#a traveler washed up on the shore of a land full of people with chairs too tiny for me to sit on.

[loveoaths]

🌹🌹🌹

From The Bitten Hand Holds the Bounty (Canon-based AU fic): Someone puts a hit out on Grogu. Cad Bane answers the call, and uses a fake bounty to lure Din in so he can poison Grogu. Din and Bane’s ensuing conflict slash dogfight results with both parties crash-landing on a seemingly empty planet, with Grogu dangerously ill and fighting off infection. In this snippet, Din finds somewhere safe for them to spend the night, and gets the sense that this planet is abandoned for a good god damn reason. 

The abandoned polehouse is old and well-weathered, a leathery scrap of a hovel clinging to the white-ribbed shore. Wooden planks hacked and hewn between the coiled legs of ancient mangroves basket themselves into roof and walls stripped pale by sand and salt, each wall shouldering a weight that, judging by the quiet groaning of the wood, it cannot possibly sustain.

The only way to walk across the warped floor is at an angle, crouched at the knees and creeping like a hunter stalking through the brush. Each step is careful: heel to toe to heel to feel out weak planks in the flooring before they squeak or give way. The uneven walls and the rolling of the ocean below the floor make Din feel drunk, which is something Din has never enjoyed being. Drunk meant out of control, out of control meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant dead. 

Din may not like his life, but it’s the only one he has, and he intends to hang onto it as long as he can bear to.

The polehole is small, but Din takes his time to comb through each room for traps and unwanted company. He finds an overturned table and some chairs, a miserable pantry full of empty clawed-open cans and a bag of what was once flour and is now moldy concrete, some sort of fire-pit fueled by a now-defunct crystal, and a master bedroom with no bed, a giant hole in the floor, and a whole lot of blood. The bed is a disappointment – looks like he’ll be sharing with the kid – but the blood is unexpected. Whatever dragged on this planet, it’s clear its people did not go willingly.

Din crouches and runs a gloved hand along the thin white lines that start near the door, tracing them as they grow thick and jagged with desperation before they disappear entirely into the writhing, stinking sea below. He sidles toward the hole, looking into the wet darkness. His face – his true face, his beskar helm – looks back wrong. Muddied and soured. Din grabs a moth-eaten blanket from the floor and throws it over the hole, and cinches it through gaps in the flooring with zip-ties. Two uninvited guests were enough for tonight.

Din checks perimeter a second time before he makes it back to the first room where he stashed his cargo. He unlocks the kid’s pram first and peeks inside, where after hours of screaming itself hoarse with confusion and pain, that tiny wrinkled face finally, finally, finally rests smooth with deep and restful sleep. Relief washes over Din’s soul; he’d worried the medicine would have run out by now and the fever would be back, but Grogu finally seems on the mend. A gloved finger checks that the medicine patch remains adhered to Grogu’s chest, then strokes a large ear fondly. It flicks. The child mumbles and rolls over, effectively dead to the world.

Good. That will make this next part easier.

Din grabs the kid’s travel bag and clicks the button on his vambrace before guiding the pram into the small, untouched bedroom in the back. The wood is sturdier here, where the hard black resin that protects the wood from the acid seems thicker. As he sets the room up for the night, he wonders if this was a child’s bedroom, before whatever cataclysm turned the planet’s beaches to blue glass and its water to acid and its air to poison. It doesn’t matter. Everyone is dead now. He is the only ghost walking these halls.

The last of the acid rain is wringing itself out overhead by the time Din makes it back to the main entrance. He grabs one of the unbroken chairs turned over on the floor and sets it in the middle of the room. He rests a hand on the back, his other hand settling on his hip as he looks at the large, black sack zip-tied to the wall, right where he’d left it. It whimpers.

“In a moment,” Din speaks lowly, voice barely audible above the rush of salt and silt beneath their feet, “I am going to remove that gag and ask you a question, and you are going to answer it, quietly, because if that baby wakes up, I promise you will not. Do you understand me? Nod your head yes.” The sack nods quickly, one, two, three times. For some reason, his captures always do that, as if their overeagerness to oblige will change the outcome whatsoever. “Good.”

Din pulls a holopuck from his belt, clicks it and sets it on the chair seat. A grainy holo-image of a male Rodian with a missing antennae pops up. Din leans forward and unties the top of the sack. Huge starry eyes and a bulbous head wriggle free from the fabric. A Rodian with one antennae stares back at him with big watery eyes. “Remember what I said.” Din slips a finger under the gag and pulls it down. “Now. Are you Eesot Toldo?”

“Help me!” screams the Rodian, “Please, somebody, anybody, HELP ME!”

A room away, something hiccups; and then, it begins to cry. Din shuts his eyes as the headache that never left returns in force, makes himself take a deep, slow breath, tugs the gag back into the captive’s mouth, and pulls a vibroblade from his belt.

“I warned you,” he says softly. 

Then he stalks forward, and gets to work.

#fic tag. #<- general fic tag ig? #nothing actually happens in this snippet but uhhhh #tw torture #i guess #the bitten hand fic. #i need better fic tags jfc #i know u sent me three but i just had one big chunk so sorry #The Bitten Hand Holds the Bounty fic. #the bitten hand holds the bounty

[hangovercurse]

Honeymoon

Pete takes you on your honeymoon

Request: “i feel like it’d be really cute if u did something about being on your honeymoon with pete :,) maybe like on the beach or something, combo of fluff+smut, whatever u find fitting :,)”

Pete X Reader

Warnings: cursing, smut (18+)

A/N: Me?!? Writing?!? Since when?!? (Seriously, sorry it’s been so long)

Word Count: 1630

The smell of salt water and sand overwhelmed your senses as Pete drove you down the sand-covered road. Your left hand was intertwined with his free right one, his fingers running over the ring on your fourth finger. The wind blew into the car through the rolled-down window, hitting your skin softly.

Pete slowed the car in front of a beautiful wooden cabin that was raised off the ground. He pulled in underneath the building, to the side of a hammock that hung from the ceiling. You looked over to find a  calm smile on his face, his brown eyes sparkling from the sun that seemed to be everywhere.

When he opened the door into the cabin, your eyes went wide. From he outside, the place had looked incredible, but now that the interior was in full view, you were even more astounded. The door led to an open-plan living room and kitchen, separated only by a small kitchen peninsula. The floor, walls, and ceilings were made of an earthy-shade wood, with windows letting in a surplus of natural light.

Pete led you into your home for the next 8 days, watching your face change as you took in the new surroundings, “you’re cute, you know that?”

Heat rushed to your face, “shut up,” you giggled. Even the simplest of his words had an effect on you, turning you into a giddy, giggling mess.

He led you through a curtain and into a large bedroom, complete with a wooden vanity and king-size bed with a sheer canopy bunched at the corners of the bed. You placed your bags beside the bed, walking over to the vanity that was housing a bucket of champagnes and a vase of flowers.

You smiled lightly, turning to Pete, “this is so cute!”

He moved over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist, and pressing a deep kiss to your lips. Your hands ran up to his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. His lips slowly separated from yours, but his face remained only millimeters from your own, “I love you, Mrs. Davidson.”

You giggled at the words, still loving their sound, “I love you, Mr. Davidson.” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before pushing him away gently, “now c’mon. Did we come here to be gross and sappy or to go to the beach?”

He chuckled, “I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to do both.”

You continued to explore the rest of the beach cabin, eventually landing on the balcony overlooking the ocean. Though there were chairs, you chose to lean over the railing. Pete was in the midst of unpacking and making sure everything was in order.

His hot breath hitting your ear made you jump a little bit as his hands rested on the railing on either side of your waist, “like the view?”

You turned around, letting your back rest against the railing, “yeah, but I think I like this one more.”

Pete chuckled under his breath, “that was the lamest thing you’ve ever said.”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned up and pressed a small peck to his lips, “yep, and you’re stuck with my lame remarks forever now.”

“I mean, divorce is always an option,” he joked.

You shoved him lightly, “Pete! That’s not funny, especially on our honeymoon.”

The slight pout on your face made Pete lean down to kiss your lips softly, his hands resting on your hips, “I’m kidding. Trust me, divorce is the last thing I’ll be thinking about. Ever.”

Your face still held a faux sad expression, “it better be.”

He captured your lips with his again, this time deepening the kiss. Your hands found themselves at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you. His tongue ran over your lips, which fell open incontestably.

He pulled away slowly, eliciting a quiet moan from you, “let’s go for a walk.”

You whined, “I don’t want to go for a walk, Petey. I wanna do… other things.” You pulled on the hem of his shirt lightly, hinting at what you really wanted to do with him.

Pete chuckled adorably, “we’ll have plenty of time for other things later, Mrs. Davidson.”

You let him lead you through the cabin and out to the beach with little protest, though unable to shake the warm feeling between your legs.

 You’d ended up walking about half a mile down the beach, watching the sun slowly set. At the peak of the sunset, when the sky was a perfect shade of pink, Pete dragged you to sit on a cluster of rocks further up shore.

You leaned into his side, letting the cool sea breeze hit you and bathe you in the scent of salt. He looked down at you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You pushed into him, deepening the kiss.

He groaned and pulled away, “someone’s eager.”

You smiled widely, “well, when you’re married to the hottest guy in the world, it’s hard not to be.”

“Imagine how I feel,” he pecked your lips, resting his nose against yours briefly. You sat just like that for a few minutes, as the sun continued to fall behind the waves. Your breathing was in perfect sync, his heartbeat matching your own.

Eventually it grew dark, so Pete helped you down from your resting place and you began the walk home. Your intertwined hands swung between you as the water hit your feet.

When you got back to your room in the cabin, Pete pulled you in for a passionate kiss, his large hands cradling your face. You let yourself fall into the kiss, his tongue poking out and separating your lips. Hands fell down to his waist, sneaking under his shirt to explore his muscular middle.

His own hands moved down and pulled the fabric up, his lips leaving yours briefly to remove the shirt completely. He then made quick work of your dress, throwing the material across the room. You pulled him back into you, capturing his lips in yours once more before he spun the both of you around so your back faced the bed. He gently pushed you onto the soft mattress, letting you move up to a more comfortable position. Once you were situated, he unbuckled the belt of his shorts and pulled the garment off of his body. He then climbed over you, letting his hands hold him up from either side of your head. He leaned down to press quick kisses to your lips, trailing them down to your neck with mumbled, “I love yous.”

When his mouth reached a sensitive spot near your collarbone, you let out a light moan, causing him to smirk against the skin before sucking a deep purple mark onto the skin. One of his hands moved to cup your breasts, massaging the skin lightly in his fingers. His lips moved back up your own, whispering against them, “how did I get so lucky, Mrs. Davidson?”

You giggled giddily, “I love you,” before kissing him harshly, your hands moving down to palm him through his boxers. You could feel his semi hardening at your touch, the long length spreading warmness to your core.

Pete bucked his hips against your hand, a smirk forming on your lips. You pulled his boxers down enough to free his member, letting his hand that was previously on your breast do the rest of the work to pull them down.

He then moved his fingers to your clothed core, rubbing you through the thin fabric before pulling the panties down. The pads of his fingers collected your wetness before he brought them up to his lips, sucking your juices off of them, “tastes so good, babe.”

You grinded your hips up against his, your core aching for friction. He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you sweetly. He lined himself up with you, pushing into you slowly and reveling in your muffled moans. Your lips moved in sync with his as he slowly pumped in and out of you, letting you gradually adjust to his size.

Once the slight pain had subdued, pleasure took over, spreading throughout your body. Your nails scraped along his back, silently urging him to pick up the pace. He obliged easily, his hips speeding up to thrust into yours. His lips left your own and traveled to your neck, pressing soft kisses all over the sensitive skin.

You moaned out as his pelvis met your clit, the friction making the pleasurable feelings even more intense. His hot breath hit your neck, “sound so pretty, doll.”

The darkness in his voice only drove you crazier, your hips bucking up to meet his. He continued showering you in small praises as your hips met in harmony. It didn’t take long for him to push you to the edge. You whined, “mm, so close.”

He hummed against your skin as his thrusts got harder, “yeah? You can cum, baby. I’ve got you.”

The combination of his words and his movements pushed you over the edge, ecstasy washing over you almost instantaneously. The feeling of your walls clenching around him pushed him into bliss alongside you, your orgasms coming simultaneously.

As he spilled into you, he continued to press kisses against your neck, slowly moving up to your lips lazily. Once you had both come down, he rolled off of you, landing beside you on the bed. He pulled you into his side, warmth radiating from his body.

He mumbled, “we just had married sex for the first time.”

You smiled up at him, kissing his chest, “yep.”

He chuckled, “I wonder how many people have had sex in this bed before us?”

You scrunched your nose in disgust, “Pete!” leading to an outbreak of laughter from the man.

#Pete Davidson #pete davidson imagine #pete davidson fluff #pete davidson smut #pete davidson x reader

[di-kut]

Oberyn Martell x Reader: Vermillion, vivacious, and vex. "You will accept the betrothal for her sake, or you may not see her again."

Birdie baby, this is for you. I hope you like it. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. 

Words: 5k

Summary: A short introduction of the events leading up to a mini series I am working on. We see Oberyn’s journey to King’s Landing and his first day in the capital. 

Warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of death, canon typical violence, canon typical sexual themes

There are songbirds in Dorne which sing each morning as the sun rises, and each night again as it sets. Nest high on Sunspear and dive down from their perches in flurries of brilliant red, feathers like fire against the blue ocean. Oberyn’s mother would sit with him and Elia and tell them stories of the songbirds who are in love with the sun, of the sadness of fading love and of the dawn of the new each morning. They dance for the dawn and for the night and sing for the light of the day. A bright, beautiful song, part of the crashing waves against the shore below, part of home, of Dorne. They have sung every day of Oberyn’s life, and in the days before that, and in the days which will come after. But the day Elia died the birds did not sing.

The news come of the Royal Wedding when Oberyn and Ellaria are away from Sunspear.

Their retinue is quick to pack and to move. To start the journey to arrive back to Sunspear before the ships sail north, to meet with Doran. The air all around them is heavy with sorrow, and with anger. Oberyn is quiet in his fury, and Ellaria is quiet as well, until on their second night travelling when she is not anymore. Is explosive in her anger towards Oberyn. And he returns it, his head filled with the injustices done to his family, to his sister. With thoughts of the Mountain and of the Lannisters. He does not sleep well that night, even after apologies are passed between them, wakes restlessly and listens to the sounds of the camp around them. Thinks of the months which has passed since he had held Ellaria in his arms and finds he misses her. Not in the way he would have expected.

The road is dry and dusty from months without rain. Ellaria rides close to him through the day, reaches for his hand on his reins, and clutches it tightly. Tells him she is scared of what he will do, what will be done to him. That she will be with him through whatever comes. Oberyn holds her hand but he has no words of comfort for her.  

A storm is carried in from the ocean as they ride, it brings no rain but heavy thunder like the sound of gods screaming, and strikes of lightning all around them. Forks of white fire which leave scarred patches against the land. Hits a tree in their path. A gnarled, old trunk which splinters with a sound like the earth crackling. Its trunk, white with age, turned now black and charred, falls onto the road and it takes the rest of the day and some of the night to clear it. Use what they have cut from the trunk to fuel their fires that night and Oberyn thinks they are burning something ancient. Some piece of the world which is lost to them. The others murmur about the storm, about the trip to King’s Landing, about omens. Oberyn stretches his feet before the fire and watches as the log nearest him hisses and spits a plume of red sparks into the dark sky to disperse amongst the stars, the clouds of the storm passed.

He sleeps with his back to Ellaria that night and thinks of the smell of the old world burning. He dreams of dragons, and of Elia.

When they arrive in Sunspear Doran has the quiet look of knowing about him when he sees Oberyn. But he says nothing, gives him no cautions, makes no inquiries. And as they eat together that night Oberyn knows he is thinking of Elia as well. They eat in private, just the two brothers, on a balcony overlooking the black ocean glimmering with silver stripes in the moonlight. The last of the songbirds sing a song of mourning for the setting sun high above them. They drink deep from their cups, and in the morning, Doran lays a hand on Oberyn’s shoulder in warning.

“Do not do anything in haste, brother.” Doran’s eyes are heavy and dark. “I have lost enough to the Iron Throne.”

“We have lost blood, Doran. And it is blood we will get in return.”

Doran lets his hand fall to his side and sits back further in his chair. “And whose blood will you give me, Oberyn?”

Oberyn makes no answer. When he passes Ellaria she rests a hand light against his back and he brushes the warm skin at the top of her arm. Does not miss the look she shares with Doran before they mount for the journey to their waiting ship. The whole party is quiet through the streets of Dorne, are quiet as they make the ship ready, and as they use the oars deep in the belly of their vessel to cut out through the still water until they break the open ocean and unfurl the sail. And only then do the voices raise, as salt and wind and sea seem to wash away the gloom of travelling North.

.

The first blood is Lannister blood. The blade makes a wet, slick sound as it slides out from the man’s flesh. The spurting from the wrist is instant, red like the Lannister banner. Covering the man’s arm and sleeve and the table and dribbling onto the floor. Oberyn steps away so it does not ruin his silks. Ellaria is there, holding a hand in his robe already. The little Lannister in the doorway is no longer speaking, watches with a falling face as the two men stumble from their table, forget the sword which is laying across it, through the door and out into the brothel proper. Oberyn allows himself to be pulled back into Ellaria’s waiting arms. He turns and wraps himself around her familiar shape, tugs her against him. Lets her pull him in closer until his mouth is almost against hers. And he cannot see her twist from him, but he feels it. Only the smallest of movements, but then she turns again, back towards him now. And her mouth is hard against his with desperate purpose. Not because she wants him but because she wants to distract him. And although he has not kissed her in months, he knows the taste of her mouth well enough to understand.

He draws back. The sound of their lips parting tears a hole through his chest, and his head is all full of the argument they had before leaving Dorne, sudden and painful. Gently holds her face with one palm, clutches the silk of her dress against her thigh in the other. Still close enough to her that he barely has to whisper for her to hear him.

“You do not have to kiss me, my love, if you do not want to.” Brushes some of the hair away from her neck.

Ellaria shudders slightly. “I know.”

He moves his head back, so that he can see her properly. Her eyes so familiar. Another home for his heart in her soul. And she looks sad. Feels further away from him than she ever has. He thinks of the way she had looked beneath him in bed. Aches for the way he used to crave the feeling of her beneath him, above him, everywhere around him. For the time before they had only shared their bed with strangers to fill the space between them. Remembers her swollen with his children, four times, her glowing pride at them. Her ferocity in her love for them now. He smiles and brushes his thumb against her cheek. Hears the light clearing of throat from the Lannister and his man in the doorway.

“Why did you come with me?” He asks her. As gentle as his thumb against her cheek.

“Because I love you.”

“I love you with all my heart Ellaria. And I know you love me.” He leans forward again now. Rests his chin against her shoulder, turns his head to murmur against her neck so that their audience cannot hear him. “And I will always love you as my truest friend. But you did not follow me here as my paramour.”

She shudders for the second time in his arms. And for a moment he thinks she will leave him. But she sinks against him, slack, and buries her face into his shoulder. “I came to stop you from being killed in this mission you have set yourself.”

He sighs and hugs her closer. Feels the shift of the space between them become relief at last, building for months. And his heart breaks again and worse because he loves her, knows his love has changed as hers has as well. And he mourns it. The slow loss of her. The slow creeping through their lives as they grew and changed. There is a brief moment of anger, of injustice, that it should happen here. In the city where Elia had been taken from him to be murdered. Is selfishly glad Ellaria is with him all the same, that she will stand by him through the pain which is to come. He presses his hand against her hair to hold her to him.

“You do not trust me?”

“I do not trust them.”

Oberyn turns his head, keeps himself pressed against Ellaria to hide the tears he can feel against his collar. Lays his cheek against her shoulder and stares down at the little golden haired man in the doorway. Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. He looks uncomfortable at the intrusion.

“Prince Oberyn.” Tyrion rocks back and forward on his heels. “I’m here to welcome you to the Capital.”

.

Oberyn thinks that the Red Keep is an appropriate name for the castle on the hill. Buzzing and full of energy and life, built like a prison. Doesn’t quite cover up the stains of blood and screams and ghosts haunting it. The wedding will be soon. All around him the gardens wear the finery to show it, banners and plumes and curtains of Lannister and Tyrell colours flutter against the blue sky. And beneath them the people of noble blood lounge in the sun and smile. Unaware that they are sitting on bones. Unaware that all around them the walls of the Keep are going to pinch and close and suffocate them all. That a thousand years ago dragons would have razed them to the ground. Sitting on stone which would have melted. Oberyn feels it everywhere, feels it pressing down against his back like watching eyes, like waves of the ocean against stone.

He moves restlessly through the walls of green and the tinkling fountains. Has not slept, did not sleep on the ship before they arrived, or afterwards. Ellaria has stayed his paramour only in name, as she had been before, to protect her from the rabble and the crowd and the hunger of the Capital. Had cried when Oberyn returned from his talk with the Imp and kissed him gently on his mouth. Had tasted of goodbyes. His anger had been only brief and faded fast into something sweeter and sadder. He held her hands and they laid back against the silk cushions alone for the first time in so long and talked. About their daughters, about his brother, about their argument. They did not speak of Elia. She still did not want him to kill the Mountain, or Tywin Lannister. Afraid of what they would do to him. And he hushed her and held her to his chest and closed his eyes until she fell asleep and the burning of the midday sun and thickness of incense made his head hurt.

Oberyn takes only a few with him to the Keep, disperses them amongst the grounds and the gardens with a wave of his hand. To make merry and to make friends and to listen. To remember everything. Oberyn wanders with no direction but with purpose. Makes his way through the broad pathed gardens, smells the headiness of the drooping flowers blossoming under the eternal summer sun, still smells the incense from the brothel lingering behind his eyes. Stops at a low wall overlooking the bay below, watches the sway of the ships in the harbour and the docks. Finds the sails of his own ship.

He moves on again, deeper into the gardens. Passes his people as he walks, some of them already mingling, others drifting through. It is Daemon who joins him as he twists through a part of the gardens closest to the walls of the Keep. Falls into step beside him in silence for some time, and then tells him of a group ahead being entertained by one of the members of the King’s Council. The Lord of Whispers, they call him. Daemon tells him there is apparently not a secret in Westeros he does not know. That there are secrets beyond the Narrow Sea whispered in his ear as well. And Oberyn smiles at this and allows himself to be drawn towards it, lets Daemon slip away as he hears the cheer of a gathering, of tinkling cups and laughter. They are around a bend in the path, had been hidden by high hedges, on a higher level overlooking the wide promenade below. Less than fifty of them in all, lazing against stone chairs and cushions and beneath tents. Handsomely dressed servants carry decanters of dark purple wine and plates of lavish arrangements of berries and fruits and nuts.

Oberyn takes the length of the promenade slowly, and as he approaches the stone steps to the higher bank, a man breaks away from the crowd. He wears well cut silks, a dark grey which ripples amongst the brighter colours all around him, the pattern on them subtle and swirling. He shuffles to the top step and sweeps his arms out widely as Oberyn starts up them in welcome. Tucks them back into his own sleeves as Oberyn climbs.

“Prince Oberyn.” The man is short, his bald head gleaming under the heat of the afternoon sun. “You find us having something of a little garden party.”

“It seems I do.”

The guests nearby all laugh as a man in red finishes some story, wine sloshes in their cups and the tinkling sound of empty glasses makes a grating tune amongst the merriment. Oberyn watches them, watches the man before him, watches the way the leaves around them sway in the wind and the boys carrying jugs of wine bead sweat in the heat of the sun. The Lord of Whispers still waits for him at the top.

“Join us,” he says.

“Well,” Oberyn laughs. He does not feel like laughing. Climbs the stairs until he is no longer eye level with the host but above him. Sees the curiosity of the onlookers as they hear his accent, see his golden robes painted with suns glimmer. Whisper amongst themselves. “I can never say no to a party.”

The Lord of Whispers finally smiles. “I am Lord Varys.”

“It seems I need no introduction.”

“I imagine that must be the case for you everywhere you go.” Varys plucks a glass of wine from a passing tray and hands it to Oberyn. “It is my occupation to know a great many things. You arrived earlier than we were expecting you.”

“Dornish ships make the journey quickly.”

Varys is still smiling. He turns slightly, bobs and bows, just slightly. Holds an arm out to beckon Oberyn ahead. And they drift amongst the small gathering, share smiles and laughs with strangers. And his easy smile makes them think he does not notice the way they follow him, the way they stare at the proud suns on his robes, the orange of house Martell beneath, bright against his skin, open almost to his navel. They turn through the tents, and Oberyn finishes his wine. Picks out another. Varys stays by his side and chatters through it all. Gossips about his own guests and waits for Oberyn to return his secrets with secrets. Is patient through it all, but his hidden hands make Oberyn’s own twitch, and his greedy eyes make Oberyn talk only of things which do not matter.

“How are you enjoying the Capital, Prince Oberyn?”

Oberyn leans against the low wall of the garden ledge with his elbows. Presses his back against it. Drinks another sip of the wine. Weak, although it is so rich in colour. He thinks for a moment and then smiles with all his teeth. “It is exactly as I expected it.”

“I see.”

Below them, the promenade is mostly empty but for a trio of palace guards, walking along the path away from them. As Oberyn turns to look over it a girl rounds the corner closest to them, her dress almost too thick for the high summer of the Capital and a dull purple. She glances at the party on the ledge and away again very quickly, her face stony and pale. Not the skin of someone who has grown up in the summer sun.

“Sansa Stark,” Varys says conspiratorially.

Oberyn hums. “The last wolf of the North. I heard about what they did to her brother and her mother. That she married the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.”

The girl is tall for her age, and there are early lines around her eyes, stricken from grief. But she cannot be older than fifteen. Holds herself straight and her chin high, but Oberyn sees her eye almost twitches when the palace guards pass her. Sees her flinch when they are close enough that one of their white capes’ snaps against the skirts of her dress. And he sees the purple bloom around her cheek, fresh and angry, a scabbed cut at the centre of it.

“A wedding present from the King,” Varys says, following Oberyn’s eyes.

“For when they married off a child to a Lannister, or for her to wear to the King’s wedding?”

Varys pulls his hands from his sleeves and locks his fingers together, rests them over his stomach. He blows air out through his teeth in a sound like he’s affecting disapproval. Likes the chance at gossip. Oberyn sees the people flitting about them, waves of silk and laughter, and wonders how many are the famed little birds of the man at his side. “Oh, both I imagine.”

“And what of her husband, he does not tell his nephew to stop?”

“Certainly not.”

“And this boy is King.”

Varys lifts his thumbs from his fingers and shrugs. “He is.”

“A king who beats women and children and holds innocent people hostages. It would seem there is a grand tradition of the types of men to sit in the Iron Throne.”

Varys sips delicately at his own wine, and skin along his forehead creasing as he lifts his brow. “She has found a good friend in the Lady from across the Narrow Sea.”

“This Lady is from Pentos?”

Varys leans in closer to him. “Tywin Lannister would like more allied a little closer to the Targaryen girl who makes a claim to the Iron Throne. I’m sure you would know all about this. Although maybe Braavos would feel a little more familiar.”

“I have heard of her.” Oberyn looks away from Sansa for the first time, glances down at his companion, at his pale, watering eyes. Has not missed the threat against himself and his brother. At the knowledge of their actions against the Baratheon King. “The girl with the dragons.”

“That is what they say, my Prince.”

Oberyn hums. “And what does this Lady from Pentos gain from her friendship with the little wolf?”

“I would hazard to say they find comfort in knowing they are both going to be married into a den of lions.” Varys has a wavering smile, watering like his eyes. Oberyn looks away from him again. Leans his hand against the stone railing, warm under the sun, hot against his fingers so that it almost burns. “Kings Landing is full of girls who are married for the ambitions of others. I’m sure you would know all about that too, Prince Oberyn.”

Oberyn only wraps his fingers tighter around his cup. Lifts it to be refilled by the cup bearer with a grim smile. Varys watches him with closeness, follows the liquid as it drains steadily, a single gulp till empty. Offers Oberyn a small bowl of berries as he fills his cup again. Oberyn shakes his head and watches until Sansa Stark disappears around the corner of the garden path and is lost in the foliage.

.

Oberyn can feel the lightness of the drink still in his walk. Had not stayed much longer with Varys. Every time he looked up at the looming walls of the Keep above them had felt the feeling of being a child once again, looking up at a tall building in front of moving clouds, like it was going to topple down and crush him. He feels the night without sleep catching up to him in the wine. Has no slept enough to have drunk so much. Had not eaten yet that day. His heart aches for Ellaria, that she would be there to give him advice. To hold his hand.

Oberyn twists and turns further into the garden, away from the Red Keep. Further from the crowds of people in the dwindling sunlight, turning the world red as it sinks into the horizon, sinks beyond the sea. Distant sounds of laughter begin to sound like screams, like cries for help, warped amongst the trees. He tricks himself into thinking about what Elia might have sounded like as she died. That the desperate pleas for the lives of her children are held in the long memories of the trunks around him. He is not quite drunk, light enough to remember the tree struck by lightning on the road to Sunspear. The smell of it burning. His steps speed up as he moves past others, countless others without names or faces and their laughter edges at his skin, beneath his nails, and grits through his teeth. Finds himself deep in the gardens of the Keep, the sound of distant waves, of laughter somewhere beyond hedges, but he is alone. And he forces himself to stop moving. Concentrates on slowing his erratic breathing and the urge to pull his dagger from his belt. To fight away the shadow of his sister’s ghost, following him everywhere in the heat.

The light of the sun is blazing right before it sets. And in his stillness deep in the gardens he suddenly hears it. A soft sound, almost lost in the rustle of the leaves in the sea breeze and the water crashing against rock. And despite the thickness of the trees around him Oberyn realises he must have found his way to the edge of the gardens again. Can hear the swallowing rushing of water meeting water at the delta of Blackwater Rush. And above the sound of waves he can hear a song, high and light and carried on the air, just out of reach.

He moves before he knows what he is doing. Follows the sound of the song through the deepest part of the gardens, and finds himself in an almost maze. Hedges and trees and bushes. There is no path anymore, just worn tracks through the dirt, and he picks his way through them. Sometimes a trick of light through leaves leading him to a dead end, and other times twisting back on itself so he circles, and ends further from the singing than when he began. But like a man possessed he follows it. Finds a stone wall separating the wood beyond from the garden proper. Overgrown with climbing vines and leaves. He can hear the singing here most clearly, a sad and beautiful voice just beyond. He rests his hand against the wall and begins to follow it slowly along, his fingers bumping over dips in the stone and his rings catching against vines. Until his hand slips and plunges into leaves alone. So thick he missed the spot where the wall has a break in it. A hidden doorway, concealed in the hanging vines.

Oberyn stops before it, drops his arm back to his side. Watches the leaves dance slightly on the wind. Rustle like silk. The singer is quiet now, but no longer distant. He has to crouch slightly to clear the top of the arch.

