#ticklish!stanford | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

portalford · 4 years

Text

Another Life or Another Dream

AO3

Stanford Pines is seven years old and can’t sleep.

His brother, Stanley Pines—also seven—can’t sleep either.

These things may or may not be directly related.

“Sixer, s’like, the middle of the night.” Stan, still mostly asleep, pulls a pillow over his face.

Ford, hanging upside down off his bed, swats the pillow away. “It’s two in the morning, Stanley.”

“Yeah? S’worse.” Stan pats around for the pillow for about three seconds before giving up and tossing his arm over his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

That gets him one open eye. “Didja try lyin’ down.”

“Yes, Stanley.”

Both eyes open now. “Bad dreams?”

Ford hesitates a moment, two, before admitting, “Yes.”

Stan is scowling, but Ford knows it’s not at him. “Want me to go check in the closet?”

“No.”

“Under the bed?”

“No.”

Stan’s scowl has morphed into a frown. He’s thinking.

“I fell asleep reading a book about monsters,” Ford offers. Maybe if Stanley has more information he’ll be able to help. “I didn’t get to the part about how to fight them—maybe if I read that it’ll help.”

Stan, wide awake now, stands up on his mattress so Ford doesn’t have to lean out so far. “Want me t’ listen so I’ll know too?”

Ford had really been hoping for this, but he offers Stan an out, just in case: “You sure?”

“Yeah, dude.” Stan bounces up; Ford catches his arm and helps drag him up into the top bunk. “You think I’d miss a chance to punch a monster?”

“You wouldn’t miss a chance to punch anything.”

“‘Xactly.” Stan pokes him in the ribs, right where he’s ticklish. Ford scoots away before either of them can escalate things. “Start readin’, Sixer.”

Ford opens the book to the correct chapter and clears his throat, like the announcers on the radio do when they have something important to say. “All right. ‘Changelings are fearsome creatures, but they are not invincible. There are some weaknesses you can exploit, should you be faced with this beast…”

*****

Stanford Pines is twenty years old and can’t sleep.

Fiddleford is awake as well, but he seems happy with this state of affairs, blankets pulled up to his chin to ward off the chill of their poorly-equipped dorm and weighty book of advanced mechanics balanced on his knees.

Most nights, Ford is perfectly content to work well into the earliest hours of the morning, and sometimes straight through until classes the next day.

With the current state of his throat, head, and overall wellness, however, he would welcome unconsciousness over the awful half-alert state he’s been in most of the day.

A stifled cough escapes—his control is slipping, after twenty-three hours of forcing his mind and body to operate at normal capacity—and catches Fiddleford’s attention.

“Stanford?” Fiddleford lowers the book just enough to see over it. “Y’alright?”

Ford discreetly clears his throat. “Fine, yes.” Damn. He still sounds like he’s dragging his voice over a gravel road.

Fiddleford’s book is lying in his lap now, disregarded. “You sure about that?”

He’s using the tone that means he knows Ford is lying, and that he’s allowing one more chance for Ford to tell the truth of his own volition. Ford ignores it. “Certainly.”

Fiddleford is glaring overtop of his glasses now. “Stanford Pines, you are sick as a dog, and lying like one t’boot.”

Ford badly wants to make a sarcastic response, but he’s no longer sure he can speak without setting himself off coughing. He settles for a shrug.

“Did you take anything?”

Another shrug.

“Heaven’s sakes, Stanford.” Fiddleford tosses his book aside and bustles off to the drawer that contains various over the counter medications (his), snacks (his), and spare pencils (Ford’s).

Two minutes and no less than six furious and deathly sincere threats of shoving aspirin “down your stubborn gullet God help me I’ll do it,” Ford has been coerced into taking painkillers and drinking a glass of water. Fiddleford offered to run out and get soup and crackers, but Ford refused. Fiddleford has a test tomorrow—he should be sleeping.

“It ain’t until tomorrow afternoon, knucklehead,” Fiddleford says when Ford suggests this. “I got time.” A moment of silence. “Still can’t sleep?”

Ford makes a vague gesture with his hand to the affirmative. Now that Fiddleford knows he’s ill, there’s no need to try and keep up a facade of being well.

“My sister used t’read to me when I couldn’t sleep.” Fiddleford hefts his book. “This stuff’ll put me to sleep, and I like mechanics. I bet it’ll work on you.”

“Bet it won’t,” Ford rasps.

“I’m not takin’ that bet because you’ll kill yourself to win.” Fiddleford fluffs his pillow behind him, clearly settling in for the night. “I’m gonna read out loud and you can tell me to shut up whenever.” He harrumphs and starts from what’s clearly the middle of a sentence in the middle of a chapter. “—can be modified to accept most kinds of springs.”

Ford doesn’t tell him to shut up.

*****

Stanford Pines is twenty-eight years old and can’t sleep.

To be entirely truthful (and the rarity with which he is truthful these days, even to himself, would be disturbing if he could dredge up the energy to feel disturbed), he can’t remember the last time he did sleep. Possibly three days ago.

Now, being unconscious while a multi-dimensional demon uses your body for nefarious means probably should not count as sleep, but the other option was to admit that he truly could not remember the last time he slept, and that was unacceptable.

So. Three days ago.

His house is freezing. He’s had this thought many times in the past however-long-it’s-been, and every time it takes him longer and longer to remember that this is because he fell behind on his heating bill at some point Before.

Absurd things, bills. He should have built that self-sustaining generator and taken his house off the grid entirely. Why hadn’t he?

Ah. Yes.

Anyway, the cold makes him sluggish, but not sleepy, so it’s nothing to be concerned about. Imagine being concerned with something like the temperature.

Ridiculous. There are thousands of things much more concerning than the measure of hot or cold, and he is dealing with approximately nine hundred and fifty-three of them.

This is not an exaggeration. He did the math a few days (months? years?) ago.

Oh, it would have been three days ago—he remembers because he came to groggy and wondering when theoretical mathematics made his ribs hurt. His head, certainly, if the problem was knotty enough, but surely not his ribs?

Realization had set in a moment later (as had the ever-impending panic attack, but let’s not dwell on that).

The glass of water he’d been drinking falls from his hand, apparently for no reason. He stares at it blankly, mind automatically attempting to draw patterns in the spattered liquid and crystalline shards of glass.

Another part of him offers some comparison between his own mind and the shatter-shapes of the glass. He promptly silences that part.

He’s shivering. Probably it’s why he dropped the glass. Probably it’s the cold.

He tucks his hands under his armpits. That should help.

Still. Best not to sleep.

*****

Stanford Pines is fifty-something years old and can’t sleep.

His sleep schedule is haphazard, but the sleep itself is better than it has been in years. Complete and utter exhaustion will do that for a man.

The nightmares don’t even wake him up every time anymore, so those ones don’t count.

Unfortunately, tonight he’s let himself go past ‘exhausted to the point of collapse’ and right into ‘exhausted to the point of being too wired to sleep’.

Nothing Bill has or ever will put him through could rival the sheer torture of this state of being. He takes a moment to enjoy being able to think such a thing without fear that Bill will pull the thought from his head and use it against him. Only a moment, though—his concentration is too fragmented for anything more.

He won’t take anything to help himself sleep—he never does. He can’t. A single moment of grogginess could be a moment too many, and he won’t take that risk.

He falls back on well-worn techniques instead—cataloguing the constellations of different worlds, conjugating pluperfect Kesslian verbs, translating a poem he heard at a campfire one time.

He doesn’t think about Earth. Somehow that never helps.

There is one thing to say for running so utterly on empty:

once you fall asleep, you’re far too tired to dream.

*****

Stanford Pines is fifty-eight years old and can’t sleep.

He was asleep, until about thirty seconds ago.

He much prefers being awake.

His hands are shaking and his heart is pounding and judging from the pain when he twists to look at the clock, he probably wrenched his back again.

There is nothing yellow in the room. The only omen of Bill is the remembered laughing cacophony in his head.

Sometimes, in more morbid moments, he fancies that the metal plate reinforcing his skull only gives Bill better ambiance and acoustics for his fits of hysterics.

His back is aching and it’s still hours before anyone else will be up and he can’t tell if the faint tremor in his body is from exhaustion or the nightmare.

He still prefers being awake.

*****

Stanford Pines is fifty-eight years old and can’t sleep.

It isn’t because of nightmares or illness. There are no demons, real or imagined, and he isn’t lost in another dimension.

“And then what, Grunkle Ford?”

It is, in fact, because of two small children with an insatiable appetite for stories.

Ford smiles at Mabel. She’s far more likely to air her impatience with his theatrical and intentionally-provoking pauses than Dipper, though her twin’s expression matches her eagerness.

“Are you sure you want to know?” He asks, just for that little bit more.

Mabel does not disappoint. She swats at him—she has quite an arm; Ford wouldn’t be surprised if Stan has been giving her boxing lessons—and yells “YES!”

“C’mon, Grunkle Ford, tell us,” Dipper cajoles.

“All right, all right.” He leans in, as though to tell them a secret, and they mimic the motion, eyes bright with anticipation. “The ice would have crushed the boat if we had tried to go through—so we went over instead.”

Bafflement. “What?”

“We flew.”

Astonishment. “It was a flying ship?”

Ford laughs. He can’t help it—their unfeigned delight at the strangeness of the universe reminds him of days when his eyes had been that bright, his wonder that unfettered.

He is living those days vicariously through them for now, for now, but—maybe not forever.

He has hope that he will live them for himself again someday soon.

He has hope for a lot of things now, actually.

It’s nice.

Mabel opens her mouth to ask what is probably seven or eight questions all at once, and lets the air out in an ear-piercing squeal as Stan swoops in from behind and swings her up onto his shoulders. He catches Dipper with his other hand, tucking the boy up under his arm. “All right, you little gremlins, time to hit the sack.”

“Awwww—”

“But Grunkle Stan—”

“Don’t ‘but Grunkle Stan’ me, kiddo.” He gives Dipper a little shake, nearly dropping him in the process. He is either not aware of or ignoring the fact that Mabel has stolen his hat and is trying to find some way to wear it that will not impede her vision. “Ford’s got enough nerd stories to last ten of your young lifetimes. Trust me—I’d know.”

Ford makes a bit of a face at that. He has to stop it from twisting into a smile when Stan makes a much more exaggerated face in return.

“Could you do the monster chase game, Grunkle Stan? Please?” Mabel’s eyelash-batting is entirely wasted due to the fact that Stan can’t see her, but it adds something to her plea nonetheless.

“What’s in it for me?”

“We’ll go to bed without complaining?” Dipper offers.

“If you catch us we’ll pick up the whole yard tomorrow!”

Ford and Dipper give near-identical winces at Mabel’s recklessness.

Stan, of course, is immediately sold.

“Done,” he says. He swings Mabel off his shoulders and lets Dipper down, but keeps hold of both of them. “Hope both of you are ready to lose all your free time.”

“Big words,” Mabel challenges.

Stan snorts. “On my mark—readysetgo!”

They’re off, Stan roaring in a fairly good imitation of the giant six-legged creature of unknown origin Ford had run across on D-272, and Dipper and Mabel laughing and shouting as they barrel toward the stairs.

It’s impossible to sleep through this racket.

Ford doesn’t mind at all.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #stanley pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #my writing #have another through the years fic!!#i have forgotten how to write anything that is not academic but i miss these characters constantly so #have this rambling piece that probably reveals far more about my current emotional state than i intended

65 notes · View notes

aticklish · 5 years

Text

30 Day Tickle Fic Challenge- Day 2

Day 2 - Your Favorite Fandom Character Tickles You (I did Sam from Supernatural)

“Y/N, I don’t understand.”

"Why not? It's simple," you laughed, looking at Sam's laptop screen.

"What do you mean, simple? This sudoku puzzle is impossible!" Sam protested.

"Come on, it's not that hard if you're as smart as I am," you said, brushing your hair back in a stuck up way. You giggled at Sam's classic bitch face.

"I went to Stanford!" Sam argued, slightly angry, but in a funny way.

"That was a loooooong time ago. You're getting kind of old," you commented with a smirk.

"Alright, that's it!" Sam shouted as he picked you up and threw you on his bed. He pinned both of your arms above your head with one of his hands.

