#stanfords eye bleeds

[fishymom-art]

thank you! Here's the uhh

short answer to how Ford lost his eye

@sombrerokiwi

[cryptfile]

⨳ kinktober file 02 — victims of love, a. donaldson.

summary — you will simply not tolarate losing.

warnings — 18+ mdni, rivals to lovers, fem!reader, tension, filthy mouth, praise kink, whiny&pathetic!art, choking, pet names, p in v, masturbation, mentions of spit, blood and injuries (reader falls during a match and Art takes care of it, nothing wild), dumbification (art calls reader a loser multiple times).

side notes — this takes place before Tashi’s knee accident, it’s not important to know but whatever, english is not my first language thanks to the greater power of the universe, so any mistakes, let them be, i’m not sorry, also, like my previous file, dividers by @cafekitsune! let me know if you want to be tagged in the next kinktober file! been thinking about doing a kinktober masterlist so it’s easier for you my pretty people to look up and read whatever you want. Requests are still open at the moment!

Fuck being a loser.

Even when the tournament is a friendly one. Stanford always do that shit, this thing to bring students together and forces everyone to participate, yet, when you find out who you’re compiting with, it’s pretty obvious you’re going for the throat, not caring if the word “friendly” is in name as there was a medal and 150$ on game.

Yes. You are competitive by heart, it’s part of your genetics now that you’re deep into this tennis world you never wanted to be a part of, Tashi made you sign up and suddenly, suddenly you take it very seriously.

You win the first match, the second, and when it comes down to the final one, you find out it’s none other than Art Donaldson the one who’s on the other side of the tennis court, bouncing the yellow ball until he’s confident enough make the first move.

By the end you’re sweaty. Visible drips of sweat even when you’re standing on the other side, running to match his stregth and game. You wanted to be pro, enjoy the luxury of a relaxed life whose only meaning is to win plays, and to finally be that, you need to beat everyone, man or woman alike as it’s not a matter of sex, but rather talent.

It does not matter if it’s a friendly tournament, it does not matter about the masses saying you’re good, it’s about the fact that you won, that you beat Art Donaldson out of all people. Tashi is a wild ride yes, she makes you work for it when you two are against each other, run to every side, get tired. Art is tension.

Competition.

There’s nothing friendly about the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not dripping in sweat like you are, making those filthy sounds he makes each time he uses force to hit the ball, enough effort on it to make him tired, utterly tired.

So when he won, your knee is already bleeding, shaking his hand in nothing but hatred as he gives you this confident smile he uses to flirt sometimes. You hate it, every second of it, hate the fact that you lose against Tashi’s friend (who you’re sure she must have fucked before cause how there’s so much unresolved tension there?) and how he’s looking at you like he just crushed you in every sense of the word, even enjoyed it while doing it so.

“Good match,” he says when everyone’s looking at your interaction with him, but you don’t say a word. Art chuckles cause he knows people like you, people who need to prove themselves over and over again. “You did a good job.”

You don’t need praising even when it does things to you. You remain professional as you shake his hand, a fast and tight shake before taking the second place. Second.

What you don’t expect is to be in that party later. The music’s loud and people are celebrating something you’re not much aware of, yet the third place greets you with the tequila as you arrive, a bronze medal on his chest as the strong, burning taste goes down your throat before you caught him out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson.

He loves praising so much he cannot help it when people stop and say something nice about him: A good little tournament he won? It’s not something he’s going to be proud of his life forever, but it’s enough to make him enjoy the comments about his talent as the day goes through, the medium-sized gold medal still on his neck as he walks like he owns the place. 150$ dollars richer.

Fucker.

Everything seems to be against you: Sororities aren’t your thing but you’re there, the tournament went to shit, Art was literally haunting you.

You think about leaving. You live in a small residence where everyone knows each other, so big spaces filled with as much students as they can possibly fit is not a exactly a plan for you in a friday night, not when you like to stay indoors— But Tashi’s there, your friends are there, and man, you just need to have a good time after the disaster of a day.

So instead, you shove down a shot or two. And when you’re invited to smoke some grass outside, you don’t doubt it, even when Tashi says something about training tomorrow before disappearing, you're sat in a small circle, not caring about your friend’s words as you forgot about the pressure and simply smoke oblivious to everything — Even to Art's gaze.

Fuck being pro. You were doing okay in physics, maybe you should stick to that.

So while you’re drowning in misery, Art just looks at you with a beer in the hand. You picked his interest right at the end of the game: Tashi's friend, new blood, and a fresh face after a whole semester of knowing the same people — It’s safe to say he's drawn to you like he has been with everything he liked during his life. So yeah, he caught himself staring, going back to his memories and the imprinted scene on his brain of the match you two shared before like it was something intimate everyone in the public saw, the dripping sweat falling off your skin as you throw yourself to the floor caughting the small ball when you don't care about your physical well-being anymore.

He can see the wounds on your knee still, the scraps of dry blood as you smoked weed. He knows you're abusing, abusing your limits, testing how far you can go after a hell of a mach, and Art's usually pinning after Tashi at that point, desperate to sabotage Patrick, yet that night specifically he finds himself in trouble until that very moment, that very moment that everything seemed to change all of a sudden.

Truth is Art don't know you very much. He knows Tashi got a female friend she happens to like, a breathe of fresh air as she would describe you, that you play tennis sometimes, but more than that? He's totally clueless even about your name.

It’s just,— God. He loves girls that can put him in his place. It happened with Tashi before driving him crazy with need, and it has happened now in a lame tennis court with you out of all sudden. He thinks about that look you gave him, the tension of the competition, about the fact that even when you saw him, you choose to ignore him, the silver medal you received before well hidden in the back pockets of your shorts instead of proudly display it on your chest like the thrid place did.

You’re no second place. It’s very clear.

He likes your ego, that cocky face you got when someone mentioned the match, dismissing your second place like it was nothing; and Art just stares, even when people notice he’s looking at you, he doesn’t care about being evident as he scans each and every one of your actions.

Shit, he’s been staring a long time. Your friends notice when they tell you about the cute strawberry blonde that’s been checking you out the whole night, but you, knowing who he is, just know that he’s only doing it for teasing, to make your blood boil like he did in the match.

No one’s breaking the nice bubble you made though, laughing, dancing until you’re dizzy and you need to tell one of your girls that you’re going to the bathroom real quick, plan that usual, goes incredibly catastrophic.

The door is locked and you stand outside knocking a couple of times, cursing at the time it took the person inside to get out. And it’s all very cliché when you think about it hours later, cause when the door opens and you’re so rushed, so high already, you don’t happen to notice who you’re running into.

Either way you crash into him when he comes out. Art, Art, Art fucking Art. You’re half way drunk as you would say, and he’s dead sober as he prevents you from falling, grabbing you by the arm as you lose balance.

“Careful,” he would say before noticing it’s you—. “Having trouble to keep on your feet, second place? you okay?”

The nickname stirs something in you. Boiling rage mostly as you quickly stand on your feet again, regaining the balance you lost.

“Thanks. Watch where you’re going,” you quickly reply, rolling your eyes to the back of your head—. “Gotta be careful. People are not kind as me.”

“Kind? You sure about that?” he laughs softly, looking down at you. Fucking rat. Is he mocking you? “Don’t think you were kind to me. You were nothing but the opposite.”

“Were you expecting a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek?” you asked furrowing your brows in response, an attitude that only appears cause you lack of shame, driven by liquid courage.

“Well for starters, that could be nice” he admits, and you now understand how it ended like it was going at the moment, how he prevented you from getting into the bathroom as he puts his hand right in front of you, blocking the way inside. “Maybe a good job would do.”

You sober up really fast after that, impossible not to.

“How’s your knee?” he asks after the silence, and you notice how he’s leaning towards you, hand on the wall as he points out the wound you didn’t take care of before, too mad to disinfect it as you ignore the pain after the match: Nothing hurts more than a bruised ego. “Did you go to the infirmary?”

“It’s only a bruise, m’okay” you say, looking at your kneecap as well, the dried blood that’s still on your skin—. “Can I go in or what?”

He’s pretty confident in himself, it seems like it (or maybe it’s because he has a gold medal with a number #1 on it), yet he’s grabbing you by the waist, pushing you inside the bathroom as he closes the door behind him with the help of his foot, helping you sit on top of the sink as he looks out for the first aid kit in a bathroom that’s not his.

And you, weird enough, forget why you’re there in the first place. That you were feeling strangely dizzy, that you were going to the bathroom to stare at the mirror and wash your face to sober up, even drunk for a moment as he presses a clean towel dipped in alcohol, a weird silence as you leg tweak against the sudden pain, a reflex you cannot control.

“Do you always get so mad when you don’t get what you want?” he asks, distracting you from the burning sensation as he takes care of the wound in your kneecap—. “Never met someone that could get so passionate about a friendly tournament.”

“No,” you admit, looking at his hands. Even when the blood is dried it still hurts. His touch is gentle, warm against your skin as he touches only what he needs to be touched, keeping his left hand on your tight as he prevents you from moving involuntarily. “Don’t lose often.”

“That so?” he asks, tilting his head slightly backwards, giving you this smile as if he has a huge secret about you only he knew, like you two share confidence now that you’ve shared five minutes in a bath away from the noise. “How long you’ve been playing anyway? Haven’t see you around.”

“A while,” you find his curiosity annoying, yet you’ve been rude enough so you don’t say much, not when he’s helping you—. “Didn’t take it very serious until this semester.”

He hums. Art likes that. The fact that your brain works for something else rather than the competition, that you could talk about the fucking weather if you like and not another match, so he takes in the information in, standing between your parted legs, incredible close.

“And you’re winning don’t you?” he asks curiously. “Hoping to go pro.”

“Well, I think we all want that in the end, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t respond, not with words exactly, but he leans over the bathroom sink, body barely touching yours as he grabs the red thread hanging on the back pocket of your shorts, the one he knows it’s there cause he’s been looking at it the entire night, and you need help cause your breathing hitches on your throat for a moment: Art’s touch is soft, equal as it was when he was taking care of your wound, his fingers sliding in the back as he grabs the silver medal of the second place between his fingers.

How, the hell he smells so damn good? Since you heard he was participating in the tournament you were eager to beat him and reduce him to ashes, but now, you find yourself sniffing on his scent as he fills your nostrils with a sweet smell much like vanilla, clean.

“You should wear your medal,” the blonde says, placing it over your head—. “Let people know you’re good in what you’re doing.”

“I don’t want people to cheer over a second place,” you admit looking at the silver with disgust, too proud to let it slide. “That’s mediocre.”

He seems to thing about it for a second: “Mediocre huh? Would you be happy if we switched medals then, second place?” he asks, looking down at your face. He’s too comfortable now that you didn't pushed him away, caging you in the sink as he places a hand on each side of your legs, his weight now against the spacious marble counter—. “Is that what you want? I’ll tell everyone you beat me if that’s going to make you happy.”

“No,” Why are you even nervous? You scold yourself in your mind a couple of times, he’s looking at you with those fucking puppy eyes, glistening under the white lights of the bath as he looks at you almost pleading—. “Cause that’s not true. You won.”

“Don’t really care. I just want to put a smile on your face,” Art replies, and god, it’s getting damn hard to think at that point cause his fingers are tracing invisible patters on the sides of your legs, stupidly close as he scans your face, no shame, nothing but a pure act of lust. “Don’t want you to be mad a me, second place. Would not want us to start off on the wrong foot.”

Whatever he’s doing? It’s working. Cause when he’s taking the gold medal out of his neck to put it in yours, exchanging the silver one you hated so much with his gold? You’re sure you’re making it all up in your head.

“There,” the athlete smiles almost proud as his knuckles brushes against your chest—. “Looks better around your neck anyways.”

He caughts you off-guard. You’re no longer high, drunk, or whatever excess you’ve been through the night, and you simply dig it, a lot to be honest with yourself. Maybe it’s the fact that you lose the tournament, that you’re somehow vulnerable thanks to your ego being bruised so much, but you let it happen, let his fingers grab the skin of your tight again like its their original place cause you want him to do it, to experience his touch.

“Nobody’s going to believe me,” you blurt out, nervous enough to act like you’re normal about it, about his warm skin seeking yours—. “They all saw you win. You played good.”

“You really think that?” he’s dizzy on that cocky confidence, that boost your words give him as he smiles, his right hand caressing your cheek for a moment, losing itself in the strands of your hair moments after. “You really think I did a good job out there? Beating you?”

It’s the way he’s saying it. How he’s all desperate about it, so needy for you to admit he did good as he brushes your hair using his fingers.

“You know I do. That’s why you won, Art.”

“I swear i’ll keep the secret, loser” he chuckles lowly, breaking every rule as he pushes you to the edge of the counter. “I’ll tell everyone that you won, but you’ll still be the second place to me.”

Fucker.

You want to respond, say something sassy as well, a snarky remark at least, but Art’s pressing his forehead against yours, grabbing you by the jaw strong enough to remind you he has more force than you, but gentle enough to let you enjoy it, demanding you to look at him. Look at him like he’s been looking at you the whole damn night.

“I do, really want to kiss you right now, second place” he admits close to you, gaze travelling to your pumped lips as his eyes take in the details, the pink shade mixed with a transparent lip gloss that only seems to invite him, to make a mess with it, dissapear at its finest. “It’s burning me alive.”

He waits for any sign of permission, and you try to think reasons to say no. Any motive to say no to him, but instead you simply chuckle, back against the wall, trapped in this atmosphere he so easily created: There’s no human way possible to say no cause to be brutally honest, you want it too.

He’s hot. he's handsome in a way you cannot stop thinking about so when he's kissing you? You have no complains. You let him be needy, let him touch you like an anguished men, like he encountered a glass of water after a long walk in the dessert. The kiss it's all teeth and bite — It's fast, messy, demanding and wet. He's grabbing you by the medal, tugging on the gold circle just to make you lean towards him, fingers now caressing on the skin of your throat now as he deepen the kiss, not even waiting for permission as he slides his tongue in, wanting more.

"So you wear my medal and i'll wear yours" his breathing collides against your skin soon after, planting kisses on the crook of your neck, drawn by your smell of peaches, the softness of your skin. "Say it, please say you'll do it."

Each second becomes a torture, a cruel joke when you were so invested in winning, something you don't care about now, that seems to be far from your interests as he squeezes the skin of your tight, toying with the hem of your shirt, the cotton fabric of your black t-shirt that only annoys him as he touches your stomach, the sweet intimacy he's been craving since the morning.

"I'll do it," you nod for a second—. "But you have to be convincing. Don't make me look like a fool."

"How could I?" he asks, utterly curious as he stops for a second to look at you. "You're a winner, anyone can tell."

It makes your blood rush. His words seems to hit the jackpot, cause your shirt's falling the floor, the door's being closed with lock, and suddenly, the air is hot, the only sound that filled the bathroom of the sorority being his kisses, your labored breathing as you forgot about the rest of the party.

It's not something you'd usually do, the rush of something so sporadic, so inconsistent, but you love the adrenaline, the touch of his hands, the electricity being poured down your spine.

"Nobody would even dare to think you're in reality a loser" he says, praising once again in his own way as he places a soft kiss on your lips, looking down at your hands now, fingers interwined now in his jeans. More. You want more. “A really hot second place.”

Your touch is getting more eager now, and as you unbuckle his pants, he's fucking whimpering, his hips moving in need for the friction the palm of your hand can offer, taunting him for a second before he's pulling down on his own underwear himself, the blue fabric of his jeans falling halfway over his tights.

Your hand leaves his body for a second, and he's ready to beg for more until he notices what you're really doing, a large amount of spit going into your hand in what Art could swear is the most erotic act he has ever seen, traces of drool on in your chin before your fingers finally hug his already hard cock.

Soon he's fucking your fist, burying his head in your neck, moaning and pleading you to keep on going, moving his hips fast enough to create a delicious sound you thrive on, ones that mixes damn well in the air. He's slightly sweaty, not like he was in the game, but enough to create this nice smell it only makes you addicted.

"Don't cum," you ask, and it's a lot when his movements are becoming more erratic at the time passes, incoherent words of praise and need as he bites on your neck—. "Art. Don't cum on my hand."

Fuck that.

His touch becomes desperate after that. The medal of the first place still on your bare chest, your black bra slightly up as he’s been touching you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, your skin almost glowing beneath the bathroom lights: He needs you more than what's actually possible, tugging on the button of your shorts, annoyed with the piece of fabric as he takes it off, the time it took to undress you being valuable time he simply doesn't want to waste.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, making sure for a second you're okay, nodding in response before he grabs you by the hips only to push you in the position he wanted, finally throwing the damn shorts you're wearing to the floor before spreading your legs open, positioning himself in the middle. "God, you're such a fucking sight."

His voice is rough now, and that nice look on his face, that fucking rat smile, friendly even, is far erased from his lips now as he grabs his dick, pushing it between your folds without really fucking you, and the act is enough to make you moan when he’s moving his hips in a cruel pace, the tip of his cock leaking already against you clit. He’s fucking his own fist, your already dripping cunt making it easier for Art to slide as he wants to.

He spits, and it’s a crime cause nobody looks good while doing so, the trails of saliva that leaves his mouth land on his dick, coating your cunt before slightly pushing it inside with the help of his fingers, finally offering what you trully need—. And you feel him, inch by inch. When his fingers are grabbing you by the waist to keep you in place, pushing slowly until he’s deep inside, placing sloppy kisses all over your neck as you moan in response.

Art swears he’s in heaven. Invaded by an intense bliss as he began to move. The second place medal hits his torso, colliding against yours as he moves, and his left hand moves to grab a fistful of your hair just to pull it backwards, making your head follow the motion — He’s relentless, moving in a slow pace at first before gaining rythm, but shit. You’d lie if you didn’t say he knew what he was doing when his right thumb moves in circles over your swollen clit.

