#And Ford just KNOWS and makes a beeline towards him with murder in his eyes

[astro-b-o-y-d]

This was originally going to be something with older character designs, but then it kinda veered into being something else. Either way, I just really wanted to draw my Bill being somewhere in his late teens/early twenties by human years.

Also I believe in tuxedo t-shirt Bill supremacy.

(Don’t tag as any ships) (Cipher font [here])

[copias-thrall]

There’s Magic in the Night

A new year is breaking, and it's full of possibilities.

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(Reminder: not Repugnant accurate.)

It’s a 15min walk from the nearest subway stop in a part of the city that hosts low-income and broke college folk, and you’re beginning to wonder if your heeled boots were the best choice—but the shiny patent of them so nicely offset your cheap pink and black tulle skirt and fuzzy black crop sweater with inlaid tinsel that you’d decided on form or function. You’d almost changed your top when Mary had knelt and given your tummy a raspberry where it hung over the waistband a little, but his cute little pout had placated you a little after you’d threatened to do just that.

“You want a piggyback?”

“Nah, I’m all right, Mare. We’re almost there, right?”

“Yeah.” 

Using his chin, he indicates a house down the block with a light on in every window and that’s lit up with string lights. It’s a little run down, but not falling apart. The neighborhood is full of three-story homes that are either co-ops or rented out by various floor configurations. 

You’d tried to follow his explanation on who he knew and how, but the most you’d retained was that of the 6 people who rented the entire house, Mary knew 2 of them intimately. (“Yeah, they’ve had it every year that they’re lived there. I’m pretty sure a good third of the crowd is party crashers, but the more the merrier, right?”)

The closer you get, the louder the din from the house becomes—it sounds like there are 4 different playlists fighting for dominance, and the crowd ASMR is strong. There is a gang of smokers spilling from the front porch, down the cement steps, and clumped into murders in the small yard.

Ed and Dee are leaning against the railing on the steps, shivering in their best band tees as they take drags of their cigarettes.

“Hey, man!” says Mary as he leans forward and engages them both in a sloppy approximation of a cool, secret handshake.

“Hey, Goore!”

“Long time no see, dude.”

You nod at them, and they nod back.

“Where’s the rest of the gang?” asks Ed as he strains to see behind you in the dark.

Apparently Mary usually pregamed with his bandmates and then they headed over en masse later in the night. Horrified, you’d tried to convince him to uphold the tradition, but he’d insisted he could break off one year (“I’m not gonna toss you to the wolves, Suey. I see those assholes all the time.”).

Mary blows out a breath, and it hangs in the air like the puffs of smoke.

“Still pregaming. They’ll be by later. I wanted to give Suey the grand tour.”

Mary makes a sweeping motion, then wraps that arm around you. Ed and Dee’s eyes flick back to you.

“He’s a fucking liar; he was afraid one of you would steal me away.”

Ed coughs out the drag he was taking, and Dee snorts.

“You’re killing my street cred, woman.”

“Whatever, dude,” says Dee with a smirk, and Mary glowers at him. “You wanna bum one?” Dee holds out his pack as if in contrition.

Mary’s hand twitches, but he shakes his head.

“Nah, dude. Not unless it’s that chronic shit.”

“Yeah, they got those somewhere.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

A few merrymakers exit the house—laughing and screaming—and they push by the lot of you as they presumably journey on toward another party.

“All right, dudes. We’re gonna go make the rounds, get some cold ones. See you on the other side!”

“Sounds good!”

“Do it.”

Mary ushers you inside, and—despite the open door—the warmth of the house hits you, making you feel suddenly uncomfortable in your winter coat. Like the outside, there’s a general mass of bodies that are sectioned off (in the hall; on the stairs; spilling out of the kitchen; lounging in the living areas) like music notes in a run of measures. You spot a worn-looking chair that’s piled high with coats, and you go to toss yours on, but Mary grabs your arm.

“Geez, Suey. You wanna get your coat jizzed on?”

“I—what?”

“C’mere, let’s not add our stuff to the pile that’s gonna make someone a nice sex bed later.”

He yanks your coat out of your hands and opens a door that leads to the hall closet. A beach ball tumbles out and is joyfully absconded with by a trio of party goers walking by, and Mary catches one golf club in his hand as it falls out from the top shelf and another under his arm. Unfortunately, he doesn’t catch the one that hits his booted foot, but you managed to stand on tiptoe enough to prevent the entire bag from depositing its contents on Mary’s head.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Between the two of you, you manage to get the clubs back in order from whence they fell.

You can see that there’s other junk up there and in the back—whether it lives there permanently or was just shoved in there pre-party, you guess you’ll never know—but there’s an entire row of coats on a rod, which seems to be the closet’s main purpose.

“Here.” Mary rifles through the mess until he finds a free hanger. It takes some adjusting, but he finally gets his leather jacket and your coat onto the same hanger and manages to squeeze it back into the mass.

“OK. Let’s go find Shonda.”

“Not Murray?”

“Apparently he’s elsewhere tonight.” He shrugs.

There’s a sudden squeal of voices, and when you turn, you see Kara and Elsie hurrying toward you. Elsie is in a sequined dress so garish it must be fashionable and Kara sports a sparkly red sweater over black jeggings that she’s wrapped fairy lights around.

“So you’re not dead!” says Kara

“Uh … no?”

“Christ, I would have called you, but I’ve spent the last few days with my head in a toilet,” laughs Elsie.

“Yeah, thanks for that guys,” says Mary. “What I really wanted to do at the crack of dawn was take care of this lush.”

“Pffft,” snorts Elsie. “You’re one to talk, Goore. As if your head doesn’t live in the toilet.

“Yeah, total karma, Mary. Remember that time you got your stomach pumped?”

“Jesus, Mare,” you say at him with a bemused smile. He scowls.

“Look. Honey whiskey goes down easy.”

Elsie and Kara cackle before grabbing up your hands.

“C’mon, let’s get you a drink, hon,” says Kara.

“What about me?” pouts Mary.

Elsie sniffs over her shoulder at him as she pulls you down the hall.

“Sorry, Goore. Girls only. Go set shit on fire or something.”

“That was once!” you hear Mary call down the hall after you.

“Wait—what did he set on fire?”

Elsie looks at you and mimics locking her mouth and throwing away a key.

The kitchen is full of bodies. In one corner, there’s a game of beer pong set up, and in the other, people are digging beer containers out of a giant cooler. On the counter are a few bowls half-filled with various snacks—the other half of which seem to be spilled over the counter and crushed into the linoleum floor. There’s a dark-skinned woman in a black & white plaid rockabilly dress and red cardigan who’s struggling to empty a bag of ice into a second cooler.

“Here—let me help, Shonda,” says Kara as Elsie leads you to the full cooler.

Shonda looks up. “Yeah, could you? Dunno where my asshole roommates are.”

By the time the two of them have the contents of the bag in the cooler—the cubes sliding in with a rough whoosh and plinking softly over the beers in the bottom—you and Elsie have fresh beers that she’s poured into solo cups.

