his Deadlights like Audra Denbrough.

As well as the unfortunate wife of the true Robert Gray, Agnes and their daughter Emma. Scowling and hateful.

Decades upon decades of victims. Many missing limbs, their eyeballs gouged out, blood bubbling from their mouths.

"Why'd you kill me?"

"You ripped my legs off and left my body in a ditch."

"You ate my baby. My only son."

"My father died from a broken heart after I went missing."

"They only found my head with no eyes."

Whispering, talking, with some laughing menacingly, all tinted in dull green-blue as the numbers begin to grow as more appear behind them.

Then a few clear a path, allowing another achingly familiar figure to step into the bleak light.

Mirasal.

She moves to stand before him, bringing her arms up to scissor them across her chest, she gives him a somber scowl.

Robert lowers himself to his knees, keeping his gaze locked with hers as resentment and hatred glimmer within her cerulean disks.

"What was that you told me? That I could trust you?" she says, giving a repulsed head shake.

No. This is not her. Remember that. None of this is real.

Just a dream. It's not real.

Robert hangs his head in his hands. "I don't want to hurt you." he mutters into his palms, his face shooting up at the sound of her chuckling derisively.

"Like I would believe you, you even thought about killing me," she replies. "Or perhaps give me a little scare."

With that, she leaps forward, her mouth unhinging, the blue eyes switching to ebony as she comes at him with her claws out. Robert winces back, covering his face, ducking his head down, only to feel nothing. He gingerly peeks out from beneath his fingers.

She's vanished. But the others, their irises blacking out to mimic that same appearance, still remain. All begin to draw closer, the Loser's Club at the forefront, their hands growing paler, some stained with blood splatter, grabbing at him as they close in, swaying back and forth, becoming more zombie-like.

"Get away from me," Robert rapidly stands, whirling around, panic gripping him as he growls, his one intact pupil now burning bright. "Get away."

"We all float down here, Robert. Float with us. Float with us. " they all cantillate in unison. "Float with us."

"No, no. Leave me alone." Robert drops back down to the ground, cowering, shielding himself from their increasingly grotesque faces, their features shriveling up and dropping to the ground. Their cackles resounding through his skull, magnified.

"You'll float too! You'll float too! You'll float too!"

"No!" Robert shouts, covering his ears as the area begins to spin, the faces around him now blending together. "No! No! No! Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Their laughing abruptly ceases, their fingers no longer grabbing and prodding at him, and all is quiet save for the angelic crooning beginning to rise again;

'Here comes a candle to light you to bed.'

Robert follows the source, coming into view of a tall lithe figure, its slouching back facing him, standing in the center of a circle of light. The air above has red balloons hovering, completely still as Robert approaches, pausing every other step as the being becomes more visible, its ruffled off-white costume beginning to twitch as it turns to face him, bells jingling.

Robert stands facing his favorite form as it gives an empty grin.

What?

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed." Pennywise says as he reaches his elongated gloved fingers to grip the nape of Robert's neck. His eyes are two empty sockets, devoid of any color, his teeth yellowed needles as he brings his ghostly features closer, smooth, almost as if they were set in porcelain. Without warning he slams Robert to the ground, the strings of the balloons suspended above gently blow in response as he straddles him.

"Time to pay the piper, ol' Bob Gray," Pennywise intones as he lowers his teeth, only an inch from Robert's visage of both fear and confusion, the dripping saliva strings cold against his skin. Pennywise traces a bony finger along Robert's nose. "And here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chip chop chip chop, the last man is dead!" he starts to maniacally cackle.

Squeezing his lids, Robert lets out a roar, fighting to free himself, thrashing beneath his double.

And just like that, the clown and the balloons are gone.

[insanityclause]

Guillermo Del Toro is no stranger to widespread acclaim, especially from his ride or die legion of fans. Pan’s Labyrinth, the Hellboy duology, the list of genre-bending, timeless masterworks goes on. Coming off his 2 Oscar wins for The Shape of Water in 2018, and moving into finally releasing his animated Pinocchio film from the pits of development hell along with an adaption of Nightmare Alley next year, this couldn’t be a more thriving time for the Mexican auteur. Though amongst all the praise and glory, something has still felt missing these last handful of years. Besides his Oscar-winning film, Del Toro’s works prior to the 2010s are what generally buzz conversations of his genius. Those aforementioned films did, after all, skyrocket his name to fame. His titles from the last decade, however, are just as crucial to the Del Toro canon and emphasize his greater influence as a filmmaker. One, in particular, has seemingly gotten by in its young life at the hands of few. But now that Crimson Peak has officially turned 5, it’s time to turn that few into many.

Del Toro’s trifecta of the 2010s (not counting his work on television) stand out vastly from one another. Pacific Rim, Crimson Peak, and The Shape of Water: all love letters penned from the ‘nichest’ corners of his mind. These 3 arguably boast more diversity in genre than Del Toro’s 5 films of the 2000s (3 comic-book adaptations and 2 Spanish-set fantasies). Not a criticism, as established, those films now flaunt an immovable place within the cultural zeitgeist. Though with a career notoriously marked by a slew of unrealized projects (more on this later), it’s not often recognized how the ideas that did make the cut still lead a crystal clear trajectory in Del Toro’s growth as a storyteller. In the eyes of many, Del Toro pulls ideas out of a hat and gambles on which one actually sees the light of day. Humorous sure, but this is far from the truth.

