#redfox writes

Stan and Ford occasionally encounter other shapeshifters on their adventures, so this situation isn't necessarily abnormal. They've seen them in large cities, in small ports, heck, they once saw one in a mermaid pod.

In every case, Stan gives them a nod of recognition, gets one back, and nothing else needs to be said.

So, it's not the presence of the shapeshifter that's the odd part. It's the fact that the shapeshifter is currently a large dog that's the problem. It's been dogging(excuse the pun) their footsteps all through their visit in port. Stan's pretty sure it's trying to catch his attention, but he can't begin to guess for what reason.

Stan makes sure he stays between the shifter and Ford, but never looks directly at it. Ford doesn't seem to have noticed, too busy running through their shopping list. It never gets closer than the couple feet gap betwen them, but it never leaves them alone. Every once in a while, it dips out of view, only to reappear moments later in a different shift.

It started following them shortly after they visited a restaurant for lunch, and kept following them until they return to port. When they return to the beach and it's still following, Stan heaves a sigh.

"Ford," he says.

His brother looks back at him, confused. Stan hands him his bags.

"I gotta do something. Meet you back at the boat?"

Ford nods. "But be quick! Take too long and I'll cook dinner."

Stan shudders, the gesture far exaggerated. "I'll hurry."

Ford continues walking, and the rest of the docks are empty. It's just Stan and the shifter.

He turns around, fixing it with an unimpressed stare.

Now that it has his attention, it perks up, long tail wagging. It changes shape a few times, cycling between dog breeds, and bounds up to sit at Stan's feet.

"What, do you want a treat or something?" Stan grumbles, crossing his arms.

The other shifter says nothing, tail still wagging.

Stan uncrosses his arms, setting them on his hips.

The shifter's tail slows, and its head tips to one side. It cycles through the dog breeds again.

"What, you showing off? That's nothing, pooch. Watch this." Stan pulls off his jacket and sweater, setting them on the ground, then starts to cycle his own shift. He fully changes to other people, changes to animals, grows extra arms, then wings, and then ends in a perfect copy of the other shapeshifter's dog. (It was a little uncomfortable while still wearing pants, but there was no way he was stripping fully in the middle of a city, evening or not.)

During his performance, the shapeshifter's tail had started wagging again, so fast it was nothing more than a blur. Once he stopped, it bounded forward to circle him, sniffing and yapping excitedly.

"Yeah, yeah." Stan mutters, his chest puffed up. "I know, I'm the coolest."

The shapeshifter stops in front of Stan again, then completely drops its shift. Stan slaps a paw over his eyes.

"Whoa! Put your shift back on, man, what the hell?"

The shapeshifter whines, but when Stan lowers his paw it's still unshifted.

Understanding crashes through Stan with the force of a bull in a china shop.

"No no no no, no thank you, I'm not- no. No way." Stan shifted back, quickly picking up his sweater and jacket from the ground. "I'm sure you're a great bug, good genes and whatever. You're probably very nice. But I'm not- no. no way."

With that, Stan ran off, leaving the whining shapeshifter behind. He made sure to pull in the gangplank.

Today was the day the knight would go on his journey to slay the dragon. It was still early in the day, barely after sunrise, but putting on his armor always took a long time. So many pieces and buckles to fasten. Lucky for the knight, he had a squire to manage all of that for him.

The knight stood still in the center of the room, while his squire bustled about him. He was, as always, efficient. Likely because the knight had never been one to put up with anything less than efficiency.

He turned his head, making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror on the wall.

His stern expression did not waver as he looked himself over. He liked to think that- despite his smaller than average stature- he cut an impressive figure. Wide shoulder pauldrons, solid breatsplate, heavy steal polished so clean it shone like silver. The squires present in his lordship's court had spent all night ensuring that he would be eye-catching. This would not last very long once they got on the road, but that sort of thing had never really mattered to the king. Everything was a performance to him, and every actor needed to be at their best.

Especially when it was time for them to make what may be their final appearance on the stage.

The squire paused in front of him, holding out the final piece of his armor.

The knight took it without a word, staring down at the metal. It reflected his furrowed expression back at him, seeming to accentuate the heavy bags under his tired eyes. His frown deepened.

