#stanley crouch

[menandwomanofhistory]

Stanley Crouch

[bri-cheeses]

Evan having an emotional support water bottle that he takes everywhere (Barty probably named it something stupid and Evan protested for a while but it somehow stuck and now it’s just named that). But anyways one year for Christmas Barty gets Evan a Stanley cup and Evan actually almost murders him and the entire time Barty’s just laughing his head off because Evan’s reaction is even better than he imagined it would be.

[beataylorsversion]

i've started watching I am not ok with this cause of the mary fancast

omg it's so good i'm obsessed

and kissing your best friend and then running away is so sirius coded in atyd 💀 😭

[giddlygoat]

some tsp sketches i forgot to post whoopsieeee

[sysig]

The Sleepy Parable (Patreon)

[jayshollowspace]

Intro to a Gravity Falls AU comic I‘m developing.

The premise is that Shermie, the Stans‘ older brother is the Mystery Twins‘ father instead of grandfather. Mabel and Dipper move to Gravity Falls after their parents‘ untimely death and stay with Stan at the then still “Murder hut“. (He changes that shortly after the kids move in)

Mystery twins Dipper and Mabel get to spend their childhood and teenage years in Gravity Falls. Dipper still finds Journal 3 and Mabel still gets Waddles.

There‘s a lot of smaller things changed too, but I‘ll get to those later.

I don‘t really have a fitting name yet for this AU. I guess I‘ll go with the #UncleStanAU for now. If anyone has a better fitting idea please let me know :D

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Image description:

[Image ID: Page one:

Panel one shows a car driving down a forest road during nighttime, headlights on. The sky is illuminated by the moon and partially cloudy. The title “Arrival in Gravity Falls“ is placed in the upper left corner of the page.

Panel two and three depict a 30 year old -ish Stanley Pines at the wheel and then him looking into the rearview mirror. He is looking worriedly at the two kids in the backseat in panel four. Dipper and Mabel are sitting next to each other. Dipper is frowning and Mabel is resting her head on her brother‘s shoulder, hiding her arms in her sweater.

Panel five shows the not yet Mystery Shack, illuminated by the car‘s headlights.

Page two:

Panel one depicts Stan opening the car door and telling the kids: “We‘re here, kiddos.“ He is crouching down to be at eye level with them and is resting a hand on the door.

In panel two Stan opens the door to the kids‘ still dark and empty bedroom, saying: “This is your room.“

In panel three the light has been turned on and Stan has put a bag on one of the beds. He nervously gestures around and tells the kids: “I know it‘s not much, but it‘s all I got right now.”

The twins in panel four are listening to their uncle talk. Dipper looks angry while Mabel looks sad and worried, half her face obscured by her hair.

The text bubbles continue with: ”We‘ll work on making it feel more like a home for you tomorrow, I-“ Stan is then cut off by Dipper saying: “This isn’t our home. It will never be our home! I want to go back. I want Mommy and Daddy!”

Panel five consists of a headshot of both Dipper and Stan. Dipper is crying while yelling at his uncle and Stan is looking at him with worry.

Page three.

Stan is resting a hand on each of the twins’ shoulders in panel one and two, saying: “I know, kid. I know this is hard, but you’ll have to stay here for a while, okay? There are some things your grandparents and I have to figure out. get some rest, you two. We’ll talk in the morning.”

The speech bubbles slightly obscure panel three, in which Stan is sitting alone at the kitchen table, light on.

Panel four shows Stan dragging a hand down his face, sighing.

“Oh guys, what am I doing?” He says while looking at the table in front of him. He is holding a picture of 10 year old Stanley, his twin brother Stanford and their older brother Sherman. There are other pictures strewn across the table, one with both Stanley and Stanford sharing a beer, one with Sherman Pines at his wedding and one of the Stans’ childhood ship, the Stan ‘o War. Stanford’s glasses lie on the table next to the pictures.

The last text bubble says: ”End of prologue” /.End ID]

[nowimjustastranger]

Has Stcmo Ford come across a dimension that alerted him a Stanley was in danger, but he got there, everything seems fine. Keyword “seems”.

And after numerous checks, everything seems like in order. On the surface it just looks like another dimension with Ford, Fiddleford and Stan living together in gravity falls.

But there is just SOMETHING that feels immensely wrong about this dimension.

Like the way that this Stanley and Fiddleford seem a little too overly content with their lives, they aren’t seem to be lost or forgetting things so it can’t be the memory gun. And by the looks of it, the Bill Cipher of this dimension is dead.

In fact the more Stcmo Ford looks into it…

Filbrick is dead, Fiddleford’s wife Emma-May seems to be dead, Shermie is dead, newspapers on about the last few years show that many gang leaders have either gone mysteriously missing or have seemed to have been killed. Jimmy Snakes, Rico, several people who knew Stanley in prison are dead as well. Many people that would be considered a threat have been killed.

There’s something off about this Ford as well, he seems to always be watching Fiddleford and Stanley, the two always were within watch.

Like a wolf watching over his two sheep.

Not entirely sure what era this is happening in, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume it's a "Mystery Trio AU" type situation, so it would be set in the early years in Gravity Falls.

Ford has been in Dimension 1R^86 for three days now and he's nearly at his wits end, he has no idea what the threat is or even where it might come from. He hasn't slept at all either, maintaining constant vigilance of the shack and it's inhabitants.

Ford is currently perched in one of the large trees surrounding the shack, hidden in the branches with a direct line of sight to both entrances. There's been nothing, no activity around the shack within a fifty foot radius. Which is another thing, Ford hasn't spotted so much as a gnome rooting through the trash in the three days he's been watching.

It's... something's not right but he can't put a finger on what.

With a growl, Ford's eyes flick to the icon in the top corner of his hud, selecting it with a thought so the data flooded onto the screen, his proximity sensors online to warn him if anything tries to sneak up on him while he's preoccupied.

D – 1R^86 | 29 yo | COD: Blunt Force Trauma

No change.

Ford exited out of the data with a frustrated huff, he'd done a lot of digging into the deaths that surrounded Stan and the results all pointed toward one Ford Pines being the culprit, but the way that he watched over his brother and Fiddleford so intently made it highly unlikely that he was the threat.

The Ford in this dimension reminded Ford 419"3 of himself, an ambush predator watching and waiting for the opportunity to strike. A wolf that muzzled itself in the presence of it's sheep so they would not be afraid, because despite the wolf's nature, those sharp teeth and claws were never meant for the sheep.

They were for other predators.

Other predators that might also be watching and waiting for the wolf to stray too far from the sheep, waiting for the wolf's teeth to go dull as it grew fat and lazy within the comfort of it's den. But not these wolves who starved themselves to keep their body lean, who kept their teeth sharp with frequent hunts, who lulled other predators into a false sense of security by leaving the sheep unattended-

Wait. Shit. How long ago did the Ford leave the house?

His proximity sensors shrieked at him and Ford barely managed to dodge the first bolt that had been aimed at his side, the second burying itself in his calf. So the Ford was looking to incapacitate and not kill, not exactly a comforting realization.

Ford's landing was sloppy, his leg buckling when he hit the ground in a crouch, giving the Ford just enough time to line up a clear shot. Neither moved, both waiting to see what the other would do. The Ford's aim was steady and his finger poised to shoot, his empty stare more akin to a shark than a wolf.

