#ford looks a little different because I’m trying to get used to his square jaw LOL

[p3rry-pi3]

Sometime After Weirdmageddon—The Saga

Mabel was soon informed of the moth via dipper and they both watched as Ford fed it

[1engele]

daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 8. solo

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[warnings: underage drinking, smoking, weed, near death experience?, crying]

"never have i dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul." — You leave the roof late in the night. Sal had gotten up and retreated into his apartment a little while earlier—but you'd decided to stay and make sure he didn't come back there.

Three days pass. They all consist of fleeting glances and irresolute tension. Things remain the same with the group dynamic, except for between you and Sal. Neither of you seem to know how to continue from that conversation on the roof. No one else notices, though. They'd never suspected anything from the beginning, it seems.

The beginning of your involvement with Sal involved a little bit of buildup and then a snap which resulted in a sexual encounter (or two).

Now it was a bit different. Now things were a little less lighthearted.

It's a Saturday—you'd planned to spend it inside as usual. That's until your phone starts ringing.

You flip your phone open, read over the contact, and answer the call.

"Hi, Ash."

"Y/N," she starts. You hear the excitement to continue in her voice. "There's a party tonight."

"Oh?" You get up from your seat on your bed.

"Some stoner Larry has connections with invited him and said to bring friends. He wants to bring us—save for Todd. He doesn't do parties."

"Wait," your eyebrows furrow. "Me?"

"Yeah!" She says from the other end of the line. "It'll be fun. Cmon."

You bite your lip nervously, anxiety knotting in your stomach. "I don't know. I've never really.."

Ashley is momentarily silent on the other line. She must be contemplating what to say to convince you. "Sal's coming too. Parties aren't necessarily his thing, either—so maybe you guys could try it out together?"

You open your mouth and then promptly close it. Something inside of you suddenly really wanted to go to this party. "Um... alright. Okay."

"Cool! What're you gonna wear?"

You look toward the drawer that contained your clothes and bit your lip. "Not sure yet. I'll update you on that."

"Okay, don't forget to text me! See you at eight."

The call declined from the other line. The phone that held the phone to your ear slipped into your lap. You pressed your lips together and tried to ignore the familiar feeling of sickening nausea and anxiety.

You don't rush yourself on getting ready for the party, because the time you're due to be done won't be for a while.

You take your time with the hours you have. You shower, take your time on eyeliner, mascara, and lipgloss—and finally decide on what you'll wear.

You decide on a square neck white cropped tank with short sleeves and your nicest pair of light blue, slightly washed out jeans. You slid on your favorite, sort of chunky white sneakers over white socks.

It isn't long after you finish when Ashley calls and informs you she's arrived at the apartments and Larry and Sal have already joined her out in the car. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror and then leave the apartment.

Your mother was nowhere to be found. She's either at work or drinking with her coworkers.

Once you've opened the door and climbed into the Ford Fiesta, you immediately realize your predicament—Sal is the only person in the backseat with you.

The drive there is decently long and painfully tense. Neither you nor Sal know how to speak to each other, so no words are exchanged beneath the heavy metal music emitting from the radio.

When you finally arrive at the party, it's recognizably crowded, drunken teenagers are flowing from the front door, in and out, and there's a good amount on the lawn. The newest radio hit is playing on a considerably loud speaker, and the vibrations are notable even from a distance.

"Woah," Larry says, staring at the house as Ashley pulls onto the side of the road. "Didn't realize he was so popular."

You all exit the Ford Fiesta and cross the road. You cringe as you watch someone vomit onto the grass, and another person ripping from a bong in the wide open.

Smoke flies into your face and your eyes as you enter the home. You cough, waving a hand as you blindly follow after your friends.

Eventually, the four of you find yourself on two couches directly facing each other. You on one, Larry and Ashley on the other. Sal is stood to the side.

Larry materializes a bottle of Fireball that you guessed he stole from someone on the way in, opens the cap with his teeth, and takes several gulps.

"Where did you get that?" Ashley laughs over the music, pulling the sleeves of her lavender sweater over her hands.

"Stole it," he looks to Sal and directs the bottle toward him. "Want some?"

"Sure," Sal replies, to your surprise—taking it from Larry's grasp and walking away and in your direction.

"You're drinking that?" You ask him, testing the waters.

"No, actually," you watch Sal round to the other side of the couch to linger behind you. "I'm limiting him. He'll thank me later."

Once he's out of your field of vision, you tip your head back and gaze up at him—your perspective on him being upside down. Your gaze zeroes in on the bottle of Fireball he's clutching in his hand.

"Hey," you say, meeting his eyes. "Give me some."

It was time to give him that excuse—the excuse to break the ice.

He leans in a bit, gesturing toward you with the bottle. "You want it?"

A grin pulls at your glossed lips. Instead of reaching for the bottle, you open your mouth and tilt your chin up.

Sal looks on for a moment but laughs once he realizes what you want. Everyone else at the couches seem decently distracted with each other and the overall environment—so he doesn't seem to worry about it too much.

He reaches his hand around and towards your neck, gripping your jaw in his fingers and holding you firmly. You feel his cold rings press into your skin when he tips your head further back just a bit—and then steadily pours a shot-amount of Fireball into your mouth with his other hand.

Sal stops at the right time, looks on as you pull back and sit up, and cautiously watches the back of your head as you assumedly swallow the whisky. But when you turn a bit in your seat to peer at him over your shoulder, you're holding your mouth closed and pressing a closed fist to your lips while soundlessly giggling.

"What?" He laughs, a hand moving to the top of the couch. He leans in a bit. "Can you not swallow it?"

Your shoulders shake slightly as you continue to laugh. You shake your head up and down.

"Do you need to spit it out?" Sal asks, his tone warming into concern.

You shake your head from side to side. You meet his eyes and swallow, gasping as the liquid slides down your throat and burns all the way down. You cough, the flavor of cinnamon and what tasted like Big Red gum overloaded your senses.

"God," you breathe out, giggling all the while. The alcohol is gross but you're feeling good. "It's not great."

"Yeah, that's why I'm holding Larry off, so he won't be puking his guts out later."

You look up to the boy, who's sat on the arm of the couch opposite to you. He's busy talking to some equally stoned guy, so you can't manage to catch his eye—but you catch Ashley's.

She had this look of astonishment on her face.

Had she been watching what happened? When Sal poured Fireball in your mouth?

Your face grew hot thinking about it.

Sal wanders away from you again, and you find yourself drinking more than you should. Eventually, your rationality disappears.

It's been a few hours and Sal hasn't seen you for a while. So when he hears about a girl wearing a white crop top walking across the roof of the house, he feels like he's going to vomit.

It takes him a record time of 6 seconds to get out of the door and onto the lawn. Upon looking up at the roof, his suspicions are confirmed. He shoulders past multiple people to place himself near the front of the crowd and gazes up in horror.

"Sal!" You yell, gesturing toward him with something between a wave and a point. "I'd recognize that hair anywhere!"

Multiple heads within the crowd turn away from you and towards him. He puts aside his social anxiety and the wave of unease that washes over his body and tries to focus on you. "Please come down," he rushes out, raising his voice just enough for it to be audible over the crowd.

You laugh like he's told a hilarious joke and he quickly realizes his mistake. That's the worst thing he could've told your intoxicated self. You move toward the edge of the roof, shaky and uncoordinated. "You want me to jump?"

"No!" He exclaims, his hands flying up, fingers splayed. "No. Don't do that!"

"Holy shit!" He hears Larry shout from somewhere closer to the front door of the house. Sal guesses he's just now catching wind of the current situation. Moments after, both of his brunette friends are at his side.

"What the hell is going on?!" Ashley yells, verdant eyes glued to the sight before them.

You lost your balance once again, but this time a bit worse—your foot catching on a shingle on the roof and effectively knocking the red solo cup out of your hand. It dropped onto the downward slope of the roof and the liquor inside of it spilled down the side.

Whenever Sal witnessed the toe of your white sneaker catch onto that shingle, he felt as though his very soul had been ripped from his body. Immediately after he watched you regain your footing and stable yourself, though—his heartbeat calmed to a steadier pace.

"I'm going up there," he stated beneath the chatter.

Both Ashley and Larry's heads whipped toward him.

"You'll kill yourself!" Larry exclaims incredulously. Ashley opens her mouth to assumedly second Larry's statement, but Sal cuts her off by walking away.

"Not before she does," he mutters, pushing his way through the density of bodies and forcing his way through the front door. His senses are disoriented like he's been submerged beneath water as the volume of the music scratched at his eardrums and pulsed the innards of his skull. Adrenaline courses through his blood like a drug whilst he shoulders past both mindlessly drunk and carelessly high teenagers.

Sal doesn't spare them a second glance, but their unconcern does remain in his mind. The fact that they're continuing their lives while he feels as though something that's growing into something of importance in his is about to be taken from him... it's mind-numbing.

He's never been an optimistic person, he's always tried to view things in the way they're most likely to happen—and all that's beneath that two-story house is a long drop and concrete. If you fall, you'll break your head open and you'll die.

He finally makes it to the stairs. He makes a break for it then, tripping over his own feet multiple times. Anything could happen in this amount of time, and he knew no one else was going to help him.

Sal's thoughts grow more and more disordered as he navigates the dark halls of the house. The music seems to have only grown louder, the deafening mixture of guitar and drums taunting him.

He remembers the window on the outside of the house. Sal estimates which room it would be, locates it, and approaches the door. He turns the knob, but it doesn't fully rotate.

The door is locked from the inside. Of course. Who would have a party and leave the bedroom unlocked so people could fuck all over your comforter?

He bites out a curse only he hears and prepares himself to force the door open.

Sal grabs the doorknob tightly, prepares himself, and rams the side of his body into the wood. He doesn't even feel the pain, just does it again, and again.

He goes until that half of his body is numb.

The door finally budges, and he wastes no time entering the room. He doesn't hesitate when he reaches the double-hung window he'd been seeking. He grips it at the bottom and pulls it up and open, clenching his teeth together painfully.

Sal stares out at the vastness of the night, the golden streetlights, and how they shine down on the crowd of people below him. They all seem to be looking at the same place, up, but not at him—and he can only swallow thickly.

Carefully, Sal moves to sit on the windowsill, gripping what was above him tightly, his legs outside. He then ducks to leave the room and shivers as cool air hits the front of his neck.

He starts walking the roof, steadily—like his life depends on it. Because.. it does.

Or yours. Yours depends on it.

"Y/N!" Sal calls as he finally reaches a point where you're in his line of sight. Momentarily, he's worried he'd scared you. But you turn your head, meet his eyes, and smile. Despite that, your face spells fear all over it. Something must have sobered you up a bit while he'd been inside.

"I'm going to come to you. Do not walk towards me!"

You blink lazily, because you were drunk, and nodded. You shivered, hugging yourself. It didn't seem to do much, though. Your arms were bare.

"Fuck," he breathes, gazing down at the fall that could await him if he misstepped and immediately reverted his gaze. Blood rushes between his ears as he steadily makes his way towards you.

"Please don't fall!" You suddenly exclaim, your hair tussling in the breeze. A strand blows over your face, so you quickly raise a hand to move it back in place.

He looks up from his feet and stares you in the eyes. "I won't," he affirms, you and himself, continuing across the roof. "Just stay put, okay?"

It doesn't take long to get over to you. He's mostly sober, so it isn't hard on that part. What's difficult is calming his steady heart.

He's not scared of falling. Not necessarily scared of injury or death. But he is scared of not making it to you.

Once he's at an arms reach of your shaking form, he reaches out a hand, palm facing the darkness of the sky.

You seem to read his mind, slowly grabbing his hand. Sal maneuvers your joint hands to where your palms press together and your fingers are interlaced. He doesn't know if it's the blood rushing through his ears or the distance from the ground, but it's as if everything below becomes very quiet.

You meet his gaze, your pretty eyes glossy with tears. The eyeliner you were wearing had just begun to collect beneath your lower lash line.

He squeezes your hand and leads you to be in front of him.

It's not long after that that he's gotten you off of the roof. Sal watches you slip through the open window before turning toward the density of people beneath him on the ground. He breathes in as he catches both Larry and Ashley's eyes—he can't read their expressions, but he wouldn't be surprised if there was shock written all over it—and then ducks back into the window.

As soon as the window is shut and it meets the windowsill once more, Sal whips his head toward you. "Y/N-"

Before he'd saw your face, and the language of your body as you were sat on the edge of the bed, he was going to scold you, and then go downstairs and find you some water and sober you up—all of that falls down the drain when he sees the stream of tears falling down your face. Every time you blink, more drop—quickly staining your cheeks with black makeup.

"Oh," he breathes, suddenly speechless. "Y/N-"

You attempt at taking a breath in, it seems—but it's a failure because it hitches and turns into a shoulder-shaking sob.

"I'm sorry," you cry, roughly dragging the tips of your fingers beneath your eyes. This only smears the running mascara further. "I'm just drunk."