He slips first his hand, his elbow, then his whole arm. Parts the tangle of green with his other hand and ducks beneath the stone. The air is cooler beyond the curtain of leaves, a small alcove. Taller inside so that he can stand straight. There is a small stone bench carved into one wall, the crumbling rock held together by the vines and blooming all over with fragrant white flowers. The smell of them light and sharp, not heady like the flowers of the groomed promenades of the main gardens. Enclosed all around him but for the arch behind him and another ahead, filtering light and more garden beyond. The forgotten room has a dragon carved into stone over the archway ahead.  

Oberyn makes his footsteps silent with practiced ease. Moves carefully. Inches forward and stops before his boots touch the reaching tips of the evening sun through the arch. The garden is small, surrounded all by walls and trees beyond those, and a little part of Oberyn realises that beyond the garden lies the godswood. At its centre there is a small bubbling fountain, not the type favoured by the Lannisters, but more of a trickle. The sound of a fresh stream. It is overgrown and filled with twisting plants and leaning trunks. Cluttered in its neglect. But Oberyn does not linger on those things for long.

There is a woman sitting on a low bench by the fountain. Her hands work steadily over a piece of silk, her needle rhythmic and deft, the catch of blue thread weaving in and out almost hypnotic. A lighter blue than the deep colour of her gown. She faces away from him, so Oberyn glimpses only just the roundness of her cheek through a thick curtain of red hair, dark and rich and in the dwindling light blazing like flames. And her voice. Quiet but echoing everywhere around him, through the garden and against the walls and filling the space of the alcove with song. Like the sound of dawn breaking a grey sky, lighting the darkness of the ocean. And beneath it the crashing of the waves against the shore. And his mother’s voice whispering in his ear of songbirds who are in love with the sun, who mourn the sunset, who sing for fading love.

Oberyn has to turn and press his back to the inside of the little hidden room, out of sight of the garden. He slides slowly down the wall until he is sitting against the cool ground, lays his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. And when his eyes are closed he cannot hear the sounds of Elia screaming, or the laughter of the people from the Keep. He can hear the sound of the ocean and the song filling his head and he can breathe. He pushes his feet to the ground and his elbows to his knees. The heels of his palms into his eyes and he feels drunker than he knows he is. Wishes he were in Sunspear so he could cry like the songbirds in mourning for his sister. He sits there until the last light winks over the walls of the garden and turns the world purple. Purple like the silk of the Stark girl’s dress. Like the bruise around her eye. And he thinks he will ask Daemon about her, about the little wolf, and thinks somehow at the same time that he does not wish to know. Until finally he feels steady enough to push himself to his feet and slip back through the hidden doorway and out into the world.

Oberyn finds himself in a deeper part of the gardens in the dusky purple light. The sound of waves is distant here, has turned to the rushing of water over stone, a river where the sea rushes towards the heart of Westeros. There are no people in this part of the gardens, more of a wilderness now, and he is glad for the chance of being alone. Of trying to clear the aching from his chest from the sound of the song. Still ringing in his ears. Is so distracted that the sound of voices does not stop him until he is almost upon them, just around the next bend. He presses himself to the trunk of the tree nearest him, not ready to see others. Not ready to smile easily at them and play at bravado.

He waits until they are gone before he finds his way back to the main gardens.

The light in Kings Landing lingers on into the night, and the Red Keep is dark and looming and the colour of blood in the long twilight.

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#my writing #oberyn martell #GoT #Game of Thrones #drabble #pedro pascal #reader insert

[honestsycrets]

Hard Sell III: Laugardagur

❛ pairing | ivar x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | ivar can’t hold it back anymore-- despite what it might mean for your relationship.

❛  warnings | bathing, nsfw themes.

Ivar loves laugardagur. It’s the special day when he can shower and where as it used to be an awkward event as he grew up, where mother bathed him in father’s bath all alone, it became special. Now, as a young man, he didn’t shower at home. Not with his brothers in the river either, as Sigurd would berate him, fold his arms and laugh how he had never been with a woman.

“Ooo, it’s cold!”

Ivar suppresses his smile then, settled in the shallow waters, his cracked lips churning his smile. Yes, Ivar loves laugardagur because it’s the one day where you have an excuse to run away from your drunk and happy family into the river for some actual quality time with him that may or may not be interrupted by your eavesdropping little family.

“It’s not that cold,” Ivar says, the water lapses around his belly button. You’re dancing around at the grainy shore, tipping your toe in, then squeaking. “Just get in already. What if someone sees you dancing like that?”

Like that, Ivar smiles, is the condition you’re in now. Nothing-- nothing but your arms secured around your breasts, your butt jiggling with the bounce of your feet. Beautiful and sweet. He reclines back on his forearms, glancing up at you. You set one foot in before backing out.

“Come on, Hvitserk might come around.” He warns, “You know how much he likes to creep.”

Like you, he holds back. That alone is enough to force your into the waters, splashing until Ivar holds out is hand, allowing you to settle by him. His eyes, previously locked to your naked skin, settles. A distinct pink pinches his cheeks. He settles a kiss to your knuckles as he did time to time, and chucks you the soap unceremoniously. It plips into the water with a splash, then carries a bit past his legs.

“Come on yourself!” You lurch over his legs, reaching for your wayward soap, and Ivar doesn’t know what’s worse. To see your round ass shift, and his fingers twinge with the desire to slap it, or the tickle of your nipples against his deformed legs. He settled for the latter, folding his arms over one another, and gazing up at clear blue skies. Puffy clouds roll on by. He thinks Freyja mocks him when his body involuntarily responds. “Did you have to throw it?”

“Eh,” he says, then shrugs, and you settle back by him to start washing yourself off.

“So,” your eyes look up, longer than they should, like you have something to tell him. Ivar knows that look-- “I was thinking.”

He grunts. Here it comes. Something probably ridiculous--

“I want to go with Bjorn to the Mediterannean.” --and that wasn’t it.

“With Bjorn?” Ivar snaps. “Did he invite you?”

You had to know how he’d react. With Bjorn? Alone? His mind wanders because he knows his brother. His brother wasn’t-- he didn’t cherish anything. Let alone anyone but himself. Not you-- Ivar turns, loosening rocks, grasping your shoulder with a shake for his answer.

“Hvitserk did.”

“Hvitserk,” Ivar throws up his hand, stewing. Hvitserk was as bad, but not as malicious. “What did he say, come travel the world to nonexistent lands with me?”

They very well did exist. He heard about them when dragging himself through Kattegat. The slaves that came from that place, their warm skin and sultry eyes, they were beautiful. Hvitserk heard things about the fruit that came from there-- the food. That was the reason why he wanted to go raid there.

“He said you’d be jealous.” You slap your hands together, laughing at his cheeks pressing red. “Just because I have a thing for Ubbe and Bjorn doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with them.”

You had better not. Ubbe? Tolerable, he could guilt him into not doing so. Bjorn-- the man was wild as a bear.

“I’m not jealous.”

He pouts.

“Don’t go.”

“What, so you won’t pout?”

“So I won’t be lonely.” His arms fall away, running up the expanse of your back. At that, you turn toward him, stuck with the weight of his words. The knowledge of-- that. He didn’t want to be alone. It would have been selfish to go.

“You’ll have Ubbe.”

“Ubbe prefers Sigurd.” Ivar starts, the pang of its realization deep in his chest. “You know that.”

Poor Ivar, he’d say. He empathized with him perhaps because he was afraid of him. He wonders if his brother truly loves him. Sigurd, he knows, may not. Hvitserk… he doesn’t know what to think of his elder brother. That leaves him with his mother whose love suffocated him day by day.

You exhale air through your nostrils, smoothing the soap down your chest. His eyes follow. “I know,” you say at last, splashing water up your breasts. You set the soap in his palm and turn, pulling your long hair back over your shoulders. “If you need me to stay, you could have just told me so.”

“I don’t need anything,” Ivar says, his pride in the way. Of course, as a real viking, he would never ask such a thing from you. He feels it then-- pressure against his back-- marked out by the softness of breasts pressing his sun kissed skin. You’re up against him, why? Why would you-- it’s that thought that fails him as your hands course through his hair, working the soap into his short hair, bathing him.

“Oh, come on Ivar-- you can say it.”

Say nothing, because he wouldn’t, or couldn’t. His eyes flicker away, following the rippling water, avoiding the feeling of your supple skin against his. He can focus that way on the chirping birds or the simple way the water courses through the rocks toward home.

“Say what?” he grumbles between gnashed teeth.

“You love me.”

Fuck. Ivar bristles because he knows you know and he knows there is no where to run this time. He swallows and looks up, behind him, where you bring cups of water with your hands to run his hair clean. Now, or never, he supposes.

“I love you,” he says short and quick as if the words would bite him if he didn’t make them out quick enough, past the water trickling over his prominent forehead and broad nose, trickling over his full lips, then down his jaw.

“See how easy that was?” you laugh, almost at his expense. Or it feels that way when you kneel behind him, your hands on his shoulders. Your head connects with his shoulder. “I love you too Ivar. I’ll wait for you to come raiding one day. We can do it together.”

Except-- the way you say it doesn’t sound the way he thought it should. It sounded like friends. Something that he’s sick of. Because a man-- a Viking man doesn’t have friends. Not nearly in the way other people had friends.

“...” he calls your name out, alternating you in front of him, in his lap, hovering in the water over his slender legs. With his hands on your hips, you’re forced to stabilize yourself by settling you hand on his shoulders. It’s not like always. It’s not platonic. He knows you have to feel his body crying out the truth because it’s there in front of you. If you had any question about his intentions, it’s erased as his thumb caresses your cheek with gentle restraint. “That’s not what I meant.”

What he meant, you realize, was much more complicated than that. It was his excitement that hovered between your bodies, thrusting you into embarrassment. “...oh,” you find yourself saying. His exhales, born between embarrassment and relief, that you knew. “I think I should go.”

His hand hovers there even when you stand, swash on the shore, and seize your clothes. That-- is why he never bothered to tell you. His worry now? That it’s all ruined. He sits there sadly deflated as your steps pad into mere echoes in his mind.

Aslaug sees a change in her son.

Nevermind that Ragnar has come back. His presence… both a strange, foreign welcome and a damnation on her tongue. He doesn’t sleep in their bed again. Rather, he sleeps on the hillside. Ragnar thinks himself smart but so is she. She has her eyes on the tired king, whose prominent beard, and exhaustion at such a young age has always worn him like a slave collar. Ivar seems desperate for his father’s attention and approval. Alive, if she could say. But in the sense that he was alive. He was also dead.

“Ivar…” she walks in, late at night, catching him sitting there. “What are you doing?”

His fingers flick and bounce before coming up to his jaw. His nose wrinkles up tight with a bundle of lines. Aslaug climbs up the steps to settle on the side of the chair, sitting with her long veil hooking at her delicate elbows. Ivar secures his hand on her side. He knows he shouldn’t be in his father’s chair. And yet, there he is.

“They won’t share,” he tells her. “The slave girl.”

Ah, Aslaug bends her head, the tickle of her newly short hair tickle her jaw. Ivar reaches up to kiss her knuckles, chewing on his cheek, and she softens as she looks at him. “I didn’t know you to be interested in her. I thought…”

“No,” Ivar snaps, snapping back in his chair to look at her, almost aghast. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Is that true?”

Tch, Ivar hisses, looking away. If it weren’t true-- you’d be here, sitting in his lap. Instead here he was, all alone.

“No, Mother.” He says, “She doesn’t want to be with me.”

“Well,” she caresses his cheek, then stands up. “I heard her tell Hvitserk she would be staying in Kattegat.”

As she descends the steps, Ivar pushes himself to the very front of the chair, crawling down, then after his beautiful mother. “What do you mean?”

“Something about staying for you?”

She holds the curtain apart which allows him to follow in. It’s been… a while. A while since your last bath with him. He imagined that your interest in marriage, at least to him, was nonexistent. He doesn’t understand.

“Me?”

“So she said.”

That… changed things.

“Help me, mother?”

Anything-- absolutely anything-- for her Ivar.

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#ivar x reader #ivar/reader #Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings imagine #Vikings imagines #honestsycrets fics #the vikings imagines #the vikings imagine #vikings x reader

[disparition]

Staves of Smoke (Text Version)

I. ash falls on tile, on paper, on skin ash enters our windways as a poison, and enters the earth as a nutrient carved stone sculpture of an open hand, embers collecting in the palm they spin and rise walk among ashes as though in a sacred courtyard – unarmed, naked, empty of song or idea walk among ashes as though barefoot into the wetlands, sinking and becoming the ending and beginning of the worlds in their millions, ashes rise from the ground in a cloud, the cloud fades into the sky and pulls back into the distance the shapes and forms that emerge into visibility are shaking, secretly and inwardly nervous, unsure how to approach clouds that choke and clog our passageways with memory. once, from distances, this scent could pull us for miles towards the solace of warmth and comradery. In the age of paper the scent is mixed with fear and imbalance. the clouds grow. we walk by day in ochre and fall to stillness as the veil disintegrates around us, asleep in beds of amber, washing up on their shores. II. He bought the little glass jar at a tourist trap in the Temple Pass, the tiny city they used to call Casa de Fruta and then the Nine Times City. Yes, the place where Faita’s Kite still lies in pieces up on the hillside. Yes, the same place where they still fly in the night. That place. The little glass jar was etched with the image of a poppy. Yes, that poppy. He filled the little glass jar with soil from the shore of the ancient resevoir, a thin column dry and loose at the top, wet and dense at the bottom, he spread it out upon his tile and ran it through the sieves before funnelling it into the little glass jar with the etching of the poppy. He was heading east against the flow, a direction that called attention, all the way across the valley he kept his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his robe, his head low, his thoughts a pure reflection of the landscape and vibration in the area immediately surrounding. A slow and silent mirror creeping along the overgrown upper paths of the Eightyway, he encountered few – and those he met, or rather saw, seemed as eager to avoid the mark as he. And so they passed each other with no acknowledgement, each giving wide berth and then erasing all shade and memory of encounter. Still, without quite realizing it, he had one set of fingers tightly clutched around the little jar full of earth with the etching of a poppy. They stopped him soon after he entered the foothills. He had left the road by then but it didn’t matter. From atop a low ridge he had stopped to watch figures throwing logs across the way at Clipper Gap as travellers lined up outside of a tent by the side of the road. On the approach to Applegate they surrounded him in a clearing, a pickup and SUV in front of him and another pickup behind. They poured out of the vehicles. He took his phone out of his pocket – yes even at that late hour he still had a phone. A gloved hand grabbed it and threw it into the field while someone pinned his arms from behind and then kicked his legs out from under him. Then another hand forced his face into the ground and a voice was calm and close in his ear : “you can simply dissappear”. More hands pulling at his robes, tearing it from his body and then ripping the pockets open. Someone picked him up so that he was kneeling but kept a hand on the back of his head, forcing his to the ground. They were going through everything and setting certain items aside on the hood of one of the pickups – even in this chaos he was attuned to the sound. The small leather tube containing the writ, the cutter, the digger, his canteen, the small glass full of soil from the ancient resevoir, the sieves, the tile. One of them gave a stifled yelp. They had found his eggs. He expected them to smash the eggs in an act of mocking cruelty and was surprised to see shells fall silenty to the ground as the eggs were eaten quietly and hurriedly by whoever spotted them. As he watched the shells fall he noticed their bootprints on the ground, the cross at the center of the pattern, and felt a cold dull pain rising at the base of his spine as his stomach began to churn. Wolves of Honor. He thought he had steered well north of their territory but things changed fast and information wasn’t what it used to be. All of the old maps were dead. Silent but nearly paralyzed with fear, they walked him over to the SUV and strapped him into a hard fiberglass seat in the back. He didn’t know much about the Wolves of Honor, but he had seen comrades with that cross pressed into their face or back, seen the broken hands and missing fingers, he’d heard the rumours about what had they had done to Jesse, what they had done in Truckee. That was enough. They were in motion almost immediately. The straps made it hard to turn his head, and a bare wooden board seperated him from the front of the cab. With pressure he could twist and see partially out of the window to his right, where the trees were getting thicker and the sky darker. Soon they were climbing steeper hills, winding back and forth into the Sierra, and he had to face forward to keep from getting sick. Eventually, he closed his eyes. They stopped at a low, small building on the edge of a small and steep ravine. When they pulled him out they light was almost gone but he could feel the form of the land, run himself over the jagged stone hidden beneath soft layers of life and death. They brought him into a small gray room partitioned by crude brickwork and thick, dull glass. In the tubelight he could see their piecemeal uniforms, the longrifles on their backs, their pins and patches, wolves and stormclouds, eagles and runes, the flag of the old empire with the five bars and the stars replaced by a cross. Two stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. Three sat at an ancient folding table. Through layers of glass he saw several other figures crowded into a tiny room at the far end of the building, shrouded in white, their movements hindered by some binding he couldn’t see. The blur of the glass masked their faces but they looked like elders, and they were swaying gently back and forth. The Wolves pushed him down into an old school chair that was bolted to the floor and bound him to it. Someone came in holding what was left of his robes and a duffel bag. With gloved hands they slowly removed his belongings and placed them on the table, the sieves, the tile, the cutter, the digger, his canteen, the small glass full of soil from the ancient resevoir, the small leather tube containing the writ. One of the soldiers behind the desk produced a clipboard overstuffed with white, yellow, and pink papers and carbon sheets. Yes, the triplicates of legend. In hushed tones they debated intracacies of the paperwork among themselves. He could hear them but their jargon was impenetrable. One by one they picked up the items, gestured at the forms and eventually filled out various sections, their tone and faces muted with boredom. When they came to the leather tube, they stopped as if afraid to touch it. Then one of them slowly stood and ambled outside. A heavy space lay on the room and all inside its partitions. The drone of the tubelight was the only sensation. Even the prisoners had stopped their swaying. The remaining Wolves stared ahead, eyes dulled. He scanned the walls, the ancient forms and notices still held up with tape, indecipherable graffiti in three languages, a crude drawing of Mia Marisol with her eyes crossed out and a snake coming out from her mouth. Could have been done by the Wolves or by any number of previous occupants; her name had been anathema in this part of the mountains long before their arrival. The wind began to pick up outside. A sound of leaves and creaking branches filtered through the brick work. Then the door opened quickly and a group of soldiers came in. They wore the same patches as the other Wolves but their armor was more uniform, they were heavy with clinking gear, they smelled of woodsmoke. One of them picked up the leather tube from the table and popped it open, then held the writ close up to their face, folded it in half, and stuffed it into a pocket. “Outside, and bring all his shit.” Two of them got up from behind the table, languid, slow, one of them pausing to stretch. They unstrapped him, lifted him roughly from the chair, rebound his hands behind his back; three went outside and then the two behind pushed him, following. Outside the dark was total and the wind strong. A floodlight above the door of the building shone on the gravel drive and reflected off of parked trucks. They all stopped just a few feet in front of the door. The soldier who had taken the writ was addressing the others: “He’s got a Writ of Gomez. Do you guys know what that is?” almost yelling to keep above the wind. “You should know what that is because we signed this. In fact, every chapter of Knights on the coast has signed it. McCora signed it, I was there when he did, and that means us. Now, I want to show you guys something. I’m going to show you how these people work and how to turn their own snake language against them.” The soldier turned to address him directly: “Gentle traveller, do you know the meaning of the term ‘to abide’?” In the silence the wind grew stronger. “You see in this writ it says that you are to ‘abide’. Specifically it says you are to abide by the structure of those realms you cross. Realms. Well, we aren’t a realm we are a republic, and in our republic we abide in Christ. Don’t worry, I already know you don’t. I already know that. But it says you are to abide by our strictures, and it turns out you don’t even abide by your own. How do you think we found you? Take a wild guess.” From the same pocket in which the writ was folded, his phone was produced. One of them must have gone into the field to find it. “I don’t know a lot about how you people do things but I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to have this. You don’t look like a Bubbler to me. And you definitely aren’t supposed to have it here.” The phone went back into the pocket. “And so we have you. Now, I know, we all know, what it is to trespass – because we are all sinners. The most we can do is ask forgiveness. To ask forgiveness, you have to accept Christ into your heart. Only then can you begin to abide – only then will it be in your nature to abide. Please kneel.” Someone kicked him hard in the back of the legs, heavy hands on his shoulders forced him down. He whimpered as his knees were driven into the gravel, the first sound he made in their presence. With his hands behind his back he couldn’t balance on his own, the two behind him holding him semi upright. The wind had grown stronger. Dry needles and small branches were blowing across the drive. One of the Wolves had gone back into the building and returned with the duffel bag, then one by one began tossing the items onto the ground. The sieves, the digger, the porceilein tile landed on a corner that chipped off. One of the sieves rattled as it rolled away down the slope. “Here’s our solution, and you don’t know how lucky you are that we’re in the middle of something right now. So, it’s simple. You will open your heart and accept Christ, you will abide in Christ so long as you remain on our land, we will let you take your little witch toys and walk away because they don’t do shit here. The illegal spy device that you brought into our republic will be cleansed and destroyed by the proper method, the writ of Gomez we will keep until we have observed you leaving our territory – it will then be sent to your superiors, the old way, and with our seal attached. Now, to show our faith we will unbind you so that you may place your hand over your heart. Please do so.” At that moment the little glass jar landed badly on a rock and shattered. Immediately the wind picked up the dust of the ancient resevoir, it circled in the air around the drive and fled into surrounding the darkness. It was then enough confidence returned and, triggering an aged memory, enough power entered him that words rose quitely in his throat and flew into the air: “may you sit for all of your days in the southwest corner of every room with a northwest wind blowing dust in your eyes.” They had not yet unbound his hands and they never did. One of them punched him hard in the stomach and then again in the chest. He struggled to breathe. They forced him upright, marched him back into the building, opened the layers of doors to the tiny room with the elders shrouded and white, and threw him to the floor. His hands still bound behind his back, a boot pressed down on them, then kicked him in the lower back, then stopped. They were furious, but hurried – there was something odd about their speed. They closed and locked the door and then shut off lights in the outer rooms, then there was another clanking of bolts as they locked the last door from outside. Then the sound of engines and the crunch of wheels on gravel as they left. And then the wind outside, the breaking of branches, the hum of the one flickering tubelight they had left on in the tiny room. As his breathing regained some normal rhythm and the pain began to subside, he managed to turn himself onto his other side. He had thought the room crowded with prisoners but it must have been some trick of the glass – there were only two. He recognized them immediately, the ancient teachers who had wandered the valley of Joachim and the Sierra in the chaos and the liquid days. One of them came from Fresno, the other Chico. As soon as they saw the recognition in his eyes, they looked at one another and, as though he were not present, began their Discourse. Outside, the emberse had already begun to fall. “Was this wise, what our young traveller has done? Look where he finds himself – bound and defeated. If one is caught in a current, it is unwise to swim directly against it” said the Teacher of Fresno “You must have failed to look into the eyes of our captors” remarked the Wise One of Chico, “our traveller has spread a fear into them. The fear will take them – maybe not this moment, or this day, but it will be their defeat.” “It wil not be the defeat of all of them. These people, these Wolves, they are a hairs breadth from the witch burnings and pogroms of old. To use such a curse, is to incur a debt. Howsoever that fear is spread, it will return upon him and not just him, but on all of his people, on those who are bound to him by love and knowledge, and on those who depend on their kindness, and so on across the webs between us all. Not every seed takes root but the one that does will break all the soil and drink all the water of the field” responded the Sage of Fresno. “And that of which you speak is that which must be done, the soil wil be broken and the water will be drunk, as we leave from the age of fields and enter into an age of the forest” opined the Aged One of Chico. “Does this transition need to occur without wisdom or foresight?” asked the Learned One of Fresno “and with such dire consequence for those caught in the margins? Those with less power will suffer for what he has thrown into the wind. To move from one age to the next is unavoidable, but is it so much to ask that this be done with sensitivity, and with precision? As reality shatters can we not watch our step, that we are not cut by the flying shards?” To which the Elder of Chico responded “Look down on the forests of tomorrow, which grow as did the forest of yesterday. Do you see it placed upon a grid?” The teacher of Fresno was consumed in a pillar of light. The teacher of Chico faded into the ether. Outside, the windws carried ash and ember and the distant sounds of chainsaws and of logs being thrown across the roads. III. There will come a day when you look up to find the sky full of machines – heavy and strange, objects that don’t look like they should fly. Like pieces of them are breaking away and falling slowly, drifting down like steel feathers. There will come a day when you condense all of your feelings into your fingertips until they glow and you will scrape them against the air leaving bright traces, and you will be unable to hide those traces before you are seen – was that the first time? Think back over the dreams you have had throughout your life. Focus on what you have seen again and again. Not the people, not the events, not even the feeling – not exactly. Look around you. Circle around and above. The room, the space, the architecture, the geography, the design, the living and unliving things and the balance between them. Focus on where you have been again and again. What are the settings you return to in dreams that you have never seen in the life you call “real”? The intersections, the hallways, the parks, the transit systems, the view out of and into windows. Focus on what you have seen again and again. Do not let yourself be led astray by the temptations of literary symbolism – the roads and bridges that we see in dreams are not metaphors, they are infrastructure. These are the marches, the borderlands, the high and distant domes of our temples are held aloft by pillars of smoke. That which happens here echoes and ripples. Currents wrap themselves around you. Focus on where you have been again and again. How is it possible that these memories have entered so deeply into you, the details of places you have never physically entered, this sense of routine and repetition How is it possible the drone of machines and weight of their distance, their journey across the upper atmosphere has covered you in your sleep like a blanket all these years Think back on the dreams you have had over and over in your life, and think on the dream you are in now Invisible and floating in a photonegative world, awake and waiting the painted masks, the order of keys, the pulling line. Three blue diamonds buzz against glass in the light of dawn. There will come a day when you glide just above the fields and the ground will drop from beneath you, the valley and its twisting currents far below, shrouded in mist. 

#california #narrative #poetry #dream #dreams #IN A WALLED CITY

[secret-time-is-here]

The King and his Aid

Chapter 4: Come back

Previous - First (Season 1) - First (Season 2) - Next

Waking up to the calming warmth of his lover again, he sighed. The shorter’s cheeks were puffed with magic, the tear tracks that had been turning transparent over the past years were bright and opaque. Almost a single blocky strip of blue running from each eye. He was peacefully sleeping, likely having struggled to stay asleep throughout the night.

Edwin was usually awake by now, the ex-royal was the one that always wanted to sleep in. On any normal day, he’d wake up clinging to his lover’s chest, using it as a pillow as his ex-aid would be sitting up slightly. Book in hand and waiting for him to wake up, ready to give a good morning kiss.

They would get ready for the day, make a delicious homegrown breakfast, maybe make some pastries or bread, and eventually, Gary and Roger would show.

Eventually…

It’d been weeks, and they were still waiting for them to show. Any sign. They hadn’t even gotten a chance of seeing them in the market. Even Classic was starting to get a little depressed, he always enjoyed the attention Roger would give him, and Gary was always more than content to help spoil the fluffy stray. Slipping delicious morsels, offering delicious jam and frosting to help sedate the feline’s sweet tooth.

Slowly leaning up and trying his best not to disturb Edwin, the elder got up and ready for the day. Tiptoeing out of the room to start making some breakfast.

It was only an hour or two later did the ex-servant wake-up, frowning when he saw an empty space next to him. The large bed feeling more empty than full. However, as his mind awoke, so did his senses. The weight of Classic at his feet, the blurry vision he had without his glasses, the clanging on pots and clanks of glass in his ears. The delicious smell of food and baking bread.

Fixing the forever faded star t-shirt he always seemed to wear to bed, he gently pulled his feet away from their spoiled little fur-child and got up. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants, not wanting to stare at the many scars of training he had on them. Keeping his eyes forward and away from the marks on his arms, he walked out and into the main room of the house, turning his head as he approached the corner, smiling when he saw Neil confidently making a breakfast fit for a royal.

“Morning, Moon.” he sleepily called, pulling up a chair and resting his arms on the counter, using them as a pillow for his head. Letting his eyes slid shut, a smile spreading across his skull as he listened to his Lover cooking.

“Good morning, love,” Neil happily sang, “Almost finished cooking, jam or butter?” He calmly asked, knowing that it would take some time for Edwin to fully wake up. Grabbing a coffee pot and pouring some into two cups, adding a little cream and a single sugar cube. Just the way his lover liked it.

“For toast? We still have any strawberry jam?” The younger asked, pulling the cup and its saucer closer to him, taking a sweet energizing sip of the coffee. The other gave a nod, “Then strawberry. Thanks for the coffee.” He smiled warmly, continuing to steadily drink the awakening mixture.

As his plate of food was slid to him, he felt a familiar weight land on his skull, his vision going from blurry to sharp in an instant. “Thanks, again,” Ed lovingly sighed, cuddling into his boyfriend’s side as he sat down next to him.

Neil hummed, nuzzling into the other’s skull, starting to eat and enjoy the morning with his soulmate.

“Are they… will they ever come back?” His tone was sorrowful, heartbreaking. His gaze staring at their front door. Expecting. Wishing for them to come walking in. The emotion pulsing through his soul and across their connection to Neil.

The ex-king wrapped his spare arm around the other, pulling him close into a half hug.

“I don’t know… but it’s their loss, isn’t it?” He spoke softly. Edwin looked up at him, “They’re missing out on spending time with such an amazing skeleton, one that has stolen my soul, and one that I’m oh so lucky to love.” Error chuckled slightly, stopped short of finishing when a loving kiss was pressed to his mouth. One he happily reciprocated.

“Thank you, Neil,” His smile was soft, gentle. A side he hid from everyone else, except his boyfriend. His world. Something that held such contrast to the strong and rough body, both of their seemingly emotionless or dark personalities. “You always know just what to say.”

Edwin hid his skull in the taller’s chest, moving himself up and caressing Neil’s neck with his nasal bridge. Finding the spot where he fit like a puzzle piece. One of the few places he felt safe.

“That’s my job.” Neil chuckled, letting himself enjoy the moment before he would go off on his personal mission.

-----

“Bye, Error, be back soon! Love you,” Neil called, closing the door behind him, “Now, to try and find them.”

It was only a few hours since the day had begun, so he had plenty of time to try and find Gary and Roger. He should’ve done this sooner, but he wanted them to come back on their own, when they left he said to himself “One month. One month, and I’m going to find you.”

While they were friends and not at odds, Gary had explained where they lived. How it wasn’t far from their own house. Just a short walk away if you knew the right trails, and with the help of a map, Neil knew how to get to.

Through paths, twists, and turns he made it to the small townhome. A dull blue-gray painted across the row, blending the house together.

“The second house from the same side as the path...” He recounted, walking down the sidewalk, “Four dolls in the window...” The pale boned looked at the front windows, finding the family of dolls, one in Gary’s liking, another in Roger’s, and another two that reminded him all too much of Douglass and Philip. Was that what Edwin used to look like? “...It doesn’t matter, what matters is I get them back or fail trying.” He muttered under his breath.

Slow and unsure of himself, he walked up to the door and knocked.

It opened a crack some minutes later. Roger’s blank eye staring at him from the crack, looking surprised before glaring.

“What do you want?” His cold, unfriendly voice answered, not the soft and friendly one he was used to hearing.

“Your help,” He pleaded, “I know right now you don’t like us all too much, but, you’re important to us. To Edwin. I’ve been with him for years, and he couldn’t remember if he even had any family. The closest he got was my own, my brother, in law, and more recently our nephew. When he found out about you guys, I could feel his happiness through our bond. I was hoping you’d give us another chance.”