“Thanks, Kar.” Shonda wipes her hands on the bottom of her dress, makes a face, then fumbles for a dingy kitchen towel hanging over the fridge door handle.

“Shonda,” says Elsie, catching the woman’s attention. She pushes you forward a bit. “This is Mary’s new squeeze.”

“Oh, um, hi.” You stick out your hand.

“No shit.” Shonda gives you a once over before giving your hand one firm shake. She nods a few times. “Yeah, ok. I see it.” She pats you on the arm. “Good luck with that.” She turns to Elsie. “Is that little shit here? We need to have words.”

Elsie jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “We left him down the hall.”

“He can run but he can’t hide,” Shonda says as she stomps away in impressively high red heels.

“Do I need to go defend his honor?”

Kara snorts.

“Nah,” says Elsie, waving your question away. “She’ll probably just make him do the heavy lifting the other stooges wheedled their ways out of.”

“He is stronger than those skinny arms make him look,” you muse.

Kara leans in. “Oh?”

You grin at her.

The two of them lead you into what must be a dinning room that seems to be the official set up for the snacks and libations. A bar with liquor and mixers have been arranged in the built-in, and there’s a folding table in the corner with an array of chips, snack foods, and a pile of wilted-looking pizza boxes. There’s a center table—which looks more permanent—that some sort of drinking game is occurring over.

You make a beeline for the pizza.

“I think I need a good base.”

As you juggle the pizza slices on a plate on the top of your cup, Kara and Elsie talk rapid fire across you, sometimes asking you questions (about you, about Mary, about you and Mary), other times going into long-winded stories about people you’ve never met, but are hilarious nonetheless.

“Fuck. I’m not drunk enough for this party yet,” Kara laments.

“Well, yeah,” says Elsie. “I thought we’d get our game on.” She pokes you in the belly, and you suck your stomach in away from her touch. “You done ‘getting your base’ yet?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” You dump the paper plate and crusts into a trash bag slumped in the corner.

About the time Elsie is squeezing you three into the game at the table, Mary wanders in. His face brightens when he sees you, and he makes his way over to you, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“There you are, baby doll.”

“I thought I told you ‘girls only,’ Goore,” says Elsie.

He jabs a finger at her. “I gave you more than enough time to monopolize my girlfriend, Ford.”

“Just keep your dick in check.”

“I do what I want.”

For the next half hour, you engage in a rousing game of flip cup, which you have always been terrible at, but Mary seems to dominate. By the end, Kara and Elsie are hitting their buzz—playfully shoving themselves and others—and you’re beginning to feel more at ease in this sea of unfamiliar people.

Ed and Trevor wander in and motion to Mary, but seem to address the whole crowd.

“Yo!” says Ed. “Wanna go upstairs?” He stimulates smoking a joint at Mary.

“Yeah, man!” Mary turns to you. “You wanna join?”

You shake your head. “Can’t. I get tested.”

“Laaaame,” says Kara, and you jump because you didn’t realize how close she’d gotten.

“You sure it’s ok?” Mary scrunches his face.

“Yeah, Mare. Go! Be free!”

“Don’t worry, Mare,” says Elsie coyly as she drapes an arm around you. “We’ll take good care of Suey.”

Mary looks horrified enough that you think he might change his mind, but then Ed and Trevor are pulling him away. Elsie looks down at you.

“What did you do to that boy?”

You squint up at her. “What do you mean?”

Kara insinuates her way in between you and hands you both disposable shot cups.

“She means you’ve got him pussy whipped.”

You scrunch your face further. “Mary? He’s like a stray cat that shows up sometimes for food.”

“Is the ‘food’ ‘sex’?” Kara jumps her eyebrows at you.

Laughingly, you shove at her. “Maybe.”

Elsie throws her hands up. “PUSSY. WHIPPED.” She downs her shot.

You and Kara follow suit.

“Ok, but seriously,” you half cough as you wipe a dribble off your chin. “Mary does what he wants. I don’t tell him what to do.”

“Aww, hon—we know,” says Kara. “Elsie is just giving you a hard time.”

Elsie shrugs. “I’m a Class A Bitch.”

“She is,” agrees Kara. She turns her cup upside down; a few droplets drip out. “Hey, bitch—go get us more suds!”

“Demanding,” grips Elsie, but she turns to make her way into the kitchen.

You and Kara wander over to the food table to graze, the howls from the newest drinking game dolcet background noise.

“Hey, I know Elsie tends to make people butthurt, but she just has no filter.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine.” You shrug. “People tend to think I’m an elitist snob, so I try to be, um, more open minded.”

Kara grins at you. “‘Splains why you’re dating Mary.”

You throw a withered carrot stick at her. “Don’t fucking call me out like that.”

Kara laughs as she tries to block the attack. The conversation seems to stall after that, so you try and dredge up a question.

“So you guys know Mary from high school or something? Mary was … vague.”

“Just Elsie. That’s why she’s a little protective. He’s seen some shit.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say quietly. You turn to look at Kara. “Did they ever …?”

Kara waves her hand at you dismissively, swaying slightly. “Shit, we’ve all fucked around with each other at some point or other.”

Your eyes bug out. “You and Mary?”

She snorts, and leans toward you at a dangerous angle. “Well I never slept with Mary. But I’ve been with Elsie and Dee, and Mary with her and Trevor, and Trevor and Dee had a thing with Ed.” She screws up her face. “I think I got that right. I can never keep it straight, honestly.” Kara shakes her head out; then her expression changes and she bites her lip. “Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve told you all that.”

You pop a Jax in your mouth. “Mums the word, sister”

As she’s giving you a sloppy, grateful smile, Elsie finally appears—tottering carefully—with three solo cups precariously balanced between her hands and tits.

“Shit—come get your drinks.”

You and Kara scramble to relieve Elsie of her haul without dropping the prizes as the drinking game breaks with an Awwwwwww.

“You guys wanna with another round?” Elsie throws her thumb over her shoulder as she sips from her cup.

“Fuck yeah, you know it!” exclaims Kara as she throws her hands up, beer spilling over the side.

After doing OK in a few rounds of Finger Spoof (you’re feeling the buzz nicely), you look around and realize you haven’t seen Mary in a while. You leave Kara and Elsie to their own devices and head into the kitchen. Grabbing your own solo cup in your teeth—ignoring it as some of its contents sloshes over the side and down your chin—you fish for a lite beer floating in the lukewarm cooler water for Mary.

If you can locate him.

He’s not in any of the rooms downstairs, nor is he outside with smoker’s club. You make your way up to the second floor, hoping he’ll be easy to find up there. There’s a door that’s locked and another where there’s a group hanging out on the bed and each other as Kpop loudly plays.

You find Mary in an open bedroom full of haze. He’s softly strumming an acoustic guitar—his fingers fumbling slightly on the unfamiliar strings as he tunes his way up the frets. He’s propped up in a corner, legs crossed under him, as the others in the room pass a joint around.