"Sammy, that's not fair, you're bigger than me," you whined.

Sam grinned. "Oh, I think it's perfectly fair. You asked for this, Y/N."

"SAMMY, NO!" you squealed as he wiggled his fingers threateningly. You burst into uncontrollable laughter, even though he wasn't touching you. Both of you knew that one of your greatest weaknesses was anticipation.

You squirmed and giggled as his fingers got closer and closer to your extremely ticklish armpits. But he never touched you. He was teasing you, and you couldn't stand the suspense!

"OH MY GOD, JUST DO IT!" you yelled after about ten more seconds of anticipation.

Sam faked a surprised face. "Oh! If you insist."

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" You screamed in laughter as he attacked your left underarm. You'd always been super ticklish, and Sam had always tickled you because you could never fight back. You squealed and squirmed, but couldn't escape the younger Winchester's grip.

"Well, I have to be fair..." Sam said as he stopped for a moment. He smirked. "And tickle both of them!"

"NOHOHOHOHO!" you squealed as he tickled your right armpit. It felt even worse than before. After about ten seconds, he stopped to let you have some air.

"I'm... gonna... kill you," you gasped. "Sammy..."

"Oh, but I haven't even gotten to your worst spot yet!" Sam teased. "Let's play a game. Which of your sides is most ticklish?"

"My left," you blurted.

"Aw, that's no fun! Now I can't find out for myself!" Sam groaned before facepalming. "I guess I can still test your cute little tummy, right?"

"NAHAHAHAHA PLEHEHEHASE!" You were gasping in between laughs as Sam spidered his hands all over your stomach. But he knew where your limits were, and when you went into silent laughter, he stopped again.

"Are you sorry, Y/N, for being rude?" Sam questioned.

"Oh my God, yes, Sammy, yes!" you gasped.

Sam kissed your forehead before letting you up. "Good girl."

"No, no, no," you said, stepping away from him with a smirk. "Don't think I'm not getting revenge."

#tickle #tickled #tickling #ticklish #tickles #tickle fic #tickle blog #tickle story #tickle community #supernatural #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester

34 notes · View notes

poludaktulos · 5 years

Note

Stan and Fiddleford?

send me a ship and i’ll tell you …

who wakes up first in the morning: it’s more a contest to see who slept at all the night before, tbh. but when it DOES happen, fiddleford is somehow always up before stanford. it CONFOUNDS ford a great deal.

who’s the first to fall asleep at night: see the ‘ it’s a contest and nobody’s winning ’ comment.

what they playfully tease each other over: their chosen passions, from what it seems in the journal. ford takes themselves WAY too seriously, and fiddleford’s interest in computers is a little baffling to ford. but it’s never in a demeaning way, not anymore.

what they do when the other’s having a bad day: snuggle, i think. fiddleford seems like a very physical person, so touch would be very affirming between them.

how they say ‘i’m sorry’ after arguments: probably build something for the other.

which one’s more ticklish: secretly, ford. tell no one.

their favorite rainy day activities: inventing or snuggling.

how they surprise each other: again, they build things for each other.

their most sickening shows of public affection: ford never struck me as the pda type, so i think the most they do usually is hold hands and sit close to each other. fidds prolly does sneak cheek kisses now and again, but as he regains his sense of control so does he gain his sense of appropriate physical boundaries.

#;out of the journal #;meme response #fiddauthor //#( admittedly not a ship i think about a lot!#so it was a fun challenge comin' up with answers here )#itsameuhmultimuse #;ask

9 notes · View notes

gaybananabread · 6 months

Note

How about Day 30 with Lee!Mystery Twins and Ler!Stan Twins (gravity falls) as a game of hide and seek! I think it’d be super cute!

TickleTober Day 30 - Caught

AAAAA I’M DONE WITH TICKLETOBER!! HAPPY HALLOWEEN! This was a fun way to cap off the event, tapping into my roots! I’m so tired, and it’s definitely gonna be nice to not write over 1k word fics daily. I absolutely adored the event though, it really challenged me as a writer! ANYways, sorry for blabbing on, and I hope everyone stays safe tonight and that you Enjoy!

Lees: Mabel, Dipper

Lers: Stan, Ford

Summary: The Pines family are having an "intense" game of Hide-and-Seek to determine who gets to decorate the Mystery Shack for Halloween. There's an interesting set of rules, with a ticklish twist for whoever gets caught.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

"Dipper, be quiet!"

Mabel whisper-shouted at her brother, sinking further into the pile of stuffed animals. It was the fiercest competition of the century, and she intended to win it.

What had her so determined, you ask? The annual Pines Hide-and-Seek Championship. Well, it was the first year they were doing it, but the technically-teen was going to make sure it carried on.

Downstairs, her Grunkles combed through the house, searching for their great-grand niece and nephew. The Grunkles had half an hour to find them. There was a twist the older men had added, just to make the game more fun. If caught, the kids would be tickled. They didn't really specify a time, figuring it would be best to play things by ear.

The mystery twins gave no argument. They were determined to win, though the sweater-loving girl was definitely taking things more seriously. For Mabel, that's saying something.

Mabel, being serious? What was so great that she would forgo her usual silliness? Well, something she greatly desired; the winner, whoever they may be, got to dictate the Halloween decorations for the whole Mystery Shack. As long as it was within the budget, anything went.

She was determined to make it the most sparkly, retro, in-your-face crazy Halloween party ever. That meant she had to win.

Stan rooted through cabinets, looked in couch cushions, even went as far as looking in the outskirts of the woods. He was putting off checking the attic, figuring the kids would be smarter than that. Mabel was always goofy, it wasn’t hard to think her hiding spot would be as well.

Using a gadget, Ford scanned the first floor of the Shack. It was supposed to detect the joy and wonder a child gave off, though he was pretty sure he calibrated something wrong. Still, he searched, hoping it would at least give him some edge. He didn’t want his home covered in glitter, or so scary that even the goat would have nightmares. If Dipper won…well, he wouldn’t actually mind that, but it was the principle of it.

Dipper was hiding up in the rafters, having used Mabel’s grappling hook to secure the spot. They hid together, figuring whoever got caught first could fend for themself. Mabel was rather proud of hers; it was simple enough that they probably wouldn’t look, yet small enough to where she could barely fit, to dissuade her Grunkles. It was pretty perfect.

After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, both old men went up the creaky attic stairs. The twins held their breath, knowing it would be moments before one of them was caught. The door opened, painfully slow, as the pair entered the make-shift bedroom. They could hear the end of Stan’s conversation as he peeked in the closet. “...it’s one of the only spots we haven’t checked, Sixer. One of them’s gotta be here.”

Ford entered a second later, checking under their beds. He was so close that Mabel went completely stiff, refusing to even blink before he stood up. “Those kids are good, I’ll give ‘em that. They’ve got your sneaky skills.” He got a pillow thrown at his head by a chuckling Stan. “Sure, sure. But they’ve got your smarts. I would’ve hid in a closet or somethin’.”

They were so nonchalant about the way they searched for the younger twins. It was like they thought it was a game. Well, everybody but Mabel thought it was.

Dipper looked at Stan, noticing how close he was getting to finding Mabel. He really didn't wanna be the first one caught, but he knew how badly his sister wanted to win. Sighing, he faked a cough, calling the attention of his Grunkles up. The things he did for her…

In seconds, two rough hands wrapped around his waist, yanking him down from his hiding place. “Gotcha!” Dipper barely had enough time to register that he was in Stan’s lap before five clawing fingers dug into his stomach. “G-GRUHUNKLE STAHAHAN!”

Ford chuckled, getting his fun in as well. He scribbled on and under the boy’s knees, all six digits doing something to get him laughing. It was unfairly ticklish. He almost regretted taking the L for Mabel. Almost.

“Hey Dippy, I got a deal for ya. If you tell us where your sister is, we’ll stop.” Oh, those cheaters! Mabel watched with wide eyes and Stan vibrated his clawing fingers into Dipper’s tum, keeping his arms above his head. She knew her brother had thrown his chance for her, but he still had to outlast the old men.

He wriggled and twisted in their arms, refusing to give in so easily; he wasn’t about to lose for nothing. “I- IHI CAHAHAN’T!” Ford snickered, squeezing his knees a bit more vigorously for emphasis. “Oh, but you can. Just say, ‘Oh, Mabel is hiding…’ and then you say it. It’s just that easy.”

So unfair… Dipper whined through his laughter, kicking as much as he could. Maybe a time limit on the tickles would have been a good idea… His Grunkles were obviously enjoying themselves, matching smirks on each of their faces. He didn’t hate it, per say, but it was much harder to stay sane when all three of them could see his reactions.

It was…actually really nice of him to do that for her. Mabel would have to let Dipper DJ for the party. Waddles might be a little upset, but she was sure her pink companion would prefer snack table duty.

Stan got a little impatient, deciding to be evil. He moved his bony fingers up to the boy’s armpit, digging into his hollows. Dipper let out a squeal that would put Waddles to shame. “NYAAAAHAHA! STAHAN! NOHO- *snrk* NOHOT THEHEHERE!”

Oooh, he went for Dipper’s bad spot. Mabel bit her lip as she watched her brother’s destruction: Ford teasing his knees while Stan went to town on his pits. She wouldn’t blame him if he gave her up, but dang it, she really wanted to win.

Right as Dipper was about to crack, the Nyan Cat theme song went off. Ford’s phone buzzed in his pocket, signaling that their half-hour was up. Mabel had won!

The girl sprung up from her mound of stuffed animals, startling both of her Grunkles. “HA! I won! Stan, go grab the basement key, I’m gonna make it rain glitter and gummy bears!”

Ford laughed, releasing Dipper’s legs as he watched his grand-niece celebrate. Stan sighed, setting the boy down on the carpet to curl into himself. “Okay, okay, ya won! Don’t need to rub it in, ya snot.”

She chuckled, moving to hug her giggling brother. “Thanks for taking the loss, bro-bro. I officially crown you Head DJ.” He pumped a weak fist into the air, still giggling away the phantom sensations. Stan shooed her away, placing Dipper in his brother’s arms.

“You go get the dork some water. I’ll handle our winner.” Ford nodded, carrying the exhausted Dipper down the attic stairs. Stan cracked his knuckles before scooping Mabel up in his arms, holding her against his chest. “Congrats, ya snot. Here’s my favorite part of your reward…”

He squeezed her side, making the sweater lover burst into bubbly giggles. She twisted and squirmed, eyes growing wide. “B-buhut Gruhuhunkle Stahan! Ihi wohohohon!”

He snorted, moving up to tease her ribs. “You did, yeah. Your brother got the worst of it; I’ll go a bit easier on ya. Congrats, you goober.” She whined, protests already forming on her tongue. “Thahat ihisn’t fahair! Sohore loser!”

Stan scratched and scribbled between each bone, acting as if it was just a normal conversation. “It’s totally fair. I don’t remember there being a rule against tickling the winner.” She scrunched up her nose, mock-glaring at him. “Thahat- youhu- uhuhugh!”

It was adorable to see his relatives’ reactions. He loved to hear their laughs, see them smile, make them forget about the crazy lives they’d led for just a second. The whole “Weirdmageddon” fiasco had done a bit of damage. Stan took any chance he could get to make them feel like regular kids again. Dipper had already gotten his go; now it was Mabel’s turn.

“B-buhuhut- HEHEHEY! NOHOT THE PIHIHIHITS!” He poked her armpit, making the girl squeal. “It’s cute how you two share everything. Makes tickling the snot out of ya a whole lot easier.” It was gonna be a long day…

56 notes · View notes

asterkiss · 6 years

Note

33. "I'm not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention." (Maybe Bill's human form proves to be ticklish, and Mabel has some fun making him deal with that? :3 "Sock Opera" flashbacks, hehe~ ♡)

Hell yeah, time for some cute/happy stuff.

A semi-cracky short written in an AU verse where Bill obtained a human form and lives with the Pines family and is on more-or-less good terms with them now.

- TICKLE

Bill had to hand it to humans, although most of their television shows were a pile of shit there was the odd diamond in every pile. He’d been dubious about this ‘Duck-tective’ when Shooting Star initially introduced it to him but after the first season it really kicked off in terms of storyline and character development.