Each Del Toro project feels like a pivotal step for what would come later, take his work on Trollhunters paving the way for his upcoming first animated feature for instance. Despite this trajectory, Crimson Peak feels criminally unsung 5 years later. Pacific Rim continued its life with a sequel and more planned spin-offs. The Shape of Water literally set a new bar for the Academy. This leaves Crimson Peak feeling like the pushed aside middle child of this trio. This isn’t a call for a sequel, and ‘underrated’ gets tossed around very loosely in modern film discussion. But for cinema as quintessential as Crimson Peak, it just doesn’t feel like it gets enough recognition – especially when the current film industry is seeing less big-budget, R-rated projects heavily steeped in genre.

You can easily trace Crimson Peak‘s short-lived spotlight back to its marketing. The timely October release and scare-heavy trailers sold a classic ‘Haunted House’ horror, when in reality, Del Toro’s film is a Gothic Romance. Set in the early 1900s, an aspiring American writer, Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska), is swept away by a promising English baronet, Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston). They discover true love and marry, leading the young newlywed to her husband’s decaying mansion in the English hills. The age-old manor is slowly, but surely, sinking in red clay – the very source of Sharpe’s wealth. Here Edith is forced to live with her new sister-in-law, Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain), a reserved yet commanding force who works to hide the true nature of the house and its endless secrets. Mystery lingers as untamed lust, envy and greed unfold between the mansion walls, not leaving enough room for the restless red-colored spirits who haunt them. When it snows on this cursed hill, the clay surfaces, making it seem as if the land bleeds. Given more than just red clay rises from beneath, a deeper meaning is given to the place locals call ‘Crimson Peak’.

Just like the clay at the center of its mystery, Crimson Peak is an amalgamation, but of genre. It would be novice to expect anything less from Del Toro. The Gothic elements call back to many classic tales, such as Alfred Hitchcock’s adaption of Rebecca and, of course, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. On the horror side, homage is paid to Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining and Jack Clayton’s The Innocents. It’s a devilish blend that only this filmmaker could pull off so beautifully. And oh is Crimson Peak so god damn gorgeous. To contrast common period pieces that go for muted or sepia-toned color palettes, Del Toro turns the saturation on high. The result is an eye-popping picture that heightens the core emotions at play: fear, pain, and more importantly, love. Simply mesmerizing, avid fans will be quick to recognize the same shades of golden yellows, sea greens, and ruby reds found in Del Toro’s other works. It feels right at home in his filmography visually, while packing its own unique punch.

Red, a color mainly associated with passion, here instead intricately represents endless bloodshed. A twist that would suggest Crimson Peak is just as equal a horror film as it is a love story. Regardless of what might have been initially marketed to audiences in 2015, this film is a Gothic Romance from start to finish. Del Toro himself made this distinction clear to the studio from the get-go and repeatedly draws the line whenever given the chance. Yet, much like the rest of his repertoire, Crimson Peak utilizes horror not as a means to an end, but as a means for introspection. Yes, there are classic horror conventions such as jump scares, but it couldn’t be more obvious that Crimson Peak isn’t trying to evoke the same kind of high and dry fear other films heavily rely on. Del Toro is actively trying to get under your skin to achieve a hell of a cathartic viewing experience.

The ghosts of our past and how we let them define us is a core theme in Crimson Peak. The film opens on a flashback in which Edith is visited by the charcoal black ghost of her recently deceased mother. The nature of this visit sets the groundwork for the rest of the narrative. Mother Ghost, dreadful in appearance, doesn’t necessarily come to haunt her child, but to warn her. “Beware of Crimson Peak,” she says. The way Edith takes in this otherworldly occurrence, and those that follow, sets her apart from everyone else in the film. Wherein others flee from or lock away the ghosts of their past, she learns how to wear them on her sleeves – reaching out to the dead multiple times in the story, each attempt more confident than the last. Not too dissimilar from what Del Toro was playing with before, Jaeger pilots confronting past trauma in their quest to defeat Kaiju. At the same time, the transformation that occurs in Crimson Peak when neglected demons consume you from the inside – humans becoming the true monsters of their supernatural tales – would only be amplified in Del Toro’s next film.

Every minute detail coincides with this strategized, therapeutic use of horror. And to the everyday moviegoer trained by common tropes, Crimson Peak is quite deceptive. Just like Mother Ghost at the beginning of the film, the red spirits never manifest with the intent to cause physical harm, but instead to give messages and guide. Red clay seeps down the walls and the mansion ‘breathes’ as the country winds burst in. The house feels alive in the most cinematic sense possible, but the case as to it being ‘horrifying’ is not so black and white. Expertly designed to every inch, there is plenty of beauty to be found in the manor. Much of it has just been corrupted by a debauched affair – keeping this story rooted as a Gothic Romance. Subversion has always been the name of Del Toro’s game, and it’s within Crimson Peak that he uses it to mix genre so well while still staying true to his vision.