Picking your way carefully through the crowd, you make your way over to Mary. People shift and sway out of the way and scoot over when you smush yourself in next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, and Mary passes off the guitar to someone else. “Where’re Ed, Edd, and Eddy?”

He snorts.

“Went in search of snackies.”

He looks down at the beers resting in the small slick of condensation on the floor and licks his lips.

“One of those for me?”

“Yeah,” you say as you hand him the room-temperature bottle, which he takes up and chugs half of in one go. Watching his adam’s apple bobbing, you lean in to lick his neck. Mary jerks, then coughs, half spraying the beer out his mouth and nose. A few people squeal in surprise as you cackle, and Mary glares at you, wiping at his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt that he’s curled over his hand.

“Fuck. You’re a pain in my ass.”

He drapes his arm around your shoulder, the bottle in his hand resting on your arm. The person who has the guitar now is strumming up a familiar song, and soon everyone is singing along (screaming or shrieking off key in some cases). Under the guise of getting his drink close to his mouth, Mary subtly maneuvers you into his lap—his other hand sneaking up under your shirt hem to rest on the curve of your belly with the tips of his fingers brushing just under one cup of your bra. You’re too loose from the drinking game to really care, so you lean back into his chest, warbling along to the tune as well.

You’re swaying, drink in hand, as you screech along to another song, when suddenly you become very aware of Mary’s erection pressing into your ass.

You turn your head. “Seriously?”

He rumbles into your ear. “Whaddya want? You’re squirming on my lap.”

Giggling, you purposely grind back on him, and he grabs your hips.

“Fuck, baby doll—keep that up and I’m gonna make a mess.”

You lean your head back on his shoulder as you circle your hips.

“You love making a mess, Mare Bear.”

He leans down to bite at your neck.

“I love making a mess on you. Not in my pants.”

“So stop me.”

Mary’s arm comes around your waist, effectively pulling you flush against him.

“FucK.”

More people wander in as the songs turn from nostalgic familiars to those of the drinking variety, and they raise solo cups and bottles in joyful celebration.

Everyone is sloppy; some sway to the rhythm of the songs, others drunkenly half mosh, spilling their drinks everywhere. You grinding your ass back into Mary—and him twitching up into you—is hardly a blip on anybody’s radar. His head thunks down onto the slope of your shoulder, his hips wanting to rut faster than subtlety or your own movements allow.

People are stomping, clapping, and spraying beer on each other as they half mutter words to drinking songs they realize they only half know.

Mary is a mess, trembling as he presses into you and mewling softly with each pass. Conversely, you’re having a grand ole time: rocking your hips as you sway and sing along to whatever the person in possession of the guitar is currently playing. Ignoring your own wetness and the growing throb in between your legs, you try to give him the pressure he needs.

You can feel his chest heaving into your back and the sweat from his forehead on your skin when it’s clear he’s getting close. His limbs shake as his arms squeeze you tighter, his movements almost stilling to nothing—and then he blows out a held breath like a drumbeat, his crotch pressing into you in pulses as he bites down into the juncture of your neck. Gasping, you spill a good amount of your drink as you jerk forward—Mary still rutting shallowly into you.

A few people cheer at your party foul—which hopefully takes any attention off Mary, who is clearly no longer hiding the fact that he’s cumming hard in his pants. He finally slumps behind you, his arms loosening and sprawling open.

“Shit,” he says.

You lean back. “Mmm … good?” you purr.

His hands sneak back under your top to sink into your flesh, and he leans up enough to whisper into your ear.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“You could’ve stopped me.”

He growls. “You know what you touching my dick does to me.”

“Was I, though? Touching your dick?”

Mary rubs his face into your neck as his hands squeeze your chub.

“Close enough.”

“Get a room, Goore!” screams someone before some of the group toss a couple of empty solos your way.

Mary looks up and grins.

“Maybe I fucking will.” He starts to stand up, bringing you with him—probably to hide the wet patch on his jeans. “See you losers later.”

There’s a general chorus of hoots and whistles, but mostly the crowd goes back to their drinking songs.

“Are we really getting a room?” you ask—arousal curling—as Mary directs you around the second floor, hands on your hips to keep you in front of him.

“A bathroom, yeah.”

There’s a slight wait—one Mary fills with his roving hands and lips—before the woman ahead of you stumbles out, wiping her wet hands ineffectually on her party dress.

Mary ushers you in, locking the door behind you. The two of you look down to inspect the damage. It’s actually not terrible. You can hardly tell at all on his jeans, and Mary undoes them so he can half shuck them down. His boxer briefs are a completely different story; they’re visibly soaked through at the top, and when he peels away the waistband, he reveals a sticky, slimy mess coating his stomach and flaccid cock.

“Shit. This may be a lost cause,” he says as he inspects the inside of the fabric.

“TP?”

“Yeah, unless you wanna lick it off …” Mary looks up at you with a smirk. “Which would be kinda hot, actually.”

“Sorry,” you say as you roll toilet paper around your hand, “but I like my jizz how I like my coffee: hot and fresh from the source.”

He runs a finger through the mess and then wiggles it at you. “It’s still kinda warm!”

You wrap your mouth around it because it’s the last thing he expects you to do.

“Uh …”

He’s momentarily rendered speechless as he watches you suck his finger clean and then smack your lips as if appraising.

“Nah. None of that reheated crap either.”

He blinks down at you. “Should I be horrified that I’m rubbing off on you?”

You give him a smile with your tongue half sticking out as you rub the wadded up toilet paper across his belly.

“I’m pretty sure I was just rubbing you off, Mare.”

Mary’s hands come up and sink into your hair. “Shut up.” He pulls you into a deep kiss. “Fuck. Love it when you tease me,” he says as he pulls away.

“I know.” You beam up at him and continue trying to clean him up.

He looks down at himself. “Fuck it.” He goes to toe off his boots, realizes that he’s wearing his “dress boots”—the less-scuffed ones that lace up to his knees—and snarls in frustration.

When he goes for the medicine cabinet, you step out of the way and toss the slimed wad of paper into the toilet. Making an Ah-ha! noise, Mary turns to you and snaps a pair of hair scissors triumphantly.

“Do the honors, will ya?”

“Wait—you want me to … cut your boxers off?”

“I’m sure as fuck not taking these boots off or spending the rest of the night marinating in my own jizz.”

You snort at him. “Whatever you want, Mare Bear.” You shuffle forward and hop up onto the sink. It only teeters a little.

“Hey! Hurry the fuck up in there!” comes a male voice through the door accompanied by banging.

“Fuck off, I’m taking a dump!” barks Mary.

“Dude,” says the voice, but the banging stops.

Mary shifts forward into the V of your spread legs as he hands you the scissors. He keeps his face close to yours. “Try not to cut off anything important,” he breathes at you.

“Of course—you’re no good to me clipped.”

