#a black rift begins to yawn

[sexymonstersupercreep]

The Movie Gallery - favorite film posters

+++ The Dancing Hawk (1977) +++ Dog Days (2019) +++ Dream Toy (2015) +++ Candyman (1992) +++ Asylum Blackout (2011) +++ An American Werewolf in Paris (1981) +++ Goldberg Variacok (1992) +++ The Snob (2019) +++ The 56th Sitges Film Festival (2023) +++ A Field in England (2013) +++ Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (2006) +++ A Black Rift Begins to Yawn (2021) +++

[nonfilms]

CONGRATS to Taipei Suicide Story (d. KEFF) and all of the other winners at the 2021 Slamdance Film Festival! 

[whifferdills]

A Black Rift Begins to Yawn (2021, dir Matthew Wade, cinematography by Lila Streicher)

[directorsnarrative]

A Black Rift Begins to Yawn • Director Matthew Wade

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Dress Code (Post-War ficlet)

(A/N: Some Post-War MIC!Eragon/Arya for you all. 

I’ve extended the Rider War timeline to be closer to 5-ish years. Eragon has more time to mature, Arya has more time to heal. They start a relationship around a year before the war ends, and while I have a basic idea of how it comes about I’m not ready to put it into writing for you all yet. There’s about a year or so of Arya and Fírnen remaining behind in Alagaësia to help with reconstruction and reintegration of the elves into the world without starting an incident while Islanzadí heals, and then they join Eragon and Saphira at the Rider School. At this point, even a year on, the school is still in some phases of construction and only has maybe a dozen students + their dragons, possibly less. Everyone is still trying to settle in to the new reality, and Eragon is still getting used to the admin role he now has to take.

I’ll probably post more about MIC!Eragon and Arya’s relationship, especially as it is post-war. In the meantime, take this. It’s a little spicy, so fair warning. Cheers mates!)

~~~

Eragon scrubbed his hands through his hair, frustration edging his voice. “Remind me why I agreed to host this?” 

Invitations to the Rider School’s gala were strewn across his desk, addresses of dignitaries from the chiefdoms surrounding Mount Arngor paperclipped to each. He held in his hand three different menus in various stages of translation and tweaking, trying his best to work through the grammar of the local dialect and please the varied dietary restrictions of all in attendance. An itinerary draft sat incomplete under a handful of pens, half abandoned until the Rider’s leader could muster up the focus to finish it.

For all the good will these events garnered, they always brought in more paperwork than he thought they were worth.

“Because people tend to get nervous when dragons and Riders begin massing in one place and it looks like no one knows what’s going on.” Eragon leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to watch Arya across the room. His mate was cross legged on the floor, a portion of Fírnen’s saddle in her lap while the rest spilled out like a comically large sea turtle. A half-threaded leather needle dangled from her lips as she closely examined a patch of torn stitching to judge the length she needed. “And it’s one of the fastest ways to show that yes, the Riders have leaders in you and Saphira, and that you both aren’t as scary as they might think.”

From outside the exterior porthole a chuffing snort signaled Saphira’s amusement. That anyone would dare to put her majestic yet terrifying visage into the same league of frightening as Eragon’s squishy, scaleless frame was laughable.

Down below the cliffside, the sounds of Fírnen’s playful growls as he entertained a handful of yearlings and hatchlings rumbled up the mountain. The fledgling Riders and their dragons were on a day of leave after a month of hard work and lessons, leaving Eragon, Saphira, Arya, and Fírnen time to catch up on the tasks that went by the wayside during instruction. 

Eragon felt Saphira yawn wide, barbed tongue curling at its tip. His jaw twinged slightly as her teeth clicked together. Don’t forget your meeting this afternoon. Saphira stretched out one massive paw and began fastidiously cleaning the scales around her claws, irritated by the stone dust from construction that still remained in the nooks and crannies of the mountain’s halls. I will fly you down, but after that I must take the hatchlings to hunt.

Thank you. I won’t forget. Eragon assured as he set the menus down and picked up the draft of the event itinerary, clicking his pen in distracted boredom. As he worked, Arya finished her repairs and began the process of conditioning the rejoined pieces, working neatsfoot oil into the saddle with a soft rag.

Saphira’s deep breathing outside signaled her shift to a light doze in the afternoon sun. The sound was soothing, lulling her Rider into a state of half focused haze.

Once again drifting away from his work, Eragon’s eyes snagged on the invitation’s request of a black tie dress code. It sent his mind to other places, and, the corners of his lips curling into a mischievous smile, he let his chair turn again. 

“You know…” Arya looked up to see her mate tapping his pen against his lips. “There is one thing I don’t mind about these fancy events though.” Mirth danced in his eyes, along with something a little more, as he lifted his gaze from the papers in his hand. 

The elf set the saddle aside, wiping her hands on the rag. This should be interesting. He only acted this innocent for two reasons, one distinctly more alluring than the other. “Oh really?” She stood and stretched, fingers linked above her head as she lifted onto her toes. “And what would that be?”

“You.” Eragon broke into a blush tinged smile and set the itinerary aside, turning his chair fully to face her. “I will never get tired of seeing you all dressed up.”

Arya let out a soft laugh and approached him. His gaze boldly roamed over her form, still marveling years on that she was his and he was hers. “Really! I love you no matter what you wear. But there’s something about the way you can pull off a black dress….” Eragon practically purred in approval as the elf settled into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. The tang of leather conditioner wrapped around Arya’s earthy scent, reminding him of their time in the field and nights around watch fires, working on their gear and simply enjoying each other's company. It was just so simply her, so entwined in his mind with who she was, that it made his heart flutter. “What will you wear this time?”

Arya cocked her head coyly, braid brushing against her back as she shifted her weight to his knees with a thoughtful hum. “I don’t know. You pick.” A sly grin touched her lips. “Within reason, of course.”

Eragon leaned back, mind awhirl with possibilities. Almost subconsciously his hands had found Arya’s sides to steady her on her perch. As he mulled over the choice she had given him, his thumbs rubbed small circles against her ribs, eliciting a pleased sigh that danced in his ears. She leaned into his touch, content. 

“Hmm...I think…” An image solidified in Eragon’s imagination, bringing back that hooded eye grin as he went a step further and imagined it covering less of his mate’s body and more of his bedroom floor. “Black dress. Mid length. Something backless.” 

Arya huffed a quiet laugh, her smirk suddenly tinged with a tiny twist that he couldn’t quite place. Awkwardness? “Love...we’re trying to make friends here, not send them running for the other side of the continent.”

It took a long, long moment for Eragon to realize her meaning. With a slight pang of guilt his grin drooped, and in quiet apology he slipped his hands under the soft material of his mate’s shirt. Calloused fingers slid up her back, ghosting over the multitude of scars that still decorated her skin, as he pulled her down to him until their foreheads touched.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured. He could feel the uptick in her heart rate through her skin, the warmth of her breath against his cheek as he massaged the silky rifts below her shoulder blades. “I’m sorry. You’d think after all this time I’d remember. They’re so much a part of you that I–” 

Arya silenced him, brushing her lips against his. The contact flushed warmth down from his cheeks to his throat and over his chest. “I like that you forget.” Her smile feathered against his skin as she shifted her body closer to his and pulled away from the light kiss. “I think it’s one of the sweetest things you do.” 

Relieved, Eragon smiled back. Taking one of his mate’s hands from where she had braced against his shoulder, he pressed lips to her palm in one last apology before returning his grip to her sides. The feeling of warm, bare skin beneath his fingertips and the new position of her hips had him quickly distracted again, and he soon found himself itching to continue their banter. “Well...what about me, then?” 

“What about you?”

“What should I wear for the gala?” 

Arya hummed quietly, teasing her fingers down his chest. “It’s black tie, isn’t it?” Eragon nodded in confirmation, doing his best to keep from moving beyond the gentle dance of his fingers against the elf’s sides. She was always more composed than he during these little games, to the point that the Rider’s leader found himself pushing his limits to better match her whenever they arose. “Well then. I say you should wear just your slacks and a tie.” She gently tapped the end of his nose before dragging her hands across the tightening muscles of his abdomen, nails lightly scraping through the material of his shirt. Her voice took on a low purr, rippling with a possessive edge from deep within her chest and sending tingles of anticipation across Eragon’s skin. “It doesn't say anything about wearing something along with it, does it not?”

Eragon raised his eyebrow, control cracking. His hands settled on her hips as she draped her wrists over his shoulders, pulling her closer. He could feel the heat between their bodies growing, pooling over their clothed skin. “Well, if it’s the dress code you’re insisting on, who am I to break the rules?” His mate grinned that little devilish smirk that set his heart pounding, fire dancing in her eyes as she leaned in closer. Eragon let his eyes drift closed, lifting away from the back of the chair to meet her–

And frowned in confusion when he felt her cheek brush his. The light touch was followed by a breathy whisper in his ear. 

“You’re going to be late for your meeting with Blödhgarm and Telvi if you don’t hurry.”

Eragon opened his eyes to find Arya pulling away from reaching over his shoulder, the small clock he kept on his desk in her hand. 

It read only eight minutes to two in the afternoon. He was supposed to be meeting the elves to go over plans for a new family housing addition at two o’clock sharp.

“Oh shit!” 

Eragon bolted to his feet, unceremoniously dumping Arya off her perch on his lap. The elf couldn’t help but laugh as he dashed around the room, searching frantically for the plans Gerard had drawn up for him and the set of drafting tools necessary to make any adjustments. Outside Saphira similarly surged to her feet and shook herself. Her wings rustled like parchment as she unfurled them and stretched, ready to leap from the mountain shelf to the courtyard below.

I can see them nearing the gate. Saphira’s warning echoed in Eragon’s mind. You need to hurry, Little One.

I’m trying! I can’t find the damn plans! Eragon jerked his gaze from ripping apart a cluttered drawer of stationary when his mate gave a short, sharp whistle. Arya stood by the porthole with his messenger bag in hand, and wordlessly slipped the protected tube that held Gerard’s plans and the box of tools in when the man looked up. He let out a wordless cry of relief and hurried over, ducking his head and lifting his arm slightly to allow Arya to loop the strap down over his shoulder and settle the bag onto his hip. 

“Where would I be without you?” Eragon asked, half sincere and half rhetorical as the elven Rider adjusted his shirt. He leaned in, hopeful and thrilled as always.

Still grinning, Arya allowed him to give her a quick kiss. Her hand lingered at his cheek, checking him over out of habit before swiping a few stray locks of his curling bangs away from his face. “In Carvahall, living a quiet life without dragons, elves, dwarves and Urgals.” Pleased that he was presentable, the elf gave him a kiss of her own before turning him to the waiting Saphira and giving him a push. “Now go! Fírnen and I are teaching Silas and Rakka some flying, so we’ll see you both at dinner.”

Eragon gave one last wave and tightened the saddle straps around his legs. With that, Saphira took two great strides and launched herself from the cliff.

[soyforramen]

Whoops, I slipped into a follow up of this prompt.

--

“How’s the wrist?”

Such an innocuous question. It rings flat in the sharp crags that line the chasm between them, echoing hollowly between them. But it’s still more than he’d said Saturday night. More than he thought he’d say.

Betty, never one to let any pain shine through, smiles at him. Her face morphs into that perfect Cooper mask, no crack or wrinkle to suggest anything was out of the ordinary. It pierces his soul to realize that he doesn’t know how to read her anymore.

To him, she looks just as happy and carefree as the first day they’d met in third grade.

“Still sore, but no lasting damage,” she says, rolling her wrist as proof. Even her voice is peppy and varnished to perfection. “How’s your head?”

His hand moves without thought to his forehead, his fingertips grazing the ugly red mess. Jughead jerks his head to the right, a move practiced in the mirror this morning to ensure his hair covered the welt.

“Nothing an aspirin can’t take care of,” he mutters.

He raises his coffee cup to his lips to keep from mentioning the whisky and rye he’d fallen headfirst into, a palliative cure after she’d disappeared up the stairs, leaving nothing but confusion and nadir in her wake. The lingering hangover was still a symphony of banging pots and pans along his temples, a never-ending reminder of his regret (relief?) of doing nothing.

They sip their coffee in silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. The artificial bridge he’d thrown across the chasm between them frays, its tethers loosening. In less than a minute, it’s fallen into the yawning black hole that now lies between them.

Betty's words… no. Not that. It was his inaction. His confusion. His uncertainty that created this false rift between them. The gravity of it tugging and pulling at every second between them, every atom, every conceivable future between them, each a warped, stretched snapshot of a future never to be.

It was enough to make him want to crawl back into the bottle and never come out again. His hand shakes, an aftereffect of the late night drinking, and he shoves it deep into his pocket. Betty’s eyebrows draw too close together, too close to concern for his tastes.

Toni claps her hands together, and Betty shoots him one last curious look. He refuses to look at her, turning to refill his mug. When he turns back around, Betty is in her usual seat next to Archie, a plastic smile on her face. Jughead slouches against the counter, too lost in his own morbid thoughts to pay much attention to the upcoming game to notice the increasingly concerned glances Betty sends his way.

Jughead watches as his students shuffle in, the twins he affectionately calls Bill and Ted the only two showing any trace of life. The bell rings, a clanging, offensive noise that makes everyone wince. It’s doubtful he’s the only one nursing a hangover.

“How many of you did the reading?” he asks when they settle in.

A collective groan ripples throughout the room. He can’t blame them; he’d never been able to finish The Odyssey in high school either.

“Pop quiz time,” he says.

Another groan, this time with a rousing argument against it, echoes through his already pounding head. Jughead holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

“I want you to write about betrayal.”

The class quiets, some exchanging glances. It’s a sharp turn, a quick 180 that throws all off them off balance. Jughead has been ruthless so far, both in his grading and in his push to get them to learn critical thinking skills. Even he’s surprised at this course of action.

“Any kind of betrayal you can think of. You can talk about personal betrayal, family betrayal. Maybe one of your friends kissed your girlfriend, or maybe your mother chose your sister’s side over yours. Or maybe you write about a fictional betrayal. Hamlet and Ophelia, Brutus and Julius Caesar, Edward Pensieve and the Turkish delight.”

Wynnie’s hand shoots up, and Jughead inwardly winces. She’s always been the one to push back against any assignment, the one who questions everything he expects from them and makes class ten times longer.

“Can we write about a made up betrayal? With characters on, like, TV or something?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, he nods. “Anything is fair game, as long as you write it in a way that someone not familiar with the show, or book, or whatever, can understand what’s going on.”

“What about poetry?” another student asks.

“So long as you put the effort in, poetry is fine. Text threads, short stories, poems, letters, anything written.”

“Can we work together?” one of the twins asks.