When Roger didn’t budge, he sighed.

“I know we’re… different. But, you two are so important to him. He doesn’t want to lose you guys again.”

“...alright. We’ll… we can give you two another chance.”

-----

After getting back home, and many thank you’s from Edwin to all of them, they all settled down, and their friends started to explain themselves. How they didn’t think about how it would affect them, more importantly, affect Edwin. They were just focused on the idea of them being a same-sex couple. How wrong they were always told it was.

But, they were willing to be a little more open about it.

“You… were really that worried about losing us again? Do… you don’t remember what happened. Do you?” Gary asked, settling his hand on top of Edwin’s. Edwin shook his head.

“I don’t remember anything before washing up on the royal shores. I made a home out of driftwood and had that for a while...and eventually, Neil found me, and helped me. We befriended each other and grew closer. Even under the former Queen’s blessing.”

“Just like Cecil said,” Neil laughed, “Mothers just know.”

Gary and Roger glanced between themselves.

“You fell off the ship when we were traveling to America, decades ago. That’s probably how you washed up on those shores...” Gary started to recount, “A plague had hit our town, DT, melting people and turning their magic red. Your mother, Carolyn, and brother, Paul, died to it. It was just starting to affect you when we departed...”

The glitches started to grow on Edwin’s body, but he held back the reboot, he needed to know what happened. There had to be more. Glitches covered his eyes, blocks of white covering his body, but he could still hear.

“It melted half of your skull, your eye glitched and was half red. There were glitches all over your body...” Roger looked up, “I guess through everything that happened, they stayed… when you fell off, in your condition, and with how far we were out in the ocean, we didn’t think you’d survive.”

The reboot took over. Let the DT continue to flow throw his body, and let him live? Or do what the sickness was meant to and kill his body. Let himself fall to dust, or continue with his second life?

Nightmare belongs to @jokublog

Error belongs to @loverofpiggies

Reaper belongs to @renrink

Undertale! Gaster and Undertale! Sans belongs to Toby fox

#Undertale #my writing #Fanfic #The King and his Aid #Come back #Edwin x Neil #Neil x Edwin #Error x Nightmare #Nightmare x Error #Neil Nightmare Joku #Nightmare sans #Edwin Error Seeque #Error sans #Roger Reaper Renrink #Reaper sans #Gary Gaster Toby #Gaster #Classic Sans Tale #Classic sans

[captainrogers-ass]

Save Me - Chapter 3

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, multiple MCU characters

Word Count: 2424

Summary: Y/N has finally landed her dream job as a lifeguard on Midgard Beach, but how well will she fit in with the team and how will she cope after grabbing the attention of the blue-eyed captain?

A/N: Did some major editing for this chapter but it’s finally here. Hope you all enjoy and be sure to leave any constructive criticism you may have xx :))

Now that the sun was high in the sky more and more beach-goers had begun appearing, their colourful beach umbrellas and sun-burnt skin painting a vibrant tapestry along the sand. You watched on as each lifeguard got to work, flowing effortlessly around each other as Steve communicated each of their roles for the day. Sam, Wanda, Bucky and Peter had all headed back home before the work day started, only having come in for the trial since they weren’t scheduled to work that day. You said your farewells to them as they exited the watchtower, still sitting in your chair by the corner, not wanting to get in anyones way. Wanda was the only one who responded to you, waving back as she exited the building.

Fury made an appearance once more after having cleared the equipment from the beach, instructing you to follow him as he gave you a tour of the facilities. Downstairs, under the watchtower, sat three seperate rooms. The first one was locked by a simple blue door, the rust forming around the hinges notifying you that the room had remained unaltered for several years. Pulling a key from the bundle that lay at his waist he unlocked the first door.

The room was easily identifiable as being the shower room with several shower heads lining the back wall. Large drains sat under them, interwoven with the ugly floor tiles that were scattered underneath your feet. The room had a faint smell of mould indicating that the ventilation system probably wasn’t the best.

“They’re communal showers,” Fury informed you. “So everyone usually keeps their bathing suits on.”

Without another word Fury led you further into the room, past the showers, to two new doors. One clearly had a female silhouette outline on the door whilst the other had a mans silhouette.

“Bathrooms and change rooms,” Fury stated, “Although I’m sure you could figure that out.”

He didn’t let you get a look at the change rooms before he was striding back out the door you had entered from, you remaining hot on his heals trying to keep up with his quick pace. The next two doors along were roller doors, large and foreboding as they towered above you. Lifting from the bottom, Fury opened the first one revealing several pieces of gym equipment.

“The club provides a gym so you don’t have to pay for a gym membership. It’s the least we can do considering you all need to be in top shape.”

You wanted to explore the gym more and find out the extent of the equipment that lay inside, but with one quick motion Fury had shut the door once more, moving quickly onto the last door. It was larger than the other one in both width and height and you had pretty much already guessed what lay behind it.

As Fury opened the door your eyes were drawn to the three dune buggies that took up most of the space. You were no stranger to driving them, having gained all the experience you needed to ride one in your travels overseas. Looking up, you noticed the several rows of lifesaving equipment that lined the walls. The left wall was almost completely covered in paddle boards whilst the right wall was covered in different flotation devices and various sized surf boards. Two jet skies caught your attention from their position in the back of the room, shiny and clean. Your hands itched to touch them, reminiscing back to when you had last ridden one, adrenaline pumping through your veins as the wind whipped at your face.

“You done?” Fury questioned in a monotone voice, raising an eyebrow at you as you stared, motionless, at the jet skis.

“Y-yes! Sorry sir!” You quickly replied before hurrying out of the equipment room, Fury closing the door behind you.

Once the door was shut and locked he turned back to face you, “For the rest of the day I want you in the watch tower with Nat. She’ll show you how things are done around here. Once you’re comfortable using all the equipment in the tower, I’ll allow you to patrol the beach front.”

You nodded to him in understanding as you internally groaned. The beach was where you belonged and sitting inside all day would only make you agitated. Nevertheless you followed Fury’s instructions as you joined Natasha at her post in the watchtower. She greeted you with a friendly smile before she began going through the various bits of technology that surrounded her.

Your foot began bopping up and down under the table, desperate to get up and move.

***

Each piece of equipment was fairly straight forward to use, you had found, finding the pieces of technology similar to those you had used in past jobs. Currently you were holding binoculars up to your eyes, keeping a close watch on a group of people who were clearly tourists as they made their way down to the beach.

“So what do you think of the team?” Nat questioned, lifting a handful of fruit and nut mix up to her mouth.

You took another bite of your apple before answering.

“Well,” you chewed quickly to avoid talking when your mouth was full, “I don’t really know what to think.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow questioningly at your statement.

“Like, they seem like nice people, but it almost feels like they’re all going out of their way to make sure they don’t get to know me. It sounds stupid now that I say it out loud.”

Natasha shook her head, “Nah, it’s not stupid, they do this all the time.”

The tourists, having stripped down to their bathers and applied copious amounts of sunblock, were now making their way towards the water. There was a feeling growing in the pit of your stomach that felt all too familiar. Your eyes followed them as they swam into deeper waters.

“Whenever we get anyone new they always distance themselves,” Natasha continued, your attention fixated on the group of tourists as most of them returned to the shore to sunbathe, two of them remaining in the water.

“They don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that they have trust issues. They like to make sure you’re capable of doing your job. Misplaced trust can lead to someone losing their life.”

You were no longer listening to Natasha as you noticed a rip beginning to form around them, the waves around them becoming fewer and further in between as the water grew cloudy from the movement of the sand.

Picking up a comm, you spoke into it clearly, “I’ve got a rip forming with two tourists swimming inside. They haven’t noticed yet but it’s dragging them out.”

Steve was the first one to reply, “Where is it?”

“Middle of the beach, right in front of the tower. I’m going to grab a board and get them out before they start to panic.” You stood up from your chair before Steve responded.

“No, I’ll go, stay where you are.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you picked up the comm to respond.

“You’re all the way at the other end of the beach, I’ll reach them way quicker than you will.”

“It’s okay, I’ll do it. Keep your position.”

“I can reach them and bring them back to shore before you’ll even get all the way up here.”

You heard the engine of Steve’s buggy start up as he began driving down the beach.

“I said keep your position,” he replied, his voice slightly raised in annoyance.

You threw the comm back onto the desk with a grunt of frustration, quickly grabbing the binoculars and raising them to your eyes once more. Your gaze was now fixated on the location you knew Steve had been positioned at, following the speeding buggy as it raced down the beach.

For several minutes you stayed motionless in your chair, watching with bated breath as the tourists now realised the danger they were in. Flicking your eyes back towards the buggy you noticed that it had been severely slowed down due to the crowded beach, Steve honking his horn in an attempt to get the pedestrians out of his way.

The tourists had now begun to panic, flailing their arms to get someones attention. You could tell that they weren’t strong swimmers by how quickly they fatigued and their poor swimming technique as they tried to keep their heads above the water.

“Screw this,” you said under your breath, standing up from your chair as you quickly began to remove the clothing that covered your bathing suit.

“Y/N he’s nearly there, just let him do this,” Natasha called to you as you flew out the door.

You broke into a sprint as you ran down from the watch tower, grabbing one of the numerous paddle boards that had been lined up outside as you went. Keeping up your fast pace you made it down to the shore in record time. The buggy caught your attention from the corner of your eye as it neared where you were, stopping quickly as Steve grabbed the paddle board attached to the back.

You were already paddling, having made it halfway towards the struggling swimmers, before you heard Steve call from behind you.

“I told you to hold your position!”

You elected to ignore him as you controlled your breathing, pushing through the water as fast as you could.

Having reached the first tourist before Steve you reached into the water and grabbed the shirt he was wearing, dragging him onto your board as he coughed violently and gasped for air. You felt the ripples in the water wash up against your board as Steve rushed past you using the same technique you had used to haul the tourist out of the water and onto his own board.

He looked back at you with a scowl on his face.

***

After dragging the two men back to shore, having made sure they had sustained no injuries, you rushed off towards the tower before Steve could yell at you. You replaced your board back where you had got it from, took the steps two at a time before grabbing your towel from your locker, drying yourself off.

Natasha didn’t get a chance to speak up before the door opened once more. A sigh escaped your lips as you saw that it was only your other coworkers coming back for their lunch break before they would quickly head back to their stations.

However the calmness in the watchtower was soon dispelled as Steve flung the door open with great force, storming straight towards you with an angry scowl covering his face. The room fell silent.

“I thought I told you to stay where you were,” he said, his voice seething with anger rather than volume.

“And I told you that I could reach them before you,” you replied, matching his tone.

“That’s not your decision to make!” His voice began to grow louder as he walked towards you, backing you up against the wall, his body nearly touching yours. You could feel the heat and anger being expelled from his skin, warming your cold body.

“So what did you expect me to do? Sit on my arse as I watched them drown whilst you took 3 years to get there?”

Steve turned away from you running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I was waiting up here for five minutes,” you continued. “5 whole minutes before I ran down to get them and I still beat you there. That’s a hell of a long time to be struggling in a rip. I could’ve had them out of there before they even realised they were being dragged to sea, but no, you had to be the one to save them because I haven’t proven myself to you yet. I get that trust goes a long way in this business, but common sense is also a pretty big factor in this job, that of which you seem to lack.”

Your words came out harsher then you intended. The boys, who were currently frozen by their lockers, stood in silence as they stared at you in shock. Tony let out an involuntary snicker at your works, disguising them as a cough when Steve turned to glare at him.

“And what were you going to do if another emergency occurred back at your station? It was a stupid position and everyone here knows it. You put your pride before those people’s safety. You endangered there lives just because it’s my first day here and I haven’t shown you that I actually have the skills to save them.”

The room remained silent as you continued with your rant.

“Well guess what? I don’t need your approval to know that I can do my job. Fury didn’t hire me just because I applied, he hired me because I’m good at my job. I don’t really care if you all exclude me until I’ve proven myself, go right ahead. However, when you start to make rash decisions because you don’t think I can do my job, that’s when I take offence. I’ve been in this industry for longer than some of you have so don’t pretend like you’re better than me just because I worked on a different beach.”

Silence hung in the air as you breathed heavily, riled up from the anger coursing through your veins. You looked at Steve who was staring at you with a mixture of anger and shock, his eyebrows knotted together as his gaze remained locked on you.

As you stared back you started to regret some of your words, believing yourself to have been too harsh on the rest of the team. Sure, they hadn’t been welcoming, but your reaction was a bit over the top.

Realising that no one was going to retaliate you ran out of the room and down to the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror for several minutes. Sure, they hadn’t been welcoming, but your reaction was a bit over the top.

Knowing you couldn’t leave Natasha alone in the watch tower you quickly splashed some water over your face in an attempt to cool yourself down. With a sigh you began to make your way back to the room finding it empty on your arrival except for Nat who was still sitting in her chair, a sympathetic look spreading over her face as her eyes met yours.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steven grant rogers #steve rogers au #steve rogers x reader au #mcu #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #captain america #captain america au #captain america x reader #captain america x reader au #Chris Evans #chris evans x reader

[lianneoelke]

Yukon Gold, Part 2: An Involuntary Dismount From the Canoe

Good morning from Fort Selkirk!

With bellies full of hearty chilli and a sky full of smoke, JJ and Falcon Heavy were ready to hit the river for our fourth day of canoeing down the Yukon River.

We were only five minutes past Fort Selkirk when JJ realized we forgot a radio and both cans of bear spray. We couldn’t just turn around and paddle upstream, so we had to land so Brian could run up the beach and grab everything (which was left on the above picnic table). After that, we were well on our way to an 80km day.

We spotted a black bear munching berries on an island.

We weren’t the only group on the river making a pilgrimage to Dawson City for the music festival. We’d play leapfrog with the same groups so often we came up with nicknames:

Spanish Armada: the group of nine Spaniards that made giant Spanish omelettes for breakfast and tied two canoes together because they had an odd number of people.

Walmart: the family that travelled with camping chairs, big tarps, and coolers. JJ disliked Walmart. JJ thought Walmart was American. Those are two separate sentences. Walmart was actually from Whitehorse. 

Gold Diggers: a husband and wife that would set up on islands and pan for gold. Or so it seemed. 

Reckless Youth: a handful of twenty-somethings from UBC with an aversion to life jackets.

Father & Son: they had little to say, to us or each other.

Frenchies: two French guys. That’s it. 

Christmas Trees: a red and green boat of women having a jolly old time.

We learned the Spanish Armada planned to camp at the site we were aiming for that night. We could have joined them, but I, for one, did not travel all that way to the middle of nowhere to make new friends. So we had to find somewhere else. We came across another good campsite early in the day, but the weather was beautiful and we wanted to get more kilometers in, so we kept pushing. This moment would be remembered as the time we “got greedy”.

Storm clouds blew in fast. When thunder started booming, Brian told us all to get off the river. So we did. And we waited. Then the rain started. And we waited some more. 

Brian (very reasonably) didn’t want to get back on the water until thirty minutes after the last thunder, but the thunder wouldn’t let up. Things were looking grim. Then we remembered we had snacks. We survived on gummy bears, chips, tea, toasted pita and hummus, and craft hot chocolate from Portland, for the two and a half hours it took for the storm to pass.

Spirits wavered but never failed. 

By the time the storm passed, we still had another ten kilometers to paddle before we reached our goal of Brittania creek, and we found ourselves in the curious position of chasing the storm we had just weathered. When we finally arrived, the site was full of bugs, but at least there weren’t any new friends buzzing around.

For dinner I made a bastardized version of Pad Thai, using the canoe as a table while being swarmed by mosquitoes. I quickly realized why this particular packet of curry paste was left untouched in our cupboard for years.

By this point JJ had given up on the trappings of individuality and had matured into a fully realized single entity. So when JJ cast a line and caught their first decently sized fish at 11.36 pm, the three of us celebrated the incredible testament to JJ’s speed, momentum, and finesse. Considering all the rain we endured, we figured it was safe to build a small beach fire to cook the fish. 

We all came to regret this decision, as the fish remains and fish-smoked clothes had to be dealt with before we could finally go to bed, in order to minimize bear attraction. However, since I cooked that night, I was able to dodge clean up. I went to bed without a care in the world.

Day five dawned sunny and misty. We knew this would also be a big day, but for a very different reason. This was the day we’d reach the bakery. Yes, somehow there was a bakery in the middle of nowhere on the Yukon River. 

Power strokes would get us there quicker. 

Of course we had to stop whenever we came across moose trampling through the bushes, beavers smacking their tails, and bears ambling down the beach.

The bakery turned out to be less of a bakery and more of a family home that sold $18 omelettes and saran-wrapped cookies (we bought them all). We payed $8 each to stay the night. Camping in someone else’s backyard to listen to their kids blast music and play in their pool felt strange after the solitude of the river, but we knew the daily thunderstorm would hit us soon and the last thing we needed was to “get greedy” again. So we settled in, washed up, and tackled laundry.

JJ waiting out the 6 o’clock thundershowers. 

Of course, no camping trip with JJ (formerly Rob) would be complete without curry. JJ made us a heaping pot, just in time for more rain showers. 

The next day we found ourselves fresh out of fresh ingredients, so we climbed aboard the COUS COUS train and headed for dehydration station.

Rafting up for snacks and map checks.

We had lunch at the island right before the White River, which poured all its glacial silt into the Yukon. The two rivers blended like miso soup. JJ made ramen while Brian flew his drone for a better view.

After lunch, we found a short but steep trail to hike. 

After the merge we could no longer filter our water from the river, which was so thick we couldn’t even see our own feet when we dipped them in. All the silt brushing against our canoes made a constant fizzing noise, like a never-ending glass of coke being poured. 

Just a couple bros enjoying happy hour with river-chilled beer.

After the relative business of the “bakery”, we decided to camp on an undesignated island covered in moose tracks. While the views and privacy were top notch, all the silt made for very muddy shores.

Brian made delicious minestrone soup for dinner, then treated us to freeze-dried ice cream sandos in honour of the 50th anniversary of the moon landing.

You can only get dishes so clean in the silty water, but on day six, cleanliness was no longer a priority. Brian had bought a last minute gold pan in Whitehorse, and while it didn’t find us any gold, it did make an excellent vessel for washing dishes and laundry.

The sky was still light at 1 am, because the sky was always light. We went to bed when it was light. We woke up when it was light. Time had no meaning on the river. It created (for me, at least) a sense of security. Openness. Like the Yukon had nothing to hide. But the truth was, we were in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest town, on a muddy river where every island was covered with bear, wolf, and moose tracks.

We woke to the sound of splashing outside our tent. I immediately thought the moose had come to do us in, but instead of moose on the loose, we saw a gaggle of goose. 

These banks were home to countless cliff swallows that zipped along the river, eating bugs. Yum. 

“JJ first.”

There’s gold in them there hills. But not really.

Our last night on the river was spent at the Mechem Creek site. We set up camp as Brian howled in the cold cold creek, washing off the heat of the day.

Fire bans don’t count on the last day of the trip. Not if it’s been raining every day and you’re careful. JJ struggled to get the fire going (which Brian and I found slightly concerning, considering how dry the sticks were), but all’s well that ends well. 

I made a pesto surprise COUS COUS dinner with brownie bear poo for dessert. Everyone saved some sort of fun surprise for their last meal.

“Very good food on this trip. Every meal has been at least a solid 7.5 out of 10.” - JJ

The site at Mechem creek turned out to be my favourite camp site, not least because we saved a bag of wine for that night. 

We woke up at 6am up to a brilliant, clear sky.

JJ treated us to one last meal on the river.

There’s nothing better than a well packed canoe! 

River travel is tiring work.

We rafted up for one last ceremonial flip of the map, which brought us to our final page. Spirits were high. Jokes were shared. We were finally on the home stretch of our 8 day, 400 km paddle through the Yukon wilderness.

Minutes away from Dawson City, disaster struck.

Brian wanted to stop for a drone shot of Dawson before we paddled in, so we radioed JJ to let them know to land at the tip of the next island. Unable to reach the point in time, JJ decided to land mid island, where the strong current had eroded the bank, causing several trees to topple. It was a bad place to land, and they came in hot hot hot.

Official statement from JJ:

“JJ experienced an involuntary dismount resulting in minor losses from the deck and a minor intake of water. However, the landing was successful.”

JJ thought the word “capsize” was too passionate for the encounter, but Falcon Heavy disagreed. When JJ’s canoe met land, the current hit from underneath, tipping the canoe and its contents upstream. Brian turned to me and said “They capsized. They did exactly what I told them not to do.” No one was injured, although Jordan’s solar panel and Rob’s hat and beloved binoculars were lost to the water. Falcon Heavy found a safe eddy to pull in, then Brian brought out the drone while we waited for JJ to get their shit together.

The paddle of shame.

We had just got back in the water when we heard the unmistakable rumble of thunder. We were faced with a dilemma: get off the water, like all Brian’s experience suggested we do, or “get greedy” and paddle hard to race the storm.

We paddled hard...

... but not so hard we didn’t have time to admire the first and only fox we saw on the river.

That’s Dawson City at the top.

This time our gamble paid off, and we made it to the docks with nae drama (except for the paddleboat that honked at us to get out of its spot).

Safe and sound in Dawson City, it was time to look back at our favourite and not so favourite moments of the canoe trip.

JJ (Jordan)

Highlight: Fort Selkirk. Just the whole fort. So cool.

Lowlight: Involuntary canoe dismount and loss of solar panel. 

Gold Star: Gold Pan/Brian Shaw for getting the gold pan.

JJ (Rob)

Highlight: The River (as a tangible entity and metaphysical being) The colours, the current, the curves...the feeling.

Lowlight: Involuntary canoe dismount and loss of binoculars. 

Gold Star: JJ. The physical embodiment of speed, momentum and finesse.*

*In all my years of highlight/ lowlight/ gold star, I have never seen someone award the gold star to themselves. 

Brian

Highlight: All the Yukon cabins. The history of the Yukon Crossing, the trees growing out of Thom’s Location cabin roof, the historically intact cabins of Fort Selkirk (inside and out), and all the private cabins we saw in between.

Lowlight: Cleaning up the fish & fire at Britannia Creek between midnight and 1am, exhausted from the long day, swarmed by bugs, still stinking of fish, right into the tent.

Gold Star: Jordan, for making the trip (and JJ) happen by stepping in at the last minute and filling the spot, prepared and enthusiastic, and a strong paddler.

Lianne

Highlight: The beautiful site and tasty food at Mechem Creek. Also the fact that none of the canoeists that stopped by the creek for water decided to stay the night, because sharing the site would have really killed the vibe.

Lowlight: Spending hours waiting out the day four thunderstorm under a tarp.

Gold Star: The map. Following along and “staying found”, as Brian would say, was easy and delightful.

Bonus Gold Star: Brian Shaw. The unofficial leader of our canoe trip, Brian looked after us all with his experience, well-muscled arms, moon landing trivia, sexy beard, and positive attitude. 

As always, most of the good pics were taken by Brian. He put together an album of the 2019 Yukon River greatest hits: 

https://www.flickr.com/photos/22674099@N08/albums/72157710102335767/page1

Stay tuned for the third and final part of Yukon Gold. Dawson City will bring a music festival, rowdy casino, epic hike, and a real life Yukon character known as “the Ghost”. 

#yukon #yukongold #yukonriver #canoe #canoeing #canoecamping #exploreyukon #dawson #camping #canada #explorecanada

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Depths Below: Epilogue, Part 2

[ OOC Disclaimer ]  | Over the last year HoTN has put together this story ‘In Depths Below’ it began with Lazarius being taken from Kun-Lai Summit, and the chase to get him back from the Hunters hired by Magister Dawnseeker was unveiled.  Every member eliminated a certain threat, the Order banded together to orchestrate the take down,  and accomplished their mission they’d set out to do.  The events here are what happened during.  This is Lazarius’ side, where he was; and what he’d done.  And just how he and a certain new savior became bonded.  Id like to give a tremendous thanks to @zandalaridruidofgonk for the help in putting this together and making it happen.   And thank you to everyone who has offered support and kind words over the last year.  Without further delay, the conclusion of our 2nd fictional collaboration.  In Depths Below. |

[ L.K ]     She did need him to rest. She needed him to take his time healing and the best thing she could give him at this point was sleep. She had dressed the open wounds which were no doubt a result of hitting coral on the way into the shore, punch marks and bruises around the swollen eye socket and jawline were likely to his encounter with the hunters. But rest would do wonders.

Throughout the night she could hear the sound of his mumbling and sounds gurgling as he slumbered. Lazarius was by no means, a Sindorei. Nor was he Ren’dorei. Those elves were nothing but a flavor of the month in his eyes, pathetic and weak. No Lazarius was something far different. Having entered into a pact with N’Zoth at only the age of a child.

There were many things about him that this troll would never learn, lest they bond. But through that whole night, Jursol could hear the sound of the Shath’yar on his tongue. Sounds that often could never be made out by common speakers. The man was mysterious indeed.

But that would be their night. His tossing and turning, her keeping an eye on him as she tried to rest. Her raptor keeping its eye on him.

The Morning had come. . .

The troll was no fool, and Lazarius was laying on his side facing the wall. He was breathing softly and trying to collect his thoughts, trying to remember where he was. Grass walls, soft bed made of leaves...sticks...the smell of mojo...voodoo or was that hoodoo? He was silent and still.

If Jursol was anything like the proud huntress she seemed she would have never let her eyes move from the man, or had the raptor watching him. He could just sense he was not alone at all. There would be two options here. Move and risk being eaten, or remain still. He opted for the later.

It was hard for him to change tongues, but the Nine did have many different races among them. Trolls were not uncommon. And Lazarius was a brilliant man, where they were and how they were traveling it had to be a Zandalar island.

Plus the smell. This was a troll hut. He would try his best to offer a bit of respect but remained facing the wall hoping to hear an answer. His Zandalari was broken at best but a few trolls had helped him to at least speak broken words.

“ Speak orchish? Common tongue?”. He waited in silence looking away in hopes of a positive answer.

[ J ]     The morning was silent for the most part as Jursol finishes a drink for the elf. She seemed to have managed to get some sleep when the white feathers raptor was on guard duty. It was full of herbs and nutrients he’d need to get his strength back. It’s oddly smell fairly good and sweet. The sound of the elf speaking as best he could in Zandalari caught her attention.

“Ah you be awake!” She said laughing. “I do be speaking common and orcish my friend. You be safe here to take time to rest and heal. A little break from what seems to be a crazy life you be liven. My name be Jursol, the little one is Jimba, and the larger white one outside is Mawa.”

Reaching to grab a cup as she poured the liquid into it.

“Dis be a drink made to help get your strength back. Full of nutrition you need and herbs.”  Making her way to be bedside as she held the drink out to him. Once he got a good look at her he’d notice three small tribal scaring marks on each cheek, golden orange warpaint on her nose, and under her eyes, golden gauges in her ears, as well as small tusk hanging like an earring.

As she smiled it was clear she also had fangs to go with her clawed hands. Somehow she seemed none threatening to him despite all this. Her cloths were made of feathers, leather, cloth, and some beads. Her dark teal hair had leather wraps, feathers and beads as well. Seemed she had a theme going with things.

“Think you can be taking small sip of dis? A robe is here for when you be able to safely put it on.” A smile remained on her face as she urged him to move and face her to sip of the drink.

[ L.K ]     Slow and steady, the man would turn on his shoulder as he began to face the sound of the female troll. Now he was no stranger to the hatred of the Amani and his people. He was also no stranger to the Zandalari and how badly they were treated during the mission in Pandaria. Still they are seen as a bit of a danger. But that was not his fear, his fear was that of being eaten. Or worse sacrificed to some...loa that he was unsure of.

“ Jursol....”. Lazarius said softly as he rolled to face her. At this point she could see the black eyes of the man even more clearly now. He was sure a strange one.

“Lazarius Kashebahl...were you the one to pull me from the shore...”. He was struggling but it would seem that he was nursing more of a fatigue than anything else.

The offer of the drink didn’t make him mad or weird but he would have to decline for a moment.

“If it is all the same to you...I will mend quicker if left to my own device...by tomorrow morning I will be out of your hair.”.

He would finally scoot to the edge of the bed and lower his legs to the floor. He sat there, shameless to whether she cared or not in his nudity. He wasn’t really concerned. But he did peer back at her with a glance.

“Were there any other people on the beach? Anywhere at all, any survivors?”

[ J ]     Jursol seemed pleased to see he was stronger then expected as she pulled a small chair over. She seemed none offended by him declining the drink.

“You be much stronger then others who have seen such injuries. I could swear you were healing over night somehow.”

Setting the drink down on a nearby table as the small raptor leaped into her arms.

“Ah yes it be me who moved you from the beach. I did not see signs of others at the time, but it’s possible some may have washed up elsewhere. The tides here be strange some days. Once you be stronger I can be taking you back to help look for others. If you be wanting to that is.”

A deeper tone yet somehow soothing was how she spoke. Her clawed hand petting the little raptor in her lap.

“You be safe here while you rest. We not be letting harm come to you so easy. I be guessing you be a user of void like some other little elf I be knowing. The veins of yours remind me of hers.”

[ L.K ]     Lazarius would sit there for a moment as he began to think about what she was saying. From the sound of it the rest of them were dead. That was all he needed to know.

“Can you take me back there later this afternoon? I will be fine...I also need a smithy...”.

The chained gauntlets on his hands still covered him. He was unable to use his hands.

“Unless you think you can get these off without severing my hands.”. The Inquisitor would calmly begin to compose himself as he thought more and more how fortune he was to have landed here, to have been rescued like this. Trolls were not always the most hospitable caretakers. Not like dwarfs and gnomes.

At the mention of her knowing another elf like him he coughed out a laugh. Seemed his lungs were still sore from the amount of water he inhaled and spat up.

“You would not be wrong, I am actually regenerating as we speak. Hence why I say this and trust me when I do...you have and will not ever meet a being like me.”.

Lazarius turned around and went to go reach for his robe and was reminded of his shacked hands. She could see four black beak like probes poking out from his shoulder blades about middle of his back and around where his kidneys would be. They appeared to be bone like and black. Had she just missed them before or...was he actually regenerating?

“I need to get back to that beach... and I need you to help me kill anyone who may have washed ashore. They are dangerous men.”

[ J ]     Jursol looked at the chained gauntlets on his hands as she tapped her chin. She pondered if a strong enough acid could eat though then, or if she needed something more. Hearing him laugh she to begin to laugh some as well.

“They be elf like . . . well not be exactly like you, but does have dark veins. Yours be different though, as if your connection is far deeper.”

Looking at his body, and how it seemed to be regenerating already in a way she’d never seen before, she leaned in just a bit looking closer.

“You be regenerating better then any troll I ever be knowing! I have never seen anything like dis before! Truly fascinating.”

[ L.K ]     When she mentioned his regeneration he would make a remark toward her. “It is a cursed blessing....”

[ J ]     “Hmm. . .dat be a common ting. . .now. . .chains be a problem we must deal with. If dis does not work I will be needing some help.” Turning to face he elf with a smile as she moved back his way.

[ L.K ]     Lazarius would keep quiet and the troll went on speaking about others she knew and things she had seen. He was clear now that this must be Zandalari lands or at least somewhere near by if she knew of the elves and other races.