Though Crimson Peak saw Del Toro take subversion to a new level, notably with his main character. This film is a key chapter in his overarching legacy; not the first of his works to be lead by a defiant woman, but the first to have the female hero entangled in an unabashed love story. Effortlessly played by the brilliant Mia Wasikowska, the not so damsel in distress at the center of Crimson Peak is one of the most significant characters of Del Toro’s career. In discussing Gothic Romance with The Mary Sue in 2015, Del Toro explains: “This is quintessentially a female genre, that was written with characters that were very complex, very strong. I wanted to make a movie in which to some degree I recuperated and, maybe if possible, enhanced all that.” And enhanced he did for every central male character acts in more distress than Edith ever does, even when she is literally at the edge of death. A more than welcome change of pace that makes for a more resonating film.

Edith’s willingness to tackle the unknown is captivating and her vigor inspiring. But she isn’t absolved of frailty. For someone who comes to terms with facing the dead, her sheer vulnerability to heartbreak and suffering brings great humanity to the role. Hardly recognized, but Edith is one of Del Toro’s most self-reflective protagonists. A marginalized writer, inspired by the great Mary Shelley no less, in the midst of drafting her magnum opus, she immediately faces backlash from her novel’s inclusion of the paranormal. “It’s not [a ghost story]. It’s more a story with a ghost in it. The ghost is just a metaphor… for the past,” she says – giving Crimson Peak a rare Del Toro tongue-in-cheek quality that he utilizes until the credits roll. Meta enough given that the crimson ghosts Edith later encounters are, in fact, echoes of the past, but when looking back on the public’s initial perception of the film, it creates a charming, albeit ironic, wit only found here.

Additionally, when tracing back to Crimson Peak‘s pre-production days, you’ll find something even more profound. Penned by Del Toro and an old collaborator, screenwriter Matthew Robbins; this was the first script completed after the release of Pan’s Labyrinth in 2006. The two first worked together an entire decade earlier on Mimic, which has now gone down as the only film Del Toro has truly lost to studio interference. Del Toro was supposed to direct Crimson Peak in the late 2000s, but along came Hellboy II and his involvement in launching The Hobbit (another R.I.P). Through this hectic time, Del Toro would reunite with Robbins in writing 2010’s Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, directed by Troy Nixey. However, the two also spent time together writing something else: an adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness.

For those unfamiliar, At the Mountains of Madness is by far one of, if not, the most tragic of this filmmaker’s unrealized projects. After spending years trying to get this dream off the ground, Del Toro had the following to say to Empire in 2010: “It doesn’t look like I can do it. It’s very difficult for the studios to take the step of doing a period-set, R-rated, tentpole movie with a tough ending and no love story.” The payoff of Crimson Peak being a period-set, R-rated, tentpole film only 5 years after that statement couldn’t be sweeter. In the film, Edith is told to insert a love story for the better of her novel. Del Toro is obviously commenting on expectations tied to gender here, but you can’t help but wonder if he’s also referring to one of the biggest thorns in his own writing career – one that also ties back to writing partner Matthew Robbins.

When faced with the question, Del Toro has consistently said that all of his films carry an inherent Mexican touch just from the utter fact that they come from him, and Crimson Peak is no different. Whether if deriving from his personal experiences with tackling genre, both on and off paper, or from actual events tied to his life – Del Toro reimagines two separate ghostly encounters experienced by him and his mother through Edith – this film beams with the very essence of Del Toro’s soul. Perhaps most personified when the marginalized writer gets bloody and fights back with nothing but her pen, a visual that cements this as an important stepping stone in his career. It’s a fascinating through-line, connecting to very different segments of his canon while still defining a clear path. The mending of our wounds and subversion of gender roles is continued from Pacific Rim, while setting a bold new course for delving into unfiltered, mature romance in The Shape of Water.

This is only a fraction of what makes Crimson Peak quintessential Guillermo Del Toro. Gothic Romance has long been part of this auteur’s framework, and you would be remiss not to indulge in all of its glorious melodrama. Even if it isn’t your cup of tea, Del Toro will make it so. Reaching its 5-year anniversary, the film hits stronger than before. The intricate motifs, compelling use of practical effects (complete with the involvement of Del Toro veteran Doug Jones), and cathartic use of horror make for something that has yet to be replicated by a major studio. Its lacking box office performance suggests that maybe the world merely wasn’t ready for this masterwork? But just like its characters, we hold the power to define what comes next. Del Toro himself has previously ranked Crimson Peak as one of the 3 best films he’s ever made, and straight-up called it the most beautiful. Take his word and dive in no strings attached, because who knows when we’ll get another large scale, unapologetic Gothic Romance with this much grandeur.

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Flatbush & Atlantic: part ix

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi part vii part viii

And here we’ve got part ix! This will be the second-to-last part of the series, I’ve got some thoughts also running around for a possible epilogue if that’s something anyone would be interested in reading. As always, there’s literally nothing writers love more than hearing from you all, so don’t be afraid to come and tell me what you think - my inbox is open, comment on the post, reblog with your thoughts!

part ix

April 27 (tues)

Mat’s mind was racing. If he was honest, he hadn’t been able to concentrate worth a damn since Cass had dropped the news about her job offer. Hong Kong? He knew she was brilliant, knew that her skills could and should take her anywhere in the world she wanted to go; the thought that she might leave New York, leave him, was still terrifying. Becoming more worried by the minute, he pulled out his phone, dialing the first person he could think of that might be able to help. 