“Sure, as long as you don’t bother the other students,” Jughead says with a shrug.

Bill and Ted high five before dragging their desks together.

Jughead is surprised at how well they’re taking this assignment. Every last thing has been a fight with them, from getting their attention to taking a test. Betrayal, though, seems to be something everyone can relate to.

As the class begins to write, Jughead sits down at his own desk. For a moment, he watches his students, kids in the same position he was once in, and wonders why he’s even here. Riverdale offered him little more than characters he could mold into his own, a setting for the decline of small town America.

Today, though, his mind wanders along words and phrases, glimpses into a different sort of reality. One ravaged by decay and rot, left to perish alone. And yet, he can’t help but see the small, green shoots of the future poke out of the ashes, tiny hints of hope for what’s to come. Perhaps nothing is ever static and unchanging. Perhaps things can turn around.

Jughead reaches into his bag for his own blank notebook.

He’s sitting on the porch that afternoon, struggling with the illegibly written translation. It’s a shame the state requires them to teach only the recommended books; Jughead would love to see how the story unfolds when thrown onto a fire.

“Hey.”

Jughead starts. When he sees it’s only Betty (only?), he stands abruptly, his entire body on fire, his legs jittery and ready to run.

“Hey,” he repeats. “Archie’s not here, but –“

Betty shakes her head and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Can we talk?”

He swallows. Stupid of him to think he’d get away from this conversation. Jughead waves to the chair next to him. As Betty passes, her perfume tickles his nose. Long gone is the strawberry body spray she used in high school, a sweet, cloying smell. Now it’s a perfume, one that tickles his nose and clogs his sinuses.

They sit there quietly, neither willing to speak first. He’s lost for words, unable to start.

She sits patiently, calmly. Betty seems as if she hasn’t a care in the world, as if they were there to talk about the weather. Part of her training, he realizes. She’s no longer as impulsive as she once was, reaching and grasping and desperate for an immediate answer. This Betty Cooper is a reminder of the past, but only that.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, starting with the simplest of things.

Next to him, Betty shifts. He thinks he hears her sniffle (crying? allergies? derision at his lame start?), and he has to quash his immediately reaction. All he wants to do is reach out to her, to comfort her, to promise her the world to keep her from suffering.

But he’d done that before, long ago, in a completely different world. And he’d been trod upon, brushed aside in favor of her own cruel form of betrayal. Nothing he could have done after would have fixed the wound she’d carved in his soul. Even now, seven years distanced from the teenage woes, it lay between them, still raw and sore and bleeding from the continued betrayals of his life.

He wonders how he would have responded to her if he hadn’t known. If he hadn’t come home one night early to hear her and Archie upstairs. If he hadn’t turned to the Wyrm and listened to Sweet Peas acidic sniping just to get lost among the agave pinas and the juniper berries.

“It’s not,” he stutters, trying to find his footing, unsure of what he wants to say. “I couldn’t stop loving the Betty Cooper I knew. But I also never stopped hating what she did to me.”

The admission is the first emotionally honest thing he’s said in years. It’s painful to realize how deep it lay inside him, how long it took to finally cut out this festering, putrid thing that burrowed into him. Like a tumor, it could only grow, fed by hate and anger and depression. Hate and anger for both of them. It hadn’t turned out like it was supposed to.

Now that it lay out in the open between them, he felt different. Heavier, in some ways. But there was also a release. The pressure that had been building for so long was slowly lowering, as if he’d finally found the valve that would bring things back to normal.

“And I don’t know you,” he said, the words pouring out now. “Seven years, and only a handful of texts, a few voicemails. You’re not the person I remember. Hell, everyone is different from who they were, who I thought they were.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair. He can feel Betty’s bright eyes staring at him, pleading with him for something, anything, that will make this better.

“We’re both different now, and there’s no way you can still love me. You don’t know me, you know who I was. We can’t just pick up where we left off, even if we wanted to. There’s too much between… Even if we were stupid enough to try,” he trails off, his words meandering as they try to find footing in the rocky space between them.

“We didn’t leave things in a good place,” Betty murmurs in agreement.

She shifts, and he looks at her for the first time since they sat down. Her legs are tucked up against her body, arms wrapped around them. It’s a protective stance. Against him, perhaps, or against the bare truth that he’s put in the open. He can’t blame her, not since he’s protected himself against most of his own life in other, less healthy ways.

Jughead sighs, empty of anything else to say. He stares at the fading light glowing through the leaves. It’s the perfect, picturesque scene of two high school sweethearts reuniting. At least, it was supposed to be. He didn’t know if he ever could do that to himself again.

Archie’s old truck chugs up the street, and Jughead stands. He scrapes the palms of his free hand along his pants, the other hand gripping his book. Archie waves through the windshield with a bright grin, and Jughead gives a half-hearted wave back before going inside.

He’s exhausted; after being mad for so long, it’s strange to be so empty of feeling. He’d give the world to be able to retreat back to Alphabet City and it’s various loan sharks. There, at least, he’d know the pain was no one’s fault but his own.

Jughead closes the bedroom door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn’t his business what Betty did despite her attempts to bring him back into her life. He didn’t know if he was ready for that, or if he’d ever be. Ever since he’d been back, her presence gnaws at him, chipping away at the walls he’d built up over the years against her presence, and it frightens him that she’s stepped back into his thoughts so quickly and easily.

Thoughts and ideas collide and churn violently in his head. He throws himself down on his bed, determined to fall asleep despite the chaos.

But this time, sleep doesn’t come as easily as it always has. Words and feelings and phrases splatter against the back of his eyelids, graffiti tattooing images of a world never known. He pushes back against the cacophony until he can stand it no longer. Desperate to empty his thoughts, Jughead turns on the bedside lamp, pulls his laptop out from under the bed, and begins to write more than he’s been able to for years.

[oldwebmlp]

From: https://geocities.restorativland.org/Area51/Shadowlands/9518/

Text from the page below the cut:

Moondancer’s Dream Blinking once or twice, you are not really surprised to find that you have returned to Moondancer’s dream. You wait for your legs to steady themselves … and then with sudden dread that the ground truly is trembling. The buildings which Moondancer had so lovingly dreamshaped crumble into rubble as the path buckles beneath your feet. The earth slowly pulls back, rumbling, and a few pebbles tumble into the newly formed rift at your feet. “It’s only a dream,” you remind yourself, scrambling away as the earth caves in under its own weight. In a dead run, you manage to keep just ahead of the plummeting debris. You hurtle towards the only point of safety, the shrine to the Lost Pony which stands by the strangely calm pond. If you can just reach it … but another chasm suddenly yawns in front of you. You gasp, then glance anxiously back. The land itself is falling into nothingness, leaving only a void of cold stars behind … and within minutes the ground beneath your feet will plummet into the starry expanse as well. Not a creature can be seen in the dreamscape, but in desperation you scream out the name of the dreamweaver anyway: “MOONDANCER!“ And, miracle of miracles, she appears, pounding across the disintegrating turf and leaping wildly over the rifts bathed in a luminous glow. "What are you doing here?” she cries as she winks to your side. "Never mind! Get on! The dreamscape is dying! Get on!“ "Why? How?” You cling tightly to the unicorn’s blood red mane as she hurtles across the chasm. “It was … always unstable.” Moondancer shouts to be heard above the grating rocks. “Suddenly things … places … just began disappearing!” She shoots under a great pine tree as it slowly leans, pulling its roots from the earth before the mighty crash of impact sends it falling through its self-made grave. Moondancer’s neck stretches forward, glistening with sweat, as she digs her hooves into the soft earth of the hill. At the top lies the pond and the shrine, still barely trembling while the rest of the dreamscape thunders. "I tried to patch up … the dream,“ Moondancer gasps. "But it just kept … degrading. Then we started evacuating. I came for … one last look.” At last the pony crests the hill. The pond is no longer mirror-smooth; ripples lap in concentric circles and the meadow grasses lean away from a roaring wind. But the statue of Water Lily, the Lost Pony, still stares serenely at the sky, unaware of the destruction in front of her stone eyes. “This will be the last to go, but it cannot stand for long! Quickly, to the door!” Moondancer hurries over to a redstone arch standing in solemn isolation. “By the Rainbow, may there still be time,” Moondancer murmurs as she points her horn at the empty doorway and closes her eyes. “But how–” You trail away as the starry sky framed by the archway shimmers; with a tearing sound, the doorway suddenly leads to an explosion of colors ripping across a blackness darker than the cold nothingness framing the stars of the dream. Humans were never meant to see this; instinctively you shrink back. “Quickly! Jump through!” “But …” The hill begins shuddering in earnest and the water level quietly falls until only a muddy dish of earth remains, hairlined with cracks. “HURRY!” Moondancer nudges you impatiently. “But …” The colors swirl and dash themselves together in violent, shimmering rainbows. You glance back at the dreamscape as the one of the ears crumbles off of Water Lily’s statue. A minute later the entire statue topples, fragmenting into a million splinters of granite. With a cry of anguish, Moondancer physically shoves you into the whirlpool of light. Then, glancing at her shattering dream one last time, she steps through the doorway.

[aria-i-adagio]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Ship: Dorian x m!Trevelyan

Rating: T

read on A03 or below

(title from REM, 'Imitation of Life')

Meanwhile, in Haven.

Rhys has a list of sights he does not want to see as he’s dying. At the top (and a recent addition) are hurlocks - those are some ugly motherfuckers, and he suspects that they enjoy making death hurt. Most varieties of demons; although, perhaps a desire demon might not be too bad. Granted, he doesn’t know if the illusions they cast last up to the point of death, or if those are only good while being possessed. That might change the calculus a bit. One of the red lyrium crystal monsters the Templars were turning themselves into. A bear. He definitely does not want to see a bear while he’s dying.

As final sights go, the implosion of the Breach as the thing in his hand stitches the Veil back together isn’t a bad one. The outer edges turn magenta, then blue-violet. The cooler colors rush to the center, swirl together, drawing inward until there’s just a speck of black, more liquid than the darkest night. Then bright, morning sunlight pulses like a heartbeat from that center.

Rhys lets go of the breath he was holding. He thinks it worked, thinks the Breach is closed. It feels powerful enough - a wave of magic like fire and lightning pouring through him, in and out, like breathing in harsh, herbal smoke that messes with his head and makes the world swim, and at least, in his case, despite many promises to the contrary never makes him as sleepy as it just makes him keyed up and in want a good fuck.

The shockwave following the pulse of white light picks him up off his feet and sends him hurtling through the air and slamming him like a ragdoll into rocks and ice around Haven.

Still, the light is damned pretty. Until it fades.

He hears Dorian's voice through the ringing in his ears. “Rhys! Thank the Maker.”

Rhys hopes that he isn’t dead because if he is that implies that Dorian is dead too, and that would rather sad. The world needs Dorian smiling and making catty jokes. There’s been too much melancholy and death over the past few months. Rhys is getting tired of all the omens of doom and gloom.

There’s another little gap in time before his head recovers enough to remember how to open his eyes. When he does, Cassandra’s upside-down face greets him. Dorian's would have been a prettier sight, but there's something comfortingly familiar about seeing Cassie first thing after realizing that - despite there being every reason for him to be - he is not, in fact, dead.

Rhys's vision still spins, and his left arm feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Yes, he’s been here before. Best just to let go, disconnect from it, float a little bit. “Are you going to yell at me again?”

“What?” Cassie’s dark brows pull low over her eyes. “No!”

“Too bad. You’re kinda attractive when you look like you’re about to commit murder.”

“Herald!”

Cassie sounds scandalized. Rhys manages a grin. Not that scandalizing Cassie actually takes that much effort. Makes her easy to tease. Something to distract him from how much he’s hurting at the moment because pretending that the waves of pain radiating from his arm are the ocean doesn’t actually work very well. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been in the ocean since he was a small child. The memory of floating in warm waves until they send you tumbling into rough sand isn’t fresh enough.

“Keep talking like that, Lucky, and you might yet manage to die tonight.”

“Hey, Varric.” Rhys tries to lift his head and the bastard offspring of fire and electricity shoots from his shoulder to neck and then down his spine. The muscles in his back spasm and his head hits the ground beneath him, blacking out his vision for another moment and sending the ringing in his ears a pitch higher. “Did it work?” he asks groggily.

“You did good, kid.”

“So it -”

“The Breach is sealed, Rhys.” Solas’s calm voice is reassuring to hear. “Try not to move, this will hurt more before it hurts less.”

“That story -” He means to say ‘again,’ but Cassandra grabs his shoulders very firmly and maybe he shouldn't waste breath on quips.

“Dorian, be ready.” Solas does something, and that something rips the fire out of his left arm, which is - as promised - worse than just letting it settle in like some magical, fatal addition to the marrow.

“Motherfucking, son of a bitch, what in the name of Andraste's flaming arse -”

“Language.” Cassie lets go of his shoulders and reprimands him with a light cuff on the side of his head. “Oh let the kid blaspheme a bit, Seeker. He's earned it.”

Rhys sits up and rubs his hand. Above him, the sky is still marked by a line of bright green, but it’s a seam in the darkness, not a whirling, pulsating storm. His arm doesn't hurt now, but there's the same fuzzy numb wrongness in his wrist and palm that he's gotten used to over the past few months. That's on a good day.

Solas arches his eyebrows and looks amused. “You know I do very little in the name of Andraste's arse, flaming or not.”

“Whatever your reason -” Rhys experimentally stretches out his left arm and reaches across his chest to rub his shoulder. It’s still aching, but just the banal ache of falling a bit too hard. “Thank you."

Nearby Dorian finishes casting with an elegant - and probably unnecessary - flourish of his elegant hands. One of the trees beside the Chantry behind to glow with the green of a Veil Rift, then warming to a color closer to chartreuse.

“What is that?”

“You absorbed a lot of energy while closing the Breach. I siphoned off what I could at the time. But still, far more than a human body is supposed can contain and remain alive.”

“Right.” Movement of energy had been his theory for some time. Massive amounts of magic were required to open or close a rift in the Veil, and something had to serve as a conduit. Whatever happened at the Conclave had left him as that conduit, but each time he felt the power come closer to burning through the bonds that held him together, made him human. Which was precisely why there was a stack of farewell letters sitting on the desk in Rhys's quarters. He hadn’t expected to live through whatever it took to close the Breach.

“Dorian and I pulled off some of what remained and redirected it. It's a rather beautiful effect, albeit transient.”

The tree turns to a brilliant brilliant gold and then quivers and collapses into a pile of shimmering dust. Rhys swallows hard. Not expecting to live isn’t quite the same as getting a glimpse of how you would have died. Or maybe a human body was messier than a tree. Typically were less graceful than plants. “I see.”