The man shifted his weight and looked up at the much taller being.

“ A parasitic entity has fused with my genetics...my blood; if you can actually still call it that, is a viscous black ichor which reacts to the void. It is currently repairing the damages to the host...being me.”

[ J ]     Jursol listened carefully to him as he spoke about the entity that had fused with him. Thinking it sounded much like a parasite that slowly takes over the host body. Knowing others would have died from such a thing it only raised her curiosity more.

“Dat be. . .ah not so common ting. . .” she smirked

This was no elf anymore when it comes down to it, and she being inquisitive wanted to know more. However trust must be gained not rushed. Plus he seemed fascinating so that was a pro.

[ L.K ]      The elf held his hands outward for the troll so she could apply the acid. He watched with the black galactic orbs sunken in his head, peering and waiting for a change once she did.

[ J ]     As she spoke she made her way to the table grabbing a small vial. The liquid was a neon green color and had a pungent odor.

“Lucky for you though,  I be knowing a smith if need be. He can be getting any chains off anyone. I be using his help when hunters attack the animals on the preserve.”

Slowly she tried a small amount of the liquid on the chains, watching for any reaction at all. She did not wish to use to much if it was useless on those chains.

“Let’s be seeing if dis works. Once they be removed my raptor friend and I will gladly help you deal with any others.”

[ L.K ]      “Very well. . . let us see. . .”

While he waited to see if there was going to be a change in the material or not, his black eyes scanned over the surface hoping to see any fluctuation in its continuity.

“ More...” he reacted and asked for, hoping it would fix the problem.

“ More....”. he commanded again as the molten iron of the chains and gauntlets began to sizzle.  

[ J ]       Watching carefully as the acid seemed to having no reaction as she almost sighed. His voice however asking her to pour more stopped her.

His demands seemed to make her more determined to make it work. Pouring more and more at his command. A sizzle! Her eyes grows wide as she saw this may work with help.

[ L.K ]       “Let me try and generate a bit of reverse combustion from the other side...”. The shadows around the room and the group of beings and raptors would suddenly begin to quiver. He was unable to do very much with his hands covered, it was how he worked through the void.

[ J ]       “Yes! Do whatever you be able to help. Dis acid alone won’t do it, but with help....” She stopped speaking as she noticed her larger raptor shaking, the small one rushing beneath her feet frightened of something she could not see.

[ L.K ]       The air grew cold and silent. There was this stagnant, horrific sense of dread that seemed to emanate from within him as he channeled his power. On his lips she could hear the faintest sound of his words, he was whispering and speaking a Shath’yar the prayer and incantation to summon his energy from within. Clearly this was not anything respectively normal.

[ J ]       A feeling of dread hit her as she felt her body getting chills. No stranger to darker magic but this was far from what she was used to. It fascinated her even more. The feeling only got stronger as she shivered.

[ L.K ]       “More!” he yelled as the glowing cannon shaped gloves protecting his hands began to sizzle from her acid and vibrate from his power.

[ J ]       Gaining her composure hearing him wanting her to pour more acid. Her hands steadied her hands before pouring more of the acid onto the gauntlets. She could not understand his words outside of ‘more’, but knew they were important to what he was doing.

[ L.K ]       The gauntlets appeared to be phasing in and out of existence at this point, so much gravitational weight being channeled within the glove that they were quaking and moving at a rapid speed like they were accelerating in place.

[ J ]       As the gauntlets began to phase in and out of existence, her face took on a true look of awe. Nothing like this has been seen by her before, and she’s lived a good long time by now.

[ L.K ]       Lazarius was dripping a black liquid from his nostril and from both eyes it would run like mascara. It was clearly taxing on him to try and put this much effort in his already weakened state.

[ J ]       His screams and painful old gods words were growing more intense and louder but he would not give in, perhaps it was inspiring and caused her all the more reason to pour the liquid and keep helping him seeing he was not giving up despite the pain.

Her eyes looked to his face for a split second to notice him bleeding from his eyes and nose. This truly was powerful magic, dangerous magic. Something one should not only respect, but also fear. Her focus returned swiftly to pouring more acid. His screams caused her raptors, and some animals outside to react with fear.

[ L.K ]       But then in a flash of energy and purple smoke the gloves would pop and be sent rifling through the side of her hut wall into the jungle, screaming like a gnomish firework as it barreled deeper and deeper into the brush.

Lazarius’ hands were obliterated and badly burned of flesh.  The tissue was separated from bone and visceral ends of what were once his fingers dripped with the black venomous substance. The amount of damage that had been caused would not fully go into his examination and thought process until much later.  But the right hand was missing its pinky finger, and half of the ring.  His left was completely gone save for his thumb and index finger.  The damage was extreme.  

His voice cracked and he cheered a mixture of triumph and pain, the adrenaline from having survived the blast only lasted briefly before feinting and falling back onto the cot from exhaustion.  He lay there, chest rising and falling as he tried to recoup from the activity. He was smiling and laughing as he peered up at the ceiling of the hut.  

“Success...” he said softly to himself and her. The grin spoke more than he ever could.

[ J ]       Within seconds she was temporary blinded by the flash caused by the energy and purple smoke. A pop sound was heard right before the sound of wood breaking, and the gauntlets screaming as they flew deep into the jungle.

Jursol’s sight returned to normal as she looked at his bloodied remains of his hands. It was truly something that was ripped straight out of a nightmare but she had a hunch this was something he’d accounted for.   And normally she worried more over this, but she had seen first hand his regeneration abilities. She decided to aid the best she could by wrapping some fresh cloth around them for the time being, and as he seemed thrilled to be free, she laughed with him.

“You be like nothing I have ever seen before. What you did be something truly amazing. Power like that not be something one messes with lightly. I be impressed with the control you have over it.”

Looking at the home in the side of the hut as she shook her head.

“Lucky it be small enough. Easy to fix.” As she looked down at him resting she felt the little raptor nudge her leg. A clawed hand moving to comfort the little one.

“Once you feel rested we can be going to check for others”

[ L.K ]     The time spent between the two of them here in this interaction may have been sparse and brief but what was being reflected as a very keen bit of information that the two of them could clearly start dissecting. He was very much an alpha. A leader. It must have been clear by the way he spoke, how he acted and what he was doing through the entire ordeal that she must have picked up on it.

She on the other hand, well she struck him as a free thinker. She acted on her own, lived on her own, but saw potential when possibilities that would produce correct results surfaced. She was someone he could have expected to never find. These gifted individuals were scarce to say the least.

"I do whole heatedly apologize for the damage to your home Miss Jursol. It is never my intention to walk in to another persons residence and destroy it like this. But I do greatly appreciate your cooperation under these circumstances."

[ J ]       Jursol really was always one to follow her own path. A free thinker and one to act on her own, she also knew there are times to also listen and follow others. It helped that she was so curious to learn new things.

[ L.K ]     Lazarius did appreciate her tender care to wrap the hands with a soft linen bandage. He was recovering slowly this time. Activities like this such as void bending and gravitational collapses always drained him.  And as was previously indicated by the shipwreck and near death; he was no where near one hundred percent.

As he leaned back up into a sitting position, Lazarius would let his legs support the weight of his elbows as he hunched over.  Black eyes would scan over the damage on the floor once more.  Blood and tissue was slowly being disolved by the parasite, slithering its way back toward him if it were able.  There on the floor in the remains of his fingers were the tragic end of his rings.  The saronite stones, and beautiful black diamonds, and his razored claw.  He sighed.

"Truth be told, I feel like you're someone I can honestly say isn't going to run straight into the arms of the Magistrate in Quel'thalas to let them know I am."

[ J ]       “Ah now I not be turning you into anyone. I myself not be exactly welcome along my own due to what I do. Most be thinking my work be primitive for a Zandalari to be doing. I guess it not be helping I be leaving before years ago. Zul was not to be trusted. I be warning about him but none listened. Leaving be my only chance to survive. I lived among the trolls you know of for a time. Learned about Hoodoo and little blood magic.”

Sighing as she sat on a chair near him as her little raptor leaped onto her lap.  Without any hesitation she would lean forward and collect the various rings and items that he’d lost.  She wouldn’t say anything, and had hoped that he knew she was only going to hold them to make sure he didn’t lose them.

“Zandalari not be accepting of blood magic or hoodoo. Some even be trying to make me leave my home here. I be thinking it be best to do so. My raptors and I be able to live anywhere we be together.”

[ L.K ]     He paused as he watched her do so, he hadn’t said anything.  In fact it was a smile that graced his lips as he watched and listened to her explain her situation here on the island.  He tried to find the words to help, they wouldn't come.  Instead he would steer them back toward what she’d just witnessed, something that would correctly classify himself.

"I appreciate how you can clearly see I am not simply an amateur when it comes to my talents."

[ J ]       Hearing him speak of a chance for her to learn more about him a smile crossed her face.  She would notice how he appreciated the gesture of her taking care of his things; and thusly would be sure she would not lose them.

“Ah learning more about you be something I’d enjoy. You be so different it raises my curiosity. I no be worried about payment for damage. Seeing you use such magic be worth the price.”

[ L.K ]     As he inhaled and exhaled slowly, the elf would glance upward to the very tall female.  She did seem to see the blessing behind the curse.

"Maybe sometime I will be fortunate enough to tell you a little bit about what I am . . .and what I do."

Again he would let out a slow breath as he recovered. The host was allowing himself time to regenerate but she was able to see how taxing it was. Lazarius brought the back of his clothed hand to his nose and slowly wiped it across his nostril clearing away the ichor.

"I feel like all this time has been spent trying to help me. . . your hospitality is exceptional, perhaps there is something I can do in offering to repay you?"

He offered her a toothy, charming grin sheltered with a hint of pain.  

"I'm not handy in the least, so repairing that hole. . .may be out of the question. But I don't think I would be able to leave without offering something in return."

[ J ]       Hearing him apologize for the damage caused her to give a deep sounding soft laugh.

“The damage not be much trouble. Freeing you of those things be the goal no matter the risk.”

Walking over to our up a large bit of foliage to cover the hole for the time being, she saw her white raptor friend standing calmly watching the brush move. Leaping for a small animal as it chopped down to enjoy a snack. Jursol laughed seeing this before turning her attention back to the elf.

[ L.K ]     “So. . . you were saying you do know a bit about blood magic? Fantastic...”. He said as he let out a coughing chuckle. She had brought it up,

It was clear by the way his skin was crawling that whatever organisms were at work here,were diligently trying to mend the body of its host. Lazarius appeared to be in a state of recovery by the grimace and shifting contortions of his facial features.

“Our current Magus is. . .was a powerful blood mage...” - He suddenly hitched those words in his throat when he realized that he hadn't meant to say anything of the Nine, or the order. And hadn’t even bothered yet. Perhaps he should reel back on his words, protect his image and leave this troll oblivious to what he actually knew.

Then again. She did dabble. She was aware and in exile. Perhaps this was an opportunity to bridge a gap between their cultures. Meaning just as the Horde and Zandalari were mutually entering an agreement, it seemed these two wicked wayward souls were on the outside looking in. -

“Jursol...let me ask you something.”.

He had been trying to get himself together all this time. Putting whatever he could onto his person. Pity though, his hands and forearms were going to need to be wrapped like this for the time being.

“Your little family here, you..your raptors, these are the things that you would die to protect? Yes? Your freedom...your sovereignty?”. Lazarius slowly stood from the cot and stretched. He looked almost...normal? Like this was all leading to him being fully restored and it had.

“How far would you go to ensure that no one robbed you of your way of life and freedom to practice your Magic’s? Freedom to be yourself and freedom from this political nightmare of war and malarkey? I myself will not be a tool used by the leaders of the Horde or Alliance to fight a war they think will somehow change something. I myself...will watch the world burn, and protect the freedom that my people have sought...”.

To be Continued in. . . “In Depths Below: Epilogue, Part 3″

[nightfoliage]

Fic - Trick, Treat, or Change

Series: Gravity Falls

Pairing: Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines - Stancest

For: @wannabeagrunklefan

Prompt: Ford and Stan’s first Halloween together after the finale.

Prompts for @a-stancest-halloween (traditional category): Candy flavored kisses, pumpkins and jack o lanterns, Halloween on the Stan o War, Trick or Treat

Tags: incest, twincest, canon verse, third person, mostly Ford’s POV, unreliable narrator, injuries and description of injuries, amnesia, selective amnesia, lies of omissions, Halloween, Pines Family, extended family and friends, gratuitous amount of emotions, fluff, romance, kissing, tropes tropes tropes, A Stancest Halloween

Word Count ~16.3k

Summary: It’s like a dream come true on the Stan o’ War. Stan and Ford are having the time of their lives; having action packed adventures, traveling to unknown lands, and discovering anomalies together.

But when the adventures end, they find themselves unsure what to do with themselves. They haven’t lived together or talked to each other in years and it shows with every awkward silence.

Then October rolls around and Stan bring a blast from the past. They decide to celebrate Halloween like they’re kids again. Suddenly they’re getting along and are closer than ever. Ford’s enjoying all these changes and the celebrations. Stan is really going to town with all these very familiar Halloween traditions...

Author’s Note: I had a lot a lot of fun with this one, but it was a pain to edit. It’s a whopping 50 page oneshot. If you enjoy the fic, let me know. I was considering doing one from Stan’s POV. Hope you guys enjoy~

Read below or on ao3:

“Pines! Pines! Pines!”

The kraken swings a tentacle in their direction, but it’s too late, their boat is sailing off into the distance. The creature makes a truly dreadful croaking sound, but the Stan’s are already laughing it up. They wind their arms around each other’s shoulders and cheer even with the wind and the waves crashing against them.

The boat swings dangerously towards the water and they break apart to man the ship. Ford goes to steer while Stan controls the sail. They work in tandem with each other, easily navigating the rough waters.

There are a few close waves, but they eventually break out of the storm into calm waters. The rain clouds are behind them and they can see the stars. The starlight shines brilliantly against the night sky and reflect against the water.

Then Stan breaks into a yawn, which causes Ford to break into a yawn.

They chuckle and start slapping each other’s backs before getting to their nightly routines. They set the anchor down and start folding the sail. Then they enter the cabin.

Stan immediately starts stripping and piles his wet clothes in the corner for later. He snags some water, then he strides off towards the bathroom.

Ford frowns at the mess.

“Stan, I’m going to throw your clothes outside!” Ford hollars after him.

Stan makes a positive sound, which makes Ford sigh. It was supposed to be a threat not a favor. Maybe Stan could endure salt crusted clothing, but Ford been on the run for enough years that he was going to enjoy having clean clothes after an adventure.

Instead of tossing Stan’s clothes out like he threatened, Ford scoops them up so he can hang them up to dry. Then he takes off his jacket and his shoes and puts those aside. He can deal with those later after chronicling their latest adventure. Pulling his latest journal out, he starts writing about their encounter. It was always best to write things down while the events were fresh.

Meanwhile, Stan heats up the water in the tank and makes sure to drink his water. He takes out just enough hot water to wipe himself off and to rinse himself. He doesn’t like roughing it, but old habits die hard. Even the word “rationing” makes Stan want to start to counting their money. Instead he takes inventory of their pantry everyday and keeps the showers to a minimum.

Once he’s clean and dry he goes out to the kitchen to heat up some hot soup for them before they go to sleep.

Then he spots Ford.

The man is still in his wet clothes for pete's sake! All twelve of his fingers must be going blue and Stan bets that Ford hadn’t even hydrated. They were miles and miles away from shore. What would happen if Ford got sick?

To add insult to injury, the thing that grabbed Ford’s attention is one of those dang journals. Didn’t those things cause enough trouble?

Stan goes over to the table and snatches the journal.

“Hey! The ink wasn’t dry!” Ford cries out.

“The ink wasn’t dry,” Stan snorts. Before Ford can protest, Stan manhandles his brother out of his chair, then out of his wet clothes, and pushes him into the shower.

Ford grumbles the whole time, but goes about taking a shower when he realizes the water is hot.

In the meantime, Stan hangs up his brother’s clothing then heats up vegetable soup for the two of them. It’s one of the recipes Mabel and Dipper sent over, which means it has plenty of fiber, is easy to eat without his dentures, but flavorful enough that Stan won’t complain about eating old people food. He waters it down. It’ll last longer and they’ll get more water this way.

When it’s heating, Stan’s attention is brought back to the journal on the table.

He sighs and turns it towards him. A picture of the Kraken looks out from the page at him. Stan admires the picture. It’s a great rendition and the story will be a hit with the kids. He gently brushes a finger against one of the tentacles and his fingers come back black. Stan frowns. The ink really wasn’t dry.

Keeping an eye on the soup, Stan gently blows on the page until the image is dry. He double checks the rest of the pages, also dry, then gently shelves the journal along with the others.

In the other room, Ford is enjoying his shower. The hot water is heavenly and he makes sure to use his favorite soap and loofah. He lets the water wash his previous irritation with Stan away and indulges in thinking about what adventure the two of them will have next.

When he’s finally done and dry he goes to get dressed in their room.

Ford lightly shivers. It was probably a good idea to take a hot shower after the cold rain.

He shivers again and rubs his arms. Or maybe the boat was getting cold. It wasn’t summer anymore, they were well into September and they were traveling pretty far north.

He puts on another layer and grabs a layer for Stan. Then he starts the heater. Ford’s coming off the adrenaline and it isn’t long before they both crash. Stan in particular has worries about the cold, so Ford points the heater towards Stan’s bed.

When Ford goes into the kitchen, Stan has already doled out soup for the both of them. He tosses the jacket to Stan, who puts it on.

They’re both exhausted and crashing from their high so they eat in silence.

Or maybe that’s just on Stan’s end, because Ford would love to talk about the kraken, but Stan has already put away his journal. Sometimes Ford can get passionate about the journals, so he can understand why Stan might want some quiet time before bed.

Unbeknownst to Ford, Stan is having similar thoughts. Stan wants to ask how the soup is so he can report back to the kids. And he wouldn’t mind staying up longer, but Ford seems a little subdued. Maybe he’s still sour about Stan putting away the journal.

After they finish their meal they quietly get ready for bed. They settle in for the night. The room is warm, their bellies are full, and it’s quiet. The conditions are perfect for sleeping, however neither of them do.

Instead, Ford is perfectly still, turned away from his brother, pretending to sleep. He keeps his breathing even and silent because he doesn’t want to disturb Stan.

Stan is turning and adjusting every few moments, trying to get comfortable. His breathing is a bit heavy, but the movement and the sound isn’t very different from his resting state.

Neither of them talk to each other even though they desperately want to.

-000-

Ford and Stan have a few more adventures that go perfectly (depending on your definition of perfect). The important thing is that they’re the best of partners and manage to get through every obstacle whole and alive.

However, they’re still working on being civil to each other in their downtime. Often times, they avoid each other. One is outside while the other is indoor, or they’re in different areas of the deck, or they try not to be in the same with each other besides when they sleep or talk to the kids.

It’s tiring and when they find themselves restocking at a port city, they make excuses to separate from each other.

When Ford is out of range, Stan calls Mabel and Dipper. He opts out of calling them face to face, instead only leaving the audio on.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shrieks into the phone.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan!” Dipper says, just enthusiastically but not as loud.

It makes Stan chuckle and smile. Totally worth the loss of hearing. “Hey, kids! I had a few minutes so I wanted to call.”

Immediately Mabel and Dipper fill in their uncle about the going ons in their lives. Middle school is both simultaneously the greatest and the worstest (Mabel’s exact words). The worstest, because of puberty, cliques, and they’re in separate classes all the time (on purpose, the school tries to separate twins). But the greatest because unlike elementary, there are tons of people and they’ve found their respective niches in school.

Luckily, their new friends are cool enough to accept Dipper and Mabel’s close relationship. They’ve gotten more friends out of it as a result.

“So what about you, Grunkle Stan? What’s shaking?” Mabel asks when they’ve finally exhausted the topic of school.

Well, Stan was hoping being on a boat together would solve all of his problems with his brother, but apparently even the Stan o’ War can’t produce miracles.

Instead, Stan talks about teenage appropriate adventures for the twins. However, he makes the mistake of mentioning the soup.

“Oh yeah, Ford and I tried the soup recipe. It was great,” Stan says off-handedly. He’s staring at some potential provisions for the boat.

“You liked it? How about Grunkle Ford? Was there enough fiber?” Dipper asks.

“Uh...” Now that he thinks about it, Ford never mentioned whether or not he liked the soup. And he never did ask.

Well, a small fib couldn’t hurt them.

“Oh, he thought it was great, and a great source of nutrition,” Stan says.

There, that was something Ford would say.

“Can I talk to him? He had some strong opinions on the necessity of onions, but I thought it might be okay if they were cooked instead of raw,” Dipper goes on.

“Yeah! You there, Grunkle Ford?” Mabel pipes in.

Stan mentally curses.

“Sorry kids, he can’t come to the phone,” Stan says.

“Can’t come to the phone? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. We just aren’t shopping together.”

There’s silence from the other end. Then the twins start whispering quietly enough that Stan can’t pick up their words.

Mabel speaks first: “Are you two fighting, Grunkle Stan?”

“What? No,” Stan automatically says.

“Are you sure, Grunkle Stan? Everything’s okay between you and Grunkle Ford?” This time, Dipper is the one to pose the question.

Stan hesitates, which was probably the worst thing he could do. The kids could smell blood in the water.

“Ah ha!” Mabel exclaims loudly into the receiver. “Grunkle Stan! Just tell us what’s wrong!”

“There’s nothing wrong between the nerd and I,” Stan says.

“If there’s nothing wrong, then why are you so defensive?” Dipper asks, while Mabel makes a noise of agreement.

There’s nothing wrong with him and Ford, it’s just not going right.

“You know, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper starts, “If there’s something I’ve learned over this summer it’s that talking things out can solve a lot of problems.”

“Yeah! And that you shouldn’t assume everything is okay,” Mabel adds.

“Oh, and you should definitely not keep secrets that could affect the fate of the world from your twin. That’s a big one,” Dipper says quite sagely.

“And if worse comes to worse, just hug it out!” Mabel finishes.

“Yeah, that couldn’t hurt to try,” Dipper agrees.

“We’ll see, kids,” Stan says, not agreeing or promising them anything.

Luckily, they do not call him out on his ambiguous statement. They let him change the subject to another adventure. Then they talk a bit more before hanging up.

The world is suddenly silent after the call ends. He doesn’t allow himself to wallow in the silence, instead he considers the twins’ advice. If there was anyone that knew how to work out twin problems, Mabel and Dipper would be the ones to ask. And their advice was sound: talking through things, don’t assume, don’t keep secrets, and hugging it out.

Stan has to blink a few times to stop himself from getting emotional. He’s proud of these kids. They’ve grown so much since they first came to Gravity Falls, they’ve become so brave and smart.

He just doesn’t know if he can do the same.

After all, the root of the issue is that everything is perfect. He’s living the dream. Going on adventures with Ford on the Stan o’ War was everything he ever wanted. Hell, he’s gotten more than what he ever dreamed of: a family and a great place he can call home.

So maybe the root of the problem is just Stan and the fact that he’s in love with his twin and wants more.

-000-

“I don’t know what it is, Fiddleford. There’s this tension between us that just doesn’t dissipate,” Ford explains.

Apparently, Ford and Stan had the same idea. While Stan was restocking and talking to the kids, Ford was restocking and calling Fiddleford. (Although he and Fiddleford were repairing their friendship, Ford found talking to a fellow colleague about his issues much less embarrassing than talking to his niblings. At least Fiddleford was a good sport about listening to his problems.)

“What kind of tension, Ford?” Fiddleford asked.

“I don’t know how to describe it. We work together perfectly, we have each other’s backs, we practically read each other’s minds! I’ve never had a better partner- oh, I mean-”

“It’s fine, Ford. I get that you and Stan are twins. You have a relationship that is unique. There’s not much that can match that, I understand,” Fiddleford says.

Ford lets out a sigh of relief. They haven't gotten around to talking about their past partnership. Fiddleford doesn’t remember all of it and Ford was possessed for more time than he would care to admit.

“How about we try something, Ford? Instead of thinking of the now, what about the future? What do you want to change about your guys’ relationship?”

Ford thinks of his journals and their adventures.

“I’ll go first,” Fiddleford starts.

Ford’s lucky that Fiddleford’s leading this conversation and that he knows what he’s talking about. The man has always been the people person out of the two of them.

“I’m glad to be living with my son, Tate again. We’re reconnecting. However, I’ve been away for so long, not myself for so long, that he hasn’t relied on me for anything for years…”

That sounded familiar.

And it sounded like a good idea…

“Now your turn, Ford. And you can’t use what I said.”

Damn.

“Well...” Ford didn’t know where he was going with this. He started with their most recent interactions. “It would be nice if Stan stopped draping his wet clothes everywhere.”

“Go on,” Fiddleford encourages. His voice is very non judgemental and Ford feels himself relaxing.

“He could take better care of himself.” Then Ford thinks back to Stan slamming his journals shut. “And if he has a issue with things he should be able to tell me.”

“What else?”

“I think that’s the biggest problem,” Ford thinks of all the time they spend in silence around each other. “We’re just not talking to each other. It’s not like how things used to be.”

“Stanford…” Fiddleford’s voice is gentle and Ford is almost afraid to hear what the man will say next. “From what you’ve told me, not talking was an issue you two had in the beginning.”

Ah yes, the science fair experiment. Maybe if they had just talked- no. They had started down different paths even before that tragedy.

“I think that you two should talk,” Fiddleford suggestions.

Ford made a pained noise into the phone.

Fiddleford chuckled.

“At the very least, how about trying to be friendly again?”

That was a little more doable. They were best friends before when they had lived together for years. Maybe living together again would rekindle things.

“Thanks, old friend. The advice is appreciated,” Ford says after a sigh.

“Why all you have to do is ask,” Fiddleford teases.

Ford snorts. “Are you sure you aren’t helping me because you love gossip? How’s the town, know everybody’s business now?”

Fiddleford mock gasps. “Why Stanford Pines, how could you accuse me of such a thing.”

“Quite easily, Fiddleford,” Ford says. “Thank you.”

“Well, you’ve learned how to say thank you, talking and getting along with your brother will be as easy as pie,” Fiddleford says.

Ford chuckles, “I suppose it could be.”

Unable to take anymore discussion about feelings, Ford segues into their most recent scientific discoveries. Fiddleford allows it and they chat about their recent projects. Ford focuses on the adventures instead of the creatures (Fiddleford was never interested in them and now had negative associations with them), and Fiddleford tells him about all the inventions that he’s made within the last week (over a dozen). Fiddleford also keeps him appraised about the town. Everybody seems to be doing well. Soon Ford and Stan will receive their own update from Soos and Wendy.

Finally, they end their call.

Ford is glad to have a friend like Fiddleford. That man was the most well-adjusted soul he ever met, and that including the Old Man McGucket personality.

Ford ponders Fiddleford’s advice, slowly reviewing their conversation. In conclusion, Ford decides that the only course of action is to try and get along with his brother.

Talking about their feelings, getting everything out in the open, admitting his feelings, well, that can wait.

-000-

In the end, neither of them get the chance to talk.

When they leave port it starts raining everyday. Each day is wet and gloomy and neither Ford nor Stan feel like doing anything but trying to stay dry and warm. They talk about going back to land, but decide to tough it out. A little rain never killed anyone.

Then the storm rolls in.

One moment they’re asleep in their beds, the next moment Ford finds himself falling out of bed while Stan finds himself pressed against the wall.

They scramble to get dressed and run outside. Bad idea. The door barely opens because they’re being battered in all directs by the wind. They force the door open and see their boat in the middle of a hurricane.

“HOW DID WE NOT NOTICE A HURRICANE!” Stan yells so he can be heard over the roar of water and wind.

“IT DOESN'T LOOK NATURAL!” Ford yells back.

“NO KIDDING!”

They both hustle to make sure their sail doesn’t get ripped off by the wind. After that’s done, they go and secure the rest of the deck.

Then things start to get weird.

“Is that a fucking face in the clouds?” Stan swears. They’re roped together for safety, now within hearing distance of each other. Unfortunately they need to stay outside to make sure the boat doesn’t capsize.

“It’s an illusion in the clouds- oh that is a face.”

Something inhuman peeks out from out of the clouds, lightning surrounding its features. The face is round and storm cloud grey with large round eyes and a large grin. It is gigantic and their small boat doesn’t even register to such a giant.

Lighting cracks down from the sky and rain continues to pelt them as the wind tosses them around.

Then the lightning arcs across the water.

“What the-“

Then droplets start to fly across their vision.

“Oh no,” Ford manages to say before he starts to cling to the ship.

The anomaly is starting to affect gravity.

Ford immediately reaches for Stan, who reaches back.

Ford tells himself that they’re tied together, that they’re holding each other, that it’s only a storm they have to weather through. This is nothing like the portal.

His body starts to lift of the ship.

He hates gravity anomalies.

Until this event is over, he won’t let go of Stan.

Their boat get pulls in every direction and the end up in the eye of the storm. Thunder continuously cracks and booms around them, while the lightning seems to be coming from all directions. It’s not just coming from the sky but from the air and the water.

They hold onto the boat for dear life and manage to wrap their arms around each other. Only the rope from the sail and their combined weight is holding them down.

The winds and rain are beating against their back, practically blinding them but out of the corner of Ford’s eyes he spies a bolt of lightning streak closer to them.

Ford pales. He thinks of the metal plate in his skull. It’s only a matter of time before he’s hit.

“We’re getting out of here!” Stan yells.

He starts to move and Ford clings to him.

“Hold onto the rope!” Stan yells and moves to let go.

Ford grabs onto the rope (which is attached to Stanley, he hasn’t let go of him yet), as Stan maneuvers to the cabin so they can get inside.

The boat jolts and Ford finds himself thrown upward. He’s still holding onto the rope as Stan yells his name.

The lightning is closer now and any moment he’ll be hit.

The rope becomes slack in his hands and he tries to twist towards Stan. He can see Stan, see that he’s approaching Ford now. He hopes Stan doesn’t slip off the boat, because he’s not in the position to save him.

Then he feels himself move in a different direction.

Another gravity change?

The rope is now tight in his hands and he’s moving. It’s Stan, reeling him in.

Wait, he’s not pulling him in, he’s actually using himself as a pivot to spin Ford towards the cabin.

Gravity changes again and instead of floating, Ford finds himself starting to move through the air. His body starts spinning and he can’t maneuver himself. He stops when his body hits something solid. He hisses at the pain, but doesn’t let go of the rope. Instead he curls in on himself, trying to protect himself as he slams into something else when the gravity changes again.

Eventually, the gravity shifts stop and Ford finds himself on solid ground. He takes a moment to catch his breath. Every part of him is cold and numb and everything that isn’t, hurts to hell. Ford forces himself to flex his fingers which makes him groan in pain when he realizes they’re smushed against the floor and his body.

Luckily, he is still holding onto the rope.

Ford manages to tug up on it and feels a weight at the end. There’s an answering tug back.

Ford wants to laugh in relief. He’s glad he didn’t let go.

The pain from his fingers makes him roll onto his back where he spasms and gasps in pain. His whole back is on fire, but he can’t move, can only let his body tremble to relieve the sensation.