His eyes meet yours, then travel down to his crotch. Carefully (willing your eyes to focus), you start from the top down, snipping the fabric—bunching it up with each shear—until you reach the end of the leg up to the crotch, Mary only flinching slightly (“Careful with the goods, woman!” “Fucking hold still!”). Once each side is cut, Mary and you work together to pull each half free.

As you ball up the front half to toss into the trash basket, Mary uses the back half to wipe up the lingering stickiness coating his cock and stomach.

“Better?” you ask when he’s finished and zipping his jeans back up, the other half of his boxers joining its twin in the trash.

He wiggles a bit. “Eh, it’ll do.” You expect him to back off, but instead he crowds closer. “What about you, baby doll? Maybe I should check on you.”

Before you have a chance to respond, Mary is shoving up the layers of your skirt and pressing his hand into your damp tights. You gasp at the sensation.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, “seems like you could use some clean up yourself.”

And then he’s maneuvering his head in between your spread legs, trying to position your knees over his shoulders. You let out an Oh, as your hands fly down to brace yourself on the edges of the sink; Mary growls in frustration as he tries to first pull down your tights, then to rip them apart to no avail. Before you can stop him, he’s picked up the shears and has snipped a slit in your crotch.

“Mary!” you yelp, but he just dives back down, tongue wiggling through the rip in the fabric to trace your seam before delving into your folds to flick at your clit. At the burst of sweetness, you moan, and your head thunks back into the mirror.

Head swimming, you lose yourself in the feel of his tongue as it swirls around your nub and then presses into it a few times before he’s sucking it in between his plush lips. He repeats this process, sometimes running his tongue down to your entrance and then back up, and at others holding the tip directly on your clit until you start squirming in frustration … only to then flick repeatedly back and forth.

A finger enters you, and you cry out, “Oh fuck,” as you tighten around it. Mary starts to slowly ease it in and out of you as his tongue continues its massage of your hardening clit. You’re really squirming now, rocking into his mouth and down onto his finger—making sure you light up every sweet spot. You feel like a guitar string wound too tight, ready to snap, and your pussy pulsates in warning.

Mary sets his tongue speed to 11, and you feel the tidal wave of your orgasm start rushing toward you. You let out a squeak as your one hand sinks into Mary’s hair right before your climax breaks, and you start bucking into his mouth. Like a good boy, he manages to follow the lead of your hips until your pussy stops popping and your body relaxes—your butt slipping down into the bowl of the sink.

After catching your breath, you look down to find Mary’s twinkling eyes staring up at you from beneath the layers of your skirt. You pet down the side of his head with an Mmm, and his eyes close as he leans into the touch.

“I think you only made me stickier, Mare.”

His head tilts to rest on your one leg.

“Not my fault you get wet as fuck. There’s only so much I can lap up at once.”

You shift up into a sitting position as Mary wipes his face—and the lower part of his makeup—onto your tights.

“Shit. Are the tights a lost cause too?”

“Stand up?”

You hop off the sink, and Mary inspects your backside. He gives it a slap before saying, “Nah, I think you’re good. Just a little damp.”

You crinkle your nose. “Well, I feel slimy. Turn around so I can take care of business.”

Mary peers into the mirror to even out his smudgy face before slurping some tap water from the faucet as you get your situation into a tolerable state.

When the two of you exit the bathroom—Mary’s arm draped back around your shoulders—there are two guys lounging on the bottom of the stairs leading up to the 3rd floor. They look up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, and one scrunches his face at you.

“Dude. I thought you were taking a shit.”

He holds up a blackened Yankee candle.

Mary shrugs at him. “We don’t kink shame here.”

The guy’s companion bursts out laughing even as you elbow Mary in the ribs. He just laughs as he says, “C’mon let’s get some suds.”

The two of you make your way back down to the kitchen where Shonda The Beer Færie has replenished the coolers again. Mary shotguns a can—foam spritzing everywhere—as you search for the elusive opener. Unable to locate it, you try—and fail—to pop the top off on the counter.

“Gimme,” says Mary—belching—grabbing for your bottle. After fishing for another bottle in the ice, he aligns the caps and pops them both with the other.

“My hero,” you say in an affected tone as you bat your curled eyelashes at him.

“That’s fucking right.” He makes an arm in an attempt to bulge his bicep.

You test it with your hand. “Nah. Too small, throw it back.”

Pouting at you, he says, “You’re the worst, and we’re in a fight.”

You shrug as you take a swig of beer. “Eh. I got what I wanted.”

Mary makes a grab for the bottle, but you twist out of his reach and bolt out of the kitchen. He doesn’t catch you before you seek sanctuary in the living room. All the furniture has been pushed against walls, the rug rolled and resting in a corner, and more bodies than there should be are packed into the center as a party mix thumps from the speakers.

You wiggle your way into the crowd and run into Kara and Elsie, who shout Hooray! and pull you into their bump and grind. The 3 of you raise your drinks into the air to avoid spilling on each other as you rock and sway, alternating who gets sandwiched.

Suddenly, Mary is at your elbow.

“Hey! Gimme back my girlfriend!”

“Sorry, Goore,” says Elsie. “Finders keepers.”

For a minute he looks genuinely put out, but then he just smirks. “Whatever, I’ll just enjoy the view.”

“Pig,” Kara spits.

Mary shrugs and starts to do a god-awful wiggle that you think is supposed to be dancing. He has the rhythm—and his ass jiggle is pretty nice—but that’s about all he’s got going for him in the moves department.

The mix must be trying to appeal to all types, but ends up being a spastic mix with no eye for continuity. Nineties Girl Pop transitions into Metal, which transitions into Country, then into Alternative, then to 80′s Power Ballad, then R&B, then Punk.

After screaming along to “Toxic”, Elsie leans in. “Fuck, I’m about to pass out. I need to get some air.”

“Want me to come with you?” asks Kara.

“Up to you, dear.”

They look at you.

“I should throw Mary a bone.”

Kara smirks at you. “Kinky.”

Elsie rolls her eyes at her friend. “C’mon you bitch ass.”

Seeing his opportunity, Mary gives a head nod as he seamlessly switches places with them. He pulls your back into him as his hands come round to rest on your hips.

“Good thing you emptied my dick earlier, or we’d have a problem,” he murmurs into your ear.

“Don’t be gross.”

“K.”

You and Mary grind or shimmy or jump depending on what the song calls for, your beer long drunk by now. At some point someone opens a window, and the chill, near-January air curls in—its icy but brisk tendrils working their way through the crowd. You shiver a little as the sweat on your skin tingles and cools at its touch, and Mary pulls you in tighter.

Meatloaf comes on—🎶 On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses? 🎶—and Mary snuffles his face into the crook of your neck, you tilting your head to the side to give him access.

🎶 Will he offer me his teeth? 🎶

He worries at you with his teeth.

🎶 Will he offer me his hunger? 🎶

His blunt teeth sink into you, and you let out a pleased rumble.

🎶 And will he starve without me? 🎶

“Yes,” he whispers into your ear right along with Jim Steinman.