"You've been scurrying around for long enough, little rat." The Ford spoke calmly, with a voice void of emotion. It was unnerving, how robotic this Ford was when he wasn't with his brother and Fiddleford, like he was removing a mask. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Your brother is going to die." Ford divulged, watching the Ford's hands flex on the crossbow, indecisive. Ford could work with that. "I can stop it from happening, but only if you let me work."

"You really think I'm going to trust you at your word?" The Ford asked with an ominous tilt of his head, dark eyes studying Ford as if he were a specimen. It made Ford's skin crawl, fingers twitching with the urge to gouge the Ford eyes out just so he would stop looking at Ford the same way He used to.

"You're going to have to because if you kill me, your brother is as good as dead."

[dotdot-is-here]

Heart to Heart pt.2

Part two is finally here!! I couldn't post this earlier because I'm travelling rn and rarely get wifi (I'm having a lot of fun! :D) for those who didn't read part one, this is inspired by @citricacidprince 's take on the Relativity Falls au

Now let's get to the angsty little Stan twins! I hope i got their characterization right

Summary: On the aftermath of the portal opening for the last time, both sets of twins have some conversations

Stanford is crouched on the floor, pressing his ear against the wooden door while Stanley waits impatiently by the foot of his bed.

"Well? What did they say? What are they talking about?"

Stanford doesn't answer. He closes the door gently and gets up slowly, still facing the wood.

(What does the author- great uncle Mason- the real grunkle Mason- whoever the hell is downstairs even have to apologize for?)

(It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he forgive her so easily? So quickly? Heaven knows Stanford wouldn't have let go of it just like that.)

"Why didn't you press the button?" He blurts out.

He can see the way Stanley tilts his head in confusion from the corner of his eye.

"Huh?"

He didn't mean to have this conversation now. He doubles down anyway, "You heard me."

There's a pause in the air as Stan processes the question. As he tries to place Ford's tone.

"..wait, are you serious? You're mad about this?"

Ford turns to his twin and throws his arms in the air. "Stanley the world could have ended! And you don't even care!"

"But it didn't! I get that it looked pretty scary in the moment but hey, now we have a new grunkle!" Stan makes big gestures with his hands in his response, the same way he does when he tries to downplay his way out of trouble with their parents, "I took a risk and it all turned out fine."

Stanford can feel a headache forming, and he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, "A risk? Is that all you have to say? Stan this is not like the stupid bets you take when we play cards this was a doomsday machine! The warnings-"

His twin rolls his eyes and waves him off, "Oh, warnings schmarnings! Quit being so dramatic."

Ford fumes, "Dramatic?!"

"nothing happened Sixer! Let it go!"

"...this isn't about that right?" Asks Stan, once his words have rung against the attic walls for long enough.

Ford keeps his eyes on his untied shoelaces, "...I asked you to do one thing. I trusted you about the fate of the world Stanley." He makes his way to his bed, still looking down when he draws back the covers and adds, quietly enough his brother hopefully won't hear him, "And you chose to believe her over me."

Before Stan can even think of addressing that, Ford is already snapping, "couldn't you listen to me long enough to take something seriously?"

Stan's expression turns into something cold, buried feelings briefly coming to light.

"Well maybe it'll come as a surprise to you, Stanford, but just because you're smart doesn't mean you're the boss of me."

That night, they sleep with their backs turned against each other.

[bellshazes]

dreaming up a syllabus for an imaginary course on metanarratives about gameplay, which i think would go something like:

unit 1: who do you think you are i am - auto-documentary & games

Vlogs and the Hyperreal, Folding Ideas

The Slow Death of Let's Play Videos, Meraki (to ~10:00)

World Record Progression: Mike Tyson, Summoning Salt

ROBLOX_OOF.mp3, hbomberguy

Life as a Bokoblin: A Zelda Nature Documentary, Monster Maze

optional: Braindump on the History of Let's Plays, slowbeef

unit 2: what like it's hard? - intro to challenge narratives

Chapter 26: Games as Narrative Play: Two Structures for Narrative Play, Rules of Play

A different kind of challenge run: Minimalist 100% (BOTW), Wolf Link

Surviving 100 Days on Just Dirt, Mogswamp

Can You Beat DARK SOULS III with Only Firebombs, the Backlogs

Is it Possible to Beat Super Mario 3D World while permanently crouching?, Ceave Gaming

The Pacifist Challenge - Beating Hollow Knight Without Collecting Soul [CHALLENGE] - Sample

optional: How to 100% Snowpeak Ruins in under 15 minutes, bewildebeest

unit 3: nelly you don't understand, i AM the narrative - form and function

The Future of Writing about Games, Jacob Geller

Can You Beat GRIME Without Weapons?, the Backlogs

Mushroom Kingdom Championships, Ceave Gaming

My Life as a Barber in Hitman 2, MinMax (Leo Vader)

MyHouse.WAD - Inside Doom's Most Terrifying Mod, PowerPak

optional: Mega Microvideos, Matthewmatosis

the theme and structure is mostly intended to introduce at least one critical or historically contextual work followed by examples of the type of narrative in question.

in unit 1, this is the idea of "How do people talk about their own experiences in the context of YouTube and playing video games?" across three rather different kinds of documentaries. unit 2 is intended to take that lens of who is telling what tale and dial in on challenge running, where i first noticed the way some videos turn the story of overcoming a challenge into its own narrative that is distinct from but related to the narrative events of the game itself. unit 3 circles back to the bigger picture with a variety of examples that, to me, are maximally metanarrative, the emergent story of the player-narrator now functionally replacing the game's embedded narrative.

bonus unit: broken narratives

Glitch & the Grotesque at the MLA, Sylvia Korman

Watching time loop movies to escape my time loop, Leo Vader

The Stanley Parable, Dark Souls, and Intended Play, Folding Ideas

Breaking Madden, Jon Bois

The TRUTH about the Pizzaplex in FNAF: Security Breach, AstralSpiff

this one is highly underdeveloped, but i'd love to work out something more robust building on randomizer challenges that produce intentionally bizarre, semi-ironic "lore," and bois-esque endeavors to break games so hard the story itself crumbles. but that's really out of scope so i'm just including the links to things i couldn't bear to get rid of. more rambling abt the challenge runs I chose under the cut.

Challenge runs represent one of the most obvious places to start, due to being extremely plentiful and having a hook that makes a "here's how I did X thing in Y video game" format almost unavoidable. Minimalist 100% is an underrated and sweet straightforward example that I mostly include as a baseline for reporting-out style narrative; here are the facts, here's what happened, this is the thing that it is. Mogswamp's 100 Days on Just Dirt is similar in style, but the physical measuring of days is a delightful and, more importantly, external narrative device.

Now oriented, we get a taste of Ceave Gaming's narrative approach to Mario challenges with the no-crouching run, and while we still aren't at the degree of player-characters being constructed for the narrative's sake, the spirited belief in crouching sets the stage for other rhetoric in more extreme cases we'll see later.