Sal momentarily feels like breaking down in tears himself, that's how much this entire ordeal stressed him out. He approaches your trembling body and crouches down in front of you.

"Hey," he says, softly. "It doesn't matter whether or not you're intoxicated. Your feelings still matter, okay?"

You sniffle, still attempting to wipe your tears away, and reluctantly nod. "I'm sorry," you try again.

He places his hands on your knees and squeezes them firmly. "It's okay."

You jerk into a sob, leaning forward and pressing the side of your face on his shoulder. You slowly tuck your arms beneath his and cross them over the expanse of his back, palms flat on each shoulder blade. The convulsive gasps were hard to stop, making it hard to breathe.

Sal breathed out softly against the prosthetic, raising his arms and encasing them around your torso.

He didn't wonder about the reason for your tears. Assuming things wouldn't help you anymore.

"I don't know why I did that," you whisper, quieting yourself to swallow your saliva. "Maybe I do. I think I was trying to prove something to myself."

He finds himself holding you tighter, your chest pressed to his, feeling your heartbeat through the fabric that separated you both—oddly enough, even at this moment, it reminds him of that night in the car. You had been even closer to him then, though.

"It was stupid," you murmured. "Why would I do that, after what we had talked about last night?"

"What if we jumped together?" he remembers saying.

"Some things can't be explained," he replies earnestly. "You don't need to know why you did what you did. It was stupid, though. I'd probably walk across the roof of a two-story house for you again, but.."

You pull back and meet his eyes, your face wet. The majority of your makeup had been cried off and your lipgloss had been smudged.

You must've sensed his examination, breaking the visual contact and sniffling. "I know I look ridiculous right now."

Sal smiles. He knows she can't see it, but maybe she'll hear it. "I don't think so," he murmurs, looking off to the side. "I think that's a bathroom. You can clean up in there if you want."

You follow his gaze and then return your eyes to his and laugh a bit. You still sound drunk, he notes. Obviously. He'd poured a good amount of Fireball into your mouth and watched you drink plenty of other things.

"Feels kinda weird using a stranger's bathroom," you laugh, your breath hitching from the earlier crying.

Sal rolls his eyes humorously, gripping your knees tighter as he pulls himself off of the floor. "The guy who lives here is Larry's friend—and a stoner. I doubt he'd mind. And if he does get mad, I'll take responsibility for it. I forced that door through, anyway.."

Your gaze swivels toward the door, which is not shut but mostly closed. When he glances to where you're looking, he notices it seems a bit.. crooked.

He inwardly cringes. "I'll pay for it. Come on."

Sal follows you into the bathroom. You seem reluctant to enter first, so he does, opening the door and reaching to the side to turn the lights on. They do what they're supposed to—eventually. They're momentarily unresponsive before becoming alive—the illumination brightening the room with a dull yellow hue.

You step onto the tile and began to search for whatever it was you needed. You kneeled at one of the cabinets below the sink, opened it, and ducked your head lower.

"Oh!" You exclaim quietly, reaching in and pulling out two things. A bottle of half-empty makeup remover and a bag of some cotton rounds.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" He hears you say to yourself, standing up, nudging the cabinet closed with your foot, and placing the things you found beside the sink.

Sal reaches over and closes the door. He'd rather not have to witness the sight of some drunkards wandering in and fooling around on the bed.

"Lock it," you say. "I'd rather no one- no one see me like this."

His hand was already on the doorknob, so he just reaches down a bit and locks the door.

He watches you struggle a bit with the bag of cotton rounds, trying but failing to open it, so he reaches forward and delicately plucks it out of your grasp.

Sal slides the makeup remover over and pats the place on the counter it was previously. "Sit."

You peer into his eyes inquisitively but waste no time hoisting yourself up and onto the cold surface.

After that, he plucks the bottle of makeup remover off of the counter and douses the cotton round in the liquid. He reaches forward from the distance that your knees created between the both of you, but you spread your thighs and press the heel of your shoe into his lower back, pulling him in so he's between your legs.

Sal doesn't see it suggestively, because you're drunk—but he's glad you asked him to lock the door because, with his luck, Larry or Ashley would find their way into the bathroom and get all of the wrong ideas.

The firmness just beneath his navel presses into the edge of the counter as he cups one side of your face and began wiping away at the eyeliner and mascara and everything it messed up.

"Thank you," you say sweetly, blinking at him with appreciation in your eyes. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

He remembers a silhouette. Her back was turned to him, golden hair cascading just past her shoulder blades. He remembers blue eyes that looked a lot like his own staring into a mirror, a hand which adorned a wedding ring wiping away makeup from the day.

"Read it on the label of the bottle," he replies, meeting your eyes and looking away.

As he's finishing up, he hears a rapping of knuckles against the locked door. He tosses the used cotton rounds into a trash bin in the corner and then locks eyes with you curiously.

"Occupied," he calls out, still looking at you. The knocking only gets louder, which makes you laugh.

"He said it's occupied!" You yell over the unintelligible music downstairs, your words breaking into a giggle. You press your knees against his waist, and he doesn't even realize it when his hands meet your thighs.

The knocking ceases, fading into a voice. "Is that you guys in there?"

Fucking Larry. Speak of the goddamn devil—that's what he would've said if he'd come knocking sooner.

The both of you seem to be thinking the same thing, locking eyes in terror. You quickly get off of the counter, and Sal unlocks the door and swings it open.

Sure enough, he's standing there—in all of his glory and highness. Larry blinks, the whites of his glossy eyes tinted red. He looks between the both of you before speaking. "Why were.."

"I had to pee," You choose to deadpan.

Sal feels himself grow even paler than he already is. "I came in.. after.. that."

Larry intakes a mouthful of whatever is in the red solo cup he's holding in his tan, lanky fingers, and swallows thickly. "Okay," he croaks, instinctively cringing as the alcohol passed through his chest. He gestured the cup toward you. "Uh..crazy stunt you pulled up there, huh?"

Sal saw your face shift in his peripheral vision. "Huge lapse of judgment," you reply.

"Nobody could tell who you were, so don't worry about that," the brunette smiles a bit. He returns his attention to Sal. "They've started playing country," sure enough, Sal hears the sound of a banjo from the speakers downstairs, effectively punctuating Larry's statement.

"Yeah.." Larry mumbles, sipping his drink and looking up and through his eyebrows. "Ash said to come find you guys so we can leave."

It doesn't take much, after that.

As you're leaving, Larry pulls the door open and furrows his brow at the condition of the hinges. "Wow. How old is this thing?" He mumbles.

Sal hears you snort.

The three of you descend the stairs, skirting past countless teenagers standing on the steps drinking or smoking. Sal makes the mistake of letting you fall behind and feels you stumble and smack him in the back. It's easy to steady himself, quickly gripping the railing—but he's concerned about you, so he turns around.

A guy with a cigarette balancing in his teeth is eying you with frustration pulling at his features. His gaze pulls from your face and down your body absentmindedly.

"Watch it," he murmurs.

"Sorry," you breathe, jerking your head away and meeting Sal's eyes worriedly. Keep walking, you express in the hues of your eyes.

Sal reaches forward and interlaces your fingers with his as he'd done on the roof. He makes a show of it, too—so the guy with the cigarette sees the rings on both of his hands. Sal gives him a distinct look when they lock eyes, rolls his jaw, and lets you lead him down the stairs, instead of the other way around.

By the time you're all nearly shot from weaving through the multitude of sweaty bodies and navigating through plumes of smoke thicker than fog, the three of you find Ashley petting what he'd assume is the host's dog.

No one questions it.

"You good to drive?" Larry asks, placing his cup on a nearby surface.

"Oh, yeah," she rises from her crouch beside the dog. The animal walks away, his golden tail wagging excitedly at the next person who would give him pets. "A gross sip of something put me off of drinking tonight a while earlier. And, uh.. the whole roof thing dried me out."

You sigh. "I'm sorry about that. It sobered me up, too."

She shakes her head, a wispy strand of light brown hair falling over her face. "It was stupid, yes, and I hope you don't do it again, but all that matters now is that you're safe."

Ashley blinks kind green eyes at you and smiles, reaching forward, taking your hand, and leading you away. Sal hears you laugh and follow after her as both of you head for the front door.

He turns to look at Larry once he loses sight of both of you in the crowd. He examines Sal with bleary dark eyes and looks as though he's about to say something, but he doesn't get to.

Even over the blaring country music, Sal hears a yell and then some fearful shouting. He whips around toward the sounds, which were toward the front of the house.

Red and blue flashing lights shine through the windows.

"Shit!"

"Ah, fuck," Larry groaned, nimbly wrapping his fingers around Sal's wrist and dragging him into the density of the panicked crowd. "Did you see where they went?"

Sal shakes his head. "No," he knows you're intoxicated. Panic settles in. He chews his lip, his eyes desperately scamming for a girl wearing a white top squared at the neck—you. "Y/N's had a lot to drink, Larry. If the police-"

"Don't worry about the Five-O, let's worry about the girls," Larry replies absentmindedly, keeping his firm hold on Sal.

"They must've gone to the Ford," Sal shouts over the music, which, for some reason, is still playing. "We were leaving anyway. I'm sure they're in the car."

Larry releases Sal and motions toward the back of the house. "There's a back door. I'll text Ashley and tell her to drive down the block and we can meet them on foot."

It was an agreeable plan. Waltzing out of the house and walking straight up to the car wouldn't be wise.

Larry does what he'd said he'd do. Turns out, Sal was right, they had made it to the car moments before the police had rolled up. Ashley informed him it was two squad cars and four officers. Seemed like overkill for a house party—but he wouldn't know. He didn't do this often.

When Larry was on the phone, Sal was very tempted to ask about Y/N, but refrained.

On the way to the back door, they crossed through the kitchen. Larry snatched an unopened bottle of alcohol of a brand Sal didn't recognize and carried it along with him for the road.

As soon as they made it out of the house, they both made a break for it, running between houses and into multiple different backyards on their way.

They slowed down once they were at a measurable distance from the party, gasping for air. Sal panted against the prosthetic, placing his hands on his knees and slowing his gasps into slow breaths, attempting to calm his racing heart.

They stood on the side of the road, the music in the distance (albeit a lot quieter) still pounding into the night.

Sal lowered himself down onto the curb. Larry joined him, raising the bottle he'd chose to bring with him to his mouth, and opened the steel cap with his teeth. He spits it onto the road and gestures it toward Sal.

"Bottoms up," he said, bringing it to his lips and taking several gulps.

Sal rolled his eyes playfully, eyebrows rising as Ashley's Ford Fiesta cruised down the road and slowed to a stop in front of them. He stood up from the curb and pulled Larry off of it as well.

They entered the car, sliding into the backseat. Larry continued to down the beer he'd found as Ashley turned around in her seat.

"The night's still young," she says. "Any ideas of what we could do?"

It's really not. Sal's a bit disoriented so he doesn't know what time it is but he wouldn't be surprised if it was 3 AM.

You then turn around in the passenger seat and grin mischievously. "Let's go to the lake."

Oh, great.

[introvert-no-chameleon]

Of Monsters and McGuckets

Fiddleford just wanted to have his morning coffee in peace, but Gravity Falls and the Stan brothers had other plans.

AO3

Fiddleford Hardon McGucket considered himself to be a patient, level-headed individual. One had to be if they ever hoped to survive Gravity Falls, and, even more daunting, live with Stanford and Stanley Pines. Keeping them in line was an occupation in itself. His co-workers were two of the most chaotic and morally questionable people he’d ever met in his life. (Then again, as someone who had once made a giant robot to terrorize his ex-wife in an admittedly misguided attempt to get her back, maybe he shouldn’t be throwing stones in that last department).

The point is, when it came to dealing with uncommon and frustrating situations, he usually managed to keep a straight head. But on one deceivingly lovely morning, just when he’d went out to the porch to sit back with a nice cup of coffee and the sun had just begun to kiss the horizon, he saw two large monsters sprinting towards the shack, and. Well.

It was only reasonable that he’d react the way he did.

The first thing he did was spit out his early-morning coffee, ruining his only clean tie in the process. The second thing he did was dash into the shack like the Devil Himself was on his heels. Lastly, he slammed the door shut, locked it, and began combing the living room for the shotgun he knew for a fact Stanley kept around. He thanked the Lord Stanford wasn’t here, lest he’d be chastising Fiddleford for “harming” (defending himself against) a perfectly healthy specimen. Never mind the fact that half of these subjects of study had tried to eat him, no sir. Scientific discovery was always more important.

(Sometimes, Fiddleford wondered how on God’s green earth Stanford Pines hadn’t fallen to his death into a ravine or some other nonsense in pursuit of an anomaly. Heaven knows the man, while undeniably brilliant, was severely lacking when it came to common sense).

A bang rattled the wooden door of the shack. Fiddleford yelped, dropping the pile of books he’d been in the process of moving in his scramble to find the gun. He eyed the secret lab entrance and wondered if the door would hold them back long enough for him to make a dash for it.

“Fidds, we saw you run in, will ya just open the door?”