“Right then. Let's get you freshened up and then get some liquor in you.” Dorian grabs his forearms and hauls him to his feet. Face to face with the other mage, Rhys feels transparent. Like a plane of glass that can't hide fears and flaws. It's terrifying. Electrifying. “Everyone else has already started the party.”

Even nearly nose to nose with Dorian, Rhys still can't tame the small voice in the back of his head that says he's reading Dorian all wrong, that the man is just friendly, that there's certainly no way someone so beautiful and refined would be interested in a mudlark.

He hopes that voice is just being stupid.

Dorian slips him a flask of brandy as they walk away. Rhys flips the cap off and sips gratefully from it. His legs feel loose, off-balance, like he’s drunk already, and he suspects he would be staggering but for Dorian’s arm around his waist. The linen undergarments beneath his leather coat and woolen sweater are soaked with sweat and chilly even beneath the layers; he’s content enough to let Dorian drag him to the small cabin he’d been given. Really, actually, it is too much for a single person, much bigger than the room he had at Ostwick. And frankly, far too cold with only a single person’s body heat in the space at night.

He stumbles past the partition to the room in the back, trying to decide if he’d rather fall face-first onto the bed, or dig out a new base layer and go enjoy the party he can hear the rest of the Inquisition beginning outside. Leliana and Josephine will probably show up if he chooses the latter and drag him back out with a lecture on keeping up appearances and rallying the people. They might even be right.

Maker, he hopes his part in all this is over. Let Cassandra and Leliana continue trying to remake all of Thedas. He just wants to go home. If he has a home to go to.

“Oh look at this!” Dorian exclaims from the front. “Antivan red. And a halfway decent vintage. You’ve been holding out on me, Rhys.”

“Talk to Josie.” Rhys undoes the buttons down the front of his coat. Too many buttons, especially with hands that are stiff from the cold and shaking from an overdose of magic. He tosses it over the foot of the bed and takes off his sweater. He’s rather fond of the sweater actually, it’s nice and warm and the good kind of scratchy. The kind that kept you in the present place and time. “She’s not lying about her family connections.”

“Not sure she likes me. Yet. She’ll come around.”

“I’m sure she will.” Rhys smiles a little and cautiously - sometimes he has to recalibrate just how much magic to use after closing a Rift - casts a spell to melt the ice on the pitcher of water. Closing the Breach hadn’t done anything to improve Haven’s climate. Maker, why do people choose to live here? He splashes still chilly water over his face and leans his hands against the table, trying not to yawn so hard that his jaw cracks off.

His linen shirt is soaked to his skin; he has to virtually peel it off. It gets tossed to the floor, something that can be dealt with later and by someone else. He soaks a bit of toweling at rubs it over his chest and shoulders, glancing behind him, at least somewhat hoping that Dorian is surreptitiously peering around the partition.

He isn't. He’s turned away from the opening in the partition - polite, Rhys supposes - holding the stack of letters in his hands and shuffling through them. “Rhys. What are these?”

“Just... I need to burn those. They were just in case, well, you know, this wasn't exactly the guaranteed outcome.” He didn’t even know if half the people he had addressed them to were still alive, much less where to find them, but he assumed that Leliana would be able to figure that out if she needed to.

“How late were you up writing them?”

All night. “A while.”

“You were sitting here last night, by yourself, writing these because you thought you might die - Rhys, why didn't you say anything? You didn't have to sit in here drinking and contemplating death alone.”

“I thought the chance closing the Breach would kill was generally understood.” Just the kind of thing that no one talks about in polite society. Rhys combs his fingers through his hair and tries to put it into something akin to order and not just hanging unattractively lank around his face. Kind. Dorian might have a vicious tongue in his head, but he’s also kind when he wants to be. “Open the bottle if you want. If I was saving it for a special occasion, I think this qualifies.”

Rhys sits on the edge of the bed and undoes the buckles down the sides of his boots, tugging them off and rolling down the first of three pairs of socks. The other two are tucked under his trousers. Clean socks will be nice. He gets his trousers off - tight leather is really annoying. Decent armor. A good look on him too - even he can recognize that. But annoying to get on and off.

He finishes washing up quickly and dresses again, listening as Dorian pops the cork out of the bottle and the sound of wine being poured. Hopefully, it’s a decent vintage. He’d hate to disappoint.

Dorian is sitting in one of the chairs with his feet propped up on the desk. Rhys does it all the time himself; it’s a bizarrely satisfying act of delayed rebellion against the librarians who scolded him for doing the same thing in the Circle. The letters have been set aside in a much tidier stack than the one in which he had left them. He pulls the second chair out from the desk, sits down, and picks up the wine glass that Dorian isn’t twirling in his elegant hands.

Dorian stops him as he raises the glass to his lips. “Don’t drink it yet, silly. A red needs to breathe.”

“Right. Yes. Anyway, thanks. For saving my life back there. What is that, like the fiftieth time.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows, smiling over the cup in his hand. “Bad form to let someone die. Especially someone you rather -”

Bells begin clanging outside, interrupting whatever Dorian was about to say. He swings his feet from the desk to the floor and sets the cup violently down on the table. “Oh, Andraste’s quaking quim, what now?”

Rhys grins. “You’re getting as bad as a Ferelden.” Even if the bells are unlikely to signify anything good, he can enjoy a little humor.

“Worse, I think.” Dorian throws back the cup of wine as he gets up from the table, and Rhys follows suit. Yes. It is a more than decent vintage even without enough time to breathe, and he grabs the bottle as Dorian pushes the door open because whatever is about to happen will probably merit alcohol. Cullen is standing outside, still in full armor and fur and with the grim expression that Haven seems to have frozen on his features.

“We’re under attack. Grab your staves. Meet me at the gate.”

“Void take it.” Dorian takes the bottle from him and drinks. “Come on, Rhys. Looks like fate hasn’t given up fucking with us yet.”

Well, fuck.

[terezis]

that blupjeans baby ask for me thinking... how fast would lup and barry get over to see the kid kravitz picked up?

(continued from here)

-

there's a long, drawn out pause.

lup says, "excuse me?" 

taako says, “you're excused.”

lup says, "taako."

"listen, it's not a big deal. krav stole a baby, but now he's got a little bit o' the ol' buyer's remorse, so i figured, you know - "

"that - okay, i have a lot of questions, we'll table those for now - so your first thought was, why don't i just foist this sentient humanoid life onto my sister?"

taako watches kravitz's face shift to from concern to outright panic as the baby starts to stir, fussing noisily in his arms. "going once, going twice -"

"taako, you can't just give someone a baby! where are its actual parents?"

"not here, clearly not important!" taako says. "i know you and barold were talking about adoption a couple months ago, are you saying you don't want it?"

lup is quiet.

"let me call you back," she says, and hangs up.

taako sighs. "give it here, handsome," he says after watching kravitz flounder for a few seconds more. kravitz hands the baby off with no small amount of relief. she immediately settles with a little shiver-yawn that would melt taako's heart if he had even a single paternal bone in his body. as it is, she's still pretty cute. ears too big for her body, little button nose - this baby is the full package. "already picking favorites, huh?" taako says, watching her. "a woman after my own heart."

"i think you're probably just warm," kravitz tells him. taako sticks out his tongue.

-

eventually lup shows up at the apartment, barry in tow. kravitz, sans child, opens the door wide to let them in.

"alright," lup announces. "let me see this baby."

"her name is taako jr.," taako says, "and i'm keeping her, i’ve just decided. sorry! you snooze, you lose." he wiggles his fingers in front of the baby's face. little sparks of magic appear. the baby’s eyes follow with rapt attention as a mote of light dances towards her face, and then just a little too close to her nose.

she sneezes, and then she starts to cry.

"i changed my mind! you can have her," taako says, immediately passing her to lup.

"she's got a set of lungs on her, huh?" lup says. the baby continues to wail. 

barry frowns. "you think she's hungry?"

"well, what's she in the mood for?" taako asks. "i've got some leftover pad thai in the fridge. i've got all the stuff to make a quiche lorraine."

lup gives taako a look. "lucky for you, we picked up baby formula on the way over. barry?"

barry draws a sigil in the air. a rift like a black hole opens in the middle of the living room, and he fishes around in it for a moment before pulling out a little glass jar and a plastic-wrapped package of bottles. "on it," he says, and heads to the kitchen.

taako whistles. "look at you guys go! i would have given up by now. you think you're gonna keep her?”

"you did give up," lup says. "i just watched you. and i don't know, maybe?" she frowns. "i mean, we were talking about adoption, but all we did was talk. you really think me 'n bear are ready to be parents?"

barry returns with a bottle, which lup takes. taako jr. - "we're not calling her that, taako, shut up -" quiets as she begins to feed, and lup feels herself falling a little bit more in love. she looks at barry. barry can't hold back his grin.

"yeah," lup says. "i think we're gonna keep her."

[shuuenmei]

we were two- reflect

TWST OC Week Day 4: Mirror

BEFORE WE BEGIN:

This is connected to “We were two-Prelude”.

For a TLDR of “We were two-Prelude”, the canon MC existed together with Yuu (Rei) and their presence is connected to how Yuu (Rei) got to Twisted Wonderland.

A colored version of this piece will be posted on a later date.

Due to length, the piece is placed under the cut.

Here we go!

“You know, I’m rather jealous of you.”

The reflection in front of her spoke. The teenager with raven hair spoke.

Their meeting is only possible through this dimensional rift.

The teen’s circumstances are a separate matter from her own, her lone connection being that the teen’s soul imprinted on her while their actual body lies dormant, sleeping among the many coffins in the Hall of Mirrors.

“What brought this on?” She wondered.

“Honestly, I went through the same experience as you do, from the entrance ceremony, the overblots, the daily lives with my new friends… everything. And even then, I was too blind to notice what’s going on behind my back, too afraid and too weak to consider seeking answers for myself until it’s too late.”

Their lips curve to a mirthless smile. “I didn’t have the same willpower or bravery as you do to question what is happening around me until it’s too late. I didn’t have the courage or initiative to find a way to defend myself without depending on my friends either. I’m just… me. A regular teen who wound up in a whole other world and blindly followed what I’ve been told to, like a sheep in a herd.”

Pausing to take a breath, they soon continue. “My ignorance and blindness kept me from noticing that I should’ve tried to stop Grim from eating those black rocks that did him more harm than good, and it prevented me from realizing that the Headmaster had his own plans so I’m under his complete mercy when I finally realize what is going on. And my weakness and lack of initiative costs everybody, and even then, I had to sacrifice them for Grim.”

“...You know, I don’t care about Grim as much as you do.” She interjected.

“I have my own priorities, and I was far more interested in finding out about what role I had in the centerpiece of the scheme that the Headmaster is likely playing at when I noticed it, and just because we experience the same thing, doesn’t mean that we had the same backgrounds.”

“I know, and I was told of it.”

“...By the one that imprinted your soul on me?”

“The very same.” They nodded and continued, looking down to the ground (Or what constitutes as a ground in this dimensional rift). “A life where society always seems to put you down no matter what you do, your trust in people that should’ve helped you lost, your relationship with people who once supported you strained… That person also showed me that I had other counterparts, each with their own motivations that are different from mine… and it made me feel small in comparison since unlike all of you, I’m just… average. Just a regular kid thrown into another world without a clue to what’s going on.”

She stayed quiet, listening to them speak before she gave the teen her piece.

“Just because I did differently from you, doesn’t mean that the things you do are completely worthless or irrelevant.”

The teen looked up to her. She gave no heed as she continued.

“Just because you and I do different things doesn’t mean we’re any less irrelevant. We may have different relationships with those we met along the way, but it doesn’t turn or make it any less worthless. Grim and Tsunotaro still care about you, and so does Ace and Deuce back in your world.”

She stepped forward, closing in the distance and held the teen by their shoulder. “No matter what we do, the fact that we’ve become an irreplaceable presence to the people we met doesn’t change. Even if our relationships are different.”

“...But you’re still going to sacrifice Grim, right?”

She pursed her lips, slowly nodding.

“My relationship with Grim is different than the one with yours. I may accept him as someone under my care, but ultimately, I don’t depend on his company all the time, and he still needs more growing to do. And he wouldn’t be getting what he wanted out of me.”

She lifted her hands from them.

“Once upon a time, my mentor and uncle told me that it’s often a better choice to end them first than to take the slim chance of saving them, since saving them and granting them peace may prolong their suffering instead, so I believe that he’d be better off given a swift end.”

“...And I can’t accept that.” They confessed.

“...I know.”

She learned enough about how much the teen cherished Grim and how they are willing to sacrifice the people of Twisted Wonderland, their new friends in this strange world.

Because to them, Grim’s the only one who would care about them the most, because they’re partners, two in one.

The same can’t be said to herself, who sees Grim as his own individual, separate from herself.

And completely independent from needing him, with a life and groups of her own. Away from Grim.

Regardless, she still offered. “But we can make a compromise, if you’re willing to hear that.”

________________________________________________________________

“Morning Yuu-san! Ace-kun! Deuce-kun!”

Without turning back, she returned his greeting. “Morning Epel.”

Ace yawned as he said his greetings as Deuce smiled.

“Morning Epel.”

Epel noticed the drowsy white cat on her shoulder and greeted. “Morning Shiro-san.”

The cat familiar gave a drowsy purr in greeting.

“He’s a lot sleepier than usual today.” She told him.

Epel nodded.

As they walked together, a teen, accompanied by a familiar gray furred cat-monster with blue flames adorning his ears resting on their shoulder zoomed past the group.

“Fnaaahhh, we’re getting late!”

“I know Grim!”

‘Isn’t there still time for homeroom?’ She mused inwardly before she turned back to see the figure.

She saw Grim and the teen. The original Yuu who was meant to be here, now renaming themselves as “Ray”, running ahead with two unfamiliar students waiting for the duo.

“Come on Ray!” They beckoned the teen as they started running forward, their figures fade in the distance.

She stared at them for a moment.

“Yuu-san? What’s wrong?”

She turned, shaking her head at Epel. “Nothing.”

She looked ahead, joining her friends. Suggesting, “By the way, what do you think of a group cafe outing after school today? That new cafe that opened downtown was pretty good.”

“Sure Yuu-san! I should call Jack-Kun about it!”

“I’m gonna get our class E duo later.”

“That leaves me getting Kasper then.”

“So you guys are leaving Shiro and I to get Sebek?”

“Hey, you’re the only one who can convince him to join our hangouts easily and make him tolerate coffee some more.”

“Not funny Ace.”