The Backlogs' entire body of work qualifies here, but GRIME is the strongest inspiration for putting this list together. I include the DS3 firebombs run because what was initially a factual description of how his wife's use of firebombs inspired him to play differently in the original DS1 firebombs run has developed into full-blown multi-game narrative arc with the Firebomb Goddess (his wife, who also voices the character) compelling his in-game character to achieve his destined quest. Grime takes that even further,

In-Game Documentaries

I include Life as a Bokoblin mostly as a contrast to My Life as a Barber - there is a level of fictionalization and roleplay involved in the Zelda in-game documentary that highlights exactly what I want to single out when I am talking about metanarrative, the story about a story.

[piningforstan]

Stay With Me

Summary: Stan needs you to tend to his wounds and, no, you can’t ask him about it.

Pairings: Stanley Pines x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: some fluff, drinking, smoking, a brief description of the wound

A/N: I just imagine mullet Stan not being able to tend to his wounds properly after his fight with Ford and only trusting you to help him😭 also I’m not a doctor so this is probably medically inaccurate

A knock at the door roused you from your sleep.

Well, more like jolted you awake and sent you into a spiral of fear and panic. You belted your robe and padded down the stairs to peer through the window. A blast of frigid air burst from the door as you wretched it open, snow swirling inside and melting. “Stan?”

“Hey,” he said simply. He weaved on his feet. Under the light of the porch, his face was grey.

“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’ll, uh, ‘splain later. Can I come in?”

You ushered him in, glancing worriedly out your lawn before shutting the door. Stan’s darkened form lumbered into the kitchen where you followed him, switching on a light. He removed his jacket.

“Stan, what is —?” You choked. From where he sat at the table, back to you, you could see a wound burned into his right shoulder, clearly neglected. “Holy shit.”

With trembling hands, Stan lit up a cigarette.

“Stan, what happened?” You hovered over him, unsure where to start.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stan said quickly. “Can you patch it up?”

“Patch it up? This looks like an infected second degree burn.”

“Is that a no?”

You let his harsh tone slide over you. Not only were you used to it, being a nurse, but you sensed that something was wrong and Stan was badly shaken. Instead of prompting him for answers, you hurried into your medicine cabinet for your first aid kit. You didn’t have half the supplies that you would’ve at the hospital, but you needed to at least disinfect the wound first to prevent infection. The contents of the kit spilled out onto the table as you rummaged through them, cursing under your breath.

A cloud of smoke billowed from Stan. You snatched the cigarette from him and tossed it in a half-empty glass by the sink. “At least let me fix this before you kill yourself with that.”

Stan grumbled a response, but it was half-hearted. You got to work disinfecting the wound and cleaning it up. Stan never once complained, shoulders tensed, wincing only once you applied the disinfectant. Vaguely, in some distant, secretive part of your mind, you admired the feel of muscles reacting beneath your hands, the intimate proximity to him. From your position crouched over Stan, you could make out his profile, his clenched jaw and thousand-yard stare.

You prepared a bandage. A strange design was embedded in the reddened skin, almost like a brand. You’d have to keep an eye on the wound, but hopefully you could stave off the infection.

“When did this happen? You should’ve come straight to me,” you told him. If he didn’t look so obviously pained, you would’ve smacked him upside the head for not seeking treatment sooner.

“S’not a big deal,” Stan mumbled.

Some of the color had returned to his face.

“Stan, yes it is. You could’ve died from the infection.”

“It was just an accident in the lab.” His brave face faltered slightly, a slip of emotion like the silver belly of a fish flashing in dark waters. “I deserved it anyway.”

You frowned. “I doubt that’s true. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

“I could use a drink.”

You dug out an old bottle of whiskey that an ex had left behind. He insisted on drinking out of the bottle, knuckles white — shaking, but not as violently as before. You had taken his jacket off the back of the chair and used spare material to stitch it up from the burn. It must’ve been horrible if it burned through the jacket and into his skin so deeply. You watched him sip the whiskey and wince occasionally, not able to completely recline in the chair.

“You should stay here,” you said after who knows how long, both of you content in the silence. Before he could protest you added, “I have a shift tomorrow so I’ll be gone most of the day. But I can keep an eye on you and I know you won’t be doing anything else stupid.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Thanks, kid, but no thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“At least just tonight.“

“Fine. But I’m sleeping on the couch.”

You nodded your approval. After he polished off the bottle and you peeked at his wound again, you got him set up on the couch with pillows and a blanket. He looked small, boy-like, tucked under the covers and looking so vulnerable. Your heart panted. “You’ll be alright?”

“Ain’t gotta worry about me,” Stan replied. The sounds of his snores reverberated through your house before you even hit the stairs.

You awoke to Stan yelling. For the second time that night, or, well, morning, you jolted up and ran down the stairs without even snatching your robe. Bleary eyed and stiff-limbed, you staggered downstairs to find Stan thrashing on the couch, blankets thrown to the floor. He was crying out in his sleep. You knelt down next to him.

“Stan. Stan. Stan!”

It took you shaking his shoulders for him to come to, eyes widened and looking surprised to see you. “What? What’s going on?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He propped up on one elbow, running a hand through his dark curls. You adamantly kept your gaze from drifting to his chest, partially revealed in the white tank top he had worn to sleep in. “I, uh, been having a lot recently. Did I wake ya?”

“No,” you lied. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

You brought him a water. Sweat sheened his forehead but you suspected it was from the nightmare and not a fever from the infection. Still, you double checked the wound again. Some more pus oozed out along the edges that you cleaned up. It was clear, though, so nothing to worry about. Yet.

You bid him goodnight and moved to leave but felt a large hand grasp your wrist. “Would you, uh, would you mind stayin’?”

Surprised, you turned to him. His expression was so desperate, pleading, that you wordlessly agreed. Stan looked satisfied at this. You sat near his socked feet and pretended to sleep, though there was no way you could now. Not with him so close, so scantily dressed, raw and vulnerable.

It didn’t take long for him to lapse into another nightmare, twitching and muttering. Concerned, you reached over to console him. It was in that moment that he trapped you against his chest, looking for comfort, his heart beating furiously. You stilled. The nightmare slipped away but you were stuck, having fallen between his legs and lying completely on top of him. You did your best to wiggle free but he refused to budge.

Slowly, nervously, you put your head down. Stan, still asleep and unaware of the situation, kept his arms around you. He was big and warm and soft, and you were awfully tired. You reasoned that he needed his sleep, and if staying here meant that he could rest without disturbance, then you would happily fulfill this service for him.

It didn’t matter that you had dreamed of this before, cuddled up next to him, his shallow breaths rustling your hair. That you were overly awake of his hand on your hip, the way that you fit perfectly against him.

No. Nope.

You were just helping him out, like you did with his shoulder. Just helping out a friend.

A friend.

Right?

[the-universal-sun]

fiddleford finding stanley regressed upset about ford PLEASE 🙏

“Oh Captain, My Captain! Where are ya! Good ol’ Fidds’ made some lunch!” Fiddleford called out into the living room where he sat Stanley down in front of the Television with some blocks to keep him occupied while he whipped up a quick lunch. He looks around, the blocks and TV abandoned, Mr Wizard’a World playing softly on the screen. “Stanley?” He calls again, hoping for some sort of noise to alert him to where he’s gone.