Fiddleford froze. That voice, while even more gravelly than usual (a thing he hadn’t thought possible) was definitely familiar.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,�� he said, dazed, as he walked over to the door and unlocked it. “Stanley?”

Upon closer inspection, he couldn’t deny that the square-jawed face that peered down at him belonged to Stanley Pines. There were some…notable…differences, such as the fact that he had glowing orbs for eyes, all his featured seemed to be carved from stone, he had ridiculous pointy ears and fangs to boot. He’d be right at home next to the gargoyles from those pictures of cathedrals he’d studied for his History of Western Art course.

“Took ya long enough,” said Stanley, ducking his head under the doorway and lumbering inside. Each step made the floorboard groan loudly, and for a few seconds Fiddleford thought the man would break through the wood floor. “Thought we’d never get back.”

“Stanferd, do ya have…fur?” said Fiddleford, stepping away from the door to let the other man in.

Stanford—it couldn’t be anyone else, not with that straight-backed posture and furrowed brow peering over thick-rimmed glasses—walked in behind him, hands behind his back.

 Hearing the question, Stanford adjusted his glasses, with a large, six-fingered paw. His facial features were lion-esque, as was his entire body, save from the colorful green, blue and red feathered wings that trailed behind his body. He even had a cute little lion tail poking out from a hole in his pants. “It appears so, yes.” He cleared his throat. “We may have a…problem.”

Stanley, who had gone to the fridge to get a beer, came back glaring at Stanford with those bright yellow orbs. “No shit, Sixer. I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

Stanford’s ears flattened against his skull. Fiddleford would’ve found it amusing if Stanford wasn’t now 7 feet tall and didn’t have large, sharp teeth. “Language, Stanley.”

Fiddleford considered grabbing some alcohol as he took in the situation. After a few attempts at forming words, he finally settled for the question he found himself asking on a near-daily basis. “What in tarnation did ya two get yerselves mixed up in now?”

“Oi, don’t look at me,” said Stan. He jerked his clawed thumb at Stanford. “Mr. Science here was the one who just had to walk right into a mysterious, glowing lake that he almost drowned in.”

Stanford’s tail twitched, and he growled. “We almost drowned, Stanley, because you turned into 300 pounds of moving stone.”

“I was only in the lake because you started flailing around growing a tail and screamin’ for help!”

Ford sniffed, chin held up in that way it got whenever he’d start getting defensive. “Swimming with wings is incredibly difficult.”

“Yeah, I would know, I have them now.” Stanley stretched out his bat-like wings for emphasis.

Judging by Stanford’s bloodshot eyes and Stanley’s slouched posture, along with the fact that they seemed even more short with each other than usual, Fiddleford guessed that they’d been arguing on and off about this for a while. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now see right here, the two of ya best calm down, you’ll tear the shack apart if you start fighting bein’ like this.”

The two of them, while far from calm, quieted down.

“Right,” said Fiddleford. “So ya discovered some magic water that turns folks into monsters?”

“Yup,” said Stanley. “We found it in some hidden path behind some bushes and a couple of boulders.”

It’s almost as if it was hidden away for a reason. “Did ya at least remember where the path is?”

“Of course,” said Stanford, having the audacity to look indignant. “What do you take me for?”

“An idiot who got us turned into two walking Summerween costumes because he couldn’t just collect the water in a cup and some gloves like a normal scientist?” said Stanley.

“As if you would know what a “normal” scientist does,” said Stanford, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Alright, fellas. Let me just get some food in me and then we can go back out and get some samples,” said Fiddleford. “I need me some caffeine to deal with this.”

Stanford opened his mouth but Fiddleford stopped him with the same withering glare he’d give his son whenever he tried to step out of line. “Stanferd Pines, if ya think I’m gonna run around the woods with the two of you, in this here state, on an empty stomach, yer sorely mistaken.”

“Fidds has got a point,” said Stan. “You probably haven’t had anything other than that piece of toast since you woke up.”

“I suppose some food wouldn’t hurt…” said Stanford. “I did have an incredibly strong urge to maul a deer we spotted on the way over.”

Fiddleford was getting some bacon out of the fridge when he heard the end of the sentence. He straightened up and slammed the door with more force than strictly necessary. “Y-ya did?”

Stanford seemed to come to the same conclusion Fiddleford had, because he raised his paws up. “Oh, n-no, rest assured. I don’t have any inclination to eat you.”

“Thank the Lord…”

“After all,” said Stanford, rubbing his chin. “According to mythology, sphinxes only consume humans if they are unfortunate enough not to know the answers to their riddles.”

“Don’t I feel better,” said Fiddleford, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do ya reckon ya can still have some bacon and eggs?”

“Yes, that’ll do,” he said. “Oh! I must write down our findings in my journal. Now, where did I put it…” Stanford went up the stairs, muttering to himself the entire way.

“Ya know, he actually started running on all fours at least twice on the way over.” Stan grinned through another sip of beer. “was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Fiddleford sighed. That would explain the fighting. He rolled his eyes as he saw Stanley reach in the fridge for another can and shut it before he could. “Stanley Pines, it is 8 o’clock in the morning.”

“Ooh,” Stanley raised his eyebrows. “Two last names in less than five minutes, it’s a new record.”

“Stanley.”

Stanley pouted, and even with his new…physical features, Fiddleford still found it endearing. “Aw, come onnnn, Fids, I’m emotionally distressed!”

“Yer no such thing.” He smiled a soon as back turned to the other man. He took out their skillet and placed it on the stove.

“Y’know, I gotta hand it to ya. You’ve gotten a lot more assertive since we’ve met, it’s kinda hot.”

“Yer flattery will not sway me into lettin’ ya get another drink.”

Stanley laughed behind him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still bein’ serious. Ford didn’t even try to fight you about getting breakfast. If it was me, he’d be yelling at me by now about how we were wastin’ time and crap.”

“It doesn’t take much for the two of ya to get at each other’s necks.” Fiddleford cracked an egg on the edge of the skillet. Anyhow, that’s because he’s hiding away scribblin’ field notes. The moment he’s done, he’ll be tryin’ to drag us on out of here.”

“Eh, true.”

For a moment, the eggs sizzling and snapping on the pan filled the warm silence. His stomach grumbled as the savory smell of cooking food reached him. “Stanley, can ya hand me the coffeepot?”

The floorboards creaked behind Fiddleford. A shadow loomed over him. “Stanley?”

“…You’re not, uh, scared of me or nothin’?” Stanley’s voice had gotten so quiet Fiddleford had hardly heard him.

Fiddleford glanced back at Stanley, who despite his size was hunched over, looking mighty small for someone who was now a literal boulder.

“Why on earth would I be?”

Stanley blinked meekly. He gestured towards his entire body. “Uh…’cause I look like this?”

Ah. He did try to threaten them with a shotgun. Some of the unease he’d gotten rid of returned, but he tried his best not to show it. He swallowed down his fear as best as he could. “Should I be?”

Stanley frowned. “Eh, I mean, I feel different, but not in a “eat somebody” kinda way. I do have a very strong urge to perch on the roof and attack pigeons.”

“Fascinating.” Even without his caffeine, his scientific curiosity was finally starting to get the best of him. “Well, gargoyles are known as guardians meant to ward against evil. Perhaps you’ve developed some sorta protective instinct…”

He stopped mid-ramble. Even without eyes to speak of, Fiddleford could tell Stanley was avoiding his gaze.  

Fiddleford brought his hand to Stanley’s cheek. It felt warm, to his surprise, like rock that had baked under the afternoon sun. Stanley peeked up at him. “Darlin’, the only thing I’m afraid of is the damage you’ll cause around the lab if we don’t turn ya back. Yer like a bull in a china closet as it is.”

Stanley chuckled, leaning into Fiddleford’s touch. “Somebody has ta make things interesting around here.”

Something crashed overhead, quickly followed by a string of curses. A series of heavy objects thumped against the wood overhead.

“I’m alright!” called Stanford’s voice. “I simply knocked a bookshelf over my person, but this new form is surprisingly durable!”

“Things are interestin’ enough as it is,” said Fiddleford, his brief moment of curiosity gone as soon as it came. “Where in tarnation is the coffeepot?”

“Relax, Fiddlenerd, I’ll make ya a fresh one.” He went over by his side, giving him a playful shove that sent Fiddleford to the ground. “…Oops. Sorry, uh, forgot about the whole…stone thing.”

Fiddleford glowered up at his boyfriend, taking his hand as he helped Fiddleford back up. “Yer lucky a got a soft spot fer ya, else I’d be mighty cross.”

Stanly gave him the gentlest peck on the top of Fiddleford’s head. “Once I have my human body back, I’ll make it up to ya.”

Stanley gave him a cup of his precious lifeblood, black with two sugars, just as he liked it. Smirking, Fiddleford took a sip, getting warmed by more than just the coffee. “I’ll hold ya to that.”

*

Somebody please give Fiddleford a raise. 

Comment on what monster you all think Fidds should be, and I may do a second part. I've read some people make him a scarecrow, and I considered making him a centaur.

[orangeoctopi7]

Champions: Part 2

I said when I wrote part 1 for Stanuary last year that I planned on continuing this... it just took way longer than I expected. 

Well, now I get to use part two for @stanuary 2021!

Chapter 2

“Gather ‘round everyone!” Linkara called in his team one morning. “I just got the dossier on my first opponent in the Contest of Champions.” 

Jaeris, his coach, Dr. Linksano, his science expert, Pollo, his producer, and Harvey Finevoice, the general voice of reason, were all gathered in Linkara’s office. 

“Who’s the guy?” Harvey asked.

“A man named Stanley Pines.”. Linkara answered, passing out photocopies of the documents.

“Huh, so they set you up with another first-timer.” Jaeris observed, scanning over the information. “He even comes from an alternate Earth a lot like yours.”

“So, they have you fighting a sextagenarian old man who runs a tourist trap?” Linksano asked incredulously.

“He’s a sextagenarian old man who destroyed an interdimensional chaos demon.” Linkara corrected. “He wouldn’t be in the Contest of Champions if he wasn’t a serious contender. Besides, I’m a middle-aged guy who reviews comic books on the internet, I’m hardly one to judge what this guy’s day-job is.”

“So who gets to choose the battle this time?” Pollo asked. 

“We don’t know yet.” Linkara answered. “I think they’re supposed to let us know later today. But with the interdimensional temporal differences, we might not find out until next week.” 

One of the Temlin’s hooded envoys appeared in the middle of the room, interrupting the discussion. 

“Or, y’know, we could find out right now.” 

* * *

Meanwhile, in Gravity Falls....

It had been a few months since Stan’s preliminary round in the Contest of Champions, and the elder Pines twins were back at the Mystery Shack for the summer. The Temlins had left them with a sort of “open channel” for communication, which Ford had connected to his monitoring equipment.

It’d been so long since they’d heard anything, that Stan was beginning to wonder if the whole thing wasn’t some sort of elaborate joke. Then one day, while Mabel was making breakfast, the alarm went off, and that creepy hooded hologram from before showed up in the middle of the kitchen.

Poor Mabel was so startled she almost dropped her pitcher of Mabel Juice, and Stan nearly made a move for his nearest gun before he realized what it was.

“Ford, that thing’s back!” He yelled.

The old researcher had already been rushing to the kitchen after he heard the alarm go off, and he appeared in the doorway just a second after Stan yelled. A still-sleepy Dipper was not far behind him.

“What’s going on?” the boy asked, rubbing crusties out of his eyes. 

“It’s that stinkin’ contest thing I told you about!” Stan explained. “They finally remembered I exist, huh?”

“It’s all due to temporal differences.” Ford assured him. “I’m honestly surprised we didn’t have to wait longer.”

“Champion Stanley Pines, the time has come to set your first contest.” The hologram informed him. “For this round, you have been randomly selected to choose the nature of your competition.”

“Oh, really?” Stan grinned and slipped into conman mode. “Well, I’m really happy to hear that! Why don’t you have a seat and join us for breakfast while we talk?”

“Stanley, it’s a hologram.” Ford pointed out, but the Temlin emissary sat down at their little table.

“Why don’t you pour the nice alien hologram some Mabel Juice, Pumpkin.” Stan suggested. Mabel beamed and poured a tall glass for their guest. 

“Oh boy, you’re in for a treat! I added extra Fizz Flints this time!”

Just as Ford was about to point out that, as a hologram, their guest couldn’t even pick up the glass, much less drink it, the Temlin emissary stared intently at the drink, and it began to empty, almost like an invisible straw was sipping it away.

“Incredible. We have explored the vast reaches of time and space. We understand the most intricate machinations of the universe. And yet we have never encountered a beverage like this.”

“Aww, thanks!” Mabel accepted their compliment graciously. “There’s more where that came from!” She filled the glass again.

“Heheh, yeah, sure there is sweetie.” Stan scooted her away and took a seat opposite of their guest. “Don’t give ‘em too much at once, kiddo, we want ‘em to savor it!”