After what feels like eons, Ford curls in on himself. It brings him some relief, brings back that numb sensation and Ford feels his mind slowly lower into itself and he drifts off...

-000-

Ford feels himself sit up and start hacking. He’s not getting enough oxygen, but his body doesn’t want to breath. Instead his body wants to spit out all the phlegm and god-awful water that’s blocking his throat. He takes a few shuddery gasps before he’s forced to start coughing again. His throat burns and his head hurts, but even more terrible is how sore he is. Every forceful movement is hell on his body and he clutches at himself trying to get a hold of himself.

After coughing up what feels like the whole damn ocean, Ford manages to breath normally.

He takes his time to simply breath.

He would collapse into himself except he knows that will only bring him more pain. He sways and he tries to steady himself.

Ford hisses when his hands hit the floor. His hands are on fire, but the ground is cool and brings him some relief. After cooling them, he manages to unglue his eyes open. Surprisingly his glasses are still on his face, but the lenses are terribly smudged. There’s no energy left in him to clean them so he sweeps them above his head. Then he squints at his hands.

They’re red and raw, with deep indents in them.

He hadn’t even noticed the pain when he was holding the rope-

Stan!

Ford scrambles up and attempts to tugs on the rope. Unfortunately he finds his balance has left him and he walks sideways until his side meets a wall.

He swallows a curse and uses the wall to keep himself upright.

Then he notices that he’s actually in the cabin. Stan’s maneuver worked. He ended up inside.

The rope trails outside onto the deck.

There hasn’t been an answering tug.

The thought of Stan lying unconscious while he’s safe inside-

Ford manages to gather his strength and slowly makes his way out. Despite the terrible rope burns, he grabs the rope again and starts following it to its end.

The sun is too bright when he leaves the safety of the cabin and he squints, willing his eyes to adjust faster.

There’s a low groan in front of him which spurs Ford forward.

There’s Stan, alive, sitting up, and groaning.

“Stan,” Ford rasps. The words sends him into another coughing frenzy. Not again, not when he’s so close.

“Ford,” Stan says.

Ford tries to answer, but he can’t stop coughing.

“Ford.”

Stan sounds closer now and more urgent. Ford manages to calm his coughs into gentle wheezing with gasping breaths when he feels a familiar hand grasp his arm.

“I’m fine,” Ford manages to say. Luckily his coughing seems to have abated.

Stan grasps at him desperately and maneuvers so his rubbing Ford’s back

Finally Ford gets a good look at Stan.

He looks terrible. His whole body is hunched and one of his arms is dangling next to his side. There are deep bags under his eyes and his nose is crooked, there’s even blood on his face. He must have broken his nose. His hair is messy, but luckily that’s it.

Burned hair would have been a clear indicator that Stan had taken a lightning strike meant for him. He’ll have to do a more in depth examination later, but at least his biggest worry had been abated.

“You look like shit. Good thing I’m the good looking twin,” Stan says, a quirk to his lips. Trust him to be able to find humor in such a situation.

Ford finds himself chuckling anyway. “Well, you were never the smart one,” he answers.

“Heh, that’s for sure,” Stan says. “Come on, let’s go back in.”

Stan uses his good arm to help support Ford. He doesn’t protest this time, he’ll probably return the favor all too soon.

They somehow make their way into the bedroom where they shed their clothes and collapse into bed. They fall asleep immediately.

-000-

Ford wakes up feeling like a giant bruise.

Unfortunately it’s a familiar feeling and Ford manages to get up slowly, but easily. He fumbles around for his glasses and his hands meet something warm.

Stan.

Ford freezes.

Stan doesn’t move and instead continues to doze unperturbed. Ford gingerly removes himself from the bed.

Ford comes to the conclusion that they must have collapsed in Stan’s bed together. No wonder he can’t find his glasses. He finds them, cleans them, and puts them on.

Now he can see Stanley more clearly. His brother is turned away from him and he’s greeted with the sight of Stan’s back. Ford winces, Stan’s back is mottled purple and red from bruises. They make Stan’s burn stand out even brighter; silvery burned skin against dark bruises.

The sight makes Ford want to reach out and trace the lines of the burn.

Just lifting his hand out of the covers makes him shiver. He’s still undressed. First he tucks the blankets around Stan’s shoulder, then he grabs some clean clothes. There’s salt crusting on his skin, but he can take a shower later. Food and drink first, hygiene second.

Ford starts the kettle and looks into the fridge for something to heat up. There’s chili and cornbread in the fridge, one of Stan’s favorites.

Ford’s stomach rumbles at the thought of hot chili and warm cornbread. He starts heating them up when he hears a soft beeping noise.

Oh, its the communication device that Fiddleford made so that they could communicate at sea. The kids must have tried to call them. He checks the calendar and spots that they must have missed a call with them. Ford feels and probably looks like a giant bruise, but the kids would worry. Ford and Stan almost never missed a call. He finishes setting up the food and calls them back.

“Grunkle Ford,” Mabel whispers.

“Hi, Grunkle Ford,” Dipper says, just as softly.

“Hello, Mabel. Hello, Dipper.” How odd that they would be so subdued. They were normally quite rowdy.

“Are you okay? You’re calling pretty late,” Dipper asks.

“Yeah, you also look terrible, although I guess that could be the lighting,” Mabel says squinting at the camera.

The lights are off. Ford didn’t realize because he’s gotten used to gritty darkness and they do their best to save on electricity on the boat. Then he realizes how dark it is on the kids’ side. Oh, he must have called the kids in the middle of the night, his early morning. Well, they’re awake so it would be a waste not to talk.

“I just woke up,” Ford says in way of explanation. “Stan and I had a rather invigorating adventure.

“But we called yesterday, were you sleeping for a whole day?” Mabel asks, worry in her voice. Dipper now takes a moment to try and stare at him through the screen.

“I suppose we did sleep the day away,” Ford answers. He’ll have to check the clock to see if that’s true, but he’ll try to act nonchalant about it. “Anyways, why don’t you two give me a quick update and then it’s off to bed.”

Thankfully, they give him the benefit of the doubt and drop the subject. They chatter on about school, giving him updates and telling him that he and Stan should call Soos and Wendy. Ford manages to keep the conversations short and promises to call them again soon with Stan. Soon they’re ending the call with ‘I miss you’s.’

When the call ends, Ford sits back in his chair. The kettle starts to whistle but he doesn’t get up just yet.

“What are you making?”

Ford jumps. It’s Stan, he’s finally awake. Other than the bruises and the sleepiness he looks to be in good shape.

“Let me get that,” Ford says and offers Stan his seat. Surprisingly, Stan goes along with it and sits.

Ford quickly dishes the chili and cornbread, as well as some hot cocoa (another present from Mabel). They have a quiet meal together. Afterwards they do the dishes and go back to sleep.

This is their pattern for a few days: eating, resting, and sleeping. Ford does his best to give Stan some space to recover and use the time alone to think about ways to recover their relationship. He’s comfortable like this, but not satisfied.

Stan uses his time to, well, Ford’s not exactly sure. Maybe he’s using the time to talk to the kids and their friends? Ford found him staring at the calendar one day. He must have hated missing the kids’ call. Stan loves talking to them with or without Ford.

They continue like that, resting, making sure to recover until it all comes to a head.

-000-

“Ford!”

Ford jumps up from his bed and immediately whips his gun towards the door. Stan miraculously disarms him easily and puts the gun elsewhere. Then he shoves Ford’s glasses on his face.

“Look!”

Ford blinks a few times and rubs his eyes.

In front of him are some pancakes.They’re an alarming shape of orange although the pumpkin drawn on them is adorable. It smiles at him and Ford feels himself smile back.

“Thanks, Stan. I’ll eat these in the kitchen?” Ford makes a move to get up, but Stan presses him back into bed with surprising strength. Huh.

Stan hands him a glass of milk before throwing himself into the bed so he’s pressed up against Ford. Ford makes room for him as Stan grabs a pancake and starts to eat messily. He lounges and looks so at home that Ford can’t bring himself to complain about the lack of room and inevitable crumbs on his bed.

“It’s fine, stay in bed and eat,” Stan says around a mouthful of pancake. He grins and his teeth are now orange.

Ford snorts and tries not to think about the fact that he’s eating pancakes with his hands. They’re delicious of course and it turns out the drawing was in chocolate. “These are great, but what’s the occasion?” Ford asks.

“Occasion! What’s the occasion!” Stan looks at him like he’s crazy. “It’s October, Sixer! Best time of the year!”

Ford blinks and then finally remembers. Halloween used to be their holiday. Their favorite holiday. The candy, the decorations, the costumes, but more importantly, it celebrated the things that Ford loved best. Back when they were kids, they could enjoy everything supernatural the whole month and no one cared.

Ford didn’t think that Stan still did their old traditions. He was flattered and was actually very happy that Halloween was still so beloved to Stan. It also explains the about-face that Stan was pulling. Not even the awkwardness from over thirty years of being apart can stop Stan from loving something.

“We don’t have to celebrate the whole month. I mean, we’re on a boat, Stan,” Ford says, trying to give him an out. Just one day of Halloween fun was good enough for Ford. Trying for the whole month without them fighting was pushing it.

“Come on, Sixer! We’re finally having adventures on the Stan o’ War and you don’t want to celebrate Halloween?” Stan nudges him with a mischievous grin on his face. “Come on, action and adventure is great and all, but you can’t forget about celebrating the holidays.”

Ford takes a bite of the pancake to give himself some time, although Stan isn’t waiting on his answer. Stan seems content in relaxing and bed with Ford and getting crumbs everywhere, just like old times. The return to their past selves is what convinces Ford. He missed this.

“Okay, I’m convinced.” Not that Ford needed much convincing. “Let the month of Halloween begin.”

“Yes! Ha! I’ll go plot a route back to land so we can pick up supplies.” Stan stuffs a final pancake in his mouth and dashes out the door.

Ford stares after him and hears an alarming amount of noise that shouldn't be associated with navigation. However, he stays put and finishes his pancakes and his milk (the milk was the perfect accompaniment to the pancakes). Stan knows his way around the boat, he could plot a course just fine.

In the meantime, Ford would get dressed and check his gun. Then he would fix the door. It looks like his brother kicked it down.

He grins. It would be like old times.

-000-

Overnight, Stan livened up their boat with Halloween decorations. There are paper bats and pumpkins on the walls. Anything of theirs that is black and orange is in the forefront. They’ve received some cat shaped nick knacks from Mabel, which have been set out. He’s taken some of their extra netting to make spider webs and Ford spots a jack o’ lantern face on their sail.

Ford makes sure to point out each Halloween item and praises Stan for his creativity. Stan waves him away but is grinning from ear to ear.

It’s beyond what Ford and he has to admit, it cheers him up more than he thought was possible.

They spend hours discussing potential Halloween activities that they can do on a boat. They can do movies, tell ghost stories, do a test of courage, and looks for classic Halloween creatures. But Stan doesn't stop there, he says that it wouldn’t be Halloween without some of the classics so they're off to land to grab some costumes, pumpkins, and candy.

The talk well into the night about how to fit every Halloween related activity possible.

Even when they get into bed, they continue to talk. However, it’s not long before Stan falls asleep. Ford lets him, he had obviously been awake for a long time to put up all the decorations. Ford isn’t even sure Stan can be woken up when he’s sleeping like this: sprawled with his limbs everywhere, snoring away. Stan hasn’t slept like this recently.

Ford quietly gets up from his bed to tuck the blankets under Stan’s chin. Then he heads back to his own bed to get some sleep. It’s difficult, he’s excited about their plans, but eventually he too falls asleep.

-000-

The bad weather seems to follow them and they won’t be able to get back to land for a few days at least.

That doesn’t dampen Stan’s spirits. Instead he scrounges up some fruits and sugar to make ‘candied apples.’

In reality he takes whatever fruit he can find, a rather beaten up apple, some plums, an orange, and dips them in some melted sugar. Then he draws on them with chocolate, cute cartoony black cats and bats and ghosts.

The fruit falls apart at the first bite, and it’s a delicious mess. Stan gets it all over his face, although Ford can’t eat them without getting messy either. He ends up licking his fingers in between bites.

At one point, Stan points at one of the fruit in particular. “Check this one out, Ford.”

Ford looks, but doesn’t see anything unusual about the picture.

Then he feels something warm and wet press against his face.

“Stan!” Ford yelps. Did Stan just lick his face?

Stan waggles his eyebrows and his tongue at Ford. “You’re getting it all over yourself, Sixer.” Then he licks his fingers and goes to wipe Ford’s face again.

Ford bats his hand away.

“Hygiene, Stanley,” he snaps, embarrassed. Luckily, Stan takes no offense and snickers at him while Ford wipes his face. Ford balls up the towel he was using and throws is at Stan, hitting him in the face. “You need this more than me,” he quips.

Stan wipes his face and then tries to whip him with the towel. Ford dodges and uses the table to separate them.

Stan considers the table and then jumps right over it.

They tussle, using all of their wits to make the other concede without messing with the ship. Stan manages to get Ford in a headlock and gives him a gentle noogie. Ford could easily break out of it, but he doesn’t want to hurt Stan. Instead, he lets Stan ruffle his hair.

“Okay, I give,” Ford says with a laugh.

Stan laughs with him and lets him go.

They continue to snicker and laugh as Stan continues to make sweets. He makes more candied fruit that are bite sized and spins the remaining sugar into candies.

Along with the candy, Stan has panned a scary story night. They bundle up and create a makeshift tent against the cabin to block out the worst of the cold. They bring in hot drinks and the leftover candy to munch on. Stan grabs some candles to create the proper ‘atmosphere.’

Amused, Ford goes along with it. Between the light from the stars and the soft light from the candles the atmosphere is anything but spooky. In fact, it’s very comfortable and inviting inside their tent. A great way to enjoy their boat.

“Okay, okay, so I’ll start,” Stan says as soon as they settle. He brings a candle underneath him, trying to be scary, but all it does is cast a glow across his face while the stars illuminate his back.

“It was a normal night, dark and cold and wet, but to the people of a town called Glass Shard Beach, this was nothing new. They slept peacefully not knowing that in the ocean next to them something spooky was brewing…”

Ford settles in for the night as Stan tells the tale. He takes a sip of his drink, letting himself enjoy the story. It’s one he’s heard before, a Glass Shard classic, but it’s the first time he’s ever heard it in Stan’s gravelly tones.

Stan is a great storyteller, building the suspense with every word. Ford oohs and gasps at the right moment even though he knows what’s coming.

When Stan ends the story, Ford claps for him.

“You’re supposed to be scared out of your wits after a scary story, not clapping. I guess the story wasn’t that scary,” Stan says with a shrug. “Why don’t you tell one next?”

Ford makes a ‘hm’ noise and considers his options, “Well, there’s the Jersey Devil, Bigfoot, Mothman-”

“No, no. The Sea Creature story was just a warm-up,” Stan interrupts. “Why don’t you tell a really scary story.”

Falling silent, Ford racks his brain for an appropriate tale. There are a couple that he’s heard in college that would be sufficiently scary and unlikely for Stan to have encountered. But Ford doesn’t want to recycle old material. Stan’s story was fine because it was nostalgic and started the night on a fun note. Now Ford needed a highly original, quality tale.

“Alright,” Ford says aloud, choice in mind. “This is a tale from one of the many alternate universes I visited.”

“You mean…”

“That’s right. This one’s true.

Stan falls silent and frowns. Then he scoots closer so that they’re sitting next to each other, instead of across. Ford moves so that they’re comfortably pressed up against each other. The contact makes it easier for Ford to speak.

“In a far away galaxy…” Ford starts.

Stan gently nudges Ford for that start. Ford grins and continues, the words coming out even easier.

“In a galaxy far far away, I found myself stranded on a terrible planet. Bill’s minions and bounty hunters had chased me through many galaxies and universes, but I managed to lose them. I soon found out why, the surface was uninhabitable to many creatures but below its surface were caverns stretching miles.

“Civilizations and cities all lived in these caves, but the systems stretched for miles further than the people could ever touch. They spanned an impossible distance and these labyrinths were too dangerous to explore.

“My hosts had…”

Ford falters for a moment. The leaders of the city he had been living with had threatened to turn in the bounty. He had felt like he had no choice but to go along with their request. It left a sour taste in his mouth at the thought. Maybe that was a detail he could forgo.

“...pleaded to me to become their champion. And from that day it was decided that I would be the one to conquer the labyrinths.

“The caves were enormous and each turn was deadlier than the next. I encountered every form of wildlife and plantlife that the planet had to offer. I solved puzzles and mazes, seeing places that have never been seen by civilized eyes. I encountered things that would be considered anomalies on that planet and with my wits managed to beat each one.”

Ford continues describing each encounter. In the beginning he had been optimistic, not realizing the scope of his task. Then when he had journeyed further than anyone had every went before did he realize the monumental task that had been in front of him.

He had almost lost hope and perhaps the desperation of his encounters had been made obvious, because Stan slings an arm over his shoulder. Stan stays silent, allowing Ford to continue without interruption.

The touch bolsters him and Ford is able to continue through his bleak experience. It’s almost easy talking about the planet. He’s not there anymore. He’s not in an underground cave, he’s clearly with Stan in the Stan o War, enjoying the stars, the furthest he could be from that experience.

Finally Ford manages to finish this story.

“After the explosion I had discovered a wonderful resource for the people of that city: a sustainable food source and water. They hailed me as a hero and I left that dimension afterwards,” Ford says.

It had been a lucky and favorable outcome for all. In reality he had tried creating a controlled explosion to facilitate his escape, but had discovered the resources instead. The city people had thanked him with supplies that he could fashion into a dimension travel device. He had left before the leaders could use him again.

It was in the past now.

He looks at Stan who’s looking at him sadly.

“I suppose that wasn’t a very scary story, was it,” Ford says. He mentally curses for ruining scary story night. He should have gone with a college horror story, not trauma from his days in the multiverse.

Stan shrugs and Ford can feel the movement because they’re so close to each other.

“Nah, you were fine,” Stan says. “Sounded lonely, though.”

Ford doesn’t reply.

“How about another story then?” Stan says before launching into another tale. He presses some candy into Ford’s hands and Ford munches on them as he listens to Stan tell the tale.

It’s another classic for them, one of Ford’s favorites. Ford lets himself enjoy the telling the human contact, and the sweets. When Stan reaches the end, Ford realizes it’s not the normal ending, but the alternate one they had written together as children to ensure the monster in the story had a happy ending.

They continue to trade stories and eat candy well into the night.

-000-

Eventually, they get to land. Thank goodness, between the long trip and the sweets they’ve been eating, Ford is surprised they hadn’t developed scurvy. Although he’s enjoying the October treats, he can’t wait to have some fresh fruit and vegetables on the ship.

They make a beeline to a local market and manage to purchase their supplies. In addition to their usual things, Stan picks out a selection of local candies and sugar. (Why were there so many types of sugar?) Ford almost groans, but doesn’t want to burst his brother’s bubble.

They’re doing one last trip when Stan stops at a local produce stand. He points at some gourds and attempts to talk to the shopkeeper about them. Ford rifles through his pockets, missing his trans-dimensional translator, but Stan manages to get through a conversation.

Surprisingly, he leaves empty handed.

“Do you need help translating?” Ford asks.

“Did you see how small those things were? Those aren’t proper jack o’ lantern sizes,” Stan says with a shake of his head. Then he starts heading deeper inland. Ford follows him, curious.

Ford looks back and guesses that they’re only about the size of a fist. “Maybe their harvest wasn’t very successful this year.”

“Nah, it turns out that the shopkeeper grew those themself. The ones in the town fields are bigger. Bigger than my head,” Stan gestures.

Ford raises an eyebrow. Gourds that grew larger than human heads? He supposes that if they were related to pumpkins, then they could grow that large.

“But, he said there’s some local superstition that no one can pick them until they receive some okay from their harvest bigwig,” Stan says.

“Interesting. Maybe they aren’t ripe yet,” Ford offers as way of explanation. The other gourds were awfully small.

“Maybe,” Stan says.

They walk out of the populated areas of the market and into the more rural areas of the town.

“We’re going to steal some gourds, aren’t we.”

“Yup. It’s not Halloween without pumpkins and jack o’ lanterns.”

-000-

Hours later they find themselves hiding face down in the mud. A chill sweeps the air making all the hairs stand up on their bodies, but soon the sensation passes. When the coast is clear they peek out from their hiding place.

Ford smacks Stan and hisses, “Stan, when you said that we needed permission from a bigwig, I thought you meant a human! Not- not a blessing from a harvest deity!”

“Shh, not so loud,” Stan says, pulling him down.

Ford shivers as another chill permeates the air.

It leaves again, but it’ll be back.

“We have to run for the ship,” Stan says. “Here take this.”

Out of the mud, Stan pulls out two gourds as big as his head.

“Where were you hiding those?” Ford says, incredulous.

“Doesn’t matter, let’s go,” Stan says ushering them to their feet.

Ford follows Stan’s lead as the man sneaks through the farm and back towards the boat. At one point he starts to sprint and all Ford can do is follow after him.

When there a ways away Stan starts to cackle madly, raising his prize above his head. He looks like a loon and Ford can’t help but chuckle.

“I am the pumpKING!” He yells.

“They’re gourds, Stan,” Ford says, laughing.

“Ha! Then you can be Ford Gourd,” his brother quips back.

Ford groans. “That's terrible.”

A gust of wind presses against their back, followed by a low hiss.

“Shall we..?”

“Yeah, lets book it.”

They save their teasing. Only after they’ve gotten to the boat, taken off, and are unable to see the shore do they laugh. Stan makes sure to scrub them clean before they go to sleep.

-000-

The next day they carve the pumpkins (gourds).

Ford carves out his symbol in his gourd. No need to do anything unnecessary. Stan carves a surprisingly accurate rendition of the Harvest Bigwig (Stan’s name, not his).

It’s a little too realistic. Once they put a light in its the center they back away from it.

“I’m getting pulled into the gravity of its stare,” Ford says. He is unable to look away.

“Yeesh,” Stan quickly takes the light out.

“Maybe we should just eat that one,” Ford suggests, covering it with a towel.

Stan taps at his chin. Then he takes the towel off. “Let me make some changes.”

He grabs the carving knife and gives the ghost some large eyebrows and a wig. Then he draws a gourd into it’s hand. It’s eyes are still soulless abominations, but now they can laugh it off. Stan looks so proud that Ford doesn’t dare suggest they trash it. They set their pumpkins outside. Hopefully Stan’s will get picked off by a bird.

The seeds they toast and the rest of the gourd Stan makes into pancakes and stew.

They spend the rest of their October days fitting in as many Halloween activities as possible in between adventures. There’s food, a lot of their staples made Halloween themed (Ford’s never smiled at oatmeal before, but somehow Stan made it monster themed). There’s games, most of them low tech, food scraps made into fake people parts, a rather destructive game of pin the tail on the lizardman, and a few short games of D, D, and more D.

And they tell each other more stories.

There are scary stories they’ve heard when they’ve been away from each other, some classics, and ones that they made up themselves.

But sometimes they break out the tent just to talk.

They find themselves talking more often. They talk over meals, when they’re manning the boat, and when they’re in bed trying to sleep. Somehow Stan manages to put their beds together (Ford thought they were mounted to the floor) and they continue to talk until they fall asleep.

He’s always had trouble sleeping (something that’s only gotten worse as the years have gone by), from nightmares disturbing his dreams, to an aching paranoia that keeps him awake at night, but lately it’s gotten better. They talk until they tire and even if Ford wakes up from troubled dreams, watching Stan sleep typically pulls him to sleep.

Finally they decide for Halloween they should find land and maybe join in the festivities. Ford has his reservations, he doesn’t know if they’ll get to land, and he doesn’t think they’re near anyplace that celebrates Halloween like they want to, but Stan says it’s an opportunity to share the holiday. If nothing else, they can dress up, project a movie on the sail, and eat more candy.

Over dinner they’re still talking about their plans, when Ford notices that they’re receiving a call from Dipper and Mabel. He glances at their calendar and notes that this is a scheduled call. Time flew by fast. Normally Stan would be raring to talk to them, but they had been rather busy with Halloween plans.

Ford flips open their communication device and connects with them.

“Grunkle Ford! Grunkle Ford!”

His niblings clamor for his attention and it makes him smile.

“Kids!” He exclaims, returning the favor.

“It’s been way too long!” Mabel yells. “ Ooo, are those Halloween decorations?”

“Anomalies and anatomically correct bats, nice Grunkle Ford,” Dipper says.

Ford chuckles, pleased that the kids noticed. It’s nice that their effort get to be seen by others. He should call Fiddleford and the Mystery Shack as well.

“There are more decorations around the boat,” Ford says.

“Oh! Show us!” Mabel says, Dipper nodding along with her.

Ford carries the device, showing them around the boat. He points out the various decorations while the kids ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh.’ He shows them their tent set-up and promises to send them a picture when the stars are out. He points out their gourds and they immediately ask how they got them.

“Let me get, Stan. He started to the whole thing, he should help tell the story,” Ford says and goes back inside.

“Stan, the kids want to hear about how we got the gourds,” Ford says.

“Sure, you know I’m the better storyteller,” Stan says, putting down what he was working on. “Now who’s my audience for today?”

Stan gives Dipper and Mabel a grin.

Ford frowns.

Dipper and Mabel look nervously at each other.

Eventually, Mabel awkwardly laughs and says, “It’s us, Grunkle Stan. Your favorite niece and nephew.”

Stan looks at them confused. “Niece? Nephew?”

Ford almost drops the device.

Mabel is starting to look upset, when Dipper grabs her hand. “Oh Grunkle Stan, I guess you tell every kid that they’re your favorite, huh?” Dipper says, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. He’s doing well, except for the fact that he’s sweating profusely. “We stayed in Gravity Falls last summer, don’t you remember?”

“Oh! The place where Ford and I lived for awhile. I met you kids there?” Stan asks, brightening at the explanation.

Mabel squeezes her brother’s hand. Dipper laughs, clearly pained. “Yeah, we met at the Mystery Shack.”

“Well, sorry I don’t remember kids, but maybe the story of the PumpKing and Ford Gourd will make up for it,” Stan says. He settles in to tell the story. The kids do their part as the audience and listen intently to him. Luckily Mabel and more importantly Dipper are good enough to keep Stan’s attention, because Ford is speechless.

How does Stan not remember the kids!

Ford has no answers or theories even when Stan is finished with the story. The kids clap for him and thank him. Dipper and Mabel tell them to have a good Halloween and to take care of themselves. Dipper says that they shouldn’t be strangers and call more often. They pointedly look at Ford, as Stan amicably agrees.

When they disconnect, Stan turns to him. “Nice kids. We built a pretty good life in Gravity Falls, didn’t we?”

He isn’t prepared to lie, isn’t prepared to deal with this situation. The kids helped him last time in Gravity Falls, how is he supposed to do this again by himself?

“Yes, you built a great life there, Stan. You don’t remember Dipper and Mabel?” Ford asks.  

Stan’s brows furrow. “No, they seem familiar. I feel terrible for not remembering them. They looked really happy see us.”

“Well, I’m sure they enjoyed the story,” Ford says. “Speaking of stories, how about we forgo tonight’s, I could use the extra rest.”

Stan doesn’t even question the change in topic. “Sure, Ford. Maybe we have been staying up too late lately. We gotta be fresh for Halloween.”

They do their nightly routine and get in bed. Luckily, Stan quickly drifts off to sleep. When Ford is sure that he won’t wake him, he sneaks out of bed and back to the communicator. He sends a call out to the kids. They immediately pick up.

“Grunkle Ford, is everything okay?” Dipper asks.

“What’s wrong with Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asks.

“I don’t know,” Ford admits.

“This calls for an emergency all-call,” Mabel says and slams her hand on the device. The communication device unfolds to reveal two additional screens.

One screen blinks on to reveal a sleepy Fiddleford and worried looking Tate. “This is the first time anyone’s used the emergency function, what’s wrong?”

The other screen turns off to reveal Soos in his pajamas with Melody just waking up in bed next to him. “Dudes! The communicator started freaking out, what happened?”

“Guys, this is an emergency,” Dipper says. The others listen intently to him. “Stan has amnesia again.”

They gasp.

“I’ll call Wendy,” Melody says, disappearing off the screen.

“Stanford, I thought Stan regained all his memories back in Gravity Falls,” Fiddleford says.

“He did,” Ford answers. “I’m sure he did.”

“You guys didn’t accidentally get hit by another memory gun, did you?” Soos asks.

“No, and I don’t understand how this could have happened. He’s been perfectly coherent this whole time. This is the first incident that’s even suggested that he’s had memory issues,” Ford says desperately.

“What about any injuries?” Tate asks.

“Injuries?” Ford echoes.

“Head trauma, full body blows, anything like that,” he elaborates.

Ford stands up, “I’ll be right back.”

He hurries back to the bedroom and quietly sneaks over to Stan. Luckily, Stan is sleeping on his back. Ford grabs a maglite and shines it against his back.

Stan’s back is still covered in healing bruises from the incident in the storm. They’re no longer as young as they used to be, healing takes longer for them now. Ford starts to examine Stan’s cranium. Almost immediately he sees a bruise.

Ford jerks back. Then he forces himself to take a closer look. The bruise looks to be healing at the same rate as the ones on his back. He must have received it the same night and didn’t tell him.

Ford’s hand is shaking when he turns his light off and goes back to the communicator.

He takes a seat, the others awaiting his answer. Wendy seems to have joined them and is sitting with Soos and Melody in front of the communicator.

“I’ve just confirmed that Stan did receive a head injury recently,” Ford says.

The others start to murmur amongst themselves.

“Think back, Stanford. Has this been the first sign that Stanley has been having memory problems? What about after the injury?” Fiddleford asks.

“Did he have any changes in his behavior?” Tate offers.

Ford shakes his head at the questions, really nothing had felt different. In fact after the accident Stan had become more like his old self-

Oh.

“Actually, yes. Yes he has,” Ford agrees. “He’s changed back to how he used to be when we were children.”

“You mean he’s a kid again?” Soos asks.

“No, no, he hasn’t lost any knowledge, but he certainly has changed,” Ford says.

“How long has he been like this, Stanford?” Tate asks.

“..Weeks,” Ford admits.

The others gasp.

“How long did it take for him to remember last time?” Melody asks.

“Only a few hours!” Mabel exclaims. “He remembered us in no time!”

“But wait, he remembers you Mister Pines?” Soos brings up.

“I- yes, he does,” Ford says. It’s true. Unlike the last time, Stan remembers him.

“Maybe,” Dipper starts, a serious look of contemplation on his face, “-maybe, Stan just needs exposure to all of us to start remembering?”

It’s not a terrible idea. After all, Ford was with Stan the whole time. Maybe he does need time and exposure to remember everything.

“We can show him around the Mystery Shack,” Soos says.

“Yeah! I can show my scrapbooks, that did the trick last time,” Mabel says, finally smiling for the first time for this whole conversation.

“I could probably find the doodad’s that Stan’s seen last summer,” Fiddleford offers.

“Sounds like a plan, people. Give me a heads up when I should be there,” Wendy says.

The others agree and start to leave when Dipper stops them.