There was a knock on his door, and he set the helmet down on the table with a sigh. He turned, his metal armor clanking slightly. He schooled his expression, smoothing away any discomfort. “Come in.” His voice was gruff and disinterested. 

The door opened, and his patron stepped inside. The Count's long cape flared out behind him, casting a dramatic silhouette in the pale dawn sunlight. He scanned the room, smiling politely when he set eyes on the squire, who stood frozen from surprise.

With practiced ease the knight dropped to one knee, bowing low. “My lord Count. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“You are leaving the city tonight.” The Count replied, moving out of the doorway. “I thought it only right I come and give you a proper send-off.” 

The knight glanced up, watching the nobleman. His back was straight and tall, the regal bearing proper for a man of his status. His hands were clean and manicured, the hands of someone who had not been involved in hard labor.

“What of my march through the streets?” The knight retorted. “Is that just for fun?” 

The Count rolled his eyes slightly, then waved a hand at the squire. "You may leave us." His voice was pleasant, though dismissive. The other man fled the room without another word.

After the Count shut the door, he continued speaking. “You know as well as I that the march is for the benefit of the people.” He moved closer to the knight, who remained knelt on the floor. “No, this send-off is for only you and I.” 

The knight bowed his head once more. “That is very kind of you, my lord Count.” 

“Stop that.” The Count scolded. “There’s no need for such things when it is just the two of us.” 

The knight said nothing, but lifted his head to look the nobleman in the eye. The nobleman’s eyebrows had furrowed, his mouth drawn. His regal posture had slackened, the propriety unnecessary in such company.

The Count ran a hand through his hair with a huff. “Was there truly no one else the king could send?” 

The knight laughed. It was not a mirthful sound, instead an irate one. “Who would you have him send? Perhaps Ser Theo, who was still my apprentice this time last year? Or maybe we should only send my squire, and hope my ill-fitting armor will protect him from the dragon’s breath?” The knight leaned closer, a sardonic smile on his face. “Do you wish to see the dragon dead, or would you prefer a dead dragon slayer?” 

The Count sighed through his nose. “You know that is not what I mean.”  

“And yet, that is the only answer I can give.”  

The Count stepped forward again, reaching out the press a hand against the knight’s cheek. The hand was cold, colder even than the armor had been. The knight leaned into it and closed his eyes, relishing the familiar contact. 

The thumb rubbed back and forth against his face, rasping in the short scruff that covered his cheeks. "My knight, you would do anything I asked, wouldn't you?"

The knight tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of the count’s wrist. “If you commanded me to, Codruț,” He murmured into the cool skin, “I would endeavor to bring you the dragon’s still beating heart.” 

The thumb paused in its ministrations.

“And what if I commanded you to stay?” The Count replied. “What if I told you to remain by my side, to ignore the king’s summons?” 

The knight opened his eyes. Codruț was looking down at him, lips down-turned in a frown.

He raised a gauntlet, gently curling his fingers around the Count’s own, giving them a squeeze. "To command me this way is to command me to seek my own death. Would you truly desire such?"

"You know I do not." Codruț leaned forward, pressing his own kiss into the knight’s curly hair. When he drew back, his eyes were wet with tears. “For my last command before you leave; I order you to return safely.” 

The knight surged forward, capturing the nobleman’s lips. Their lips pressed together, the contact firm and certain. When he drew back, he murmured into the air between them, “I swear, I will do so. Even if all the devils themselves come up from below to dog my footsteps, I would slay every one of them to ensure I return safe.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” The Count whispered. Then he leaned forward to kiss him again.

The kiss wasn't heated or rushed. It was solid, and continuous, the prolonged kiss of lovers who didn't want to pull away.

However, at some point, everything must come to an end.

Codruț pulled back. He let go of his knight's face, extracting his hand from the knight's grip. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place.

The knight watched him, feeling an inexplicable ache deep in his chest. It you ignored the slight flush to the count's lips, you could be forgiven for thinking nothing happened.

Codruț turned, cloak swishing, and walked back to the door. As he walked, his posture corrected. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and soon he was back to his usual clean and proper self.

The Count paused with his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he looked over his shoulder. "I will be awaiting your return with bated breath, Sir Birch."

The knight bowed his head again. "I will do all I can to hasten our reunion. If it were possible, I would run my horse at speeds even the eight winds cannot compete with."