It had been three days and he was already on season seven.

When Mabel came down that morning, still in her pajamas, she found Bill seated directly in front of the television screen still wearing last night’s clothes.

“Have you been up all night?”

“…Is it morning?”

“Well, yeah?”

“Then yup, I’ve been up all night.”

He said all of this without once looking in her direction which annoyed Mabel a little bit. She’d forced him into watching the television show to give her some space so she could finish a summer homework assignment. But now that a few days had passed by she was sort of missing having him clinging to her like a puppy.

“So hey, do you wanna go into town today? Greasy’s Diner has a new menu which has three times the amount of grease than the previous!”

“Nah.”

“Then… the pool? You can sit on the side whilst you make fun of everyone like a meanie.”

“Nah.”

Mabel’s frown deepened. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Nah.”

She stared at him for a long time. “I’m taking up a rap career as DJ DiscoGirl.”

“Really?” he drawled, not reacting.

“Mm-hmm, yup! And then I’m going to move to Europe with my secret French boyfriend called, uh, Pablo!”

“Nice.”

“Also, I’m pregnant with your baby.”

“Okay.”

Mabel stared flatly at him, lips pursed together and hands on her hips. Seriously? Walking over, she kneeled down beside the demon as his eyes reflected nothing but the television screen inches from his face. She cast the show a brief look and wow, he really had been binge-watching this the past few days, huh?

“Hey.” She tried poking his cheek to gain his attention but no dice. “Hey.” Then his arm, nope, nothing. “Hey!” Next, she reached out a finger and poked him in the ribs.

He flinched instantly, snapping his head around and jerking away with narrowed eyes. “Oi, can’t a guy watch a show about a duck without being disturbed?”

Mabel blinked at his reaction.

…Then a slow grin broke out over her face. “Hey Bill, do you remember when I was twelve and you took over Dipper’s body and terrorised us?”

The blond gave her a suspicious look, eyes scanning her face before he eventually smirked and replied. “…One of my favourite memories! Definitely one for the scrapbook.”

“Does that include when I tickled you?”

“Well that’s—” He froze, eyes snapping in her direction and then toward her outstretched arms.

She grinned.

He paled.

“Shit.”

Dipper raised the spoon of cereal up to his mouth when a loud thud from the main room caused him to jump and drop it back into the bowl. The sound was quickly followed by yelling. The boy groaned. “What is it, this time?”

Deciding he should at least go check the former demon wasn’t trying to, dunno, take over the world again, the boy went towards the living room and stood in the doorway.

For a moment he simply stood there, blinking away lingering sleep as he tried to process the scene before him.

“N-No—hahah!—no get off me!!”

“I’m not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention!”

Mabel laughed triumphantly as she straddled Bill in her pajamas, fingers jabbing him methodically in the ribcage as the blonde yelled between restrained and unwelcome laughter.

It was too early in the morning for him to be seeing this sort of stuff. Dipper turned around and walked away wordlessly.

Mabel caught sight of her brother leaving from the corner of her eye and turned her head, giving Bill the opening he needed to grab one of her wrists and yank her off him to the side as he sucked in a deep breath following that torture.

When he turned his head aside to glare at her, Mabel grinned back at him innocently. She raised a hand and poked him on the nose. “Boop.” It was amusing how his expression darkened. The former demon who had been capable of world domination was now a free-loader in their Shack who was taken down by something as simple as tickling.

It was amazing.

Bill observed her for a moment before his expression shifted, lips stretching into a grin which made Mabel’s face drop.

Uh oh.

“Well then, if it’s my attention you want I’d be more than happy to give it to you, Shooting Star,” he said in a deep and alluring voice, moving toward her.

Her face flushed red at the implications of his words and she scrambled backwards only to hit the sofa as he drew nearer. Oh gosh, oh wow, okay, was this really happening? Were the past months of ‘will they or won’t they’ finally going to reach an explosive end!?

Nope.

Instead, the blond’s fingertips found her defenseless sides and she burst into laughter at his relentless revenge. “Hahaha—no—no, stop!!”

He gave a chuckle that sounded way too evil for the harmless fun they were having.

(It was Stanford who came to the doorway next. Like Dipper, he took one look of the scene and did a 360 change in direction. Nope.)

At least she did get his attention in the end.

#shameless fluff #i need it after my dark oneshot before #going out but working on other stuff when i come back later #drabble #Anonymous #asks

28 notes · View notes

rmjagonshi · 6 years

Text

Whole Again - Chapter 17

Whole Again on AO3

-Three Days Before Christmas-

What the hell was Stan Bill thinking? What the hell was that? Stanford could feel his pulse racing, rapid beat, a throb at his pulse points: the back of his crania, his neck, the center of his chest, his thumbs, his wrist…

Stanford took a steadying breath, willing his heart rate to return to normal. He clenched his hands tight to ease the shaking. He'd done it so many times before, willed himself to not feel fear, to not feel emotions. It was as familiar and as simple as falling asleep. Then why was it so hard to make himself calm down? What was Bill playing at? What the hell did he think he was going to accomplish with this charade?

Stanford was startled, scared. He'd been scared before and he'd learned to concentrate on his intellect and let the irrational emotions ebb from his mind. But the blood that beat a rough staccato at his pulse points wasn't cold, wasn't leaving him chilled and anxious to run. He was burning; his clothes, his very skin, feeling tight. He felt faint as the perspiration dripped from his brow and down his neck. He would burn up if he lost control; it was always fire in the end with Bill. And with Stan.

It was Stan Bill who looked like Stan. Bill who wore the same face as his twin. Bill who spoke with the same voice, who had the same mannerisms, the same memories, the same sense of humor that had Stanford rolling with laughter even forty years later. But Stan was gone now. Only Bill remained. And Bill looked like Stan, and despite that, Stanford was still affected by the daemon. His body still responded to the monster that manipulated him, that put his family in danger, that killed his brother. God, what kind of sick creature was he? To still be attracted to that thing? To...still...love Bill? He did, didn't he? He still loved Bill, and nothing that had happened between them, nothing Bill had done was enough to break that. To finally squash that damnable flutter he felt whenever Bill was near. He couldn't kill that burst of affection that warmed his chest when he thought of his muse. He couldn't sever the hold Bill had over him, and the worst part was, he wasn't sure if that was what he really wanted.

He wanted to want to leave Bill in his past, to move on and live his life, be with his family. But he had lived so much of his life obsessing over Bill. He’d spent what seemed like years working alongside him, calling him friend. Bill had been such a large part of his life, that a part of him didn't want to forget about Bill; still longed for the daemon’s touch, that it was a fight every waking moment to not give in and just let go. To just go to Bill and stay here with him, floating in the ocean, together. Just forget about everything. Forget about those waiting back home. It hurt to think that a part of him was so selfish as to separate himself from his family once again. And to what? What would Bill give him that he didn’t already have? What could Bill be for him that wasn’t already filled by the other people in his life.

And that was the sticking point; Bill had been the most important being in his life once. Bill encouraged him, engaged him, stretched his mind to the limits with concepts and theories and philosophy far beyond his own mortal understanding. They had been partners in every sense of the word. They worked and lived together, they talked about politics, advancements in mathematics and science. Bill would sit in the peripheries of his mindscape, even while Stanford was awake, and just be there. Just spend time while Stanford worked, humming strange and alien music, occasionally making images for Stanford’s amusement out of the clouds and dusty mist that existed in the gap in Stanford’s mindscape. The gap, more a link or an overlap between Stanford’s mind and Bill’s; not really one mind of the other, but a place where both existed at the same time, in the same place.

They had also been intimate, or as intimate as you can get with a being that only exists as a projection into the mental plain. It had only happened once, but once was enough to hook Stanford. Enough to drug him, hypnotize him, and drown him in his already unhealthy obsession. Once was enough to leave him shaking and tingly and thoroughly debauched, although his physical body had remained untouched. It was difficult now to tell if it had been a dream built on years of sexual repression and culminating in a subconscious manifestation of his affection for Bill, or something Bill had actually projected into his mind as a way of keeping Stanford both focused on the project and completely emotionally reliant on Bill. It was a memory that, despite all attempts to repress it, had remained resolute and vibrant. And it still affected him.

*~*

Stanford had been distracted for two full days, unable to make any real advancements in the project while his mind kept wandering, while his trousers felt tight in all the wrong ways. He had been long past his formative teenage years where puberty and hormones controlled him like some base animal, but nothing he did could alleviate the low thrum of ‘want’. Everything even remotely attributed to sex flitted through his mind and disrupted his calculations, flinging numbers and variables this way and that as the flirty cashier from the corner market stripped for him, or Cathey Crenshaw from high school pulling down the top of her strapless dress to expose her (Stanford had been reluctant to admit he’d noticed) rather perky and sizable breasts, or the muscular boxer with a fuzzy face, large hands and a mouth Stanford was sure tasted of Pitt Cola and toffee, or the young undergrad that had grappled for his attention in grad school who had hidden beneath his desk one night to surprise him. Stanford had sent the boy home, but his hormone drugged mind filled in what would have happened if he hadn’t; a hot mouth and slick swipes of a tongue along his cock, a willing body on their knees, face pillowed between his thighs. The fantasy wasn’t constant (it never was); the undergrad’s short black hair grew long and faded to red, the moans coming from the boy’s throat increased in pitch until Stanford could feel Cathy trailing her perfectly manicured nails along his hips, then changed again, taking on a much rougher pitch, like gravel in a rock tumbler, making his cock throb and the hair darkened to a chocolate brown, boxing gloves thrown over the young man’s shoulder. He would knit his gingers into that mop of hair and thrust, and the subsequent groan would change yet again, becoming more smooth and sultry.

Stanford had been well in to the fantasy, palm pressed against the front of his trousers and hunched over the basement desk, when Bill had popped into his mind, pulling Stanford fully into the mindscape. The fantasy had dematerialized in an instant, Stanford dropping out of the now non-existent chair to float with his trousers around his knees and cock painfully erect, red, and throbbing, still slick with the imagined saliva from his fluctuating, illusory partner. A tense moment passed between them, Stanford’s mind still hazy from his exasperating distraction.

“Heya there, Smart Guy. Need some help?” Bill’s voice had taken on the same chipper tone it always had, only this time, there was a slight veneer of curiosity. Stanford had instinctively made to cover himself, make himself decent in the face of his muse, but six ribbon-like tentacles erupted from Bill’s form and wrapped around each of his legs, his wrists, his waist, and his erection.

“Bill, what…?” But the question died on his lips as Bill lifted him closer; he could feel the tentacles writhing, twisting, and kneading against his exposed skin, his clothes having vanished without his noticing.

“No sweat Sixer, just let me handle this. You humans were always so weird with your physical needs. I never understood how you ever get anything done.” The tentacles started moving with purpose, tracing the line where his buttocks and thighs met, and coiling and uncoiling around his erection. One tentacle left his right arm loose and snaked over his chest to ghost over his nipples. Rubbing circles around the areola lightly before flicking the hardened bud. Stanford swallowed a squeak. He could feel something pool in his intestines. It was tingly, and warm…no, hot. Heat. It felt like his blood was rushing to his groin. His head felt light, his mind filled with random and unorganized thoughts. The tentacle wrapped loosely around his cock doubled up on itself; the lower girth still stroking his erection up and down while the probing tip inched its way back to his perineum, pausing to tease his testicles and tug gently as the pubic hair.

“Ooooohh.” Stanford couldn’t hold back the groan even if he had the mental focus enough to try. His hips jerked of their own accord. His mind blurred with questions, the words materializing and whizzing in the ether around them: What, Bill? Why are you doing this? Holy Moses, that feels amazing! Why do this for me? Are you curious? Nnnhhhhh! God, I’d let you watch. I have before, right? You wanted to know what it felt like. But why participate now? What are you getting out of it? He felt a four-fingered hand cup his cheek and he tiled his head up, blinking through a lusty haze to gaze into the eyes, er, eye of his muse.