Heart beginning to beat faster in his chest, he rushes to check the front door. Closed and locked. He sprints to the back door. Also closed and locked. His heart rate slows down, knowing his boy is still in the house. He goes by the basement door, and sees that it’s still locked. This makes finding him much easier, he doesn’t have to go down there, down to the portal. He heads upstairs to check the bathroom, it’s empty. He checks his and Stan’s room, he’s not on either of their beds, or in the closet. So he didn’t go an get more of his little toys.

“Stanley, hon! Come on out! It’s time for lunch, not hide n’ seek!” He calls out once more, heading towards Ford’s room. He hopes Stan isn’t in there, he knows going there always makes his boy upset, missing his big brother. He hears muffled sobs as he gets closer. He pushes open the cracked door and finds Stan on that ugly blue carpet, wrapped in one of Ford’s sweaters, crying his eyes out. Fiddleford crouches down as he comes closer to Stanley, angling his head down to catch his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Pumpkin Pie? Tell ol’ Fiddlesticks what’s got your eyes so wet, hmm?” He asks gently, already having an inkling on what’s got his boy so down and out. He hopes Stan’s up for talking, but he has a feeling, between his tears and how nonverbal he typically is when feeling small, that it ain’t happening.

He was right, too. Stan takes a heaving breathe, the deep breathe causing him to cough when it gets stuck in his chest. Fiddleford gently pats his back, helping rub the air from inside his chest. He waits until Stan’s stopped coughing, breathing a little more even now. When Stan gathers himself, he just points to the calendar on the wall. He insists on keeping the calendar in Ford’s room up to date so he knows the date when they rescue him from the portal (if they rescue him-no bad Fiddleford!), the date reads June 8th, and circled right under it is June 15…oh. Stan and Ford’s birthday, the first one they’re truly separated for.

“Oh my Honey Bun, I’m so sorry, I haven’t been keeping track of the days, I didn’t realize it was coming up so soon. Oh come here, lovey,” Fiddleford leans Stan on his lap, the man’s frame too burly to hold in his lap without the support of a chair, couch, or bed, “I know, I know, you miss your brother, I miss ‘im too. My little Bookworm. But we won’t forget him, we’ll make a cake for him, and get him some presents too, so he’ll have them when we get him back.” He pets Stan’s head rhythmically, rubbing his fingers down the bridge of his nose, up his cheek, and tucking some long hair behind his ears, trying to calm his tears down.

Fiddleford holds back his tears, he needs to be strong for Stanley, but…but…but he misses his Fordsey, his Chatterbox. He wants to celebrate his boys’ birthday with both of them, to see their joy, to see them okay and playing together all happy and family like. He sniffles, the thoughts getting to him, making his eyes burn. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels a hand wipe his cheeks. He opens his eyes to see Stan looking up at him, a frown marring his face. Stan sits up and pull Fiddleford down for a hug, rocking the both of them side to side as they cry together. Both missing Stanford Pines.

They sit like that for what feels like hours, just holding each other, consoling the other in the silence of Ford’s room. When Fiddleford feels like he’s got himself a bit more under control, he sits up, a slight blush on his cheeks as he stammers a bit, feeling better but also a tad bit embarrassed that he had to be consoled, he’s the adult right now, he needs to keep his emotions strong and in check in front of Stan, to be brave for him while he’s little. He can’t even do that! What kind of a man are you, Fiddleford-

“Wha-?” He feels Stan grab his hands and pull him up with him. When he gives Stan a questioning look, he points to his stomach and rubs it. Oh, right, it’s lunch time. He made Stan a sandwich with all the fixings, “Right, right. Come along, El Capitan! Your pal, Fidds has whipped you up the best sandwich you’ve ever done had in your life!” He quickly gathers himself, switching gears, and holding Stan’s hands as they leave Ford’s room. He slowly walks down the stairs, looking back to make sure Stan doesn’t trip on a loose board to step on a nail before leading him into the kitchen. He sits his boy down in front of his little plate, the one with playing cards decorating it, with a sippy cup of fruit juice next to it (Stan will pour the whole thing on his face trying to drink it as fast as possible), his sandwich cut into four squares. Fiddleford learned that difference between his twins. Ford likes his sandwiches cut into four triangles when little, Stanley will only eat it if it’s cut into four squares.

He ruffles Stanley’s hair, kissing his head and giving him a soft “thank you” as he goes to sit across from him at his own plate. As he settled down to eat, he feels Stan hands clasp his own, he looks up to see his Pumpkin slowly eating his sandwich. He says nothing, eating his own sandwich with one hand, his sweet boys hand in his other. The rest of the day has the same air as lunch, Stan following him around, holding his hand and cuddling him everytime he sits down. Fiddleford can tell Stan needs him, he’s his safe place from his despair and pain. But Fidds needs his Captain, too, his anchor from his nasty thoughts and grief over Ford, over his memories, and that damn portal.

As Fiddleford and Stanley make a fort to sleep in in the living room, they really need to get one larger bed to sleep in together when needs be (maybe a king for all three of them), Fiddleford resolves to take Stanley shopping for birthday gifts for Ford. He knows it’ll be bittersweet for both of them, but it could also help lessen this pressure they both feel at the thought of missing Ford on his birthday. As he finishes reading Possum Magic, his snuggle bugs favorite book, he looks down and sees Stan’s open mouth, spilling some drool out, and laughs softly. He wraps his arms securely around him, hoping to shield his dreams from any nightmares he may have, and buries his nose into Stan’s hair, smelling his “arctic mountain” shampoo, and wills his own dreams to be good.

And of course they are, how could they not when he’s wrapped around his baby.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Did you know cougars can purr and are more closely related to domestic house cats than to other big cats like lions and jaguars?

Stan froze, one paw raised, head swivelling around as he searched the forest. He couldn’t hear or see anything, but he knew something was nearby. He could feel it. His cat senses tended to pick things up faster than his human brain could follow, but he trusted those instincts after all this time. Something was near, and after another moment of searching, Stan spotted it.

A mountain lion was crouched in some foliage not far away, its coat helping it camouflage in its natural habitat.

All of Stan’s fur stood up on end. The cougar’s eyes were locked onto him, body crouched low, haunches wiggling in preparation to pounce.

Stan turned tail and fled. The cougar was far bigger than him and could eat him for lunch. Unfortunately, it could also jump farther than Stan could run. What had Ford said about them again? Oh yeah: mountain lions can leap horizontally up to 40 feet.

So Stan didn’t get very far before the cougar was upon him. He yowled in anger and frustration as large teeth closed around his scruff and he was lifted off the ground.

Ford! Stan hissed, tail lashing about in irritation. Put me down!

Ford only made indistinct grumbling noises in response, his mouth full of Stan as he began to trot through the forest towards where the house was. Stan knew exactly what Ford wanted to say though. It was the same things he said every time.

You shouldn’t be out here alone, Stanley. It’s dangerous in these woods for a little kitty like you, Stanley. What if you got hurt, Stanley? You’re a house cat, Stanley, that means you’re supposed to stay in the house.