She made her decision to choose her friends, and by extension, the people of Twisted Wonderland.

They chose to stay for Grim.

The friendships they made may have changed in some ways, but they made their choice.

Like a mirror, they are the same, but not.

[remmushound]

Curse of the Clan Part 2! @scentedcandlecryptid @brightlotusmoon @digitl-art-monstr @selfindulgenz

“Yoshi...”

Splinter gasped. The voice that had just whispered in his ears was lost to him the minute he opened his beady, black eyes to find no one was there. Not his sons, not April. Just a bad dream. He had been having a lot more than usual lately— averaging three or more a week instead of his normal two. He had always been able to remember his nightmares before, but now the horrors he experienced eluded him like sand washed away by the waves of consciousness. He stretched out the length of his fat body with a squeaky yawn before he got dressed and wandered into the kitchen to indulge in the last of the Fruity Pebbles.

He scooped up his first spoonful of the colorful cereal bits and raised the utensil to his mouth, but before he could get any further than that, his noticed a passing silhouette.

“April?” Splinter let the spoonful fall back into the bowl as he lifted his head to look to the door. The figure, as fast as it had gone, was undoubted human. “Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

When April didn't respond, Splinter got up from his chair and hurried to peer around the doorway. There was no sign of the young girl in either direction.

“April…?” Splinter stared a long moment more before slowly turning to return to his bowl. The minute his back was turned, the silhouette appeared in his peripherals again, this time going in the opposite direction. Splinter spun on his feed quickly to bolt to the door, his eyes following the direction the figure had gone in with just enough time to see a red kimono disappear down the hall. He ran after it.

Whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t April. Now that he had seen it again, the figure was far too tall, and their hair far too long. The chances of a regular human wandering down into the lair and acting this peculiarly was so slim that Splinter didn't even consider it. Whatever it may be, he was certain it was yokai. And an unknown yokai wandering the halls of his home could not stand!

Another turn brought him into the main living area, and a quick search around the exit tunnels had him spot the creature again. This time, they were more clearly seen. Their red kimono was stitched with pink flowers and long, black hair fell down the length of the intruders back. She turned, just enough time for her brown eyes to meet the rat’s black ones before she disappeared around the corner of the tunnel and out of sight.

“Wait!” Splinter scrambled to catch up to her, falling to all fours to take advantage of his speed. The tunnels were like a maze and he knew that he could easily get lost in them, but he didn't care. That kimono, that hair. Those eyes— he knew those eyes! And he had to see them again!

Splinter bounced to a stop when cold stone gave way to soft grass. He gave a confused squeak as he looked to his paws and found them planted firmly on healthy green earth. Looking up again, he saw a bridge stretching out over a blue, rippling pond, and in the center of the pond was an island hardly big enough to be considered such. It was just big enough to contain two large rocks crossed over one another almost like an arch, providing shade for the single inhabitant.

Splinter looked down at his hands and moved them slowly back and forth as a curious thought occurred to him. The thought was proven true when he saw a violet ripple effect following his arms as they moved, as if through water. He wasn’t awake, he knew now, though what he didn't know was when he had gone into the meditative state to begin with. It wasn’t of his will— he hadn’t willed meditation for almost twenty years and there would have been no reason he would start today. That simple revelation explained so much to him. He slowly stood back on two legs as he made his way across the wooden bridge and onto the island.

The other soul on the island had her back turned to him, kneeled in the grass just at the line where water met earth. She was tracing her fingers through the water to watch as the impossibly clear stream rippled and held generations in its reflection. She hummed a soft tune as she stared into the cold depths, drawing her hands out only to trace them through the softness of her hair.

“Mama…” Splinter breathed softly as he finally came upon her, reaching a paw out to touch her before a barrier he couldn’t see stopped him. He gave a frustrated growl and tried to force his way through it, but it didn't work.

Atsuko stopped her song and turned to look at Yoshi, her eyes like the soft mud that followed a recent rainfall. Delicate lips parted into a smile as she raised her hand to the barrier separating her from her son, touching the same spot his paw was so they could be as close as the barrier allowed.

“Yoshi…”

“Why— why can’t I touch you?” Splinter panicked and started to try and claw through the barrier, “Why can’t I get through—?!”

Atsuko shushed him gently and kept her hand planted gently where it was. “Calm now, my Yoshi, or else you will hurt yourself. I am here. Talk to me.”

Splinter tried several minutes longer to claw his way through until he relented, collapsing to his knees in tears. His stringy, white hair fell in front of his face and, though he tried to raise a paw to brush it back, his hair just kept falling back down. He rested his head against the impossible force of the barrier and joined his hand to Atsuko’s once more.

“I’m sorry, mama…”

“No need for sorry, my Yoshi.” Her voice carried in a haunting melody, “We weren’t enough…”

Splinter looked up curiously, his nose twitching as he tried to pick up the scent of his mother, but it wasn’t there.

“We defeated Shredder— we— we were enough, mama. My sons— they—“

“I was the last guardian, Yoshi.” She hardly acknowledged Yoshi’s panicked reassurance. “And the seal grows thin. He cannot be allowed to escape.”

Splinter’s fur ruffled, his ears twitching his curiosity as he leaned forward to look his mother in the eyes. Her brown windows held the stories of a life lost, stories Splinter could see playing in the haunted memories of her eyes, but not enough to understand what they were.

“Who is he?” Splinter asked, “You went away to be a Hamato guardian but I— I never got the chance to know why. This is my chance, right? Let me help make this right!”

“You have already done so many good things, my Yoshi. To burden you with another weighs me down heavily, but such is your duty. You are the sire of the Clan and you must make sure that the sacrifice of your ancestors was not for nothing. Five decades I protected The Evil in the Mountain until my body gave out, and for a decade more the rift has been stable enough to keep him trapped. But now it is not. There must always be a Hamato there to take the task, and now there is none.”

“I don’t understand, mama… I’m sorry, I don’t understand…” Splinter shook his head, tears staining his light fur dark with no shame.

“I know.” Atsuko hung her head. “You were lost but now you are found. Your family grows ever stronger. You did good, Yoshi, but now they must do the same.”

Before Splinter could ask any more questions, Atsuko stepped away from the barrier and held out her hands, closing her eyes as she let energy flow freely through her chakras. From the glowing marks of the kunoichi came an odachi, a set of Tonfa, and a kusari-fundo.

“My sons weapons...” Splinter breathed.

“When they were lost...”

Hovering above his mothers head, Splinter saw images of the same weapons materialize almost like a cartoon, shattering and fading away one by one.

“So too was the spell…”

The mirage shifted to a seal blocking a great cave, rippling with red and blue and orange and purple until it shattered, and left only purple behind. There was a rumble from within the cave as two pink eyes made themselves seen and a tentacle reached from the darkness to grip the purple bars.

“There is still one weapon left…”

Atsuko held out her hands and gave the image of a bo staff with a metal spear point and a single sickle claw on one end.

“And it is all that holds him in his prison of ice.”

“But— but my sons! They have new mystic weapons!”

“They have no mystic weapon. They have Nimpo Weapons.”

“I— I didn’t know they were any different! Is there anything we can do to defeat this evil?” Splinter asked.

“Without the mystic blessing, the mystic seal can only hold for so long before he is released. You must find a solution before then.”

“What happens if we don’t?”

Atsuki didn't answer. She stared at Yoshi with sad, mournful eyes and shook her head. “You must stop it; only Hamato may.”

“But… why?” Splinter asked. His ears pressed flat against his head and his tail curled around one of his legs seeking comfort. “Why must it fall to us?”

“It must.” Was all Atsuko said. She seemed almost transparent now, like she was fading away. Her voice followed the same, softening trend. “It must be Hamato or all will be lost…”

[nonfilms]

2021 was unremarkable for most people but proved to be another decent year for cinema. Of course there wasn't enough time to see all we wanted or all there was, so these are just the highlights. Hope you get to check them out. 1. Memoria (d. Apitchatpong Weerasethakul

2. Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (d. Ryusuke Hamaguchi)

3. Mad God (d. Phil Tippett) 

4. About Endlessness (d. Roy Andersson)

5. The Village Detective: a song cycle (d. Bill Morrison)

6. Drive My Car (d. Ryusuke Hamaguchi)

7. Taipei Suicide Story (d. KEFF)

8. Annette (d. Leos Carax)

9. North By Current (d. Madsen Minax)

10. We're All Going to the World's Fair (d. Jane Schoenbrun)

11. A Black Rift Begins to Yawn (d. Matthew Wade)

12. All Light, Everywhere (d. Theo Anthony)

13. Licorice Pizza (d. Paul Thomas Anderson)

14. Titane (d. Julia Ducournau);

15. The Souvenir Part II (d. Joanna Hogg)

16. Athanor: The Alchemical Furnace (dirs. Jan Danhel & Adam Olha)

17. Ravaged by the Sun <American Cannibalism> (d. embryoroom)

18. I Was a Simple Man (d. Christopher Makoto Yogi)

19. Woodlands Dark And Days Bewitched: A History Of Folk Horror (d. Kier-La Janisse)

20. The Awakening of Lilith (d. Steven Adam Renkovish)

21. Barber Westchester (d. Jonni Phillips)

22. Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn (d. Radu Jude)

23. The Tragedy of Macbeth (d. Joel Coen)

24. Short Vacation (d. Han-Sol Seo, Kwon Min-pyo)

25. Benedetta (d. Paul Verhoeven)

26. The Card Counter (d. Paul Schrader)

27. Summer of Soul (d. Questlove)

28. Apples (d. Christos Nikou)

29. Ste. Anne (d. Rhayne Vermette).

 #embryoroom #iwasasimpleman #woodlands #jonniphillips #badluckbanging #macbeth #summerofsoul #apples #steanne #nonfilms

[jennifercrowart]

D&D Diary - The Yawning Rodent, 13

Refresher: Our adventurers Lugs (grung barbarian), Lurk (grung rogue), Aelia (tiefling cleric), and Valas (drow sorcerer) with tagalong Deku (ratfolk cleric) returned to the Rat's Nest from the Sunless Citadel, taking Chadley to get help as well as ferrying the subdued remaining members of the Goblin Gang. Lurk tried to steal the magic items he ordered from Boak's blacksmith while the shop was closed during the night. They also met up with Meepo, who has started helping out around the church and the Yawning Rodent tavern.

Lulu, the church priest, was able to start examining Chadley's condition. Although he looks plant-like now, it seems that he's been transformed into some kind of undead creature. He stayed at the Rat's Nest, knowing he's in no condition to go back to the citadel and save his sister McKennedeigh and remaining mercenary Bradley.

The rest of the party returned to the Sunless Citadel, leaving the Goblin Gang free to leave the Rat's Nest and head towards the next surface city if they so wish. While exploring another shrine room to the red dragon Ashardalon on their way to Belak, Shadows have attacked!

Sunless Citadel spoilers!

The party are caught by surprise as five Shadows rear out from the darkness and strike. Caught in their grasp for just a moment, Lurk feels his strength get drained by the featureless black monster, leaving him weak. The Shadows also seem resistant to most attacks, and even Aelia's fire spells don't do much, unable to penetrate the thick darkness - however, their forms can't withstand much damage, and the adventurers are able to extinguish them. Even Lugs' fire snake companion joined the fight, but after taking some hits from the Shadows, they began to retreat the way they came.

Lugs goes after his fire snake, finding them huddled in the previous room after leaving a small trail of blood. Not proficient in medicine, Lugs reckons the snake is ok, since he loses blood all the time, too, but he's fine. With a "pspspspsps", he manages to convince the snake to calm down and resume following them.

Lurk has a proper look around the shrine room, and finds a loose brick behind the statue - where the Shadows came from. Bracing himself for a trap, he pulls on the brick, but simply finds some gemstones, gold coins, and a golden circlet that resembles interweaving flames and with an inset garnet as the centrepiece. For once, he distributes the gold coins evenly.

As Deku had already had a good search through the ruined library and taken the books and enchantment recipes of interest, the party continues onwards. Lugs tears out some pages from an old book and puts it in his mouth, offering some to Deku. "Ah, I love to consume knowledge, but not really like that..."

Lugs swallows the pages with some difficulty, his face twinged with regret.

They try to start sneaking quietly, but Deku in his large and clunky armour can't help but rattle, and Lugs starts laying out paper for Deku to tread on and crunch for some reason. The next hallway is an underpass, supposedly leading beneath the last arboretum they passed through, and it continues around a corner extremely far. Ditching the stealth, Lurk runs to the end of the hallway, but no traps are set off. He finds two doors, and, after finding them free of traps as well, listens with his head pressed against the wood. He hears nothing from either one.

Lurk goes through the far door, walking into what appears to be a storeroom with crates of dead white tree branches. One of the walls has completely caved in to what appears to be a giant rift that's now become one with the Sunless Citadel, stretching for over 100 feet before a bend where it continues out of view. The floor of the rift is covered in a thick web of dead, sun-starved brambles and shrubbery.

He calls back to the rest of the party in the hallway that it's safe to come in.  However, as he walks into the storeroom, twig blights that had been camouflaged amongst the brambles tear themselves out of the ground and start rushing the adventurers! Apart from the brambles proving difficult to safely move through for Aelia and Valas - anyone larger than the two small grung and the ratfolk - the fight is an easy win, as they're used to the aggressive but frail twig blights by now.

Valas, looking down the length of the large rift, spots a humanoid figure in armour just at the bend over 100ft away. The group thinks that it could be McKennedeigh. After they start heading towards the figure, the figure appears to notice them, and begins to shamble their way through the brambles towards our heroes. Their gait is slow and stilted, like they're being controlled with puppet strings. As they get closer, they see that it's a decently muscular human in heavy armour, with short brown hair and pale skin. A second human with long blonde hair, dressed in lighter adventuring robes and with a tome in hand, comes from around the bend following his lead. There's an insignia on her robes that, even from this distance, resembles the Hucrele insignia; she must be McKennedeigh. She's an even paler shade - reminiscent of Chadley's sickly white skin from the experiments performed on him. Deku observes them as they slowly get closer, and says that, if they weren't moving, he would think they were dead, their eyes glazed over and an unnerving shade of red.

From behind them comes a third figure: a human in heavy robes, with a hood over his head. On his back is a quarterstaff, almost strapped to him reminiscent of a plant's stake. He has a cropped beard, and his skin looks like it was once sporting a golden glow and sun spots from working outside, but has since paled and dulled from being underground so long. At his hip are sample collection vials and small gardening implements. He walks more confidently and deliberately behind the two shambling humans, and points a sickle towards the party of adventurers. "Hold a moment, you know not what you do!" he booms out.