“Hey there, Sixer. You still with me?” Bill was amused. While the triangle had no mouth (or rather, his eye was both his eye and mouth), Stanford could tell Bill was smirking. The set of his eyelids were nearly as expressive as a pair of lips on humans. What would they taste like? Would they be soft? Would the lashes ringed around Bill’s eye feel ticklish as they inevitably fluttered across his face? He nipped at his lower lip, imagining the taste of Bill’s lips on his. He found himself wrapping the tentacles around his limbs further in an attempt to pull himself closer to Bill. The black appendages looping tighter around his arms and legs, the bulk of his weight held by the one wrapped around his waist and hips and gently prodding at his navel. His hips were still bucking into Bill’s touch, the constant shift in weight in this gravity-less void pushing him closer to the triangle until he heard Bill sigh and felt the tentacles draw him in. Stanford let out a soft groan when his body finally came into contact with Bill.

Bill’s surface was warm and surprisingly soft, just as he remembered. Stanford pressed himself as close to Bill’s form as he could, his twelve fingers splayed and drawing patterns on Bill’s form. Bill had kept to a mostly human size, maybe slightly larger. Stanford’s arms, tugged loose from the tentacles, wrapped around the upper part of Bill’s form, holding the triangle tight against his body. He felt like he was on fire, and the cool temperature of Bill’s form did nothing to abate the heat. He hadn’t noticed that he had started mouthing and licking at Bill’s surface until his lust fueled brain registered that he was tasting what might be described as a spiked energy drink, something vaguely metallic, and something bitter that reminded him of sulfur or quinine. It was a flavor that was very quickly proving to be addicting.

“God, I…” Stanford couldn’t even pause in his ministrations long enough to speak. Instead, he just panted and moaned, feeling the sounds bubble up from his chest. It may have been wishful thinking, but he swore he felt Bill shudder. With every movement, his erection brushed against Bill’s warm surface. Here he was, Stanford Pines, so desperate and needy he was grinding against Bill, his muse, his friend, his teacher. Using the omnipotent deity for his own inferior carnal pleasure. His hips snapping with every thrust, erection bobbing between them, smearing precum and leaving slick trails over the triangle; the bowtie was quickly becoming damp. He couldn’t help it; Bill’s touch was electric. He needed it. God, but he needed it. But it wasn't enough. His lips worked their way to Bill’s eye, kissing and gently nipping at its perimeter. His fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises on Bill’s back if it was possible. The tentacle around his cock squeezed, and Stanford took the risk, bringing his lips to Bill’s eyelids in some semblance of a kiss.

Bill’s lips, really eyelids, were soft and supple, and the eyelashes didn’t get in the way as much as he expected. Stanford licked at Bill's lips, tracing the plush ridges, and nipping the bottom lip, holding it between his teeth. He wished Bill had a proper mouth, or a tongue, or something. He felt Bill pull away and couldn’t hold back a whimper at the loss.

“Whoa, slow down there IQ. Knew you were inta weird stuff, but I didn’t think you were this depraved.” Bill punctuated his statement with a long slow stroke to Stanford’s cock with one of his actual hands. Stanford whined, throwing his head back and gasping as Bill pressed at the spot below the head, sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine. He heard Bill hum and repeat the action. Through his haze, Stanford desperately tried to claw his way back to Bill; his fingertips just barely making contact with Bill’s face.

“Please…I want…” Stanford didn’t really know what he was asking for, not really. Maybe he just wanted to touch Bill, maybe he wanted to make Bill feel as good as the daemon was making him feel. Bill’s chuckle filled his ears the same moment his hands felt the plush warmth of Bill’s face, and he felt the tip of the tentacle massaging into his perineum creep further to brush over his entrance. Soft, and barely there, feather-like touch. Bill’s hand on his cock continued jerking, thumb swiping at the tip and smearing the beading precum.

A litany of whimpers and panted exclamations of need passed his lips as his fingertips dug into Bill’s surface. “Ah, Ah, Ah, AH!” He was so close, but it was all so wrong. Here Bill was, giving him exactly what his body and mind needed, what his soul needed, an act of intimacy with the being he loved most, and Bill was getting nothing in return. He wanted to do something, something that would make Bill feel as good. If that was even possible. What if Bill’s kind didn’t do anything like this? What if there wasn’t any way for Stanford to reciprocate? Was Bill just helping him and getting nothing in return? The questions spiraled in his mind and clumped together like a heavy stone in his gut. A chill whipped through his blood stream and he felt is erection soften.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You’re overthinking this aren’t you?” The subtly glow accompanying Bill’s words made Stanford’s heart flutter. It made Bill look ever more like the divine being that Stanford believed him to be; it made Bill’s attentions to him, both academic and physical, all the more special because here was this perfect and omniscient being that actually went out of his way to spend time with Stanford.

Bill had spoken of creating a better world, one where the atrocities and injustices of the current world didn’t exist. One where every person was able to get by on their own merit rather than some lucky draw of the genetic or financial lottery. One where diversity and deformities like Stanford’s were celebrated, rather than ridiculed. One where he could…

Stanford felt a bizarre mix of longing, revulsion and fear itching at the back of his crania. It was strange. Something he wanted, something he couldn’t have and felt ashamed for wanting. He wanted Bill, and without the portal, he couldn’t ever really be with his muse. Some may think less of him for seeking such a relationship with something so dissimilar from humanity, but he felt no shame in desiring Bill; perhaps this shame stemmed from the fact that his desires were physical and not purely mental. He was weak to his baser emotions and physical needs just like any other human. But even still, Bill sought out him, Stanford Pines, to share his infinite knowledge with. And Bill seemed to be enjoying this in some way, so there should be no shame felt. And there wasn’t really, other than he felt he should do something to reciprocate. It was absurd that these feelings were for anyone expect Bill; Bill was his whole world. Fiddleford was a friend, sure, but Bill was his friend, confidant, muse, and dare he say, now lover. Bill was everything, so, naturally, his emotional conflictions would stem from Bill…right?

“Hey, it’s gone soft again. Did you finish? Wasn’t there supposed to be some sorta fructose-dihydrotestosterone-enzyme acid mix that went with it? Human bodily functions are weird, I never really understood them. But I’m guessing you just got lost in that maze of a mind ya got there.” Bill waved at the words and questions floating around them, dispersing Stanford’s insecurities. Stanford felt his throat tighten. How to explain it? Could he?

“Or is it that I’m not doing it right? It that it?”

“What? No, no it was, God, it was great! I just…” Stanford took a steadying breath, “I want to do something for you. Something like…” Stanford, being uncharacteristically bold, lunged forward to capture Bill’s lips/lids in another kiss. He peppered Bill’s mouth with short, rough kisses, trying (and again wishing that Bill had one) to lap at his tongue. Bill could read his mind, right? He knew what Stanford wanted, but maybe he didn’t understand it? Or maybe he didn’t want to do this? Maybe he was just humoring the stupid little human? Maybe…

“Alright, I gottcha. I can’t exactly get that same thing out of this, but I can probably do something.” The tentacles, all at once, particlized and dropped out of existence. Instead, Bill grew several sizes and Stanford was being supported by three of Bill’s hands; one supporting his back, one gripping his slowly hardening cock, and one cupping his hips under his buttocks. One eager finger softly probing his entrance, this time with some slick residue.

Something large and black, with intimidating girth, smacked Stanford on the cheek, rubbing the same slick substance over his face. He nuzzled at it without thinking, before opening his eyes to stare at Bill questioningly.

“There. I tried to make something with the same nervous system and electrical feedback loop you humans have. Go ahead, give it a whirl.” Stanford stared at the...well, it was supposed to be a penis, wasn't it? It looked far more like a fat tentacle that tapered slightly with a bulbus tip. Stanford could feel his mouth water. He'd never even thought of performing fellatio before – he'd never had the opportunity to entertain the idea – but he eagerly lapped at the head and shaft, letting his saliva drip down his chin. The pressed his tongue into the gap that was supposed to resemble the urethral opening and grinned when Bill moaned.

“Whoa…..whoooooookay. So, so that's why you humans are obsessed with this, huh?” Bill shuddered and Stanford felt the newly formed shaft throb against his lips. But it was still more tentacle and prehensile than a human organ, and the surrealness and alien sensation sent a pulse of raw heat to his groin and Stanford bucked into Bill’s hand.

The tentacle pressed against his lips, wedging itself into his mouth and running over his tongue. It thickened gradually, open his jaw wide and forcing Stanford to swallow around it. He both heard and felt Bill moan. He could see a light shade of red pigment begin forming at Bill’s edges. His eye was closed and he was shaking. Stanford felt electric. To be able to pull a reaction like that out of Bill, to be the one, possibly the first, to make Bill feel this way. He swallowed hard, taking the tentacle as deep as he could, careful to not scrape his teeth. He swiped at the head with his tongue and heard Bill groan. “Oh man, I gotta get me a real body! This is great! Oh yeah! Laer rof siht yrt attog I. Siht ot desu teg dluoc I kniht. Tep taerg a ekam duoy. Uoy peek annog mi, snepo latrop taht nehw.” Bill eased a fingertip passed the ring of muscle, easing the way with the makeshift lube.

Stanford was too far gone to understand what Bill had said. Far too gone to understand much of anything besides the white heat in his veins. He whined. Hips still bucking into Bill’s hand and lips working their way up and down the shaft Bill created. Stanford came with a muffled scream around Bill’s cock. But Bill hadn't yet.

Bill had been rough, and the power dynamic fluctuated back and forth between them. He would have had bruises, scratch marks, curved indents of teeth had they both been physically present. Bill had made himself a vulva, and Stanford had plunged in without hesitation. Bill had pushed into him while he simultaneously fucked Bill; the differing sensations, differing perspectives had been too much. His mind whited and he woke sweating and hunched over his desk, pants damn near dripping and papers stuck to his face with drying perspiration. The ink was smudged beyond all recovery, but Stanford could not bring himself to care. He never mentioned it to Bill, he didn't know what to say, how to approach the subject. He finally decided that if Bill wanted that again, they would do it, if he didn’t, then...well, Stanford would simply handle himself. He had plenty of fantasy material to work with.

***

Stanford shook his head free of the memory. He was sitting on his bunk below deck, he'd left Bill upstairs in the cabin. Stanford thought it must have been a dream now, because Bill had been too out of character with the being he knew. One bad thing about having an Eidetic memory, was that he remembered every detail, every touch, and it affected him just the same. Stanford shifted, feeling the tightness in his trousers. God, he was in his sixties, he was too old to be getting randy over memories of fantasies.

The worst part? He missed Bill. Missed being with the daemon. Missed talking to him, discussing the world, discussing life and the worlds and universes beyond this one. They would talk, about everything and nothing for hours, sometimes days. They would play interdimensional chess and D, D and MD for days. They would just sit in silence, Bill playing with the elements between space and Stanford working on expanding his notes, or working out his hypotheses for the strange things going on in Gravity Falls. He enjoyed Bill's company. He enjoyed being around the daemon, despite all the slightly off or disturbing things Bill was into.

Bill had told Stanford of his family, his life before being ousted from his original dimension. Yes, Stanford knew that Bill was not a native to the Nightmare Realm, knew that Bill’s life in the gap between dimensions was wildly different and infinitely more fun than the boring life he lead as a merchant. And Stanford had told Bill about his family, his parents his older brother, Sherman, and…and Stan. Stanley. His twin brother. His best friend for the first eighteen years of his life. The one person he thought he would spend the rest of his life with. The one person who loved Stanford for who he was, who never treated him like a freak. The one who's love and devotion nearly suffocated Stanford. The one Stanford had tried to protect, because Stanford wasn't...he wasn't safe. He wasn't safe to be around. He was…wrong, weird…a freak. And it wasn't just because of his hands.

Bill had understood. Bill had helped him redirect and harness these blasphemous feelings. Stanford never understood why, but he'd always wanted to...do...something…with Stan. To Stan. Something he most definitely shouldn't. But it was so nebulous. So intangible, that he was never able to pin down and define what exactly he'd wanted from his twin. He terrified him when he was younger. He got jealous when Stan tried to make other friends, he got possessive over Stan’s time, always wanting to keep Stan with him, doing the things that he wanted. It got better as they got older; Stanford had been able to be content with Stan continuing boxing lessons, had been begrudgingly fine with Stan dating Carla. But he was never able to isolate why he felt like that. He wanted companionship, a friend, a confidant. Someone who could keep up with him, who had the same thirst for adventure and knowledge he did.