It’s hard to hate Art Donaldson like that. All whiny and pathetic, mumbling words about how warm your pussy is, how tight you feel, wet for him. It’s hard giving a fuck about the competition when he’s leaving your hair alone to instead grab the thread of the medal you’re wearing, the red ribbon that was on his neck before and now is hanging on yours, angling the medal so the thread is now choking you, pulling on the gold slightly to make it harder to breathe.

“C’mon, loser” he says with a cocky smile, looking down where his cock is, stretching you out to his liking with each thrust. “D’you feel that? How good your pretty pussy is taking me? That’s first place material there, champion material.”

You nod a couple of times, too fucked-out to function. Lewd sounds fill out the room after, the moans, the grunts, the coils of pleasure that started to form in the lower part of your belly, fueled by his rough movements now, leaving that soft touch behind to replace it with force, fingers digging on your skin so hard he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark behind.

Fuck it. Fuck the game, fuck second place. Your head hits the mirror behind the sink, yet it means nothing as you can feel the orgasm being poured all over by the minutes, the insane punch as he keeps on going, hitting that nice spot in an inconsistant pace as you come undone.

“God that’s it,” he says, pulling on the medal until your skin is changing fucking colors—. “That’s it, cum,” he demands. “Taking my cock like a fucking champion.”

He cums soon after you, pulling out as it lands on your stomach, the gold medal thats now resting on your belly stained with his cum.

And he melts in top of you for a second, breathing heavily against your neck, body covered in sweat before blushing slightly embarassed about the mess he did.

Weird enough, only one thought appears on his mind after five minutes: Just wait until you meet Patrick.

previous kinktober file [ dean winchester ] // masterlist

[blushlambs]

need virgin stanford art with a virgin reader, both so inexperienced and curious, eager to explore each other’s bodies. art’s thoughts were relatively pure, driven by a genuine desire to make love to her, to hold her close and take it slow. after all, he doesn’t want to hurt her. patrick’s tainted his brain with his sick fetish for fucking virgins, said there was something satisfying about corrupting them, making them bleed? the thought had horrified art then, and it horrifies him now.

it’s too bad she is just so desperately begging to be fucked. her little brain decayed from a porn addiction begun too young, just so eager to try everything she’s been programmed to crave. her brain goes straight to his cock bruising the back of her throat, mascara staining her cheeks while he grips the back of her ponytail. she thinks art’s sudden interest in her must mean he wants her sweet face in his ass, massaging his balls with saliva and jerking him raw like a little degenerate.

it’s abundantly clear that they have different motives when art finally decides he’s ready to lose his virginity.

she’s straddling his lap, grinding on his semi. he’s peppering chaste kisses along her shoulders, his knuckles white from gripping the bedsheets. “art, please just fucking touch me.” she whines. he gasps slightly when she rips his hand from the bed and places it around her throat. “uh.. would that not hurt you?” he asks naively. “don’t fuckin’ care.. just do it.”

art can’t fathom why you’d want that. was that something girls were into? having lived with his grandma, he’d never been exposed to proper sex ed, let alone porn. he hesitantly tightens his grip anyways.

“need it so bad, art. i need you to give it to me. please baby please. i’ll take it all. promise.” she chokes out, her voice desperate. she whimpers in his ear, her hands frantically fumbling with his belt, swiftly undoing it. the intensity of her need catches him off guard. he’s almost appalled. “are you actually a virgin?” he questions her, voice laced with doubt. “of course i’m a fucking virgin, why?” she snaps back, a glimpse of defiance in her eyes.

“then how do you know what you’re doing?” she pauses, locking eyes with him, a mix of frustration and impatience flashing across her face. “we’re having sex art, it’s not exactly rocket science.” his heart sank, he shouldn’t have asked. what a fucking loser.

(part 2) (part 3)

[mxltifxnd0m]

crimson waves ☽ s. winchester

summary: you're on your period and sam is the best boyfriend ever

pairings: established sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x fem! reader

word count: 3.4K

warnings: MINORS DNI, mentions of blood and periods, fluff, fingering, implied smut (there's a little), sam being a sweetheart, no use of 'y/n', kinda edited

a/n: so this was meant to be posted when i was on my period but then i got stuck while writing it and then i went on a hiatus from tumblr for a month... but now im back! so, here it is :P

but enjoy the fic! please like, comment, and reblog!! your feedback fuels me!

[here's my taglist; read rules before sending in an ask]

𝘴𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

Being a light sleeper was a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing because you were able to wake up at any sign of danger or disturbance, and you needed to have heightened senses in your line of work. It was also a curse because your body tended to wake you up when the situation didn’t call for it, like right now. 

You felt yourself being pulled from your dreamscape as your lower abdomen started to twist and cramp. You opened your eyes slowly and let out a small groan as a sharp pain shot through you. You wanted to curl into yourself, but a heavy arm was wrapped around your waist, reminding you of the person who was sleeping soundly behind you. 

You blinked the sleep out of your eyes and looked at the nightstand to check the time on the alarm clock. “8:21 AM,” it read, and your eyes closed involuntarily as you let out a small sigh. You were exhausted from the hunt that you and the boys had come back from the night before. You were looking forward to sleeping in for the next couple of days before, but of course, life wasn’t going to be kind to you. Another cramp seized your body, and that was your signal to get up and check if you had started to bleed through your underwear or not. 

You gently peeled off Sam’s arm, and it went willingly as he rolled onto his stomach, facing away from you, sleeping peacefully. 

Lucky bastard. You thought to yourself as a scowl wormed its way onto your face as you watched Sam sleep for a moment. You got up from the bed and padded around your shared room with Sam, grabbing a new pair of underwear, a pad, and a new set of pajamas that included some soft flannel pants and Sam’s old Stanford hoodie. You went into the ensuite bathroom, and when you went to relieve yourself, you felt the unpleasant feeling of a blood clot leaving your body. You pressed your lips together, trying to tamp down the brewing irritation in your chest. 

After finishing your business on the toilet, you quickly stripped, threw up your hair to avoid it getting wet, and turned the shower on. You let it warm up before hopping it, letting the hot water hit your back, and a sigh of relief left your lips as you felt the tense muscles in your stomach melt away. You didn’t know how long you stood in the shower as the water hit your chest and flowed down the rest of your body, stewing in your thoughts before you felt a pair of hands land on your hips. You went willingly as they pulled you into their bare chest and let out a contented hum as they pressed soft kisses along the side of your neck and shoulder. 

“Good morning.” The rasp of Sam’s voice was deep and low in your ear as his hands moved from their spot on your hips and wrapped around your waist. 

Your mouth pulled up into a smile, your mood lifting slightly. “Morning.” You let your head fall back against Sam’s shoulder, and his lips trailed up from their spot on your neck, planting a soft kiss on your cheek. 

“You’re up early.” He mumbled against your cheek, his grip around you getting tighter. 

“Cramps.” You said in a low voice, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere of the bathroom before wincing as your lower stomach began to ache again. 

Sam pressed another soft kiss to your cheek before resting his chin on your shoulder. “You know, I can help with that.” One of his hands started to slide down from your waist and down to your stomach. 

You grabbed his wrist before his hand could make its way to its destination. “As much as I’d like you to do that, I- oh fuck.” You almost doubled over if Sam’s arm didn’t wrap around your midsection, catching you as a more intense cramp shot through your abdomen. It felt like a boa constrictor was wrapped around your organs and suffocating them. 

“You okay honey?” Sam’s concerned voice filtered through your ears as you gritted your teeth in pain. 

“Not really.” You said through gritted teeth as you leaned against him when the pain had lessened. You almost snapped at him for the stupid question he asked because it was obvious that you weren’t, but you swallowed the retort you had on the tip of your tongue. 

“Babe, let me help you. I heard that orgasms help with cramps.” 

You would have laughed at Sam’s words if you weren’t in pain. You turned your head to look up at Sam’s pleading expression. “But the blood.” You tried weakly, not wanting him to be disgusted by it. 

Sam raised an eyebrow at you. “I can handle a little blood. But if you don’t want me to, we can get out right now and I’ll get you some painkillers.” 

You bit your bottom lip in thought, and you didn’t miss Sam’s eyes flickering down to your lip and back to meet your gaze. “Just use your hands for now.” 

Sam smiled at you, nodding before he dipped his head down and gave you a soft kiss while one of his hands wandered down your body. 

You let out a soft moan against Sam’s lips as you felt his fingertips start to rub soft circles on your already sensitive clit. Warmth spread throughout your body as desire filled your veins. Low moans and whines escaped your mouth as Sam’s fingers quickly worked over your swollen clit. Sam’s mouth swallowed your sounds as his tongue swiped against yours fervently. 

You could feel your orgasm beginning to rise as Sam’s hand left your clit and two fingers started to pump into you. A cry left your lips as his thick fingers filled your cunt. Sam managed to hit your g-spot each time his fingers thrust in and out of your sopping hole. Sam’s lips left yours as he began to nip at your jaw and neck. You could vaguely feel his hard cock pressed against your ass through your lust-filled trance, and you couldn’t help but jerk your hips backward, grinding against Sam. 

A low groan left Sam’s lips as you felt him grind against you in response. “You gonna cum? I can feel you clenching tight around my fingers.” 

“Ye-yeah.” Your response came out as a broken moan. 

Sam’s tactic changed from hitting your g-spot every time his fingers thrust in your cunt, to stilling inside of you and making a come-hither-motion with his middle and ring finger. You could feel the heat that was brewing in your core boil over. 

Sam could feel how close you were and doubled down on his ministrations. “Come for me baby.” He ordered in a low voice before nipping at your pulse point. 

You did just that, and you came with a shout. Stars danced behind your closed eyes as you leaned against Sam’s muscular body as you rode out your orgasm. 

You whimpered once Sam’s fingers retreated from you, and you pouted at the feeling of being empty, your cunt clenching around nothing. Sam reached over and turned off the water. He turned you around in his arms and rested his hands on your hips as he pressed a chaste kiss on your slightly swollen lips before his forehead met yours. 

“Feel better?” Sam asked with a loving smile on his face. 

You couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Yeah, I do.” The ache in your abdomen was dull, but it wasn’t excruciating as it was when you woke up. 

Sam’s smile widened, and he went to leave the shower, but you caught his wrist in your hand. He looked back at you with a furrow in his brow. 

“Do you not want me to…” You trailed off, gesturing to his still-hard cock. 

Sam shook his head, his slightly damp hair moving as he did. “Later. You need to eat something before you take some painkillers.” 

You raised an eyebrow at him, your eyes slowly looking over his naked body before they landed on his amused face, his hazel eyes filled with mirth.

“Down girl,” Sam said jokingly when he saw your heated gaze. He grabbed the navy blue towels that weren’t there before you came into the bathroom, dried himself off quickly, and wrapped it around himself. It was slung low on his hips, revealing the deep v-line and happy trail. 

If you weren’t on your period right now, you would have had Sam fucked you into next week against the tiled wall. You made your way out of the shower, where Sam met you with the other towel and dried you off. He wrapped the towel around you and kissed you when it was snug around you. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. Sam was being so sweet; it could have made your teeth ache. 

When you broke away from the kiss, you shooed him out of the bathroom, wanting to put your pad on your underwear in peace. Sam pouted but left without any complaints. You took the time to change into your loungewear for the day and do your morning routine before heading back into the room. 

When you left the bathroom, Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, all dressed in his classic flannel and jeans. He looked up from his phone and started to smile as soon as Sam saw what you were wearing. He rose from the bed and met you halfway as you walked towards you. 

He kissed your forehead and tugged the sleeve of your (his) sweater that you were wearing. “I was wondering where this went.” Sam said as he looked down at you with a knowing smile on his face. 

You shrugged. “It must have gotten mixed in with my laundry.” 

Sam nodded and let out a small chuckle, acting like he believed you, but he knew that you stole it from him. He leaned forward and planted another kiss on your forehead. 

“You’re lucky that you’re cute.” Sam muttered against your forehead before pulling away and placing his hands on your shoulders. He turned you around and began to lead (push) you out of the bedroom and down the halls of the bunker. 

Sam made the two of you breakfast. Then, you took some painkillers to try and curb the pain that your cramps made you suffer every month. You decided to go back to your room to relax in bed and just watch some TV that you’d been meaning to catch up on. You had asked Sam to join you, but he said that he had to go out and run some errands, which made you pout since you wanted to spend time with your boyfriend. You had offered to come with him, but he insisted that you stay in bed and rest. 

You were lying in bed with your laptop on your lap and a heating pad on your stomach when you heard a knock at the door. You paused the show you were watching before telling the person at the door to come in. 

Sam peered his head into the room. “Hey, honey.” He greeted you with a smile. “How are you feeling?” 

“Feeling as good as I can be while being on my period.” You said as you heard the crinkling of plastic from the doorway, and your eyebrows furrowed slightly. 

“Soo, not good?” Sam asked as he entered the room with a plastic bag in one hand while his other hand was hidden behind his back. 

“Not really.” You sighed a little before raising an eyebrow at him as you closed your laptop and placed it on your nightstand. 

“Well,” He began to say with a wide smile. “I have some things that might make you feel better.” Sam finally entered the room, a plastic bag in one hand and the other hidden behind his back. Once he reached the edge of the bed, Sam placed the bag in your lap before sitting by your feet.

You immediately dived into the bag and saw Sam bought all of your favorite snacks and candy that you had been craving every time you were on your period. You look up from the bag and find Sam holding out a bouquet that he had hidden behind his back. 

Your eyes flickered from Sam’s sheepish smile to the beautiful arrangement of tulips, lilies, and baby’s breath. You grabbed the bouquet from Sam’s outstretched hand as you continued to admire them. Your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel your eyes start to well up. 

Sam caught onto your teary eyes. “You okay honey?” A slight frown marred his face as the line in between his eyebrows became more prominent. 

You managed to let out a choked laugh and nodded before setting the flowers beside you. You looked at Sam with a broad smile before launching yourself into Sam’s arms. 

Sam let out a surprised grunt as you wrapped your arms around his neck, and his arms instinctively wrapped around your waist. He managed to get your legs out of the blanket that covered them, but you ended up straddling his lap as you hugged Sam tightly. You could feel a stray tear or two fall from your eyes as you breathed in Sam’s comforting scent and felt one of his hands rub your back soothingly. 

You eventually calmed down and pulled back to meet Sam’s eyes. “Thank you.” 

Sam’s lips pulled up into a smile. “What for?” His head tilted slightly as he looked at you with his signature puppy dog look. 

“Just for being you. No one has gone out of their way to get me my favorite snacks or flowers when I’m on my period.” 

Your lifestyle didn’t really allow for serious relationships, so you were never granted the luxury of your partners showering you with love and care while you were on your period. Besides, your last real relationship didn’t end very well. So when you met Winchesters, the last thing on your mind was falling in love with one of them, but life had other plans for you and Sam. 

Sam tucked a wayward strand of hair behind your ear. “Whoever didn’t is an idiot.” He flashed you his cute half-smile that never failed to make you feel warm inside as he rested his hand on your cheek. You couldn’t help but nuzzle into his touch as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. 

“When we die and we’re in Heaven, and if Jess is there, I’m giving her a big fat kiss on the lips for training you so well.” You joked with a broad smile on your lips. 

Sam couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.” There was a pause before he spoke again. “The two of you would have been good friends.” Sam said with fondness coating his words. 

“But you’re okay with sharing me in Heaven?” Sam’s tone was teasing. You pulled back from him slightly as you let your eyes trail over his figure before meeting his hazel gaze and biting your bottom lip. 

“Oh, I have no problem with sharing. The question is if you’re able to handle the both of us?” You said with a sultry smirk on your face. 

Sam’s upper lip twitched before you saw a glint of amusement pass through his eyes. “Well, we’ll find out when we cross that bridge.” 

“I suppose we will.”  

A silence had settled between the two of you, just staring at each other while Sam’s hands were resting on your thighs and your hands were scratching at the back of his neck, which he had lost the staring contest as his eyes closed in bliss. You had to smile as he let out satisfied hums from his mouth. You had eventually climbed off of your boyfriend, and he whined as you stopped scratching his head and neck. He let you go and sit back in your previous spot on your bed. 

You huffed amusedly at Sam’s slight pout. “Go change.” You told him. 

“Why?”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Because, I want to cuddle my boyfriend in comfortable clothing while we pig out on the snacks he bought me.” 

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” 

“I know, and hurry your cute ass up and change.” 

After Sam had changed, you guys cuddled in bed as you finished up the episode you were watching on your laptop. You ate the snacks Sam bought but saved most of it for later. Before you knew it, Dean was knocking at the door and letting the two of you know that dinner was ready. You were still hungry, so the two of you left your room and had dinner with Dean in the kitchen. 

Once you were done with dinner, the three of you had an impromptu movie night in the “Dean Cave” (you hated the name, but it unfortunately stuck). Dean picked out an old western, and as much as you love Dean, he could have a better taste in movies. Nonetheless, you sat and watched it until about halfway through the movie. Your cramps started to rear their ugly head again. 

You let out a quiet groan before silently excusing yourself from the room and making your way to your bedroom to take some painkillers. Unbeknownst to you, Sam had heard you and followed shortly after you left the room. 

You quickly downed the painkillers and used the spare water bottle that was on your nightstand to wash them down. You knew that it would take a while for them to kick in, so you went to get into bed, but before you could, a pair of arms wrapped around you pulled you into their chest for the second time today. 

Sam’s hands went underneath the sweater you were wearing and rested his warm palms on your lower stomach. “Cramps again?” He asked as he rested his chin on your shoulder. 

You nodded as you let out a sigh. You leaned back into Sam’s embrace and closed your eyes. You could feel Sam’s thumbs swirling random shapes into your skin before he murmured your name quietly, getting your attention. 

“Yeah?” You asked slowly. 

