#✼ doctor‚ i can't tell if i'm not me. || ﹝ .mind electric v ﹞ ✼

[sixersigned]

drew up some designs & notes for the au me and @deciphver are brainrotting over! <33

[etlunainmorte]

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*The Important Discourse Regarding A New Species Of Bird - The Red Grave Muckspout Griffon, AKA "The Hangry Bird"*

Discovered by Nicoletta Goldstein, the grandchild of the famous Nell Goldstein, .45 Caliber Virtuoso, these species of bird, otherwise or simply known as "The Griffon" , is one of the most fascinating creatures that ever existed on the planet. It has gorgeous blue and black feathers, sharp talons, a peculiar - looking beak that opens three - ways, and sharp, golden eyes that seem to mock any onlooker. It has a wingspan of about ten feet, and could easily whisk away a toddler with its massive built.

Found in the backyard of an abandoned house that was once resided by a man named Sparda, this "hangry bird" tends to be too irrational, angry and hostile, even, when it is famished. Exotic pet breeders who wish to take care of this unique specie are sternly warned and advised to keep in mind to feed it at least six times a day to keep it from attacking innocent citizens.

And while on the topic of this bird attacking innocents, this bird has a rather curious skill - the ability to control electricity. While it is not fully confirmed by the Artisan who discovered the specie, the Griffon seemingly has a certain part in its body which enables them to freely control electricity and any electrical devices near them. One is advised to keep this in mind so as not to be electrocuted, or, otherwise, murdered by this bird.

Another noteworthy characteristic of the Griffon is its ability to mimic the human language. However, due to some, yet, unknown reason, the Griffon could only mimic curse words ( which this reporter is forbidden to mention ), hence its name - The Red Grave Muckspout.

Only time will tell if this new species of bird, or oversized chicken, could be taken care of as a pet for some quality company, or kept as a weapon for hijacking nearby electric devices, which is a threat to the government and a treat to possible terrorists, who could utilize its skill in more nefarious and sinister ways.

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❄ Three Wishes ❄

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III

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"How awfully domestic is that?!"

An all too - familiar voice uttered just behind them.

That proud stance, those glaring eyes, and that awful - looking signature moustache,...

... it was none other than Christopher Lancaster, himself.

But, this time, his aura felt normal. There was nothing evil about him, save for his sardonic smile and the annoying way that facial hair of his twitch with every movement of his lips , which made V conclude that the evil doctor's reincarnation was just an eyesore and nothing more. A human, which was not a total threat.

Or,... was he?

The man's eyes landed on you and the way he smirked at you made you flinch, and almost made V lose his patience.

"Small world!" Christopher announced like it was completely normal for the three of you to have a friendly conversation. "Didn't know the scouts have a field trip today." He said those words as his eyes lingered on the jar of cookies on V's hands, which offended the both of you.

"What are you doing here, Christopher?" You sneered at him, not wanting V to mingle with the guy.

"Oh! Don't be so hostile on your former lover, missy!" The obnoxious guy said, pretending to be scared of you as he backed out a few steps away from you. "Oh, I almost forgot! You are a gentle little thing who can't go hostile on anything. Ah! My bad, my bad, so sorry!"

"Pardon me, sir," V interrupted upon seeing your infuriated face turn red. " ... if you don't have,... anything nice to say, will you, please, let us move along, or leave us be?"

To this, the man's eyes widened in amusement. He laughed, clapped his hands, and pointed at V as he looked at you accusingly. "Is this your new man? Well, I have to offer my salutations to you for finding someone who suits a granny's girl like you!" Then, looking at V with those challenging eyes of his, he flat out said, "A total mama's boy."

For a moment, V lost his temper. No one is allowed to talk to his mother in such a way. And no one,... is allowed to embarrass you in any way or form. Not now, not after, not while he's still breathing, and especially not when he's bitten the dust.

You were not sure what was going on in V's head, only that he seemed to go quiet for a while as he slowly raised his left hand and -

"WHOA! WATCH OUT!"

A familiar female voice screamed, startling you, V, Christopher, and anyone who was nearby. And then, you saw a blur of black and blue land on Christopher's face, shocking and frightening the hell out of the offensive man.

"I'm so very, very sorry, mister!" Nico, who suddenly came out of nowhere, apologized as she made her way towards Christopher to untangle the bundle of angry feathers on his face. And when she did, you saw V smirk as he shook his head. It was Griffon who attacked Christopher, after all.