Tito answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Tito. What’s up?” Mat asked nervously. 

“What’s wrong, Mat?” He immediately asked. Mat cursed under his breath; even over the phone, Beau was always able to read him like a book. 

Mat grimaced. “That obvious, huh?”

“Mat, we see each other pretty much every day. Not to be a jerk or something, but you don’t really call me unless something’s wrong. What is it? Did you and Cass have a fight?” Mat could imagine him crossing his arms on the other end. 

“Not exactly,” he said, scratching his head as he wandered aimlessly around the park. “She got this job offer, and it sounds like a really exciting opportunity, but…” He trailed off. 

“But?”

“It’s all the way in Asia. It’s in Hong Kong.” 

Tito sucked in a breath. “Oh, wow. That’s a big one. Big move. Has she said if she’s going to take it?”

“Not really, she hasn’t decided.” Mat shook his head, not realizing Tito wouldn’t be able to see. “We talked through it a little, they’re offering a really good starting salary and she likes the company values, but it’s such a huge jump that she’s not ready to make the call yet.” 

“Did you talk about what it would mean for you as a couple?”

“A little, though not as much as we probably should have,” Mat admitted. “Neither of us would want to break it off just because it would be long distance, but logistically it would just be a nightmare. It’s something like a 15 hour flight from New York, so it’s not like either of us would ever be able to make that more than once or twice a year. Did you know that it’s a twelve hour time difference from here?”

“No,” Tito said, “and it’s obviously not like I know exactly what you’re going through. Paige is a kindergarten teacher, so it’s not exactly like her job would suddenly pick up and move to another country. But it’s obviously a different story with me.”

As distracted as he was, Mat felt compelled to respond. “You know they’re going to resign you, right? It would be a terrible move for them if they didn’t.”

“Yeah, I mean that’s what I’ve figured,” Beau responded. “And my agent told me to expect negotiations to start in the next month or so, but still. I could be sent to Winnipeg or Phoenix or Vancouver pretty much without notice, and I wouldn’t want to ask her to just pick up her whole life and follow me. So, I get the feeling.” He paused for a moment. “How do you feel about it?”

“Mixed feelings,” Mat answered honestly. “I’d never want to hold her back from anything, that’s not the kind of person I am and it’d be a dick move regardless. She’s her own person and deserves to be able to make her own decisions. And I would never want her to grow to resent me if she decided to stay for my sake. That would almost be worse. I just..I really love her, Tito, and I would hate for us to never be able to see eachother because of her job. Or worse, for this to mean the end of us because the distance was too hard to deal with.”

It took Tito a minute to respond. “I know you love her, Mat. It’s pretty obvious. You look at her like she hung the moon. But if they all say that things will work out if you love each other and talk it through, then what are you so worried about?”

Mat took a deep breath before answering, trying to gather his thoughts as best he could. When he spoke, his voice wavered. “Because I’ve never been this gone for a girl, Tito. What Cass and I have...I don’t even know how to describe it. I’d stop the Earth turning if it made her happy. It’s just...she’s it for me. I’m done looking. And the idea that I could be 13,000 kilometers away from her isn’t even something I had considered. I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

“Wow. That’s...that’s big, Mat. You serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he replied. 

“When do they need to hear back by?” Tito asked.

Mat looked down at his watch, checking the time. “Not for a few weeks. She’s got some time to decide, which is almost worst.”

Tito hummed sympathetically. “Just talk it through. I can’t pretend like I know what’s going to happen, but I have faith in you. It’s going to work out.”

“I hope so.”

 May 13 (thurs)

 It was nine days before Cass graduated, and if she was being honest, her time may have objectively been better spent studying for her finals, the first of which was Monday. But this was Mat, and this was the Stanley Cup Playoffs, and she supposed that her studies could wait for a night while she spent her evening at Barclays. It was Game 5 of the Eastern Conference final, and there was no way she was going to miss her team’s chance at the Wales trophy. The tone in the arena was tense from the moment she stepped in; ever the optimist, Cass liked the Islanders’ chances, but the fact remained that they were down 3-1 in the series after a 4-0 rout by the Lightning in Game 4. The series had started off with forward momentum after winning the first game at home, but the three-game losing streak had done little for the fans’ hopes and even less for the team’s morale. 

The only bright spot, if she could call it that, was Mat’s return to the ice. He knew as well as anything that the recovery time was for his own good, but he wasn’t made to be cooped up in his apartment for nearly two weeks straight, save only doctor’s appointments and short trips to the complex gym. Per his usual dramatic fashion, Mat had been cleared in time for Game 7 of the second round, returning to raucous cheers and scoring two goals in the eventual 4-2 win over the Capitals. She had caught up enough on her work to be able to make the game, and it was one of the great joys of her life to be up in a box surrounded by her friends when the love of her life scored the goal that sent the Islanders to the conference finals for the first time in nearly thirty years. 