“Can I take care of you like I did this morning?” 

Your eyes shot open as you turned around in his embrace. “You sure?” You cleared your throat. “It’ won’t be as-,” You gestured to your nether regions. “-clean.” You winced at your words. 

Sam looked at you unamused. “Like I said before, blood doesn’t bother me.” He said before he smirked. “Besides, the sheets needed to be washed anyway.” 

“Sam!” You slapped his shoulder, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips as he smiled cheekily at you. 

“Is that a yes?”

You huffed and rolled your eyes. You were a little hesitant, but this was Sam you were talking about. You had explored any and all avenues of your sex lives with each other, and this was one of the boxes on his checklist. 

“It’s a yes. But-” 

You weren’t able to finish your sentence because Sam had pulled your lips to his and drew you into a passionate kiss. And before you knew it, your whines and moans, combined with Sam’s groans, had filled the air as you writhed against the bed in pleasure as Sam ground against you, only pulling back slightly and thrusting as deep as he could, drawing out your third orgasm on his cock before he spilled into you. 

Your bodies were coated in sweat, and you could only imagine the mess that was in between yours and Sam’s legs. After Sam had recovered, he went into the bathroom to grab some damp washcloths to clean the both of you up and quickly ran a hot bath for you to relax in while he threw the sheets in the wash. 

When you were done with the bath, you gained the ability to walk again. You stumbled into the bedroom with the discarded pajamas that were once scattered on the floor back on your body. Sam was done changing the sheets of your bed. You all but collapsed into his arms, and the both of you shared a sleepy, soft kiss before you succumbed to sleep. 

[cloudysarts]

Hi there!!

I want to say that your “Mabel’s muse” Au concept has absolutely called my attention, Bill mentions multiple times (Dipper and Mabel’s guide to mystery and fun and TBOB) how he likes Mabel’s personality and wanted her to be his ally…sooo the idea of an alternative time where he decided to approach her and where she trusts him and considers him as her friend is absolutely full of potential

I just think about how many stuff would change and how bill would be a little more genuine with her as he for once isn’t pretending to be an all-wise being and having to constantly rise the ego of Genius minds…instead he just has to party with a teenager whose idea of fun is quite similar to his…he doesn’t have to be the “supreme being” for once just a silly fella in order to earn Mabel’s trust

Also about how some episodes would have to take a completely different route:

maybe “Mindscapers” wouldn’t even take place…because I doubt that Mabel would trust a Bill if he went inside Stan’s head

Bill possessing her during the “sock opera”episode instead of dipper

Also don’t get me started on “the last Mabelcorn” episode. All the angst and horror that Ford would feel when he finds out about the whole friendship with bill situation reflecting himself on Mabel and probably Dipper being the one who search for the unicorn hair while ford tries to convince her that Bill isn’t trustworthy

I apologize for my rant but I seriously love your idea and sorry if it’s a bit confusing English isn’t my first language

I hope you have a nice day and thank you for reading this silly thing!!

first of all, your english is great!! second of all, i am SO sorry it took me so long to respond to this ask, it just made me so happy that i wanted to take my time to craft a response!!!!!! :DDDD (context: for people who don't know what my 'mabels muse' au is, you can check it out over here!)

you are practically SPOT ON with my ideas for this au!!!!!! but i'm gonna briefly run through all the things you brought up!!

first of all, yes, absolutely!!!! for bill, partner-ing up with mabel was a very nice change of pace. he likes stroking the ego's of genius', just for his own amusement, but he doesnt get the THRILL of just getting to PLAY very often!! he's a very childish being, at the end of the day. he enables mabel's selfishness, while getting to indulge his own, silly passions right alongside her!! and obviously, mabel LOVES being enabled <3 i imagine most of the dreams he gives her would make any normal persons eyes bleed

as for your episode ideas, you're mostly right!!! :) mindscaperers does, in fact, NOT happen in this au. in my head, i imagine gideon trying to summon him, only for an 'I.O.U' to appear where bill should be. he's busy hanging out with his favorite pre-teen!!! so gideon skips straight to his backup plan, aka, gideon rises ^^

for sock opera, i'm still on the fence a little bit. one of the reasons bill is hanging out with her at all in this au is because, unlike in the regular timeline, this bill actively wants stanford to be brought home. the reason mabel is important to him, is because he can see timelines where she presses the button in not what he seems, and keeps him from returning. in his mind, he has the greatest shot of success if mabel doesn't press it. in this au, she doesnt even hesitate to trust stan, because she has another, trustworthy voice in her head, yelling DON'T PRESS THE BUTTON. its 2v1! ANYWAY, the reason any of that matters for sock opera, is because he wouldnt have any need to possess anyone, because he has no interest in smashing the laptop! BUT.....i can see him doing it anyway. i figure, most likely, he gets mabel to (willingly) let him use her body, so that she can work on her sock opera while her body sleeps. i just imagine a bill-possessed mabel up at 3 am, covered in hot glue and googly eyes as he tries to work it out shjdkfhjsdkf. but......honestly, he probably destroys the laptop in the process :) just to fuck with dipper <3 not that dipper ever finds out its her. he has no idea that mabel was ever possessed/has no reason to suspect her, because at this point, he still doesnt think bill is real. that is....until the last mabelcorn.

IN the last mabelcorn, mabel reveals to ford that she does recognize bill, and that he lives in her brain! she says it really excitedly, at the table, while dipper kind of just rolls his eyes about it. to her, its vindicating, because it's the first time anyone has ever acknowledged bills existence. but to ford, its HORRIFYING, because he knows it isn't just a coincidence. he knows he has to do something, but he doesn't know what, right away. this is where our ideas differ a little bit, because i think that mabel still WOULD be the one retrieving the unicorn hair! ford just didnt tell her what the hair was for. ford sends her off, because he wants to brainstorm a way to get him out of her head, preferably without hurting her/her memories. he also plans to bill-proof dippers mind in the process, just in case mabel is too far gone already. the events here happen basically the same (with minor tweaks), but instead of dipper suspecting that ford is evil/bill-possessed, this is where he finally learns that bill is real at all. ford tells him about his backstory, and explains the REAL reason he sent mabel out to get the unicorn hair, etc etc. he loves mabel a lot, but hes not sure how to go about dealing with this situation yet. its not HER fault she trusted bill, but he knew that if he just tries to tell her hes evil, she wont believe him. shes known 'her muse' longer, and as of right now, he's never lead her wrong. just like what happened to him in the past...

i wonder how mabel would feel if she only heard the end of that conversation...

(more of this au here and here!)

[uno-san]

Oohhhh I can totally see Bill threatening to hurt or even off you after Ford broke things off with him.

Perhaps he wanted to reach out to you for help because he had a small sliver of hope that you, with your heart which was a size too big for your own good, might just come to his aid if he asked, even if you were upset with him. But then he was afraid of letting Bill get anywhere near you, so he endured all of the torture and abuse, just so long as he didn’t touch you.

Do what you will with this idea.

OOOHHH GOOOD this ask sent me in a spiral as I immediately had ideas for italsdfjlsaflfj Thank you so much for sending in an ask, especially since I love seeing your posts!

Sorry this took so long but please, enjoy the angst~

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

Each tick brought a new needling pain to his already frantic mind. How could such a small, incessant sound be so torturous? For every count that was marked down on the small watch it brought a harsh reminder to the pacing scientist; his eyes were bloodshot, dry, and torn. No matter what he’d do one would even bleed onto whatever project he’s started on to try and save his life. Everyone’s life.

Stanford Pines has been awake for 3 days.

Tick

  Tick

Tick

“Goddammit!”

Research notes and project blueprints were scattered everywhere with one mighty drag of his arm across the once-cluttered desk. Around him loose papers hovered uselessly in the air, as if they were trying to offer him a solution in the now discarded pile. He paid them no mind. They were just another idea down the gutter.

This time, a truly foolish one. He had called it the Bill-Proof Suit (Name Pending) and if he had a proper amount of sleep he would have seen sooner what a joke it truly was. Stanford’s concept was solid, naturally, the issue was the actual construction. That’s where the joke was.

He needed Fiddleford.

Fiddleford was long gone now. If Stanford hadn’t already chased him away the day of the portal incident there was no doubt Bill would have done the job himself. The man’s mechanical knowledge far exceeded Ford’s own. That’s what gained him a spot on this project in the first place. And now, it was laughable to think Ford had a hand in sabotaging such a pivotal partnership. A friendship. God, how that word felt so bitter now.

Bill had been his friend. His muse as well, but more importantly his friend. Fiddleford had been too. Stanford pushed him away, revealing that the one he had left was a guillotine waiting to drop. A conman from the very moment Ford had made the mistake of summoning him, lying the very second he appeared. The best lie Bill ever told was that Stanford was a genius.

In truth, Ford was an idealistic fool too over his head. Hunted in his own home until the day his mind would break and give in to what Bill wanted. But it would be a cold day in hell before Stanford ever gave in without a fight. For if he couldn’t keep the bastard out of his body, there was still one way to thwart him yet.

Scatter his research. Not destroy it, but spread it far so that no other fool under Bill’s thumb could recreate Ford’s work. It shouldn't be difficult. Ford had already sought to hide his other two journals due to previous threats. All that remained of his recorded mistakes were his first journal. This one needed special handling. The other two, while well hidden, still remained in Gravity Falls. Journal 1 would need to see a swift exit out to the world unknown.

But how?

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

With a growl of frustration Ford dropped himself into an aging chair that had been pushed out of the way to make room for his pacings. One arm rested across his knee while the other stayed propped up on his elbow to hold his head up; a dangerous position, considering his exhaustion. Though bleary his eyes focused on a nearby chalkboard with hastily scrawled names on its black surface. He’s been stuck on this awhile.

Fiddleford was out. No doubt about that with how they had departed. Unfortunately that meant that Stanford would have to find help outside of the initial project, which will prove to be risky at best and time-consuming at worst to get them caught up on the stakes of the mission. That left little to consider.

Already that knocked his parents out of the running. They were getting too old to do what was needed to keep his research safe. Not to mention what they’d think of Stanford started going off about demons and otherworldly powers.

You lost them millions, Stanford. Never even impressed your father and now you want them to help you? When was the last time you called?

Stanford’s body froze. Only the slow movement of his eyes showed signs of life as they drifted to each dark corner of the room. Had he said that? He gathered the courage to check over his shoulder. There was no one. His fingers tapped against his knee as the truth of the whispered words began to sink in. Would they even answer his call?

Tick

  Tick

Tick

Focus!

Right…right. Who else?

Nobody in town would be jumping at the chance to help him. Stanford never made the effort. Couldn’t make it, to be more accurate. Never was good at talking to people. Bill had helped with that isolation though Ford couldn’t place as much blame on him as he wanted to.

If he had the money, this would be a far easier task. Thanks, however, to his constantly running lab and testing of the portal during its construction even his generous grant money was dwindling down to pennies. Not even that tie he sold to the government went far. That was spent to get them to turn the other way for Ford’s more questionable purchases (Or thefts).

They wouldn’t have talked to you anyway. Not without a carnival banner to let them know the freakshow was in town.

Stanford’s hand swept up in his hair; his thumb resting outside the greasy mess to instead prop his eyelid open. The air stung. It was manageable compared to the heat of annoyance beginning to rise in his chest. Was this the best he could manage? Stanford Pines, life forever in ruins now just because he didn’t think to make silly small talk over a burnt cup of coffee?! Surely, there had to be somebody else to turn to-

You already know who you want to go crawling back to. To be safe in their arms again. Despite already chasing them off you know you want to drag them back into all of this. You want-

Stanford shot up from his chair. The rapid movement caused it to swivel while Ford’s hand grabbed hold of a long forgotten experiment; he shouted a guttural “NO!” before hurling the hunk of junk at the source of the voice. It shattered against the wall.

Both hands were knotted up into fists while Ford’s shoulders shook with a fury he couldn’t control. His lips were drawn back in a snarl as he continued to face off against nothing. This being the most he’s been awake in days being the only blessing of an already cursed conversation.

“No, I’m not doing this to them again, I’m not!” Stanford’s eyes followed a foe that wasn’t there, now facing a different side of the room, “They’re gone now and there’s nothing I can or will do to ever risk them coming back here. I can handle all this myself!”

Not that you’d get any help after what you did.

Stanford staggered back. Like the flame of his anger had been blown out and he’d been left with the ashes of guilt. He looked so unsure. Different compared to his conviction on stopping Bill once and for all.

“That was Bill, I didn’t want-”

Bill, who can read your mind? Bill, who has known you more intimately than you ever have your ‘partner’ know? Well, now's your chance. You look like shit. Everything around you is falling apart. One look at you and they’d come racing to your side. You want-

“ENOUGH!”

Stanford might have given in if he had heard your name. He now grabbed onto the abandoned chair and threw it against the next wall with all his might, praying that the sound of destruction would tune out that predatory voice poisoning his mind. It was just as awful as that-

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

That-

Tick

  Tick

Tick

THAT GODDAMN TICKING NOISE!

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

The man fell onto his knees in a heap. In spite of the danger of it all his eyes were skewed shut while the flat of his palms covered his ears like a spoiled child. Now on top of all he was trying to shut out he could hear the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat in face of the near mental break. But it was all in vain.

Stanford could hear the ticking of the stopwatch counting down another waking hour. The whispers, Bill, and…and the memories of 3 days ago replaying in his mind, again and again.

___

The day had already begun strangely. Not in the sense that when Stanford arose he didn’t know where he’d wake up, or that he was covered in mysterious injuries that he’s sure he didn’t want to know the origin of. None of that. That was, quite horridly, becoming Ford’s new reality until he gave in to Bill Cipher’s demands. Which would be never.

No, what made this day bizarre was that Stanford had woken up in bed. No ditch or jail cell. His actual bed inside his own home. When he had realized this Stanford had been quick to search the room for any signs of a trap. He didn’t get the chance to look long before he noticed that his hand had been clutched around something. As per usual his hands had been bloodied across the knuckles (which would sting to patch up later), but wrapped around and bundled into his palm was…hair?

The dread in his gut only deepened when he had given the hair a conspiratory sniff and recognized a scent that used to provide him comfort. It was the smell of your shampoo. It was after the horror began to dawn on him that Stanford noticed the corner of a tape poking out from beneath his pillows.

‘Play Me: Part 2’

The scene opened up to a hotel room, identified only by the luggage rack in the corner currently occupied by its namesake. Within the focal point of the shot was an empty bed and a window barely fitting into frame. Both the stillness and odd positioning of the shot suggested that the camera wasn’t being held at all; it was hidden on the tv stand.

Out of frame a door must have shut. Following after were the familiar sounds of ruffling fabric before the main light had been turned off, leaving only the bedside lamp to provide proper lighting. Then you walked onto the screen.

Wearing a pair of familiar pajamas, slippers, and a book in hand, you were yawning as you began to climb and settle into bed. You must have been staying in that room for a long while to be as comfortable as you look. Despite just opening your book you’re interrupted with a yawn, making you huff in frustration and stubbornly set your nightly entertainment down. The pout that Stanford always found cute was displayed prominently on your face. It was almost domestic.

It wasn’t long after until you reached over to turn off the lamp nearby. Immediately the room was shrouded with darkness; save for a sliver of light escaping past the curtains to illuminate your midsection. Not much, but enough to see you.

For several minutes, that’s all there was. In real time your process of sleep was captured. How you’d roll back and forth a few times before adjusting into a comfortable position, your pillow punched just right to cradle your head the way you liked it. With a final wiggle of comfort you fell asleep. Your chest rose and fell in slow, deep motions.

Then a pair of yellow eyes blinked open.

Stanford’s breath had caught in his chest. Nearly choking on it as he rose from his spot on the couch to instead crouch in front of the TV as if he could hop into the scene himself.

Beneath the bed a six-fingered hand crept out to grasp at the shag carpet and use the leverage to pull the rest of the body out with it. Emerging from the abyss was a stranger’s smile on a familiar face. His glasses were askew and the grin contorted his face unnaturally, but there was no doubt who it was.

Bill. Stanford. It hardly mattered when you wouldn’t even know the difference.

The figure moved with precision. His limbs stretched out far and bent at odd angles to distribute weight on the creaky floor; he looked like a spider poised to strike. Bill crept forward at a snail's pace. His stare never wavered from the camera meanwhile, remaining level headed until almost the entirety of Stanford’s- Bill’s yellow eye took the stage. A blink after and it was gone. In frame it captured a closeup of his hand as he grabbed the camera from its hidden position.

The already unnerving video had Stanford on edge and in his paranoia he paused the video. Freezing it right at the moment the knuckles of his hand flashed across the screen where he then held up his current injured one. The hand in the video had matching injuries, however in the past it still sparkled with fresh blood when the light hit it just right.

Stanford let out a sigh of relief. So Bill had tried the door before coming here. The wounds were from the door. The door. A fact that he’d have to remind himself of while he unpaused.

Bill was no longer visible as he became the cameraman. It was with soft footsteps that seemed ill-fitting of the one making them that the TV screen was now filled with your unconscious form. He had stopped just at the edge of the bed, yet the angle the camera shot from suggested that Bill began leaning over you. Miraculously, the frame remained steady in spite of the position.

He then spoke in such a hushed tone that his voice was almost unrecognizable if it hadn’t been the evident grin behind his words, “What. Happens. When they. Wake. Up?”

It felt as if all the blood in Stanford’s body froze at once. Each syllable that passed Bill’s lips sent a new horrific vision of what the fiend could do to your unsuspecting form. Emphasizing your vulnerability. Somehow your breathing already appeared weak as if you’ve been struck already. The thought had Ford’s mouth dry.

A pit was beginning to settle in his stomach. To calm himself down his eyes cast downwards to his bruised knuckles, trying to commit to memory that the wounds had been there since the start of the tape. Stanford didn’t gain comfort, however, as his attention returned to the screen. He couldn’t bear missing even one detail. No matter how much he wanted to.