"WHAT,... THE FUCK IS THAT,... FUCKING BIRD?!" Christopher howled, flinching at the pain on his face due to the cuts Griffon just inflicted on him with his sharp talons.

"Oh! I'm so, so, sorry, sir! I truly am!" Nico blabbered in a convincing tone. "Red Grave Muckspout Chickens - "

Griffon angrily squawked and struggled against Nico's grasp upon hearing the word chicken from her, making her change the name of his species impromptu.

"I mean, Red Grave Muckspout Griffons tend to be really grumpy when they're hungry. But, just this mornin’, it ate six pancakes, four muffins, a child's ice cream, and an old man's baguette. It even drank my own coffee, and it's still hangry! I don't know what to do with it!"

Christopher just stared at her, confused as hell, and shook his head as he pinched his nose bridge in frustration.

"Keep your weird, fucking pets to yourself, woman!" He angrily screamed at her as he took out his handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the blood off his face. "That fucking thing could kill people!"

"OH, YEAH?!" Griffon screamed, making everyone turn to him in both fright and shock. And it even made V turn the other way and hide his face to conceal his laughter. "WELL, FUCK YA, TOO!"

"WHAT THE F - ?!"

"AHH!" Nico howled helplessly as she forcefully clamped Griffon's beak close with her free hand and held him closer to the point of suffocation. "Muckspout! Red Grave Muckspout! It's in his, ah, nature to curse like that! Yeah! It's like a parrot, see? It can mimic human sounds, but it could only say swear words! So, ya basically taught him that! Yeah! It's not his fault, please, forgive him. He's an innocent, little angel!"

You have no idea what was going on, but you were only glad to see V having a blast with Nico's act. By this time, the poet has retreated to a corner and held the column post for support as he stifled his laughter and held his aching stomach with his free hand.

And Christopher, your former lover? He was beyond outraged and pissed. He closed his eyes, pursed his lips in fury, and held up both of his hands. With one last threatening look, he scoffed, and marched away like a defeated middle school bully. That's what he was, after all - he was a bully, and nothing more.

When the obnoxious man could no longer be seen, Nico let go of her Red Grave Muckspout pet and it made its way towards V.

"Come on!" Nico told you and V. "Let's get ya outta here."

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❄ @la-vita , @clevermentalitybeliever , and @birdgirl69 . ❄

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[sixersigned]

@mvltiversed / mind electric starter call!

Stanford feels so tired.

He doesn't remember anything from the night before. Whatever his Muse had mixed up for him had floored more than just his senses, and yet it had done nothing to dampen the uneasy anxiety in his stomach as he paces towards the refrigerator. Bags seem to permanently rest beneath his eyes, his movements are sluggish—he needs a minute to reaquaint himself with reality, which would be easier if his head weren't throbbing. It must've been a good time if this weren't such a massive drawback.

The author pulls open the refrigerator, staring for a moment as if contemplating the dilemma of life—and then a knock on the door makes itself known. One, two—

“ I'm coming, “ he grumbles, rubbing his temples as he trudges towards the door. Three, four. The rooms all blur together, but he persists nonetheless. There's something familiar about the knocking, something he can't quite put his finger on. It's nothing, he chides himself; probably the mailman with a package. Oh, how he had hoped it had been that, because when he opens the door, his whole world freezes, and his blood runs with ice once again. “ …! “

Fiddleford McGucket, on his doorstep, damp with the cold—lost, confused, and coming to him for help. And last night rushes back to Stanford like a crashing wave, but he can't familiarise himself with it; can't display recognition, so buries it deep down into his being.

[sixersigned]

late night edit before i go to bed gkdfngfd

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@precipine SAID: 🤝  to  hold  my  muse's  hand.

The man stiffens, eyes wandering down to his great nephew in some kind of frozen awe. It's like the world's stopped, like all of his anxieties have eased—or at least, lessened. A feeling quite familiar with his muse, but a little different here. There's a warmth here, a human warmth that acknowledges his plight and isn't just another echo chamber. One that believes in him, and strengthens his belief in it, too. It's weird. Very weird. And then, Stanford finds himself, yet he doesn't rip his hand away like he's always had the instinct to do. He lets it sit, complacent with the silence.

Something's in the air, he knows it is. Had he let himself break a little too much, left it out for the world to see? He doesn't know... it's just a little easier knowing that someone has... faith in him? Can he call it that? That someone hears him...? Isn't it just the same? A pause, and he averts his eyes.