That kind of a dramatic win had made the losing streak that much harder. Game sevens are always exciting, especially with someone coming back off of injured reserve. While the win hadn’t made the team cocky by any means, the confidence had carried over into something more closely resembling complacency. They won Game 7, they won the first of the next series, so some of the team — mostly the younger players who hadn’t yet cut their teeth in the league — had made the mistake of assuming that the rest of the round would be smooth sailing. They should have known better, Cass thought ruefully as the Lightning scored two minutes before the first intermission to even the score at 1-1. Why couldn’t this be the round before, filled with confidence and coordination and laser-focused passing on every line? Why couldn’t it have been the celebration after? 

---

May 3 (tues)

 Winning a game sometimes called for going out. Winning a series almost definitely called for going out. And winning a series in Game 7 that sent your team to the conference finals for the first time in recent memory called for going out, and going out hard. As much as Cass would have loved to get as hammered as the rest of the group, especially considering the stress she was under with finals and graduation and her job offer piling up, they didn’t want a repeat of the afterparty from the All-Star Game, and Cass still had school the next day. So, she had committed to limiting herself to three drinks. “I want to be tipsy, not shitfaced,” she had explained to Paige on the drive over. Tito had driven his car over, Paige volunteering to DD so the boys could let loose and everyone could let off some much-needed steam. 

Someone had already opened up a tab for everyone by the time their car had gotten there, and it wasn’t ten minutes before they had claimed a few couches in the corner and Cass had a caipirinha in her hand. She was a little worried that Mat’s tolerance had tanked in the past few weeks; he hadn’t really drank since before the concussion and it was their first time at a bar in a few weeks regardless. Mat noticed her nervous glances out of the corner of his eye. “I’m fine,” he reassured her. “I specifically asked the doctors if I was good to drink at my last appointment and they said I was in the clear.”

Cass giggled, sipping her drink. “You asked your doctors if you could drink alcohol?”

“What can I say?” Mat shrugged. “I wanted to go out and get lit with friends, can you blame me?”

Cass’ giggles had evolved into full-on belly laughs. “Lit? What are you, sixteen?”

Mat’s cheeks reddened in what was probably a combination of alcohol and embarrassment. “My cousin said it once.”

Cass headed back over to the bar a few minutes later for another drink, leaving the boys to talk amongst themselves with the occasional interruption from an excited fan. On a high from the win, the team were more than happy to take photos and have quick chats with anyone who stopped them, and thankfully weren’t mobbed by the crowd inside the bar. For the most part, Cass and her relationship with Mat had been able to fly under the radar — well, as much as she could being Mat Barzal’s other half. Her Instagram hadn’t been private since college, and while a fair few fans and fanpages followed her, it had all remained mercifully low-key. Waiting at the bar, she resigned herself to scroll through Twitter for a few minutes, knowing it would be a little while before the bartender got to her. 

“Are you Cassidy Shaw?” Cass’ head turned slowly towards her right, where a short blonde girl looked at her with a shocked expression. 

“Cabrera Shaw, but yes?” She answered slowly. 

“Sorry!” The girl apologized, “I didn’t mean to be weird or anything. I follow you on Instagram, it’s just so weird to finally see you in person.” Cass gave a nervous laugh. She had fans? On Instagram? Who were excited if they met her in real life? 

“One Southside and whatever your favorite IPA on tap is, please,” Cass said to the bartender who had just leaned over the counter to get her order. “Thank you? You’re welcome?” Cass smiled awkwardly.

“I just wanted to say that I think it’s super cool how you’re not a typical WAG or anything. My name’s Sierra, I’m a junior at St. John’s. I’m applying for law school next year. It’s just, like, awesome to see a woman being successful in her own right apart from her partner, especially when they’re in such a visible position and it’s not what’s expected of them. I’m sorry — I’m rambling, aren’t I?” 

Cass laughed, a genuine one this time. “No, you’re totally good. Don’t worry. That’s really sweet of you to say, thanks a lot!” She sipped the Southside the bartender had just handed her, sliding Mat’s beer over. “Yeah, I have so much respect for the other women who choose to do more philanthropic work or be stay-at-home moms, but that’s not what I feel pulled to. Right now, at least.” 

“Right, totally,” Julia said, grabbing what looked like a rum and coke from the other bartender. “Anyways, I should let you get back to the celebration. Tell the team congratulations, it was a great game to watch!” 

Cass picked up the other glass, nodding. “I will. Thank you for your kind words, that was sweet of you to say.”

“Anytime!” Julia chirped happily. 

Cass walked carefully back over to the group, keeping an eye on the drinks. She handed Mat’s beer to him. He looked up curiously, taking a sip. “Something hold you up at the bar?”

She shook her head, then nodded, then shook it again. “Kind of? I think I just had my first fan encounter.”

He laughed, leaning over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Comes with the territory, babe.”

---

The game was scoreless through the second period, which didn’t help the tension in the stadium or Cass’ blood pressure. She and Paige had decided to get actual seats for the game, which Mat and Tito were more than happy to arrange. The Islanders were doing well through the first half of the third period, other than a little bit of messy passing the lines were good. But good wasn’t good enough sometimes, good wasn’t close enough to score and give them the lead. Cass’ heart sank as soon as one of the defensemen, she wasn’t sure who, made a turnover in the neutral zone to give the Lightning the puck. Kucherov picked it off, skating past the defenders and around the goal while the rest of the line nearly tripped over themselves trying to skate back in time. 