Mabel nodded sagely. “That is so true. Let me know when you’re ready for more, Mr. Temlin.”

“Alright, alright, you kids run along. Me and Bigwig here are gonna talk business.”

The kids left with only minor protests. Ford was still standing in the doorway, trying to wrap his head around what he’d just witnessed. 

“Ford, didn’t you have some sort of big project you were workin’ on?” Stan asked his brother pointedly.

“Hmm? Oh, no, nothing particularly urgent, at least….” 

Stan shot his brother a significant glare.

“Oh! Oh, yes, I do have er, temporal disturbances to, ah, compare. Just… let me know when you’re done.”

“Now.” Stan said slyly as he sat across from the Temlin Emissary and steepled his fingers. “About this competition…”

*  *  *

“Champion Linkara, the time has come to set your first contest.” The hooded hologram declared. “While for this round, the decision ultimately rests with your opponent, you will be granted time to meet together and discuss the conditions of the competition. Speak aloud your readiness to begin the meeting, and it shall be done.”

“What, right now?” Harvey wondered incredulously.

“Eh, no time like the present.” Linkara reasoned. “So, is he coming here, or am I going there?”

“Champion Stanley Pines has agreed to meet in this location. He has also requested permission to bring a guest. Do you find this acceptable?”

“Sure, why not.” Linkara shrugged.

With a shimmer, the hologram disappeared, and two nearly identical old men took its place. They were both tall, broad-shouldered, and square jawed, with large ears, bulbous noses, and fluffy grey hair. One word a navy blue hoodie, the other a dark brown fisherman’s coat and a red beanie.

“Huh, not what I was expecting.” The one in the beanie grunted. “Just looks like someone’s basement. I thought the file said this guy had a spaceship.”

“I do, it’s undergoing some repairs right now.” Linkara stepped forward and extended a hand in greeting. “So, which one of you is Stanley Pines?”

The one in the hoodie gave him a piercing look, but the one in the beanie grinned and accepted the handshake. “That’s me. You can just call me Stan. This here’s my brother, Ford.”

Ford was looking around at Linkara’s gathered team. His gaze lingered on Linksano and Harvey. “Triplets, I presume? Incredible, what are the odds that two Champions from sets of multiples would end up competing against each other?”

“Whaddaya mean, triplets?” Harvey asked in confusion.

“Oh, come on, you three look even more alike than me an’ Ford, and we’re twins!” Stan scoffed.

“No we don’t!” Linksano protested. “I wear goggles, and he wears a hat!”

“What hat?” Linkara asked innocently.

“Yeah, you two wish you were as good lookin’ as me.” Harvey quipped. 

“Er, weren’t we supposed to be setting the terms of your first match?” Pollo reminded them.

“Remarkable! Are you a sentient robot?” Ford leaned down for a closer look.

“Yes, and like most sentient beings, I don’t enjoy being stared at.”

“O-oh, of course!” Ford quickly folded his arms behind his back. “I apologize.”

“Uh, anyway, about that contest thing…” Stan steered the conversation back to the point. “I already talked with those Temlin guys, and it’s gonna be dirty boxing! They promised us a ring an’ everything!”

“What!?” Linkara protested. “How the h___ is dirty boxing a fair and reasonable battle? It has dirty in the name!”

“No hard feelin’s, kid, but you’re half my age, I need all the advantages I can get!” Stan defended. “‘Sides, I’ve read your file, I know you’ve got some experience fightin’ hand-to-hand.”

“I’ve read your file too, you used to be a professional prize fighter!”

“Tch, yeah, when I was in my 20’s. An’ it didn’t last long, believe me.”

“I thought the whole point of this meeting was to discuss the terms of the fight and come to an agreement!”

“Eh, that’s more of a formality than anything.” Jaeris clarified. “Since the final decision rests with whoever the Temlins chose, this time’s more for sizin’ each other up than convincin’ the other guy to even the playing field.”

“So what, whoever gets to pick the contest is basically guaranteed victory!?”

“Eh, not necessarily.” Jaeris corrected. “I didn’t get to pick my first round neither, an’ I still managed to come out on top by outsmartin’ my opponent.”

“Yeah, good luck with that, bucko.” Stan smirked.

“Stanley, don’t antagonize the man.” Ford chided him. “You’ve already literally given him an excuse to punch you in the face.”

“That’s the idea, genius.” Stan rolled his eyes. “But seriously, good luck with your preparations and stuff. I’m lookin’ forward to the fight, should be fun.” He grinned warmly at his opponent. “So, uh, are we done here? How do we get back to the boat?”

The air around them shimmered, and they disappeared just as quickly as they’d arrived in the first place.

“...He seemed nice.” Jaeris commented after they’d left. “H___ of a lot nicer than my first opponent, that’s for sure.”

“Oh yeah, perfectly nice!” Linkara agreed with false cheer. “If you ignore the fact that he’s basically been given permission to cheat. What a load of bullcrap!” 

“You’re not going to give up just because your opponent has an unfair advantage, are you?” Pollo asked. 

“Oh no, I told you guys, I’m in it to win it.” the comic reviewer assured them. “I just need someone to complain to.”

“I mean, I guess you could try and file a complaint with the Temlins, but I wouldn’t count on it makin’ any difference.” Jaeris said.

“Alright. Dr. Linksano, could you start drafting a complaint letter?”

“I’m a mad scientist, not your secretary!”

“I’ll pay you by the word.”

“Deal.”

“In the meantime, if I’m gonna beat this guy, I am going to need a really great training montage!”

* * *

The day of the first round came. Both parties were teleported to a boxing ring that had been set up within the Temlins’ stadium. Linkara and his crew were set up in the green corner, while Stan and his brother were in the red. 

“Why are both of you fully dressed?” Linksano asked. “Don’t boxers usually just wear a pair of shorts?”

“You really think folks wanna see two outta shape guys fight topless?” Stan reasoned.

“Well, yes. Many people throughout the multiverse are very into that!”

“If you both feel more comfortable keepin’ your shirts on, then that’s the fight the Temlins are gonna put on.” Jaeris said.

“Contestants, enter the ring to begin your first round in the Contest of Champions!” The Temlins’ holographic envoy commanded.

Stan and Linkara both climbed into the ring, meeting in the center to shake hands and exchange pleasantries.

“So, uh, how long’s it been for you?” Stan asked.

“Eh, a couple of months. You?”

“Almost a year and a half. I almost forgot about this whole thing!”

“The contestants are in place. Fight with honor, fight with pride, most of all, fight well. Begin!”

“Kick his a__ kid!” Harvey cheered.

“You can do it, Stanley! Show him what the Pines family is made of!” Ford encouraged.

Stan made the first blow with a quick pop to the stomach and followed up by stepping on his opponent’s leading foot. 

“...oww…” Linkara groaned and reeled back a step or two, but otherwise looked as ready as ever.

Stan raised an eyebrow in surprise. He’d expected the out-of-shape comic reviewer to be a push-over, but the guy could take more punishment than he thought.

Linkara landed a haymaker square in Stan’s chest. It was clear the kid had no form and no training, but he certainly packed a wallop. 

They exchanged more sloppy blows. Most of the time, Stan didn’t have any trouble blocking the kid’s punches, but some of them were so wild and out there that he either didn’t see them coming or didn’t know how to block them.

“I AM A MAN!!” Linkara shouted, and despite the fact that it was as clearly telegraphed as possible, the punch was somehow impossible to block. The blow knocked Stan onto his back, and he was pretty sure there’d been a flash of light and some sound effects.

“What the heck was that!?” Stan quickly pulled himself up off the mat before the ref could ring the bell on him. 

“I dunno, it does something different every time.” Linkara shrugged.

Stan squared his shoulders. It was time to end this. “Left Hook!” He wound up and socked the guy right in the jaw. The blow was actually enough to spin the comic reviewer on his heel, and he fell to the floor.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1… It’s a knockout!” The ref declared.

Stan stood over his defeated opponent. “You ok, kid?” He asked, offering a hand up.

“...and tha’s why Pow-Rangers Megforssss.... Iz zah bes’ seezin of all…” The comic review offered only a slurred non-sequitur as a reply. 

“Champion Linkara is unable to continue the fight! This match goes to--” The ref was about to hold Stan’s hand aloft in victory, when another Temlin Emissary, this one clearly different from the first, appeared.

“Stop these proceedings at once!” The hologram commanded with a booming voice. “There is reason to believe that Champion Stanley Pines bribed one of the Temlin Judges in order to receive an unfair advantage in this contest!”

“Ha! What? I dunno what this guy’s talkin’ about!” Stan insisted nervously. “I don’t even know what a bribe is!”

“How could anyone possibly bribe the Temlins? They’re all-powerful!” Ford asked. “I know Stan is quite the charmer, but what could my brother possibly offer them as a bribe?”

“A good question. We never would have guessed it was possible either, but Champion Linkara filed an official complaint. As we looked into his concerns, we found that our representative sent to determine the first competition with Champion Stanley Pines made themself unobservable for approximately 10 Earth Minutes. As for what Champion Stanley could have offered as a bribe, the answer is as simple as it is shocking: A new experience.” 

“What the h___ is that supposed to mean?” Harvey asked.

“The Temlins started this competition because they were bored with all their limitless power.” Jaeris recalled. “So if this guy was really able to show them somethin’ new, that might actually be enough to work as a bribe!”

“When we further investigated the representative in question, we found them in possession of a large quantity of a heretofore unknown beverage called Mabel Juice. Upon interrogation, the representative confessed to accepting the beverage in exchange for approving ‘Dirty Boxing’ as the round’s competition.”

“Dang it, should’ve known that alien jerk would rat me out.” Stan muttered under his breath.

“As a consequence, the representative has been suspended from duty, and Champion Stanley has been disqualified from the Contest of Champions.”

“And you guys couldn’t have disqualified him before he beat me up?” Linkara asked incredulously as he picked himself up off the mat.

“The match was already set to be broadcast, and there was no alternative to fill the time slot.”

“So, what, this guy wins after all?” Stan pointed to his opponent.

“Champion Linkara will be assigned a new opponent for his first round. We shall choose another Champion who had previously been in consideration for this tournament.”

“Oh come on! So I have to fight two first rounds!?” Linkara complained. 

“We shall inform you when your new opponent has been chosen.” The Temlin emissary continued as if they hadn’t heard him, before disappearing.

“So, uh, no hard feelings?” Stan grinned sheepishly, extending a handshake to Linkara.

“Yes! Yes, some hard feelings!” Linkara shouted at him.

“Welp, that’s my cue to get outta here. C’mon Ford!”

The elder Pines twins ducked into a portal back to the Stan’O’War II before the comic reviewer completely lost his temper. They sat down at the table and shared a hearty laugh.

Ford shook his head. “Stan, you’re the only person I know who could possibly bribe a race of all-powerful beings, and get away with it."

"Didn't quite get away with it, did I?" Stan shook his head. 

“Well, you may have been disqualified, but you weren’t zapped or banished to a featureless void, which is more than most people who have crossed the Temlins can say.”

Stan grinned. “Heh, well, that might’ve been because they all want a shot at trying Mabel Juice. I’d better call her. Somethin’ tells me she’s gonna get some extra-dimensional visitors in the near future.”

[lets-play-gwent]

Some Canary

Well, here it is! Thanks so much @chaotic-bard for the lovely prompt. I changed it just a smidge, but I think you’ll enjoy the final product. I plan on continuing this fic for at least a couple more chapters, that is, if people are interested :)  Complete story under the cut, soon to be on ao3. If you enjoyed it, please reblog! 

Chicago, 1932-- High profile mob families run almost every joint in the city, speakeasies launder money and sell bathtub gin through prohibition. Geralt Rivi is a lowly footsoldier for one of the most powerful bosses around: Tommy Morano himself. What is Geralt to do when he swoons for the son of rival gang leader Frank Pankratz?

The routine was so remarkably monotonous that the two men could almost rely on muscle memory alone. Approach the target, sit leaning slightly forward with hands clasped on top of the table. Do not remove hats or coats—this isn’t a permanent conversation. Keep eye contact with the target. Allow them to break the silence, subtly reminding them who has the power. The less chinning, the better. Let the reputation, and fists if necessary, do the talking. Once the target gets the picture, settle up or square up—no negotiating under any circumstances. Leave that to the big guys up top.

It was simple. A well-trained hound could do it. Why should tonight be any different? Geralt, none the wiser, was about to find out just how much his world could change in a night. His only warning? A few words from the night’s host and bandmaster.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and friends, now comes the time in the evening you’ve been waiting for. Without further ado, put your hands together for the lovely, the gorgeous, the sensational, Buttercup!”

It’s raining too hard for a cigarette, Geralt thinks to himself, reaching for the plain case in his pocket and carefully rolling a strip of tobacco and paper into a slender white cylinder. The paper dampened and drooped. Dammit. Turning up his collar against the wind, he walked towards the nearest dry patch of pavement he could find, a drugstore two blocks down. Ducking under the overhang, he lit his cigarette and took several long drags.