“ ...Y'know, you should see this place in the winter. Snow for miles. We wouldn't be sitting on this patio now, I'll tell you that, “ he states with a laugh, smiling meekly at his nephew. “ It's like sitting on an iceberg, and everything that comes with. Why, one time, I was bringing in F's suitcase, and-- “

He pauses, something catching in his throat. A familiar pain.

“ I fell. “ He stares for a moment. “ My back killed for weeks. The icicles are were pretty enough. “

He reaches for another two cans of Pitt cola, passing one to Dipper.

“ That was a long time ago. “

[sixersigned]

dunno if i ever shared these mind electric doodles but gkdngdf

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@cosmacy / mind electric starter call!

“ Can I interest you in a can of Pitt? “ the man inquires cheerfully, a skip in his step as he pokes his head out from the kitchen. It's so rare they get visitors—honestly, before the kids arrived, Stanford had never really known what social interaction was. That, and it's not like his Muse took particularly well to people sticking their nose where it didn't belong... but he hadn't gotten this far being careful, and those kids have kept him on his toes more than once. “ We have regular and diet. “

[sixersigned]

icb bill deleted the equation

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@warraigoe / mind electric starter call!

" Where... did you find that? " Stanford stares at his great nephew with a thousand yard stare, as if the very laptop he held in his hands sent him back decades. An old pain roots itself, but he bites it back, down deep. He has no idea how Dipper has gotten his hands on something that belonged to F, but-- " ...may I see? "

[sixersigned]

Everything happens so quickly—or is that just how disorientated the author feels amidst all the sorrow and suffering? He's so buried in his own wallowing he's not conscious of the feelings he's acted on. Any other time, would he have commit to this level of vulnerability? Practically throwing himself into his Muse's arms, who is a plane miles higher than he is? But he doesn't care... he can't CARE anymore, he's just so distraught and angry, desperate for any sort of affection to quell his pain, and his Muse supplies. Stops him from falling, supports him when no one else does. This closeness would be alarming to most people—a hug? It almost feels like a straitjacket, but Stanford can't tell the difference. It's all the same to him.

His breath hitches, and he peers up at the triangle with damp eyes; HIS EYES ARE RED, a different kind from sleep deprivation. Eyes trail to the ground in an angered sadness, a mourning that no one could ever undo or understand... except Bill.

His brow furrows slightly, grateful to receive a confirmation for his thoughts. ( HOW MANY OF THEM ARE HIS & HOW MANY OF THEM ARE BILL'S? He will never know, nor can he know. ) He's right, his Muse is always right. Why would he need F when he has Bill? Who has never faltered at his side once?

UNLESS YOU GIVE HIM REASON TO.

He silences the intrusive thought as quickly as it came, asserting that would never happen so long as he lived. And he stares at the glass, staring for a hard moment before downing the entire thing.

I won't.

There it is. Not too long ago, Bill would laugh at a reddened face realizing his brilliant muse could hear every thought of being held close. The way he would begin to interlock hands cursed and confined to pockets, hidden away, right into his own; ashen and searching. How far they've come, Stanford thrown to him for the comfort he's established. Touch starvation granted now an anchor as the hand that had been practiced, simple, stretches and wraps around the man over and over with the other arm joining. Bill has him in an embrace others would find concerning, a grip tight and all encompassing. To his host, this is all he needs. Bill has always been all he needed- not that hillbilly who couldn't take the heat, not anyone before that lead this mind to the route of insecurities he could harness. Sure, it works in his favor but he'll still gut them all for it and serve the remains to the one clinging to him as a lifeline.

It only gets better from there, the breaking of a damn, this tormented soul finally crying out every injustice brought forth. Bill is thrilled with every spiteful syllable that drips from Stanford's lips, a writer knows best just what words will cut deep. It's like the best sort of movie played out before him, the melodramatics that he helped to direct now with front row seats, devouring the emotions placed in his popcorn bucket. Delectable, five stars!

A third hand sprouts from his body so that the other two can remain holding onto Stanford despite the man having sunken to the ground. His limbs are more than stretchy enough for any and all movement, including the hand grabbing his own glass to take another sip as Bill waits on his host to end the rant. Not that it wasn't entertaining! He could hear insults about glasses all day!