Blah, blah, blah. Stan had heard it all. What was wrong with a grown man wanting to take a nice walk in the woods by himself? Just because he was a cat now didn’t mean he needed supervision! But nooo, Ford wouldn’t listen. Always trying to pull the older brother card on him.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that Stan was cursed into a house cat while Ford was cursed into a cougar. Lucky bastard. Why did he get to be a big cat and Stan was stuck as a small one? Ford was insufferable about it. Always carrying Stan around everywhere like he was some sort of kitten. Size-wise he might as well be to Ford, but the point stood that he wasn’t and they both knew it. Ford was just taking the piss out of him.

Stan grumbled and growled the entire way home, wiggling in Ford’s jaws. He couldn’t get free, of course, but he wasn’t going to put up with it quietly. But Ford only snorted at his efforts as he pushed open the front door that he’d left ajar, bringing Stan inside and setting him down in the living room, where he proceeded to trap Stan between his paws as soon as he dropped him from his mouth.

Stan hissed and thrashed, but one of Ford’s paws easily covered almost his entire flank. He reached up with his own paws and slapped at Ford’s muzzle angrily, but his brother only chuffed in amusement.

You’re doing so much damage with your tiny feet, Ford cooed at him. Keep trying! Maybe you’ll succeed one day.

Oh, shut up! Stan snarled back. You’re being purposefully condescending!

That’s such a big word for you! Good job. Ford leaned down and began to lick at Stan’s fur.

Stan howled like he was being tortured, mildly disgusted as his fur was groomed in the wrong direction, making it stick up and feel horrible. Ew! Keep your tongue to yourself!

It’s been a while since either of us last bathed, Stanley. We can’t exactly operate the shower like this, so we’ll have to make due however we can. Grooming is natural for cats anyway. Just lean into your instincts.

Ugh. Stan slumped in defeat after a minute, tired and unable to escape his brother. It didn’t stop him from complaining for the entire “bath” though, vocalizing his annoyance and calling Ford every name under the sun. Once Ford deemed him clean enough, Stan tried to dart out from under him as Ford shifted to his feet, but he soon found himself once again dangling in the air, caught in Ford’s jaws.

I can walk! he yelled as he was carried up the stairs.

Ford ignored him, going into his bedroom and jumping up on the bed. He’d formed a nest of sorts there with various blankets and pillows, and he put Stan down in the middle of it, curling up around his much smaller brother.

Go to sleep, Ford said, getting comfortable.

Stan grumbled and whacked Ford in the face with a paw—which Ford ignored—before curling up into his own ball. Once Ford decided it was time for them to sleep it was hard for Stan to get out of it. Ford’s cougar reflexes were just as good as Stan’s cat ones, and he was usually able to catch Stan if Stan tried to jump out and leave.

Also it was warm here—not that Stan would admit it. Ford’s big form practically cocooned him, and as a cat, Stan liked the heat far more than he did as a human. He wasn’t going to tell his brother the nest was comfortable though. Ford was smug enough as it was. Stan didn’t need something else to be tormented over.

Ford began to purr as Stan settled down, the loud rumbling echoing around Stan in an oddly soothing way. He closed his eyes and let it lull him to sleep.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

This is amazing! I loved every sentence!

Just! Of course Stan wants to go and do his own thing, and of course Fords gonna worry about his much smaller cat brother and carry him home.

Poor Stan! Can't even take a walk anymore. He's a grown man! Let him be in danger outside!

Awesome. Amazing. Loved it. I have no words to express how amazed I was to read all this.

[moolovesyou]

What is History? | The Holdovers

a/n: first imagine in years. but i saw a really cool post by @riverdrowning, so thank you for posting; it gave me that push i needed! it is relatively short... but hey! if anyone has any requests, i would LOVE to take them!

s: Everything after the credits; where Angus remembers Hunham.

w: cursing

wc: 1,148

x.

'Barton man.'

The last words Paul Hunham said echoed in Angus Tully's brain for a couple of days. If somebody told him a few weeks earlier, that he would be sad at the Hunham-sized void at the front of the class, he would've laughed so hard he'd have to go back to the emergency room.

It was complicated. Paul Hunham was not his idol. Far from it, actually. He was an alcoholic with a lazy eye; a person that only exists in cartoons. But he's the only person who's ever believed in him so much, that he started to believe in himself. He felt seen. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a sliver of what Hunham might've seen.

In addition to his identity crisis, he was angry. He spent more than 2 weeks with Hunham. Most of that was spent overcoming seasonal pent-up rage. He just uncovered the less smelly, vulgar, badass side of Hunham; and now he's leaving? He's leaving Angus, alone, at Barton. Not only that, but he had to deal with the outrageous rumors his classmates made.

Every misinterpreted word made him clench his fists. Kountz had to have constantly been 2 feet away from a gnarly sucker punch.

However, he gritted his teeth.

'You never give up, do you?'

He wasn't going to throw all this away after someone had lost their job for him. So for the next year and a half, he kept to himself. Of course, he'd still mouth everyone off, but it just wasn't the same. He'd learned something he still couldn't comprehend. So, he studied hard. He learned to stifle himself. He wasn't upset when his mom would forget him to go on her last minute escapades. He would spend his final winter break at Barton Academy, accompanying Mary once again.

It was a lonely senior year. Hunham was still a lingering thought. He'd always wondered where he was, a year later. Angus considered keeping in touch, but it probably would've caused more trouble. It would've been weird anyways.

He graduated apart of the class of '72. His mom and now step-father Stanley attended, which was a relief he wished he didn't have to feel. He walked, practically ran, across the stage (opting out of another cartwheel). The idea of leaving Barton made him vibrate with joy. The idea of forgetting that winter break left him with dread.

'Keep your head up, all right?'

Now, Angus Tully was in his junior year of college. Aside from the endless catalog of books, nothing about college was encouraging. Everything felt like an act; and he didn't know his role yet. No professor stood out to him. His brain had formed a mental blockade, preventing him from forming any lasting relationship.

The sky was a dark, alluring blue. Bare trees pointed their leafless arms to the sky in a prayer for the spring again. Wind blew shutters against the windows angrily. It was nearing the evening on the 26th of December.

While everyone was with their friends and family, Angus spent his holiday in Boston. He roamed a familiar bookshop. It was tucked between buildings, in a non-discreet hiding spot. Mushy, grey snow accumulated at the bottom of the bookshelves. He must've been the only person here.

The books were cold. Some were wet. A few were frozen shut. The faint jingle of holiday music hung in the air as Angus grazed the book spines with his cold finger. He was content, despite the shop owner glaring at him.

He crouched down to the bottom shelf. It was labeled 'History'. He was searching with no aim. Angus simply attempted to busy his mind. He saw dates and names he hadn't uttered since Barton. Peloponnesian war, he scoffed. Sicilian expedition. . . The Timeline of Athens. . . Carthage-

He squinted his eyes, leaning forward and resting his hands on the wood. His head tilted to read the spine clearly.

Carthage: The Ancient City of Tunisia.

The corner of his lips curved slightly. His fuzzed brain recognized this, why? Past conversations echoed in his brain. A familiar smell of waxed floors and pine trees hovered a ghostly aroma just beneath his nostrils. His left arm even felt a little sore.

Angus pulled the book out abruptly. It was a fairly new book. He could tell by its color and intact spine. The edges had wilted with the moisture. He rubbed the cover, removing speckles of snowflakes. His fingers lingered at the bottom of the book.