Deku is upset and angry, and accuses him of being the one who forced the Goblin Gang to work for him against their will, and experimented on Chadley. He demands that he turn McKennedeigh and Bradley back to normal.

The man - who formerly introduces himself as Belak the Outcast -  laughs and says that the two humans are beyond saving now, and that his experiments are great, actually. His previous circle of spellcasters cast him out for his ambitions and experimentations, but he says he has since found his place with the Wizards of the Coast, worshipping Ashardalon.

Behind Belak is a large tree, white and dead in appearance. Belak remarks on this, saying that although it looks dead, it's still alive and is a beautiful wonder. It's called the Gulthias tree, and it grew from a wooden stake that slayed a vampire on this very spot a long time ago. McKennedeigh, Bradley, and Chadley all resemble the tree's white bark, Chadley even more-so with the twigs, leaves, and roots growing out of him.

Aelia and Deku say that Belak will pay for what he's done. Belak, knowing that they already took care of his Goblin Gang employees, is ready. Bradley draws a shield and a longsword with an artful but spiky, jagged hilt, and McKennedeigh takes on a stance that even Lugs recognises to be that of a spellcaster readying a spell. Worried his fire snake will get hurt, Lugs motions for them to retreat back through the storeroom, which they do.

Belak calls out over his shoulder, "Kulket, come! Kill them!"

From the branches of the Gulthias tree leaps out a giant frog, landing in front of Belak to face the adventurers. Belak takes his quarterstaff off his back and uses it to cast Barkskin on himself, armouring himself with a layer of thick and rough skin. With another spell, he casts Shillelagh, and his wooden quarterstaff also starts to split outwards to become jagged and dangerous. The fight begins...

[jenovahh]

Comm 08 - Grand - NSFW

Rating: NC-17/Explicit Tags: Fem!WoL x Elidibus, Enemies to Lovers, Smut, Penis in Vagina Sex, Fingering Commission from twitter from a user who wanted to remain anonymous! ===========================================================

“It’s a bit late to be coming one’s room this late, is it not?”

Your eyes have yet to open as you hear the telltale sound of the rift yawning wide. Unbothered, you lie relaxed on your bed in the Pendants, dressed in a silk nightgown that seemed incredibly luxurious for someone as hardy as the Warrior of Light. And usually you would wear more practical sleep wear…

But he didn’t have to know that.

“Would you prefer I whisk you away before your companions in broad daylight?” The voice is masculine, the baritone of his voice rich like brandy and soothing like menthol. “If you have grown so bold…”

You hold up a hand to stop his speech, finally turning to face him on your side, not bothering to retain your modesty as the silk glides on your skin, riding up your legs. The nightgown usually reaches your calves (and it wasn’t like you didn’t have shorter ones), but even you can hear the slight hitch of your intruder’s breath.

Would that you could see the expression to go along with his gasp. Unfortunately, that insufferable, red mask is in place. Robes of white trimmed with gold shimmer in the low light of your room, clawed hands resting casually at their sides. Your eyes focus on rosy lips, watching how a pink tongue swipes over them quickly before a clawed hand reaches up to cover it as he clears his throat.

“Elidibus.” You acknowledge, choosing to not answer his question. You never liked thinking hard on what your friends would do should they find out you flirted (which, at this point was putting it lightly) with the enemy. They could never understand, you had convinced yourself in your deepest nightmares, plagued by visions of a past you could not fathom. Visions you were not sure if they were your own, or perhaps--

“I admit, I was expecting you to arrive earlier.” You sigh, moving to sit up. You can feel his eyes on you beneath that mask; feel how his gaze trails across the bared skin on your shoulders, the hair thin straps of your gown the only thing protecting your modesty. “Had you not come when you did, I would’ve closed my eyes to rest for tonight.”

“Then pray forgive my tardiness,” Elidibus breathes, extending a clawed hand. “I would make it up to you, should you still give me the chance.”

You stare at the offered hand warily, feeling an abrupt surge of hesitation roll through you. All at once does the weight of all the teasing, the sly looks and wayward glances feel like they’ve caught up with you. He could easily spirit you away, never to return, having played the long con to earn your trust and have you play right into his hands. The Warrior of Light disappearing in the middle of the night in what was supposed to be the relative safety of her room…

“Having second thoughts?”

His voice is teasing, taunting. Bait, and a knock at your pride. Your thoughts must be written on your face, your inner turmoil an open book. He knows as well as you do that he is powerful; an ancient. Magic that mortal eyes have not seen in millenia, powers that your mind could not possibly comprehend.

But he is taking the same risk, is he not?

You have struck down two of the three, unsundered Ascians, leaving only the one in white, The Emissary as the sole survivor. You've rolled it around in your mind how he could possibly bear to be here given that fact, knowing full well you have slain his brethren and could do the same to him.

"Do you think me afraid?" You huff, standing to your bare feet and closing the distance between you. Placing your hand in his, the cool metal of his claws nearly stings against your warmth. You do not flinch, giving nothing away.

"Warrior of Light? Eikon Slayer?" He scoffs, somehow knowing the adverse effect your titles have on you. "I do not offer fear. Merely...understanding."

You nod, running your fingers along his leathery gloves, tracing nonsensical patterns. You gaze at him from beneath your lashes, feeling how he tenses. "What shall we be understanding tonight then?"

Even beneath his cowl you can see his throat bob as he swallows. Being able to have him on edge in this way is far more of a power trip than dangling white auracite in his face could ever be. "You and yours seem to think us some unfeeling harbingers of doom," he starts, finally encircling your hand with his own. His claws bite into your skin just enough to be painful, but not enough to draw blood. "I thought I might follow in Emet-Selch's example, and show you what you fight against."

Before you can ask any further the void opens wide, and so do your eyes as your stare back into its inky depths. He gives you no warning and pulls you forward, your instinct making you dig your feet into the tile of your room, but his grip is too strong and you are pulled inside. Strangely, the darkness feels like a caress, its magic whispering across your skin like how the smoke of burning incense crawls along the floor. It feels like an eternity until you are pulled through to the city of Amaurot, still as pristine as Emet-Selch had left it. A chill washes over you, your body releasing a light shudder that does not escape your...companion's notice.

"Would you like a cloak, perhaps?" He offers, his hands already weaving dark fabric into existence. You stare at it warily, pouting as you do.

"Had I known where you would take me for our outing, I would've dressed more appropriately," you snark, taking the cloak from him. The material is softer than silk, so thin that it almost feels like water in your hands. With a smirk, you give him a sly look. "Would you assist me in putting it on?"

"Are you shards so incapable of the simplest of tasks?" He questions, and you swear you can hear an upraised eyebrow. Clearly you needed to be a little more...forward.

"Hardly." You snort, moving to put it on yourself but just as you move it lifts from your hand and drapes itself around you. Despite how sheer it is the warmth it provides feels akin to the pelt of a mammoth. "Thank you." You murmur shyly, pulling it closer to yourself.

Tucking his hands behind his back, Elidibus begins to walk. "This way, Warrior of Light." It is only due to your many encounters with him that you can hear the resentment which taints your title. "I doubt Emet-Selch spared the time to explain the structure of the true world."

"He did not explain much at all," You murmur softly, giving him a weak glare. Despite yourself, you follow behind him, gazing up at the tall towers that somehow reach further below past your sight.

As the two of you walk, he explains multiple functions of buildings, drawing you further into his world. Even though the recreation was of Emet-Selch's making, leaving it subject to misremembrance, it was so accurate that even Elidibus could traverse it easily. Listening unlocked a deep sorrow within you, a hole you could not quite place.

"Where did you frequent," you ask, cutting him off mid-explanation, "in your spare time?"

He pauses to look at you, studying you from behind the safety of his mask. "What makes you think I had such time available?"

"From our encounters I have gleaned you are a man devoted to duty," Almost bordering on obsession, you add mentally, "But I would be a fool to think that in a world where you were nigh immortal, that you didn't have something as mundane as a hobby."

He allows himself a brief chuckle at that, his hand raising slowly. "You are more perceptive than most," he compliments, dark magic swirling around you, transporting you once more. As it fades you find yourself in a grandiose auditorium, curtains made of the finest velvet lining its walls, seats trimmed with gold. You spin in small circles as you take in its splendor, in how elegant it looks. It is a wonder how it manages to flaunt such wealth yet does not look gaudy or tacky in any way.

"Before I had assumed the mantle of Emissary," Elidibus begins, causing you to face him. His voice carries through the space easily, his dulcet tones practically surrounding you. "I would oft hold concerts."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. "You were a musician?"

"Am, Warrior." he tuts, waggling a finger. Just as he finishes the motion with a wave of his hand does he create a grand piano from thin air. Its glossy wood shines in the stage lighting, the black lacquer so polished you'd think you were looking in some twisted mirror. "Are you familiar with the arts?"

Biting your lip, you circle the piano, wishing to touch it but afraid of getting even one smudge on its surface. "I do not have time for such things," you admit, well aware of the irony.

He's aware of it too, an infuriating smirk gracing his pouty lips. "Then allow me this lesson," he makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm as a piano bench weaves itself into existence, taking a seat with all the poise of a professional. "Let us see what untapped talent lies within you."

Feeling too much like you've lost the high ground, as you move to sit you take care to allow the robe to part, reminding him of what lies beneath. You cross one leg over the other, the silk riding up your thigh and you can hear a claw scrape against an ivory key. "By all means," you purr, daring to even scoot closer to him, leaving barely an ilm from his shoulder to yours.

"There seven notes, and therefore one key for each note, and they are the white ones," he explains. "They repeat themselves, from A, to G."

You lose yourself in his lesson, watching with mild fascination at his careful instruction. If he had other plans by bringing you here, he has surely lost them for he is so caught up in teaching you properly. You find yourself wishing you could see the skin of his hands beneath those gloves, and you catch your eyes drifting to the movement of his lips more often than they should. Unfortunately, it seems that your advances thus far have gone undetected, so you decide to turn on the charm.

Closing that small gap between you, you gaze at him from beneath your lashes, lips parted in a pout. "Would you play something for me?"

If your question is not enough to stop his lecture, the warmth of your body against his own is. His hood casts just enough of a shadow that you cannot see his eyes still, but you can feel the deep intake of breath. "I have nothing to play that you could possibly recall." He defends, tongue darting out to swipe at his lips.

"Does one attend a concert solely to hear things they have heard before?" you counter easily, going as far as to lay your hand atop his own that still rests on the keys. "Show me this skill you claimed to have."

However, Elidibus is not as prideful as Emet-Selch or even Lahabrea, and your barb bounces off. "I have nothing to prove to you, Warrior." His voice is firm, but non-threatening.

"Then why did you bring me here?" you question, pressing even closer to him. Your cloak has slipped from your shoulders, revealing your supple skin to glow under the stage lights. "We are enemies before we are companions. What brought you to the Warrior of Light's rooms to steal her away,"

Before you can finish the sentence he's pressed his lips to yours as best he can with his damned mask in the way. It takes you by surprise, but his sudden confidence gives way to hesitation, and you easily take control of the kiss. "Zodiark help me," he breathes, even though between the two of you, you're the only one who needs the air.

You reach to try and peel back his hood but his hands are like stone as they catch your wrists in their grip, the points of his claws pricking your skin. "That is an intimacy you've not yet earned." Despite the underlying threat in his voice, you can hear the hunger, the unabashed desire suffusing his words.

"How does one go about it then?" You rasp, pressing your chest against him. "How might I see the man beneath the mask?"

"I am no man," he rumbles, guiding your arms to link around his shoulders. "But I am not immune to...worldly pleasures. Even if it has been some time."

"It sounds like you've devoted yourself to duty too much," You comment, instead choosing to place kisses along his jawline, feeling how smooth his skin is. "Perhaps I may provide a distraction?"

"A distraction," he echoes, his hands trailing down your sides, feeling the curvature your nightgown refused to hide. "Very well."

Hands at your hips, he urges you to leave your spot on the piano bench to straddle his lap, the skirt of your gown riding even higher. His hands are gentle, but greedy, a shuddering sigh passing his lips as he gives the meat of your thighs a testing squeeze. "Has it been long for you?" you ask out of curiosity.

He huffs a bitter laugh. "Even in days of eld have I ever focused on my duty." Through with words, he brings your lips down to his own, slightly hesitant until past experience catches up with him, as if relearning how to nock a bow. He tastes divine, all dark, forbidden magic, cool under the heat of the lamps in the rafters. He wrenches control of the kiss suddenly, nipping at your lip, coaxing your tongue to twine with his as his hands push your gown up higher.

While most would fear his claws, the feel of them dragging up your skin only serves to make you quiver under his touch. Your hips roll against him, both from your own need driving your actions and to regain the upper hand. You succeed in pulling a gasp from his throat as his hands grip painfully tight, hard enough to elicit a whimper of pain that has the claws vanishing before you can speak against it.

“I liked those,” you comment, allowing him to tilt your head back to taste the skin on your neck, his tongue a mix of ice and fire as he licks a slow line along your collarbones. Unsure what to do with your hands, you give a desperate tug to his robes. “This is rather one-sided, don’t you think?” You give another roll of your hips, feeling the imprint of his length between your thighs.

“The privilege,”

“Is not yet earned, yes, I too, have ears,” you sass, grinding down harder, moaning as you feel just how rigid he is, feel how hot and hard he is beneath his robes. “I have bared my soul to you, Elidibus. There are a precious few who have known me this way.” With cautious fingers, your play with the hem of his hood. “Just for tonight.” You whisper, slowly pushing it back.

He lets you, lets the hood rest against his back to reveal long hair that you aren’t quite sure if it purple or silver or perhaps even both. You waste no time taking the strands between your fingers, feeling their softness, their silkyness, this move somehow igniting your passion even more as you press into him for a deep kiss. He groans deeply into your mouth, his hands in a rush to divest you of your robe. You won’t move your hands from his hair in favor of him pulling the gown off, so he simply turns it to mist, baring your nude body to his hungry eyes.

As his mouth trails lower, so do your hands, surprised to see his robes melt away with each thread you touch. Ilm by ilm, milky, unmarred skin is bared to your curious eyes, finding him lean and fit beneath his clothing. His skin is smooth, inhumanly perfect, silken to the touch as you run your hands across his torso as if you had never felt up a man in your life. Just as his mouth reaches a breast, your fingers graze across his pants, the threads evaporating and revealing his length, your hands immediately seeking out the prize you sought.

He seems to be painfully hard in your hand, a small glance between the two of you shows that the head of him is red to the point of nearly being purple, and you tut to yourself. “This won’t do,” lowering your hips, you slick him with your wetness, his arms clutching you to him as he gives a full body shudder.