You roll your eyes even though Mary can’t see you do it, but you let him spin you out—jostling the other revelers—and back into him (stumbling) as the drum beat drops. He tries to twirl you, but the crowd has packed back in around you, and all you accomplish is tripping over his boots.

🎶 …I was dying just to ask for a taste 🎶 he mouths at you.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” you say.

He leans in and nips at your lips, but you turn your head to whisper in his ear.

“I gave you a taste earlier, mister.”

“Mmm, but I’m greedy.”

You let him mouth at your neck as the two of you sway back and forth, Mary’s hands dipping lower and lower.

A sudden commotion is like a record scratch, and everyone turns to the front hall. Mary’s bandmates come into sight—caterwauling with 12 packs of shitty beer held aloft—encouraging the cheers of the other partygoers.

One spots Mary and points his finger at him.

“Goore! Goore! Goore!”

The other band members pick up the chant.

“Goore! Goore! Goore!”

The crowd takes up what has become a war cry:

“Goore! GOORE!  G O O R E !”

Mary points back, then puts his hand up in supplication at you as he backs his way out of the room.

“You’re a goddamned tease!” you cry after him.

He shrugs before spinning on his heel to be assimilated in the group, the chant turning into whoops and hollers as they make their way into the kitchen.

Mary had warned you that the band usually did an unplugged set, and you surmise they must need to set up.

Without Mary or the girls, the dance room has lost its appeal, so you meander around the first floor. The drinking games have devolved into “Never Have I Ever,” and while the pizza is gone, a homemade-looking mac and cheese dish in a tinfoil baking pan has appeared.

You pile some onto a paper plate (whose structural integrity you seriously question) and are content to watch the proceedings until a girl in the circles demands you squeeze in with a slurred “None of this wallflower shit!”. They shove a solo cup into your hand, which is then promptly filled with whiskey from a Jack bottle.

For the next hour or so, the guests on either side of you—Lila and Marty—become the best friends you never knew you had while you all hoot and catcall each other to the escalating scenarios. The bromance comes to a swift end, sadly, when Dee appears in the doorframe, sees you, and points dramatically.

“It is time for the festivities!” he yells in deep baritone.

“I’m being summoned!” you yell, and there’s a chorus of boos as you wobbly make your way over.

“Come, yon neophyte, and join us at the gathering spot.”

“Lay on, McDee!”

Dee leads you out into the backyard, which is done up with myriad bulb lights. Mary winks at you as you pass him on the porch—picking your way around the hodgepodge of instruments—before you join Ed, Trevor, Kara, and Elsie at one side of a well-used iron fire pit on the grass. The girls are passing a flask back and forth as they snuggle you in between them.

It should be fucking freezing out, but with the alcohol, the body heat, and the fire, you actually feel quite cozy. There’s a buzz of voices as the band arranges and tunes the borrowed instruments. You think you can see human shapes on back decks in other lots, but it’s hard to tell through the glare of the lights.

The band members take their places, there’s a countdown, and then Mary and the guys jumpstart into their first crowd favorite. While there are some general cheers at favored sections, the intimacy of the party and the lack of mics or speakers make it a quieter affair than their venue shows. You and the girls sway back and forth in your triplet, and even the guys are fist pumping and mouthing along. They play two more of their own songs before doing a few classic 80′s punk covers that really get everyone hyped.

It’s not perfect—none of them are sober, they’re unaccustomed to the instruments, and the cold air isn’t helping dexterity. At one point the lead singer forgets the words and just la la las his way through the verse, which in turn sends some of the other members into a musical stutter. Not everyone is invested in the whole set—some people went back inside after the first few tunes, and others see the band as just background to their conversations. Those who are fully invested have gravitated closer to the porch—but your group of Mary’s bffls are content to hang out by the fire pit where a few people have started roasting marshmallows.

After an … interesting … mashup of “Rudie Can’t Fail” and “Classics of Love” that sounds like a physical representation of a key smash, the band closes ranks, and there’s some whispered conversation and emphatic gesturing.

“Ok!” says Donnie, the lead singer. “We’re gonna switch things up. Usually on backing vocals, Goore is going to take lead for our last song.” There are some boos that probably have more to do with the set ending than Mary singing, but also some whistles that are probably for Mary. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s a party for us too!”

“Huh,” says Elsie.

“What?” you say into her armpit.

“Mary hates lead.”

You know. He’s mentioned ad nauseam.

Mary steps forward and takes position up front. When he brushes his forelock out of the way, he looks up briefly and catches eyes with you. You give him thumbs up. A grin breaks out on his face, and he winks at you. Slowly, he strums chords until he finds what he’s looking for, and you can tell he’s humming along quietly—it’s a familiar sight now to you, but you wonder how much of this crowd has seen Mary chart out a song.

Finding the key he’s looking for, Mary clears his throat. His voice isn’t rich in timbre, but he rasps out with feeling, and his pitch is near perfect.

🎶 So I hear you been wondering I've been wondering too Just what this crazy world has in store for me and you 🎶

You’re surprised at his choice, and you feel your face burn. Mary’s eyes flick up to you—glinting boyishly—and you stick your tongue out at him. He slows the song way down as he sings, changing the frenetic energy of the original into a soulful ballad to which he can growl along.

🎶 You scratching to find a way A tortured soul back from the grave O Baby Doll back to kill them all Now please won’t you stay 🎶

Mary pauses, looking full up at you before taking in a deep breath. A few heads turn to see who he’s looking at. You scrunch your face at him to convey your mortification, but he just shakes his head at you—he’s not going to stop.

🎶 Baby Doll whoa Baby Doll I need you I love you Baby Doll whoa Baby Doll O Please come back to me 🎶

You suddenly feel naked under the interested gazes of the curious onlookers as Mary continues on. He’s mostly singing at the guitar, but his few pointed glances at you make it clear who he’s singing to.

🎶 The tortures of your soul The rotting flesh pain never dulls O Baby Doll you will kill them all Now please come to me 🎶

You try to sink back into Elsie and Kara, who just push you forward again.

“Dude,” Elsie breaths at you.

“This is awesome,” says Kara.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” you mutter through your plastered on smile.

Some of the amassed crowd—which suddenly seems to have multiplied—start clapping to the slowed beat, and it causes a ripple of well-timed claps as well as those who can’t keep a rhythm.

Strumming in deliberate strokes, Mary looks up to hold your eyes once more.

🎶 I see you standing there In the shadows and in the rain A lifeless beauty Nothing could ever ease you of all your pain But Baby Doll the revenge you seek I dunno It will never be sweet But you'll never give it up Now come to me Come on 🎶

You shake your head as Mary continues to repeat the chorus into a soft fade. There’s a moment of silence after he’s finished, and he points out at you.

“Give it up for my very own baby doll!”

Applause breaks out and you give him double Fs.

Mary sets down the guitar carefully as Donnie steps forward again.