'Written by Paul Hunham'

He pursed his lips to stop himself from smiling. That son of a bitch. A part of him was shocked. But, the rest of him knew it was possible from the beginning. For once, it felt good to have high hopes. His cheeks warmed up and his heart pumped excitedly. This probably saved him from impending hypothermia. Distant memories flew at him like migrating birds coming home.

Something in him made him hesitant to flip the pages. Everything he knew was still buried under dusty memories. Whenever he thought of Hunham, everything was still an unfinished thought. A what-if. A chicken scratched dream dreamt by a super-hair-gelled teenager. Was he supposed to look into the present when he was still, undeniably, stuck in the past? He shivered with anticipation. The bold letters glared at him. Truthfully, nothing was a dream anymore. They had reached the future that headlined so many conversations. This book was evidence of that. He was just stuck searching for an explanation.

So, he opened the book. Each page flipped felt like a layer peeled off of Angus's heart. He skipped from the middle, to the end, to the start, and back and forth.

He flipped all the way to the beginning. A relatively blank page. The dedication page. A few words anyone could've missed. A few words most people probably skipped. The few words he actually read.

'To Mr. Tully, you can do this. I did.'

He chuckled., rubbing his stubble in awe. Suddenly, he felt eighteen again. He could hear the school bell ringing for him to go to fifth period. His heart tugged at the possibility of sitting in a Barton desk again. A history lesson accompanied by a lazy-eyed stare.

As Angus was once told, history is an explanation of the present and a study of the past. To Paul Hunham, Angus was an evaluation into his own youth and upbringing. To Angus Tully, Paul Hunham was, and currently, is a reminder of who he can be.

"Can I buy this book?"

x.

A couple weeks later Paul Hunham received a letter in the mail.

'To Walleye,

I read your book. I thought it was alright. I think it could use more pornography.

Let me know if you ever pass by Barton again. I'll be there. I'd love to have another traditional dinner. How about Easter?

From, Angus Tully.'

[therobinswayne]

marauders variants

i think it's so fun how differently different people can see the same charachters from the marauders era bc its basically all made up. here are how i see them, told through variants.

james potter - ferris bueller, peter parker

sirius black - jamie tartt, rachel green

remus lupin - stanley uris, chandler bing

peter pettigrew - penelope featherington, mike hanlon

lily evans - nell crane, viktor hargreeves

marlene mckinon robin buckley, darcy olsson

mary macdonald - cher horowitz, lucy gray baird

alice fortescue - robin scherbatsky, kat stradford

dorcas meadowes - nancy wheeler, rory gilmore

regulus black - paris gellar, christina yang

pandora lestrange - pheobe buffay, daisy jones

evan rosier - joey tribbiani, jason mendoza

barty crouch jr - jeff winger, dennis reynolds

frank longbottom - chidi anegonye, grover underwood

emmeline vance - annabeth chase, monica gellar

sybill trelawney - rapunzel, eleven hopper

aurora sinistra - ayda auegfort, patricia johnson

charity burbage - elle woods, silena beauregard

xenophelius lovegood - luna lovegood, alice in wonderland

benjy fenwick - nick nelson, andy dwyer

[smiley-mcdoggington]

Omega Stan omega stan omega stan

THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG TO WRITE TW STANCEST TW MPREG TW DUBIOUS MEDICAL PROCEDURES KINDA TW MENTIONED SA TW A/B/O

It was absolutely no fair that Stan still had to do the heat thing when he couldn't even give himself a reach-around. He was sweating like hell, his teeth were chattering as if it weren't 100-something degrees and Ford was still out on his fucking nerd quest to write about mushrooms for another 16 hours.

At least he didn't have to build a nest all at once while he had the physique of a boiled egg. He'd been slowly building it up for the past two months and yeah Ford had bitched he was running out of slacks but Stan would like to see him try resisting the urge to nest when he had two future boxers dukeing it out in his guts and keeping him from being comfortable for weeks.

He used the side of the bed to help him get on his knees before crawling to the nest on the floor - his belly button grazed the floor with his pathetic maneuver but if he fell when Ford wasn't home it would probably turn into a flipped turtle situation and he liked to pretend he still had dignity.

His palms sank into pillows and he pressed his face onto a small wall of Ford's soft sweaters over slacks and once again thought about that portable lightning rod Ford had in his study. Yes, it was lab equipment and he would probably get shocked straight to hell but the ribs on it. The way it kinda shook when it was powered on. The solid 10 inches. But Ford would kill him for cramming any of his stuff in the ol' prison wallet even for sex reasons, so he refrained. (also because he didn't wanna crawl that far and he refused to be bipedal again until his body stopped trying to boil both him and the future rugrats)

And the cruelest fate. He couldn't reach his dick. It was hard as a rock, digging into his overlarge stomach and he couldn't reach it. He could put his fingers on it, kinda, but jacking off and dusting off were so painfully different and he blamed Ford. Ford who left him alone to take care of himself when he didn't even remember what his feet looked like. Ford who was off crouching and standing up unassisted, getting another 20000 spore samples, then touching his toes just because he could. Ford was definitely doing that. Toe-toucher.

Then the front door opened - the door opening could be heard from the whole house, Ford had spent good American dollars on worse hinges specifically for it. Stan moaned loudly and pathetically because Ford should feel bad for making him egg-shaped.

Ford's boots thunked up the stairs hurriedly, and then the door was flung open. "Stanley?!"

Stan gave him a sour look. "Why do I even have heats - I already got the gold, stop making me run the race." He bitched. "And you! I can't touch my dick because of you!"

Stan made the effort to shift himself just enough to see Ford's expression.

That man was laughing in his hand. That dickhead. That jerk. That fucker. Why did every insult have to relate to sex, Stanley would be clawing at the walls if they would just get closer. "Stanford." He said.

His brother walked closer - he hadn't been wearing those fucking scent pads since they got the house, now that cocksucker just had to go around in his loose button up making the whole house smell like Stan was about to get lucky. That fucker. That cunt. That asshole. "What do you need, Stanley?" Ford asked like he wasn't fully fucking aware, little smile on his lips and rolling his sleeves up like something was gonna get messy. He really fucking hoped it was him.

Stan heaved himself onto his back, head resting in Ford's dirty sweaters, buck naked because he gave up on the idea of getting his tent-sized pajamas on the second he realized his heats didn't stop for anything, not even when he was about to pop. Ford was looking down at him expectantly, and Stan would have probably squirmed under that look if he wasn't so exhausted.

Stanley was practically panting. "Would'ja just get on with it?" He grouched, because Ford wasn't an idiot and Stanley wasn't being subtle.

Stanford stepped into the nest, Stan didn't know if he'd kicked off his boots first, he probably didn't because he was a dick. A cock. A fat cock. Stan was going insane. Then Stanford took a knee, one wide, cool plam resting on the stomach currently cockblocking him. He really needed to stop thinking about cocks. Ford leaned forward just a little, his voice smooth and quiet. "Do you want me to take care of you--?"

"Yes!" Stanley barked, because he would probably say yes even if Ford tried calling it 'Fornication' again even though he'd sworn he would never. He was cold and he was sweating and all his stupid soupy pregnant brain could focus on was tracing the outline of exactly where the six fingers on his stomach laid.