"WHO NEEDS SOMEONE NOT WILLING TO GO THE EXTRA STEPS? HE'S ALWAYS BEEN A QUITTER, IQ. ABANDONED HIS FAMILY, NOW YOU! YOU DON'T NEED ANYONE LIKE THAT! I'LL FINISH THE PORTAL WITH YOU, AND THE CREDIT CAN BE ALL YOURS."

[sixersigned]

Stanford did not think this would be on his agenda today. Then again, he hadn't considered the full possibilities of just what Fiddleford would rationalise this all as—in his defense, he's hungover and didn't consider the ominous potential of being stranded in the middle of nowhere for a few months. And the first thing he encounters being a recluse man in the woods. It didn't look good, by any means. Of course it didn't.

He stops for a moment when he re-enters the room, looking at the scientist with a glass-eyed stare. It's a look not entirely comforting, eyes that had seen their fair share of horrors and will continue to. He comes to realize that what happened last night may only be the beginning, and it unsettles him more than anything. Snapping from his foreboding stupor, his gaze drops to his own hand, tense and vexed. Then, taking a sigh, Stanford holds out neatly folded blankets with a resigned expression. He doesn't step forward, and he doesn't close the distance between them ( as much as he wants to; REASSURE THE OTHER ).

“ You're going to freeze to death, “ he states firmly, dodging the other's questions; perhaps to highlight how wrong they were. “ I've stoked the fireplace. “

...this isn't the first time I've seen F so scared of me. I'm still not used to it.

he does what he's told; sheds his jacket, shoes and socks; setting jacket and socks on the back, shoes underneath. once that was through---he makes his way over to the phone, only pausing when the man says his name. he thinks m'name is nice??? that causes him to flush a bit---despite how cold he currently feels.

❝ stanley. ❞ fidds lets the name sit with him; rolling it around on his tongue---why does it make him have a fluttering feeling, in his chest? yer married, mcgucket. pull yerself together. sure, this guy's handsome, and he did all but rescue ya from a snowy death---head shaking, he picks up the receiver and dials; only gets about two rings in before he's hearing a woman's voice over the phone. hello? ❝ hey, emma-may. 's me, darlin'. fiddleford. ❞ his shoulders tense up, when he hears the deafening silence over the phone; other hand coming to clench the receiver, as well. fiddleford hadron mcgucket! i was worried sick, about you! WHERE have you BEEN? ❝ emm---wait, whaddya mean, where've i been? how long've i been away? ❞ it's been months, fiddleford! all i got from you was a gift and a postcard on tate's birthday--- ❝ MONTHS?! but i've just been gone--- ❞ now it was his turn, to fall silent; a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. fidds felt very vulnerable, at the moment. and a little bit stupid. ❝ darlin', i---i'm gonna have to call ya back. ❞ fiddleford, if you hang up that pho--- he cuts her off; slamming receiver back into its cradle and whirling his gaze back around to where he saw stanley leave.

❝ i----did---- ❞ his mind was racing, now; hand shakily coming up to point at the man--- ❝ did----ya kidnap me?! how long've i been here??? didya leave me out there, t'---- ❞ that thought made him feel woozy; he stumbled over to the chair; gripping the arms tight and face going pale, losing all the color he had managed to gain back. ❝ is that why ya live out here? t'----t'lure in unsuspectin' people, an'--an'--- ❞ and what, fiddleford? ❝ is stanley even yer real name?! ❞

[sixersigned]

Stanford doesn't know what to do; his body is operating on autopilot, mind frazzled with anxieties and worries he's barely putting a handle on. Last night had been an overwhelming set of events, events he never got to process on account of getting so wasted he could barely walk. The feelings have passed now, but these emotions and regrets dwindle, chipping at him like an ocean at a cliff face.

You just have to get him out of here, Stanford. That's the last thing you can do for him now, so do it.

A blink, and he looks over to his former friend as he speaks, before facing away as he stands at the window, staring out into the snow-covered wood. He winces for a moment secretly—this might take longer than he thought. Great.

“ Yes, yes, “ he mumbles, gaze is drawn to the counter. He glances over his shoulder at F briefly, sighing before gesturing to a chair. “ Take a seat and take that off before you freeze to death. I'll go find a blanket. “

It's a haunting thought, thinking about how F could have died out there. Cold, and alone. No, THEN, Stanford would have never forgiven himself. He strides to leave the kitchen, gesturing to the phone on an end table on the way out, then stops when the other speaks. Eyes wide, he peers back at Fiddleford, a look akin to a deer caught in headlights. Name... what's his name?