For a long while, the ‘movie’ remained static. As chaotic as Bill was he could be patient when he wanted to be. Listening closely revealed Bill gasping for breath every so often, having forgotten that air was ‘integral’ to humans living when he had been so focused on you. Or maybe he was holding his breath on purpose. Pain was hilarious, he’d always say.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The tension was suddenly cut through by a burst of noise outside. A familiar and irritating sound of a car alarm began to blast away the quiet night, its rhythm now matching that of a racing heartbeat as it mercilessly shouted. Through the curtains a harsher light broke in. Blinking on and off to cast a harsh silhouette of Bill standing over you against the wall.

“No, no, no, nononono, gods, no!” Stanford cried out while his hands gripped at the TV’s sides to nearly crack the material. “Don’t, please-”

The past remained unchanged in spite of his begging.

You began to stir. With brows furrowed together your eyes squinted tightly together as if to block out the intrusive light, the once calm expression of peace you had now replaced with irritation at the interruption. Under your breath you mumbled something indiscernible.

From above a six-fingered hand began to torturously slide into frame while its fingers were spread and bent as if they were claws. Down and down it went. It was poised to make contact with your neck until the hand paused to hover over your body, the fingers giving a cheeky wiggle towards the camera. The open wounds on the knuckles still bled, allowing trickles of blood to pool at his fingertips until they fell and spilled across your collarbone.

Now your own hand reached up to idly scratch where the blood landed only to inadvertently smear the warm droplets on your skin. Off camera still, the sound of Bill sucking in air through his teeth filled the anticipated silence as he waited eagerly. Even the wet sound of skin stretching was a harsh reminder of how elated he must have looked.

Stanford’s hand reached toward his face where trembling fingers traced the torn corners of his mouth.

With a groan you made a sudden turn in bed that Bill hadn’t expected. He was forced to dodge his hand out of the way. You turned on your side away from the window with the corner of the blanket bunched in your first to fully entrap yourself within the comforting warmth. The car alarm outside had turned off just as you let out an exhausted yawn and snuggled into your pillow.

A moment after the camera slowly adjusted to frame your entirety once more while somehow capturing Bill’s unspoken anticipation. Yet you didn’t stir further. Instead the quiet was cut-through by your growing snores brought on by deepened rest. Off-camera Bill slowly released the air of excitement he had sucked in moments to ago in a disappointed huff.

Stanford wept.

___

Tick

  Tick

Tick

The memory brought a new sheen of tears to his eyes that Stanford cursed. Bitterly he threw off his glasses to wipe them away before they dared to fall and reveal his growing weakness. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.

He had to protect you.

That had been three days ago. Worse yet the tape had actually contained the entirety of your night. From the moment you got into bed right down to your alarm clock going off, Bill stood over you. Stanford knew that for a fact considering he watched the tape all the way through, never daring to speed-forward or skip ahead out of fear of what he’d stumble upon after doing so.

The 6 hours of footage felt like an eternity of limbo compared to the pain of being awake for so long. This was much preferable to ever seeing that again. Even if it killed him Ford made the vow to not rest until he could assure that a ‘Part 3’ could never be made again.

Thus far the only respite he’s allowed himself was a call to your hotel. Thankfully he had recognized the tacky furniture from his own stay many years back when he had to wait for the construction of his home to complete. When you had picked up the phone and said a greeting in your warm voice, it felt as if Stanford had his second wind.

He hadn’t heard you since the day you left. Since he had driven you away in order to fall under more of his ‘muse’s’ lies. But now when Ford heard your voice all he could do was remember all the nights you spent taking care of him after an extensive research expedition. Or all the warm meals you’d prepare for him to fuel up for a dangerous day in the woods. All of that felt like a lifetime ago.

Stanford Pines had thrown you away. Now, his only redemption lied in keeping both you and the world safe, no matter what it took. Your voice was the motivation Ford needed but the reward he hadn’t earned yet. He hung up without ever saying a word to you.

From the floor Stanford used his knee to propel himself back upwards. He remembered to take his discarded glasses with him to wipe off on his button-up shirt and place back on his face. Trying to dust the rest of himself off he glanced around his now ramshackled lab that had once been the prize of all his hard work and efforts, now covered with the scrawlings of a paranoid recluse and damaged experiments from frenzied episodes.

His eyes landed on his remaining journal that had been left abandoned on the ground. Odd. Had he knocked it down at some point during his episode brought on by a lack of sleep? Stanford bent down to pick up the poor book left in disarray. Poking out from the side was a corner of a photo that must have become dislodged from within, serving as a reminder that Ford should take better care of his precious research.

With a huff of annoyance towards himself Stanford flipped open the book only to be met with a photo of his face- Stanley’s face captured from an airing commercial Ford had caught on TV one day. Puzzled by this, Ford pulled the photo from the pages to inspect Stanley’s expression yet the glare of gold from his journal behind kept drawing his gaze as well.

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

For a long time Stanford’s focus flickered between his journal and the photo of his brother. First he stared with irritation. Then as the seed of an idea began to bloom his eyes softened with a regret while seeing Stanley. So many years spent drifted apart, and yet…

Tick

  Tick

Tick

Stanford tucked the photo away with far more care than he realized he had before turning to head back upstairs to his home. There was a determination to the man as his feet picked up speed, now powered by the first actual idea he’s had in days. Whether it would work or not didn’t matter.

He had no one else.

[chillinglyadventurous]

Sneaking Around - Stanford Pines Part 4 (Final Part)

Much anticipated final part. I hope this is vindictive enough.

I had to give it a happy ending (no pun intended). Thank you to super awesome friends who requested a part 4!

Tags: NSFW, hurt, emotional manipulation? Minors DNI!

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3 > Part 4

“I cheated on you.”

You words were simple, floating through the darkness of his room like smoke. You laid still even when you felt Ford shoot up in bed. You could feel him stare down at you, shifting quickly to flip on his bedside lamp.

“What did you just say?” He was hoping he’d heard you wrong. He was hoping you’d laugh and say ‘gotcha’ before curling up into his side, but your gaze remained fixed to the ceiling, arms folded across your abdomen. “[Y/N], what did you just say?”

You blinked. It was a simple gesture. “You really going to make me repeat myself?” You asked. His face stayed fixed. His chest was heaving as if you had just thrown ice water over him. “I cheated on you with some guy at a bar. That’s why I was out so late. I don’t even know his name, but he made me scream.”

“Oh my god,” his head fell into his hands. “I knew I- I was rough and selfish, but I didn’t think you would-“

He stiffened when he felt your hands run up the length of his bare back. You pressed your lips to the skin behind his right ear as you whispered, “Because I would never do that.” You hands left his skin as you stood on your knees, hands on your hips, “Do you have any idea how much you hurt me?”

“Whatever I did to you did not deserve that response!” He slipped his glasses back on to get a look at you. He didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t understand why you could throw such a lie in his face. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? What fucked up little part of your brain thought that was funny?”

You scoffed. “I tried to apologize to you after, but you left. You ignored me! You were mad I wouldn’t let you hear me moan and scream? Was that it?” You stood from your bed. You needed space between you. You couldn’t trust yourself. “Did it ever occur to you that I just like giving you head? Is that too mouth to ask? Fuck me, I guess! All I wanted to do was love you. You’re the one who couldn’t wait to get inside me.”

“I feel close to you!” He shouted back.

He watched as you dropped your flannel pajama pants to reveal the deep purple bruises across your abdomen and hips that hands had left. You were covered in the bruises he left. You’re middle ached, “You wanted to make love to me? Yeah, that’s bullshit. You jacked off with my body. That’s what you did!”

That caught his attention. He stood from your bed and fell to his knees in front of you. Before he could touch the bruises he’d left, you stepped back. You could see the regret on his face. You could see he realized what he did. No wonder you’d disappeared.

“So, yes, I lied. I didn’t cheat on you. I would never, ever do that. I wanted you to feel how I felt when you left me there.” You readjusted your bottoms to cover your form again. Tears welled in your eyes, “You wouldn’t know this because you pumped me full of cum and left, but I was bleeding. You fucked me so hard I was bleeding, Stanford.” You took another step back as he inched closer. Your voice was quieter now. “I can’t hurt you, not physically, the way you hurt me. So, what else was I supposed to do?”

He shuffled to his feet. That anger, the betrayal, had suddenly dissipated when he’d realized what he’d done. He watched you carefully, still seething. No. You were livid. His mouth stayed closed. Pretty words and sweet kisses couldn’t fix this. Not this time. This wasn’t one of the few petty fights the two of you had where he knew he fucked up and jumped to apologize. His words wouldn’t help him here and that freaked him out.

“Get out of my room,” you ordered. You held open the door for him and watched, stones in your eyes, as he moved by you.

You both stared at one another for a long moment as he stood in the door way. Your expression didn’t change when he cupped on of your cheeks. You didn’t pull away when he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. He knew you weren’t going to back down and he knew he wouldn’t deserve it if you did. So, he respected your wishes, mind already calculating how to fix this.

Around the kids, you both pretended everything was fine. You knew about Dipper and Mabel’s home life. Their parents were about to call it quits. Gravity Falls was their escape and you wouldn’t take that from them.

In front of Stan was a different story. You were giving Ford the cold shoulder. No part of you would ever tell Stan why. Despite how angry you were, how hurt you were, you didn’t want the whole house to turn against Ford. This was between the two of you and it was no one else’s business especially since it had stemmed from sex. No, you wouldn’t tell Stan.

It continued for a while. As you helped Mabel plan the twins’ fourteenth birthday, Stan and Ford planned their second expedition. They would leave in mid September and wouldn’t return until just before the kids came back in late May. Eight months. He’d be gone for eight months.

Like the last time, that had scared you a bit. You two had just started seeing each other back then. It was so new. You were afraid the time apart would drive a wedge between you. Now, you felt the same way, knowing all of this still hung over your head. You thought eight months of letting this fester would finally end it. Every time the thought plagued your mind, you thought of going to him. You thought of slithering in his bed, but you never did. You weren’t going to stroke his ego. Not this time.

You found Ford in the lab after the kids’ party. He was giving Dipper a watch that would project a hologram, allowing them to video chat wherever, whenever. You watched from the doorway as Ford showed him how to use it.

When Ford noticed you were there, his posture shifted. “Hey, Dip,” you smiled, “mind if I steal your Grunkle for a bit?”

“Yeah,” he hesitated. His eyes flickered up to Ford, “I’m going to go help Mabel pack.”

You stepped out of his way as he bolted up the stairs to show his sister his gift. Ford, however, seemed less excited. He blinked at you, never meeting your eyes until you chucked him under his chin. He’d done this to you a few times in the past in an attempt to cheer you up.

“I have everything ready for your trip with Stan.” Your tone was neutral, nonchalant.

He gave a soft nod as he watched you straighten the lab up a bit, “We’re moving the trip up. We’re leaving tomorrow after we kids leave.”

Your head whipped around to face him. You thought you had more time. You weren’t done being angry, but two months of not being touched by him was too long. You thought you had until mid September to work this out. You had less than twenty four hours.

“When I get home,” he continued, “we can talk. You obviously need more time, so I want to give that to you. I hurt you, deeply, and you deserve time to recover from that.”

You didn’t even try to blink the tears out of your eyes, “Whatever you want to do.”

You turned around so he wouldn’t see the tears fall. If he left before you two worked it out, you didn’t think there would be any fixing this. You still loved him. You just hated him for what he did. You wanted him to know that, to know there would never be another opportunity for that.

Suddenly, he kissed the top of your head. Your body froze, eyes meeting his as he stepped out from behind you. “I love you, [Y/N], and I’m sorry I hurt you. Whatever time you need, take it. I’ll be here when you forgive me if you ever do.”

You couldn’t stop yourself, arms thrown around his neck as you stood on your toes. You kissed him, body betraying mind. In a stumble, you were pressed to the wall. His hands were in your hair.

His touch was gentle, more soft than it had ever, ever been even compared to those lazy, early morning love making sessions you loved so much, hips gracefully rolling into yours as you gasped out Ford’s name.

“I want to fix this, us,” he peppered your neck with kisses as he spoke.

You didn’t push him away when his left hand traveled up your shirt. Fingers fanning out over your right breast. You sighed into his touch. It was heaven. The bliss on your face was evident.

“Let me fix this,” he whispered against the skin of your stomach after removing your shirt, falling to his knees in front of you.

Your bottoms were removed, naked in his lab and pressed against the wall. He placed your left leg over his shoulder to open you up to his. “Let me make this up to you.”

A gasp tumbled out of your parted lips when he kissed your inner thigh. His fingers parted your folds, slipping inside of you. Your head fell back as you said his name. It wasn’t a warning. It was a plea, begging him to keep going. When his fingers curled, your walls gripped around him. Two months. You were so needy. So wet for him already and it made you laugh. You were mad at him for always having this affect on you.

His mouth found your clit, worshiping it with kisses and fevered strokes of his tongue. “Stanford,” you gasped.

The thrusts of his fingers were slow. He was taking the moment and devouring it, devouring you. Your eyes found his, misted with tears like your own. It was slow and methodical. Loving. When you came, hips riding his face, he didn’t pull away.

His fingers never stopped as he brought you to the edge again, tossing you over it. Before long, you were shaking. The feeling of his mouth became too much and you had to push him away.

You fell to your knees and into his arms. His hard cock pressing into your stomach as he held you. When you reached for him, he grabbed your wrist. “No,” he smiled. He kissed you once, twice, three times. You could taste yourself on his tongue. “This isn’t about me.”

With your leg still on his shoulder, he laid you back onto the floor, but he never undressed himself. You could feel his clothes cock pressed firm to your middle as he kissed you. His kiss was deep as if he were worshipping you mouth. Oh, he loved your mouth. It was an anomaly all its own in the way it kissed him, talked back to him, and sucked him off. You were wonderful.

He pulled away to take a breath and he held you close. “I don’t ever,” he said between kisses, “want to lose you again. I thought- we-“

You silence him with a soft peck, “That happens again and you might.” He held your naked form close to him. “I do love you.”

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” you whispered in tandem.

He took your chin in his fingers as he held you. The weight of his body atop yours was magnificent, dulling everything that had been eating at you for the past couple months.

His kissed you again, “When I get home, we’ll start over. No more sneaking around. I want you for the rest of my life.” You didn’t respond. You weren’t ready to think about him leaving at all.

The next morning, after Dipper and Mabel were safely on their bus back to California, you stood next to the Stan O’ War II with your jacket tugged tight around you. You watched as Stan threw bags and suitcases up to Ford. Ford caught them effortlessly.

It was good to see them getting along. It was a welcome sight compared to last summer. Hugged Stan goodbye. You have Ford a wave as he stared dreamily down at you from the boat.

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” Stan asked. He turned his attention back to Ford as he let you go, “I thought you told me you packed her bags.”

A moment of realization hit Ford, “Right, I forgot.” He reached down next to him, holding up three purple duffles, the ones you kept in the back of your closet from when you moved into the Mystery Shack. “If you want to come, [Y/N], I have everything you own.” He gave you a smirk, “If you don’t, well, I guess I can load everything back in the car.”

A smile spread over your face, “You want me to come with you?”

“Only if you want to,” he called down.

Stan’s snores that night were deafening inside the ship’s cabin. So, you and Ford had made arrangements elsewhere. Sitting on the ships bow, the wood beneath your skin splintering slightly, you moaned into Ford’s mouth.

He rocked into you roughly, he thrust deeper as the waves crashed against the hull. You clung to him as you met each thrust. Your nails deepened the scars on his back. “That’s my good girl,” Ford grunted as you came around him. Your head lulled back as he hit just the right spot. “Fuck-“ He had trouble catching his breath. He was so close. “I love you so much.”

Your hand covered his mouth. “If you don’t be-“ You couldn’t stop the moan that left you, “Ford- quiet, you’re going to wake up your brother.”

[angelsdean]

*record scratch* freeze frame. Reality Check. "You're the one who came and got me at school. You're the one who dragged me back into this." let's re-evaluate that statement, Sam, because that is not, in fact, what happened.

The context in which Sam makes this statement is that he's arguing Dean used to care about the revenge quest and killing the demon because Dean is the one that came and got Sam and thus "dragged him back" into the quest to kill the demon. But, that is not why Dean went to get Sam at school, it was to find John, who was missing and possibly dead. Dean didn't even Know about the demon at this point (they don't find out that "the thing that killed mom" is a demon til 1x11) or that John was closing in on it. Dean goes to Stanford to ask Sam to help him look for John, that's it. Then, at the end of 1x01 Dean brings Sam back to school in time for his interview as promised, and drives away. He only turns around when, in the deleted scene, he notices his watch has stopped, cluing him in that something is wrong. And he gets there in time to save Sam from the burning building.

Sam then makes the choice to leave with Dean because now that he's lost someone, he is personally invested in finding John because John knows more about the thing that killed Mary (and now Jess) than anyone, and Sam is the one who is now consumed by the need for revenge and the first step in getting that revenge is finding John, something he had no vested interest in doing before, but is now heavily invested in, even more than Dean is, as we see throughout the first half of s1 where Sam is often the one calling around looking for John and is more interested in searching for John than taking on random cases.

Anyways, it's just so interesting to track this revisionism of events and how both Sam and Dean come to accept this as the truth when it's literally not what we saw happen throughout the season. And we see Dean start to absorb this belief after Meg plants the seed in their heads in 1x16, trying to drive a wedge between them, by falsely saying Dean "drags Sam around like luggage" when literally the whole reason Sam and Meg meet is because Sam wanted to part ways in 1x11 and Dean let him go. Sam then comes back and decides to stay all on his own, even after Dean offers to drop Sam off somewhere.