His brother snorted, leaning forward until his own stupid tiny stomach laid against Stan's beach ball and their noses were just barely touching. Stan didn't want a kiss, he wanted Ford to get to business. But then their lips met and Ford's cool hand was brushing the sweaty hair off his forehead and they were breathing the same musty air and Stan felt himself relax for the first time in hours. The kiss was soft, because Ford had learned quickly that if he started too fast and got the kids kicking it would ruin the mood because Stan would start hurting and Ford would start looking at his body less like an unstoppable sex machine and more like an ant farm.

Stan hummed, both hands on Ford's shoulders both for support and possible pushing-down leverage while Ford started sucking on his bottom lip. He really needed Ford to get his head in the game, the teasing was cute when they were nineteen in the back seat after Ford got a power boner from glaring down some fucking scuzz trying to get to second base with Stan in the showers - but that was four years ago, when Stan was sexy and topheavy and way too patient. Stan pushed Ford away just slightly. "D-Didn't you say you was gon-na take care of me?" He murmured.

Ford hummed. "There is something I read recently," He said, but Stan didn't care because Ford's hand was sliding lower. "About this." He said measuredly, and his hand skipped Stan's dick (Stan was gonna start throwing shit) to run his thumb over the slit between it and his hole, his newest source of aching to go with everything else because Stan couldn't catch a break.

Stan sighed. Ford was in one of his moods. No quick jerk for Stan, the man carrying his children, oh no, that would be too easy. The only reason Stan didn't kick Ford out of his nest and start riding that portable lightning rod until he got turned into a frankenstein was because he was weak and Ford's hands were giving him that stupid drunk giggly feeling and that was the most energy he'd had all morning. God he missed being drunk, he felt so hot when he was drunk, not like a boiled egg at all.

Ford was still talking about something. Stan was no longer paying attention. The thumb on his slit was slowly rubbing up and down and it wasn't really doing much for him but also Ford was so close to his leaking hole, or his leaking dick, he just had to fixate on the one dry part of his body.

"Stanley?" He prompted. He had probably asked Stan something.

Stan huffed. "Sure, Six." He said and Ford started moving. "Could you just hurry up and touch me where it-- counts--" His sentiment was lost when his throat tightened until he was whining - Ford's tongue was on his slit and it was weird but Stan would take weird, weird was almost like getting his ass eaten, weird was so close to good, close enough to good for him. His hips rocked down and sounds kept slipping out of his tight throat that made him sound like a teenager.

Ford looked up at him - which took some effort on account of mount everest - silently asking for approval, which was even weirder. "Whats'a matter?" Stan asked.

"Tell me if it starts hurting, okay?" He said, a little undercurrent of anxiety leeking through. Stan probably should have been paying attention to whatever Ford was planning on doing down there but it was too late and Stan was not in the mood to prolong sex things. He nodded and Ford sank back down.

Then Ford's tongue was on the least fun part of his genitals again, slowly lapping at the space, pressure just enough to sooth the ache he hadn't noticed the severity of until it was gone. One hand on his inner thigh, thumb rubbing circles into his skin. Then there was a hand around his dick and he yelped - he couldn't see a thing going on down there, Ford could have brought a book and if he still had a hand around Stan he really wouldn't care.

Then his tongue slipped inside and Stan cursed, immediately having to jerk his legs open to keep from boxing Ford 'round the ears. Ford's tongue wasn't as warm as his insides and the lack of moisture just made it feel so wet and weird and then Ford' s hand started moving and suddenly he didn't mind the feeling like there was a tiny cold tentacle in the nebulous space under his dick as long as Ford kept up the pace. Ford was always doing odd shit, at least for this one Stan didn't have to piss on some newspapers.

Ford was kinda kneeding more than jerking, hand tightening and loosening around his dick and Stan was reminded of how Ford would open and close his hands over and over when he was focused. One time he was doing it while talking to Cathy Crenshaw and she thought he was making the 'honk' gesture and smacked him. As if she even had anything to honk. Ford usually got a little too focused when he was in one of his weird sex moods but Stan didn't really get why this of all things was setting off his nerd brain. Yeah it was odd, but more like in a 'it's not you it's me' kinda way than anything.

Stan started lightly rolling into Ford's hand, and Ford took that as an invitation to completely take it, and his tongue, away, because he was mean and awful and cruel to his poor poor brother.

Ford poked his head up again, and Stan thought this might be the most Ford has ever consulted Stan on sex stuff ever. Ford's lips were bright red and hanging slightly open, spit shining on his cleanly shaven chin and panting just a little. He was gorgeous, Stan wanted nothing more than to get up and make Ford look even more fucked-out, but Stan could barely lean up on his elbows.

Ford swallowed thickly. "Yours-s or mine?" He asked, eyes continuing to dart between Stan's face and that new part of him that just fascinated Ford so much.

"Your what?" Stan asked, tracking every twitch of those bruised lips.

"Male omegan pseudo-vulvas don't self-lubricate with arousal." He huffed, ever the nerd. Ford's gaze burned into him. "Who's slick are we using?"

"Yours." Stan said immediately, even though he was probably making a puddle in his nest just from existing in heat, he didn't care. He wanted Ford's.

Ford nodded, undoing his belt. Stan strained to see over his own stomach, and Ford, the most beautiful, amazing, wonderful person in the world, stood up. He was looking smug, because of course he was when he slowly, slowly pulled his belt out of the loops of his slacks (he kept buying more, he had to be, no man had that many pairs of the same dark gray pants) turning around to put his belt on the dresser and giving Stan a full view of why he needed those pants in his nest. Ford had been doing a lot of filling out since they got the house, and slacks that used to fit him like any good dweeb now stretched obscenely over his rear and Ford fucking knew it. It was almost as bad as when he started wearing a pair of Stan's old green middleschool gym shorts in college, before they somehow went missing.

Ford bent low to get at the laces of his hiking boots, and Stan groaned. He was doing it on purpose, torturing the man carrying his children for his own sick kicks. From the new angle Stan could see a little dark spot where Ford was leaking. Stan needed those pants for his nest.

Ford stood back up, stepping out of his boots and turning back around, he still looked like the smug bastard he was but he was still flushed down his neck at the attention. "How the hell'd a fox like you manage to come from the same stuff as me?" Stan muttered, just to see Ford chuff a little.

"I suppose it's hard to miss, what with you being so perfect." Ford said back, unbuttoning his shirt smoothly, his fingers hypnotic as they worked down, revealing more and more chest hair.

Perfect, though. That was a word Ford always used for him. When they were little, Ford used to say that "Perfect is impossible, improvements can always be made" whenever Stanley tried using the word. But now he used it for Stanley, and Stanley's never been perfect at nothing, not even really good, either, and Ford had to know that, he was always correcting Stan. But then he called him perfect anyway. It turned Stan's heart inside-out.

"Its definitely you that's the perfect one, Sixer." He murmured, and Ford's smug smirk melted into a serene smile.

He walked back into the nest, in those fucking pants but nothing else, and straddled Stan right where his stomach ended, that little wet spot on his pants directly against Stan's dick. "Of course I am." He said as if Stan even remembered the conversation over Ford On His Dick. Ford laid his hands on Stan's stomach. "I'm the only one for you, that makes me perfect." He said, no doubt at all in his tone. "That's also why you're perfect, Stanley." His voice dropped, leaning forward until his lips were brushing Stan's baby bump. "You're mine."