Birch's gaze flicked back up in time to catch the count’s smile. It was not a happy expression, rather one filled with unspoken grief. "I know you would." He replied softly. Then he opened the door and, with a swish of his cape, left the room.

Sir Birch was alone. He remained kneeling on the floor for a long time. After a while, he reached up with a hand, gently tracing the spot on his cheek that still tingled from a phantom touch.

You are a house. You can feel every brush of wind against your walls, every raindrop that hits your roof. You feel every termite that burrows into your wood, and every step that enters your clearing.

You are waiting.

Waiting for a visitor, for someone/something curious enough to enter your clearing, to walk through your door. You will have many wonderous things to show them, if they can only brave your front door.

You have had many visitors. Every time they wander into your halls, you show them anything they could ever want. Gorgeous chandeliers that cast the room in warm orange light. Bountiful feasts and towering fountains filled with clean fresh water. Halls that twist and turn and lead to the attic without a single staircase along the way. You would make any number of tantalizing things to see, any varied rooms they could need, if only they would stay.

Every time, without fail, they want to leave. You have given them everything, folded them so carefully into the safety of your walls, and they want to leave.

Everyone leaves you. You're always alone.

You won't let them.

They retrace their steps, only to find a dead end where a hallway used to be. They search for windows, only to find the walls bare. You pull the walls in closer and closer, until your press in on them at every side. You swallow them whole, pull them tight and safe and secure between your boards. For a time, this semblance of company soothes the hunger burning within you.

But they find another way to leave. They fade. They go limp. They rot and crumble and turn to nothing.

It always goes this way. A visitor arrives, you let them into your walls, they try to leave, you devour them. You are alone.

Over time, your visitors slow to a trickle, then to none at all. You can't be sure, but you think that someone noticed the numbers. The fact that none who step over your threshold have ever left. The only ones who ever come through your door anymore are the creatures. The raccoons, mice, gnomes, and bugs do not care how many of their kind you have held within your walls.

For the first time in a long time, you get a visitor. A proper one, tall and loud, with eyes wide and curious.

You are so hungry. There is a yawning emptiness within you, waiting to be filled with love and care. You yearn to feel someone warm living in your cold, empty walls.

Your door sits open, as it always does. They climb your stairs, and step inside. They shut the door behind them. They walk your halls, speaking words that fill an empty space in your core. They partake of your food, declaring it fit for a king.

You wait. You know this song and dance. Although they speak kindly now, you know the wind will change. They will turn, and they will leave, just like everyone else. You can feel the warm light against your roof waning as the sun sets.

They, too, will try to leave.

They look up from their journal and spot the sunset out one of your windows. They smile, but do not move. Time passes, and they continue to wander from room to room. As the sky outside darkens, they yawn more and more. At one point, their head dips, then jerks back up. They yawn again, then they turn back the way they came.

You stiffen. You knew it was coming, but still you hope. You always hope.

They open another door. Beyond it is the same lavish bedroom as before, with the wide bed covered in heavy blankets. The visitor crosses the room, sets their book, pen, and glasses on the table beside the bed, and goes to sleep.

You are confused. No one has ever chosen to sleep in your beds before. You watch all night, tensed for them to leapt up and bolt. But they don't.

In the morning, they rise from a restful sleep, and you ensure the door leads to a bountiful feast of fresh breakfast. They eat quickly, and scoop up the steaming mug of coffee you readied for them. They take a sip, then draw back in surprise.

"It's just the way I like it." They murmur. "How did you know?"

You shift on your foundations, letting a low, rumbling groan echo down your hall. You cannot answer in any other way. You are a house.

They stay for longer than you could ever have expected. They keep wandering and wandering, excited at every room they see anew. They are overjoyed at your spiraling hallways, at the fact your every turn defies the maps they try to craft. When their stomach growls you provide food, and when they waver on their feet you provide a bed.

They don't leave.

It is almost too much. No one has ever so truly and deeply been invested in you, has ever wanted you around as much as they do. No one has ever found spending time with you as thrilling as they do.

You realize, one day, you aren't hungry anymore. You no longer expect them to turn their back and leave you behind. On a whim, you even let them find an exit. They stand on your porch, enjoying the warm summer's breeze. Then they turn and come back inside.

You allow them to leave whenever they please, now.