Dean expresses in 1x16, that yes, he wants Sam around, he wants his family together again, but at the end of that very episode Dean is also the one who says they need to split up from John, even though it's the last thing he wants. Dean consistently is willing to let people go, even if it's not what he personally wants. And especially Sam. Over and over throughout the season he expressed how he wants Sam to have a normal life, is willing to let Sam go, or stay in some random town and drop the search for John. So even IF Dean did secretly want Sam to stick around when he went to get Sam at Stanford, he never expected it. Never enforced it.

That Sam comes to think Dean "dragged him back" into hunting is a purely revisionism and a bit of projection, I think, because Sam might not want to face the truth of the matter which is that he consistently chose to stick with hunting, and actually enjoys it more than he'd like to admit. And, as both he and John express, this quest to kill Yellow Eyes becomes "their" obsession. Not Dean's. Dean is the one who says he'd rather they never find the demon if it means losing his family. Dean is the one that says getting revenge isn't worth dying for. And then, Sam takes this to heart, when at the end of 1x22 he refuses to kill John Possessed by Azazel at Dean's pleading, AND when he tells John that killing this demon does not come "before everything" while eyeing Dean bleeding out in the backseat.

Dean was never the one invested in revenge. He did not come get Sam from Stanford to aid in the family revenge quest, he came for help in finding their missing father, something Dean cared abt simply because that's family, and Dean cares deeply, despite everything John put them through. Dean is the one that cares, the heart of the narrative, etc etc. He comes to Sam because he is alone in the world, because their only other blood relative is missing, because it's a very human thing, to reach out, to want family around. And still, he was always going to let Sam go after the 1x01. He didn't like it. It's not what Dean wanted. But he was going to let him go back to his life. Sam chose to follow Dean and continue searching for John.

[frnchgirls]

warnings: suggestive!, borderline filth, mentions of blood

thinking about vampire!art who goes to a halloween party at stanford, showing up without a costume cause patrick convinced him to come last minute. he sets foot in the house and immediately picks up your scent from across the room, easily sticking out amidst the stench of weed and booze. it's too sweet and he's pacing cause he thought maybe patrick was wrong, he could hold off just one more day without feeding but no. he needs it. he needs you.

he awkwardly approaches you, clad in some costume that's a slutty version of a character from one of your favorite shows and mumbles that you have something he wants. you're confused at first. he's twitching like he's having withdrawals, and you don't even vape so where did he get the impression that you have anything on you? you frown and explain with a shrug, "sorry, man. i don't- tyler over there can probably help you out, though." and he lets out a laugh and shakes his head cause that's not what he meant.

"listen, i'm art." he starts, leaning in so close his lips are practically brushing against the shell of your ear, "how about you take me somewhere we can be alone?" and his message couldn't be clearer. you're taken aback, replying with a sheepish "oh." but you like his fluffy blonde hair and that hungry look in his eye so why not? as soon as you drag him into an empty bathroom and shut the door behind you, his mouth is on yours.

art groans, knowing he could gnaw at your lips 'til they're bleeding and get a taste of you that way, but he doesn't want to scare you off. you make out until he's practically drooling, pressing his fingers against your thrumming pulse point and he's rock hard and can't hold back any longer. he pulls his hand away from your throat, replacing the touch with desperate kisses down your neck when he warns you, "i'm gonna bite you, okay? just a little nibble. you won't mind, right?"

before you can react, he's sinking his teeth in you and breaking the skin. his composure is lost when your blood finally hits his tastebuds. it's the best thing he's ever tried, even compared to what he's had before he got turned and it's not long before he's humping your thigh and sucking more out of you. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry. tastes so good 'n i can't fuckin' stop." he whimpers, voice so high pitched it sounds like he might cry as his pretty pink tongue laps up every drop.

you're calling out his name with all the remaining strength you have left, even though you're lightheaded and losing color underneath him and your strangled sounds make him cum in his pants. he forces himself to pull away as he comes down from his high cause the last thing he needs is you dying on him, especially when he could use you as a personal blood bank instead.

all you can hear him say through his heavy breathing as he wipes his mouth and heads for the door is "thank you. you were such a good pet. didn't scream or nothin'. i'll make it up to you when i see you again. i promise."

[dimonds456-art]

Chapter 2 of the Runaway Ford AU is up! Also below the cut for you guys who don't have an Ao3

Seagulls screeched nearby, and voices could be heard muttering to each other from every direction. It was a beautiful day to get out and enjoy some sunlight, but Ford had other priorities. 

Taking in a breath of fresh air, Ford paused. He'd only just made it outside the pawn shop, stopping to take in the bright midday sun and the clear blue sky. 

First up, he had to find Stan. Then, they were gonna run off together. After that? They'd go live on the Stan'O'War, probably. It couldn't float yet, but they could fix that easy-peasy.

The issue was trying to find Stan, though. Ford's first thought was the Stan'O'War, which was down by the beach, but there was a chance that Stan was waiting somewhere closer, and if Ford left now, he'd miss him. Then, he'd double back, and Stan would go to the boat, and they'd just keep passing each other while never actually finding each other, and that sounded like a mess waiting to happen. Best to be methodical about it.

He knelt down, unzipping his backpack to pull out his notebook and a pen; his sharpie- old reliable once again. Unfortunately, he knew first-hand that it would bleed through the pages, so he set it aside for now. Instead, he pulled out a smaller ballpoint pen. 

Quickly zipping his bag back up and slinging it over his shoulder, he sprinted off a little down the road. If his parents found his note too fast, they'd be able to catch him before he made any progress on finding Stan, and if that happened, he probably wouldn't be allowed out for the rest of the summer- a summer which just started. There was so much sun ahead of them, he couldn't get cooped up too fast this time. 

Once he was a couple buildings away, he ducked into a small alley and opened his notebook again. He started writing down as many places as he could think of, before going back and starring the ones he thought were most likely.

List of places Stanley could be: - Somewhere around Pines Pawns *! - Hot Belgian Waffles - The Stan'O'War *! - The park - The boardwalk - That once ice cream store I can never remember the name of *!

Ford read it over again, trying to think of more. There was also a chance he was in places Ford liked to go, like the library, but he'd check those later. 

Now, where to start? Ford was willing to bet his allowance that Stanley was on the Stan'O'War, but in case he wasn't, Ford didn't want to keep running around in circles. So, starting at the closest place and going from there made the most sense. 

Back to Pines Pawns it was. Hopefully they hadn't found the note yet. 

Ford stood in front of his previous residence of not even a half an hour ago, tapping his pen against his chin. 

Nope. Still looked the same as it ever did. 

The building was shorter than the other ones around it, which was bound to draw eyes, so his father had basically taken advantage of it. He'd put up all kinds of eye-catching paraphernalia around the place, like pointing hands and bright colors, to advertise the shop. The dirtied window showcased watches, a chandelier, a trophy, and stuff of a similar caliber. Up above was a giant chess piece as suggested by Ma, since it was weird- making it stand out. No one had giant pawns on top of their roofs.

The sidewalk was covered in tiny flecks of sand and dirt and trash, the streetlight was just off-center enough to drive Stanford nuts, and the silver bin they kept in the alley looked full. Same as it ever was. 

After taking a moment to just drink it in, Ford darted off to the left-side alley. There wasn't much down there, just brick walls and trash. And no Stanley. 

Same with the right side. Ford crossed his arms, scrutinizing the alley as best as he could. Candy wrappers crunched under his shoe as he tapped his foot. See, he wasn't an expert by any means, so trying to figure out what was a clue and what wasn't was hard. Like, he didn't know what to look for. Did that mean there were no clues, or they were just going over Ford's head? 

A small gust of wind blew by, rustling the half-crumpled cardboard sticking out of the trashcan. It didn't blow out, but it was enough to make Ford realize that this was probably a dead end. 

He crossed off Pines Pawns. 

The bell rang as Ford stepped into the restaurant. The next-door business, Hot Belgian Waffles, was always a favorite of Stanley's when they could afford to eat there. Their pancakes were fluffy as a cloud, butter smooth and melt-y, and their syrup was sweet. Of course, the best meal was the waffles, which were just cooked enough to be crunchy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside. Add some strawberries on top with some butter and syrup and you were golden. 

Ford took a couple steps inside, trying not to get too swept up by the smells. This was probably a bad time to realize he hadn't eaten anything before leaving the house. The aroma was positively divine. 

While he loitered by the front door, most of the patrons continued eating and chatting. However, he did see a few glance his way, who were quick to squint at him disapprovingly. He looked down at the floor. More wooden flooring. Cozy.

A waitress spotted him. She was a taller woman, with dark curls circling her round face. She took care of the couple she was serving, jotting something down, before walking up to Ford. She smiled widely, just enough to look friendly but not enough to look genuine.

"Well now, if it isn't one of the Pines Pawns boys!" she greeted, voice syrupy sweet. "Just you today, sugar?"

"Oh, um, I'm not gonna order," Ford told her somewhat sheepishly, pretending he didn't see her smile falter. "I'm looking for my brother." 

"The other one? Can't say I've seen him today." She placed her hands on her hips. "Say, what's with the outfit? You playing handyman or somethin'?"

"Oh," Ford looked down at himself, realizing how out-of-place he looked now with his belt, backpack, and bindle. "No, I'm… treasure hunting." He shrugged, making eye contact and smiling and remaining calm and not sweating. "You never know what you'll need for that." 

The waitress looked like the impossible cross between disappointed and overjoyed to hear that. "I see. Well, if he comes around, I'll put in a good word for you."

Ford visibly relaxed. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't mention it. Though, per company policy, I am going to hafta ask you to stop loitering in the doorway." 

"Right. Goodbye, miss!"

"Good luck!" She waved him out as he reached up to the door handle and pulled. It was heavier than the Pines Pawns door- must be made of better materials. Either that or the gold handle really was gold. 

As Ford stepped back out, he crossed Hot Belgian Waffles off the list.

If his intuition was right, his next stop should be his last. 

Ford lifted up the tarp, stepping inside the rickety old boat with a smile. "Stanley! I…" he trailed off, face falling as he took in the empty expanse. "...found you." 

Nothing. The box of nails they forgot to bring home were still there, their footprints were untouched aside from the inarguable influence of gravity, and nothing looked more broken than it had yesterday. 

Ford pushed the tarp back all the way, slowly stepping inside through the broken side of the ship. Each noise he made didn't echo so much as it was immediately thrown back at him, amplifying it. It made the silence even thicker. 

"Stanley…?" Ford called out tentatively. "You in here?"

The crashing of the waves nearby served as his only answer.

Stepping back out, his eyes took a second to adjust to the light. Maybe he fell asleep on the deck? The stairs weren't usable inside yet, making it hard to get up there, but the boys had noticed that some of the planks on the side stuck out at just the right angles to form a makeshift ladder. Ford set his bindle down, taking each step carefully as he scaled the side of the craft. 

Up on top now, he had a much better view of the beach. No one was here, which wasn't surprising for this time of year, but it was still eerie. Ford found himself tensing his shoulders as he glanced around. 

Okay, logic. If Stanley wasn't at the boat, then he could feasibly be anywhere. Or, maybe he had been staying at the boat, got bored, and wandered off? That sounded like a Stanley thing to do. Or maybe he went to play in the ocean and got dragged out by the undercurrent again? Or maybe the Jersey Devil found him? 

The more he stood there and thought about where his brother might be, the more Ford found himself getting lost in worry. He gripped the straps of his backpack tighter, scanning again, slower this time, to see if he could see any trace of his brother along the shore. 

Waves lapped at the sand lazily, seagulls screeched. Cars drove by not too far away. The long, thin grasses further up the beach rustled against each other in the wind. But no loud whooping or sounds of destruction. 

"Okay, okay, this is okay," Stanford said to himself. "He's probably around here somewhere. He probably… went to go get ice cream. Yeah." That was reassuring! And delicious. 

His body didn't stop shaking. 

He groaned, throwing his head back. "When I find Stanley, I'm throwing him into the ocean myself," he grumbled.

Taking a deep breath, Ford walked over to the side of the boat where he'd left his bindle and jumped back down. He landed softly in the sand, having done this a couple of times now. It did send a shock up his joints, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. 

"Okay, Stanford, just think." He slung the little stick-bag over his shoulder again and began to pace around the boat. "If he wanted to meet you here, he would NOT be here." He threw his free hand out for emphasis. "He's too restless for that. So the best choice would be to stay and wait for him. But…" he trailed off, glancing down the beach. "...if he's not here, then you're wasting more time." 

He hummed, trying to calm the storm brewing in his mind. "Maybe…" 

Ford gasped, then smacked himself in the head. Duh!

There was one other place on the beach Stanley might be. Stanford quickly took off, heading north.

Let it be known that Stanford Pines did not give up easily. Heck, he still had a bunch of other places to be searching! But his earlier hypothesis of the two of them walking circles around each other was starting to become more clear. Which meant, one of them had to stand still and wait for the other to catch up. And since Stanley could not, for the life of him, stand still, it looked like Ford was going to be the one to do that.

He sat forlornly on his seat, gazing off into the waves. It was going on five hours since he started searching, and while adults would tell him that that wasn't very long at all, to Ford, it felt like he'd been going all day. Paired with the worry building in his guts that was slowly rising towards his chest, he was feeling exhausted. 

He'd already checked the park, and the boardwalk (he'd walked up and down it three times), and he'd made sure to find that ice cream place and ask about Stanley there. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. No one had seen him, no one had heard him, no one had anything to tell! 

There were too many variables and not enough information. He could spend the entire day running around in circles and that would solve nothing. He just had to trust that Stanley had come looking for Ford now, too, and they were doing circles. They were both just being silly and overreacting. It was fine. He was fine. They'd see each other by nightfall, since Stanley would go back to the Stan'O'War to camp out for the night, right? Yeah, yeah that was it. 

But right now, Ford couldn't find it in him to move. Everything was becoming too much. 

His feet dug into the sand under him, and he lightly pushed himself back and forth in a slow swaying motion. His swing made low creaking sounds as he did. 

Stanley's swing was silent. 

Sunset was still about two hours away this time of year, so he had time to just… breathe. Calm down, refocus. Stanley was on his way.

"Oh, and now what do we see here?" 

Ford tensed at the sound of footsteps behind him. He didn't turn to face them yet; he didn't know what to expect. Last time he'd heard those voices, it didn't end well, but it also had been a while, so…? 

"Galloping gumshoes, I do believe that's one of the Pines twins! All on his lonesome, apparently." The second voice dripped with fake surprise. 

"About time, wouldn't you say, Dickie?"

There were suddenly hands grabbing at the ropes of Ford's swing. Jumping, he turned to look, and found himself sandwiched between the Sibling Brothers. The boys' golden, slicked-back hair shone brightly in the late evening sunlight, and their eyes gleamed with a fire just barely concealed under fake bravado.

The one on his left, who was wearing a blue sweater vest and a white, long-sleeved shirt, nodded. "That I would, Ascot!"

The one on Stanford's right, Ascot, looked nearly identical to his twin in everything but clothing. He was wearing a red sweater with a yellow ascot poking out from beneath the collar of a white shirt. He smirked. "Say now, where is that brother of yours, freak? Not still grounded after the whole golden sticky-fingers incident, is he?" He turned up his brows in mock concern.

Ford shook his head. "N-no, he's- Stanley and I, we were just, uh…" he dug around for something to say. He did not have the time nor the patience for these two right now. He needed to march back to the Stan'O'War as quickly as possible and wait for his twin there. Hopefully he wouldn't be much longer, and if they did pass each other, they'd see it this time since it was getting late and there's no way Stanley wouldn't also be thinking that Ford was either at the swingset or the boat, right? "Just leave me alone!"

As Stanford moved to stand up, Ascot grabbed his jacket sleeve and yanked him back, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to knock him back into the seat. 

"Oh no you don't, Pines," he glowered. "We still have some unfinished business." 

Dickie leaned into Stanford's view, arms crossed. "Yeah. You owe us for the Jersey Devil debacle." 

Stanford frowned. "I don't owe you two anything! You tried to get my brother in trouble, and you keep calling me a freak!" He stood up sharply, trying to run again, only to hit the sand as Dickie tripped him. It got under his glasses and in his clothes, but he hardly noticed. He spun around, eyes flicking back and forth between the two boys. 

"Outstanding work, Dickie." 

"Many thanks, Ascot." 

The two of them started towards Stanford. He scrambled backwards, but couldn't seem to get his feet under him. 

"You know," Ascot began, "I'm starting to think your brother isn't here, Stanford." 

"What, did you finally get tired of him?"

"No…" Stanford looked away, still scooching backwards along the sand. Hopefully they were far enough away from where the broken glass was, he didn't want to get his hands cut up. They only had so many bandaids. "No, he just… he… went to go get ice cream?"

"Ho ho ho!" Dickie placed a hand on his guts in mock laughter. "So he really is gone!"

"No, he isn't!" Stanford stopped, purposefully focusing on his feet as he shakily stood back up. "I'm going to find him!" 

"Find him?" Ascot raised a brow. "And he has been missing for…?"

Crap. "Nothing! I mean, never! I know where he is!" Stanford pointed at them both accusingly. "And you better get outta here before he gets back! You don't wanna mess with him, trust me!"

The two gave each other a long look before bursting out laughing. If Ford had to describe it in a word, it'd be "snooty." 

"And just what makes you think you can solve any mysteries?" Dickie put his hands on his hips. "If it weren't for you two following us, you would have NEVER discovered the Jersey Devil in the first place!"

"And," Ascot added, stepping closer, attempting to loom over a boy his same height, "you were working as a team. You're alone now, aren't you, freak?"

"Stop calling me that!" Stanford burst out. He jammed his hands into his pockets, hating the feeling of his face heating up. "He's my brother, of course I'll find him! We always find each other!"

Dickie tapped his chin with a finger, rolling his eyes in thought. "You know, Ascot, I've been struck with an idea," he mused, dragging out his words.