“All right! That’s it, motherfuckers! We’re about an hour away from the New Year, so grab a drink and sign up for our mailing list if you haven’t already!”

The crowd is whooping and whistling. A few people crowd up on the porch, as do Trevor, Ed, & Dee. Mary shakes hands, shoulder bumps, and backslaps his bandmates and some of the crowd, but his eyes are on you.

“I’d fuck him,” says Kara with a smirk.

Elsie groans. “Please don’t fuck in front of us. At least find a broom closet.”

You turn to her and give her a wolfish smile. “Who says we haven’t already christened it?”

Elsie buries her face in her hands as Kara tipsily attempts to fist bump you and ends up smushing your tit.

“Whoops! My bad!”

“Bitch, we’re cutting you off.”

“No, you’re not. Who would you do shots with?”

“Suey’s more than capable.”

You make a “who me?” face.

“Mebbe, but I think her mouth is spoken for.”

You’re about to respond, but arms suddenly encircle you, a mouth presses to your neck, and you squawk.

“If you’re not Mary Goore, you better watch your nuts!”

“I’m me, and I have to watch my nuts, anyway.”

You squirm around so that you’re facing him.

“Forget your nuts, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Aaaand on that note!” says Elsie, and she and Kara pat Mary’s arm before heading inside.

He looks down at you with hooded eyes.

“Whatever. You’re pleased. You fucking love that song.”

“Oh? Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I still have my nuts.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then point your finger in his face.

“You’re on thin ice, mister.”

“Mmm, I can think of a few ways you can take it out of my ass later.”

Your stomach flips, and you press into him, grabbing his jaw.

“Damn right I will.”

Mary bites his lip as you wiggle your hand in between the two of you to palm at his crotch. He closes his eyes and sways a little 

and that’s when you step away from him.

“C’mon—my cup is empty. I need a refresh.”

Mary’s eyes pop open, and he whines while making an exaggerated puppy-dog face.

You snap your fingers at him. “That’s for earlier.”

There are still enough people mingling outside that it takes a while for the two of you to actually make it back inside—some are Mary’s friendly acquaintances he wants to say hi to and others are fans he can’t help but chat up.

“We’re going to be on Instagram again, aren’t we?” you say when you finally start your trek inside, his arm lazily resting around your shoulders.

His head turns to face you, and he gives you an impish smile.

“Tell me if I give a shit.”

You quirk your eyebrow at him. “You might give a shit later.”

His smile turns vulpine. “Promise?”

Your hand slips into his back pocket and squeezes.

It’s actually pretty close to the ball drop by this point, so you and Mary grab up two of the bargain plastic champagne glasses you find lined up in rows on the kitchen counter. When the cheap champagne starts being passed around like you’re all in a pirate shanty, you hold out the glasses (Mary’s already lost the base to his) for a fill.

There’s no way everyone is going to fit in the living room; the majority of the attendees are spilling out into the hall, up the stairwell, and out onto the porch, with you and Mary are squished in by the stairs—but the volume for Rocking New Year’s Eve is turned up so loud the speakers are fuzzing, and a few people are streaming it on the phones.

“T-Minus one minute!” someone screams, and a cheer goes up.

“Oh shit!” you exclaim and start digging around in your bra.

“What?” asks Mary as his eyes flick down to your tits.

You retrieve two silver dollars, warmed by your skin, and press one into Mary’s free hand.

“What’s this?” He holds the coin up at eye level.

“Silver dollar. If you hold onto one as the year turns over, it’s supposed to bring good fortune.”

He looks at you skeptically as he turns it this way and that. “Does it work?”

You shrug. “Can’t hurt. My grandma swore by it.”

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

“Where d’you even get these?”

You grin.

“Amazon.”

Shouts come from the living room: “10 … 9 … 8 …”

Mary turns to face you, and the two of you take up the chant.

“7 … 6 … 5…”

He crowds a little closer, the fist holding the coin draped over your shoulder with yours resting on his hip.

“4 … 3 … 2 …”

You don’t get out the “1” because Mary smashes his mouth to yours—just a hard press of lips to lips—then he’s pulling away to press his glass to your mouth. As you try to sip out of it, you fumble your own glass to his mouth. The two of you only succeed in spilling half the contents all over each other before conceding defeat.

There’s some shrieking a moment before everyone in the hall gets sprayed with foamy champagne. Since there really isn’t any room to escape, Mary and you try your best to duck and cover, laughing as the droplets come raining down. The beach ball from earlier comes out of nowhere, and you punch it back into the air, the plastic of it slick from the champagne shower.

Everyone is still screaming, separated friends are trying to find each other amidst the revelry, and some dude on the stairs is shouting Tennyson over an off-key rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”.

“Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky!” 🎶 Should old acquaintance be forgot, 🎶

Elsie and Kara are jumping up and down from where they are in the living room, pointing, and starting to make their way to you.

“The flying cloud, the frosty light!” 🎶 and never brought to mind? 🎶

The beach ball beans you in the face, and Mary takes it and lobs it onto the porch where it hits the back of Donnie’s head, causing the rest of them to cackle and holler back.

“The year is dying in the night!” 🎶 Should old acquaintance be forgot, 🎶

Like magic, Mary procures a half-full bottle of bubbly from the train of people maneuvering in the hall and takes a big swig before passing it to you. You chug the rest, coughing as the lukewarm bubbles fizz up your nose.

“Ring out, wild bells, and let him die!” 🎶 and auld lang syne? 🎶

Laughing, Mary wipes at your face with his sleeve, and you realize he’s still got the silver dollar clutched tight in his hand.

Song List

Next ➡️

[fordanoia]

I Think I Saw You [Ch 1: A Place to Start]

Fandom: Gravity Falls || CW: - || Stan comes to Gravity Falls upon receiving a postcard from Ford, but he can’t find him and he has to figure out what’s going on. || Ao3 || Fic Tag

Prologue || Ch 1 || Ch 2 || Ch 3 || - || - || -

______(~3.5k words)______

After an hour he still hadn’t seen Ford, and it was still freezing. When he checked the thermostat he saw why the heat hadn’t changed, out of the side of it there a few wires poked out and when Stan pulled the cover off he saw the bundle of mangled wires that had been shakily cut and pulled.

An hour and a half ago, this would have been something he could play off, instead it just added onto the pile of everything else he had found since. The blood, the locks, and then all the writings.

The paranoid scrawls of Ford’s handwriting across papers scattered both on the floor and his desks, none of any that made real sense. Most of his cursive had turned illegible with haphazard lines and out of what wasn’t it was mostly technical talk about machinery and electric waves that Stan didn’t understand the first thing about.

There was only one idea that Stan could get out of the writings, because Ford had written it over and over in different ways, and it was creepy as hell.

‘I’m being watched.’

The idea echoed throughout the entire house - into the excessive amount of locks on the front door, the extra nails in the thick boards pressed against the windows, the barbed wire strung out in the snow around the house.