“Wait. Just to make sure we don’t confuse Stan, let’s say we’re all friends with Mr.McGucket. That way it isn’t too weird that Grunkle Ford knows all of us, but Grunkle Stan doesn’t,” Dipper says.

“But,” Mabel isn’t smiling anymore, “Isn’t that kind of, you know…”

“I know, Mabel,” Dipper says with a sigh. “I just think it’s easier if Grunkle Stan doesn’t know that anything’s wrong. It’ll be easier.”

Mabel sighs too. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay. Grunkle Ford, let us know when we should all talk again,” Dipper says.

“I will, Dipper,” Ford answers.

Then, one by one, the screens go blank. The communicator folds in on itself and Ford is left alone in the dark.

He sits back in his chair.

He puts his hands over his face and slowly bends over himself. His head gently hits the table in front of him. He takes a shuddery breath and holds it in. He can’t wake up Stan, not now. He curls in and stays absolutely still and silent.

Ford hopes this will work. He doesn't know how he’ll face Dipper and Mabel otherwise. The look on their faces when Stan didn’t realize who they were, it was terrible.

Stan has to remember them.

Ford just hopes that he doesn’t have to give up what they have now after Stan remembers.

-000-

Stan and Ford go on an adventure.

They discover an island that shouldn’t exist in the middle of the ocean. And of course Ford gets swept up in the adventure. There are no anomalies like the ones in Gravity Falls, but the island itself is quite interesting-

And Ford gets swept up in the excitement with Stan right there by his side.

Ford forgets about the phone call. It was really a suggested time, he hadn’t finalized it with Dipper. The date of the call gets pushed back further and they get closer and closer to Halloween. They’re unable to go back to land, the last adventure threw them off their schedule, so they’ll just have a nice Halloween together.

-000-

“Happy Halloween, Sixer!”

Ford jumps and goes to grab his gun, but Stan stops him in time.

“Come on, Ford, it’s just me,” Stan says.

Recognizing Stan’s voice, Ford relaxes. He cracks open his eyes, but somehow it’s too bright. Strange, there shouldn’t be any light. He tries to open his eyes again and is greeted with Stan wearing the most obnoxious orange pumpkin sweaters he’s ever seen.

“I know we said we were going to wear costumes, or something ‘culturally relevant to the area,’ but since we didn’t make it to land, I thought we could at least be in the Halloween spirit,” Stan says. “I noticed you had one too. Come on, we can wear them together.”

Ford looks down at the sweater Stan picked out. It’s a perfectly serviceable orange, an earth tone, not the close to neon monstrosity that Stan is wearing.

“Breakfast is waiting, come on,” Stan says before heading out of the room.

When he turns around, there’s a jack o’ lantern on the back with familiar stitching.

Ford blinks and slowly rubs his face. He remembers now, the sweater had been a gift from Mabel. Ford doesn't know what to do with the information that Stan will still wear a handknit sweater from his grand niece despite it’s questionable color. Instead of continuing that thought, he gets dressed and ready for breakfast.

It’s chili for breakfast. Not bad for the supplies they have in the boat.

“I made your favorite,” Stan says in way of greeting.

Ford blinks and wonders if he heard Stan wrong. Chili is supposed to be Stan’s favorite.

“I figured since we have so many ingredients for it, chili must be your favorite. You can just tell me, you know,” Stan says before starting to eat.

Ford eats at a slower pace.

Their Halloween is rather relaxed, a good ending to the month. They end up watching movies on the sail and eating tons of candy. At the end of the night they clean up and fall asleep next to each other.

Ford’s last thought is to wonder if Stan will start remembering everything after Halloween.

-000-

Ford is the first to wake up in the morning.

He immediately tucks Stan in. Ford sighs. Now that he knows what he’s looking for he can see why this version of Stan sleeps so haphazardly. The man doesn’t remember his hardships or the terrible things he’s done to survive. He’s not childish, but he knows the world like he did as a child, filled with opportunity and adventure.

Is it so terrible for Ford to want Stan to stay like this, unburdened by their past?

However it’s after Halloween now. They’re in November, maybe when Stan wakes up he’ll remember.

Ford gets up and starts some hot water. Then he carefully pulls down their decorations, putting things back in their place, and carefully setting aside the home-made ones. They can save them for next year or maybe for Summerween.

He’s almost done taking everything down when Stan walks into the kitchen.

“Oh, let me grab some of those,” he says with a smile on his face.

Ford can immediately tell that Stan doesn’t remember. His smile was too carefree and not grumpy enough.

Although it is surprising how Stan doesn’t look up that they’re taking down the decorations.

“Too bad, October is over,” Ford says, feeling him out.

Stan chuckles. “It was fun while it lasted. But come on Ford, we’re living the dream: having adventures together on the Stan o’ War. Sure Halloween is great, but we’re having fun everyday. We don’t have to wait a whole year for Halloween to come around, we can look forward to the next adventure.”

Ford stares. Stan may never remember the kids if he never leaves this boat.

Stan notices the staring, “Oh yeah, this sweater?”

Ford looks down and sees another sweater that Mabel had knitted for Stan.

“I found it with the Halloween one. Stitchings a little messy, but it’s pretty comfy. I don’t know why I don’t wear clothes from that drawer more often,” Stan says as a he takes a mug out of the cabinet. It says ‘Grumpy Old Man’ on it. It had been a gag gift from Dipper, but it was Stan’s favorite mug. Or at least it used to be.

They continue with their day like this; Ford realizing how many items they have from their family. There’s a device from Fiddleford. Some fishing gear from Tate. Some furniture and nick knacks from Soos and Melody. A hat from Wendy.

And Stan doesn’t recognize who they’re from. He just instinctively knows that they’re his favorite, the best to use, but doesn’t remember where they came from.

For lunch, Stan serves him a pumpkin and vegetable soup made from the Halloween gourds. The soup is a recipe from the twins and the plates are stolen from the Mystery Shack.

Finally Ford decides that he can’t live like this, tip-toeing around Stan, wondering what he can bring up and what he can’t bring up. Ford can’t live with a Stan that’s forgotten the people he loves and made a family with.

“Hey, Stan? You know those kids we talked to a week back?” Ford asks.

“Yeah?”

“They were wondering if you had any more stories for them.”

-000-

The first call they arrange with the kids turns into a series of ‘coincidences’ that allow for everybody from their emergency call to be on the communicator. They go along with their storyline, saying that they’re friends of Fiddleford’s.

Stan is absolutely charming and sweet. He grins and laughs easily and does his best to entertain the callers.

They arrange call after call, even with some impromptu members from Gravity Falls pitching in to say hello.

Stan doesn’t remember any of them.

Ford sneaks away at night to have an emergency all-call with the group again.

“So that didn’t work,” Dipper says, scratching his head.

“I don’t understand! We did the scrapbooks, the Mystery Shack, Waddles, almost everything! He didn’t remember. You could even tell Stan was being polite when we expected him to know things, that’s not Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaims.

The others look worried.

“Isn’t this how Mr.Pines normally acts?” Melody asks. They all look at her. “I mean, I only met the man once, but from your stories this seems like him. A little inappropriate, but a pretty fun Grunkle.”

“Psh, the real Stan would never make a good first impression,” Wendy says.

The others murmur their agreement.

“But maybe it’s okay that Stan doesn’t get his memories back,” Wendy continues.

“What!” The twins say.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” Tate adds in. Fiddleford looks at his son bewildered.

“Now I’m not saying that Stan shouldn’t remember, or that we won’t try to help him remember, but this isn’t like with Dad,” Tate says, squeezing Fiddleford’s shoulder. “Or maybe it’s exactly like with Dad. Stan forgot everything about his past, especially what hurt him. But he might eventually remember the good parts.”

“Like I did,” Fiddleford ends.

Tate nods.

“There was a point where I forgot Tate,” Fiddleford elaborates, looking guilty.

“You remembered eventually, Dad.” Tate says.

“But, but, Stans not even with us. Dipper and I are in California, the rest of us are in Gravity Falls, and Grunkle Ford and Grunkle Stan are all the way across the world! Are we supposed to wait til next summer for him to remember?” Mabel asks.

No one answers.

Ford should be reassuring her. Saying that even if Stan doesn’t remember, that he still loves them all. It’s easy to see; from the way he loves all of their gifts, to the fact that he always smiles when they call.

At the same time, he thinks: what if Stan doesn’t want to go back to Gravity Falls?

“He’ll remember eventually, Mabel,” Dipper reassures.

“That’s right, Mabel. One lousy injury isn’t going to stop Stan,” Soos reassures. “This is the man that punched a pterodactyl!”

Waddles oinks next to her adding in his two cents.

Mabel pets him. “Yeah, Grunkle Stan won’t forget about us.”

“So you have to keep on calling him, Mabel,” Wendy says. “Stan would never want to miss your middle school adventures.”

“We’ll keep calling,” Dipper says and Mabel nods.

“So will we,” Fiddleford adds. “It’s late, you kids should get to bed.”

The ‘kids’ groan, but say their goodbyes. The screen from the Mystery Shack and the twins blink off. The one from the mansion stays on. Tate walks away, leaving the screen.

“Hey, Stanford, how are you holding up?” Fiddleford asks.

Ford shakes his head.

“What’s wrong, Ford?”

“That’s the conundrum, Fiddleford. Nothing's wrong for me,” Ford admits.

“How so?”

“Well- life’s great! I mean, you know the last time we conversed? You had asked me what I wanted to change? I got everything I wanted: Stan relies on me, he takes better care of himself and me, we talk about everything!”

“Even the portal?” Fiddleford asks.

It’s a sore spot between them. While Ford feels like he could talk to Fiddleford about everything, he knows they can’t talk about certain subjects.

“Even the portal,” Ford says.

Fiddleford stays silent and Ford waits for him to give him an answer to his problems. Their last conversation was eye opening. And Ford is hoping that Fiddleford can lay some of his guilt to rest.

“That’s great, Ford. I’m glad you found someone to talk to,” Fiddleford says. He sounds and look sincere.

“And?”

“And what, Stanford?”

“What about this situation?”

Fiddleford pauses, he looks to be in deep thought.

“Listen,” Fiddleford start with, “I think you may have to consider the possibility that Stan might not regain his memories.”

“What-“

“I know that I regained them and that Stan regained them, but you have to remember we’re outliers. I had a video of myself to confront my missing memories. But no one else remembers what they’ve lost,” Fiddleford explains.

It was true.

There had been some experiments, but to their knowledge no one could regain their memories after the memory gun had taken them away. On occasion, bringing up the old memories would bring- distress to the person.

“However, that doesn’t mean that Stan won’t regain them after time,” Fiddleford adds.

That was true as well. Stan was such an outlier in regards to what was normal. The first time around, Stan had been so patient and understanding despite being bombarded with information about from his old life. Then he had actually regained them all with no issues, until now.

“So keep that in mind when dealing with him,” Fiddleford says with an air of finality.

“You’re speaking in circles, Fiddleford. I have to treat Stan like he won’t regain his memories, but he might regain them anyway,” Ford says, parsing out the words.

“That’s right,” Fiddleford agrees.

Ford taps his chin.

“That’s a paradox,” Ford says.

“Sure sounds like one,” Fiddleford says.

“Fiddleford, you were the one to present me this paradox.”

“I suppose I put the paradox into words, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist beforehand.”

“Right,” Ford grumbles. Another eye-opener.

Fiddleford sighs. “Look Ford, just use that big brain of yours. This situation is bad and you have to be careful. Why, you don’t even know if another injury may cause more memory issues!”

“I- I hadn’t yet considered that possibility.”

What would happen if Stan regressed completely?

What would happen if he regressed when they were at sea? Or on an uninhabited island? What if Stan were alone?

“I’ll talk to you later, Stanford,” Fiddleford says.

Ford waves him off and the screen goes blank. The man had probably seen this coming. Ford had been so happy with his situation that he hadn’t even thought of the consequences.

He considers his options.

Stan would have to remember. Even if it meant giving this up, Ford couldn’t risk Stan getting worse. And he couldn’t bear seeing the kids’ face look so disappointed every single call.

But how could Ford make Stan remember?

He could always go into the Mindscape. That might be the best way to diagnose the problem and see what other issues may crop up.

But it was also exceptionally dangerous if the Mindscape was deteriorating. It was also a procedure that he wouldn’t want to attempt alone. Perhaps he would save that for last or whenever they would go back to Gravity Falls.

Ford considers other options both supernatural and not. In the end he would go with the tried and true method, talking things out.

While the others had shown off every memory inducing item they had, Ford had not. He had held back in the hopes that the others would be the ones to induce the memories. After all, the memories that Stan didn’t remember that they shared were-

They were memories that Ford didn’t want Stan to remember.

-000-

Ford doesn’t go to sleep that night and ends up sleeping through the day. When he wakes up, it’s completely dark out. However the room is warm and Ford has been undressed. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He gets dressed and goes out to the kitchen where Stan is reading.

A werewolf looks out of the cover, distinctly lacking a shirt and his gaze smoldering.

Ah. This must have been a gift from Grenda and Candy. He had been told that everybody had sent a care package to them, but hadn’t realized that everybody had sent them something.

Stan looks up from his book when he realizes Ford is in the room. He closes the book, but doesn’t look ashamed. In fact, he looks a little tired. Had Stan been waiting for him?

“There’s more gourd stew, if you want some,” Stan says.

There’s just enough stew for one, with steam coming from the top.

“Thank you,” Ford says.

He dishes it up and sits across from Stan to eat it.

Stan picks up his book and continues to read. Ford watches him out of the corner of his eyes, but Stan looks rather engrossed.

When he finishes, he puts the dishes away.

He’s ready to tell Stan to go to sleep when Stan places a hand on his shoulder.

“Can you sit, Ford?”

Ford freezes and nods. He doesn’t think he can speak. He can’t lead this conversation, but he can answer any questions that Stan has.

They sit next to each other this time. Stan’s knee gently presses against his. It’s not reassuring, he can it trapping him there and the expectations welling up. Stan looks down at the table with a frown and Ford wonders what he knows.

Maybe he found the journals? They were right there on the shelf for anyone to read. The earlier journals weren’t very flattering, nor did they paint a very happy life with his twin. Hell, they were next to the romance novels.

“I know why you didn’t bring it up,” Stan says.

Ford tenses.

“I mean with me having amnesia-“

“You remember?” Ford blurts out. Since when?

“Well, no.”

Ford deflates.

“I- the me that remembers everything left me a note in case this happened,” Stan explains flippantly. Ford perks up and wonders what Stan wrote. “I only found it recently, and he didn’t leave me much. Just said that I should trust my family,” Stan says with a shrug.

Ford sits back. He had never considered that Stan would leave himself a failsafe in case of amnesia.

“You have questions for me then,” Ford says. The man must have questions. Stan finally knows that he’s missing information.

Stan starts with: “I know that I don’t remember all those people I’ve been telling stories too.”

Ford nods and lets out a mental sigh. At least he didn’t have to explain that point.

“I know that I’ve forgotten about this Gravity Falls place.”

Ford nods again. Stan had forgotten a huge swath about his past.

“And I know that I’ve forgotten somethings about us,” Stan concludes. He scratches his head.

“That’s right,” Ford confirms.

Stan takes a deep breath and lets out a cough.

“Tell me if I’ve gotten this part wrong.”

Ford waits for the accusations and the questions.

Instead, he feels Stan gently grab a hold of his hand. He stares at the hand, puzzled and looks back up at Stan who isn’t looking at him. He looks like he’s desperately trying to be casual. The knee that was pressed against him nudges him gently, but Ford doesn’t pull away.

Stan finally looks at Ford. His face for once is serious and without his usual grin. The intensity of his gaze is almost overwhelming, but Ford can’t look away.

Without breaking eye contact, Stan brings Ford hand up and brushes a kiss against his knuckles.

Ford’s mouth falls open.

“Did I get this wrong, Sixer?” Stan murmurs against his skin.

Ford licks his lips, but can’t speak.

Ford shakes his head, then stops, realizing the message that he’s sending.

Stan’s eyes light up.

Then he realizes exactly what answer he wants to be right.

“You’re not wrong,” Ford chokes out.

Stan grins at him and squeezes his hand. He chuckles, looking away.

“We’re okay?” Stan asks.

“Yes, Stan.” The lies fall easily from Ford’s lips.  “Everything’s okay now.”

-000-

Nothing changes, at least, not in the way that Ford expected things to change.

They have the same routine do the same things, but every gesture has meaning now. Every look is charged. And there’s a tension- no, tension isn’t the right word, there’s frisson between them. It makes Ford’s heart pound and his hands a little sweaty to be honest.

They have a few more adventures together and those are exciting.

But now Ford is aware of everytime they hold hands or touch, even if they’re in life or death situations.

And now he can see the ways that Stan is taking care of him after their adventures are over.

There are these tiny little things he catches now. He thinks about them, mulls over them, replays them in his mind, and turns them over and over in his mind. His thoughts are filled with these nuances that he’s never caught before.

Ford would keep muddling through life like this if it wasn’t for a call from the others.

“Hey everybody!”

“Grunkle Stan!”

“Mr.Pines!”

“Stanley?”

“I’m sorry,” Stan says and all their faces fall. “I don’t remember, but I figured out I have amnesia.”

“Well, at least you know now,” Dipper says.

And the others mumbled their agreement.

“Thanks, everyone. Now do you guys want to hear about our latest adventure?”

“That sounds delightful, Stan” Fiddleford says while fixing a look at Ford.

Well, perhaps Ford would have continued to muddle his way through this situation, not changing a thing, but Fiddleford was giving him a look. It promised disappointment from Fiddleford and a thorough talk that would break down any of Ford’s logical arguments.

He would have to try talking to Stan again.

-000-

After a few more adventures, Ford finally puts everything in motion. Stan is taking a shower and will be occupied long enough for Ford to set up everything. He gets his journals and some props and waits for Stan to finish.

Stan comes out, still drying his hair. Ford is just about to help him, most heat escapes from the head after all- but he manages to hold himself back in time.

“What’s all this?” Stan asks, rummaging around the fridge.

“Stan, we need to talk,” Ford says.

He immediately winces after he says this.

“Sure, what’s up?” Stan makes some coffee for himself, while humming, then comes over to the table.

“I need to tell you something, Stan, something you’ve forgotten,” Ford starts, but is interrupted by some cookies shoved under his nose.

“Your favorite,” Stan offers.

They are his favorite, so Ford instinctively takes one, “Thank you, now as I was saying, there are some things I feel that I should tell you.”

“Sure, just let me fix up some coffee for you,” and Stan goes to freshen up his coffee, just the way Ford likes it.

Stan knows him so well- Ford shook his head. He needed to talk to Stan.

He takes a sip of his coffee, which is perfect, so Ford drains half the mug in one go. The gesture seems to reassure Stan, who finally takes a seat. The man looks at him, a bit disinterested, probably expecting a nerd rant, but totally trusting him.

Holding a journal up, Ford asked: “Do you remember these, Stan?”

Stan looks at it curious and Ford offers him the book. Stan flips through the pages, but shakes his head.

“Not really. I mean it’s one of your diaries-“

“Journals.”

“-One of your journals. You write about our adventures in them,” Stan says without guile.

“Then what about this?” Ford held up a picture of the perpetual motion machine. It’s a perfect rendition. Even now he could remember every single screw and plate.

Stan shrugged. “Am I supposed to?”

“How about these?” Ford gives him a bag of toffee peanuts.

Stan’s face lights up. “Oh hey! You were holding out on me, Ford. I didn’t think we had any more candy left from Halloween.”

“No, that’s not- here,” Ford hands him the bag and Stan digs in. Ford looks over at the rest of his things and Stan lets him, electing to pay attention to his snack instead. He was hoping that Stan would just remember, that he wouldn’t have to say anything specific.

But here Stan was, gobbling toffee peanuts and flipping through Journal 1 like it was nothing. His brother chuckles at one of the entries.

Ford drinks his coffee trying to regroup his thoughts.

Stan flips to the diagram of the portal.

He frowns at the picture and stares.

Ford swallows. It wasn’t the first thing he would’ve liked to discuss with Stan, but if it was the first thing that he remembered then…

Ford flipped Journals 2 and 3 to the portal diagram. He gently grabs the first journal and sets them up.

Stan snaps his fingers and points at the diagram. “Hey…”

The bag of toffee peanuts, now empty, slips out of his hand to rest next to the diagram of Ford’s former science project.

Stan’s wide eyed, looking between the picture of the portal and the science project.

While Stan is staring, Ford finishes a sketch. “What about this?” Ford softly asks.

It’s a picture of Bill Cipher.

Stan sits back in his seat. Then his head lolls back and his eyes close, while his mouth falls open. Ford manages to catch him before he falls out of his seat.

“Stan!”

Stan does not answer. Ford shakes him gently, which does nothing. Carefully, Ford slings him over a shoulder and brings him to bed. Once he’s laid out, Ford checks his eyes and his pulse. His hands are shaking so badly, he doesn’t succeed the first few times.

Ford sits next to Stan’s head which tilts towards him. He runs a hand through his hair which is still a little damp. Ford grabs the sheet to dry Stan’s hair.

It’s the least he can do.

The first and last time he had seen Stan with this expression had been after Stan’s memory was erased. The blank expression had been burned into Ford’s memory. It was exactly the same as last time.

Ford waited, gently running a hand through Stan’s hair, hoping that he would wake up soon.

Like last time, he would have to wait to see what would happen.

-000-

Ford wakes up when someone lets out a loud snort next to him.

He sits up. It’s morning, he must have fallen asleep watching Stan.

Stan, who looks to be waking up.

Ford waits with bated breath.

Stan blinks awake, yawning loudly in Ford’s face. He smacks his mouth a few times and scratches himself.

Stan blinks, realizing Ford is staring at him. He looks away, chucking awkwardly, his cheeks a bit flushed.

“Hey, Sixer, watching someone sleep is a little, you know, don’t you think?”

Stan’s eyes are sparkling and he’s saying this with good humor. He doesn’t remember. Before Ford can formulate a reply Stan sits up and gets out of bed.

“I’m going to hit the john,” Stan says.

With Stan in the bathroom, Ford scrambles to clean everything off the table. Stan doesn’t notice a thing and Ford is going to keep it that way. He tried to help Stan remember and the result was disastrous. Better to let him remember naturally, or wait until they could get to a proper environment to help him remember.

In the meantime, it wasn’t a hardship to be with this Stan.

-000-

The days and nights start to grow longer and colder. Stan and Ford bundle up, but more often than not, find themselves pressed up against each other to stay warm. They often sit next to each other, arm to arm, with their thighs pressed together.

Stan seems unaffected by the change, happy even. He’s unlike Ford who is a nervous wreck from the additional contact. When they’re that close, Ford sweats and gets a little jittery.

They dock one day to resupply when Stan wants to go the local pub.

“Just to get a drink and some information,” Stan reassures.

Ford looks doubtful, but this isn’t the normal version of Stan. Maybe this one wouldn’t get into a fist fight. Maybe they could have a drink and some hot food that wasn’t originally canned. A meal that they didn’t have to make would be wonderful.

-000-

“Come and get some!”

Stan laughs maniacally as he clocks some guy with a chair.

The locals don’t understand Stan and don’t care. They throw themselves at him while Ford tries to open the safe behind the bar.

Ford grumbles. One of the only times they go to a bar together and they find out that the pub was housing some terrible and cursed artifact. It was only right that they take it to protect the town. But here they were, in a bar fight. Maybe it was an anomaly or the artifact that was making the locals attack them.

Ford hears Stan laugh again after a particularly nasty sounding ‘boom.’

Perhaps Ford should have considered that this Stan was still someone who would steal from a Harvest deity. Starting a bar fight was small potatoes in comparison.

There’s another crash that makes Ford wince and throws off his ability to crack the safe.

Screw it. He uses his gun to blast the lock and the door swings open. The statue inside looks unfortunately familiar. Ford stuffs it into his pocket even though it's pointy triangle edges are digging into his side.

With his mission accomplished, Ford jumps over the bar to help Stan.

There are three men advancing on his twin, but Stan keeps them at bay with what looks to be one of the pub decorations; a rusty anchor.

The men are wary and Ford is about to step in, when one the men grabs a bottle and throws it at Stan. Stan dodges the first, but gets clocked by a second. It hits him in the head and he crumples.

Ford finds himself smashing a fist into the one that hit his brother. Then he draws his gun, making sure to shield Stan, and snarls at the others. They back away and try to talk, but Ford isn’t having any of it.

Just when he’s about to shoot them and be done with it, a hand on his leg stops him.

“Let’s go,” Stan rasps.

Ford hesitates, but nods. He helps Stan up and they leave the pub, immediately fleeing to their boat. Stan is steady enough to work the sail, so they take off.

When they’re out on rough waters, Stan stumbles.

Ford drops to his knees trying to catch him.

Stan shakes his head. “Just need to regain my sea legs,” he says, but allows Ford to drag him inside.

Ford wonders if maybe Stan should sit, but decides otherwise. In Stan’s condition, it would be easier to take care of him in bed.

Ford lays him out and Stan groans. Ford starts undressing him so he’s comfortable. Stan tries to fight him off, but it’s easy enough to bat Stan’s hands away.

“I got you, Stan,” he says.

Finally he starts diagnosing: checking Stan’s pulse (erratic but not too fast), his pupils (dilated, but of matching size), and finally his head wound.

Stan flinches away from him and Ford gently shushes him. “I’ll be careful,” he says softly.

It looks like there’s a cut- but it’s partially healed. Ford doesn’t remember the bottle shattering-

Then Ford remembers. The head wound is in the same place as Stan’s last injury.

Ford bites his lip.

It’s his worst nightmare come to pass. He thinks about calling the others, but decides not to. They can’t help him.

He doesn’t know what will happen but he’ll be here right next to Stan’s side.

Ford spends the rest of the night watching and gently waking Stan up every few hours. Stan seems to be sleeping evenly and without issue so Ford goes up to make sure they’re sailing in the right direction.

When he comes back, Stan is completely still.

Fearing the worst, Ford violently shakes him and Stan comes awake swinging. Ford dodges the blows.

“Stan! Stan it’s me!” Ford catches Stan’s fists and holds them.

Stan’s wild eyes finally focus on him.

He scowls, pulling away.

Ford lets him go. He recognizes the expression.

“What happened?” Stan asks, mouth in a deep frown.

“You don’t remember the bar fight?” Ford asks.

Stan rubs his head, “Did we win?” He asks instead of answering.

“Yes, yes we did,” Ford says.

Stan chuckles, “Then I think I remember putting down a couple of guys. But you didn’t have to babysit me, Ford. I’m fine.”

“Yes, I suppose you’ve recovered now.”

-000-

Stan returns back to the way he was before the whole amnesia event occurred. Stan immediately recognizes the fact that he’s forgotten some time once he looks at the date. He has vague recollection of time passing, but Stan can’t remember any details.

Ford gives him a brief summary of the changes, mostly that he forgot about the kids, but that he remembered Ford. He had only realized Stan was having memory issues once he couldn’t remember the kids. Ford also talks about their gourd adventure because he’s sure the kids will bring it up.

Other than that, Ford keeps his mouth shut.

There’s no need to bring up anything that Stan can’t remember. And there’s no reason to feel sad for a version of Stan that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Ford is in fact grateful that Stan remembers the kids now.

Once Stan had realized what he had forgotten, he immediately called the kids. They looked so happy, and Ford realizes how hard it must have been for Dipper and Mabel to be forgotten by their Grunkle.

He doesn’t begrudge this version of Stan, because with this version their family is whole and healthy.

But now Ford has had a taste of something wonderful that he hadn’t known was possible. And he wants the best of both worlds. He wants a Stan that cares deeply about his family, and who thinks that Ford hung the moon.

When he was young he didn’t appreciate the Stan who thought that Ford hung the moon. Ever since Gravity Falls he could appreciate the Stan who deeply cared for his family. Then getting the Stan who thought highly of him, but losing the other Stan, well, if only it was possible have it both ways.

-000-

Ford often finds himself staring at Stan.

The man isn’t any less handsome than before, still has those intense eyes and wonderful smile. His hands are big and strong as he handles the sail and Ford could feel his heart skip a beat when he hears him laugh.

Ford sighs.

He finally figures out he’s in love with Stan and then loses any possibility of being with him.

Typical.

How did he not realize his feelings?

There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. Well, there was, but Ford was tired. He had such highs and a lows with his brother over these months that he didn’t want to rock the boat anymore.

He would have to be satisfied with the way things were.

Except now he was constantly aware of what was going on in his heart.

As a result, Ford stares at Stan. And he notices that Stan no longer smiles less now That on occasion he frowns and looks sad for no reason. And that he looks tired.

Ford wishes he could fix that.

He forces himself to look away.

Already more than a week has passed since Stan’s recovery, Ford should be over it.

In fact, he should try and follow Fiddlefords advice, try to repair their relationship. He knows what it looks like, but he doesn’t want to take the first step.

He’s staring off into the water, considering his options when Stan coughs behind him.

“Hey,” he says taking a place next to Ford.

Stan stares out at the water while Ford stares at him.

“Sooo…” Stan taps his fingers and starts fiddling with his pockets. “Trick or treat?”

“Pardon me?” Ford asks.

Stan coughs into his hand. “I missed Halloween. Now Trick or Treat, Sixer?”

“Ah, treat then,” Ford answers. Might as well go with the expected answer.

Stan holds something out and Ford opens his hands to receive it. Into his hands drops a small candy wrapped in wax paper. Stan gestures for him to go ahead, so Ford unwraps it and pops it into his mouth.

It’s brown sugar, Ford’s favorite. And it’s homemade like one of the candies that Stan made in October.

“Since there was a treat, I guess it makes sense that there was a trick too. I left some clues for myself so I’ve finally started to remember,” Stan explains.

Oh boy.

Ford wonders what exactly Stan remembers. He’s not sure he can come up with logical explanations for everything that has happened.

“I- I was never tricking you, Stan,” Ford tries to explain.

“Yeah. But we weren’t truthful with each other, were we?” Stan says.

We?

“What about my treat, Ford?”

Stan finally looks into his eyes and he gets pulled in by their intensity.

Stan takes a step closer.

This close now, Ford can feel the heat coming off of his brother.

Stan’s eyes glances down at his mouth.

“You gonna share that?” He asks, a quirk to his lips.

Ford doesn’t reply, just leans in. They meet in the middle for a kiss, sharing the taste of brown sugar candy.

Maybe Stan pulls back first, Ford doesn’t know, but when they do Ford is greeted with a familiar expression. Stan’s face has softened and is looking at him with warmth again. Ford slowly smiles feeling a weight come off his shoulders.

“Happy Halloween, Sixer,” Stan says.

“It’s November, Stanley,” Ford can’t help but say.

Stan rolls his eyes but grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Instead of arguing, Ford leans in for another kiss. He’ll have to keep kissing Stan until they get the moment just right.

#incest tw #stancest #nightfoliage #nightfoliagefic #wannabegrunklefan #a-stancest-halloween #hope you guys enjoy the fic~ #leave a tag or comment if you'd like to read a fic with Stans pov

[3monthsineurope]

July 24 and 25, 2021

Happy 27th birthday, Haley! I love you and hope you’re having a blast in Mexico with Malik!