"Do tell," Ascot waved a hand at his brother in a grandiose fashion. 

"That troublemaker means a lot to six fingers, doesn't he? Perhaps, if we find him first, he'll thank us instead. We could get our reign as Glass Shard Beach's best mystery solvers back!"

"Hey, Stanley would never-" 

"I like the sound of that, Dickie!" Ascot turned to smirk at Ford again. "If we found him first, then we would be considered great detectives, cracking a case that not even the so-called Kings of New Jersey could solve on their own!"

"We could restore our reputation" Dickie seemed genuinely excited now. "And get payback at the same time!" 

"Righto!"  

"Shut up!" Stanford threw his hands up in the air before stomping towards them. "My brother and I can take care of ourselves! You stay out of this!"

"Hah!" Ascot scoffed. "What's the matter, Pines? Afraid you'll lose?"

Ford straightened indignantly. "That's my twin you're talking about! You go stick your noses somewhere else, this is none of your business!"

"Sounds like the game is on," Dickie grinned. He turned on his heel, walking back towards the nearby boardwalk. "Tah tah, Pines, we'll see you on the other side of the proverbial finish line!"

Ascot followed right behind him. "May the best detective win!" He whipped his head around and blew out a raspberry at Ford, leaving the both of them giggling their snooty giggles as they walked their snooty walks back towards civilization.

Ford huffed, hands clenched. He had sand in his hair and in his jacket and shoes and pants and speckled on his glasses and he didn't care. This wasn't some random competition, this was his brother.

Despite himself, Ford crossed his arms. "Oh you'll see," he growled. He marched back over to the swings, grabbing his bindle, and began storming off. He had a boat to catch. "You'll see."

[ckret2]

Chapter 20 of Human Bill is the Mystery Shack's (secret) prisoner (title tbd), featuring: at last, Wendy discovering the "house guest." And Stan discovering Wendy discovered the house guest. And Bill and Stan having the funniest argument imaginable.

Also featuring: Ford letting Fiddleford in on the secret and asking for his help getting rid of Bill for good.

####

"Hey dudes," Soos said, leaning into the living room. Bill and Mabel looked up from Mabel's phone. "Me and Melody and Ford are heading out for anime night. If you've got an emergency, call me; and if you don't have an emergency, uh... don't. Cuz we're gonna be anime-ing hard."

"Anime night?" Bill repeated. "Why's Stanford going to anime night?"

Soos blinked. "Is... that a trick question?" he asked. "Hey—aren't you not allowed to use phones?"

"He's not using it," Mabel said. "I'm using it. He's just watching a video over my shoulder. I've got him secured for our safety!" Bill demonstratively held up his bloody sock-wrapped hands.

"Oh. Smart thinking," Soos said. He nodded and left.

Bill looked back at the phone, left eye shut and right eye squinted, then pointed at the screen and murmured, "Oh, there—037, 037 is a big winner." Mabel nodded and wrote down "Beach 037" on a piece of paper where she'd been listing scratch card serial numbers.

Soos came back. "Hey," he said, "Bill. Why are your hands bloody."

"Because my eye's bleeding." As he said so, a bright red drop of blood rolled out of his right eye like a tear. He wiped it off his cheek with one hand, adding another stain to the sock.

"Oh. Okay," Soos said. "Why's your eye bleeding."

Mabel helpfully answered, "Because it's hard for him to see into a higher dimension from here."

"Hey." Bill nudged her with an elbow. "That was for your ears. But yes, if you have to know. Human eyeballs are—limited. It causes some some light cranial hemorrhaging." He squinted at the video again. Another bloody tear rolled down his cheek.

Soos stood uncomfortably in the doorway. "Looks... kinda painful."

"Excruciatingly," Bill said casually. Mabel mouthed he's fine at Soos.

Soos said, "Do you... want a headache pill? Or an eyepatch or something?"

"Oh." Bill looked up at Soos in surprise. "Is that an option?"

Soos shrugged. "Yeah?"

"Huh." Bill was momentarily silent, processing this revelation about the medical care options he was permitted. Finally, he said, "No to the pill—I think I'm getting a migraine aura, and I don't want to stop the little white spots before they develop into full hallucinations! I'd hate to miss that light show, you know?"

Soos nodded, as though he did know. He did not, in fact, know.

"But I could use an eyepatch," Bill said.

"You got it. Be right back."

Soos retrieved an unopened costume eyepatch from the spares for his Mr. Mystery outfit, brought it downstairs, and handed it over to Bill's socked hand. "Do you uh—need help getting that on?"

"I'll do it when we're done with the phone," Bill said, and returned to watching the video.

Mabel poked his side. "What do we say?"

"Thanks," Bill said without looking up, followed by, "062." Mabel dutifully copied the number down.

Soos headed out to his pickup, where Melody and Ford were waiting. "Sorry for the delay, guys," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. "Bill's eyeball is bleeding from trying to look at a higher dimension, so I had to get him an eyepatch."

In the back seat, Ford frowned and pulled his journal from inside his coat and flipped open to the most recent page. "Which eye?"

"Uh..." Soos held up a hand and turned it as he mentally rotated Bill to figure out which side his bloody eye would be on if it were on Soos's body. "Right. His right."

"Did he happen to mention which dimension he was trying to see?"

"Nuh-uh. He probably won't say either, he was kinda annoyed Mabel told me that much."

Mabel might know, then. Ford could ask her. Probably tomorrow—late tomorrow, after the party.

Melody asked, "He's not gonna need a doctor, is he?"

Soos started the truck. "He seemed really casual about the whole thing, so, I don't think so?"

"That's a relief," Ford muttered.

They started the drive to the former Northwest Manor.

####

When Fiddleford answered the front door and saw Ford, he smiled so wide it made Ford smile too. "Stanford! It's been a month of Sundays since I saw you last!"

"Fiddleford." Ford reached out to take Fiddleford's hand—and got tugged into a one-armed hug. He recovered from his surprise enough to return it. "It's good to see you. You're looking well." Which was to say: still looking aged before his time and running around barefoot and shirtless in his overalls; but a little less sunburned, a little more bathed, and merely "scrawny" rather than "emaciated." Ford figured if the man wanted to run around shirtless in his own lavish 150-year-old mansion, that was his own business. 

"Just like we promised," Melody said, "one Ford dragged to your doorstep."

"Yes!" Soos pumped a fist in the air. "Operation Ford-Ford Reunion: completed! We uh—we didn't actually drag him, though. He was excited to come."

"He oughta be," Fiddleford said. "This'll be just like old times! Back in college, this man showed me all sortsa Japanese movies about big monsters and robots clobberin' each other. It was my first taste of international cinema!" He scratched his beard. "I wonder if that had any kinda impact on me?"

Melody and Soos looked at Ford with new respect. Soos said, "I didn't realize you were such a man of culture."

"All right, enough jibber-jabberin' on my porch!" Fiddleford waved Soos and Melody in. "You youngins go on ahead. Us old timers have to catch up. Tate's in the kitchen rustlin' up some vittles."

"Sweet, movie snacks," Soos said. He turned to Melody. "Wanna take the hidden service tunnel the Northwests used to hide the less pretty servants?"

"Pffft! Is that even a question?"

Soos tapped a foot twice on a square of Venetian parquet flooring just left of the door. A section of floor beneath them dropped down to form a slide, and Soos and Melody plummeted into the dark, squealing and laughing. The floor swung back up.

Fiddleford said, "I sure hope I fixed that tunnel to go to the pantry 'stead of the secret dungeon. Anywho!" He ambled his bow-legged way into the manor, gesturing for Ford to follow him. "We'll take the scenic route."

Ford looked around as he followed Fiddleford. He'd never been allowed in the front way before—the last time he'd visited the Northwest Manor back in the eighties, he'd been told to come in through a side door. It had been a very long walk. The front door opened directly into a great hall large enough to serve as a ballroom, with a staircase at the far end that led up to a fireplace and then forked left and right. A whale statue hung from the ceiling and still seemed dwarfed by the vast room. Ford had taken classes in lecture halls smaller than this. "I'm surprised you're still answering your own door. With all you made selling your inventions, I'd have expected you to hire a butler by now."

"I built me one a few months back," Fiddleford said, "but it kept trying to murder the feller what brings my mail. So I locked it in the coat room until I can figure out what went wrong."

There was a violent thud and scraping against a door near the entrance.

"Don't worry about that. It's reinforced," Fiddleford said. "Now, how long have you been back in town—a couple weeks?"

"Nearly." Had it really been less than two weeks? Somehow that felt both too long and too short. He'd accomplished so little with two weeks at his disposal. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come by. I wanted to as soon as I was back in town. You must think me a terrible friend—"

"Nonsense," Fiddleford said firmly. "I knew you'd come when you could—and here you are, ain'tcha? I reckoned you must've been busy with something."

"Yes," Ford agreed, with a bitter laugh. "More busy than you can imagine."

"Well, there you go! Nothin' to beat yourself up over."

Ford slowed, dropping a few steps behind Fiddleford, feet heavy, feeling like a physical pressure was keeping him from walking forward; and then he stopped. "I'm sorry to say, but that's part of the reason I'm here." He stared at the gap between his boots and Fiddleford's feet, the beautiful hardwood floor and the thin layer of dirt that had settled on it. "Of course, I wanted to visit you too, but... I need your help, Fiddleford."

He'd meant to wait until after the show to bring this up, let Fiddleford enjoy his evening without anxiety—hadn't he learned with Mabel not to try to mix business and socialization?—but now that Ford was here, the bad news threatened to bubble out of him with every breath. He wouldn't be able to enjoy his evening with his dread of the coming conversation weighing down on him. (What right did he have to enjoy the evening, when he knew he was once again about to make his mistakes Fiddleford's problem?) 

But, Ford hadn't had the self-control to keep it to himself for just another few hours—he must have been too tired—excuses, excuses—and now Fiddleford was giving him that look he got when he was fully focused on a conversation, eyes wide and surprised-looking, as if opening them further would let him absorb more of the information he was receiving. "Of course, Stanford. What sort of help?"

Of course, he said. Of course, like Ford didn't have a history of asking for help that ruined people's lives. Either Fiddleford was charitable enough to assume Ford wouldn't inflict the kind of monstrous horrors on him he had thirty years ago, or selfless enough to offer anyway.

Ford swallowed hard. "It's heavy," he warned. "I don't want to ruin the show. Would you rather wait until afterward to discuss it...?" Although Ford doubted Fiddleford would stand for that.

Sure enough, Fiddleford waved off the idea with his bandaged arm. "Don't be silly. Now that you've brought it up, it's gonna give me the heebity-jeebies until I know what's wrong! Anyway, how heavy could it be?" He laughed wryly. "Can't possibly be as bad as that triangle feller, can it?"

Ford didn't know what expression had appeared on his face, but the effect on Fiddleford was instantaneous. His smile vanished; his lined face went as white as his beard. "Is it as bad?"

Ford winced. "Let me explain—"

"It's him." Fiddleford didn't phrase it as a question. "No. It can't— You're lyin'! You're lyin'!" He backed away from Ford as if he was the threat, tripped and tumbled to the floor, and scampered backward on his hands and feet.

And here was the screaming. Age had not dulled Fiddleford's hair-trigger panic response. Ford had hoped to explain it to him gently, ease him into the bad news before revealing who it was, but if all he could do now was damage control... Ford knelt down like he was trying to coax over a frightened cat. "Fiddleford, please—"

One of Fiddleford's legs spasmed, bouncing like a rabbit thumping its foot in warning of predators. "Not him! The beast— The beast with just one—"

"Two eyes," Ford corrected.

And the unexpectedness of the correction momentarily cut straight through Fiddleford's panic. His wild eyes focused on Ford in bafflement. "Say wha?"

"He has two eyes now," Ford said. "And he's powerless and imprisoned. He survived—but he's not a threat." It was a slight exaggeration, but Ford's first priority was calming Fiddleford down. He could introduce nuance once Fiddleford wasn't panicking.

"He's—He's not a—He's—"

"Deep breath," Ford said.

Fiddleford sucked in a deep breath, held it just long enough that Ford was starting to worry, and let it out in a long, deep gush. "Whoo!" He smacked his head with his palm, and then another couple times for good measure. "Sorry 'bout that. Just—got a little excited. Let me catch my..." He took another couple of deep breaths.

Ford waited patiently. "You're better at dealing with alarming news than you used to be." Maybe that wasn't the best praise, considering that Ford had usually been the one delivering the alarming news.

"I'm not sure I am. I think I just get it all out of my system faster." Fiddleford took one last deep breath, and said, "All right. Explain this to me."

Ford gave Fiddleford the rundown on the last two weeks—Bill's arrival, his capture, the stalemate as they realized that neither side could risk Bill's death without knowing what would happen. He explained everything they knew or suspected about Bill's current powers or lack thereof, and how they were containing and neutralizing him further.

He even pulled out his current journal to show Fiddleford Bill's appearance: a few days ago, Ford had gotten a drawing of Bill in the living room watching TV, huddled up against the armrest of the sofa as if he wanted to stay as close to the doorway as possible, one eye squeezed shut, the other glazed with disinterest, the corners of his mouth curled down despondently. Ford had done the quick rough sketch while watching Bill from the kitchen, then retreated to his room to flesh out the details. There was no way Ford was neglecting to properly document the unwelcome phenomenon occurring in his house, but there was doubly no way Ford was giving Bill's ego the pleasure of knowing he was drawing him again. 

Fiddleford cocked a brow. "Bill's a woman?"

"I'm not sure whatever force humanized him was too picky about the sex," Ford said. "For that matter, I'm not sure he's picky about his sex. It's never come up." What kind of genders did Bill's species have? Did they have genders? Ford should ask. (Ford should not ask. He took that idea, stuffed it in a bag, and threw it in a lake.)

"Huh." Fiddleford gave Ford a skeptical look. "Y'all're letting him watch TV?"

"He's threatened to kill himself if he gets too bored," Ford said tiredly. "He knows if we were to completely lock him up, he'd be as good as dead, since we could just keep him there until we find a guaranteed way to kill him. He says he'd sooner die by his own hand in that circumstance, and he's mad enough I think he'd make good on it. So, to maintain the current stalemate, we've agreed on some... limited privileges."

"Including television."

"Honestly? Moving the TV out of the living room just so he couldn't watch it didn't seem worth the trouble. We use that TV too."

Fiddleford grunted; but he offered the journal back to Ford. He offered it held open, and his gaze didn't break from Bill's face until Ford shut it and put it back into his jacket pocket. "So," Fiddleford said. "You said you need help?"

"Yes. At the moment, we're safe from Bill. All we have to do is find a way to destroy both his body and whatever's inside it, whether it's a human soul or an energy being—and use it before he learns we have it and does something drastic."

Fiddleford pressed his lips together, so thin they disappeared behind his whiskers. "Stanford, I want to help any way I can, but none of my killer robots or deadly lasermajigs are designed for incineratin' space demons. I don't rightly know if I can help."

"But you've already helped. You—" Ford hesitated. "You might want to brace yourself for another shock."

Fiddleford wrapped his arms around his chest and laced his hands together behind his back. "Ready!"

"While I was exploring other dimensions, I found a parallel Earth where you—where we..." Ford swallowed his guilt. "Where... things turned out better. Your parallel self helped me perfect my weapon to destroy Bill."

"A parallel..." Fiddleford's gaze briefly went wall-eyed as he processed the implications of the second life-altering revelation of the hour; but he quickly shook himself out of it. "Well, shucks, then this oughta be easy as pie! If I can do it, then so can I! So tell me about this weapon."

Soos appeared at the top of one of the stairs at the end of the great hall. "Hey, dudes! What's the hold up? We're ready to roll!"

"We'll be right there," Ford called, then turned back to Fiddleford. "Perhaps I should show you the blueprints after the show."

They headed for the stairs. Fiddleford gave Ford a cheeky grin. "Stanford Pines, shilly-shallying around watching cartoons when there's work to be done? Now, my memory ain't what it used to be, but that don't sound like the Stanford I recall."

"I've learned the hard way that a strict diet, exercise regimen, and regular meditation alone can't save a human from burning himself out." The image of Bill's eye and Cheshire Cat smile peering out from beneath a dark towel flashed through Ford's mind. He pushed the memory aside. "Now more than ever, I need to make time for a little play." Goodness knows he hadn't made any time in the last couple of weeks, unless that emotionally fraught trip to Portland counted. "Besides, I—don't want to ruin your evening with my problem."

Fiddleford reached up to put a hand on Ford's shoulder. "That sonova cosine ain't your problem; he's ours. All of ours."

"Thank you, Fiddleford." It was exactly what he needed to hear.

At the top of the stairs, Fiddleford hopped in the air, kicked his heels together, and shouted, "Now let's go watch some giant robots commit atrocities against God! YEEHAW!" He tore off down a corridor with Ford chasing close behind.

####

Stan had given Wendy a copy of the Mystery Shack's keys a year ago, back when the only secrets in the shack had been hidden beneath the vending machine. She still had them, and she could still let herself in at any time; she'd just needed an excuse to minimize how much trouble she'd get in if she was caught.

"Sorry, I forgot my ice cream was here and I just came to pick it up" was a much lower offense than "I was sneaking in specifically to find out the thing you were trying to keep me from finding out."

Staking out the shack from the woods was boring work—she would've liked to bring a friend along, but then she really couldn't use the "I was just swinging by to grab my food" excuse—but she could pass the time whittling until she lost light, and after that she had like a billion scary story podcasts to go through.

Friday night was anime night. Around seven, Soos's truck pulled out, with Melody and Ford on board. That was right—she'd seen Ford talking to Soos about joining in on anime night. One less person she had to look out for. Half past ten, the last light in the shack turned out.

Wendy went in.