“Hey! Bum! Get outta ‘ere!” A short and rather lanky man was leaning out of the doorframe of the drugstore, shaking a broom and shouting. “We don’t want any trouble with the likes of yous!”

Geralt straightened his shoulders and grimaced hard at him. Despite the darkness of an autumn Chicago night, he could see the blood rush out of the man’s face, who quickly stammered an apology and slammed the door shut.

A rickety Ford pulled up to the curb. Geralt threw a quick glance up and down the street, stamped his cigarette butt into the gutter and climbed in.

“Where to tonight, boss?” His voice was gruff, hardened by years of smoking and a churly demeanor.

“The Passiflora. There’s a little fuckin prick there trying to weasel out of another payment. Collect 160 or take him out back and break his thumbs. Got it?”

Geralt gave a grunt and a curt nod in affirmation. He focused his gaze on the raindrops pattering against the window, toning out the superficial chatter of the three other men in the car. He hated the way they preened and boasted relentlessly at each other, always about some new broad or bar fight, sometimes both. He couldn’t stand the men he usually took shifts with, could barely keep their names straight, except for Lambert. Currently he was engrossed in recounting his latest run-in with cops—complete with obscene gestures and impressions—but when separated from the rest, Geralt found him tolerable, even funny at times. Yet, no matter how irritated he was, or how clever his jokes could be, Geralt knew never to rag on one of the Captains. Bottom-of-the-rung soldiers like him only needed to make that mistake once, and he had the scar on his jaw to prove it.

The brakes screeched in protest as the car slowed to a halt in front of an imposing brick warehouse. Lambert and Geralt climbed out, easily slipping into the ‘intimidating’ demeanor they carried for jobs like this. Lambert rapped on the door and waited. A small panel at eye level opened with a sharp crack, and a surly woman with a cigar and frizzy hair glared at the two men from behind the door.

“Who sent ya?” she said, puffing rank smoke directly into Geralt’s face. He cringed and turned away.

“Fat Sammy Morano and his cat,” Lambert replied, equally surly. The panel slammed shut, and almost simultaneously the door to their left creaked open a few inches.

Inside, Geralt’s eyes watered as his senses were assaulted with the bitter stench of bathtub gin. “I hate these fuckin places,” He rolled another cigarette. “Whose our guy?”

“The chrome dome with the green vest up by the stage. Let’s just get this over with and then we’ll get some grub, yeah?”

“Hmm,”

They wove through the tables together, trench coats occasionally brushing against a patron or chair. An irascible-looking waiter stopped them with a snide remark about wearing hats inside, and tried to seat them, but apparently one look from Lambert was enough to convey ‘don’t fuck with us’ because he quickly turned on his heel and attended to a nearby booth.

The routine was so remarkably monotonous that the two men could almost rely on muscle memory alone. Approach the target, sit leaning slightly forward with hands clasped on top of the table. Do not remove hats or coats—this isn’t a permanent conversation. Keep eye contact with the target. Allow them to break the silence, subtly reminding them who has the power. The less chinning, the better. Let the reputation, and fists if necessary, do the talking. Once the target gets the picture, settle up or square up—no negotiating under any circumstances. Leave that to the big guys up top.

It was simple. A well-trained hound could do it. Why should tonight be any different? Geralt, none the wiser, was about to find out just how much his world could change in a night. His only warning? A few words from the night’s host and bandmaster.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and friends, now comes the time in the evening you’ve been waiting for. Without further ado, put your hands together for the lovely, the gorgeous, the sensational, Buttercup!”

The curtain rose to reveal a lean man in a dazzling pigeon gray pinstripe suit. Humbly waving down the audience’s raucous applause, Buttercup began to pluck at the delicate strings of his guitar. His voice—silvery and saccharine, yet somehow still mellow—rang clearly through the now silent room.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’

Birds singing in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me

Geralt was suddenly thankful for the chair next to him and quickly sat, trying to catch his breath. Years later, every time he told this story, he insisted that his Buttercup stole the air right out of his chest.

Say ‘nighty-night’ and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me

While I’m alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

Gone was his sour expression, gone was the rank smell of moonshine. The scratched wooden floor and sticky tables of the speakeasy seemed to fall away, leaving only two men, one guitar, one spotlight, and a long-forgotten smoldering cigarette.

Stars fading, but I linger on dear

Was it Geralt’s imagination, or was the singer… looking at him…?

Still craving your kiss

His hair, slicked back and shining underneath the stage lights, reminded Geralt of a Clark Gable movie poster he once saw. Had he ever noticed someone’s hair before?

I’m longing to linger ‘till dawn dear

His eyes, his face, his hands, were the most beautiful Geralt had seen in his life. Those lips, soft and pink, shaped so delicately around the words of the song, he found himself staring at them, wondering how they’d feel…

Just saying thi-is…

A sharp smack upside the back of his head brought him sailing down from the stars back to the speakeasy. Back to the job, where Lambert and the target were staring at him, the former’s face covered in bewildered rage, the latter’s face still shaken, albeit slightly confused.

“As we were saying—” Lambert emphasized the last two syllable’s in Geralt’s face, who cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders once more.

“You can se—ttle up now, or we’ll take it out back,” All three men at the table tried desperately to ignore the voice crack that took every drop of intimidation out of his words.

Nevertheless, the target fell into the familiar routine, terrified of Lambert if nothing else. “Aw jeez come on boys, you know I always come through, I just need a little more time is all, just until next week I pro—” he was suddenly on top of the table, Lambert’s fist pulling his shirt collar far too forward for comfort.

“Out back it is,”

The two men stood and strode quickly towards the side door, the target scrambling to keep up with the fist still clutching his shirt. Geralt took one last glance back at Buttercup, who to his utter surprise, was glaring at the group as they left the hall.

…

A dull crack echoed down the alley as Lambert’s fist left the target’s face. He groaned and stumbled to the side, bracing himself against damp bricks. “Pl—please, my wife—”

“I don’t want to hear it. 160 today, or we come back and fuck you up for real,” He dealt another blow, this time aiming for the target’s stomach. Two more hits and he was coughing and sputtering.

Geralt stood to the side, keeping watch on the street for any unlucky passersby. Keep your cool, focus on the job, he thought to himself, rolling another cigarette, thankful that the rain finally let up. The rattle of a doorknob and sudden burst of light, however, startled the paper and tobacco right out of his hands.

“Why good evening fells, waiting at the stage door for me? My my, a bit forward isn’t it?” Buttercup draped himself carefully against the doorframe, but his smirk faltered as he took in the blood dripping down the bald man’s face and the imposing nature of the trench coat cornering him against the wall. “Is there some sort of problem here?”

“Scram, kid, this doesn’t concern you,”

“Why, sir, don’t be so shy! I’m sure we can come to an… understanding…” he winked at the two bewildered racketeers and sauntered gracefully down the stairs. “I’m Julian. Aren’t you two a coupla tall glasses of trouble? Might have my hands full tonight,” Geralt carefully controlled his expression, trying to ignore Julian’s intoxicating smile and the fluttering in his chest. “What’s your name, hon?” He was addressing the target now.

“Eu—Eugene” A quite preoccupied Eugene held his bleeding nose in one hand and wrapped an arm around his midsection. “P-please—mister, I don’t-t have it all now, j-just just give me until next week, hey? N-n-next week, I promise, sound reasonable fellas?”

“Shut up!” Lambert barked.

“Now now! That’s no way to treat a faithful patron of the Passiflora, now is it? Eugene here is a friend of mine—” Julian strode over to the wall where Lambert was towering over the target and nudged his way between the two men. “Tips well and brings friends in whenever he can. Lord knows I owe him some money, why don’t I settle up?”

Lambert’s face darkened. Straightening his shoulders and looking down, he towered over the performer. “Don’t make me say it again, kid. This doesn’t concern you. Go back to your dressing room.”

Julian only laughed, seemingly impervious to the serious threat levied against him. The sound—so musical, even gentle—made Geralt’s breath catch in his chest.

Shock, confusion, and then comprehension quickly flashed across Lamberts face as he found himself with a fistful of cash. Counting it quickly, he grabbed Geralt’s arm and pulled him towards the street. “Let’s get out of here, before I do something stupid,”

“Toodeloo, sweethearts!” Julian called after them, helping Eugene stagger back into the building.

…

The car was quiet except for the rumble of the engine.

“Some canary, huh?”

“SOME CANARY? SOME?? CANARY??” Lambert’s voice was shrill with fury. “YOU FALL HEAD OVER GODDAMN HEELS FOR THE SON OF MORANO’S WORST FUCKING ENEMY, AND ALL YOU CAN SAY IS SOME? FUCKING? CANARY? JESUS CHRIST GERALT WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR HEAD?”

“You mean that’s—”

“You guessed, it bub. That’s Julian Pankratz, of the Pankratz crime family. You know, those German pricks who’ve been trying to take down Morano for the past FIFTEEN YEARS??”

Geralt coughed out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, some canary…”

************

I hope you liked it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! Here’s a link to the song jaskier sings :)) 

[detectivejigsawpines]

Hideous Creatures part 5 (Day 1-Stan)

The blonde chick, who introduced herself as Darlene, made herself comfortable in the seat right next to Stan’s in the cart after he’d finished sprinkling it with un-notice powder.  Had they been alone, frankly he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d tried to sit in his lap, she was gushing over him that much.

And while he enjoyed the attention-Stan wasn’t as big of a sucker for easy flattery as Ford was, but he did enjoy having people compliment him once in a while-part of him knew a con when he saw it, and Darlene was trying to pull one on him.  He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about her reminded him of...of Marilyn. Like she was playing up the flattery and flirting so much because she was planning on doing something nasty as soon as he let his guard down. So while he grinned and flirted back shamelessly, he didn’t let her get too close, and focused on giving the tour.

 For the most part things went like normal; Stan brought the group of monsters to different parts of Gravity Falls to show off human stuff, playing it up as better and more impressive stuff than it really was.  The tourists oohed and aahed over the diner, the Dusk 2 Dawn convenience store, even the freaking mattress store which had recently opened up downtown. They got their pictures taken in front of the Northwest mansion, and (without any encouragement from Stan, I swear) took goofy pictures of themselves with the Nathaniel Northwest statue.  A large red-furred squirrel man who lived in the forest outside the mansion even climbed up onto the statue and wrote “YOU SUCK YOU STUPID TREE-CHOPPER” on his face in bright red pen (apparently the squirrel folk held a bit of a grudge against the guy who’d been responsible for chopping down the part of the forest their parents used to live in before being forced to move thanks to him).  And Stan allowed him to keep the pen, in exchange for a few tufts of his tail fur.

 The problem came in the form of a few tourists who actually wanted more details than Stan knew how to provide, such as what was so wrong about the Northwests asserting their dominance over the rest of the townsfolk-since to the manotaurs that was a perfectly legitimate strategy when you were bigger and stronger than everyone else-or why some teenagers wore long nightgowns and funny square hats at the end of spring.  This question in particular touched Stan on the raw, and he said grumpily that the tradition of high school graduates wearing caps and gowns came from a belief that at the end of their high school education they needed to wear the caps for a full day to keep all their accumulated knowledge from bursting out the tops of their heads. Fortunately, the gnome who’d asked appeared to accept this explanation, and gave his own pointy hat a self-conscious pat.

Stan BS’d his way through difficult questions as best he could, but this crowd of out-of-towners seemed a little more skeptical than the residents.

“I live in Seattle, so I see people inside watching Idiot Boxes all the time,” said a creature that was apparently a troll; his coloring was an interesting gray, with a few yellowy patches that from a distance looked like windows.  Stan guessed that it was so he could blend into the sides of office buildings. “I’ve never heard anyone call them that before-”

“Well of course they’re not gonna be obvious about it!” Stan said quickly.  “The usual nickname for them used by humans is ‘TV.’”

“Teevee?”

“It’s short for ‘television.’”  He sighed on the inside.

“What’s a telly and why do people need a vision of it?” asked a tree nymph, her pretty face pursing in confusion.

“It comes from ancient Greek or something.”  Stan barely managed not to let his tone waver with uncertainty-if he didn’t seem absolutely certain that he knew what he was talking about he was gonna lose them.  He’d learned that lesson the hard way. “And that big screen on the front gives people visions of whatever they wanna see, with over a hundred options!”

Darlene gasped.  “Man, you are so smart, Mr. Mystery!”

Stan waggled his eyebrows.  “It’s a gift, and a curse.”

****

It was with a surprising amount of relief that Stan drove the cart back into the forest, letting the passengers go.

Man, I almost feel like I oughta do some research on stuff so I don’t get stumped like that again.

...Aw crap, I can’t let Ford know I thought that.  I’d never live it down.

To his relief, plenty of creatures still left tips as they exited.  He was just locking up the treasure chest when Darlene put a cool hand on his arm.

“So, handsome, you wanna go for a walk?” she asked.  “You seem kinda tired out after giving us such a long tour!”