He had wanted to go to college both to expand his knowledge and opportunities for discovery, but also because, while Stan’s devotion to Stanford was suffocating, his own tenuous feelings about Stanley were driving him to asphyxiation. He never thought he would get over it, but then, miracle of miracles, Stanford had found Gravity Falls…and Bill Cipher. Bill had fit that need for companionship so much better than Stan ever could. And he felt safe around Bill, like he wasn't taking advantage, wasn't moments from doing something unforgivable and irreversible to harm Stanley. Like his wretched mind had finally calmed down and he could think clearly for the first time in nearly two decades. Bill had set him free from a nameless demon and gave him exactly what he wanted, what he needed. Now, Bill looked like Stan. And Stan was gone, and even after forty years, he still didn't know what it was he felt for Stanley, only that his demons had never been banished. He had never been freed. They had simply lied in wait, biding time. Ready to rear its head back from the repressive portion of his mind.

His feelings for both Bill and Stanley clashed in his chest, in his mind. Beating against the walls of his crania and kicking at his ribcage until he swore he felt bruises. These feelings wared with one another, so similar and so different. In a perfect world, both would exist, and both would be safe, and his relationship with them would be definable. No, in a perfect world you would have gone to West Coast Tech, Stan would have never been homeless and you would have never even heard of Bill Cipher or Gravity Falls and never had the audacity to think you could change the world by building an interdimensional portal to an unstable universe. Stanford felt his jaw ache from pressure, gritting his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn’t shatter. Then he would have to get dentures or an implant. He shuddered. Nope, not even in self-deprecating fantasy would he stoop that low. He licked at his teeth as if to sooth away the potential damage. Stanford’s posture sagged and he flopped sideways on to the bunk. His feelings for both men (could Bill be referred to by masculine terms?) warred because now, it seemed, that Stan had been absorbed by Bill, possessed by Bill. Now…now they were the same.

No, they weren’t. Stanley may be the embodiment of every negative quality that grated on Stanford’s nerves, but Stan was NOT that same as Bill. Never. Bill was a monster, and sure, his brother was sketchy on the best of days, but the man wore his golden heart on his sleeve and was a hopeless romantic. He was tender-hearted and kind, almost to a fault. And Stanford loved his brother. Wanted to be more like Stan, more open, trusting; his nameless feelings for Stan be damned. He could never be like Bill. Ever.

But that didn’t matter now. His feelings didn’t matter anymore, for Stan, or for Bill. And it didn't matter that Bill wore Stan's face, that had been clearly evident by his reaction earlier. It didn't matter that Bill acted so much like his brother in an attempt to break him. It didn't matter that looking at Bill brought more than just a little pain to his chest.

But it could. It could matter. Stanford could fight it. He could control his feelings and pretend nothing affected him, that Bill no longer had any effect on him. He could suppress this. He had to. He had to be strong in the face of adversity. He was just surprised at Bill's actions, he wasn't expecting it. He had his guard down, a mistake he wouldn't be risking again. Whether Bill was Stanford's captor or his prisoner, it didn't matter. They were here, for as long as it took to fix this, to save his brother, if it was even still possible. They were here until he could bring Stan back, or they were here forever. If Bill ever tried to leave, to get back to shore, Ford would sink the boat. He would mix a chemical explosive and blow it up. Kill them both. Maybe. Maybe then he would give in, when it didn't matter. In the last few moments. Maybe he would go to Bill and give himself to the monster, let himself be taken by the beast, let himself give in to this godforsaken need. But not yet. And maybe not ever. But if…

Stanford had to be ok with if.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan found himself standing on deck, leaning over the railing, and staring into the inky black water below. He'd really gone and done it this time, hadn't he? He just had to lose control of himself at the worst possible time. He wanted Sixer to trust him, to be his brother again, to see him as as something other than a monster. Instead, Stan thought he’d seen the thin wisp of arousal in Ford – had inanely thought that something would come out of it and that Ford would be receptive – and acted on it. And now Stanford was downstairs hating Stan-Bill and himself all the more.

It hurt to see Sixer like this. It hurt to know that Sixer still loved him, but loved the part of him that Stan hated. It hurt that he, as both Bill and Stan, loved Ford, but he couldn't act on anything without turning their already unhealthy relationship into an even more twisted impression of what it was supposed to be. He could feel Sixer’s agony, his desire. His memories. (God, he remembered that night with wicked clarity, feeling only approximate sensations while in Sixer’s mindscape.) Ford wanted to act on it. Wanted to fall into Stan’s embrace and throw caution and all sense to the wind. But only if Stan was Bill. Only if it was Bill that fanned the icy blue flames that threatened to consume him. Stan wasn't Bill. And if it was the last selfish thing he ever did, he never would be again. Even for Ford.

Stan had to block his mind off from Stanford's, think of something else, something stronger than the thoughts whirling in his brother's head. He tried to just let Stanford's thoughts drone on as background noise, white fuzz. But it wasn't always easy, he couldn't always drown out Sixer's fears. Or his desires.

That was how he’d ended up like this, wasn't it? Because he just couldn’t say no? He just had to be curious, just had to play with his new puppet and drown in it. He remembered the first time he’d become curious. IQ was so unusual compared to other humans, but even he was subject to life’s baser needs. What would the mind of someone like Stanford Pines be like when all defenses were lowered? What would feeling it, experiencing it first hand, be like? Sixer had let him. Stan pressed his forehead into the cold metal of the railing, the memory as clear as it was decades (or was it now months with the folded timeline) ago.

*~*

IQ had made the deal and had granted Bill permission to inhabit his mind and control his body. The first few moments, the first rush of adrenaline and he couldn’t help the gleeful delight that bubbled up inside Sixer’s body. He’d laughed. Sixer had laughed. It had been momentous and wonderful and horrible all at the same time. Sixer had given him full permissions. Not that he needed it (he’d planned on taking over IQ’s body whenever he needed to), but it was still nice to have. The truth was, physical form, the kind that organic life takes, was kinda awkward. He had inhabited a human body before, but never long enough to require taking care of its needs. Breathing was strange, the rush of air coming into this gaping hole in this body to fill two large and fleshy sacks, the exchange of gasses and then pushing the majority of the air back out again. It was horridly disgusting and inefficient and unnecessary. There were creatures in this dimension that could absorb the required gases from the air through their skin, why couldn’t humans do that? Blinking was fine, a bit strange that it was partly involuntary, but relatively normal. Digestion was creepy. In a good way, but still, the feeling of Sixer’s insides churning and moving and wriggling had him stop writing and just sit. The feeling was so unique and novel that he just sat there, wrapping Sixer’s arms around his gut and just…feeling this body function. He was tempted to try and cut himself open and start prodding at the stuff inside, but he didn’t have the same abilities he had in his own dimension while possessing something. And he liked IQ. He’d have a chance to play with his puppet when the portal was completed. Then, he could explore human functions all he wanted, with no limits. In the meantime, Bill had just experienced things through Ford. It was all so disgustingly exciting. The thrill of discovery of new feelings.

His foray into human waste processes was also disturbingly fascinating. He had nagged at Sixer to let him experience it. To, as soon as Ford had felt the urge to pass waste, let Bill take over and just learn how it felt. Human experiences, while simple enough to understand, were still fascinating because as a being of Flatland, human functions were something he couldn’t do, could never experience. So, he had begged, and Ford had finally relented and let Bill used the toilet.

He instantly regretted it. It felt so so wrong and uncomfortable and the smell was,…just, nope. Nope he was NEVER doing that again. Sixer had woken to find himself naked and wet, laying on his bed when Bill had given control back. Not having the necessary coordination to properly clean himself, Bill had decided to bathe Sixer (the man needed it if Bill’s new sense of smell told him anything) and clean up any and all of that nasty human waste. Ford had, embarrassingly, guessed what happened, and had laughed at him. Laughed!

But, despite the rather horrid experience, and the embarrassment, Bill still wanted to experience what humans were like. And so had spied on Sixer while he worked, catalogued his actions, his movements, his functions based on which ones intrigued him the most. Urination was out – too close to that other one – eating and drinking were on the table, but only if Bill got to choose what to try. Running was something Bill hadn’t gotten the hang of yet, walking was hard enough. Sitting and writing were easy, and sleeping was not something he could really do as the human body’s way of dealing with the mind while unconscious, forcefully ejected Bill. He really wanted to try falling, but he might have to wait until he got another willing puppet; falling tended to be fatal. Burning alive too, and drowning. He could try stabbing himself, but it would have to be something small, like a needle or a pen, so as not to harm Sixer too much, or to scare the man off. It was so much better having a willing puppet than a non-consenting one.

But the one thing he wanted to try and wrap his mind around, what the reason humans (males, anyway) yanked at that organ between their legs so often. Even his Sixer did it (though not often) so there must be something to it. He’s made up his mind to knock that off his list first. He didn’t have to wait too long, maybe a week or two.

He’d found his puppet sprawled out on the sofa, head cradled by the decorative pillows. Sixer’s clothes were split open down the middle; his coat and shirt unbuttoned and pushed to the sides, his tie loosened and draped over one shoulder. He could probably tug at the tie and cut off Sixer’s airflow, but the sounds his pet was making were making his insides wriggle again. Sixer’s pants were split too, and pushed down around his knees. The thing that passed waste water was bright red and swollen and Sixer’s six fingers were tightly wrapped around it, rubbing in mayonnaise, no wait, it smelled like flowers, so lotion. Unless mayonnaise smelled like flowers. No, it was definitely lotion, in this dimension at least. He sat down on the bunch of Sixer’s pants to really get a good look. He wasn��t really there, just a projection – one that took far too much energy which is why he used the representations of himself in the third dimension more often than not – but he still could move around and see things. In order to feel things though, he needed to possess something. He was content to just watch, for now.

Two of Sixer’s fingers were slipping in and out of his mouth, pressed together to make one. He was sucking on them, caressing the sides and tips of his fingers with his tongue, nipping delicately at the skin with his teeth. Sixer’s teeth were healthy, as far as human teeth went. He brushed and cleaned and flossed and gargled that weak antiseptic to keep his mouth clean and free of foreign bacteria. It was fascinating to watch the man who would frequently forget to shower and eat, spend so damn long making sure his mouth was devoid of any debris.

Sixer had a pathological fear of losing his teeth. The nightmare he’d had as a child had burned its image into Sixer’s psyche, so much so that Ford had developed a complex about his teeth. He had given IQ a dream where he’d gone through a completely normal and boring day, starting with drinking coffee, eating breakfast, reading an article on thermoplastic properties of a new joint implant, going to his lab, and performing absolutely dull and mind-numbing calculations, pausing for lunch and dinner, reading a self-indulgent bodice ripper novel while drinking tea before going to bed and taking out his dentures. Sixer’s scream was heard for a literal mile! Oh, that had been fun. Although the next day, Sixer had brushed and flossed his teeth until they bled and Bill had forcibly possessed his body to get him to stop.

With all the effort he put in, Sixer had perfect teeth. Canines a slight point, molars perfectly formed and cusps all in the right places. His bite was impeccable, perfectly even and practically reflected light when he smiled. Those teeth were now being used to bite and scrape along his fingers while he ran his hand over that organ most human males have. What was it called…a pancreas? Yeah, that was it. Sixer had a big one, too. He moved down off his perch to sit in the divot of Sixer’s hip. Sixer should really get out in the sun more, he was super pale. Red was a better look on him; like his cheeks. Sixer’s cheeks were beautifully red like fire, and the color was creeping up to his ears

Sixer didn’t do this often. He had watched enough humans to know that they did things like this a lot, way more than was necessary. It was bizarre; their bodies didn’t require them to do this, not like breathing and digesting, but humans seemed to engage in this kind of activity as though it kept them alive. Some even resorted to violence to get it; which was absolutely ridiculous, but there you have it. Humans were ridiculous, and bizarre and unnecessary. But his Sixer didn’t seem to have the same problems as other humans. His Sixer didn’t engage in this activity like other humans did, and certainly he didn’t seek out other humans to engage with. It was…intriguing. If even his pet was bound to this practice, then what was it like? What drew humans to do this so frequently as to develop whole parts of their culture around it? He was pulled out of his musings by the startled sounds coming from his puppet.