Saturday I woke up at 8, which you all know is really early for me. But Catherine and I were taking a red eye flight to visit Nicole in Florida! I wanted to be tired for the plane. Ingvar and I both got up and showered, then I drove him to his car, close to Western. He had played Mario with friends the night before, and Ubered home. We were both pretty tired. I dropped off Ingvar and we said our goodbyes. He was going golfing with some of his best friends! I went and dropped off some things at Value Village for donation, then made myself some spaghetti squash with meat sauce and runny eggs for breakfast. I took care of my plants and worked on packing. I had packed most of my things the day before, but there was still some to do. I put on some make up, then it was time to meet up with my friend, Rachael!

Rachael and I met while we were at Western! We don’t see each other often, but we try to when we are visiting each other’s towns. We met at Woods at Boulevard and caught up for about an hour. It was so nice to see her! After our coffee date, I went home and laid down and rested my eyes for about 15 minutes. I finished all my packing, then left Bellingham around 3.

I spent the drive down to Kirkland listening to voice memos and responding to my Taylor Swift friend, Erica. I also talked to Grandma Sue. Before I knew it, I was parking in Kirkland! Catherine and I were so excited to visit Nicole in Rockledge, Florida! We wanted to go last year, but obviously Covid prevented that. Nicole and Catherine had been roommates at Western, with me right across the hall. We’ve been friends for almost 11 years now! Nicole and I have traveled together in Mexico and Puerto Rico, and Nicole, Catherine, and I did New Orleans in 2018! We were excited to finally visit her in Florida. (Yes, I was just in Florida, but two different friends asked me to come at two different times, haha.) I got to meet Catherine and her boyfriend’s Brad’s dog, Bella! She is so sweet!

We hung around their apartment for about two hours, just catching up and watching the Olympics. Brad was nice enough to drive us about a half hour to SeaTac. I sat in the back with Bella, and didn’t feel anxious at all! Brad dropped us off right around 7:30, with our flight being at 9:45. I didn’t have TSA precheck this time (I think I forgot to put it in my info when we booked our trip, months ago), so Catherine and I went through general security. There was absolutely no line! We got through, then headed to The Club at SEA—the lounge we could get into with my card. It was Catherine’s first time in an airport lounge. We each had two drinks and some yummy snacks. We hung out for over an hour, then took the train to N Gates. Our plane started boarding around 9. Catherine and I sat together in an exit row, with her on the isle and me in the middle.

The flight to Orlando was about five and a half hours. I finished my blog from Stuart, Florida, and listened listened to music while we were taking off and a bit after. Catherine ended up finishing one book on her phone and started another on the flight. The flight attendants passed our drinks and snacks and then I tried to sleep. Unfortunately, there was a very rude and obnoxious man in the row behind us. He was complaining about Alaska Airlines the whole time, and even called one of the flight attendants fat! He lied to them, too, about how many drinks he had in total, so they would keep serving him alcohol.

Anyways, because this man was so loud, I only ended up sleeping about two hours. Catherine didn’t snooze at all! I couldn’t believe it. Normally, I sit in the window seat, so maybe I didn’t sleep much because I didn’t have the window to lean on? We landed in Orlando right around 6am, eastern time. Ingvar was still awake at home, hanging out with his friends, hahah. Catherine and I disembarked the plane, took a small train to the main part of the terminal. We both went to the bathroom, then found Nicole! It was so early, hahah. It was so nice of Nicole to pick us up, because she lives about 45 minutes to an hour away. We were so excited to see her! Even though we both saw her about two weeks prior, when she was in Seattle for her grandma’s funeral. Nicole has a cute little Mazda. Nicole he picked out a breakfast place for us, called Keke’s. We drove about fifteen minutes to get there, and we arrived before they opened at 7, haha! We caught up in the car, then headed inside right at 7.

For breakfast we all had coffee (Catherine and I were gonna need it, that’s for sure!) and I had a combo with raspberry stuffed French toast, a chocolate chip pancake, eggs, and ham. It was a lot of food! I definitely took my leftovers to go. Nicole had an egg white omelette and Catherine had some French toast. It was all tasty and the service was really great. From Keke’s, we headed to Rockledge, the town that Nicole and Oscar live in. Nicole actually ended up going on the wrong roads for a bit, which was kinda funny!

In Rockledge, we stopped at the grocery store, Publix. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a Publix before? It was kind of like a Whole Foods, with expensive produce. Nicole got some stuff for her and Oscar, and some snacks and sandwich stuff for us. It was an expensive grocery tip! Catherine and I paid for some, though. Next up, was their apartment! Oscar met us in the garage and helped withy groceries. I love Oscar, I didn’t get to see him when he was in Seattle the weeks before. He’s such a nice guy. Nicole gave us a tour of her place. They have a three bedroom and two bathroom apartment in a large community. One bedroom is their master, one is their guest room, and one is Oscar’s office. Their living room and kitchen is a huge space, and they have a ton of closets and windows. They have a laundry room and a screened in porch, and a one car garage. I loved seeing their place!

Catherine chose the guest bedroom to stay in, while I got set up on a futon in Oscar’s office. We hung around for a bit and caught up with Oscar (and Nicole, of course), then I took a shower in Nicole’s bathroom (Nicole usually had the master bedroom’s bathroom as her own, with Oscar having the guest bathroom as his own). It felt so good to shower, wash my face, and brush my teeth after our red eye flight! Catherine showered too, then we were ready to take on the day!

Unfortunately, when Catherine and I booked our flights a few months ago, Nicole was sure she wouldn’t have to go back to work (she’s a sixth grade science and math teacher in the nearby town of Cocoa), to start the process of setting up her classroom and getting ready for the kids to come in August. A few week ago, though, she was informed that she had to go back July 26, the second day of our trip. What a bummer! So, the day we arrived, July 25, a Sunday, was our only full day without her going to work. We had to make the most of it! Oscar ordered us all Chipotle, then we all sunscreened up (thanks for making sure there was plenty of sunscreen, Nicole!) and headed to their apartment pool. We all brought our own beach chairs on our backs, and they even had a cooler for drinks! All four of us hung out at the pool for a few hours and chatted and relaxed. We ate our Chipotle and had some hard seltzers and hopped in and out of the pool. Catherine, Nicole, and I had been best friends for more than ten years now, so there was no shortage of catching up and chatting we had to do. I ended up taking about an hour nap in the shade, which was so nice!

After the pool, we rinsed off and got ready to go to the Cocoa Beach pier (Cocoa Beach is a different town than Cocoa, surprisingly). Oscar stayed home to fill out some documents (Nicole and Oscar had just been approved for a home loan! He needed to do some stuff with that), so Nicole gave us a little tour. She showed us where her school was, their gym, where they used to live, some wild peacocks in Cocoa Beach, and we ended up at the pier. The beach was pretty busy, even around 7! People were surfing and chilling on the beach, and their pier was full of restaurants, shops, and people. It’s pretty wild, that when you visit Florida, it’s almost like the pandemic doesn’t exist. Obviously it is still an issue, but you wouldn’t think so in Florida. Nicole led us down to the end of the pier, to a restaurant called Rikki Tiki Tavern. We sat at the bar top and all had a drink (my frozen mango madness was amazing!) and shared some coconut prawns! The view out there was amazing. We could almost even see launch pads for rockets, down the shore.

After our snack and drinks, we went down to the sand and water, for Catherine to put her feet in the Atlantic Ocean for the first time! Nicole showed us how she’s learnt to walk on her hands, then we called it a night. She drove us back to Rockledge and we got back around 9. Dang, we were all pretty tired! Catherine and I needed to get some rest, hahah. Nicole and Oscar had to get up early to go to work, so we all decided to go to bed. I called Mom after doing my bedtime routine, and it was nice to talk to her. I fell asleep pretty quickly, seeing how I only got three hours of sleep in the last day and a half. I was so happy to be in Florida, though! :]

[mazecraft]

Rachel in the Dark Room Ep 2

Warning:

Spoilers for Life is Strange and Life is Strange: Before the Storm.

Trigger Warning:

This fanfic will have disturbing images, including scenes of kidnapping, date rape, drug use, violence, sexual content and adult language. Recommended for mature audiences and viewer discretion is advised:

“Rachel?” Chloe sounded alarmed. Rachel was standing with her arms folded in the junkyard Chloe seemed to like so much. “What are you doing way over here?” asked Chloe. They didn’t often come to this side of the junkyard now that they had their own little space set up inside the abandoned managers shack. At first it had been fun coming here with Chloe. It was a place where they could be alone most of the time and plot their future and dream. Right in front of her, there was an old orange block letter “Hotel” sign covered in dust. Some of the paneling was broken and the lighting elements were visible through the cracks. She thought of her dreams of traveling the world and being a star as she looked at the sign. But it was broken and discarded. Was that what would become of her dreams?

“I’m never going to get out of this place, am I?” she finally said. She turned to face Chloe and scowled. “All you ever do is come up with excuse after fucking excuse and now I’m trapped in this junkyard with all the other trash!” Chloe’s face looked stricken and hurt. But her face hardened a moment later and her hands clenched into fists.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? I told you I was good to go when I got the truck registered and you decided we should wait after all so you could finish at your precious Blackhell!”

(God, she was so beautiful when she was pissed. Where is she now? Where is she…)

“You said your career would ‘sink like a Galleon full of gold’ if you left too soon.” Chloe continued. “Now that we’re broke and you don’t have daddy’s money, suddenly it’s my fault?” Utterly exasperated, Chloe punched a rusty oil drum next to her, splitting her knuckles open. “Fuck!” she yelled. She grabbed an empty beer bottle, and threw it at an old school bus, shattering one of the few remaining windows. Rachel watched her stalk off, feeling like an asshole because she knew Chloe was right, but too proud to follow her. At least, not yet.

The raven flew down out of the evergreens swaying on the edge of the property and landed on the ‘H’ of the hotel sign. You should have gone after her. Rachel folded her arms and turned away from it, rolling her eyes.

“I’ll make it up to her later.” (I promise you Chloe I will).

That sounds like it would have been fun. The raven hopped down to the ground and began pecking at the ground. Rachel looked over her shoulder and smiled at the raven’s insinuation. Her smile soured when she saw blood seeping out of the ground and soiling its beak. Rachel stared in fixated horror as a face was slowly revealed bit by bit as blood washed the topsoil away. First the forehead where the raven was pecking mercilessly, and then an eyebrow, followed by an eye staring lifelessly into the sky. As more and more of the face was revealed, Rachel began to scream uncontrollably.

“No! Oh god, no! Not her!” Her voice cracked as she continued to scream wordlessly. Even as she fell to the ground balling her fists over her eyes, she couldn’t get the sight of Chloe’s face ripping apart where the raven had cracked her forehead open.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

∞

Long Beach, Rachel was seven years old. Her parents, Rose and James Amber were sitting in foldout chairs under an umbrella on the beach while Rachel played in the sand with her Barbies. The peaceful sound of the waves washing up on the shore was a soothing backdrop to the cries of seagulls and murmur of other people, punctuated by the occasional laugh or friends calling out to each other splashing in the water. Rachel dug a hole with the plastic shovel.

“Let’s lay down right here” said Rachel in her best ‘Ken’ voice. She laid the Barbie on top of the Ken doll in the hole and stared at it blankly seeming to consider it uncertainly. Suddenly changing her mind, she picked him up and tossed him angrily into the sand bucket and turned it over. She then carefully buried the Barbie in the hole with the sand as tears welled up in her eyes. Her crying intensified and gets the attention of Rose who comes over to her and asks her why she is crying.

“Barbie is buried in the ground,” Rachel sobbed. Rose hugged her helplessly, giving James a questioning look.

“Rachel is in touch with some reality beyond the gilded cage.” James said sadly, quoting a song from one of his favorite bands. “Cast in this unlikely role, ill equipped to act with insufficient tact.” He turned to Rachel and said, “One must put up barriers to keep oneself intact.” Rachel cried that much the harder for her young heart had never known such grief. All the seagulls on the beach suddenly flew into the air, crying out in what sounded like panic. A raven flying in their midst caused a jumbled mess of feathers and broken wings as they crashed into each other to get away.

∞

A blurry shadow with a familiar voice stands over Rachel taking her picture. “It pains me to hurt you in this way,” the voice says. “But I’d do it again and again and again to keep you…mine.” She is confused again. The shadow moves closer and further away from her like waves on a beach. For a moment she is on the beach with her dad building a sand castle, then hiking in the Cascades, then riding a train with his arm around her in Paris on the way to the Louvre.

“I loved you dad. Why did you lie to me?”

“Oh, that’s too precious.” The shadow said as it washed up on her shore. The shadow’s face became clear. Its eyes were hidden by the reflection of light off the black rimmed glasses. A neat trimmed beard and short messy brown hair. The appealing façade of a monster. “Why is it that everyone around here wants me to be their surrogate father? Not that having you call me ‘daddy’ doesn’t give me a certain thrilling je ne sais quois.” The shadow chuckled.

“Poisonous slave, got by the devil himself.” Rachel mumbled. She wanted to scream and slam her fists into his smug face until he choked to death on his own blood. But she was so tired. She couldn’t fight past the drowsiness. She gathered every ounce of will she had and channeled it into trying to stand up. But the best she could manage was to raise her head. Her vision slightly cleared but the room seemed to stretch to infinity all around her.

“Ah, Prospera. How fitting. ‘All your charms are o’erthrown and what strength you have’s your own. Which is most faint now tis…plain to see? You must now be confined by me.” The shadow chuckled at his own ad-lib. “Too bad I came to Blackwell too late to see you in the Tempest. I heard you were really good.”

“She really was.” Another voice said. Rachel looked past the shadow to see a woman in her middle years, but the worse for wear, with long blonde hair. She was wearing black ripped up jeans and a Misfits t-shirt under an open red flannel. The arms of the flannel were rolled up revealing a sleeve of tattoos, and she was sitting on the couch shooting up heroin. She smiled at Rachel, her teeth yellow and her eyes, black caverns. “Don’t worry my little star. Now we can finally escape everything together. No more sorrow, no more pain, and especially no more guilt! We are and always have been nothing. Soon, nothingness is all there will be. After all, the stars are all dead…even you. Love and life were a mistake and this is the solution.”

Jefferson laughed.

“You aren’t real! This is not happening. You’re both…a lie,” she said.

Jefferson paused with a needle full of ghb half way toward her. “On the contrary, we are more real than you are about to be if reality is defined by what exists, and what doesn’t.” She should have been afraid, but his words just infuriated her more. Rachel’s rage emanated from her like heat from a furnace. Her anger burst into a shockwave and the apparitions of Jefferson and Sera blew away like ashes on the wind, leaving her in the silence of the dark room, its quiet hum and sterile shades of white and black a comfort after the nightmare. She was beginning to think the room was the only true thing left.

The shadows moved clockwise around the room until they coalesced into the raven perched upon the back of a chair. Why do you keep coming back here? There has got to be a way to escape this, she thought. I won’t give up. I don’t have to become my parents. I don’t have to be a cheating liar or a nihilistic junkie! Amusement like sparkling electricity bloomed in Rachel’s mind and she stamped it down with her anger. “I’m glad you think this is funny, carrion eating motherfucker!”

Sorry, spilled milk. If you think you can pour yourself back into the bottle then don’t let me stop you.

(To be continued...)

Link to next episode in the comments

mazecrafted (c) 2018

#life is strange #life is strange before the storm #rachel amber #chloe price #mark jefferson #rose amber #james amber #mark jeffershit #amberprice #fanfiction #short story

[ericvick]

Readers share what it's like to go house hunting in Mass.

Have you been to an open house lately? You’ve probably experienced the frenzy. Maybe you toured a home only to hear the real estate agent say an offer has already been made on the house, sign unseen. Perhaps the process is too frustrating, and you’ve decided to rent. 

We recently asked readers to share their stories of what it’s like to house hunt in Massachusetts. We received a wide range of stories from the “unbelievably lucky” to the “very bizarre.” Many readers were surprised at the state of the homes they toured — and the number of competitive offers they’ve made without success.

Below, we feature 10 responses from readers. 

Do you have your own unbelievable house hunting story? Share it with us here or e-mail [email protected]. 

‘We were unbelievably lucky’

“We are still in shock,” Kate in North Attleborough wrote. After the pandemic hit, Kate wanted more space than her one-bedroom in Boston. With her lease up in October, she started house hunting in May. “We started looking in anticipation of a difficult search. On our first day meeting our real estate agent, the 2nd house we looked at was being built and would be ready in October. Put an offer in and it was accepted,” she wrote. “That was it, one day of looking at homes and our first offer we put in was accepted. We waited a while to tell some of our friends because one was on their 10th offer and still no house. We were unbelievably lucky.” 

‘Wheel yourself around to the washer’

Don in Charlestown recalled a house he visited where the washing machine was located in a basement that was only 5 feet high. Then he noticed a number of chairs on wheels. “So to use the washer, let’s say (unless you were willing to stoop the entire time), you would sit in one of these chairs and wheel yourself around to the washer and wherever else you needed to go,” he wrote. “The house also had a stocked trout pond and the trout were obviously hungry. The broker would throw a handful of fish food into the pond and the water would erupt with starving trout. At any rate we did not buy this house and never learned why the basement was 3 feet short. We just hope the trout survived.”

‘No offers were made that day’

Brandon Moss of Boston was house hunting in the Bridgewater and Lakeville areas with more than a few unusual touring experiences. One of them included a floor-to-ceiling pile of beer cans and boxes inside an enclosed porch and “a bedroom set up in the basement adjacent to the boiler (without windows), which eerily reminded me of Sloth’s living quarters in ‘Goonies,’ ” he wrote. Moss continued on to another house “where renovations were half-complete. When asked the status, the occupant indicated that it was the ex’s fault (clearly the marriage broke up in the midst of renovations).” Moss added, “Suffice it to say that no offers were made that day.”

‘Very bizarre’

Jennifer in Natick was house hunting in Needham when she walked through a highly monitored home that may have been owned by a family that also ran a dry-cleaning business. “They had a family member sitting like a statue in each room that we entered to protect against theft, I guess. They didn’t speak but just freaked people out as they walked through the house and entered each room. They also had a complete dry-cleaning clothes rack system in their basement, just like a dry-cleaner, filled with clothes. It was very bizarre,” she wrote.  

‘Naked in bed during the inspection’

“Looking to buy a house we inspected one that was currently being rented. The two people who lived there were naked in bed during the inspection time,” Kelly in Brookline wrote. 

‘The attached garage which held our future soundproofed party pad was actually 7 feet over the property line’

Richard in Boston shared his house hunting experience in the southwest region of the city back in 2007. “[I] was looking at a bungalow that came with, of all things, a recording studio. We made an offer only to discover that the attached garage which held our future soundproofed party pad was actually 7 feet over the property line, on land owned by the town. There was no way any mortgage company would grant a loan for something like that even in those days. The seller suggested we could move in anyway and rent it until it got sorted out! Then they offered to convert the studio into a small office with the bonus of a window. Our realtor wisely advised against it and the last we heard was the seller had to demolish the offending section of the house before putting it back on the market. Yikes!”

‘There were 30 other offers like ours’

“I think the process as a whole is just crazy!” Gina wrote. She sold her condo in March with more than 100 people touring the space and selling in less than five days. “That was the easy part,” she wrote.

The Waltham resident went on to share what it’s like to be house hunting in the Worcester area since December. “Each week we see anywhere from 2 to 6 houses for about 15 mins because that is all that is allowed with our agent in towns from Bolton to Grafton,” she wrote. She noted that sometimes children aren’t allowed at showings, so she has to leave her 6-year-old daughter with family. 

“Then comes the Sunday scramble — we can only put one offer on one house. So we come up with the best offer that includes things we are willing to waive (heat system upgrade, bank appraisal, etc.) to be competitive. We look at comps in the neighborhood, well water tests and disclosures from the current owner. Then we furiously sign document after document to get our final offer in by Monday morning with a friendly letter to the sellers about our family,” Gina wrote. “Then we wait to hear that we didn’t actually get the house because there were 30 other offers like ours. Unfortunately we haven’t closed on our house yet so most sellers don’t want to take a chance that our sale will fall through. It is a stressful process but made even more stressful because we have to do it all over again each week.”

‘The open house was a literal frat party’

“We looked at a home directly on the water in Winthrop a few years ago that had dropped its price to 100K, well below what it was worth and the open house was a literal frat party,” Gabriella in Winthrop wrote. With so many people viewing the property, and all the stuff the owner had accumulated, it was hard to move around the house. “The living room wall was being held up by a beach chair and the bedroom windows were covered in black trash bags. People were going around peeling wallpaper off the walls to see the condition of the plaster and pulling up corners of rugs to see the floors. … We ended up buying a house a few streets over, but the owner still hasn’t sold despite many, many offers.” 

‘It’s truly a marathon not a sprint’

Paul and his wife in the South End have been going to open houses every weekend since October. The couple have been looking to buy in the suburbs “from Weston down to Hingham,” always submitting an offer at or above the asking price. According to Paul, when January hit, “things really heated up.”

“The first house we submitted an offer on was in Wayland for a house $729K. At the 1st showing (which was basically 10 minutes because there was a line of 30 people out the door on a Thursday) we submitted an offer for full asking price, no contingencies, close in 30 days. The realtor didn’t even get back with us! We only found out 3 days later that the house was under agreement and sold for $70K over asking. You would think this house was a funeral home because it looked like there was a wake line outside. … Lastly, my wife and I went to go see a home this past Wednesday in sleeeeepy Sherborn. When I say this house was in the woods, deep in the woods! At 12:45PM on a Wednesday in March, there were 25 cars on the street for a home that was asking $985,000. … Not disclosed to the average buyer looking at the pretty Zillow listing: The septic tank was 31 years old and hadn’t been pumped in 6 years! It was a beautiful home but we are staying away because of the underground details. Not to mention there’s a freight train that runs by the house at night and blows the horn. Little details that you pick up on when you do your research! 

It’s super disheartening out there but I think it’s truly a marathon not a sprint. Once people get vaccinated and people want to travel once again this summer, I am hoping the competition dwindles.”

‘Incredibly frustrating, I decided to rent’

“I’ve made five offers in the South Shore over the course of eight months. The last house I didn’t get I was told by the seller’s agent that I had the highest offer, (significantly over asking, no contingencies) but they picked buyers that are more ‘similar to their family situation’ because of the letter they wrote. I think that could be discrimination? Incredibly frustrating, I decided to rent,” Kelly in Canton wrote.

Subscribe to the Globe’s free real estate newsletter — our weekly digest on buying, selling, and design —at pages.email.bostonglobe.com/AddressSignUp. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @globehomes.

#House #hunting #Mass #readers #share

[miyotesse]

The Ravenshead Cave Beast

With information gifted to them by the Fae, Kirsikka and Celeste travel to unused waters, in search of a legendary beast, and the valuables it holds. The sixth story in the Union Firth series.

---

Thanks to the temperate nature of the continent, the weather on the Union Firth is very consistent. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, mild in spring and windy in autumn. It allows many boaters to sail without fear of sudden cold snaps, heavy winds or skin blistering heat. However, it is not always completely reliable. One such day, as the rains lashed down, turning the relatively still waters of the canal into a pock marked mess, Celeste looked in exasperatedly. She was sat under a clear tarpaulin cover that sat over the entirety of the back deck, with small holes to allow air flow and prevent her view from fogging up.

“This is crazy! I can barely see where the water ends and the fields begin!” Kirsikka commented from one of the side windows. She seemed blissfully unaware that she was getting soaked by the rains.

“Close the window! If you ruin my flooring, I shall make you get out and walk!” Celeste snapped. Kiri grinned, and her head popped back into the boat. Moments later, the hatch swing upon, and her sodden face appeared.

“You wouldn't do that to me! You need me, remember. 'Oh, Kirsikka, kind and sexy master thief, I wish to learn more about the fey world, but I cannot do it alone. Would you enter into a partnership with me and save my bottom whenever I get into trouble?'” she said, badly impersonating the other woman. Despite herself, Celeste let out a chuckle.

“Silly girl. You forgot the part where staying with me keeps your 'bottom' from getting caught by the Justicar and, oh, what was it? Being executed as a trai-” she began.

“Aahhdahdahdah! Less said about that the better, that's all behind me. I'm not that person any more, I'm Kirsikka Kofi, mistress thief! Champion of the downtrodden, taker of all things!” she said, leaping up onto the deck. It would have been an impressive move, were it not for her banging her head on the tarpaulin roof, and tripping on the top step. She fell forwards, landing with a faint noise of pain.

“My hero...” Celeste muttered. The boat pushed on, its engine chugging noisily as they braved waters that other, larger vessels were not daring. They passed dozens upon dozens of moored boats, most with lights flickering within, everyone trying to make the most of the respite from the deluge of rain. Eventually, the stopped boats ran out, and an hour after that, as Kirsikka gazed out into the torrent, her eyes lit up.

“Oh! Is that it? Over there, between the two copses. 'The giant stone raven who drinks from the waters of the Firth' was what Althysa said to look for. That little outcrop there, if you squint, it could look like a bird's head,” she said, pointing out towards the cliff face.

“I see it. I think you may be right. I'll pull us in, can you please moor us. I think it would be best to wait overnight and venture forth in the morning,” Celeste said. Kiri nodded, and unzipped the tarpaulin enough to leap through it as Celeste brought the boat to the shore.

The night came and went, the rain hammering on the wooden boat most of the night, leading to fitful sleep from both women. As the first rays of the sun began to brighten the world, Kiri slid the hatch open, and padded up onto the deck, naked but for her unbuttoned shirt, and the bindings around her arm and chest. She looked over the river and the fields, letting out an appreciative whistle. A film of mist hung across the river, and it extended out over the rock hewn fields, skirting the mountain that could be seen in the distance.

“Tenelth the Wise dwells within the stone tooth that pierces the sky,” she said quietly, sipping from her mug.

“Indeed. I believe that we have finally found what we are looking for. I hope you are prepared,” Celeste said, pulling herself up one step at a time.

“Mostly. Should probably put some clothes on, but other than that, I'm good. I do want to know why fae people don't just say things like 'guy lives in a mountain', it'd be so much easier,” she said, rolling her eyes. Celeste chuckled, and pulled herself up the last step. “Oh! Hey, I didn't know you had one of those!” she said, nodding to the wooden shaped foot that poked out from under the woman's skirt.

“The land ahead undulates too much for the chair to be safe. I do not like wearing prosthetics, they make me feel like I am incomplete as myself,” Celeste said quietly. Kiri nodded her head, and smiled warmly.

“With or without, you're still my Celeste,” she said with a smile, sneaking in close to kiss the woman on the cheek. Celeste swatted her away gently, and Kiri giggled as she dropped down into the boat. Ten minutes later, the two women were making their way through the fields, as the sun began to rise, driving away some of the hanging mist. Two hours into their journey, they rested so that Celeste could spend some time without her prosthetic. They had stopped by a crystal clear lake, and Kiri took the opportunity to dive in, swimming around and washing herself in the waters. Another two hours went by, and they came to a small gathering of trees which sat around the base of the mountain, which they could see had little flecks of snow around its peak.

“A crack in the wall will give entry to all,” Celeste said with a sigh. “So we're looking for a cave entrance,” she went on. Kiri nodded.

“Want me to scout for it? Could save you some energy,” Kiri said, her voice full of concern. Celeste reached across to the woman, and delicately smacked her on the back of the head.

“I do not need your concern nor your pity, Kirsikka. Remember that,” she said sternly. Kiri opened her mouth to protest, but then thought better of it.

“Righto. Well, I'm going to climb a tree and see if I can get a view of the upper levels that way. Meet back here in half an hour?” she asked, and Celeste nodded.

#Kirsikka #Celeste #Union Firth #Original Fiction #Cave

[stars-forever-dwell-blog1]

Blinded by the Light: Part Eight

“It was the beach, you understand? The beach? It was too beautiful, too much input, too much sensation. I tried to keep it under control, but it just keeps spilling out and spilling out and spilling out. You see, she’s on an island, and that island is – is perfect. I mean real perfection, you know? I’m not just talking about, ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ It’s the real fucking deal, okay? Perfect. It’s just like a – a lagoon, you know. A tidal lagoon that’s sealed in by cliffs, totally fucking secret, totally fucking. . .forbidden. And nobody can ever, ever, ever, ever go there. Ever. But a few people went, once upon a time – men and women with ideals, you understand? I’m not just talking about the usual traveling fucking wanks. Do you believe in that place?”

“No. But I guess you’re going to tell me that I should, right?”

“It doesn’t even fucking matter what I think anymore. It’s up to you. Ideals, eh? We were just fucking parasites! See, I was the one that was trying to find the cure. Procurer of the cure. And I said to them, ‘You’ve got to leave. You’ve got to leave this place.’ But they wouldn’t listen.”

-The Beach

                                                      *     *     *                                                      

So there I was, suddenly, in the upper-middle class suburbs of Calgary, living with my friend Caitlin, her brothers Joe and Rory, and her mom, Janice. It was September. There was running water for showers and teeth brushing and hand washing, lights that turned on for reading, electricity for listening to music and emailing people, a fridge full of food, and no hippies. People were normal. They went to work. They listened. They could carry on conversations. Their clothes actually fit them and they weren’t tie-dyed. They were honest. They weren’t on drugs or lost or trying to manipulate one thing or another out of you.

Looking back, I can honestly say that I don’t know where I’d be today if it weren’t for the endless generosity, warmth, caring, compassion and understanding of Caitlin and her family.

I stayed there for a month, and in that time, Caitlin and I talked for hours on end ‘til the wee hours of the morn almost every night (Gemini and Virgo), at first mostly about Arael and what an idiot he was, but then as time went on we talked about him less, and more about everything else under the sun. She would leave me little notes telling me how beautiful I was; once she made a list of “Ten Things I Love About You,” and left it for me when she went to work. Another time she compiled a list of nice things people we mutually knew said about me and wrote them all down. She was endlessly supportive of me, and constantly telling me how beautiful, smart, worthy and generally awesome I was. And in her love, I bloomed like I hadn’t in longer than I could remember. She was a true friend. There’s this song by Dar Williams I started listening to around this time called The Ocean, and parts of it still make me think of Caitlin and smile. It spoke to me of chasing after Arael to his town on the shores of the ocean, how I tried and tried to make him smile, how I thought he and I were soul mates who would get married someday, but the anger and hurt he carried went deeper than I could ever touch, and were, really, provoked by me, because for a short time I filled the role of the woman in his life – and nothing I did could change that. It was his issue that I never learned the origins of.

I remember when I was living in Marcia’s house of madness, she had this certain book on one of her shelves that for some reason called out to me to pick it up. I did, and read the intro and a bit of it until I knew the premise of it. It was called Away, and it was about a woman named Mary who is walking along the shore one day, and sees a beautiful man lying unconscious in the waves. She rushes out to save him, but once she returns to shore, she is. . .away. She, Mary, is gone, which is a more common occurrence than you might think if you know anything about the Faerie folk. In her place is someone else. I don’t know why, but this story haunted me. I even dreamed about it, and looking back, I wonder if Mary and I were so different.