“By Zodiark,” he rasps, totally breathless. You hum, pleased, glad he doesn’t notice how much your own sex quivers with how much you need him.

“Your piano playing is very well its own brand of foreplay,” you admit, gliding yourself along his length. There’s no way he wouldn’t slip on in, but still you raise yourself just enough to slip a finger inside, pausing your grinding.

“Have you always talked so much,” He growls, pressing a finger of his own inside you, making it your turn to gasp. His finger is longer, thicker, just the right amount to spread you for him in what must be his haste to get inside you.

“You don’t talk enough,” You laugh, arching your back as your walls flutter around his finger. You give him control, allowing him to slip a second finger inside. “Twelve above,”

“Silence,” he grunts, curling his fingers just so inside you. He give you little time to catch your breath as your toes curl from the sheer pleasure, leaning you back against the ivory keys, uncaring of the dissonance that rings throughout the auditorium. With hurried, yet careful movements, he lifts you high enough to sit atop them, placing himself between your thighs. There are no words as he guides himself into your wet heat, the groan torn from his throat nearly enough to send you over the edge.

“Elidibus,” you gasp, back arching off the glossy wood. Your arms clutch him by the shoulders, looping around to bring him down for a needy kiss as he slowly begins to stroke, pumping harder and harder until he loses himself in chasing his end. Your lewd sounds echo in the auditorium, your gasps and sighs making a lovely duet next to his grunts and groans. You take in everything; the way his lips are parted, how fiercely he grips your hips to bring you down on his cock.

His mask.

Reaching up, your finger tips brush his mask just barely before a hand grabs your wrist in a death grip, his lips pulled into a frown. “Don’t,” There is almost a desperation to his voice, a plea.

“Elidibus,” you whimper, reaching up with your other hand, lifting the mask ever so slowly. “Let me see you.”

He doesn’t stop you, the mask scattering into the air like petals, revealing the sharp features that most Ascians seemed to share. His eyes are similar to his hair, silvery and purple and so godsdamned beautiful that an inner part of you weeps. “Elidibus,” you choke out, pressing close to press your lips to his, moaning into his mouth at his renewed vigor. “Oh gods,”

He presses you down against the piano, eyes focused on your face as you come apart. He doesn’t stop his assault, his eyebrows furrowing as he comes near his end. He begins to lean forward, but you stop him, cradling his face in your hands so that you may watch him fall apart. Rapture overtakes him, your title a broken cry on his perfect lips, the feel of him coming deep inside paling in comparison to seeing his face as he is dragged under by the waves of ecstasy.

It is quiet in the afterglow, your hands caressing his face, allowing him to finally rest his head on your shoulder. Your fingers, light as a feather trail up and down his back, your lips press soft kisses to his skin. “Well?”

He is silent still, almost uncharacteristically so. You wait however, giving him all the time he needs. “It has...been some time.” He admits, caressing your hips just as tenderly.

“A good distraction then?” You ask, nuzzling your head into his neck.

He nods, choosing not to speak still. You do not mind it, deciding to not let words cloud this moment, especially when you know that when it is all said and done, only one of you may live.

[strangerfictions]

Soft Hair and Shooting Stars

Prompts: Found these on pinterest

“Your hair is so soft”

“Shooting star, make a wish”

Summary: You and Robin have been best friends for years but you have started to grow feelings for her. Your feelings tart to cause problems between you both and Robin begins to question it.

Words: 1431

A/N: So, I was browsing my prompts folder on pinterest and found these two and I really loved them, so I decided to use them for a robin fluff piece. Listen to the song I wanna be your girlfriend by girl in red it fits really well! Hope you all enjoy this !

You and Robin had been best friends for as long as you remember. You moved next door when you were about 7 and you can still remember going next door with your mom to introduce yourselves as if it happened yesterday.

You were a year older than Robin, so you were always trying to guide her in the right direction. You were the first to join band and then she followed suit. You spent every waking minute with each other, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Robin had invited you to a party, but you told her you couldn’t go because you had a lot of college work to do but you knew that wasn’t the truth. Recently you had started to feel different towards Robin. You wanted her to be more than your best friends. You had always believed in sole mates and you truly believed she was yours. When you told Robin, you couldn’t go she knew you were lying. You hoped she wasn’t mad, but you knew she had every right to be if she was. Robin had come out to you a few years ago on a band trip but at the point you hadn’t really thought about your own sexuality. To this day you still aren’t really sure on what you identified as but you knew one thing and that was that you were falling for Robin at a rapid pace.

At about 6pm you were sitting at your desk working on an essay when you hear Steve’s BMW pull up outside Robins house and honk it’s horn. You hear Robins front door slam shut before you see her run towards Steve’s car. Before getting in she looks up at you and waves. You smile to yourself and wave back at her but all you can think about is how hot she looks in her tight black jeans and colourful shirt. You try and push all of these thoughts out of your head as you start to write up your essay due Monday.

At some point through writing your English essay you fell asleep. You head rest in your folded arms that were resting on your desk. A breeze falling over you was what woke you up, but Robins “Shit” really woke you up as she fell in your bedroom window.

“Sorry Y/N” She whispers dragging out your name. You knew she was very drunk and how she even managed to get into your bedroom without a broken bone was a surprise.

“What are you doing here” You yawn and stretch as Robin throws herself onto your bean bag next to the radiator.

“Well since you bailed on me, I thought I would bring the party to you!” Robin puts her hand into her denim jacket pocket and pulls out two hip flasks. One you recognised as yours which you had left over at her house a few months ago.

“Oh, I don’t know Robin. I’m pretty tired and I have a busy day tomorrow and plus I really think you’ve had enough” You laugh uncomfortable at the thought of spending time with Robin. You really couldn’t fall for her anymore and spending more time with her would just cause you to further fall for her.

“Ughh god you’re so boring sometimes. I haven’t hung out with you in ages. Every time I ask for the two of us to hang out you blow me off. Have I done something to you Y/N because if I have I you should tell me! If not, I’m leaving” Robin gets up to leave but you get up and stand up in front of your bedroom window stopping her from leaving. You knew you had to tell her even if it caused a rift in your friendship

“Please I’m sorry” You whisper trying not to cry but a tear falls down your cheek at the thought of what is to come.

“Y/N…why are you crying” Robin reaches up and wipes away the tear and rests her hand on your cheek.

“Robin please I just need you to listen and if you don’t like what you hear then you can leave” You whisper as the tears continue to fall down you face. Robin nodes moving her hand and goes to sit on your desk. You walk towards her and stand a few inches away from her looking into her eyes. You take in every inch of her in case this is the last time you get to see her this close to you.

“I’ve been avoiding you on purpose for a reason. I really didn’t mean for this to happen…I really didn’t expect it to happen Robin. I thought I could get over it but each time I see you it gets stronger. I am falling in love with you Robin and every day I see you it gets harder and harder to be around you” You pick at the skin around you nails as you tell her but once you finish speaking Robin grabs your hands to get you to look at her.

“Really? That’s what this has been over? I thought you were mad at me because of what I said to you about liking Steve! Guess I was very wrong…” Robin laughs pulling you closer to you, so your face is inches away from hers.

“About time you told me though because now I can do this” Robin leans in gently letting her lips touch yours. Her lips connect with yours and you can feel a warmth build in your stomach as if this is what you had been waiting for all your life. Robin and you continue to kiss gently, lips barely touching. Robin begins to pull away, but you place your hand at the back of her neck and you passionately kiss her taking her by surprise. She deepens the kiss by biting your bottom lip. You open your mouth at her invitation and your tongues dance around each other’s mouth as you kiss each other. Robins hand grabs the back of your thigh pulling you as close as you possible can be to her. She then warps her legs around you as you continue to make out. You eventually pull away both of you begin to laugh at how stupid everything has been.

“Come with me!” Robin hops off your desk and grabs a blanket and pulls you out of your bedroom window and onto the roof. You had always loved the stars and Robin knew this.

“Our first date” She says smiling at you as she sits down on the blanket pulling you down to sit beside her.

You really didn’t know how this had happened so quick, but you were glad she took it well. Better than well.

“What are you thinking about Y/N”

“How quickly this is all happening. Don’t get me wrong I’m so glad you took it well, but I didn’t expect you to” You lay back to look up at the stars Robin doing the same. Her head resting on top of yours as you speak to her.

“I mean we can slow down if you want. I just went with how I was feeling and maybe I can blame a little bit of the confidence on the drink, but I’ve liked you for so long that I just…”

“Shut up loser” You laugh at her rambling

“Sorry” You both stare up at the sky pointing out different constellations and laughing about getting the pronunciation wrong.

“Shooting star, make a wish Robin” You whisper turning towards Robin as she glances over at you. She closes her eyes and makes a wish.

“A good one?”

“A really good one” She smiles at you

“Iwannabeyourgirlfriend Y/N” She says it so quickly you don’t even catch it at first but then you eventually realise what she has said

“Well it’s not going to happen if you don’t ask me you dingus” You laugh taking her hand in yours

“Okay fine be my girlfriend!” You don’t answer but instead you kiss her. Her hair tickling your face as you both lean into the kiss.

“I take that as a yes then”

“Yes, it’s a yes” Robin peppers kisses all over your face making you giggle as you fall into her lap trying to stop her.

“Want to know what I wished for” Robin asks as her hands run through your hair

“No not unless it happ…”

“It was for you to be my girlfriend” she chuckles. You sit up and grab her face and kiss her.

“Your such a loser sometimes Robin Buckley”

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

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Fic: 30 Seconds Later (chapter 19)

Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Chapter 5 – Chapter 6 – Chapter 7 – Chapter 8 – Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19

Length: ~7000 words

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/13715520/chapters/50933677

Strange.

Strange and pleasant and warm.

Opening his eyes seemed unnecessary. The novel state of comfortable half-sleep beckoned him to stay. Forever, perhaps. Forever would be nice.

It took an undeterminable but lovely amount of time to remember why it felt so strange.

Recollection brought with it a much more familiar surge of panic, causing him to a bolt upright, pain shooting through his abdomen and chest, eyes wide and hands immediately fumbling for his glasses.

Slamming his eyewear in place with more force than was strictly warranted, it still took a moment for Stanford’s mind to spiral its way to the conclusion that there was no need to panic. He forced himself to breathe, a fist tight against his chest, slowly relaxing his shoulders. He was awake and no harm was done. He was in the ground floor study, inside the barrier that blocked Bill from his mind, and he was—he knew this—he was safe here. That’s why he’d been asleep.

The portal was broken, the rift was sealed in a container and locked up, and the journals were right under the couch where he’d put them previously. He should still do more, but nothing had happened to them yet, as far as he could tell. He leaned forward, arms on his knees, and closed his eyes for a moment. It was fine.

He was alone in the room now, but he hadn’t been so all night. The mattresses and crumpled blankets on the floor – not to mention the game books – was proof enough that last night had been real.

Ford ran a hand through his hair and took deep breath that turned into a yawn, ending with a quiet incredulous chuckle. He couldn’t believe he’d played DDD.

He couldn’t believe he’d played DDD, and slept, and he felt—he felt alright. His wounds ached and his heart was beating too fast in his chest, but the colors around him seemed brighter – reds, browns, purples, not just yellows – than they had been in weeks. There was daylight illuminating the window from the outside. It was another warm summer day, when it should have been freezing winter. Bill wanted to destroy the world, but Ford wasn’t going to let him, and for once the determination seemed like something more than a desperate last stand.

He wasn’t doing this alone.

The emotions attached to that thought threatened to overwhelm him.

He had Stanley back. He had something that resembled a family. Together they’d done things he never would would have managed alone, and then they’d played DDD. It seemed incredible, fragile, unreal.

He had Stanley back, and all it took was a one-way trip thirty years into the future. Now he had a twin brother twice his own age, his elder brother’s grandchildren, and no identity of his own.

Something twisted in his guts. He should have done things differently. Should have tried to explain better to Stanley when he arrived, should have reached out sooner, should have listened to Fiddleford, should have seen the warnings signs, should have never summoned Bill to begin with—the list of mistakes could go on forever if he allowed it to. He should have been a better brother. He should have been a better scientist. He should have been a better son, a better friend, a better person. It was too late for so many things, now.

And yet, here he was.

Rubbing his arms against the sudden chill, Ford looked down at his dirty, worn dresspants and rags of a shirt. He should probably change. Possibly also shower and redress the wounds if he could stomach it—no, whether he could stomach it or not.

As well as other things that needed to be done.

Wrapping himself up in the coat, he made himself slip out of the protection of the barrier and face a new day.

 Stanley served him pancakes for the third day in a row, as if this was now a normal occurrence. Dipper and Mabel chatted about last night’s game. All three of them had already eaten earlier, but apparently they wanted to ‘keep him company’, which was probably just another way of saying to keep an eye on him – but if so, it was fully warranted and not completely unwelcome.

“So, did you sleep well?” Stanley asked from the stove soon after getting Ford to sit down at the table. “Didn’t hear ya wake up any, not even when me and the kids got up.”

Ford frowned at the implications, and the grammar. “I didn’t even hear you.” That was troubling, especially after the alien tranquilizers yesterday. If anything had happened, he might not have noticed in time. “I suppose I slept too well.”

Stanley laughed. “No such thing for you, Sixer. You needed it. I’m just glad you’re getting your head back on your shoulders.”

“It’s always been on my shoulders!” Ford bristled. “Well, technically, between them.”

Stanley laughed more.

Oh. “But that’s just a saying and now you’re messing with me.”

“Just happy you’re here, genius.”

Ford didn’t know what to say about that. Stanley’s smile was reminiscent of a better time, but set on a too-old face, and Ford had been gone for thirty years. An absolutely preposterous amount of time for his brother to spend trying to get him back, but little more than a nap for an immortal being like Bill. He bit his lip and tried not to think about the blue light of the portal, the rage on Stanley’s face turning to horror and the taste of his own panic as he drifted away. If they hadn’t fought—if things had gone differently—

Mabel broke the uncomfortable silence. “I slept well too! And Dipper didn’t have any nightmares!”

Dipper smacked her arm. “Thanks, Mabel, that’s exactly what everyone was asking about.” He looked up at Ford. “I did sleep well, though. I dreamt about DDD! Last night was amazing!”

Ford found himself smiling at that. “It was a good game.”

“We have to do it again sometime!”

“Yes, we—” Ford hesitated. The idea of playing regularly implied a level of permanence he couldn’t take for granted, but neither could he deny that he wanted to. “—we should.”

“What’s the matter?” Dipper sounded wary, perhaps taking Ford’s hesitation the wrong way.