Sixer gasped, gripping his teeth together and following the motion of his hand with a jerk of his hips. The two fingers he had been sucking on now danced across his chest and started pinching at those vestigial nubs. Ford let out a particularly vocal sigh as his back arched and he followed through with a hip roll. It was enough for Bill, he wanted to see what was so great about prodding at oneself, and now was the perfect opportunity.

Bill entered Sixer’s mind, not possessing his body, just lingering on the edges of his consciousness, just present enough that if Ford stopped to pay any attention, he would notice. But it was unlikely that old Fordsy was going to notice anything right now. Not with the burly boxer hogging all his attention. Oh, Bill knew who it was, even if Sixer didn’t. Even if the face was blurry and the body was a bit slimmer than reality, and Sixer refused to call out a name. In Sixer's mind, The Boxer, (because that's what old Fordsy had taken to calling him) was over top of him, braced with one hand on the couch cushions and the other wrapped around Ford's pancreas. Was that right? Bill was sure before, but now it sounded wrong. Either way, The Boxer had taken one of Ford's chest lesions into his mouth and was licking it, mimicking Ford's actions in the physical world. In his mind, Ford had pulled their hips together by snaking one six fingered hand down The Boxer's shorts. Ford rolled his hips again and Bill heard The Boxer chuckle, voice like gravel and strangely muffled. Man, Sixer was really repressed, wasn't he? Bill could feel the lingering sense of intangible wrongness dance in the void around them, even as he continued to imagine tasting Pitt Cola on the man's lips. The lingering doubt was causing Ford to lose focus; The Boxer was flickering in and out and Ford's movements slowed.

Maybe he should gain IQ’s attention? He eased his way slowly into Ford's consciousness, sitting atop the faceless man's head and staring Ford dead in the eye. Or, would be, if Sixer would open those baby blues of his. The image was still flickering as Stanford again questioned why this fantasy felt so wrong. Bill sprawled out on The Boxer's brown hair and reached out a hand beeped Sixer's nose. Stanford's blue eyes snapped open, vision clearing for just a moment as the features of illusionary man above him came into focus. Bill couldn’t have that. He yanked on Sixer’s hair, bringing the human’s attention back to him, and blurring The Boxer’s face once again.

“Bill…?” The whisper boomed in the ether. With no eyebrow to speak of, Bill quirked his eyelid and gave Sixer an obvious apprising look before meeting the human’s gaze again. “Hey there, Smart Guy. Mind if I watch?” Though he posed it as a question, Bill made it very clear he was not asking permission as he made himself comfortable in the chocolate brown fluff on The Boxer’s head.

However, his perch flickered and vanished a moment later, sending him down to bounce on Sixer’s exposed torso, sitting between his…pectorals? – he really needed to brush up on his human anatomy, or humans in this dimension anyway – with his legs sprawled. He felt a vibration pass through him as Sixer chuckled.

“Still curious? I can give you a proper run down of all the biochemical reactions that are happening if you want.” Sixer had let go of himself, hands coming up to scoop up the tiny triangle and lift him back to a floating position above his left shoulder. Bill, with an indignant huff, squirmed out of Sixer’s grasp and plopped back down on on the bunch of Ford’s trousers.

“I’ll watch from here.”

“Uhhh, sure. Well, um, right now my body is reacting to mental stimulus and my parasympathetic nervous system is increasing my heart rate to increase blood flow to, erm…my…groin area, and the nerve endings are sending signals back to my brain to increase signal conduits in the area. It also is sending feedback on external stimulus, namely my hand, and the result is the release of nitric oxide into the blood stream around….the, uh…penis.” Yeah, yeah, he knew all that alre…wait, penis?

“I thought it was called a pancreas.” Wasn’t it?

“Umm, no,” Stanford seemed confused that Bill could get that wrong, “that’s the organ that sits below the liver and produces both digestive and cellular metabolism hormones.”

“Oh. Well how was I supposed to know what you humans call your parts. I don’t have any of that.” And possessing humans to get what he wanted didn’t count.

“Hence the lesson. Now where was I…oh, right, nitric oxide in the blood stream causes the spongy tissue…”

Bill tuned him out. He really did know all of this already. Theoretically, anyway. So, he was confused as to what organs belonged to which names; there were an infinite number of universes out there with an infinite number of organ combinations. He couldn’t keep track of everything. Sixer had trailed off in his scientific explanation, instead opting for biting back gasps as he picked up where he’d originally left off.

He could hell that Sixer was trying his best not to bring any fantasies to mind; smacking them away as quickly as they came into focus. It was adorable how much Sixer was trying to be scientific about this for him. But that wasn't why he was here. He knew what happened chemically, hormonally, and physically. He was here to try and experience what it felt like, why humans engaged in this activity so often as to prevent real scientific advancement. Why humans had purposefully stalled in the advancement of civilization because they couldn’t last a few days without finding a mate or spending an hour or four touching their bodies. Why Sixer was, dolefully, no exception. Did he expect Sixer to be an exception? No, not really, but he couldn’t deny that he had hoped. He held Stanford in high regards; no other puppet had been as intelligent, had kept his attention, had been as fun to be with as Stanford Pines. So, what did Sixer get out of this?

“And….ahhh, as the process continues, the heart rate and blood p-pressure continue to-to rise…and…”

“Hey, IQ. Why don’t you cut it with the commentary? I think some firsthand experience would work better.”

“Huh?” It was clear that Stanford had been reciting the process out of a memorized textbook and had not actually been focused on a proper explanation. “Oh, um, sure. Just…ahhhhhh, just take over when you think you want to. I’ll…ohhhhhhh….” But he didn’t finish, instead letting out a long sigh and rolling his hips, flinging Bill into the air. Stanford was close to the big finish Bill had seen in so many humans before. Now was the time.

In the final few moments before Stanford’s body arched, and his abdominal muscles tightened sending wave after wave of euphoria through his body and protein rich enzymes to coat his navel, Bill took control of Sixer’s body to ride out the orgasm. His control hadn’t lasted long, Sixer’s body passed out shortly after it begin to relax, ejecting Bill from the mind and back into the room as an astral projection. Even without a physical form, he still felt tingly, and light, and just overall like he imagined what coming through the portal would feel like. Okay, so maybe there was something to this mating thing after all.

It was less than a month later that they had their, ‘encounter’ in the mindscape, and Bill put his knowledge to good use. Stanford had been ecstatic.

*~*

Stan groaned in misery when he felt the heat in his jeans. Damnit. Well, guess pills aren’t gonna be a problem anytime soon. He did his best to adjust the position of his traitorous erection when he caught a whiff of tension wafting off of Ford and snaking like a genital caress into his mind. He slammed that window closed and kept his hands gripped to the very cold, very real, and very grounding metal railing until it hurt.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be like this. He could almost forgive his desire for Sixer as Bill - Sixer was his obsession and was so unique and fascinating, the one being who outsmarted him - but his human desires, while Sixer was his own flesh and blood? He couldn't forgive that. No one could. He couldn't tell you when it started, when he began to think of Stanford as something more than a brother. He does know that it went from hypothetical thoughts and fading dreams to continuous and agenizing need that plagued his every moment with thoughts so vivid and loud he was sure that Stanford would know he was obsessing over that fucking kiss.

What had Sixer been thinking? What had he been thinking? Sure, Sixer had offered, but Stan had said yes. Stan hadn't stopped it. Had been so God Damn ready to keep going when Ma had caught them. They had both been thinking about that couple they saw on the beach and trying to parse out what it might mean for them, but Stan couldn't let it go. And then Sixer had been so accommodating, so damned supportive, wanting to help Stan experience something in a safe place. Stan had lost himself that night. Lost every chance he may have had to get over his brother, lost himself in shame and guilt that swallowed him like quicksand. And he suffocated in it. Sixer had once called Stan suffocating; if he was, then Sixer was cutting off Stan’s air with twelve beautiful fingers. Because Stan’s feelings for Ford were crushing his throat, his chest, with their weight, with their revolting and biting claws like needles.

No, that wasn't true. Not exactly. Yes, Stan’s feelings were suffocating, but he had never really felt revulsion at them. Stan wanted to be repulsed by them, because maybe then there might be some hope of salvation. There might be some dignity, some humanity left clicking away in his ancient ticker. That maybe he was really human now, and finally deserving of redemption for everything he had done in a past life. But he didn’t. He wasn’t. He used to be. Back when he had been just a teen and had no fucking clue how the world actually worked and he’d been so scared of losing his best friend. He used to care, used to feel shame. But thirty years of living with these feelings, thirty years of loving someone – then to realize it’s been a hell of a lot longer – the bite of shame fades until even the dull ache is hardly noticeable. After thirty years of living in his brother’s house, reading his brother’s notes, and clinging to that last shred of hope that he might get his brother back from that hell, shame just hadn’t been a top priority. He’d put his qualms and apprehensions on the proverbial back burner, and the flames had just died with time.

It was only now that Stan knew that Stanford had his own misgivings about him. Bill had seen into Sixer's dreams, his twisted desires, those hidden from his conscious mind. Ford had…been possessive of Stan. Had fought with himself over how much he wanted to play into Stan’s loyalty. Not consciously, no, Sixer was sharp as a Carbon-18 Obsidian blade form Caladon 4, but the man was dumb as a post when it came to some simple observations. Sixer had wanted him. Wanted Stan, but was so immersed in the culture in the early 60’s that he hadn’t even recognized it. Instead, he had tried to escape Glass Shard, and thought Stan hadn’t known it at the time, had probably saved them both. Stan had been such a bad influence on his brother, always egging him on, encouraging them to get into trouble. It was no wonder that Stan’s feelings had, in a way, rubbed off on Sixer. He just didn't know how much it had bothered his brother until now. How much Sixer had been frightened by his indeterminant feelings. How much he ended up hating himself over it when he pushed Stan away.

They grew more and more distant after the night Ma caught them. Spending less time together, working less on the Stan 'O War, spending more time away from home, away from their room, away from Stan. When the science fair was announced and the seniors were asked to submit project ideas at the beginning of the year, Ford had thrown himself into it. Working endlessly in the library, the school shop and digging through discarded electrical components that Pops had decided were too far gone to even sell as salvage. Ford didn't even ask Stan to help welding the perpetual motion machine together even though Ford sucked at welding and machining was that only class Stan was passing. Stan should have known then that something was wrong, but he was too wrapped up in his own guilt and trying to squash his own feelings to see that his brother was pulling away from him.

Stanford's decision to distance himself from Stan had probably been the smartest thing he had ever done. Because Stan knows himself. Hates, detests, and loathes himself, every part of himself. But he does know himself. And he knows that he wouldn't be able to let Sixer go. Even if he wanted to try. Stan was weak, no sense of self control. He would have kept Stanford from the moment Sixer let him. Brother, or puppet, it didn't matter when, Stan and Bill would have kept Stanford for himself, forever. He was selfish, no amount of time or life changed that. He was selfish and had no self-discipline.

It took everything he had to sit himself down every night for thirty years and learn physics and mathematics to fix the portal. To learn how it worked. To build and program that damn bio-scanner. He's still not sure how he did that one; a whirlwind of freaky gnome herb inspired madness and he woke up with the plans and codes scribbled out on sheets of paper, cardboard, whatever he had handy. A few times while inputting the damn program code, he even had flashes of memories writing it. He once thought that he had been given help from some divine being, later thought to have been the same one that contacted his brother. The thought was so horribly laughable now.

It was so trippy, being segmented like this. Being, in a way, two people in one. There weren't two minds in his head, not two personalities, but the different set of memories that until recently had been separated, were clashing. Bill knew things about Stan and Sixer that Stan didn't, and having two different perspectives of the same events make his eyes twitch and he felt his eyes shift again. He'd given up trying to stop it from happening. There wasn't much of a point anymore; it used to bother Sixer, but like all things weird and anomalous, Stanford had just grown used to it.