But over time, the song’s meaning changed for me. It became about Caitlin, moving away from the ocean, the ocean being a metaphor for the watery, unstable, wishy-washy beliefs and reality I had been living with and in for the past year and a half. how I was always bringing my brain to the ocean, trying to find some grounding/earth (Virgo again) but never achieving any, never being able to admit that maybe what I was seeking wasn’t to be found amid the waves or in the sand. I had yet to learn I am an earth-bound mountain spirit, not an ocean dweller. Eventually, gradually, as my heart healed, this song became a cry out to Caitlin, from my heart to hers, wanting her to see the deep beauty, kindness and generosity I saw in her, but she could never see in herself. She was never enough for herself, no matter what she did. I don’t know if she ever knew how much she changed my life.

When I went to your town on the wide open shore

I must confess I was drawn, I was drawn to the ocean

I thought it spoke to me

It said, “Look at us, we’re not churches, not schools, not skating ponds, swimming pools,

But we have lost people, haven’t we, though?”

Oh, that’s what the ocean can know of a body

And that’s when I came back to town

This town is a song about you

You don’t know how lucky you are

You don’t know how much I adore you

You are a welcoming back from the ocean

I went back to the ocean today

With my books and my papers, I went to the rocks by the ocean

But the weather changed quickly

The ocean said, “What are you trying to find?

I don’t care, I’m not kind, I have bludgeoned your sailors

I’ve spat out their keepsakes.”

Oh, it’s ashes to ashes, but always the ocean

But the ocean can’t come to this town

This town is a song about you

You don’t know how lucky you are

You don’t know how much I adore you

You are a welcoming back from the ocean

And the ones that can know you so well

Are the ones that can swallow you whole

I have a good, and I have an evil

I thought the ocean, the ocean thought nothing

You are a welcoming back from the ocean

I didn’t go back today

I wanted to show you that I was more land than water

I went to pick flowers

I brought them to you, “Look at me! Look at them!

With their salt up the stem”

But you frowned when I smiled

And I tried to arrange them

You said, “Let me tell you the song of this town”

You said, “Everything closes at five

After that, well you’ve just got the bars”

You don’t know how precious you are

Walking around with your little shoes dangling

I am the one who lives with the ocean

It’s where we came from, you know

And sometimes I just want to go back

After a day, we drink til we’re drowning

Walk to the ocean, wade in our work boots

Wade in our work boots, try to finish the job

You don’t know how precious you are

I am the one who lives with the ocean

You don’t know how I am the one.

And at the end, the song became a question. Would I go back? Back to the ocean, or stay in the mountains? Would I cling to what I knew now had been the wrong thing for me, or would I step out into the new, the next chapter?

I spent a lot of my time emailing people and talking about the past year and a half, and the future. This one girl I had met who called herself Nej (her name, Jen, spelled backwards) or Neige, and I sent volumes of emails back and forth. She called me Gem, because my legal name is Megan, or Meg, and also in reference to the Lauryn Hill lyrics, “Don’t be a hard rock when you really are a gem, baby girl.” We had met and connected because we both wrote poetry and relished words on our tongues like the finest wine. She was this funky, petite, fiery and watery Chinese girl with a major wanderlust and this writer’s passionate flame burning that drew in me in like a moth. The last time we emailed, she said she was catching a ride to the southern U.S. for the winter. I have no idea what happened to her after that. I still think about her sometimes, but I never learned her last name, so finding her would be next to impossible, I think.

I remember the immense feelings of peace and relief I felt staying there. I would sit for hours in a chair by the bay window in our bedroom and look outside, a mug of chamomile tea in hand. First watching the leaves falling, then the first snowfall. My heart began to stir inside my chest for the first time in over a year. I began to feel again, and it was beautiful. I spent tons of time thinking – just thinking, writing in my journal and just relishing the feelings of safety and warmth that I hadn’t had in forever. Asking important questions of myself: Is it possible to live a life free of the negative influences of greed, indifference and ignorance that are so prevalent in our society – while still living in society? Can I walk that fine line between the grid what lies beyond it, for all my life? Can I not be consumed? Can I retain my individuality, my purity of soul, my ethics and beliefs? Is true freedom possible while choosing consciously to live in a culture that is so mentally enslaved? Can I do it if I get a job, rent an apartment, pay my phone bill? Can I be, as Buddha (or was it Jesus?) said, in the world but not of the world? What is real freedom, anyway?

I met Caitlin’s friends, who wore bright scarves and had a clarity in their eyes that I had sorely missed, went to funky cafes and galleries, and explored the city. With rest comes clarity of thought. Calgary is beautiful in the fall, and it was such a magical, cozy, happy, deeply beautiful month. Even now, it’s the only city I would ever consider living in, and I always have a blast whenever I go there.

Still, despite all this goodness, it hurt that I left B.C., the place where I thought I would find utopia. I still wanted things to work out there, though I somehow knew that going back to Salt Spring wasn’t going to happen. That time was over.

So as the month was drawing to a close, Caitlin and I started discussing what I was going to do. She had offered for me to live at her family’s place, get a job, that whole thing, and a part of me really wanted to. She was going back to B.C. for a month to travel around a bit, then stay with some family in Vancouver. Her family was still struggling through her parents being separated and trying to work things out, and she just wanted to be away, I think.

I was torn; being a shy, awkward person, I really didn’t feel very comfortable with the idea of living in her house if she wasn’t there, despite how awesome her family was, and how comfortable they had made me feel, despite said shyness and awkwardness. But going back to BC obviously made me really wary. Looking back, I think I really wanted to stay in Calgary, but I caved and went back to BC with Caitlin, mostly because of my shyness. And it was a mistake. Big surprise.

We went back to Duncan, which was the town Arael was from, on Vancouver Island. I think that was mostly Caitlin’s idea, though I wasn’t really sure why she wanted to go back. Maybe for closure, maybe she still liked him, I don’t know. She and I had made other friends there as well, so that was the surface-reason why we went, I guess.

I ended up dating a guy there named Mika, who was totally bad for me, and the pseudo-relationship died pretty fast. He was still a virgin and I told him I’d recently had sex for the first time. He really wanted to have sex, and at that time I honestly had zero interest in it. I think I was still processing the experience of my first time, and I made it clear to him that I didn’t want to, at least not yet. But he wouldn’t leave the subject alone, and it got really annoying really fast. Seriously, some guys. If a girl says Stop and you give her some lame excuse like, “But I can’t control myself around you!” you’re just being sleazy and disrespectful. Just so’s you know.

Anyway, Mika had anger issues. His father had anger issues, and his father’s father had had anger issues too. His grandfather had abused his father, and his father had never hit Mika or his siblings, but he was always on the verge of it, as Mika described it. And I could see that in Mika too, and it scared me. His father was a long-distance trucker, so he was gone for the whole time I lived at Mika’s place. One day, Mika told me that if his dad came home unexpectedly and found me there, he would throw me and all my stuff out the front door. Kinda glad I never met him, i must say. So when things ended, after my weird co-dependent all-consuming sadness stopped being an issue, I was actually relieved and over it pretty fast.

Caitlin only stayed in Duncan for a week or so, then she headed off to Vancouver to stay with her aunt and uncle. She became her cousins’ nanny for awhile, and stayed there for a few months. Her parents ended up getting back together, which I know made her and Joe and Rory really happy.

In the meantime, I had ended up crashing at my friend Jai’s place with his brother Kailo and their dad, a really nice guy. Jai had a crush on me, but I didn’t feel that for him, so it was a bit awkward. He took it really well though, and we stayed friends. Again, I was feeling lost and confused. I talked a lot with Jai and Kailo’s dad, and he suggested that I try to go on welfare if I didn’t want to work, and get my own place. That was my tentative plan, but something in me was not cool with going on welfare for no good reason. I was young, healthy, and capable – not a sponge, thank you very much. I really wanted to stay in Duncan because there was this farm there called Sungoma; I’m not sure if it still exists, but it was so cool. Whoever owned it had built a bunch of random small outbuildings scattered around the property. Some of them were on stilts, some were treehouses, and you could rent them out by the month and live in them. There was a communal kitchen and showers. I wanted to live in a treehouse – again. But there were no vacancies, and they didn’t often come up, not surprisingly. My dream was to live in a treehouse and work at Coffee on the Moon, the local funky coffee shop, but they weren’t hiring. So my options were limited.

I don’t remember the exact moment I decided to leave BC and the dream, but I remember calling my dad from a payphone on a cold, rainy late November day and telling him I wanted to come back to Winnipeg, and asking if he would buy me a plane ticket home, one way. I think I was just tired. The dream lay scattered in bloody shards around my feet, and I was too far gone to even be heartbroken or sad about it.

So I took the ferry to Vancouver and stayed with Caitlin for the night before my flight left, feeling completely in a daze, not believing that I was willingly returning to the city I had sworn a year and a half earlier that I would never move back to again. But I think something deeper in me, wiser, more self-preserving said, “You need to rest.” And I heeded it – so I guess I wasn’t as completely stupid as I thought.

That night with Caitlin was awkward, and at the time I was too distracted to analyze why, but later I figured out that she was changing too – she wasn’t satisfied with the flaky hippie life either – and at that point, she saw me as still fully immersed in it. But I was changing too, though it would take me awhile to sort out the dichotomy in my mind and my heart.

So I was at the Vancouver International Airport the following morning, and I remember looking down at my feet and thinking, This is the last time my feet will be on BC soil; the soil of what I thought of as my homeland. It was a heartbreaking, eyes-look-your-last moment, full of confusion, bewilderment and exhausted pain. I spent some time looking at the mountains of Whistler in the distance, drinking in the sight, quenching my soul for the long, mountainless, prairie-filled months ahead. My sketchy plan was to go back to Winnipeg, get a job, stay with my mother, make some money, then go overseas and live happily ever after – or something.

*     *     *

So what remains to be said? I think I’ve shed it all; I haven’t talked about absolutely everything that happened. Some of it is just too personal or special for me to share. And a couple things that are downright embarrassing. . .But I feel good about what I’ve shared. So how to end it?

There’s a book and a movie based on the life of Christopher McCandless called Into the Wild. It’s an incredibly sad story. To sum it up, Chris was an intelligent guy who, after he graduated college, secretly sold his car and donated all his money and savings for law school to Oxfam International, and disappeared. His family had no idea where he went. He changed his name to Alexander Supertramp and worked odd jobs around the States, saving up to live his dream: to disappear into the Alaskan wilderness and live off the land. Away from the things of man. He made it to Alaska, and did walk into the wilderness, alone. He had barely any supplies with him. He found an abandoned school bus and, using a few books he had on wilderness survival and edible plants, lived there in total isolation for three months, then decided he was ready to go back to civilization. But upon walking out, he discovered that the route he had taken to come into the woods was now impassable; the river had swollen and was running too fast for him to swim out. So he returned to the bus for another month or so, and in the end he died of starvation. He was found two weeks later by a hunter, curled up inside his sleeping bag, weighing only 67 pounds.

The school bus is still there, and Chris’ parents have turned it into a monument to him. They keep it stocked with supplies and food for other travelers who might want to walk into the wild, like their son did.

This story really haunted me when I first read it, and later when I watched the movie. Maybe because I’ve been closer than the average person to doing what Chris did. Because I have tasted that feeling, but I lived through it to move on with my life, to tell that part of my story.

I think people maybe find it romantic what he did, but I personally wasn’t overly impressed. I found him to be hypocritical in his beliefs; he was so adamant about leaving behind everything to do with society, yet he had no qualms about living in an abandoned school bus. And yet on the other hand, he refused many people along the way who wanted to give him money and supplies, even leaving behind winter boots and hunting gear in some cases, because he wanted to be entirely self sufficient. I personally find that incredibly stupid. You’re going into the Alaskan wilderness, man. Why not accept the help you’re offered, and work your way up to living completely off the land? Why not be smart about it? I guess I just have no patience for flaky people who don’t really know what they want or what they’re doing. I dealt with them every day for a year and a half in BC when I was a neo-hippie, and I’m not impressed by any of it. Someone who goes into the woods to live, and is truly clear-headed, capable, conscious, conscientious and mature about it? That would impress me.

Now for some random last-minute stuff.

Hitchhiking

I would never do it now, today. Not for any reason. And I don’t recommend it. On Salt Spring during the protest, one of my friends was hitching one night, and she got picked up by two loggers. They figured out she was one of the protestors, and they drove out into the middle of nowhere and raped her. She never went to the police because she didn’t want it to interfere with the protesting. Seriously. I would have let those guys burn. But back then, I believed that everything my sister did was perfection, foolproof. She told me to send out positive vibes into the universe, and you would always get good rides. And nothing bad ever happened, I have to admit – but I don’t think it was necessarily for the reasons I believed it was then.

She did give me some practical advice as well. Talk, she said. Talk a lot. Make yourself a human being, a person, in the driver’s eyes. They will have a harder time thinking about hurting you if they see you as a person, not just a body, an object. Ask them questions about themselves. And, when all else fails, and you’re in the car alone with a guy who seems creepy – ask him about his mother. I always carried a knife up my sleeve as well, even though it’s been proven statistically that if a “normal” person like me (who has no idea how to fight with a knife) carries one, that person is more likely to get hurt than the person they might be trying to fight off. And seriously, if I stabbed the driver, what would happen? We would end up in the ditch, which would also obviously suck. But my knife served more of a psychological purpose for me: it made me feel badass and tough, and that shows on a person.

There was one time when I truly believe that the driver who picked me up wanted to do something horrible to me.

I was on Vancouver Island; I don’t remember where I was going, but it was a long journey, which 99% of the time means getting several different rides, because most people are only going a short distance. So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, and a guy pulls over to pick me up.

I always would do an intuitive scan of every person who stopped for me; a few times I turned down rides. I would always make very direct eye contact as well, which serves two purposes. One: it tells them that you see them, and you’re not a timid person. Two: you get a feel for a person by looking in their eyes.

So this guy seemed okay, maybe a little stiff and awkward, so I got in the passenger seat, and off we went.

I started my usual banter, asking him where he lives, where he’s going, how his day is, all that small-talk crap. He answered everything I said in short, curt monosyllabic replies. He wasn’t being rude or antisocial; I got the distinct impression he was nervous as hell. He would look over at me every so often with a jerky motion, eyes wide behind his glasses. He didn’t blink much, and he was starting to creep me out. I got the sense that he was having an internal debate with himself about whether he wanted to do something to me or not. Of course I could have been totally reading it wrong; for all I know he was high on acid or just really, really socially awkward.

So after about fifteen exhausting minutes of me babbling on and on in my one sided conversation, I pulled out the big guns. I asked him if his mother lived on the island.

Again, a one syllable reply and a wide-eyed, jerky look.

At this point I was trying to figure out a way to ask him to let me out, since there was nothing around; we were in the middle of nowhere, so there was no tactful way of asking him to let me out. I couldn’t very well say, “Oh look, here’s my stop!” when there’s nothing but grass on either side endlessly in every direction. And I instinctively knew that to throw tact to the wind could be dangerous.

All of a sudden, he pulled the car onto the shoulder of the highway and said abruptly, “I’m going to let you out here.” That was it. There was no driveway, nothing. No reason for him to stop. But he wanted me out of his car for whatever reason, and I was more than happy to oblige him.

As he drove away, I thought to myself that he had chosen not to do whatever it was he had been wanting to do, and had removed the temptation by getting me out of his car. Before I stuck my thumb out again, I sent a silent thank you to the universe.

Mushrooms

I’ve done mushrooms three times. The first time was when I was in high school, with my sister in Whistler, and it was perfect. Magical.

The last time I did them was on Hallowe’en night in Victoria in 1999, when I was a sort-of street kid. I was on the beach in Beacon Hill Park, Mile O, with a group of people, only a few of whom I knew, and none of them very well. It was pitch black, minus our driftwood fire, and there are some parts of Victoria that are really creepy. Hallowe’en. Samhain. All Souls Night. When the veil between the living and the dead is thin. Communication is open. The energy is crackling and otherworldly.

So all of these components added up to create a really bad trip for me. I got so deep, so lost inside myself, I couldn’t even talk. Paranoid. It was horrible. I never did them again. But I learned a few important things from that experience.

Don’t do hallucinogenics unless you’re with someone you trust – someone you can talk to about anything, in case you start getting stuck in your head.

Don’t do hallucinogenics unless you’re somewhere where you feel safe – and somewhere where you are safe.

Be aware of when you do them. Mushroom trips vary depending on whether it’s daytime or nighttime.

Don’t try and do “normal daily activities” while on hallucinogenics. It will just stress you out and probably make you paranoid.

Would I ever do them again? Maybe. If the right circumstances presented themselves.

The Home Underground and My Drum

I love Peter Pan. I love the idea of never growing up. Of, yes, becoming an adult, in that one is responsible and not denying what is – but not losing the childlike part of oneself. To be childlike, not childish. My sister and I both have “Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning” tattooed on our upper left arms. So I must say that I am drawn to people with a certain twinkle in their eye, the smell of wild woods on their skin and skeleton leaves in their hair. To big trees with vines, pirates and cutlasses, mermaid song and the Neverbird.

During my second summer in BC, I landed in Tofino for a couple weeks, and I loved it. It’s strange that I would love it, because it really is very hippyish in a way. But there’s something about it that drew me in. I felt very at home, very comfortable. Something about it felt right, and I still feel that way now, which is really weird.

I had driven there with a couple cool girls, and we became a little traveling family. That’s the thing with traveling; the people you go with become your people. You bond quickly. And we met some boys there on our first day; they told us they were building a home underground, a house in the woods. I thought to myself, Yeah, they’re just going to string a tarp between some trees and lay down their sleeping bags. Whatever. And I more or less forgot about it. A few days later, when they saw us in town and exuberantly told us that the Home Underground was finished and they wanted us to come stay with them, I wasn’t excited at first. So we all drove out there and hiked to the beach, then into the woods. And I must say I was blown away.

They had found an ancient dead tree with a massive trunk – ten people holding hands could barely reach around it kind of thing – and hollowed it out. They built a huge wooden bed frame and a table inside with driftwood from the beach. They made a mattress and piled sleeping bags on it. They gathered mushrooms and berries from the woods and made epic meals for us all. It was seriously amazing. I stayed there for about two weeks, living in a tree in an ancient rainforest with the ocean and the beach just steps from our “front door.” I am one of the luckiest people alive.

Since there were a bunch of us girls and guys, there was, of course, sexual tension and some minor drama. One guy got a crush on me, but I wasn’t interested. He had a small drum, not a djembe, and it was beautiful in its own way. He had decorated the skin with tribal patterns, and when I was leaving town, he gave it to me. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. He gave me his drum. I still have it, and I plan to reskin it. For a long time it sat at my mom’s place with one of her plants sitting on it, but I have it again now. I needed time away from it. I needed to break from the person I was back then. I needed to change.

My Journals

I have always written in journals, and I keep all my old ones in a Rubbermaid. And it’s full. It was sitting in my sister’s loft for a couple years, but recently I brought it home. Looking through them is always emotional. The thing I’ve noticed most about the ones I kept during my time in BC is that they’re not honest. It’s like I’m trying to convince myself of something. I would always show up at the page wanting to vent, to spill, to overflow, but as soon as my pen hit the page, that glazed we-are-one crap would take over, and it’s just all a bunch of fakeness. There is some beauty and honesty in there, but I think it snuck in in the moments when I wasn’t paying enough attention to smother it, like a tiny shard of crystal or a beam of sun.

Epilogue

In the movie The Beach, near the end when all the hippies run from their island home, shattered and heartbroken amid gunfire, the narrator / main character Richard has this to say of Sal, the founder of the hippie commune in Thailand:

“Game over. But she was never gonna leave. She believed in it all way too much to ever change. So that’s exactly where we left her.”

I have learned a thing or two about “happily ever after”; that in the movies, in that scene where someone rides off into the sunset and the credits roll, their struggles and questioning and pain aren’t over – it’s just that the audience’s time of watching it all unfold has ended. That character’s life goes on. You know that expression “Wherever you go, there you are”? Though I still have some serious beefs with Buddhism, that saying often pops into my head when I look back on my time in BC. Wherever you go, there you are. My problems, my anxiety, my depression, my low self-esteem and self-doubt followed me across the country and across the ocean, and I knew it would all follow me back to the prairies too. And I was finally done trying to outrun it.

It was winter. The stage was set. Running and being fake had failed me. There was nowhere else to turn but within. For the descent.

Inanna was ready to face Ereshkigal.

[weditchthemap]

Traveling Turkey's Turquoise Coast: Dalyan, Fethiye, and Kalkan

The Turquoise Coast

The Turkish Riviera is where the Mediterranean Sea laps at Turkey’s southwestern shore. With it’s blue jeweled-toned waters, the Turkish Riviera is aptly referred to as the Turquoise Coast. One look at the water and the validity of the nickname is confirmed. The Turquoise Coast is saturated not only with sea views, but also history. This region of Turkey is steeped in history. Ancient cities and Lycian ruins span the coast line. The Turkish Riviera is home of the Lycian Way, a long-distance trail connecting pre-Roman Lycian ruins over a 500km stretch. We visited three towns along Turkey’s Turquoise Coast before tackling the Lycian Way (blog link coming soon).

Dalyan, Turkey 

A recommendation from an acquaintance in Istanbul landed us in Dalyan. Our first impressions of the small sleepy town were, “this must be where British people go to retire” and “holy resort sprawl.” Cheerful sun-flushed Brits seem to rival the number of locals and the resorts, though quaint, extend in all directions from the main riverside strip. Being a ‘package tour’ type town, Dalyan isn’t exactly a backpacker destination. It’s more of a lounge in the sun, take it easy, and enjoy cheap food kind of deal. But if that’s what you’re looking for, Dalyan is the perfect venue. With its quiet, laidback vibe, it is a good choice for a relaxing, affordable, and family friendly vacation. The Turkish charm and hospitality is likely why holiday-goers continue to return to this cherished town.

Dalyan is a scenic fishing village that sits along a river. The river feeds into a waterway system ultimately emptying into the Mediterranean Sea. Private and public boats await to take tourists on tours or to nearby beaches. It’s a picturesque view from the center of town where ancient Lycian Rock Tombs are carved into a towering cliff across the river. Along the waterfront there are countless restaurants, bars, shops, and tour agencies. The food is tasty and authentic, if overpriced in comparison to other less touristic towns. More often than not, prices are quoted in pounds. Restaurants proudly advertise that they serve “Typical English Breakfast” (beans for breakfast?) and western-fare for those desiring a taste of home.

İztuzu Beach

While in Daylan, we took a day trip to İztuzu beach. Just a boat trip or minibus ride away from Dalyan, this beach is a striking strip of white sand that forms a natural barrier between the fresh water of the river delta and the salt water of the Mediterranean. İztuzu beach, also called turtle beach, is a nesting site for Loggerhead turtles. Home to such a fragile population, the beach is now a protected area, closing daily from 8pm-8am. Nesting sites, indicated by wooden stakes, are to be avoided. An English environmentalist known fondly as “Kaptan June” has received recognition in the area for her activism. She’s worked ceaselessly to protect the delicate Loggerhead turtle nesting grounds from development and opened a rehabilitation center for injured turtles. She advocates for the use of propeller guards. Many boats docked in Daylan don a Kaptan June seal which means they adhere to turtle safe practices. We can personally attest to the necessity of propeller guards as we unwittingly witnessed a floating, decapitated turtle during a boat trip in the area. It was a disturbing sight. 

12 Island Tour

Yep, we signed up for a packaged tour and despite my aforementioned judgement, we enjoyed a lovely and relaxing day on the water. We floated through the calm, crystal clear waters of the Gulf of Göcek while taking in the scene of small islands, pine forests and sheltered bays. We spent the day chatting with a fun, crossfit enthusiast from Alabama. She’s relocated, indefinitely, to Turkey and dreams of building a cross-fit gym for women and children. She spoke passionately about the weekly English language class she teaches to adults in Istanbul where her liberal female students preferred topic of conversation is their disdain for the “patriarchy.” That said, she loves Istanbul, believes it is where she’s meant to be, and finds it incredibly progressive. We did too.

Fethiye, Turkey

Spending a quick two days in the harbor town of Fethiye, we kind of missed the mark and didn’t make it to the Saturday market or the abandoned “ghost town” of Kayaköy. I suppose it’s the nature of a backpacking trip not to be able to see and do it all and be okay with that. Sometimes we do fall victim to an underlying fear of missing out: “Did we do enough?”” See enough?” “Should we have done x, y or z?” “Did we make the most of _?” We must consciously remind ourselves that travel for us, at this moment in time, is our lifestyle, not a vacation. Well intentioned people are always telling us, “eat this!” “do that!” “go here!” ”you’re on vacation, enjoy!” But actually, we are not. If we indulged everyday on unhealthy food or spent money frivolously, like on vacation, we wouldn’t be able to take this trip. So, we try to prioritize and honor our health and well-being and not wear ourselves too thin. Truthfully though, it’s the unexpected and unplanned moments of travel that reveal the most interesting cultural insights and provide connection with others like Scott’s entertaining haircut in Fetiyhe. It was unlike any haircut either of us have ever witnessed; exceptionally thorough, bordering on aggressive, and incorporating fire to singe off unwanted hair. You can read about his amusing experience here: Tales of a Traditional Turkish Haircut: Foam, Fire and a Facial.

Despite missing the main sights, we can speak to the beauty of Ölüdeniz Beach. Ölüdeniz is one of Turkey’s most recognized and photographed beaches, 16 km south of Fetiyhe. The water is such a vibrant shade of turquoise it doesn’t even look real. Aside from sunbathing and swimming, paragliding is the thing to do. Dozens of colorful paragliders float down to the beach every hour. We stayed in a hotel in the next town over and as the minibus wound up the cliffs toward our hotel the view of paragliders over the water was magical.

From our beautiful hotel, Keyif Faralya, which overlooked butterfly valley, we could see through hikers trekking the Lycian Way. They camp out or stay in panysions (small guesthouses) along the route which passes through Fetiyhe. All guesthouses offer food for through hikers with affordable options like gözleme pancakes. We didn’t see too many of these crepe-like stuffed pancakes in Istanbul, it seems that they are more popular in the south.

Kalkan, Turkey

Ah, Kalkan, the Brit’s best kept secret. Where again, prices are quoted in pounds, “English Breakfast” abounds, and locals speak with an British accent. Kalkan is a quaint tourist town on a peaceful Mediterranean bay. But as Kate Clow, the Lycian Way Pionner states in her guide book, Kalkan is home to large “unsustainable” villas with careless planning that sit empty most of the year, waste “excessive water” to fill pools and create “visual pollution.” The town spills down the mountainside onto a rocky beach where seaside bars and restaurants overlook the water. The hilly town has Greek origin with characteristic white-washed houses, similar to the nearby Greek Island, a quick boat trip away. In town it’s possible to get lost among the cobblestone labyrinth like alleys. Pops of rich purple and pink blooms against the turquoise water adds a paradise like feel.  Outside of town the surrounding land is largely undeveloped making Kalkan a quiet and peaceful retreat, the tranquilly only broken by the occasional call to prayer or scooter whizzing by. Being such a laid back destination, Kalkan attracts older couples and families.

We ended up in Kalkan after a cancelled house/pit sitting gig. It was our first time using an online housesitting platform and proceeding a friendly video interview, we made a commitment to house sit for a month for a British couple living in Kalkan. The day before we were to arrive, they cancelled via a lengthy jumbled voice message. Very, very, uncool. Disspointed and scrambling to arrange last minute plans, we decided that because we had anticipated spending a month in Kalkan, we would carry through with the initial plan. We had an advantage by visiting in Kalkan during shoulder season (May), where tourists start to visit but haven’t reached their full summertime presence, and we landed a great deal through Airbnb. (Airbnb though legal in Turkey has an array of restriction and hoops to jump through for property owners. Speaking of restrictions, wikipedia is banned in Turkey, proving to be much more of a nuisance then initially expected!) We were in Kalkan during Ramadan, though this was hard to observe. It was really only noticeable with the presence of delicious daily Ramazan pide, sold in the bakeries and supermarkets in the late afternoon. Yum. We thoroughly enjoyed our stay and the quiet morning coffees on our balcony in Kalkan.

Beach Clubs

Kalkan’s small beach has crystal clear water, but the beach itself it rocky. To compensate for this the surrounding hotels offer pools and “beach clubs.” The beach clubs provide sunny oceanside platforms above the water. They allow for ocean access and sunbathing on flat ground. They supply umbrellas and chair-side drink service. The platforms let you sunbath on flat ground with umbrellas and chair-side drink service. If this doesn’t do it for you, there are other stunning beaches are just a short distance away, a standout being Patara Beach.

Patara Beach and Ruins

Patara is Turkey’s longest beach, protected in a National Park it’s a quiet destination. One lone beachfront restaurant claims the beach. It offers food and umbrella rentals. The rest of the beach is unmarred white sand. Behind the beach is an archeological site, the ruins of the ancient city of Patara. We visited both beauties on a day trip from Kalkan.

Food Around Town

The price of food in Kalkan is inflated for tourists, especially around the harbor, but very affordable compared to food back in the states. I’ll use the price of ubiquitous Turkish tea (çay) as my barometer; we saw çay for 1 lira (17 cents) in other cities and in Kalkan, one “fancy” restaurant quoted us 10 lira ($1.70) for the 4 ounce cup of tea. Hard to pay that when you know the actual value of a glass of tea which is poured from a large pot of steeped black tea. That’s not to say that there aren’t more low key and “less frills” options aviable. It is only fair to contrast this bloated price with more local-centric restaurants with owners who encouraged us to linger around after our meal with a complimentary cup of çay.

Kalkan is known for it’s ritzy rooftop restaurants. We splurged at such a place for Scott’s birthday where a bottle of wine, shared appetizer, two entrees, water and dessert rang in under $50. This isn’t typical for us, most of our combined meals at local places cost around $10. 

A real treat in Kalkan is çiğ köfte durum from an unsuspecting little place. It’s a vegetarian’s dream wrap filled with a spicy burger paste, packed with fiber and protein. Add a pickle, parsley, hot sauce, lettuce, pomegranate syrup, spice and everything nice. It’s delicious and less than one dollar. 

Boat Trip

Boat tours are a common daytime activity in Kalkan. We spent a day cruising clear turquoise waters and calm coves around Kekova. The boat passed by a sunken city and the Simena Castle in Kaleköy.

Pistachio

The first night of our stay a bold visitor walked straight across our balcony. Since then, her presence was a daily occurrence. I want to say that we temporarily adopted her, but I think she may have adopted us. We named this sweet little cat, Pistachio. (Who needs pet sitting anyways?) Stray cats are as ubiquitous in Turkey as smoking, çay and hospitality. The top of her ear was clipped, which indicated that she’s been “fixed.” While strays are common the Turkish people tend to be pretty good to them…we’ve noticed many fat, er well-fed, stray dogs. P was a welcomed addition to our stay. We bought her some food and looked forward to her visits and proceeding cuddle sessions. The little scorpion we found in our bathroom, however, was not nearly as delightful. Fortunately, we didn’t see it again. 

After a relaxing month in Kalkan we are rested and ready for some adventure. We’ll leave our extra travel gear at the resort to lighten up our backpacks for the Lycian Way. We’ll miss this little slice of paradise and our precious Pistachio.

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