She automatically avoided the creakiest floor boards as she let herself in the front door, and then crept into the kitchen. She closed her eyes as she groped around in the freezer for the  sorbet she'd left behind so that the light couldn't disrupt her night vision. There. Excuse retrieved. If anyone caught her now, she could wave her dessert in their face and pull the dumb teen routine.

Now what?

All she knew about the shack's latest secret was that it had ripped up Soos's coat, it might be psychic, and it was possibly locked up and shouting mad about it. That didn't give her a lot to go on. The kitchen didn't look much different. Less clutter out on the counters and shelves than usual, but that wasn't evidence of paranormal activity. Maybe Abuelita had gone on a cleaning spree.

She'd start with safer locations and move out from there. If she was caught, where would she get in the least trouble for snooping?

Sorry guys, I just came by to get my sorbet; and then I really needed to use the bathroom, so I thought it wouldn't be a big deal if...

She crept out of the kitchen.

Wendy wasn't risking waking anyone by turning on lights; but by the glow of her phone's screen and the living room fish tank, she could see that Abuelita's sofa was missing its cushions. No signs of anything else weird though. She crept down the dark hall, phone pressed to her chest to hide the glow until she'd passed the guest room and Abuelita's room.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she tried to grasp the downstairs toilet's doorknob, but only brushed fabric instead. She held up her phone. They'd replaced the door with a curtain? That was weird, but...

She pulled the curtain aside.

Something sat cross-legged on the closed toilet. One blood-dripping yellow eye stared up at Wendy. 

Wendy screamed.

"Hello to you too," the thing said. "Come in?"

Wendy punched it in the eye and bolted.

She heard it stumble-thud out of the bathroom, call, "Wait, wait—Wendy!" and then laugh, and then mutter, "ow, ow, ow."

Wendy slowed halfway to the exit as what she'd just seen fully registered. That was a human person. Whom she'd socked in the face.

Wendy about-faced. "Oh, man, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" She  came back and flipped on the bathroom light to check for damage.

The stranger was a heavyset brown-skinned woman with a mass of loose golden curls hanging to her shoulder blades, wearing a baggy yellow hoodie and knee-length skirt—and something about her was familiar, but Wendy couldn't put her finger on what. The stranger shrugged, grinning, and said, "It's not the worst thing to happen to that eyeball today!" She moved an eyepatch over from her left eye to cover the bloody eye Wendy had socked—and that was why Wendy had only seen the one eye in the dark. The eyepatch.

Wow, smooth move, Wendy, punching somebody for having a painful-looking eye condition. She winced. "Sorry. Do you... wanna ice that?" She awkwardly held out her sorbet.

The stranger looked at the pint thoughtfully. "Can I eat it instead?"

"Um. No?" Wendy pulled it back. "Hey—did you call me Wendy? How'd you know my name?"

The stranger shrugged. "What, you work here, don't you? I see you all the time."

So they had met before? Wendy studied the stranger's face, trying to remember where—and then her eyes widened. "Wait—hold on, Toga Lady? No way!"

"Wh—yeah, that's me!" She laughed. "I can't get over how many people recognize me because of that."

"Yeah, everyone in town knows you." She flipped open her phone to show Toga Lady a meme Tambry sent a couple days ago: the picture Wendy had taken of her in the gift shop that spread all over town, currently captioned, "When you're meeting Plato but still wanna look kawaii."

Toga Lady cracked up. "Hey, I love that! Send that to Sh—Mabel, I wanna save that."

"Sure." Did Toga Lady not have a phone? Or maybe just didn't want to hand her number out to a stranger who punched her in the dark. "So... what are you doing here? Are you visiting the Pines?" Wendy vaguely remembered Toga Lady asking about the Pines a few months ago. "Who are you?"

"The name's Goldie," the stranger said. "And I'm... just staying here for a bit. As a house guest." (And, Bill realized, if Wendy asked him any more than that, he was in trouble. He and the Pines had very briefly arranged his cover story: if and when somebody noticed him, he was Goldie Locke and he was staying as a guest. But why was he staying as a guest, where had he come from, how long would he be here... they'd never gotten that far. He'd better think up some boring cover story the Pines wouldn't object to—maybe claim to be one of Abuelita's distant relatives, staying with family between jobs...)

Wendy said, "So, hold on. Are you the big mysterious supernatural phenomenon the Pines have been trying not to talk about?"

Goldie blinked. And then a brilliant, gleeful smile stretched across her face. "Wow, you're a smart one! How did you guess?"

####

To Fiddleford's evident despair, Soos had made good on his threat to put a moratorium on mecha anime. Instead, he played a few episodes of a period drama about a former samurai, desperate to retire from the sword, who kept running into civilians with inconvenient problems that could only be solved with a two-foot steel blade.

In the 1920s, the Northwests had added a private movie palace to their manor so they wouldn't have to watch picture shows with the common folks; and it hadn't take Soos much work to rig up a new projector to play from his laptop. The Northwests had outfitted the theater with armchairs, loveseats, and coffee tables, which had conveyed with the manor. Once the show was over and the snacks were cleared aside, one of the coffee tables made a perfect space for Ford to spread out his blueprints and research notes. While Soos, Melody, and Tate discussed the likelihood that unemployed samurai really used their swords to rescue stuck cats by chopping down tree branches, Ford explained the quantum destabilizer to Fiddleford.

It was a death ray designed to obliterate whatever it hit—whether matter, energy, both, neither, or other. If it hit a human, they'd be crushed into nothing. If it hit something as powerful as Bill, he'd be fatally collapsed into a miniature black hole, taking anything under his influence with him, and then he'd disappear. Not even ashes would be left behind. No matter what Bill was now, this could kill him.

The problem was the fuel, which Ford had obtained from another Fiddleford, who in turn had obtained it in a paradox dimension: an element that was inert when observed and highly radioactive when concealed. Parallel Fiddleford had named it NowUSeeitNowUDontium. But Ford had used up the last of his fuel on a wild shot during Weirdmageddon. And—short of rebuilding that accursed portal and venturing back out into the multiverse—Ford didn't know how to get more.

"Your parallel self helped me make all the modifications to my destabilizer to let it run on Dontium," Ford said. "You know your own mind better than anyone else. Perhaps if you see your parallel self's design modifications, you might be able to deduce the necessary properties of the substance used to fuel it, and we could... find a way to synthesize an artificial substitute, maybe?"

Fiddleford frowned worriedly at the blueprints. "Frankly, I don't know that I do know my own mind," he said. "But... I'll take a look-see at this, see what I can make of it."

"That's all I ask. Thank you, Fiddleford."

"What'll we do if I can't work it out, though?"

He'd already wondered that himself. Making an element was harder than finding one. There was a reason the gold miners outlasted the alchemists. "We'll find another way. Maybe adapt the destabilizer to another fuel source. I initially designed it for portability in anticipation of a fight with a highly mobile, flying opponent. Now that it'll be used for the execution of a captive, portability is less important. Perhaps it could be modified to plug into an external fuel source?"

"It'd have to be ginormous," Fiddleford said dubiously. "What about that infernal-lookin' summoning circle you had us try? Is that still an option?"

"I've considered it, but... there are four members of the zodiac who still don't know Bill's alive—and they're all children. I never learned exactly what the zodiac does, much less whether it would have any effect on Bill as a human, so I don't want to get them involved just to discover that solution doesn't work. The destabilizer will work."

"If'n we can fuel it."

Ford sighed. "We'll call the zodiac 'plan B.'"

####

On the way out, Ford stopped in the door and said, "Oh, Fiddleford—I nearly forgot." He took out a folded paper he'd stowed in his journal's cover and handed it to Fiddleford, grinning.

It was a hand-made card, with a cover that featured a cake and puffy stickers that read, "PARTY!" Inside was a crayon drawing of Stan and Ford holding hands and smiling next to the words, "Come to our 62nd birthday party!!! Saturday, June 15, 1:00 PM, at the Mystery Shack!!! DON'T BE LATE!!!!!"

Wryly, Fiddleford asked, "Did you make this yourself?"

"Mabel helped," Ford admitted. "I almost forgot our birthday entirely until she brought it up this morning."

"Did you? Now I don't feel so bad that I'd plumb forgot myself. Tomorrow—whoo-ee." A hint of anxiety entered his eyes. "Will the party attendees be including...?"

"We're having our party outside. Our 'houseguest' 'Goldie' is not allowed outside."

Fiddleford immediately relaxed. "Then I'll be there, don't you worry! With gifts, too!"

"Then we'll see you tomorrow." As Ford followed Soos down the long driveway toward his truck, he mused to himself that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a birthday party. He didn't think he'd ever invited somebody outside his family to a birthday party and thought they would actually come. Felt good. 

Ford was halfway to the truck when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Tate. Had they ever spoken one-on-one before? "Tate? What can I do—"

Tate took a step too close, and Ford's back immediately went stiff. "Don't think I didn't see those blueprints you were showing my Dad," Tate said. "Now, you listen here, Dr. Pines." He said "doctor" like it was an insult. "Thirty years ago I lost my father thanks to you and your stupid science project, and I just got him back. I ain't keen on losing him again. Is that clear?"

Oh. "I—yes. Perfectly clear. I don't want any trouble. I'm asking for his help to prevent trouble, actually."

Tate drawled, "Oh, yeah? That so? You usually need futuristic laser bazookas to prevent trouble?"

How good a look had Tate gotten at the blueprints? He'd been on the other side of the room. "Tate... listen." Ford took a deep breath. "You've got every reason to distrust me. Thirty years ago, I was so wrapped up in my own problems that I turned my back on your father when he needed help the most—and you, your mother, and he all suffered greatly for it. But whatever happens, I won't turn my back on him again. I promise."

Tate considered that in sullen silence. "Fine," he said. "See you don't. But I've got my eye on you."

He turned back toward the manor, paused, and faced Ford again. "When I came to Gravity Falls, the first place I went was the last address Dad wrote from. The man who answered the door said he never knew no McGucket and he'd never stayed there. I called him a dirty liar, and he chased me off his property with a hammer." He pointed at Ford. "You... You were gone by then, weren'tcha? That was your brother."

Ford's stomach dropped. "That's right. That... Stanley didn't know anything. We were estranged the whole time I knew your father. I didn't even call Fiddleford by name in my journals."

"All these years he told me he never knew my father, I thought he was just too big a coward to own up to what he'd done. When all along I was resentin' an innocent man, while you were..." He trailed off; then set his jaw firmly, squared his shoulders, and said, "Welp. You take responsibility like a man. I hope you act like one, too."

Ford shrugged helplessly. "I've been trying to."

Tate nodded once. "Good to finally meet the real you, Dr. Pines," he said coolly. Then he turned back toward the manor and walked away.

####

Stan was sure he'd heard a scream.

He stared at the ceiling. It was too late for people to be screaming. He didn't wanna get up. He couldn't hear anything now; but then, his hearing aids were out. Which meant the scream must have been really loud.

Grumbling, he sat up, put in his hearing aids, put in his teeth, put on his glasses, put on his slippers, dragged himself upright, and shuffled to the door.

The moment he stepped out, he could hear Bill's voice, chattering from some dark corner of the shack: "I was actually one of Stanford's research assistants! Haha! Yeah, during the earliest portal tests, I got sucked into the psychic plane between reality and dreams—ever heard of the 'mindscape'?—and everyone assumed it killed me! I've actually been haunting the shack like a ghost for the last three decades! It sure is great to be alive again!"

Stan's first thought, still half asleep, was, I don't remember Ford telling me about that part. And his second thought was, Wait. Who's Bill talking to?

Then he heard Wendy's laugh and his blood ran cold. "Aw man, that's insane! What'd you eat? Is there food in the mindscape?"

"I didn't need to eat, sleep, or age! Convenient, huh? Now I look thirty years too young!"

"How'd you keep from getting crazy bored without anyone to talk to?"

"I watched TV over Stanley's shoulder and eavesdropped on tourists' marital problems! I saw you all summer—"

Stan followed their voices to the living room and fumbled on the light switch. Wendy started and cringed back into the armchair she'd claimed, squinting in the bright light. Bill, who'd been standing in the dark like a creep, didn't flinch—but he slowly stood a little straighter.

"What the heck's going on in here?" Stan snapped.

"Hey, Mr. Pines," Wendy said weakly. "Sorry—I forgot my ice cream when I left," she held up a pint, "so I came back for it and... um..."

"I spooked her in the dark and she socked me!" Bill laughed.

Stan moved between Wendy and Bill. "She's got the right idea." As Stan moved further into the room, Bill circled him to get closer to the doorway.

"But—I mean, is Goldie all you were keeping secret?" Wendy asked. "I worked here all last summer. I know what this place is like! You know I can handle learning that some woman's been stuck in a parallel plane—right?"

Before Stan had a chance to say anything, Bill piped up again: "They're all just worried about the thirty-year-old missing person case they could have helped solve! But hey, I don't mind. I'm sure the only reason they didn't try to find me was because Ford thought I was dead and Stan didn't know about me." Bill looked straight in Stan's eyes. "Isn't that right?"

Oh, Bill had them all over a barrel now.

A good two-man con was a lot like good improv theater, in that neither actor could contradict the other one's story; once one of them introduced a detail, the other one had to agree "yes, and—" and roll with it. No matter how stupid or insane your partner's contribution, if you start arguing about your story in front of your mark, they'll know you're lying—and there goes your mark.

Stan knew that. Bill knew Stan knew that.

And Bill had gotten to Wendy first. Now, unless Stan wanted to completely spill the triangular beans to Wendy, he had no choice but to play along and "yes, and" Bill's stupid story about being Ford's assistant.

Fine. But no way was Stan playing along on Bill's terms.

Stan scoffed loudly. "Or maybe the reason my brother didn't try to find you is because you're a no-good lying creep who"—(what do nerds hate each other for?)—"tried to steal his research!"

From the corner of his eye, Stan could see Wendy's eyebrows shoot up and her mouth open slightly. Yeah, good. Yes-and that, Cipher.

Stan expected anger. There wasn't anger. The ghost of a smile flickered across Bill's face before he got his expression under control. There was a spark of light in his eye, like something sleeping in him had activated.

In the split second between Bill's lips parting and the first syllable emerging, Stan realized—a moment too late—that he'd made a terrible mistake. Bill wasn't just a con artist. He was one of those guys. The guys who got into crime because they couldn't get into theater. The divas. The attention hogs. The guys who enjoyed lying for the thrill of it.

And Stan had just given him an opportunity for drama.

"Steal it?" Bill snapped. "Steal it?" He raised a hand and pointed a thumb at himself, elbow jutted out to the side, chest puffed up, making himself bigger. "I am his research! Over half the stuff he put in his journals comes from material I dug up for him! By his third journal, he was practically my ghostwriter! But do you think I was gonna get a co-author credit?"

"Oh, that's a load of bull—slander," Stan snapped. "I am not letting you talk about my brother like that! He did all the hard work while you, what—" what fit the story they were inventing, "—picked up books for him at the library like a good little undergrad—?"

"Hey!" Bill turned sideways to jab a finger at Stan, like a fencer making his profile narrower before driving his sabre home. "Post grad! I was working on my dissertation! And I didn't just 'pick them up'; I found the books he needed, usually because I'd already read them and he hadn't!"

"Oh, you read a few books! Oooh, I'm so impressed! But you're not the one who wrote about them, sister!"

"HA! The hundreds of pages of notes I gave him say otherwise! So what if I wanted to publish first while he was hoarding the fruits of my labor in his basement, it was my right—!"

Stan bellowed, "That kind of talk is why you got dismissed from your dissertation program for plagiarism!"

All righteous indignation, Bill raised his voice to match, "The plagiarism charges were unproven! I dropped out on my own terms!"

"Oh SUUURE, because you wanted to see the WOOORLD! And how much of the world did you see hiding in a podunk logging town doing my brother's primary research for him, huh?!"

"HA!" Voice nearly a shriek, finger raised to the heavens in triumph, Bill crowed, "SO YOU ADMIT I DID ALL THE PRIMARY RESEARCH—!"

Ford said, "What the devil is going on here?"

Stan and Bill fell silent. Ford stood in the entryway, looking one part irate and two parts bewildered. The front door was still open, Soos and Melody peering around Ford.

Ford could doom them. Stan knew how to improv like a con artist, Bill knew how to improv like a con artist, but did Ford? Ever since they'd been kids, he'd always been just a little slower with a lie. If Stan had a chance to ease him into the backstory they'd concocted without requiring him to improvise himself—hey, we were just explaining to Wendy how 'Goldie' used to be your research assistant until 'she' got eaten by a portal test—

"STANFORD," Bill snapped. Stan almost jumped out of his skin. Oh no. Bill glared at Ford, pointed at Stan, and said, "Tell Stanley the plagiarism charges were unfounded, I was unfairly accused!"

Stan held his breath.

Ford stared at Bill, and then stared at Stan—Stan could almost see the gears turning in his head—and then stared at Wendy, and then stared at Bill again. And then he snarled, "After you tried to beat me to publication, you two-faced liar?"

"HA!" Stan pointed at Bill's face, laughing too hard to speak. "HAAA!" He pounded on the TV, half hysterical with mirth, and had to lean on it as he wheezed for breath. Ford—what a dark horse, Stan could kiss his cheek—Ford was maintaining the most stoic poker face Stan had ever seen. 

Bill was violently biting his lip, red in the face, brows drawn tight together, trembling all over. It took Stan a moment to realize Bill wasn't angry. He was battling hard to look furious—playing the part of the loser of the argument—when the creep was actually fighting not to laugh.

Bill made eye contact with Stan, very nearly lost it, and turned his back toward Wendy so she couldn't see his face. He gestured vaguely toward Stan and Ford and croaked, "You see what I have to put up with?"

"I dunno, man." Grinning, Wendy said, "Not to make light of the whole 'stuck haunting the shack for thirty years' thing, but it kiiinda sounds like you had it coming."