Sixer had even stopped having nightmares. His subconscious mind was calm, his sleep uninterrupted. Stan had stopped meddling in Sixer’s dreams weeks ago. His brother slept soundly, still fell asleep watching Stan across the room. Stan still woke every morning looking into his brother’s eyes. Despite whatever happened during the day, the twilight hours before sleep and just after waking were calm, almost intimate between them. Stanford was almost like a different person then, treated Stan like Stan was different. Stan had woken one morning to Ford brushing the hair out of his eyes, Ford’s six fingers trailing over his brow and down his cheek. His fingertips felt electric on Stan’s skin. They had laid there, just watching one another until Stan had been overcome with the urge to pee and had gotten up, breaking the spell, and ruining the moment. Ford was in the main cabin when Stan was done. These quite moments between them, it was almost as if Ford still loved him. But Sixer didn't see Stan when he looked at him. No. Sixer saw Bill.

And Sixer loved him. Had loved Bill, still did. But Stan wasn't Bill anymore. He wasn't sure if he could be again, but even so, he didn't want to be. He didn't want to be that monster again. Remembering all the atrocities he committed, all the lives he had taken just because he was bored, it was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart.

Yes, Ford had wanted Stan, once upon a time. But he hadn’t recognized it for what it was, and instead had attributed it to feelings of possession and control, and had let the guilt and shame wash over him and then repressed it. Buried it in his subconscious waiting for Bill to find it. And as repressed as Ford was, part of him still thought about his brother and the possibility of what would have happened that night if they hadn’t been interrupted. A small part of him wanted Stan. But Sixer, despite everything, wanted Bill more. Stan wanted to be what his brother wanted, was willing to change if only Ford would love him, romantically, platonically, he didn't care. But this, becoming that beast again just to please his brother…he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. No force in heaven or Earth could make him be that monster again. Not even Stanford. Not even…

Stan was weak and selfish and undisciplined. He would break, it was only a matter of time.

But now was not the time to be worried about this. He had something special planned for Christmas for the twins and Poindexter. He had been practicing for days now, if he could pull this off, well, he hoped that maybe it would be enough to convince the kids that he was still himself. That he still loved them. That he still loved all of them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night so as not to bother them on Christmas Eve. He should probably get some sleep if he could. Tomorrow night was going to wipe him out, but it was all going to be worth it.

Chapter 1

#whole again #Stanley Pines #stancest #stanowar #stanford pines #billford #bill cipher #stanisbill #billisstan #sea grunks

5 notes · View notes

raspberrytummytickles · 6 years

Note

Sam + Bellybutton

Sam’s BELLYBUTTON OMGGGGGG

Sammy + Bellybutton

- His belly button is so ticklish oml

- His belly in general is his worst spot his his navel is so bad

- Dean, when he was younger, always swirled his finger in baby Sammy’s belly button

- like he’d be bored watching tv and just tickle his baby brother’s belly button, not looking at the giggling child but you could tell he was having fun

- as Sam grew up he didn’t get as many belly button tickles

- a few swift pokes and that’s it

- but after a fight with dad or depressed about moving or even fighting with Dean, his big brother would come over and blow raspberries on that little spot till Sam was happy again

- Sam ALWAYS blushes when getting his belly button tickles just because of how much he adores it

- Hes so giggly and squirmy and loves how ticklish it is

- He likes enticing Dean into tickling him there

- as He grew up and came to Stanford, besides his thighs, his tummy was another one of Jess’ go to spots

- he’d grab at the headboard and arch while her long nails tickled down his sides and scratched the rim of his navel before digging in

- she loved how happy she could make him

- DEANS SCRUFF KILLS SAM OKAY

- Especially in this spot

- even Dean breathing on him, makes Sam squeak and wither because he knows what’s gonna come

- Dean would highly recommend tickling same here and so do I lol

TICKLISH SAMMY IS BAE

#Sam tickle headcannons #Sam headcannons #ticklish!Sam #Sam + belly button

19 notes · View notes

wincestmelange · 7 years

Text

This sprung from me thinking about all Dean’s charms/jewelry in season 1 and about Sam in the pilot (”Not normal. Safe.”) and became quite long and the usual pre-Stanford sad. It’s mostly brother feels and Sam disagreeing with John.

It starts with the amulet.

(It starts in Sioux Falls, when Sam asks Bobby for help making Dad something for Christmas — Sam was thinking he could carve a whistle, so the next time they went camping and Dad lost them in the woods they could just call — and Bobby gives him the glowering little necklace charm and a leather cord, says it’ll help keep John safe. Safe from what? Sam wonders, looks around and sees the world grow darker and more menacing, danger in every waitress’s long fingernails or each gas station attendant’s friendly smile. A few weeks later Dad leaves the journal behind; and then Sam finally knows.)

He watches Dean put the amulet on and thinks, safe, breathes the word in and holds it in chest. He wants to hug Dean, then, throw himself into his big brother’s arms and hang on, but Dean is nearly fourteen and Sam is nine and hugs are for babies or for the times Dad comes home bloody with beer on his breath and squeezes Sam so tightly he thinks his ribs will crack. (It’s another three years before Sam realizes Dad would never have used the whistle, not when he’d intended all along to leave his boys in the woods and track them silently to see what they’d learned.)

Of course, Dad comes back and finds out that Sam knows, yells at Dean for telling him and yells at Sam for snooping in things that don’t belong to him. (Dad used to bring him along to victims’ houses, before Sam knew what that meant, taught him to check out medicine cabinets and rifle through women’s purses for clues. Last year, Sam caught Dean picking pockets and made him teach Sam how it’s done. Snooping, Sam thinks, is just the Winchester way.) But Dad also seems to decide that knowing means Sam is old enough to be left on his own, a loaf of bread and money for groceries and the bus on the table, Pastor Jim’s number taped to the phone and a bag of rock salt by the door.

Dean doesn’t look too happy about leaving Sam alone for the monsters, but Dad grips Dean’s shoulder and says, “C’mon son, time you carried your weight like a man,” and Dean’s whole face lights up brighter than Christmas, barely stays long enough to ruffle Sam’s hair and tell him to be good before he’s racing out the door. Dad thinks Dean’s a man, now, and he must think something good about Sam, because he never realizes that the first few times they’re gone Sam shoves all the bedspreads and spare towels under the beds so nothing else can fit underneath, leaves the light on in the closet and spends the night in the bathtub surrounded by salt, holy water in one hand and .45 between his bony knees.

Dean calls to check in, just like Dad used to check in on them both, (gonna be a few more days, boys, you call Pastor Jim if there’s any trouble,) and Sam bangs his elbow when the phone ringing startles him awake. It’s a good thing he’d dropped the gun when he fell asleep, or the neighbors might have called the police.

“Everything’s fine,” Dean says, voice breaking because he’s fourteen and thinks he can talk like Dad, sounds like one of Uncle Bobby’s faulty engines instead. “We’ll be home tomorrow.”

Sam has the salt cleaned out of the bathroom by the time they come home, the beds neatly made and the closet door closed, and none of that matters because Dean comes back with a blue cast from above his elbow all the way down his left arm.

“You should’ve seen it!” Dean tells him, grinning, a bruise on his chin. “Thing must’ve thrown me twenty feet across the room before I shot it in the head.” Sam laughs, because Dean wants him to, offers to make Dean a Superman cape for the next hunt, but he can’t take his eyes off Dean’s pale fingers poking out of the cast.

The amulet was supposed to keep Dean safe. Dad was supposed to keep Dean safe. Clearly it’s not enough.

He gets the prayer beads from a young imam outside the Twin Cities who was having trouble with a Black Dog outside the mosque. The beads look simple — dark, uneven wood, something one of those hippies would sell outside college libraries; Sam’s seen plenty of them when they go to local universities for books or to talk to professors about lore — but the imam says they’re rumored to be carved from a tree growing by the Prophet’s well, that they were carried by Nureddin during the Crusades. Sam’s not sure why Mr. Choudry gave the prayer beads to him — he’s pretty sure the Winchesters aren’t Muslim, though once he asked if they were Episcopalian and Dad laughed until there were tears in his eyes, so Sam supposes they aren’t much of anything — but he cradles them carefully in both hands, says thank you and sort of bows because he’s never met an imam before. Mr. Choudry laughs, ruffles his hair just like Dad and Dean do, and tells Sam that’s he’s under the protection of Allah.

Sam finds books about Islam at the next library, and adds a few new prayers to the ones Pastor Jim taught him to say before bed. He gives Dean the prayer beads as soon as they cut the cast off, feels better as soon as they’re wrapped around Dean’s weak wrist.

The rosary is from Pastor Jim, because there’s no point in working a case in Minnesota unless they drive down through Blue Earth, and Dad likes parking them there for a few months if it’s during the school year. They stay awhile: Dean hates it because it’s only a few hours from Sioux Falls, so Dad works cases with Jim or Bobby and leaves them both behind, but Dad tells Dean he needs to work his wrist, so they take advantage of the woods behind Jim’s church, practice their shooting and knife throwing and climb the tallest trees because you never know when you might need to get away from a monster on the ground.

Dean wraps the rosary three times around his other wrist and wears it as a bracelet, because, as he tells Sam, he’s not wearing a bunch of necklaces like a girl. But he never takes off the amulet, and Sam can look at Dean and catalogue: both wrists and the amulet around his neck. Protected. Safe.

Then Dean stumbles into a hunt. He’s been sneaking off to see this girl, Martha, who works at the bowling alley — Sam’s never gone bowling so many times in his life — and Martha’s boss’s bratty kid winds up dead.

It’s a kappa. Sam figures it out, after Dean breaks them into the morgue to see the body (their first case, Jim off with Dad and no grown-ups around to tell them they’re too young). Eating disobedient kids. Dean tells him that he better watch out, then, because the kappa will be coming for him next.

A kappa loses its powers if you can tip them over and splash the water out of the cavity on the top of their head. That’s what all Jim’s books say. They don’t say how hard it is to get close to a kappa, and that once you do, it’s got a beak like a snapping turtle and it moves six times as fast. It goes for Sam’s stomach, and Dean leaps forward, shoves him out of the way.

They kill the kappa. Dean says they need to salt and burn it, and Sam says fuck, Dean, that can wait, because he’s got both hands pressed down on the blood pumping out of Dean’s mangled leg.

Dean tells him he shouldn’t curse, because he’s only ten. Sam tells Dean that he can curse all he wants because Dean’s fucking heavy and he’s the one dragging his big brother out of the woods. He tells the nurse his brother was attacked by a snapping turtle, and Dean refuses to speak to him for two days.

Dad yells at them for not calling him or Bobby, yells at Dean for taking his little brother on a hunt and yells at Sam for letting Dean take him, but when he finishes yelling he tells them, “Good work, boys,” and that’s really what all the yelling meant.

Sam refuses to leave the hospital until Dean is released, because he might have protected Dean’s wrists and neck, but it’s clear now that this wasn’t enough to keep Dean safe.

Dean refuses to wear an “ankle bracelet,” even when it’s a meticulously crafted brocade omamori that Sam got from a Shinto priest. He also refuses to let Sam henna protective symbols up his legs. Sam tries drawing them in marker when Dean’s asleep, because Dean sleeps in his boxers and wrestles his sheets off the bed, but Dean’s incredibly ticklish and Sam gives up after the tenth try when Dean kicks him hard in the groin.

Sam meets Sully, but Sully’s suggestion is just to feed Dean marshmallow fluff and bring him to the carnival, and while that sounds fun, it doesn’t sound anymore like Dean than an ankle bracelet made of embroidered silk.

Sully doesn’t get it, really. Sully thinks Sam is awesome fantastic the greatest, which is nice because Dad thinks Sam’s “not pushing himself” when it comes to sprints or wrestling or shooting out the head of needle from fifty yards away, and Dean thinks Sam is “a little twerp, c’mon Sammy, I told you not to bug me when I’m trying to get Carrie’s digits.” But Sully doesn’t realize that Sam knows about awesome fantastic stuff like fluff nachos and BBQ mac and cheese because Dean makes them. Sully thinks that Sam is the best Winchester, and Sully doesn’t see that he’s wrong.