She was on the edge of her seat as he wrapped around the goal, silently praying that Varlamov would somehow be able to get a piece of the puck with his blocker or that it would have one of those one-in-a-million deflections off of the post. You could hear a pin drop in the stadium as everyone waited for the shot; tall of the sudden, time seemed to move like molasses. And then the puck went in, the red light went on, and the scattered sections of blue-and-white clad Lightning fans threw their arms up in celebration. 

Cass allowed herself exactly ten seconds to hold her head in her hands. There was still seven minutes, thirty nine seconds left. There was still time. Then there was five minutes, forty-two seconds left, and Maroon got two minutes for tripping, and that was their chance. That was supposed to be their chance. But then the penalty came and went, and it was three minutes left. Two minutes left. They pulled Varlamov at one minutes fifty-eight seconds left, and then it was the last shift. Forty-nine seconds left, and it was time for a Hail Mary. Out of habit, Cass’s lips began moving in the prayer. Hail Mary, full of grace...It was a holdover from her lacrosse days, when they were down in the last quarter with seemingly no hope in sight. It didn’t always work, but it sometimes did. It didn’t work that night. It didn’t work because the clock ticked down to zero, the score was still 2-1, and the Islanders had lost. They were out of the playoffs. Fans began shuffling out of the rink, shoulders slumped and heads down, as Cass bit her lip and tried not to cry. The team had worked so hard for this. God, they had worked so hard. And if she was taking it this badly, if it was affecting her this much, then she couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like for the guys on the team. 

Paige turned to her after a few minutes, when there were only a handful of people still left in their seats and the Zambonis had come out to resurface the ice one last time. “We should probably get down there, do you think?” She asked softly. Cass nodded. She was referring to the tunnel, outside the locker room where everyone usually got to greet their partners with kisses and hugs and words of congratulations, but where the mood would be profoundly different on that night. Cass grabbed her bag and straightened out her jersey, squeezing Paige’s hand. Neither of them really knew what the environment was going to be like after such a devastating knockout; Paige had started dating Anthony the summer before, and Cass obviously had even less experience. They had dealt with losses, they had dealt with disappointments and losing streaks and points droughts, but this was something new entirely.

They rode the elevator in silence before walking down the corridors to the room, where the rest of the WAGs and other family had congregated. Kerry rubbed her shoulder sympathetically as Lauren walked over. “We in the Islanders family have a lot of experience with getting knocked out of the playoffs,” she said with a weak smile, trying to crack a joke, “so here is how it usually goes. The guys should be coming out in a few, it takes longer than usual because the media typically has some end-of-the-season wrapup questions and Trotz and Anders will probably make speeches or say something. Some others might too.” The two women nodded. “Don’t treat it like just another loss, but it’s also no good to hover too much. It’s obviously a real disappointment, so it usually takes a week or so before most of them bounce back to being their normal selves. They know what coping mechanisms work best for them. Most will hit the gym more, read or cook if they’re into that, something to get their mind off of it. Obviously they’re still players and still want to know how they can get better, so they might want to go over tapes of the games and make notes of where they went wrong. That’s fine, but don’t let them beat themselves up about it too much. This was a hard series, and Mat especially,” she gestured towards Cass, “tends to be more than a little bit of a perfectionist.”

“I’ve noticed,” Cass said. 

“One last thing,” she continued. “Let them process, let them cope, but a loss not an excuse for them to treat you any worse, any less kindly. Be understanding, of course. But don’t take any crap from them, regardless of the circumstance.”

“Thank you,” Paige said gratefully. Cass echoed her sentiment. The next ten minutes were filled with checking emails and making half-hearted conversation before the team started to trail out of the room. Embracing their partners and families, most couples exchanged no more than a few words before turning down the hall that led to the players’ parking lot. Paige left with a squeeze to her shoulder and a promise to get coffee the next week before grabbing Tito’s hand and guiding him towards the cars. 

Unsurprisingly, Mat followed right behind. He hadn’t combed his hair after his shower, the top button of his dress shirt was undone and only haphazardly tucked into his pants. Mat had been on the shift when Kucherov scored, and if there was anything she knew about her boyfriend, it was that he’d take it personally. He dropped his bag on the ground as she embraced him, and the thud against the concrete floor felt as if it could echo all the way across the Long Island Sound. 

“I’m so proud of you, Mat. So, so proud. I know this didn’t end how you wanted it to, but you worked so fucking hard to get here, and that’s what I see. That’s all I see,” she whispered. 

Mat wasn’t crying, but his breathing was labored nonetheless. “I just feel...I feel like I let everyone down. I wasn’t supposed to be that far up on the ice, and if I hadn’t, maybe I would have gotten back in time to steal the puck, or check him or something, or…” He trailed off. 