“I need coffee,” Ford realized. There was no coffee on the table, and although it might be more of an addiction than a necessity today, he still craved it. He resolutely got up to make some.

Stanley tried to wave him down even as he was flopping pancakes around with a spatula. “Ah, I’ll get to that when I’m done with—”

“I can make coffee!” Dipper chimed in.

Ford turned around. “Don’t,” he said, making a horizontal gesture with both hands. “I’m quite capable of making my own coffee, thank you.” He wasn’t even the slightest bit dizzy at the moment, so any coddling was utterly unnecessary.

This was his own kitchen, even. It wasn’t as if Stanley had rebuilt or remodeled this part of the house. The coffeemaker on the counter wasn’t his own, but it was a similar model, just as easy to work. He filled it up and started to brew, then opened the cupboard above for a mug.

He narrowed his eyes at the plates. Just because the mugs weren’t in the exact cupboard he expected them to be didn’t mean he couldn’t find them. As it turned out, they were in the next cupboard. And just because the mugs were all unfamiliar to him didn’t mean—

Wait. Struck by an urge to examine the matter scientifically, Ford started taking down all the mugs from the cupboard one by one. Eleven, all in all. Most of them must indeed be Stanley’s, but some were so old and worn that it was difficult to tell. Only one was unmistakable. It was chipped and discolored, but wore a faded print that said “It’s all fun and games until someone divides by zero.”

Ford took a deep breath, more relieved than he’d expected to be. He remembered buying this during a visit to the east coast, three years ago. Thirty-three years ago. It still existed, but like Stanley, it was old now. Older than himself. He’d bought it before he’d met Bill, at a time when he’d just started to become frustrated with his own inability to produce a unified theory of weirdness, and the printed words had spoken to him. A simpler, more naïve time, but the sentiment written on the mug still seemed apt.

“Earth to Stanford.”

Ford spun around, bumped his wounded side into the counter and bit down a grunt of pain, still clutching the old mug in his hands. Stanley was by the table, having filled Ford’s plate with pancakes, looking at Ford with a concerned frown. “You okay?”

“Are you cleaning the cupboards?” Dipper asked, confusion clear in his voice.

“Are you making a mess?” was Mabel’s follow-up question, a bit more enthusiastically.

“No, I—Yes, I’m okay.” He glanced at the ten mugs on the counter. “I wasn’t trying to do either of those things, but I suppose I got lost in thought.” He turned back around and filled his old mug with black coffee, sipping at it while putting the rest of the mugs back in the cupboard.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley mumbled as Ford took his seat again and started pouring some syrup on the pancakes.

“I know.” Ford couldn’t think of anything else to say. He wasn’t sure what exactly Stanley was apologizing for – for taking thirty years? For replacing or wearing down his coffee mugs? For having stepped into the spot Ford left behind and lived a life? Ford got all that. He wasn’t angry, not the way he’d wanted to be a couple of days ago. It was just—it was a lot. Too much. “It’s fine,” he said.

Pressing the hot mug against a stinging part of his chest, the pain grounded him. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter. As long as Bill was stopped, the rest was unimportant details.

 The first order of business after breakfast – technically brunch – was a shower.

That shouldn’t be a problem, and he’d assured Stanley as much. Going to great lengths to avoid looking at the cuts Bill had inflicted on him was irrational, as they’d be there whether he looked or not. Additionally, they did need to be kept clean, and he could only hope he wouldn’t suffer too badly from not having tended to them earlier. He certainly wasn’t going to let Stanley do it again – he did have a modicum of dignity when not thoroughly sedated by alien drugs.

Still. As much as he felt better, as much as the dizziness and tunnel-vision had faded with the sleep deprivation, his heart was beating like a drum in his ears when he met his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. They were perfectly human eyes, still a bit red, still ringed with dark sacks, but no yellow anywhere. Knowing that didn’t douse the adrenalin spike.

Irrational or not, he took a towel from the shelf and covered up the mirror before undressing. At least he wouldn’t have to look at the full-frontal view of the damage. Beyond that, he simply had to handle it.

The triangles were uncovered in stages as he unwrapped the bandages. Triangles upon triangles. Angry red lines.

There were so many of them. They moved as his stomach heaved, and suddenly he was retching.

He was in control. Bill couldn’t do anything to him, not right now. He knew that, and yet just looking at his own body somehow made the conviction slip through his fingers. It didn’t matter how much he tried to detach himself; his body was still there, still him, still Bill’s.

He threw up. He’d eaten too much anyway, filled himself too comfortably, as if he could afford to be comfortable. He stood, gripping the sides of the bathroom sink tight enough that his hands hurt, squeezing his watering eyes shut, but it was too late to keep Bill’s laughter out. It wouldn’t stop. He knew it too well.

“Did you really think you could stop me from doing whatever I want?”

No.

“You agreed to the deal, so deal with it! From now til the end of time, pal!”

No!

“It’ll be fun to watch you try! Cute, even!”

Stop it!

Ford forced himself to open his eyes again, facing his own skin. The large triangle right over his solar plexus met his gaze with a red-lined eye, not a mere symbol, but Bill himself somehow grinning up at him without a mouth.

In fact, Bill probably was here. The bathroom wasn’t shielded. Bill could be watching Ford’s reaction right now, from inside his own mind, from the triangles etched on his body, and there was nothing Ford could do about it, no way to stop it.

He’d done this to himself.

Swallowing bile again, Ford looked away. There were dark stains on the ceiling. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, and he might possibly not be breathing.

This was nothing but trivial physical damage. No different from a fork stabbed into his thigh or a sandpaper scrubbed across his forearm. It didn’t mean anything.

It meant Bill owned him. It meant that he’d once voluntarily made a deal, and now he was a triangle’s plaything for the rest of his life. It meant—

“Well, I don’t care! It’s bullshit!”

Stanley’s words from yesterday cut through the moment, and suddenly Ford found air. He gasped, shoulders sagging, and somehow he found himself sitting on the edge of the tub, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re bullshit, Bill,” he breathed.

He’d slept without fear. Bill could no longer take him whenever he wanted to. Unless he massively slipped up, he might never have to be possessed again. Wasn’t that enough to not be owned? Maybe it wasn’t, not in the face of his own body’s evidence to the contrary, but it was enough for him to clench his jaws and get himself cleaned up.

It hurt, but it might as well. Pain meant he was alive and awake, and as such it was a good sign.

At least the wound from the alien tranquilizer gun seemed to be healing fine, and so was the one around his wrist from the handcuff. None on the older marks and bruises were a problem, either.  And indeed, most of the triangles had scabbed over, too. It wasn’t that bad.

Still, despite Stanley’s efforts yesterday, a number of them were still tender and hot to the touch, and a couple of the triangles were shifting yellow with pus. The latter made Ford taste bile in his throat again, but it was bullshit. Just a few cuts that hadn’t been properly tended from the beginning. They were shallow. The infection was shallow, too.

All he had to do was have a proper shower, and then hopefully the inflammation could be controlled with what antibacterial ointments Stanley had available. Seeing a physician was simply not an option.

 At least he had his own clothes. The fact that he did – that Stanley had preserved them for thirty years and had them washed and ready for use when Ford returned – seemed a minor miracle. A clean white shirt and a gray sweaterwest to hide away the new bandages improved his mood immensely. The marks were there, but he didn’t have to dwell on them.

As he put on the coat again – unlike the shirt and sweaterwest he’d worn yesterday, the coat was merely a bit frayed, not ruined – his hand reflexively went for the upper left inner pocket. It was empty, of course, not that it should matter.

Taking a deep breath, he emerged from the bathroom, glancing towards the locked door to the study. Surely if there had been a burglary, someone would have noticed. Surely the rift was still in there.

“Looking good!” Mabel said, startling Ford to pay attention to the two kids that had apparently been sitting on the floor right outside the bathroom, playing with some folded paper. “Wet hair makes less fluff, so you look even more like grunkle Stan!”

“Fluff?” Had they been waiting for him?

“I wonder if we could make grunkle Stan wear a coat like that?” Mabel continued, turning to Dipper. “We could make them pose like before-and-after pictures! Or if uncle Ford wore a suit, they could make a whole de-aging trick for the Mystery Shack!”

Dipper laughed, but cut it off when he met Ford’s narrowed eyes.

“I’m not going to do tricks for the Mystery Shack,” Ford said flatly. He was still trying to swallow the existence of the Mystery Shack. Turning himself into a freak show was the last thing he wanted.

“You don’t have to,” Mabel said breezily. “But it would still be fun to dress you and Stan up the same and confuse people. I bet Stan could rig it up with a smoke bomb!”

“Mabel and I do that sometimes,” Dipper added. “Not with smokebombs, but with confusing people. It’s fun!”

That, on the other hand, he could relate to. Ford sighed and leaned his back against the wall, a fond smile finding its way to his face despite some irritation. “That is one of the perks of having a twin,” he admitted.

“Did you and grunkle Stan switch a lot when you were kids?”

“When we could get away with it. Our mother always knew.”

Dipper nodded. “Yeah, moms have a superpower like that.”

“Moms can see right through you,” Mabel said, wriggling her fingers as if casting a spell.

“Well, anyone who remembered to look at our hands would figure it out, unless we could hide them.” Ford held out a six-fingered hand. “Still, it worked surprisingly often.” A wave of nostalgia was hitting him like hot air to the face, tinged with lingering resentment and overpowering regret. “Where’s Stanley?” he asked.

“He’s in his office with Soos,” Dipper replied.

Ford grimaced. “His office.” That was less than helpful. Ford had had several places to work and write in the house, but no room designated an ‘office’ as such. “And where’s that?”

“Oh. Um…”

“It’s the little room next to the museum,” Mabel supplied, which wasn’t actually helpful either. This house had changed so much, and Ford didn’t truly want to know what Stanley had done to it during all those years. The tourist trap of fake anomalies was... Well, if he were to express how much it hurt he would have to start yelling at Stanley again, and he didn’t want to do that. He got it, intellectually, and objectively it was a far more harmless activity than Ford’s had been.

“We’ll show you,” Dipper decided, to Ford’s relief. His discomfort might have been written on his face, but neither of the kids said anything about it, though Mabel took his hand and squeezed it as they led him off to the back of the house. The goal turned out to be the small guest bedroom next to the hall where Ford had collected his specimen.

Well. It was clearly an office, now. Decorated with Stanley’s weird mix of real and fake anomalies, as well as books, documents haphazardly thrown into boxes, and Ford’s magic photocopier, though the latter had obviously seen better days. Stanley and Soos looked up from a pile of documents on the desk as Ford and the kids entered.

“Ford?” Stanley said. “You okay?” As if the only reason he’d be here was that if he was having a problem.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Ford crossed his arms on top of the layers that covered the bandages. “Can I ask you a question? You seem to be busy.”

“Bah.” Stanley straightened up and pushed a piece of paper aside. It looked like some kind of invoice. “It’s just economy. Soos can handle it.” He turned to the younger man, adding, “You can, right? Just fake my signature if you need to.”

“Yes sir, Mr Pines!”

“So,” Stanley said as Ford tried not to stare. His brother’s mixture of carelessness, crookedness and utter trust was difficult to believe, especially the last part. Stanley nudged him back out to the big hall, leaving both Soos and the young twins behind. “Hit me with it.”

“What exactly—” Ford lowered his voice. “What exactly is this Soos person to you?”

His old twin grinned. “That’s your question?”

“Do I only get one, then?”

Stanley shrugged. “You get as many as you like.” He glanced around them. “Just don’t ask about the Sascrotch.”

Ford’s face hardened. He’d already glimpsed that particular fake pun-based abomination, but he refused to acknowledge it.

“Nevermind.” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just trying to—sorry. Anyway, Soos. He’s my handyman. Works at the Mystery Shack, keeps things together.”

That was not the whole story. “And what else?”

“Geesh.” Stanley grimaced. “Why would there be anything else?” They were moving back to the main part of the house, now.

“Is he or is he not a part of your family?” Why did it have to be so ambivalent?

“He is! Well. I mean.” Stanley fell silent. Ford waited.

“He’s been my handyman since he was twelve. His dad ditched him and I guess he kinda imprinted on me or something. Does that answer your question?”

Ford nodded slowly, filing the information away. “I suppose it does. More or less. And you trust him?”

“Of course I do.”

That didn’t solve the matter entirely, but it eased some of the worries. An explanation, a map of the immediate social environment, and some reason not to suspect the young man’s loyalties.

“But that wasn’t what you wanted to talk about,” Stanley added.

“No. It’s a minor thing, but I was going to ask what happened to the coat I was wearing—” —when I fell through the portal— “—three days ago.”

“I threw it in the wash. It’s in the dryer right now – you need it?”

Damn. Ford’s stomach sank. “You didn’t think to empty the pockets, did you?”

Stanley’s eyes widened, but then he smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

That was a relief, but suddenly Ford found himself tongue-tied regarding the actual item he was after. Stan’s smile already told him that he knew exactly what it was about, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t already admitted to missing Stanley. But he hardly had any good excuse to care about a childhood memento in his pocket when the fate of the world was at stake. He should just drop the matter, before he had to—

“And yeah,” Stanley added, interrupting Ford’s thoughts. “It’s in my bedroom. Come on.”

Stanley’s bedroom looked different now that Ford was fully awake and actually looking. Of course, it looked even more different from Ford’s own bedroom, the one that was now – thirty years ago – piled up with junk and unused for months. Some of the furniture was the same, though worn and rearranged, but most had never been Ford’s at all, and the mess had a very different flavor to it.

The photograph sat on a cluttered drawer, next to the pieces of a plastic credit card.

The latter was strange. “Is this mine?” Ford asked, picking up a piece. Had that been in his coat, too?

“Yeah.” Stanley grimaced. “I think Bill broke it and used the edges.” He didn’t say for what, but he didn’t have to. Ford dropped the piece of plastic like it had burned him, clenching his teeth and absolutely not thinking about that night.

It was the picture he wanted, anyway. He sighed, taking it gingerly in both hands and sinking down on the side of the bed. Two small boys looked up at him with pride from the wreck of an old boat. The memory of that day was still vivid, despite everything. The smell the salt air, the heat of the heavy sun overhead, the splinters from the broken hull. They’d both been so happy.

“It’s a good picture,” Stanley said next to him, sounding too casual. “Can’t believe how sunburned we were.”

“Indeed.”

Stanley opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. “I’m glad you kept it,” he said eventually.

“I’m glad you didn’t put it in the washer with the coat.”

“Hah. No, that woulda been a tragedy.”

“You must have others like it, though. I’ve got—I had a whole box of old photos somewhere.” Stanley wouldn’t have thrown them away, would he?