Still, Sam laughs for a long time at the idea that he soak glitter in holy water and then dump it all over Dean’s head. With the amount of gel Dean’s started using in his hair, the glitter would be there for weeks.

Sully goes away when Dean finally wears Dad down and Sam’s allowed to go on hunts (you stay in the car, Sammy, you hear me? You stay in the goddamned car). Sam misses him, sometimes, on the days where Dean’s off with a girl — fifteen now and Dad lets him drive the Impala into town, printed Dean a license that says he’s eighteen — and Dad’s squinting, tight around the eyes and looking like he could be their grandfather, when he makes Sam do all the drills twice and keeps saying Sam’s life depends on being better than he is.

It’s good, though. The more hunts Dad lets Sam help with, the more information Sam has on what they need protection from. He starts his own journal, the front half for monsters and the back half for runes and charms and myriad suggestions for keeping safe. Some of them are obviously bogus (walk three times clockwise around your bed to cure restless sleep), and some of them Sam tries (keep a sprig of lavender under your pillow, then tuck into your pocket the next day) and discards, because smelling like lavender doesn’t stop Billy McMarney from dunking Sam’s head in the toilet. (The lavender doesn’t, but Dean does, when he walks over to get Sam from school — and it’s sixth grade, Sam doesn’t need Dean to pick him up like he’s five — and some other kid tells him what went down. Billy McMarney misses a week of school, and he never comes near Sam again.)

They go back to Bobby’s, eventually, and Bobby tries to get him and Dean interested in playing football at the park before he gives up and leaves Sam rummaging through his library and goes to supervise Dean in the garage.

Sam steals Dean’s boots, that night, takes the Sharpie and inks protective runes on the soles and the tongues and even on the inside where it smells. He relaces them so that there’s a protective binding in the knots, and then goes downstairs to do the same to Dad’s.

Dad notices, of course, bellows at Sam for tying knots in his shoelaces before Bobby figures it out and tells Dad it’s kind of clever, and it certainly can’t hurt. “Knots don’t keep you safe,” John says, untying them over Sam’s strangled protests. “Your knife keeps you safe. Rock salt in a ghost’s face keeps you safe. Learning to use your gun to protect your brother the way he protects you, Sammy. That’s what keeps you safe.”

Sam is trying to protect Dean. Why else would he stay up half the night with his hand buried in Dean’s stinky shoes?

Dean leaves his knots in, rolls his eyes at Sam when he sees the marker all over the sides, but shrugs and tells Sam “it looks kinda cool.” He puts them on that morning and Sam thinks: neck, wrists, feet.

Next summer Dad takes Dean on a werewolf hunt, and its claws rake Dean shoulder to hip.

Sam starts looking for armor to wrap around his brother’s vulnerable chest, same as he buckles down with a bag of mandarins and a needle to practice so he can stitch his brother closed.

Dean loses the rosary when Sam’s sixteen, fighting ghouls in a swamp in Missouri. It saved his hand, he tells Sam, during the squelching, disgusting trudge back to the car, when the ghoul’s grip slipped and hit the rosary, made him mad, man, but also made him flinch away. Dad’s on another hunt, somewhere up north, but that’s fine because Sam’s sixteen and Dean’s twenty-one and recently hunts have been better when Dad’s not around.

Of course, Dad’s started taking Dean on more hunts and leaving Sam “to do his best in school,” because Sam has a feeling Dad thinks hunts are better when Sam’s not around.

Sam’s just trying to keep them safe. That’s all. Dad wants to bust down doors and piss spirits off so that they’ll come out to play, and Dean wants to do whatever Dad is doing only three times as loud, and Sam’s just trying to keep everybody safe. What’s another day or two at the library, what’s a few extra pounds of charms in their pockets, if it means that Sam doesn’t have to stitch anybody up at the end?

Dean rejects the new rosary — Sam didn’t have a lot of money, and this one is white and cheap plastic, and all right, Sam wouldn’t wear it to school but Dean’s already dropped out and it’s not like Dean’s girls are looking at his wrist — but when Sam tells him the local Orthodox priest told him there was a sacred ring that water sprites had stolen twenty years before, Dean is thrilled.

“I’ll be like Bilbo Baggins!” he declares, sharpening his silver knife. “Or King Arthur! Water sprites live in lakes, right? It’s gonna be like finding Excalibur, only cooler.”

If by cooler, Dean meant freezing cold and dragged across a lake bed of painfully sharp rocks, then yes, it’s much cooler. He gets the ring, though, and Sam only gets a mild concussion, so all in all it’s a pretty successful hunt.

They sit shivering on the shore to bask in their triumph and watch the sun rise, and Dean slips the ring onto each finger before fitting it onto his thumb. He doesn’t offer it to Sam; and he’s not supposed to, Sam doesn’t want it, the whole point of this hunt was to find the ring and protect Dean, but… It still twinges a little, digs into that old bruise that never quite fades, the one where Sam is too slow and not trying and not good enough and not doing things the right way.

It’s dark and Sam swallows the feeling down quick so it doesn’t show up on his face, but Dean’s got some sort of supernatural powers when it comes to Sam.

“Hey.” He grabs Sam roughly around the shoulders, both of them soaked through from their coats to their boots, and tips him over so that Sam lands clumsily against Dean’s chest. “You don’t need any of this shit,” Dean says, wiggles his hand with the ring, the wrist where the rosary used to be and where Dean grudgingly allowed Sam to paint protective sigils on the hairless underside of his forearm, faded where the water sprites had curled weeds around them to drag them away.

“I don’t?” Sam replies, surprised, because he already feels safer with Dean’s prayer beads digging into his back, his cheek pressed against Dean’s amulet and his big brother’s steady heartbeat in his ear.

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, pushes his chin into Sam’s hair and presses down until Sam yelps and tries to get away. “You’ve got me.”

“Great,” Sam says, deadpan, wonders if Dean can sense him rolling his eyes. “I’ve got a brother who smells like lake water and is covered in mud, and, oh, nearly died before we even got here because he tripped over a log.”

Dean gives him a proper noogie, then, and Sam elbows him in his unprotected ribs. “It was a really big log,” he protests, and his ring glints in the first rays of sunlight, and Sam laughs.

“That’s what she said,” he retorts. They continue the dirty jokes and the wrestling as they pull each other to their feet and stumble safely all the way to the road.

“Are you sure it’s not what killed Mom?” Sam hears Dean ask as he and Dad tromp through the door. Sam recognizes the Impala’s engine, and so by the time they get inside he’s sitting at the table doing his Physics homework instead of lining the closet with salt and standing inside, the door pulled closed and the safety off his gun. “It had yellow eyes.”

“It’s not,” Dad says firmly, but he’s got that look in his eyes, the one that he gets when he says that what’s left in the tank will get them all the way to town, or silver will definitely kill any monster even if they’re not sure what it is, or that no one will notice if Sam wears the same goddamned shirt to school three times in a row, we’ll do laundry soon, why’d you waste the quarters on soda?

And Sam realizes that Dad doesn’t know if that’s what killed Mom or not. He’s not sure, and if this isn’t it and the next monster isn’t it then maybe nothing will ever be it, and this is never ever going to end.

Sam’s not as surprised as he’d like to be. After all, he’d told Sully that this was what it meant to be a Winchester — it means fighting monsters. It means being a hero, like Dean always says they are, toasts the hunt and lets Sam have his own can of beer.

But Dad always treats it like they’re stopping, soon. Soon. As soon as we find this bastard, Sammy, I’m telling you, we’ll settle down somewhere and send you to one of those fancy preparatory schools where all the kids wear suits and ties, and Dean and I will buy a garage, Winchesters’ Repairs. Of course, by then Dad’s usually talking to his good friend Jose, and barely notices Sam’s there.

They’re not stopping, though. Dad’s back from this last hunt with a tourniquet around his thigh and Dean’s got the brace on his knee which means he’s twisted it again, and how is Sam supposed to save ligaments wrenched the wrong way too many times to count? They’re not stopping, and it’s obviously up to Sam to keep them safe.

It’s not really Sam’s idea. It’s actually Dad’s idea, though Dad might kill Sam if Sam says that out loud, looks kind of like he wants to kill Sam anyway, for holding out the acceptance letter with Stanford in bold print across the top.

Dad’s the one who keeps saying, “you’re a natural with all these books, Sammy,” “when this is all done, kiddo, I’ll hustle us up enough money to send you to Harvard Law.” He always says Harvard Law, and Sam’s not sure if it’s because he thinks his youngest son is smart or because he’s tired of hearing Sam’s smart mouth when they fight.

They fight all the time, now, Sam taller than his dad but thinner around than one of Dad’s clenched fists, Dad shouting that he’s been hunting since Sam was in fucking diapers and Sam shouting that that doesn’t mean he’s doing a good job, and Dean either between them with a wan, mediating smile, or out the door at the first raised voice and spending his evening more enjoyably at the nearest bar.

“I’ve got a full ride,” Sam says, because maybe it will cheer Dad up, hearing that he won’t have to hustle pool to help pay Sam’s fees. Maybe Dad would be happier if he realized what Sam and Dean already know — that there’s no after the last hunt, for Dad, who’s searching every monster in the U.S. for the ghost of Mom’s face. “If you wanted, we could look for a place nearby. See if there’s a garage hiring. California has earthquakes and fires, Dad, there’s got to plenty of pissed off ghosts.”

Sam never really expected his dad to take him up on that suggestion, never mind that it’s exactly what he always says they’re going to do. Dad’s never wanted to be safe.

But Sam does. Sam wants to be safe. In the last year he’s broken four fingers and two ribs, gone to the hospital when a poisoned fang sank in half an inch from his femoral artery and again when a werewolf clawed his back to the bone. And none of that hurts as much as watching Dean thrown down stairs or against marble crypts, seeing him shout a werewolf away from Sam’s racing, tasty heart only to have his own insides ripped out instead. Sam can’t forge the chainmail that will protect every inch of Dean’s freckled, vulnerable skin. He can’t. He’s tried. For years he’s tried, and this is all that’s left.

“Come with me,” he begs, when Dad’s ultimatum leaves him standing with his hastily packed duffel on the sidewalk in front of their motel. He’s crying, but it’s raining, so he moves out from under the overhang and hopes Dean can’t separate raindrops from tears. “C’mon Dean. You promised to keep me safe.”

Dean shakes his head. Tightens his jaw and spins the ring around his thumb, jostles the prayer beads on his wrist. The amulet gleams in watery yellow glow of the parking lot lights. If Sam closes his eyes, he can still feel the imprint of it on his cheek, when Dean pulled him to his chest and held him close.

“You made your choice,” he tells Sam, making his own choice when he offers to drive Sam to the bus station instead of aiming the Impala at California and settling in for the ride.

Sam takes another bag out of the trunk, before he goes, his gun and his knives, rock salt and holy water and the cheap rosary Dean wouldn’t wear, a machete that hasn’t failed him yet and a bag of charms he meant to weave into a bracelet for Dean’s unprotected wrist. If he won’t have Dean standing between him and the monsters, Sam’s going to have to learn how to protect himself.

“Be safe,” he tells his big brother, once they’re in front of the station and soaked through by the tepid summer rain, lets Dean pull him down into a hug that makes Sam feel small and protected and loved. He tries to make his words a command, to infuse them with gravitas like everything their Dad says so that Dean can’t disobey, but they're warbled and finish with sniffles that Sam tries to hide in the fabric of Dean’s shirt.

“You too,” Dean murmurs, winding his fingers through Sam’s hair and pulling him closer before stepping back and pushing him away.

He gets back in the car and Sam stands in the rain and watches him go: amulet around his neck, prayer beads and ring, leather belt with Norse runes, new boots with knots down the laces and marker on the soles. Dean’s as safe as Sam could make him, though Sam knows it hasn’t ever been enough. And Sam’s safe, now. Sam’s saved himself from the one thing he couldn’t survive. This way, he won’t be there when it happens — he won’t have to watch his brother die.

#sort of but not exactly #brother feels #pre-stanford #ficlet #sam and dean #samulet #weechesters

168 notes · View notes