“ ...I think... it's a nice name, “ he states without thinking, then looks away, iron-focused again. “ ...Stanley. “

fiddleford makes a move when the man turns; nodding his head and closing the door behind him. ❝ much obliged. thank ya. ❞ letting one last shiver run through him, f's suddenly aware of just how damp he is-----desperately wanting to take off the soaked through lab coat and his shoes, at least. ❝ after the---phone call, er---d'ya mind if i warm up? ya got a fireplace, in here? ❞ the here in question---there was a pang of familiarity, about it. he couldn't quite place it, though.

so, he follows the other, to the kitchen; socks squelching as he takes his careful steps---didn't want to track in any more snow than he had to. ❝ by th' way, i didn't quite catch yer name, earlier? ❞ eyes were focusing on the now-melted snowflakes on his glasses; quickly taking them off to dry them, feebly, with the edge of his shirt. ❝ name's fiddleford. mcgucket. ain't the most pretty one, i know, but it's what my ma named me, so i s'pose i'm stuck with it. ❞ putting glasses back on, he flashes the man a smile, before he's looking to where the phone is. ❝ shouldn't be too long. ❞

[sixersigned]

Stanford feels like his vocal chords have been ripped from him, both figuratively and literally. If it weren't the migraine fogging up his mind processes, his throat denying him sound, and the sheer remembrance of the night before, maybe he would have been able to answer right away. For a moment, it's almost like he stares at the other man without cause, as if seeing something that isn't quite there. ( OR PERHAPS, A MORE HIDDEN EMOTION, HE MOURNS WHAT HAD BEEN. ) It had always lead back to F, hadn't it? His mind flickers back to moment he discovered his bunkie for the semester—and now it all bleeds together in a flurry of melting flame.

Somehow, it hurts when F looks at him with eyes that have no idea who he is.

Forcing himself back to reality, he decides he can't linger on the heaving pain in his chest amidst everything else. He's here now, and he has to be impulsive before he second-guesses everything. There's a pit in his stomach that tells him his Muse will not be pleased with his actions, so he formulates a compromise. Get Fiddleford out of here as soon as he can, out of his hands, out of their hair. He doesn't remember anything anyway, how hard could it be?

He almost doesn't register the scientist's words when they leave his mouth, and when he finally catches them, he has to hide the flush across his face as he turns to walk back into the house. Restrain the urge to break into tears just as he had done the night before. Don't make this so difficult for me, F. Please.

“ Get out of the cold, “ he murmurs hoarsely, walking back towards the kitchen. “ Phone line's in here. “

the first thing he feels, when he wakes up? cold. bone-chilling cold. his whole body aches, and----why is everything blurry??? hand slowly, s l o w l y feels around him; fingers eventually finding the thin wire rims of his glasses in the snow next to him. fiddleford manages to slip them on, and he blinks; adjusting to the sight of the snow silently falling onto the lenses. ❝ what in the---? ❞

eventually, he pushes himself up onto his elbows; labcoat already soaked through. how long've i been out here? where exactly is here? the thoughts were racing through his fogged mind---he soon found himself on his feet, trudging forward toward the shack he could make out in the distance. that's strange-----there's no other footprints in the snow, b'sides mine?? hands are tucked under arms that were folded across his chest; toes curling inside shoes that weren't any protection from the deep snow seeping into them, making his socks wet.

finally, he makes it to the building----something about it is appealing; it looks cozy 'nough. wonder who lives here? reckon its someone who could help me out? shaking hand comes out to knock upon the door; he's trying to keep his teeth from chattering, clenching his jaw to the point of pain. when the door opens, he tries to straighten from his hunched state; eyes widening when he sees the handsome, but clearly exhausted, stranger in front of him. ❝ p-pardon me, s-sir--- ❞ fiddleford wasn't sure if it was because of the cold air whipping his cheeks, that he was blushing, or something else....

❝ ain't you a sight fer sore eyes! ❞ where are yer manners, mcgucket? this handsome stranger is standin' in front of ya, and all ya can think t'say is that? head shakes the thought away----continuing to shiver and slide just the tiniest bit closer to the door. ❝ would ya mind, lettin' me in? y'see, i don't really know where i am, and i'd like t'use yer phone, if ya don't mind? wanna let m'family know that i'm alright. i reckon thats the least i could do. ❞