Cass sighed. “I know, chou, I know how you feel. But just try to remember that this is a team sport. You win with the boys, you lose with the boys. Do you get mad at Tito when he makes a bad play? Or Jordan, or Anders?” Mat shook his head. “It’s the same way with you. They don’t stop being proud of you or think you’re any less of an incredible player because you made a bad decision. Bad decisions get made all the time, and it doesn’t have to reflect on the person who made them. It’s a hard game, love, but you did your best and that’s all anyone ever has a right to ask of you.” 

Mat’s thumb rubbed against the small of her back. “I know I’ll be fine, eventually. I mean, we’ve all dealt with this before. It just seems different this time, because we were so close to actually making the finals. It seems kind of silly to say since I know I’m only 23 and I know I’ve got so much time left to play, but,” he took a shaky breath, “I look at all the veterans, all the amazing players whose entire careers have gone by without ever having gotten the Cup. Lundqvist and Thornton and Marleau and all of these legends. And it sounds kind of selfish and naive, but I don’t want to be one of them.” 

They stood like that for a few more minutes, just holding each other, before either spoke again. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” Cass murmured to Mat as she carded her hands through his hair. She felt a tiny, almost imperceptible nod against her shoulder. Her bag had her laptop, books, and chargers. She had a whole drawer in Mat’s room by then, a combination of stray shirts that were his-turned-hers, a few pairs of leggings — they took up an entire drawer of their own back at her apartment — and balled-up socks from her one unsuccessful attempt at doing the laundry in his building. She had a spare box of tampons in his bathroom, her floral shampoo next to his 2-in-1 Old Spice. No matter how hard she pushed, Mat remained oblivious to the benefits of having separate shampoo and conditioner. 

He pulled away, reaching into his pocket and handing over his keys. “Do you mind driving?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. Whatever you need.”

The ride back home was about forty minutes, and it was almost halfway through before either of them spoke, the lull of the 80s rock channel filling in the silence. “Where’s your head at, Mat?” She asked carefully. 

He was looking out the window, distracted. “Hm?”

She repeated the question and he tensed slightly, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Just feeling kind of...confused about the whole thing. Seems like I’m being pulled in a thousand different directions one day, but then all of the sudden something like this happens and I’ve got nothing. It’s overwhelming. I know I have a life outside of hockey, I know it’s not all of who I am, but sometimes it seems hard to believe that when it seems like that’s all I’m recognized for.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, Cass reached over to cover his hand with her own. His fingers held onto hers like a lifeline. 

“You’re right, you know?” She said as they passed into the Queens-Midtown tunnel. 

“About?”

“Being so much more than people perceive you to be. I get that, it’s like that for me too sometimes. And Mat, you are so much more than ‘just a hockey player.’ You’re a good son and an amazing brother to Liana, and an awesome friend to Tito and the guys on the team and everyone back home. And,” she added, cracking a smile, “you’re a pretty good boyfriend too.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Just pretty good?”

“I didn’t want to fluff your ego too much,” Cass said. “But seriously, Mat. You’re incredible entirely on your own merit. You care so deeply for the people in your life and you love so hard, and it’s an honor and a privilege to be able to witness that firsthand.” 

Mat bent down to the center console, brushing a kiss over her hand. “How do you do it?”

Now it was her turn to question. “Do what?”

“Always know the right thing to say.”

“I don’t,” Cass admitted. “And sometimes I get it wrong. But I know I love you, and I don’t want to see you hurting if there’s anything I can do about it.” The car exited the tunnel into the dotted lights of a Manhattan evening. 

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “if there was an Oscar for pep talks, I’d have to give it to you, hands down. No offense to any of the guys on the team.”

She laughed, stopping at the light. Right on red wasn’t legal in New York City, a rule she found out the hard way two months after moving. “I’m glad it helps.”

“It does,” Mat said softly. “It means the world to me that you care enough to do it. You mean the world to me.”

Her cheeks heated. “You sure know how to flatter a girl, eh, Barzal?”

“I meant every word.”

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May 20 (thurs)

 She was done. After three years, six semesters, dozens of classes, and hundreds of hours studying, Cass had just finished her last final of law school. Her classmates stumbled out of the lecture hall, not entirely believing that all of their tears and heartache and hard work had come to a head in such an anticlimactic fashion. Turning on her heel, she walked south. It was just before seven, and her friends had a group reservation at some ridiculously extravagant French wine bar. It was Les’ idea, who had a penchant for all things expensive and who had made the reservation months prior because “you never know, John Mayer could book the whole place up and as much as I love dollar slices, we don’t want that to be our only option for what’s supposed to be a very prestigious celebratory dinner.” Les, Fiona, and Samaira were coming, along with Daniel, another editor on the law review, and Robin, one of Cass’ friends from first-year criminal law and the president of the Women’s Law Association. She had initially been wary about inviting Mat; it wasn’t that she didn’t think he’d get along with her law school friends, but she didn’t want him to feel out of the loop. After Les had announced that he was bringing his boyfriend, Xavier, Cass had extended the invite to Mat as well. 

It was only a ten minute walk, and the hostess directed Cass to their table, where she realized that she was the last one to arrive. “Don’t worry,” Robin said, “we’ve just been interrogating your man.” 

Cass scooted in next to Mat, kissing him quickly before rolling her eyes. “I hope you haven’t been too hard on him.”