“Sure. But this one was missing, and it’s a good one. And, ya know—” He took a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re a bigger sap than you look, okay?” He looked so embarrassed that Ford released a huff of laughter, tension evaporating slightly.

“I’m not a sap,” he said prudently. “I merely—” He paused and drummed his fingers against the back of the picture. “I needed a reminder of something good.” Even with the estrangement, his childhood with Stanley had seemed more meaningful – more real – than anything he’d felt for the last few years with Bill. The Stan o’War might have been a pointless dream, but it had been harmless and fun. The portal had never been either, looking back.

Stanley grunted. “You know it’s gonna be okay, right?”

“I don’t know that.” He rubbed a hand over a particularly sore spot below his left shoulder. “Bill isn’t going to give up.” Besides, he wasn’t sure what ‘be okay’ would even mean anymore.

“I’m not giving up either. Still gonna find a way to punch him, too.”

Ford had to smile. “I very much want to see that.”

“Do you want a frame for that picture?” Stanley asked after a moment of silence.

“A frame?”

“Put it up somewhere. Makes it easier to look at whenever you want to.” His eyes went to a small frame on his bedside table, containing a picture of Mabel and Dipper making ridiculous faces at the camera.

That was the sort of thing you did when you made a home.

“I’ll think about it,” Ford said, putting the picture away in his inner pocket with a soft sigh. “Right now I’m more concerned about safeguarding the rift. I want to seal up the window in the study again, to prevent it being used by burglars.”

Stanley looked alarmingly skeptical. “You wanna live in the dark?”

“Lamps exist, Stanley.”

“Sure, but—” He shook his head, apparently thinking better of it. “It’d make you feel better?”

“It’ll make us all safer.” Ford narrowed his eyes, hoping that Stanley wasn’t just humoring him. “And yes, that would make me feel better, yes, if that is your order of priorities.”

“Right,” Stanley agreed. “Let’s do that, then.”

 With Stanley’s help, the work on boarding up the window went quicker than anticipated. The room did get darker, of course, but it could also be argued that summer daylight was too bright. It also got a lot less likely that anyone would be able to use the glassed hole in the wall to break in. Nothing was one hundred percent secure, but this was better.

They were almost done when Mabel stormed into the study and announced, “Ten minutes to the Ducktective finale!”

“The duck-what?” Ford asked, hammering in the last of the nails before turning around.

Stanley was sitting back on the couch, looking tired but otherwise pleased. “Good thinking, sweetie,” he told Mabel. “I had almost forgot.”

“You can’t forget, grunkle Stan! It’s the finale!���

“The duck-what?” Ford repeated.

“Duck-tective!” Mabel yelled, gesturing at the portrait of a behatted duck on her sweater. “It’s about this duck that solves crimes and—”

“It’s a kids’ show,” Stanley explained. “But I like it. It’s got some clever mysteries and a lot of humor that goes over kids’ heads. Wanna watch it with us?”

That was not part of Ford’s plan for the day. “I don’t—”

“You should!” Mabel interrupted. “It’s great, and the duck is so cute!” She tilted her head slightly. “But then again it’s the final episode, so you’d have all the spoilers if you watch the rest of it later. That’s a dilemma.”

“No, it’s not,” Stanley said. “Just watch it with us for fun, ‘s not like you have to take it seriously. See what TV is like in the twenty-first century.”

“Why would I—” Ford shook his head. “No.”

Stanley looked disappointed. Why would he be disappointed that Ford didn’t want to watch a kids’ show about a duck? Even if he did want to catch up on popular culture – which he didn’t – that would hardly be his first choice. He still had work to do.

“So will you watch the whole series with us later?” Mabel asked with a hopeful smile.

“I—” Ford bit his lip. “Perhaps.”

“Okay, then,” Stanley said. “You gonna be alright here, or…?”

“I’ll be in the basement,” Ford told him.

“With the portal?” Stanley’s eyes widened. “I’ll come with you, then.”

Mabel made a frustrated sound, looking from Stanley to Ford.

Stanley looked guiltily at the girl. “I know, pumpkin, but—”

“I’m fine.” Ford sat back on the couch and sighed, waving his brother’s concern away. “I don’t actually need a babysitter, Stanley. Bill can’t possess me unless I fall asleep or unconscious, and that is exceedingly unlikely to happen within the next few hours.”

“What’re you going to do down there, anyway? The portal’s already busted.”

“Probably, yes. But I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You can’t wait an hour?”

Technically, he could. But that would mean succumbing to unfounded fear – Stanley’s, certainly not his own – that he couldn’t handle the remains of his own creation. He’d slept well. He wasn’t going to faint. The portal’s existence sat like was a heavy weight on his mind, and he didn’t want to postpone facing it because Stanley thought he was weak. “No,” he said.

Stanley hesitated, worry clear on his face. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“Of course not.” He might be prone to working too hard, but if the safety of the world depended on him not blacking out, he thought he could manage that. Knowing Stanley, though, he probably wasn’t thinking about the safety of the world at all. Ford patted him on the arm. “Look, I’m still not going to spontaneously combust or otherwise turn to dust.”

“Or disappear in a flash of light?” Stanley tried to grin, but there was an obvious shudder in his shoulders.

Oh. Or that. “Most certainly not,” he replied. “That was unpleasant.”

Stanley’s smile turned slightly more genuine. “Yeah. See you in a bit, then.”

 Stanford stepped carefully into the large chamber of the basement, ramrod straight and hands clenched behind his back. The portal gazed back at him silently. Leaning on its side, edges broken and surrounded by shattered equipment, it was less impressive than it had been.

His own previous assessment – as well as Stanley’s – was, of course, correct. The portal was hardly in an operable state. It could never be accidentally activated like this. Not only had the very support beams collapsed, panels cracking and wires tearing, but he had no doubt that the energy surge had caused delicate components to burn out and fuse all over the machine. It was a mess, surely similar to the mess Stanley had been faced with thirty years ago. Possibly worse. The portal must have been open longer this time.

Regardless, if Stanley had been able to repair it once after a full power-up, it could be done again.

He had to destroy it. Pull it apart, scatter the components, hide the journals with the blueprints. No, he should destroy those, too. He should destroy everything.

He'd put so much of himself into his machine, his hopes and dreams and ambitions. He wanted it gone. He’d barely dared touch it before Stanley arrived. It would have been his masterpiece. He hated it with all his being. It was supposed to change the world. It was now one of the few pieces of evidence left that he had ever existed at all.

He could see now that it wasn’t a masterpiece at all. It was sloppy. A piece of equipment that broke immediately upon full usage was hardly a practical tool for anything, even if it had been able to do what it was supposed to. He’d even known it wasn’t sturdy enough for the forces it handled, but Bill had reassured him, and he’d trusted Bill’s judgement above his own.

If this was a masterpiece, it was Bill’s.

It did exactly what Bill had meant for it to do.

Ford licked his lips and took a deep breath. This machine was a monster. He’d poured his soul into it, but all it reflected was Bill.

An hour or so later, Ford was busy prying, tearing and unscrewing protective covers and underlying components, throwing them in piles on the floor and swearing at himself. His hands were covered in tiny scratches and cuts, and maybe he should be wearing gloves, but he doubted his own specially made gloves even existed anymore. He didn’t care.

Every part he touched reminded him of the work he’d put into making it. The discussions with Bill over physics and metaphysics and mathematics. The lies and the half-truths and the actual truths and many times he couldn’t tell them apart even in hindsight.

He wasn’t making any headway. The portal was too big, too well put together – courtesy of Fiddleford McGucket who may or may not even be alive anymore – and there was a strange, unwelcome nostalgia welling up inside him as he worked. Bill had made so much sense. Bill had taught him so much. He’d felt so special, chosen to receive and apply knowledge beyond the rest of humanity’s level. How deeply had he been deceived? Did this one relay truly regulate the flow of Higgs bosons? The math had checked out, but there were too many unknowns, too many fundamental aspects taken on faith by Bill’s word. Even without outright possessing him, Bill had still twisted him to his will.

How much did he understand of anything?

“How’re you doing?”

Ford looked up, not even surprised to see Stanley emerging from the control room, wrinkles and fez and all. “Great,” he said. “I’m doing great.”

Stanley smiled wryly. “Quit sounding like me.”

“What.” Ford pried the screwdriver into a crack between two panels locked together and tried to tear them apart.”

“I said, you sound like me.” Stanley sat down on a nearby fallen beam. “That is, if anyone had ever tried to ask how I was doing when I was down here swearing at that damned piece of technology.”

Ford huffed.

“Look, I—"

The panel Ford was working on snapped open with a pop, revealing the components underneath, wrapped in— Ford swore again. “Is that goddamn duct tape!?”

“Whoa.”

“Did you repair this with duct tape?” Ford snarled, not really meaning to. The duct tape didn’t matter, the way Stanley had affected repairs on the doomsday machine he should never have touched in the first place didn’t matter, and Ford’s overwhelming frustration with everything didn’t matter.

“I might’ve?” Stan stood again to take a look at the guts of the newly opened panel.

“Do you even know what this part is?”

“Dunno what it’s called, no. I have a decent idea what it does.”

Ford blinked. “You do?” Tossing the screwdriver to the floor, he threw up his hands. “Because I don’t! There’s duct tape on it and I don’t know how much of what I thought I knew about the whole machinery was true in the first place!”

Stanley looked pained. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? For using duct tape?”

“No, for—” He stopped with a sigh, instead wrapping an arm around Ford’s back. When Ford didn’t pull away immediately, he squeezed him in a sort of half hug.

“It’s dangerous,” Ford said. “It must never be repaired again.”

“I know.” Stanley looked up at the portal frame and laughed softly. “Great Moses, I know. You wanna tear it apart, you really should’ve waited for me.”

“Why?”

“I spent thirty years of my life on this thing. Think that entitles me to be in on the revenge.”

Thinking about it, that was a fair point. “Yes.” Ford drummed his sore fingers against his legs. “You’re right.” In a way, the portal had been Stanley’s life work, too. “I have to admit I still find it hard to believe you did that.”

“Mm-hm.” Stanley’s face tightened slightly.

“I didn’t—this technology is beyond anything on Earth, or at least Earth as I knew it.”

“Still true, pretty much.”

“Yes, and I don’t even know to which degree my own calculations make sense! The basic idea was Bill’s from the start. Some of it isn’t even based on human science. To reverse-engineer that enough to repair it, without the full blueprints—” Without a high school degree. With no documented interest in science whatsoever.

“It took thirty years.”

Ford sighed and leaned his back against the portal frame, looking down at the floor. “Most people in your position would have given up within a month, and rightly so.”

“So you admit it’s pretty unlikely that anyone’s going to come down here and repair it now?”

“That’s—” Ford looked down at his fingers. “You’re right, that’s extremely unlikely. Perhaps if Bill possessed someone and did all the work himself… But what I meant to say was that you did something incredible.”

Stanley’s face softened.

“And you’re almost as foolish as I am.” Perhaps in different ways, but nonetheless.

“I think I’ll take that as a compliment, too.”

Ford banged his forehead against Stanley’s shoulder with more than a little fondness. “You’re a knucklehead.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Poindexter.”

“I still want the portal gone.” He turned back towards the monstrous machine and sighed. “Did you duct tape the graviton converter? Is that what you did?”

“If you mean that tube that changes extra radiation into anti-gravity, then yeah. I did that.”

Ford froze. Hearing Stanley so casually mention the inner workings of the portal was strange. The description made sense, but those were not the words he would have used. Nor Bill.

“Stanley?”

“Did I get it wrong?”

“No, that’s what it was meant to do. I was just thinking—if you want to help me disassemble this—”

“Yeah, I want it gone too.”

“—then could you do me another small favor? I’d like you to tell me your own understanding of how all these components work!”

Stanley frowned. “Is there a reason for that? I’m pretty sure you know better than me.”

“Maybe. But—” But maybe if Stanley described it he wouldn’t have Bill’s voice, Bill’s teachings, Bill’s flattery and braggery and lies ringing in the back of his mind every time he thought about complex metaphysics. “—I built this portal together with Bill. I’d like to hear about it from another perspective.”

“Huh.” Stanley grimaced. “Can’t say no to that, can I? I can try, but if you laugh at me I’m gonna flick your nose.”

Ford accepted the threat without argument.

Stanley’s descriptions were a breath of fresh air. They cut through Bill’s voice in his mind, vastly different from how Bill had talked about it, or how Ford himself had talked about it with Fiddleford. There was no theoretical sophistication, no air of pride or flattery or ambition or knowing exaggeration. When he didn’t know, he just said so. Stanley used plain layman’s terms wherever possible, describing things clearly and concisely, with none of the flair he used to put into speeches. However, his plain, utterly unacademical understanding of the inner workings of a machine that punched a hole in the fabric of space-time was quite frankly amazing. It mostly aligned with his own knowledge – no great revelations, and some of Stanley’s explanations stood on less theoretical and more pragmatic grounds – and the subject matter was still a disaster. The question marks and the foul taste of Bill’s lies remained in the back of his throat. But this was Stanley, talking science, and as such it was beautiful.

And yet Stanley seemed uncomfortable with it. When Ford tried to ask questions about how in the world Stanley had managed to figure some particular aspect out, it was more often than not met with sad eyes and a tired sigh. He did have some stories to tell about procurement of materials and misfired attempts at starting the device – things he had obviously never told anyone before – but they weren’t many, and he didn’t tell them with anything near the usual glee that telling stories about himself used to incite from Stanley.

“Believe me, Sixer, you do not wanna know how many useless notebooks I filled trying to make sense of stuff like space-time. Basic stuff to you.” He pulled the crowbar and a large part of protective covering fell away from the portal with a loud clatter. “Okay, so here’s the last part of the anti-gravity thing, and then that box is one of the six that spins fermions. Plus some part of the electronic control rig there in the back. Don’t think we can get to it yet.”

“Didn’t you ever—” Ford stopped, unsure if the question should be asked, but curiosity got the better of him. “Didn’t you ever take pride in this?”

“Why would I? I kept failing for thirty years.”

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to say something, but his brother’s answer was so abrupt and horrifying in all its simplicity. He shuddered. His own foolishness burned hot with pride and ambition and willful ignorance, threatening to take the world and everything on it down in the flames. But Stanley’s foolishness was like relentless ice that simply wouldn’t budge until it had done what it meant to do.

He swallowed. “Thank you,” he said eventually. “For not giving up on me.”

Stanley released a sharp breath, smiled, then looked down. Before he could say anything, Ford looked back at their progress and changed the subject.

“We should get power tools.”