It even followed Stan himself when he had gone outside to grab firewood from the stack of cut logs near the edge of the trees. He only felt it though because he’d been reading the idea over and over while in some kind of horror movie murder hut looking cabin out in the middle of the woods.

It somehow felt even colder inside even after he closed the door. The icy wind from outside whipping inside after him and scraping at his sides and around his shoulders persisting until he was halfway down the hallway. He supposed that’s what he got for breaking a window for all the wind to come in through.

Stan carried the logs to the fireplace and lit a fire there, settling down on the floor in front of it for the heat.

His gut insisted something was wrong, but Stan had already figured that when he’d gotten the letter. Only difference now was it was a lot harder to think that Ford had sent him the postcard so they could reconnect or- or something like that.

There was no denying something was wrong by this point. He just wished Ford would show up so he could ask him what that something was.

Stan waited by the fire, letting crackling heat fill the space and time with half thoughts flitting every which way.

One particular rabbit hole of thinking kept pulling him back down every time he tried to convince himself that Ford would be back any minute.

Where would his brother have gone out in the middle of a blizzard so bad it frosted over Stan’s car in five minutes? And why?

After a half hour, the question was too big to ignore.

“Dammit, Ford, where the hell are you?” He muttered absently. Another cold wind wound its way into the room.

Grimacing, Stan got up off the floor, leaving his duffel bag in the middle of the floor and went to the kitchen. The fridge wasn’t empty, but it was clear not everything in there was meant to be food so Stan turned towards the pantry instead. As he did though, his eyes caught onto the window and stared. Between the wooden boards, the view outside was darkening.

If Ford was still outside - what if he was stuck somewhere close? Just nearby, Stan could check that far. Ford himself couldn’t have gotten that far on foot himself, and if he was in a car then he at least had something to hide in to keep himself from turning into a popsicle.

Even if he didn’t find anything, Stan couldn’t stand just waiting around and doing nothing like this, not when something bad was looming over this whole situation.

Stan turned on his heel, out the kitchen and unlocking the back door before remembering to zip his jacket closed and pull up the hood. Stepping outside, he pulled on his gloves. He didn’t bother locking the door back.

The white expanse in front of his feet quickly led to the tall forest, and Stan walked forward, keeping his hands in his pockets for the time being, only pulling them out to mark snow against a tree side to help him keep track of where he was at or for balance going down a steep little hill.

“If you’re stuck in a damn ditch right now...” He swore aloud, nearly losing his balance and falling. With the light of the sun dying he couldn’t stay outside long, and he knew it and he knew walking into the woods when it was getting dark was stupid, but it was better than nothing.

As Stan turned right, walking in a large circle around where he knew the shack was, he shouted for Ford as he went. Nothing around him looked like a person and the only colors around were white and brown.

Stan got increasingly frustrated as the light dimmed to the point that he had even less of a chance of making anything important out.

Ford was supposed to be here. Not outside here, but- but when Stan had showed up! Instead Stan came up to an empty cabin. Something was wrong enough for him to call Stan and he couldn’t tell what because Ford couldn’t even just be here for when Stan showed up!!

He looked like he’d been the one needing help though. Maybe a gang was after Ford. He didn’t really think Ford would have gotten involved with a gang much less people at all looking at the state of his house, but it’d at least make sense.

All the little details inside the house screamed that Ford was scared of something or someone, and that wasn’t even bringing into the fact that Ford wrote like someone was after him, watching him.

Stan’s foot snagged onto a covered tree branch and he tipped forward with a curse - hands going out to catch himself. He hit the snowy floor on his gloved hands and then down the hill, sliding onto his side.

He stopped halfway down the hill, his entire right side covered with snow. He turned to a sitting position and carefully stood up, wobbling against the wind. He numbly wiped the snow off of himself before it all melted, gloves wet by the time he was done.

He sighed, biting down on his lip and taking in his dark surroundings. He wouldn’t be able to see Ford even if he was here.

Stan took in a deep breath, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted one last time. “Ford if you’re there then just say something!”

He waited in the dull hum of wind broken up by dense trees and softly shifting snow, straining his ears for a response.

Standing still like this and waiting for a noise only made him feel all the more alone.

He glanced down at his hands and took the wet gloves off to shove into his pockets up against the brass knuckles. Turning, he headed back up the hill towards the shack, pushing his hands into his pockets.

He started shivering after a couple minutes, clenching his jaw tight to stop his teeth from clacking.

Stan pressed his arms into his sides bracing himself as he made it back onto flat ground again. The wind has since started to die down, at the very least.

A little while later he finally saw the shape of the shack through the trees, and turned direction to make a beeline towards it.

His right arm and leg felt like they were overheating by this point, but he’d been around enough to know when he was actually in danger of frostbite. That being said, he needed to change and light that fire again because the house was cold enough he’d definitely catch frostbite if he didn’t do anything about it.

Still shaking, he started the fire again. It took a few minutes because his fingers weren’t exactly cooperating right now, but hey.

He went upstairs to swipe some clothes from Ford’s room. He snorted at seeing the few sweater vests hanging in the closet, instead going for a plain black shirt and some pants.

After he changed, he raided through closets until he finally found one with a blanket inside and wrapped it around himself before going back down and sitting in front of the fire to warm up. He was still hungry, but he could deal with that later.

The more he warmed up the more bone tired he felt.

Stan tried to let himself fall asleep, and he was well beyond the point of being tired enough for it, but it took a while. He knew he’d wake up if Ford did come back in the middle of the night, he was a light sleeper. Not knowing what was going on though wasn’t helping.

Eventually though Stan fell asleep.

______

When Stan woke up the fire in front of him had burnt out and the cold was creeping in at him where he wasn’t covered.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and blearily staring at the burn out embers turned black and gray now.

After a while he finally got up and changed into his dry clothes, calling a couple times into the empty house for Ford. It was worth a shot, even if Ford was nowhere to be seen, of course.

Stomach growling and rolling in on itself, he went to the kitchen and pulled a sleeve of crackers out from the pantry to eat on at the small kitchen table and sitting near the window so he could look out between the wooden boards.

Finding Ford was- hell Ford was the only reason he was here in the first place, he had to find him. And if he hadn’t showed up by now he wasn’t coming back here.

Stan sighed heavily. It was either finding him or figuring out what happened so he could find him. Neither one was going well right now though.

“Okay,” he said to himself. “Okay.”

“So-” he ran his hand through his hair and sighed again. “So, what do I got? He thought someone was watching him, built this place up like he was expecting a raid or something, and now he’s not here.” Stan tapped his finger on the table and chewed on another cracker.

Both doors were locked too so it didn’t look like he was dragged out. Even if someone did drag him out of here, locking the door wouldn’t have made a difference and would have been more work than it was worth.

Stan pulled the postcard Ford had sent him out of his pocket now, looking at it and flipping it over. It had gotten crumpled and the texture had changed from where it had gotten wet last night, but everything was still readable.

He frowned. No send date stamped on it, so that didn’t help him. It could have taken the mail system anywhere from a few days to a few weeks for the post card to reach Stan from Oregon.