Even when he stumbles into a room before you are ready, when he catches a glimpse of the meat and blood you hide away, your resident does not flee in terror. He only grows more excited, prying into your walls to examine the flesh within. It hurts, makes your heart stutter and your muscles twitch, but you allow it. You know he does not mean to hurt you, and you would do anything to make him stay.

One day your resident makes a mistake. He lifts a frame from your wall, but his hands fumble, and it falls. The glass shatters, spreading pieces along the floor. Before you can absorb the shards back into you, he crouches down and starts picking them up.

He yelps as he touches one, something long and thin and sharper than he expected. Blood drips down the side of his hand.

It is hot and fresh and you can almost taste it.

You haven't been hungry in a long time. You can feel it prowl at the edge of your mind, feel the tension in your muscles as you prepare to pounce.

A single drop falls from his hand onto your planks.

And all at once something else breaks. You remember things you pushed aside in your desperation to survive. Memories that became muddled with time and hunger. Things like your family, your history, your name.

You are Stanley Pines. The resident is your brother.

If he had done something differently, you would have eaten him alive. You can still feel that same hunger prowling in the back of your mind.

But thats not the worst part.

The worst part is you still have no way to tell him. You are a house.

Also, here's what Darklord wrote, for those who are curious like I am :)

Said children were currently wrestling in the only patch of mud his yard had.

"You'll never best me, for I was born of the muck!" Meteor shouted, putting her brother in a headlock.

"Yea, well, I was-uh." Bearclaw hesitated, still struggling to pull his sister's arm from around his neck. "Also born of the muck?"

Stan closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened them again, the children were still covered in mud. He sighed, setting the plates in his hands on the couch nearby.

He leaned down, picking up the hose nozzle from where he'd abandoned it yesterday. He left his slippers on the porch as he padded to the faucet and turned on the water.

It dribbled for a moment, then water burst forth, soaking the children.

They shrieked, hands raising to block their faces.

"Get out of the mud and come eat a sandwich, you gremlins." Stan glowered at them.

"Grunkle Stan!" Meteor wailed, "You're ruining my costume!"

"What costume? You're just covered in mud."

"That is my costume!"

Stan frowned. "Are you sure? It's really gonna hurt."

"I'm sure." Ford declared, his arm shaking with nerves. "Do it."

Stan shrugged, leaned forward, and opened his mouth.

Ford squeezed his eyes shut in preparation.

There was a yelp.

Ford frowned, eyes still shut. "Come on, Stanley, stop playing around. Bite me already!"

"Uh. Ford?" Stan squeaked, sounding taller than usual. "We've been got."

Ford opened his eyes. In front of him, instead of his twin, stood his father. From one hand dangled Stan, their Pa's grip firm on the back of his overalls.

Ford tried to smile, but could tell the expression was strained. "Hello, Pa! We weren't doing anything, I was just-"

"Trying to get your brother to bite you again?" Their father interrupted. Ford couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he could see the downturned edges of his mouth.

"...No?" Ford tried. Their father's frown deepened.

"Well, I'm just going to get back to studying, I've got some homework to do-" Ford began, taking a couple steps back. Before he could turn and run, Pa scooped him up under the arm not holding his twin. Ford immediately started flailing.

"Dad wait!" He yelped. "Nothing happened, so it's fine, you don't need to-"

"Not for lack of trying." Their father pointed out, carrying them from their room. "And your mother will be hearing about this."

Both twins started shouting.

"Pa wait, I didn't even bite him, so-"

"There's not a scratch on me, you can check-"

"-Ma don't need to know, we can just-

"-and you'll see it's fine! Dad please-"

When their father stepped into the living room, both twins shut their mouths, trying their best to look innocent.

Their ma looked at them, then at her husband, and sighed. "Really Stanford, again? What do we gotta do to make ya stop?"

"I haven't done anything." Ford replied immediately. "Stanley and I were just-"

"Don't lie to your mother." She interrupted, voice firm.

Ford wilted immediately. "Sorry Ma."

"And you, Stanley. How many times do I gotta tell you to stop goin along with this?"

"Sorry Ma." Stan said. He was still dangling limply in the air.

"Now Filbrick, put your sons down."

He did so.

"Good." Their mother said with a nod. "Now go be normal children, stop trying to get bitten."

"Yes Ma." They said together.