...Right.  Follow the pretty lady into the dark, scary woods-that’s not a trap at all.

Stan smiled at her innocently.  “Eh, I’m more hungry than anything else.  You wanna come to the diner and get a meal?  You look human enough ta blend in.”

Her turquoise eyelid twitched a little.  “Oh, I dunno...I am a little hungry, but I don’t think I wanna be around a large crowd of humans.”  She stroked his shoulder. “I think I’d rather have it be just you and me...alone.”

  And it’s right about then that her eyes turned black and pupil-less, and her lower body turned into that of a giant spider.

 ********

Stan felt glad that he’d thought to keep his baseball bat under his seat; it was a cinch to yank it out and thwack her in the noggin with it, before grabbing up the treasure chest and hightailing it towards the cabin.  Behind him he heard a shriek of rage, followed by the sound of eight giant feet chasing him.

He muttered some extra creative swear words as he ran, struggling to hold onto the treasure chest and wishing (for once) that the stupid forest creatures would use paper currency instead of gold, because this thing was really freaking  heavy  and maybe it would be prudent to leave it behind, but he was d_mned if he was gonna abandon his profits-

Darlene came leaping onto him from above, having shed her human guise altogether.

 Stan barely managed to put the chest between them, holding her back; unfortunately, this had the side effect of knocking the wind out of him as he hit the ground.

“Geez, lady, what’s your problem?!” he wheezed out, squirming as best he could while trying to get his breath back.  “The tour wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“It’s nothing personal, honey,” Darlene snarled.  “I just got a real problem with your type of man, except for the fact that you taste delicious-ow!”

Stan slammed his fist into her eye again.

“You’ll pay for that!”  The giant spider woman reared up, sucking in a deep breath.  Stan noticed some kind of green gooey stuff gathering between her mandibles; in desperation, Stan hiked both his legs up and kicked her right in the midriff.  That allowed him to finally get loose, half-staggering, half-running away. As he did, he fumbled in his coat pocket and grabbed out his last possible defense-just as something like a thick, sticky rope caught him around the ankles and sent him falling again.

 Darlene stomped up to him, beady eyes glittering with rage.

“I think your tour’s gonna have a new attraction,” she hissed.  “Gravity Falls’s first mummy exhibit!”

Stan didn’t bother coming up with a witty comeback; he just sat up and slashed with the switchblade.

********

Ten minutes later, dirty, scraped-up, bloody, and in serious need of repairs to his suit and fez after he had a shower and some food, Stan dragged the treasure chest up the steps of the porch and staggered into the house.

Ford looked up from the book he’d been reading in the living room, probably about to make some kind of cutting remark-instead, his jaw dropped in alarm.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I got a disgruntled customer who probably won’t be comin’ back anytime soon.”  As Stan went past his brother to the stairs, he dropped a few items at his feet: a pile of enormous webbing, and a giant, bloody mandible.

********

It's my personal belief that the only reason Stan was fooled by Darlene in "Roadside Attractions" was that he is just that lonely, and maybe looking for options for somewhere to go at the end of the summer. Or maybe it's just that even a professional conman can't see through everyone all the time, and he was drawn in by easy flattery. But my personal preference is the first option. And here, even though he and Ford are kind of fighting right now, Stan is still being loved and validated by someone, so he's less likely to be blinded by unhappiness. If that makes sense.

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Joss! You’ve been accepted to play Aaron Murphy (previously Aaron Khan, last name changed to fit the new FC’s ethnicity). Your request to change his FC to Bob Morley has also been approved. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: Joss, you’re absolutely flawless. You make it very easy to fall in love with your writing, and you’ve given Aaron so much depth! I can’t wait to see him on the dash! - Admin V

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED Aaron Khan DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS If you told Aaron to turn out his pockets and show what he’s accomplished in life, you might see it as just empty hands, but to him, being a dealer is the only thing he’s ever been really good at. He’s got learning disabilities, dyslexia and ADHD, that prevented him from ever really settling into a normal life or doing well in school, but when it comes to weed, he’s a fucking prodigy. He can tell the weight of a bag just by looking at it or holding it, he can tell from the smell if product is good or not, and he knows how to spot an undercover cop at 100 yards. His greatest skill is in being able to read his customers. He can tell from the moment you approach him what strain you’re going to need, how much, and what you’re willing to pay. He’s friendly, never tries to force you to be his friend, and always stands by his product. If weed were legal, he might be paying taxes and living the good life at a cannabis dispensary. As it is, he’s the guy on everyone’s cell phone under “Aaron Green”. People usually assume when you say your home life was bad that someone was smacking you around or there was no food, maybe your parents were junkies or crackheads. But it doesn’t have to be that dramatic to be bad. Sometimes your family can just forget you exist. Aaron was one of eight kids and none of them ever really had a chance. He disappeared in among his siblings so that no one ever noticed when he never came home at night. His home was loud, but there was never any real love in it. His parents were immigrants who’d come to America as children and never gotten out of the ghetto neighbourhoods of Detroit. They never had enough money and worked all the time, and when they came home, they would just stare blankly at their children, as if to say, “are you still here?” Aaron doesn’t think they were ever even in love; certainly the photographs never show people who looked happy to be together. Sometimes he lets himself wonder if they were like him, with dreams that they could never achieve and a burning need to do something, and if they just got beaten down by life, but it’s not like he can ask anymore. Chicago was the farthest Aaron could get from Detroit on the money he’d saved up, and it seemed like a town that still had hope, while Detroit was just dying slowly around him. He had a cousin there whose couch he crashed on (Aaron has cousins everywhere, they come out of the woodwork whenever one of them needs somewhere to crash), and a few job possibilities lined up, but he’d get itchy if he got stuck working behind a counter or washing dishes or shifting mail around, needing more stimulation than entry-level jobs provided. If he’d had the money to do training in a trade or something, maybe he could’ve done something with his hands that kept him occupied, or trained to be a tech expert, since he loves video games and can play them for hours if need be. Instead, he asked his dealer if the guy could hook him up with a gig, and one thing led to another. Working for the Costellos is mildly terrifying at times, but it feeds that part of him that needs to move and stay active. He doesn’t deal anything too hard, just weed and some party drugs, and he’s a favourite of club kids and college students for the quality of his product and his innovations when it comes to packaging and branding. He’ll wake up in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea about a new line of edibles like peppermint chocolates for the on-the-go buyer who doesn’t want to overindulge, or flavoured strains of CBD oil laced with hash to give a smooth high without any paranoia, or making their own line of e-liquids for vapes (something he’s very into, do not get him started on the unfair legislation around vaping rights), and spend the next three days making it happen only to crash once his latest masterpiece is complete. He could probably survive without a roommate at this point (though he’d have to live somewhere shady to do so and he’s become a little too comfortable to move back to the hood), but he used the excuse of needing one to let Corinna into his life. She’s the first person he’s lived with that he doesn’t feel anything but uncomplicated affection for, and the idea of having friends that you’re not either also selling to or working for is new and interesting for him. He’s a genuinely nice person (more so when baked but also overall), and he’s always happy to share his groceries or just sit up with her and listen to her talk. He may even someday tell her about his family, though that remains a subject he doesn’t address.   WRITING SAMPLE “Hey, man-bun!” Aaron turned around by reflex, even though someone yelling anything at you out of the blue was, at best, 50/50 gonna be a shitty situation. “That’s what your mom called me last night. At least I think that’s what she was saying, there was a lotta moaning going o-” Aaron didn’t get to finish his sentence, the punch catching him straight in the jaw. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but his muscles were all for show. Staggering back, he checked to see if all his teeth were still there. That was one thing that hadn’t gone wrong yet. “You sold me bad shit, motherfucker! Gimme my money back, or I’m gonna end you!” If this had been back in Detroit, Aaron might have taken this conversation more seriously, especially because he’d just gotten punched in the face, but this was Chicago, and he worked for the Costellos. Some little trust fund baby wasn’t gonna roll up on him and try and get a fucking refund. “That’s a shame. You still got the stuff? I’ll trade it in for new shit.” They were outside a bar in Costello territory, and the guy squaring up at him looked like he rowed every day and ate ivy for a living. Sure, he was dressed like he was living that thug life, but c'mon, no one’s teeth were that straight in Chiraq. That was the problem with cities like this, everyone thought they could front. Nobody in the suburbs would’ve even bothered, they’d have probably said please and thank you, but out here, people watched too many movies and thought you had to act like an OG. His friend, cuz of course he had a friend, punks like this never tried anything when it was a fair fight, just stood slightly off to the side and switched between grinning and sneering. “Are you fucking stupid? Did you hear me? Gimme my fucking money now! You’re lucky I don’t call my boys down and fuck your shit up for giving me lousy stuff!” It had gotten to the point where Aaron wasn’t really a street dealer primarily anymore, he was the guy you called when you needed something. He did deliveries and hung out at parties and clubs. When you were selling a product people wanted, you didn’t have to pound the pavement to sell it. But he was doing another favour for Holden. Aaron always did favours for Holden, no matter how many times the other man asked. He couldn’t help it. And normally he could spot an asshole a mile off and choose to refuse service, but Holden needed his quota to stay up, so Aaron had been a little too liberal with his sales tonight. Figures he’d get punched on his night off. “Like I said, I can do a trade if you’re unhappy with the product, but this isn’t a Target, man. We don’t do refunds. So hand over the shit, and I’ll give you some primo Afghani Kush. I’ll even top up the bag free of charge, cuz I wanna preserve our relationship.” The kid wasn’t having any of it. “I already smoked it and it did jackshit! I’m not even high! We even mixed it with some coke and it did fucking nothing!” Oh boy. So on top of assholes, they were idiots too. “You can’t mix it with coke, man. That just ruins both highs. If you’d said you’d wanted something to blend with uppers, I coulda-” Aaron was prevented in continuing with his sales pitch when the kid pulled out a gun. The fucking sikik seemed to think he could draw down in public. Granted, it was a shit neighbourhood, but it was still a Neighbourhood. “C'mon guy, this is a bad move. You really wanna think this one through, you know?” This whole evening was really turning into a bummer. If he got shot by this at hırsızı, he’d never live it down. And he didn’t have health insurance. The kid’s gun didn’t waver, and his friend had pulled a piece too. Awesome. “You coulda just given me the money, now I’m gonna take everything, and I’m gonna kick your ass too, you piece of shit fag-” The conversation ended abruptly with a squealing of tires and bright lights. Aaron jumped out of the way, rolling across the sidewalk and dragging himself up when there wasn’t immediate gunfire. The kid and his friend were now lying in the road groaning in front of a red Ford pickup. The door opened and Holden got out, looking at Aaron with bewilderment. “What the hell happened?” Stumbling forward, Aaron had the sense to kick the guns away from the two kids as he limped over to the truck’s passenger side. “Just a difference of opinion, don’t worry about it. But I’m thinking we talk about moving you to somewhere a little more high-class. This neighbourhood is going to shit.” As Holden slammed into the car and peeled away, the neighbourhood returned to normal, like it had never happened. It was Chicago, weirder things happened every day. Aaron leaned his head against the glass and dug a joint out of his pocket, inserting it between his lips and expertly lighting it with his lucky Zippo. “Don’t smoke that in the car, you’ll make it reek in here.” Laughing, Aaron rolled down the window. “You’re the weirdest dealer I know, man. C'mon, night’s still young, let’s hit Lake Forest and make some money off the preps out there.” Holden, shaking his head, took the turnoff and headed for the suburb. “You ever take anything seriously, cabron?” Aaron winked. “Not unless I can’t avoid it, kaşar.”

[elizabeth-marston-roberts]

I Intended to Bone

Okay so this is something different I wanted to try and then somehow it spiraled to nearly 3,000 words of tidbits of smut and fluff. No regrets.

So what the goal of this was is to show your separate moments between the throuple where they end up naked cuddling. I truly intended for this to be short but I am uncontrollable.

Pairings: John Marston x Reader, John Marston x Abigail Marston, Abigail Marston x Reader, John Marston x Abigail Marston x Reader

Rating: M. 18+ Only

Words: 2808

Tagging @redeadepression because I said I would. <3

xx

(John/Reader)

"I'm out!" Abigail calls as she heads for the front door, keys in hand. "Mama needs a pedicure!"

You and John lock eyes across the living room, smirks forming on your lips. You turn to Abigail's retreating form. "Get something cute done, baby!"

"Oh, you already know it."

"Bye Abi!" John manages just before she closes the door.

In an instant the two of you are up and undoing buttons, sliding down zippers and nearly tearing fabrics. John, eager as always, leans forward and kisses you roughly. His shirt is only partially unbuttoned, so as you kiss him back you're stripping him the rest of the way.

It isn't long until you're both naked and against each other on the couch. You're on top of him, his hands caressing your breasts as you moan at his strong fingers working your nipples while you fist his dick slowly. He's dribbling pre-cum already and you watch as the clear beads pour out from his tip, spilling over onto your hand and down his lengthy shaft.