Stan felt dizzy, fingers digging into Ford's cable knit sweater behind him and feeling Ford slowly grind into him. Ford was making these short hums every time he rolled his hips just right, and Stan was huffing through noises he couldn't help at this point.

Ford started going faster, his little hums speeding up to match were music to Stan's ears as he slowly got them both closer and closer, brows pinched together, mouth flexing into a tense little frown, hands beginning to tense and loosen against Stan's skin, Stan rocking back as much as he could. Stan could feel himself start to tense - he was so close, but Ford was in one of his moods and he really didn't want him to stop for whatever kind of edging-related kink testing he was up to today. "C-cah--" He had to ask, Ford usually let him when he asked. "S-Sixer can I? Can-n I?"

Ford's eyes snapped open with a short gasp the moment he comprehended the question, looking right at Stan when his body started trembling over Stan's, a thin wail leaving his open mouth as he nodded frantically just in time for Stan to snap, fingers burying into and possibly through the sweater behind him, riding out the shocks with Ford until they finally stopped to catch their breath.

Ford kissed Stan's baby bump again before easing himself off of Stan, the wet patch in his pants now so much bigger and more steal-able. He quickly undid his pants, shucking them without his earlier flare and kicking them away and just in Stan's reach, who snapped them up and started clinging to them like a kid clung to a toy because dignity was for losers anyway.

Ford was wearing his little space-themed briefs with little cartoon stars and planets and rocket ships that Stan got him as a gag gift two years ago. Stan's stupid mushy pregnant brain tried to make him cry over how cute it was, but then Ford got rid of those, too, leaving them out of snatching range.

Ford sat back down on the nest's floor of soft blankets, hands on Stan's knees. "Are you ready to continue?" He asked, and Stan had nearly forgotten his fixation on Stan's new hole.

Stan nodded. "Go nuts - but don't touch my dick yet, gimme a minute for that." He said, opening his legs for the love of his life who was way too interested in what was really just the temporary baby hole.

He could hear Ford wetting his fingers with his own slick, his eyelids drooping in a way Stan would recognize before his own name. Then he shifted, and cold, wet fingers were against his slit. A finger slipped in like nothing at all, then two with only a slight burn. Ford peeked up at him and Stan just nodded, not sure what to say. The burn was familiar, a little duller at the VIP access than at general admissions, but similar enough that he started warming up again.

Then Ford hooked his fingers, and Stan's whole body tensed up. If his prostate was like rubbing the inside of his dick, this was like a good scratch to his urethra - it was sharper, and very, very weird. His mouth was hanging open a little and Ford was looking worried again - seriously, it was unlike him. "Stanley, are you still okay?"

"Are you?" Stan huffed. "You're acting like your defusing a bomb here, Six, we can stop whenever you want."

Ford's brows furrowed. "I already explained exactly why I'm being cautious, Stanley." He snipped - and he probably did, right around that time Stan stopped paying attention. "Apologies if it's inconvenienced you." He said harshly, shoving a third finger in with the first two, the anger and the pain doing things to Stanley he refused to admit.

Ford was thrusting shallowly with his fingers when he crooked them again, and Stan gasped. The feeling wasn't really absolutely good the way his prostate being hit was, but it was intense, making Stan feel the flush on his forehead and his shoulders as Ford tapped the spot again, and again. Maybe the only reason it was good was because Stan was already getting worked up. Soon the fingers were moving freely and quickly.

Then Ford was touching himself again, he knew without seeing it, and then Ford's wet off hand was spreading slick next to his fingers. And a fourth finger was pushed in. Stan keened at it, hips rolling down to prolong the burn, stomach tense just to bring that weird spot closer, make sure Ford couldn't stop brushing against it. He felt a dribble of slick roll down onto the bed but he kept going, humping his brother's hand as much as he could.

Then Ford was touching himself again and touching Stan again and was he planning on adding a fifth? Stan has never taken five before, Ford only went to four on special occasions, three was always enough. Stan couldn't even panic about the thought, too busy feeling like someone put a pipe cleaner in his dick in a good way (somehow).

Then the fifth pushed in, and Ford started slow again, gently pushing and pulling, but it didn't matter because he could feel his prostate. From the wrong side. Pressure was still on the weird spot but now it was on his prostate too and Stan could feel them both. At the same time. Stan's mouth was perminantly hanging open, but then Ford's fucking knuckles pushed into him and Stan couldn't help the loud, pathetic noise he made, one hand onto his newly stolen pants and one hand in his own hair, rolling down on Ford's fingers like it was his last day on earth - with the way he was heaving, it actually might be.

Then Ford kissed the side of his knee. "You're doing perfectly, Stanley." He muttered, and the only sound that could come out of Stan's tight throat was a whine. "Just one more, Stanley." He said and it sounded fonder than any nickname.

Stan started rolling faster, making the kids kick but he could barely notice at that point. Ford's thumb started burrowing in with the other five and That was his whole hand holy fucking shit--

Ford kissed his knee again. "Good. Now you asked earlier, ask again." He said and Stan didn't have the time to consider telling Ford to fuck off before his mouth started trying to make syllables.

"Stan-n-ford I gotta - can-can I? Plea-se-"

"Go ahead, Stanley. Come for me." He said, and Stan's whole body erupted in static, his vision blurring out while his front spot and his back spot got milked by Ford's entire fucking hand, he could have been gone for an hour and he wouldn't'a noticed.

When he finally came back down, he was still in his nest, but now he was propped up on his side with pillows supporting his mass, and Ford was at his back, nose on his shoulder, one hand on Stan's stomach like the kids might disappear without him there.

Stanley turned his head a little. "That was great - dunno what you were even worryin' about, Sixer." He murmured.

Ford hummed. "Well sue me for being cautious, I didn't want to force labor a week before you're due."

Stan's body went cold, and he heaved himself into a sit. "You was risking making me labor early, Stanford Pines?!"

Ford looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "You said it was fine."

"You Almost Made Me Labor!"

He was leaving him for the lightning rod.

[a-gil-rebel]

Fanart Friday! Fiddleford Friday! All the Fridays!

Heres some roughs of the GF!Vampire AU I've been tinkering with. (Small Fiddleford my beloved, he's probably normal human height but vamps get extra height stats lol)

Ford, or Dee, rarely stands at full height, always crouched or hunched. Used to hiding and trying to make himself smaller, or maybe something to do with the guilt on his shoulders? And why does he wear gloves all the time?

Fidds probably has the happiest story of a lot of Fiddlefords, and the guy died once already! He travels a lot, and is a bit revenge-happy of the monster who killed him, but always comes back to Gravity Falls to visit his pal Lee.

Stanley, or Lee, lives much deeper into the woods than his canon counterpart, easier to keep things from getting messy. But he also runs his own Mystery Shack - The House of the Occult! (name pending) where he has articles and artifacts of the occult world, only some of which are made-up. Tourists love to indulge in the scary wacky world of cults and mirror mazes that they swear has more than one path out. He's always popping into town late at night for odd ingredients and supplies. Wonder what he does out in that cabin after he closes up shop?