Mission accomplished. And let that teach Bill a lesson about trying to out-lie Stan Pines.

Soos waved a hand. "Hey, uh, what's going on—?"

Now that was a disaster waiting to happen. "I'll catch you up." Stan zoomed around Ford, scooped his arms around Soos's and Melody's shoulders, and hustled them out of the room.

####

"You're sure you want to bike home alone this late?" Ford was walking Wendy back to where she said she'd left her bike, just outside the clearing the Mystery Shack made in the forest. "I could give you a ride."

"Thanks, Mr. Pines, but I'm fine. This whole part of the forest is basically my backyard."

"If you insist." He supposed the Corduroy cabin wasn't that far off—the local kids probably ventured further on a regular basis. They just didn't usually drop by the Mystery Shack at this hour. "What were you doing visiting the shack, anyway?"

"I came back to get my ice cream," Wendy said, holding up her sorbet pint demonstratively. "Which... is probably completely melted by now." She shrugged, popped off the lid and drank it.

She came by this late for ice cream? Ford had his doubts. But then, if he'd been a sixteen-year-old with a summer job in a house keeping a supernatural secret, would he have done any differently? (He was just glad she hadn't worked out who their "guest" really was. He'd have to thank Stan later for his quick thinking with a cover story.)

Wendy picked up her bike and hit her helmet against a tree to dislodge any bugs that might have crawled in. "Hey, uh—please don't tell my dad I was over here, okay? I kinda didn't mention that I was going out."

Wendy was Boyish Dan's kid, wasn't she? How different they were. The Dan that Ford knew hadn't been much older than Wendy, but he'd regarded these woods with a respect that bordered on fear. He'd never be wandering around this late at night. "I can't imagine why I'd need to bring it up." Ford had snuck out for dumber reasons as a kid.

"Thanks, Mr. Pines." She put on her helmet and got on her bike. "I'll see you in the morning!"

"The morning? The party isn't until one, is it?"

"Yeah, but I'm running an errand with Mabel." Wendy waved as she left. In the dark, her arm blended in with the trees.

Ford hadn't heard Mabel mention any errands. What was she doing that she needed Wendy's help for?

Ford waited until he couldn't hear Wendy's bike anymore; and then headed back into the shack.

####

(Y'all have no idea how long I've been waiting to post that argument. If you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you thought! I need comments to survive. Like tinkerbell. Thanks!!)

[mint-fixates]

Me: Stanford Filbrick Pines is my precious babygirl, my sweet little blorbo, if anything bad ever happened to him I'd cry

Also me: *looks at Ford fanart where his eye is bleeding, his knuckles are bloody and scarred, and/or he's in the midst of a complete paranoia-induced mental breakdown* DELICIOUS. FINALLY SOME GOOD FUCKING FOOD

[imaredshirt]

There are bad days. So many bad days.

Sometimes their calculations end up being completely wrong. Days worth of gathering data and filling in formulas and tabulating results only bring them to dead ends. 

Sometimes Fiddleford slips up and a portal component implodes, or one of Stanley’s many shady connections fails to follow through with the illegal machinery and fuel they’d promised. Sometimes their failures are so catastrophic that it seems they’re right back where they started. Like they’re never going to bring Stanford home.

The frustration builds. Anger simmers. It’s an awful feeling. Like something waiting to burst but never actually bursting. It just sits there, heavy and suffocating and growing. A lot of walls are punched and the memory gun is brought out of its case more than once - never used, but considered in long, heavy silence.

It would be good to forget it all, Fiddleford thinks in those moments. Forget everything and hide in some shadowy corner where his failures couldn't find him.

But then he looks up and catches Stanley's eye. Stanley, who's clenching and unclenching a fist littered with bloody splinters. Stanley, who has stuck by him this whole time, even after fights that had nearly come to blows and after hurtful insults had been tossed around by them both.

Stanley, who has accepted Fiddleford despite all his faults. Who would give his soul to find his brother again.

Fiddleford puts the memory gun in its case and locks it, then finds the med kit before sitting with Stanley and looking to his bleeding fist. He cleans the blood away and as he's pulling out a roll of bandages, Stanley huffs a comment so ridiculous that Fiddleford laughs for the first time in a week. He gives a brief, comforting squeeze to Stanley's wrist and they share another long look and somehow it helps.

So many bad days. But they get through those days together, if nothing else.

[ouijarat]

Too Weird to Love, Too Scared to Die.

Chapter One

(This was just a silly goofy idea that my partner convinced me to get out of my brain and onto the internet. This takes place in an alternate Weirdmageddon Finale scenario. Btw I hardly ever write and this is my first fic like ever so PLEASE BE NICE TO ME and let me know if y'all like it. Ty <3)

_________________________________________

“I’ll give it to you!” Stanford Pines’ voice echoed from the cage and through the cavernous hall of the fearamid. The world seemed to stop as Stanford’s once beloved Muse-turned-monster’s gigantic eye turned from the two children in his grasp he was about to send to meet their maker a moment ago and onto him. Bill’s gaze was as blinding as the sun. 

“I’ll give you the equation, Cipher! Just… don’t hurt my family… please.” 

Bill stared while Dipper and Mabel’s terrified expressions drilled themselves into Ford’s mind during the stillness. Just as Dipper opened his mouth, seemingly to protest against Ford’s decision, Bill’s shrill, inhuman laughter enveloped their senses; the sound loud enough to rattle one’s skull and make one’s ears bleed should they stand too close. 

“Oh, Sixer! I just knew you’d come around~!” The demon cackled smugly, depositing the young twins on a high up support beam, safe for the time being yet out of their uncles’ reach. The grotesque, gargantuan form of arms and teeth and tongues the triangle had reverted to when angered began to shrink back down to size, the red fading back to yellow as he looked down at Ford with as much sick satisfaction a creature without a proper face could possibly express.

“I’m so happy you’ve finally, finally come to your senses!” 

Stanford looked over his shoulder to glance at his brother, expecting to read contempt, maybe anger at Ford for not thinking of something fast enough; but when their eyes met he only saw fear and uncertainty. He couldn’t bear it, so he averted his gaze. He yelped as his body was lifted off the obsidian palace floor as Bill effortlessly levitated him out of his confinement.

 “I’ve gotta say, IQ,  you really had me going there! I thought you were actually gonna make me kill one of the brats!” He gently dropped Stanford in front of his now much less threatening form, straightening out his bowtie as his little heels collided with the ground with a small click, making himself level with Ford as though foolishly trying to perpetuate the illusion that they were equals here. The laughable notion of respect. 

Ford grimaced, six fingernails digging into each of his palms as he steeled himself, remaining woefully silent. Bill was clearly annoyed that Ford refused to play into his verbal sparring, the demon’s expression souring. 

“Aw c’mon, Fordsie. Don’t be like that. Cheer up! Soon I’ll be free, and I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted!” 

Ford’s eyes darted up to the two children clinging onto each other at least 30 feet above him before he looked back to Bill, his expression flat. “You could never give me anything I would truly want.” 

The triangle looked almost hurt for a moment before he laughed again, regaining his composure.

“And why’s that?” 

Stanford stared at him. “You’re selfish,” He said, his voice tainted with the shadow of disdain. “You couldn’t emotionally fulfill another person if you tried. You’re a monster.”

The demon’s eye twitched, his gaze suddenly distant as his yellow glow seemed to dim. Above them, Dipper squeezed Mabel’s hand in a vice grip, scared that Ford had just signed his own death certificate. Instead, Bill just snapped back to normal in an instant, giggling again. “We’ll see about that. But for now..” He extended a dainty black arm, his hand suddenly engulfed in blue flame awaiting Ford’s palm to complete their deal. 

“Let’s get this show on the road. Eh, Sixer?” 

Ford looked down at the floor below him, too ashamed to meet his family’s gaze as he pressed what was, for all intents and purposes, the big red button for the apocalypse. At least they’ll be safe. He held his breath and grasped Bill’s hand, memories of thirty years ago flashing through his mind as soon as they made contact. The demon’s eye widened maniacally as he cackled, his grasp tightening around Ford’s polydactyl hand as the world around him froze. His surroundings turning to black and white and sensation melting away. In a low, gentle voice Stanford hadn’t heard since he worshiped a god rather than feared a beast, Bill spoke. “You’ll see, Fordsy.” 

And suddenly Ford’s vision went dark. 

…

Stanford woke with a start and quickly shot up, having just woken from the most terrible nightmare. He caught his breath, running a hand through the graying hair that had plastered itself to his forehead with sweat, blinking blindly. His glasses must’ve fallen off the couch as he slept. Only, even for as blind as he was, he could very quickly gather that he was in… a bed. Not his bed. That was odd. He frantically groped around for his glasses, finding them neatly folded on a nightstand beside him. He pushed them up his nose with an index finger and -much to his dismay- confirmed that this was not his room, and this was not the Mystery Shack. 

Ford looked down at himself, noting the red satin pajama set he was dressed in that were also very much not his. Despite how soft the sheets were, he quickly threw them off as though they’d burned him. He stood up carefully, the hardwood floor cold against his bare feet. Taking in his surroundings, he first noticed the room had no windows or interior lamps, and yet was perfectly illuminated in warm, comforting light. Everything about the decor style was so very pointedly… him. The dark oak furniture, the golden constellation map on the wall, the chess set on the desk, the detailed antique globe in the far corner. It was all extremely reminiscent of everything he had wanted to do with his basement study back home, had he had the time. This greatly unsettled him. 

He approached the bedroom door with caution, stopping in his tracks with a hand hovering over the doorknob as he heard the sound of dishes clattering distantly somewhere else in the house. Ford gulped before turning the knob excruciatingly slowly, the door cracking open with a soft creak. Nothing jumped out at him and he wasn’t immediately incinerated, so he continued on, gently pushing it all the way open to reveal… an exceedingly normal hallway. 

The walls were adorned with refined red wallpaper and ornate picture frames, the pictures inside so familiar and yet so violently wrong. Nausea bubbled in his stomach as he stared at the family photographs he had gladly kept hung up throughout the walls of the shack, except now half the family had seemingly vanished, or rather been purposely eliminated from the photos. The only two people present in any of them were himself and Mabel, leaving eerily empty spaces where his brother and grand-nephew should have been. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the image of his grand-niece, her colorful braces on display as she smiled happily with her arms wrapped around nothing but dead air. 

Ford jumped, suddenly ripped away from his horror once more as the loud crash of pans echoed from what seemed to be a lower floor, followed by a soft string of curses in at least five different alien languages, two of which he didn’t recognize. He tiptoed further down the hallway, his right hand itching to wrap itself around the grip of his gun. He distantly wondered what had been done with it, as well as his coat. He’d miss that coat. Ford mentally cursed himself for not simply improvising a weapon sooner in case whatever was downstairs tried to attack, yet he couldn’t stop himself from inching further and further into the house and toward the noise. Damn his curiosity. 

He rounded a corner and was met with a grand staircase leading downward, taking a breath and quietly descending with his back pressed against the wall in an attempt to not risk being seen. Upon reaching the bottom, Stanford froze in place, hearing something sizzling in the next room over, accompanied by the unmistakable stench of burning roadkill. He slowly peeked around the corner, his jaw dropping at the sight before him. 

He peered into what was, he had to admit, a very nice kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances and black granite countertops. In the middle of said kitchen, holding a pan full of what looked to be a mutilated opossum over the stove, was Bill Cipher in a frilly pink apron. Said apron had the words ‘Kiss the Triangle’ printed across the front in a loopy cursive font, a heart in place of the dot over the ’i’. 

Sensing his presence, the triangular demon turned to look at him cheerfully, eye upturned in a makeshift smile. “Heya, smart guy! I was wondering when you’d wake up, sleepyhead! You’re just in time for breakfast!”

Ford prayed to every god he knew of, earthen, alien or otherwise, that he’d wake up soon.

(Thank you for reading, let me know if you want a chapter two!)

[according2thelore]

older brother sammy that leaves for stanford when dean is fourteen. he doesn't even have to remind dad that dean needs to be enrolled in schools anymore, and john is actually encouraging him to start extracurriculars to keep him busy now that he's proven to be more of a handful than sam was. life is more stable than it's ever been, john has been slowing down in taking hunts, and doesn't bring dean with him at all.

dean is pissed and confused and hurting, because the life so far is an endless roadtrip with the two people he loves most in the world, and sam wants to leave.

sam gives him a phone with just sam's number on it, and when dad tells him to get out and never come back, dean can't even look at him. he calls dean as soon as he gets on the bus, as soon as he gets to palo alto, as soon as he gets his dorm assignment, as soon as he starts classes. dean doesn't pick up. not once.

eighteen-year-old dean shows up at sam's apartment because dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days. his smile is oil-slick and sharp in the dim light. sam doesn't know who this boy is.

sam is fucking horrified that dean has the impala. that he's been taking independent hunts. that his little brother is someone he doesn't even recognize anymore, that scowls at the amulet on sam's chest like he regrets giving it to him.

dean's slimy patina of smarmy confidence fades. he's terrified. he's eighteen. he tried putting on one of dad's suits, but no one would believe he's a state trooper or FBI agent or tax collector.

sam is so relieved to have his brother back that he's constantly putting arms around dean that dean dodges. sam keeps trying to ask what it was like when he was gone, but dean doesn't answer.

their dynamic is immediate. they joke and laugh like sam hasn't laughed in years, and sam can physically see the hardened set of dean's shoulders melt. dean worships him. sam can feel it. he tries not to need sam, but he does. he does. sam needs him just as much, drunk off dean's attention and snarkiness and joy.

they find john. they lose john. they find him again. the car accident happens. john sells his soul. eighteen year old dean falls into a well of grief, and sam keeps trying to tell him that it's okay, that his job is to protect dean, that sam would've done it if he had known it was an option. dean goes still and quiet and demands that sam never say any messed up shit like that again.

nineteen year old dean sells his soul to get his big brother back.

twenty year old dean gets ripped apart by hellhounds, before he's old enough to legally drink.

twenty-four year old sam sleeps outside of the gates of hell for days, pushing himself to the point of death to break the doors open. to get his baby back.

he calls demon after demon after demon after demon. no one deals. ruby shows up.

ruby tells him he can use his powers to save the people demons possess. sam tells her he doesn't give a fuck if they live or not. she looks surprised. he doesn't care. he can't care, not about anything. he hunts demons and he drains them dry, guzzling blood until it's running down his arms in thick rivulets.

he's more powerful than he's ever been, and it's still not enough. he hunts demons locks them in their hosts with the sheer force of his power, and cuts their throats. he knows which parts of the body bleed too fast to drink. which ones bleed too slow.

ruby follows after him, and can barely stop sam when one day when he almost kills her vessel because he drank too much.

twenty year old dean, who has spent twenty more years in hell than he ever got on earth, shows up at sam's motel room. sam's eyes are yellow when he tries to strangle him.

dean is terrified of his big brother. he needs his big brother. sam falls at his feet and cries. dean asks him what he's done. he begs sam to stop drinking the blood.

sam tells him not yet. he's got to rip lilith's head off and put it on a pike for daring to touch a hair on dean winchester's head. the head that sam kissed every night before bed, the body that sam has fought like a rabid animal to protect. demons flee from them when they approach. everyone's heard of sam winchester. the boyking of hell who has done anything to get his baby brother back.

dean winchester is sam's baby. his little brother. dean winchester becomes the most feared human in hell, because he has the power to end the world.

[artdcnaldson]

okay woke from the dead of night with this patrick sister au plot. lock in with me babe.

art is at a frat party and quickly learns that she’s there too. even though art feels weirdly protective over her now that they fucked, he’s still a dick and refuses to acknowledge her when they didn’t even come together.

he notices she’s swarmed by three frat guys who are yapping her ear off and he makes a mental note of it. checking on her again, he notices she’s much more out of it and the guys are getting real handsy. hand on her chest, hand up her skirt. Art is shocked she isn’t doing anything to stop them. then it clicks - they slipped her something.

he goes fucking ballistic protective art mode and gets her out of there (not without getting battered around i mean 3v1 come on) and he takes her back to his dorm.

she wakes up confused but starstruck to be in his company and he demands that she show him everywhere they touched her so that he can make it all better AHHHH

SIGHHHH sorry this was in my inbox so long but it's TOO good <3 Just fluff bc i need them soft and sweet badly <3

—————

He knows you're there, but he's being a dick and ignoring you because you've been so clingy lately and it's freaking him out. So every time you try to lock eyes and smile and wave and pull him back in, he just avoids eye contact and finds some excuse to distract himself from you.

It's an hour later that he sees you cornered in the kitchen, holding a glass of something close to your chest, smiling a tight-lipped smile, nodding, your body language tight and uncomfortable. Maybe you're trying to get back at him— trying to find a new Stanford athlete to flirt with until Art pays you mind.

But thirty minutes later, you're sluggish and sprawled across their laps on the couch, skirt hiked up slightly to reveal plain cotton panties. You've got a little furrow in your brow, your hair sticks to your lipgloss. He can see you push off of their chests to move, only for them to pull you right back down.

He knows it's not right, knows he should never have left you with them in that kitchen. By the time he's thoroughly disrupted the party to get you away from them, his nose is bleeding, his ribs are sore, his knuckles are cracked and bloody, his lip is split, and you're clinging to his side like dead weight.

He has to practically drag you back to his dorm— you can hardly walk on your own. You're mumbling weakly, makeup smeared, hair stringy and sweaty. He helps you onto his bed, plies you with an entire water bottle, which you drink before promptly passing out.

He wakes up in the morning with his face sore, his body aching, and blood dried and crusted onto his skin. But you're okay, untouched, unharmed, and sleeping with a peaceful expression on your face. He covers you up with one of his sweatshirts and kisses your forehead. You sleep until noon <3