His guttural moan draws a proud smirk from you and brings a nice tingle between your legs. It was so sexy watching him feel pleasure. You'd have to be a voyeur to him masturbating sometime.

Glancing out of the window behind the couch as you move to shut the curtains, a gasp tears out of your throat. John flinches at the sound, as it's about half an inch from his ear.

"What is it?!" John shouts, three seconds from a heart attack.

"A kitty!" You coo.

He laughs softly, exhaling in relief. "You're so dramatic for no reason." His lips smooch your shoulder sweetly. "You're gonna kill me one day."

You grin and cup his face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Sorry. Just got excited. They're so cute!"

John's arms wrap around your waist and he hugs you. "You want one?"

"Can we?" You relax against him, your arms moving around his neck.

He rubs your back. "We'd have to ask Abi, but if she says no, I'll just be the biggest brat I can be until she gives in."

"I love you, John Marston." You coo, giving him the sweetest kiss imaginable.

"I love you too." He grins. He lays his head in the crook of your neck and you lean yours against his, playing with his hair.

"Don't know what I did to deserve you and Abi both." He murmurs. "But I'm glad I did it."

"Awww, you sweetheart... That's why, right there.

You can't see, but you just know his cheeks are dusted that adorable pink color. John snuggles you closer to him, your breasts swelling against his chest with every breath.

Abigail comes home an hour later, perking a brow at the sight of you and John on the couch, cuddling while still very naked. "You two dorks are pathetic."

You shrug simply and give John another sweet kiss.

xx

(John/Abigail)

"You and me tonight, Marston." Abigail says over her glass of her favorite red wine, giving John her best bedroom eyes. You'd left early that morning for a work-related convention and wouldn't be back for three days, so John and Abigail decided to go out to the restaurant they loved and you hated.

"Yes ma'am." John winks and pops a bite of steak in his mouth.

Abigail smirks and puts her hand in the center of the table. John picks up her hint and takes her hand, dragging his thumb across her knuckles. "You look beautiful, you know."

Abi snorts. "You're already getting laid tonight, John. You don't need to butter me up."

"'M not 'buttering you up', I'm complimentin' my woman."

She smiles then. God, her smiles are the most precious thing John has ever seen. "Well thank you."

"You're very welcome, my love." John kisses her knuckles, and then the waitress brings over the bill. He picks it up and slips the cash into the sleeve, along with a nice tip, setting it onto the end of the table. "Now, me payin' for dinner is buttering you up." He laughs.

"John Marston, you-"

"I'm such a pig, I know." He waves his hand.

Abigail just laughs and shakes her head fondly. "You drive me crazy, but I can't live without you, leech."

"I am the best-lookin' leech you've ever seen."

"I can say, with certainty, you are absolutely, one-hundred percent correct, John."

John grins and stands, going to pull Abigail's chair out and offer his hand to her. She drapes her shawl over her shoulders and puts her hand in his, allowing him to lead her out. He kisses her temple and transfers his hand to her waist, rubbing affectionately as they walk to his truck.

When they're seated and John's got the old Ford in motion, Abigail pulls off her shawl and folds it onto her lap. "You want me to fuck you tonight, baby?"

"Mmm, make a case for it and we'll see."

A smirk beholds her red lips. Her hand inches over to his thigh, rubbing lightly. "I'll go real fast, just how you like it."

"Gonna bite me?" He murmurs.

"So hard." Abigail croons. She palms him through his jeans, grasping carefully. "Might put that cock ring on you."

"Don't make me crash." John whines.

She chuckles darkly, squeezing his cock a little harder. "You gonna take my strap tonight?"

"Yes ma'am."

She removes her hand and when they get home, they make a beeline to the bedroom. At the foot of the bed, they're kissing. John pulls Abigail close, his hands roaming her body as he puts his all into it, leaning her down towards the bed as he does.

The zipper of her dress is pulled down and on the floor as she kicks off her heels. His shirt is yanked off and then his jeans, and then he's got Abigail caged beneath him on the bed.

John starts to kiss her from head to toe, his lips lingering at each one. Abigail runs her fingers through his hair, and John settles on top of her, his head on her breasts.

"Thank you for dinner." She murmurs to him.

He presses a smooch to her collarbone. "'Course, Abi."

She smiles, closing her eyes. "You love me, John?"

"More than I can say." He caresses her jaw with the backs of his fingers. "Wish I had a way to tell you how much."

Her nails gently scratch his scalp. "Sometimes I'm scared I'm too hard on you. That you're gonna hate me, and leave us."

"Abi, I could never." John promises. He lays beside her and puts his arms around her, pressing his lips to hers in a brief exchange. "I'm in deep with both of you. I'm in love, and I don't plan on changin' that. I like when you boss me around. Yeah, I complain about it, but I still like it. It... Reminds me that you really care about me. That you love me, and want me to be squared away."

"Of course I do." She murmurs and wraps her arms around his neck. "I love you so much..." Her voice takes a turn, and John can only smile and kiss her dark hair.

"You don't need to cry, darlin'." His large hand rubs the smooth skin of her back.

Abigail sniffles and buries her head in the crook of John's neck. "Can't help it."

He laughs softly and holds her tight, their bodies pressed together as closely as possible. And even as his arm begins to fall asleep, he ignores it in favor of holding her long after she's fallen asleep, his brown eyes soft as he watches her.

xx

(Abigail/Reader)

You and Abigail stumble out of the club, smelling like booze and giggling like little girls as you wait for your Lyft to arrive. You lean over and kiss her ear, your hand rubbing her rear end fondly. "I... Loooooove youuuuuu."

"Hush uuuuuup." Abigail laughs, pushing your face away.

"'M gonna make you feel so niiiiice..." You grab a nice fistful of that bubble butt. "Soon as we get home."

"You better not come up for air 'til I've come three times." She croons.

When a car rolls up, she raps on the window until it's rolled down. "What's my name, hm?"

The driver relays her name and then Abigail opens the door to the back of the car. "Get in there, sexy."

"Yes ma'am!" You giggle and climb into the backseat, Abigail right behind you. Immediately her lips are on yours and her hands are on your hips, holding you tightly in place.

Your own hands wander underneath her dress, snapping at the waistband of her thong. She nips your lip roughly at that and you whine, pulling your hand back out.

"Behave." She murmurs and presses a kiss to your offended lip. "Don't want no brat tonight."

"Good thing John's on that huntin' trip with Arthur..." You rest your head in the crook of her neck and sigh forlornly. "When's he comin' hooooome?" You whine pathetically. You and Abigail went your entire five year relationship without John, but after a single year of having him, being without the man for even a week was miserable.

Abi rests her head against yours, rubbing your back. "Tomorrow mornin', my sweet girl."

"Okay..." You lean up and capture her perfect lips with your own while your hand rubs her knee. It's a secret spot of hers that John has yet to discover, but you've had it mastered for six years. It's the little things like that that keep you and Abigail in your own little world.

Your hand glides up her inner thigh and kneads her soft, sensitive flesh there. Your lips swallow her soft moan while you rub the fabric of her thong. God, you loved a woman in a thong way before you met Abi, but you were lucky enough to find a woman that wears one every day of her life and looks good doing it.

"Gonna finger you so good..." You mumble into her mouth. She tastes little of the cherry chapstick she wore at the start of the night out and more like the many cocktails she consumed during.

A gorgeous red blush spreads across her lightly freckled cheekbones. She shushes you, as she still has half a brain to remember you're in the backseat of a stranger's car. She'll have to tip well, though judging by the way they're biting their lip in the rearview mirror, the masturbation material alone from this will suffice.

You kiss Abigail's neck and spread her legs some more, reaching into her sexy little thong and easily slipping a finger inside of her wet hole, thrusting it shallowly. You're both quiet now, as you focus on the slow in-and-out movement and Abigail just tries not to start begging for more.

Thankfully, you're home sooner rather than later. Abigail tips the driver while you walk up the porch, sucking on the finger that had previously been flicking your girlfriend's clit whilst fumbling with your keys to get inside. When Abi joins you, she lifts your dress over your rear and gives you a good smack.

"Are you crazy?" She hisses, holding her hand firmly where she's just spanked you. "Ya can't just put a finger inside me while we're in a damn Lyft!"

"Not sorry." You say around your finger. Abigail spanks you again, but all you can do is moan about it while you unlock the front door.

Immediately, shoes are discarded once you're in and the door is locked again. Clothes are shed on the way to the bedroom; something John will surely love to see in the morning when he comes home.

Abi climbs into bed first, on her side and watching you take your favorite diamond earrings off. John had gotten them for your birthday and you'd worn them at every possible opportunity since. You crawl over to her and flop down onto your pillow, snatching John's with a whine. Abi rolls her eyes, though due to her drunkenness she moves her entire head with the movement. Dizzy, she watches you curl up with it.

"I hope you're this bad with me when I'm outta town." She pouts deeply.

"Yes." You mumble pitifully, stuffing your face in the pillow.

"Aww... So clingy." She coos and wraps herself behind you as the big spoon.

"Not clingy! Jus'... Jus' love you guys..."

"Love you so much too." She kisses your hair and buries her face in it. Underneath the smell of the club, she can still smell your shampoo.

"Nigh'-night, Abi." Your eyelids close and you drift off after she wishes you a good night's sleep and presses her lips against the back of your neck.

xx

(John/Abigail/Reader)

The three of you are like zombies as you come into the house. Abigail kicks her shoes off at the door, which John moves aside with his foot so nobody trips on them. You put the keys to the car in the little glass bowl and follow your lovers.

"I call first shower." You mutter. The gang had gotten together for a fun day at the amusement park, but now that it's ten at night and you've been up since six, it was time to shower and unwind.

"Then you shower downstairs and John and I'll use the master bath." Abi snaps. She always gets cranky after a long day of sweating.

"Don't be rude." You set your jaw, narrowing your eyes at her. "I didn't say I was gonna take that bathroom."

"Then why did you say you call first shower?"

"Stop." John says, his voice louder than either of yours. "Abigail, go start the damn shower."

"Hmph." Abi stomps upstairs. You roll your eyes and look at John.

"You're just gonna let her be a brat?"

"I'm not her dad, and I'm not yours either." John frowns. "I been listenin' to the bullshit all day and I'm tired. Get over it; it ain't gonna kill ya." He turns and stalks upstairs, and while he can't see it, he can surely feel the middle finger you've raised at his backside.

You wait until you're in the shower to start to cry. Today was just a long day that turned sour sometime after lunch. Abigail was grumpy that everyone wanted to do the coasters she couldn't get on, and that's when it all started going downhill. You offered to stay behind for her sake so she wasn't alone, but she knew what you really wanted was to get in line and ride like everyone else did, so she snapped at you and told you to join them. John had attempted to ease her mood once they were done by winning her prizes in the rigged, overpriced games, but she wasn't having it. It didn't help that the sun seemed to shine its hardest and burn its hottest either, because the entire crew of people you brought along- Javier, Karen, Arthur, Sean, and Lenny, to name a few- had started getting irritated themselves. And it was like every person at the park had to be exactly where you all were, which made it all worse. And when you all went to dinner afterwards, it was tense and quiet and you couldn't wait to leave.

When you've had your fill, you start washing up. It doesn't take you long to finish up, the sweat and overall atmosphere of the day banished from your body. Wiping your face free of any remaining tears, you step out onto the bathmat and reach into the linen closet for a towel. You dry yourself and give your cheeks a few pats to wake yourself up enough to make it upstairs and into bed.

John and Abigail are still in the shower when you come in the bedroom, so you discard your towel onto a hook behind the bedroom door and flop on the bed. You curl on your front, your face tucked into the soft pillow. They come out a few moments later and join you in bed, John in the middle this time.

"Can we get along now?" He mumbles, pulling you and Abi close to him. You each throw a leg over him and you drape your arm across him, hand on his heart and Abigail's on yours.

"Yeah." She mumbles and squeezes your hand. "'M sorry."

"Me too." You push yourself up enough to meet her halfway for a sweet, yet brief, kiss.

She puts her head back down while you kiss John, and then you watch as he kisses her. You get settled back in, John's fingertips running side to side just underneath the nape of your neck.

"Love you." You murmur.

"I love you too." John promises.

Abigail's snoring softly, but you're sure she feels the same.

[marypsue]

Raising Stakes 20 / 24

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen / Part Sixteen / Part Seventeen / Part Eighteen / Part Nineteen / Part Twenty / Part Twenty-One / Part Twenty-Two / Part Twenty-Three / Part Twenty-Four

Bit of a short chapter this time, but I had a specific place I wanted to end it, and I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. Next one will almost certainly be longer.

I’m also on AO3, as MaryPSue!

...

The truck bumped to a stop, and Stan let out the breath he’d been holding.

Customs had been a nightmare, trapped in the back of the truck for hours trying to keep the pugs quiet, and the drive into Mexico had been, if possible, worse. But now he was safely across the border, out of US jurisdiction and, hopefully, the reach of Thistle's cronies, and he'd charmed Rico into helping him out and forgetting the grudge he'd held. Not to mention that Mexico was hotter even than Santa Cruz, almost warm enough to make Stan forget about the chill that lived deep in his bones.