So... why would Ford have left this place after he’d fortified it this much. He couldn’t have had somewhere more secure than this, right? Not unless there was secretly a castle in the woods he could hold up inside. Did being watched matter so much that he had to get out of here?

Stan was still looking down at the postcard, thumb tracing over the bent corner that was close to falling off.

Where would he go if he thought this place wasn’t safe?

“Who’d even be watching you out here...?” Stan muttered, tucking the card away and getting up.

Stan went back through the rooms, grabbing any scrap of paper he saw with writing on it and dumped it all onto the desk in a relatively empty study.

He turned the lamp overhead on and started going through the papers for any information, quickly slapping all the stuff that only had equations on it into one pile to look if he got desperate.

What he was left with was - still hard to read just like yesterday, but this time he took the time to try and figure out the actual messy scrawls where they happened and find anything that could help point to what was going on.

The most legible stuff was full of technical jargon and Stan had to focus hard to not read the same sentence over and over again or look at the occasional doodled triangle.

It seemed to be about some machine to do with... electric omega waves? Some kind of waves. The more Stan read the more he picked up on the less scientific stuff inside. Supernatural barriers and rituals that definitely hadn’t come out of a physics textbook.

There was a room here that had been half filled with photos and samples of supernatural things, like mushrooms three times as tall as Ford himself and the needles of whatever a gremloblin was. It was a nice reminder that even if he hadn’t seen Ford yet, his brother still hadn’t changed that much.

After reading through most of the boring stuff Stan was able to piece together at least something. Ford had made two machines.

The first one, which Stan was going to call the problem machine, had made some kind of problem that Ford was trying to fix. He kept briefly mentioning this problem - a hole, a rift, a breach, never anything specific enough to know what it actually was though. No matter what though it always sounded like something about it was a problem or had made a problem.

The second machine was supposed to fix that. Stan didn’t really know how, kinda didn’t look like Ford had figured that out either, but it had something to do with waves and something supernatural.

Going from knowing zilch to knowing something was great, really it was better than the absolute jack all he had yesterday, but he still didn’t know what these machines were actually for.

If he was trying to use the supernatural with the fixer machine though maybe the problem also had something supernatural to it. And whatever the problem was, it was definitely big. Big enough that someone was after him.

Stan nearly gave up on the really illegible stuff, but half way through one page he realized that for several lines Ford was writing the same thing over and over ‘can’t sleep.’

Stan felt a pit drop into his stomach, looking for the very worst writing he could find across the pages and nearly every sentence he managed to trudge through sounded like that. Over and over again, Ford kept talking like even a nap like it was the end of the world.

Finally- god damn finally- Ford mentioned someone.

‘I have to stay awake. I can’t let Him win.’

“Come on, give me a name or something here." It was like the most annoying game of 'Guess Who' but from a vague piece of paper that nobody else besides Stan probably would have bothered to read through considering it was torn nearly in half and smudged in dirt.

Tapping his foot, Stan tried to quickly read and just winded up getting frustrated when he couldn’t, before he finally tossed the paper away from him.

His imagination got away from him, seeing Rico’s guys coming after Ford - except as soon as he imagined them creeping up to where Ford was tucked into the cabin it stopped making sense and the picture in his head fell away.

There were no bullet holes anywhere around the house, not even any forced signs of entry besides the one Stan made himself. So what had been going on when Ford had been here?

He wasn’t sure if he’d prefer if it was like the people he’d dealt with before, it’d be bad, but at least Stan knew how to work with that. This guy? Stan didn’t know what this guy had been doing or what he’d been planning to do that had Ford this scared.

“What was this guy watching you for anyway?” He asked the paper, the only damn thing around here that could even answer his questions.

The lamp light flickered three times before returning to normal. “Better not be cameras in here.” Stan muttered, before picking up a new page to read.

The lamp, however, started going in and out, electricity failing for long enough that it got distracting.

Stan stood up and unplugged the lamp from the wall then securely plugged it back in, looking back at the light a moment to make sure it wasn’t about to go on the fritz again before sitting back down.

He didn’t get far though because the light flickering again, stopping when Stan turned his head to watch it for a moment. He leaned back in his chair, tipping it back onto two legs and letting his eyes glaze over in the direction of all the paper piled up in front of him.

Maybe the guy had nabbed Ford while he was out of the house. It made enough sense. It’d explain why everything had still been locked up when Stan got here and why Ford wouldn’t have come back to his fortress of solitude.

If he was watching Ford then sure he’d know when he left the house and Ford couldn’t stay inside forever if he ran out of food.

The only other option Stan could really think of was that Ford decided this shack wasn’t safe anymore, but again - Stan had no idea where Ford could have gone.

Technically, he also had no idea where anything in town was or where someone could be trapping Ford, but finding a shady place sounded a lot easier than finding whatever Ford would consider safe from this guy’s eyes when a remote cabin out in the woods wasn’t. If Ford left for a new hideout, paranoid that he was being watched, then chances were he made sure he wasn’t seen and left no traces behind.

Stan started to feel grounded, with some options finally sliding into place.

Ford was either being held captive somewhere or he had hidden himself somewhere nobody would find him. So all Stan had to do was look around until he found someone that fit the bill, or if Ford was hiding out somewhere then for him to notice Stan running around and eventually leave him some kind of sign.

Stan's eyes focused as the light from the lamp started to quietly buzz, darkening to a low light before it began flickering.

Stan tipped his chair back to the ground, and reached inside to twist the bulb in tighter.

He watched the lamp expectantly and for a solid couple seconds it seemed like it had done the trick.

Then the light began to flicker on repeatedly, flashing three times and after a pause the light held on for a moment before the bulb darkened again.

Stan watched the faulty light flicker along for a few seconds before he finally stood up and just unplugged it from the wall entirely. He was done reading anyway.

Plus he could eat pretty much anything he wanted when Ford wasn’t here. Even if Ford wanted to get mad at him about it later, he’d just say he couldn’t get to the store for food anyway. Not that Stan had any money to buy food even if he went to town.

Stan went downstairs and into the kitchen, ready to rummage something more than crackers this time.

When he flipped the light switch on though it started flickering and Stan groaned. “You gotta be kidding me.”

He flipped the switch back off. Then on. “Work.”

The light turned on and Stan stayed poised with his finger at the switch and waited. When nothing happened he finally went over to the pantry. “That’s what I thought.”

He pushed aside the box of crackers and started to inspect the cans for soup or something good when the light started slowly flickering again. He ignored it for the first couple seconds, but it kept going.

After a dozen seconds he finally shot a scowl at the still flickering light before walking back towards the switch. The instant he took a step, the light started going completely haywire and he swore he could hear the electricity from it buzzing.

“Alright, yeah that’s-”

Stan had made it halfway across the kitchen when there was a loud pop and the light over his head burst, plunging the room into darkness with the tinkling of glass and a crackling noise of uncontained electricity that soon died down.