Mat smiled. “Nah, they’ve been good. But being questioned by six lawyers who all seem very adamant that I don’t deserve you —”

“You don’t,” Samaira cut in, though it was clear she was joking. 

“Was more than a little intimidating,” Mat finished, handing Cass the menu. 

“Order whatever you want, I’m paying,” Daniel said as he flicked through the wine menu. “Well, technically, my parents are.” Daniel came from money; his mom was a partner at a firm in Chicago and his dad was a law professor at the University of Chicago. “If they’re going to insist on sending me to law school and sheltering me my whole life, the least I could do is take advantage of their generosity,” Daniel said, plunking his credit card onto the table. Fifteen minutes later, the group was sharing plates of escargots, crab tartine, and roasted cauliflower; twenty minutes after that, entrées were served. Mat had recognized the waitress’ accent and was chatting to her in French in between plates. Cass sipped on her wine, a pinot noir, and took a moment to look around the room, a moment to relax. Two more days, and she graduated. Everything that she had worked so hard for was finally coming to fruition. She still had to pass the bar in July, sure, but for one night — for a few days, really — she was going to let herself finally rest in the ability of her accomplishments. 

Dessert was maple bourbon crème brûlée with Sauternes, and Mat may have had a little too much fun breaking the caramelized sugar. Cass was full of good food and conversation; after everyone was done it was after nine. Les, Daniel, and Xavier had decided to get drinks, but Robin had barely slept at all that week, Samaira was going to watch a movie at her boyfriend’s, and Cass and Mat had to wake up early to get her grandparents from the airport. Mat took her hand as they walked towards the subway station. He had parked a few blocks away and offered to drive Cass back to her apartment, but she didn’t want him to go out of his way and all things considered, taking the subway at night had become something of a routine for her. 

They walked down Manhattan Avenue, resting in the kind of comfortable silence that only came with being with someone who really gets you. Cass had decided not to take the Hong Kong job the week prior. It was just too much distance from her family and Mat, and while the job seemed interesting enough, it wasn’t the kind of position she thought she could really be happy in long-term. “Have you figured out what you’re doing yet?” Mat asked as they turned the corner. “I’d say you should just move in with me and become a full-time housewife, but something’s telling me that’s not exactly the kind of opportunity you’re searching for.”

 Cass laughed, bumping him with her shoulder. “Tempting offer, the housewife thing, but I think I’m going to have to pass. Plus that would necessitate you wifing me up.” 

Mat kissed her head. “All in due time, pretty girl.” “But anyways, about the job search.” Cass said, a smile playing on her lips. “I was going to wait until graduation to surprise you, but since you asked…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Chris offered me a job. Permanently.” 

Mat stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Chris? Like Islanders Chris? Lawyer Chris?” 

She giggled. “Yes. Islanders lawyer Chris. You’re looking at the new Associate Counsel for the New York Islanders, Mat.” Mat damn near hollered in celebration, picking Cass up and spinning her around before pulling her into what was very possibly one of the best kisses of her life. Cass barely took notice of the tourists watching them from the side or her own public display of affection. It was New York City. They had seen weirder. 

It felt like a weight had been lifted off of Mat’s chest. He was being honest when he said that he wouldn’t have done anything to get Cass to stay, it just wasn’t his place. But he also would have been lying if he had said it would be anything but heartbreaking to see her leave. It was like he told Tito. Not even giving the future a chance to work itself out would be worse than a breakup. And with any luck, they’d never have one of those either. They rounded the last corner, steps down to the subway in sight, when Mat remembered what he had wanted to ask her but had been interrupted by her news. Her incredible, perfect news. “What would you think about spending some time in Canada this summer?”

Cass, seemingly oblivious, answered, “Oh? Like as a vacation?”

He shook his head. “No, like in Coquitlam with my family.”

“You want me to spend the summer with you and your family?” Cass asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah, only if you want to, of course. And I’m not sure when the job with the team starts, or…” He looked down.

Cass smiled. “I’d love to, but are you sure it isn’t too much? I don’t want to feel like I’m intruding on family time, I know you don’t get a lot of time with them since you’re here most of the year. I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to bring me around just because we’re together.”

They stopped by a lamp. Cass leaned up against the post. “Cass. My parents have made it very clear to me that you’re family, and that they’ll have my head if I’m ever dumb enough to let you go.” She snickered. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t intend on ever letting that happen. My family loves you, my sister thinks you’re way cooler than me.” 

“She’s got good taste,” Cass said, tilting her head.  

Mat laughed. “She does. She told me you guys were texting the other day about the guy she’s interested in, giving her advice. Sure, it was my idea to invite you, but they were so on board from the moment I mentioned it. Plus, my friends back home are getting annoyed with me because they haven’t met you yet with how often I talk about you.” 

She bit her lip. “How long were you thinking of staying?”

Mat shrugged. “Leave in a couple weeks, I usually stay two months or so, so until sometime in August?”

“I’d have to fly back to take the bar in July, and I’d still need some time to study while we’re over, but my contract doesn’t start until the end of August, so…”

“You’ll come?” Mat smiled hopefully.

She nodded. “I’ll come. I’ve never been to Canada before, did you know that?”

He shook his head, leaning in and brushing a kiss on her hairline. “You’re going to love it.”