Yup. Finally, finally, everything was coming up Stan.

There was a clatter and a thump, voices rising in a language Stan recognised as rapid-fire Spanish, and then the double doors at the back of the truck swung wide, letting in a waft of warm night air. The smell was - well, it wasn't roses, but compared to being stuck in the back of a truck full of pugs for the last three days, it smelled damn near to heaven. Stan pushed himself to his feet, groaning at the protest from his stiff joints, and waded his way through the sea of overexcited puppies towards the open doors.

Three faces greeted him, one splitting into a broad, gleaming smile, the other two with heavy scowls that didn’t quite mask the glints of fear Stan caught in both pairs of eyes. A shiver started to walk its way up the back of Stan’s neck, incongruous with the hot evening air.

“Uh,” he said, trying to remember his rusty high school Spanish, wondering if there was anything he’d picked up on the streets of California that wasn’t rude or obscene. “Hi, fellas...?”

One of the scowlers muttered something to the other, and Stan caught the word ‘vampiro’.

Stan managed, at the last second, to keep his expression from shifting. How did they know? Had Rico told them? How would he have known?

A little too loud, to drown out his own rising sense that something here had gone seriously sideways, Stan started, “Uh, muchas gracias for meeting me, I guess, but I really gotta get moving -”

The smiler stepped closer, blocking the exit. Stan debated whether he could clear the guy’s head if he jumped, decided it probably wasn’t worth it to try.

“You’re not going anywhere, brujo,” the smiler said, between those perfectly white teeth. Stan stepped back, just as one of the scowlers stepped forward.

The last thing Stan saw was the inside of a burlap sack, before everything went dark.

...

If Stan had had any doubts about Bill - that he was real, that he was really what Ford had described him as - they would've dried up and blown away under the force of Bill's grin.

It wasn't Ford. There was no way anybody who knew Ford could mistake it for Ford. The only time Ford had ever come even close to smiling that wide in his whole entire life was probably when - actually, Stan didn't know, but he'd be willing to bet it had something to do with something sciencey. It looked painful.

“Stanley Pines! The traitor twin in the flesh!” Bill looked Stan up and down assessingly. The unimpressed look he shot at Stan made Ford’s face look, for an instant, too much like their father’s, before Bill’s too-wide smile overtook it again.

“Bill,” Stan ground out, the word curling into a growl at the end, slapping away the hand Bill had outstretched to shake. Bill’s smile grew, impossibly, even wider. “You’re the one who’s been hurting my brother.”

“Well hey there, look who’s the smart guy now!” Bill slung an arm around Stan’s shoulders and clapped him jovially on the back. It took everything Stan had in him not to recoil from the touch. “Pieced it all together, didja? Not that you could’ve done it without that book Ford gave you - I’m gonna need that back, by the way! Can’t get this party started without it!” He flashed that brilliant grin in Stan’s direction, coupling it with a big, insincere wink. His eyes glowed, faintly, Stan could see now, a dim, sickly yellow light projecting against the inside of Ford’s glasses.

“Get outta my brother’s body and then we’ll talk,” Stan said. He silently thanked whatever forces governed the universe that his voice didn’t quaver.

Bill threw Ford’s head back and laughed, long and loud and hard. Stan barely suppressed a flinch at the thought of what he was doing to Ford’s vocal cords. “Oh! Oh, wow, you really are something! Ol’ Fordsy here wasn’t kidding about you!”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean,” Stan said, short, pulling away from the arm Bill had thrown across his shoulders. He had a sinking feeling he already knew. “Look. I’m finished with this shit. I’m sick of getting the runaround, I’m sick of this fuckin’ weather, I’m sick of this fuckin’ town. I’m not playin’ your games. Get outta Ford’s body and tell me what you want.”

Bill surveyed him for a moment. Now that Stan’s eyes had had a chance to adjust to the near-complete darkness inside the shack, it was even easier to tell that whatever was animating Ford’s body wasn’t Ford. Bill held himself completely differently, shoulders squared, arms stiff, head cocked at an uncomfortable angle, the complete opposite of the hunched, secretive, nervous mess Ford had been the last two times Stan had been here. Just looking at him made Stan’s skin crawl. 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you rolled into town,” Bill said, and Stan remembered, abruptly, the feeling of eyes on his back. “And I gotta say, I don’t believe a word of what Sixer here’s said about you ‘deliberately sabotaging’ his big project! You’re waaaaayyyyyyy too incompetent for that!”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Stan said. “Real vote of confidence. What’d you do with Susan? What do you want from Ford?” He considered for a split second, before making up his mind. If this Bill guy had really been watching him since he’s first come to town, then all his cards were on the table anyway. Might as well work with what he’d got. “And can you take it from me instead?”

Bill’s smile returned, wide and unsettling. His steady, unblinking gaze (and no wonder Ford’s eyes had been so red, if Bill had been forcing him to hold them open like this) stared straight through Stan like his entire life story was printed on the back of his jacket and Bill was reading it through Stan’s chest.

“Depends!” he said, suddenly, and Stan was slightly too slow to fight down the urge to jump. “What've you got that I’d want?”

Stan examined his fingernails, trying to swallow the bile burning at the back of his throat, the press of his fangs against his jaw. If Bill knew how desperate he was - though, if Bill had been watching him, that ship had probably already sailed.

“That depends on what you want,” he said, trying to sound cool, like his heart wouldn’t be hammering his way out of his chest if it still beat. “But - and stop me if you’ve heard this one before - it looks like you need a body.”

He watched Bill’s - Ford’s - Bord’s? - eyes carefully. It might’ve been his imagination, but he thought he caught a flicker of interest.

“Why would I need a body?” Bill said, but there was something in his voice that wasn’t there before, and he’d started to look Stan up and down assessingly. “Got a perfectly good one right here!”

“Oh, sure,” Stan said. “If you like weedy nerds. An’ I’m pretty sure he’s so sleep deprived I could spit in his direction and knock ‘im over. Not exactly a specimen of physical perfection.”

Bill raised one of Ford’s eyebrows. “Wow, don’t let Fordsy hear you saying that!” 

“Why not? He’s not gonna deny it,” Stan said. He could feel himself starting to slide back into his old patter, the familiar (but not too familiar), friendly tone that set people at their ease, made them want to like him and trust him and listen to more of what he had to say. It wasn’t exactly the supernatural charm that’d gotten him into at least as many sticky situations as it’d gotten him out of, but it was almost definitely a cousin. It’d seen him through so many infomercials. And it must’ve worked, because somehow he’d always at least broken even. “Look, look at yourself. This body you’re inhabiting? It’s a wreck. Ford never took all that great care of it even before you came along, and now that you’ve turned him into a paranoid husk of a man, I think he’s forgotten that human beings need sleep and food to live!”

He made a show of sucking in a deep breath, and then pinched his nose, screwing up his face in disgust. It wasn’t exactly an act. “Ugh! Smell that? That’s the smell of a flesh vessel that’s made personal care its last priority! And just look at this!” 

Stan reached out and grabbed Ford’s wrist, pushing up the sleeve despite the warning glare Bill gave him and the way Ford’s whole body went tense. It was a gamble, but one that paid off when Ford’s shirtsleeve caught on a ladder of barely-scabbed-over cuts and shiny burn marks, climbing the inside of his arm. His nose had been right. Stan barely managed to swallow back bile, to cling to his showman’s patter, his mouth motoring away while his brain just stared in horror. “Disgraceful! Just look at that! This human body takes a little collateral damage and it’s out of commission for weeks, maybe even months! It takes an embarrassingly long time to heal from even the most minor of abrasions, and you have to be so careful not to break it!”

Bill’s smile stayed eerily wide and fixed, but he tilted Ford’s head to one side, like he was thinking about what Stan was saying. Stan reached out, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before laying a hand on Ford’s shoulder. 

“D’you see this hole in my jacket?” he asked, his mouth going dry even as he forced the words out. He’d made big pitches before, ones with a lot riding on them, but this was going to be the biggest damn sale of his worthless unlife. Either he sold this, or Ford was worse than dead.

Better fucking sell it, then.

“This hole,” Stan said, sticking his fingers into the hole and wiggling them around, “goes all the way through. Because it got there when somebody staked me in the ribs last night.” He gave an extra little wiggle of his fingers, for effect. “Went right through me. And see?” 

He unzipped his jacket, pulling up his shirt to reveal the knot of silvery scar tissue where the stake hole had been. “Not a scratch!” 

Bill tilted Ford’s head forward, that too-wide smile growing even more menacing. “Is that so.”

Stan blinked, steeling himself, and then reached out and grabbed Ford’s wrist, pressing the hand against his abdomen right over the pucker of scar tissue. He gave himself a mental point for the look of confused irritation on Bill’s face. “Oh yeah. Just stick some fresh blood in its face, and boom! Good as new! Like there was never a hole in the first place!”

Bill opened Ford’s mouth like he was getting ready to say something else unnecessarily vague and creepy, but Stan didn’t give him the chance. “And that’s not all this baby can do! Ever been frustrated with a human body’s top speed? You don’t have to answer that one, I can tell by the look on your face that you have. And how about their night vision, huh? I’m just kidding, we both know they don’t have any!”

Stan managed to force down the sick feeling that tried to crawl up the back of his throat as he slung an arm companionably around Ford’s shoulders, pulling Bill and his creepy eyes in close like they were old pals. “Look at that - oh ew, his eye’s started bleeding. That’s just - well, that’s just what I’m talking about, huh? He's not even injured! It’s just leaking blood! Now - now that’s what I call shoddy craftsmanship.”

Bill’s smile had turned thoughtful, and he stared at Stan with those bleeding, glowing eyes like he was liking what he was seeing. Stan didn’t let himself relax. He’d seen that look on the faces of enough people who were smiling in anticipation of beating the shit out of him.

“Look,” Stan said, giving Bill’s shoulder - Ford’s shoulder - a friendly squeeze, despite how it made his skin crawl. “Guy like you, you’re goin’ places, you got big plans -”

“You can’t even begin to imagine how big!” Bill interrupts. “Your pitiful, puny meatbrain couldn’t process it!”

“Great,” Stan said, trying his absolute hardest not to give Bill the blank stare he really felt like giving him right about now. “Sure. Whatever. What I’m sayin’ is, human bodies - Ford’s body - was all right for starters. But a guy like you? A real mover and shaker?”

Finally, finally, Stan gave in to the itch in his gums, fangs dropping to cover his showman’s smile as he said, “You’re gonna wanna upgrade.”

Bill looked at Stan with that smile frozen on his face for a long moment. Stan didn’t breathe, didn’t trust himself to so much as twitch with Bill’s gaze on him. 

Then Bill threw Ford’s head back and laughed, long and hard.

Stan waited until Bill doubled over, his laughter turning into silent wheezing, before asking, “So...that a yes, or...?”

That set Bill off all over again. Stan folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame for half a second, before self-consciously zipping his jacket closed again. It was almost as cold - if not colder - in Ford’s house than it had been outside. Didn’t the guy have heat? He was still alive, he could still freeze to death -

“Oh!” Bill gasped, at last, straightening up. “Oh, this is better than anything I could’ve expected! All this time I was trying to get rid of you, and it was this easy all along?” He thrust out one of Ford’s hands, so fast that Stan flinched back before realising that Bill was offering it to him to shake. “Sure, I’ll take your body!”

“And leave Ford alone,” Stan pressed, and Bill rolled Ford’s eyes. The blood starting to crust around his right eye bubbled, a fresh trickle creeping down Ford’s cheek.

Stan swallowed, and forced his gaze away.

Bill tilted Ford’s head expectantly, giving Ford’s hand a little waggle in case Stan had forgotten it was there. “Hey, this is a limited time offer!”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll get outta Ford’s body and leave him alone?” Stan insisted.

Bill’s smile dropped like an anvil on the head of an unsuspecting coyote.

“Well, I can’t exactly be in two bodies at once!” he chirped, though his morbid cheer suddenly seemed forced.

Stan considered for a moment. Like a rock to gravity, his gaze was tugged  down to Bill’s outstretched hand. Six familiar fingers, trembling slightly with either excitement or malnutrition and exhaustion, met his gaze, and he had to shut his eyes. What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he doing?

Then again, what other choice did he have?

“Sure,” Stan sighed, reaching out and grabbing his brother’s hand, maybe a little too tight. “Let’s do this.”

Bill’s smile returned, scribbling itself over Ford’s face like a markered-in devil horns and goatee on a glossy photograph. “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride! This won’t hurt you a bit!” he said, his voice gaining a strange echo. Stan realised, a moment too late, that the smile really was over Ford’s face, hanging just a little too far forward in the air. 

And it wasn’t a smile. It was a single, laughing, unblinking, eye.

Stan just had time to ask himself, again, what the hell he thought he was doing, before the hand in his erupted in blue fire and he was yanked unceremoniously out of himself.