yeah. i ship it.

here there be dragons. BE WARNED: this blog may contain incest/underage/dubcon/noncon/the works. to everyone who's still here anyway: let's party. if you're looking for a sinful collection of words and phrases, check out my fic tag.

[ddeactoovated-blog]

“NOW I’VE DONE MY SHARE OF STRANGLING OVER THE CENTURIES,” Bill confides.  “BUT THIS’LL BE MY FIRST TIME DOING IT WITH SIX FINGERS.  GO EASY ON ME!”

- Player Three Has Entered the Game by @that-dirty-bastard​

[that-dirty-bastard]

this art pretty much tells you everything you need to know about the fic tbh

[that-dirty-bastard]

fic - “player three has entered the game”

word count: 29,976 tags:  bodyswap, violence, blood, torture, vomiting, rape, trauma, gore, aftermath

“...Ford?” Rick asks, his voice sounding uncharacteristically small in its uncertainty.

“SORRY, SLICK,” Bill grins. “FORD’S NOT AVAILABLE RIGHT NOW. THE NAME’S BILL. BILL CIPHER! AND WE’RE GONNA HAVE SOME FUN!”

when ford's ex-boyfriend rick sanchez stops by for an unexpected visit, bill sees an opportunity for leverage to open the portal.

OR: sock opera on bath salts

read it here on ao3

@who-knows-after-dark the ball is in your court

[ddeactoovated-blog]

ford is probably gonna regret buying those beeswax candles now

[that-dirty-bastard]

fic - “our beloved monster”

aka “that one vampire rick that hasn’t updated in forever”

well GUESS WHAT

it’s updated and now it’s alllllllllllll on AO3

Rick sits up fast, one hand clapped reflexively over his mouth, his eyes bugged wide with dawning comprehension. Morty watches as he gingerly feels around with his fingertips, prodding at the gums, running over the smooth edges of the incisors, and then tracing those elongated canines down to press the pads of his thumbs against the pointy ends. Then he turns to Morty with the biggest, stupidest grin on his face.

“Ho-hoooooly shit, Morty, check it out! I’m Vampire Riiiiiiick!”

an au where rick is turned into a vampire shortly after the events of ‘big trouble in little sanchez.'

Read it on AO3.

[thisismouseface-deactivated2020]

More house party stuff. They needed a break from all the guests or smth

[that-dirty-bastard]

fic - “hollow moon”

shout-out to @gnacat for giving me the nudge that I needed

our beloved monster: an au where rick is turned into a vampire shortly after the events of ‘big trouble in little sanchez’

part one : bad karma

part two : bad moon rising

part three : hollow moon

Summer’s subconscious must have sensed that she really needed a break, because right now she’s in the middle of the best Toby Matthews dream she’s ever had.  And really, that’s saying a lot, considering she once had a dream where Toby Matthews got taken, like in the movie Taken, and she was the one to rescue him, Liam-Neeson-from-Taken-style.  No, this is a new Toby Matthews dream, and one inspired by recent events— a dream in which he falls on his knees and begs her forgiveness for ever doubting her coolness, and as penance agrees to be her slave for an entire month.  

She’s just waking up to Toby Matthews bringing her breakfast in bed—

—and then she’s actually waking up in her pitch-black bedroom to someone shaking her by the shoulder.

“Summer.  Hey, Summer.  Wake up.”

It’s Morty’s voice.  Bleary and half-conscious, Summer forces her eyelids open and peers up at him, her voice thick with confusion.

“Morty?  Wha… what do you want?”

“It’s okay,” Morty says.  “Everything’s okay.”

For another second still she has no idea what he’s talking about.  Then he takes a step backwards, gestures towards the foot of the bed— and there’s Rick, standing there larger than life, his eyes shining in the dark like a pair of headlights.

And she remembers.

“Oh my God!”

Summer sits up so fast it gives her a head rush.  Flinging back the covers, she scrambles across the bed towards him, sitting up on her knees and throwing out her arms to give him a hug.  But there’s that inward twitch of Rick’s shoulders, that ew-no-don’t-hug-me-right-now twitch, so she hugs herself instead, sitting back on her heels to give him some space.  Rick’s kind of like a cat that way; you learn to read the body language or you get the claws.  

“Oh my God,” she repeats, at a loss.  “You’re here.  You’re really here.”

“Yyyyep,” Rick snaps the lapels of his lab coat.  “Grandpa’s back, baby.  Gonna take a lot more than some weak-ass Nosfe-retard to take me out.”

“See?”  Morty grins.  “I told you so.”

Summer stares at Rick.  When she blinks she sees him on the floor of the living room, deathly pale and deathly silent, the life literally drained out of him.  She blinks again and there he is at the foot of her bed, alive, alive.  There’s a hot rush of tears welling up inside her; she hugs herself tighter and hopes they won’t notice.  Of course, with Rick in the room, she’ll have no such luck.  He takes one look at her and recoils in surprise.

“Wait, are you are crying?”

She hastily scrubs away with the evidence with the heels of her hands.  “What?  No!”

“Yeesh, come on,” Rick rolls his eyes.  “I was gone for, like, a day.  Relax.”

“You weren’t just gone,” Summer mumbles.  “You were dead.  I thought—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”  Rick cuts her off, holding up both hands in protest.  “I was not dead, okay?  I was just, y’know— closed for renovations.  No big deal.”  He smirks at her.  “You, uh, you notice anything different?”

Summer doesn’t even think to check his mouth.  She’s too riveted by his eerie night-vision stare, his pupils huge and glowing in the dark, reflecting the light like a nocturnal animal.

“Your eyes,” she says, her voice instinctively hushed.

Rick gives an impatient scoff.  “What?  No.  Lame.”  Then he leans towards her, one finger hooked in the corner of his mouth to pull it back and display his teeth.  “Ch-check it ouuuut!”

And there they are— a pair of shiny new fangs, two startling intruders jammed right in the center of Rick’s familiar smile.  Summer feels her own eyes go wide and stupid with amazement, her hand automatically reaching towards his face without thinking.  Rick makes no effort to pull away from her this time.  In fact, he actually yawns his mouth open, encouraging her to stick her fingers inside and feel for herself.  That’s when Summer gets the uncanny sensation that she’s about to stick her hand into a bear trap.  She retracts at the last second, her fingers curled into a protective fist instead.

“Wow,” she says faintly.  “That’s… that’s really…”

Cool?  Weird?  Scary?  Even she doesn’t know how she’s going to finish that sentence.  Rick is watching her expectantly, but she has no idea what he wants her to say.  It’s times like these that make her jealous of her little brother in ways that she can never quite express.  Morty would know exactly what Rick wants to hear.  Right now, in this awful, uncomfortable moment, Summer feels just like her mother— like if she gives the wrong answer, Rick will sneer in disappointment and walk right out of her room, out of the house, out of her life.  

“Oh man,”  Morty interjects, swaying on his feet.  “I don’t— I don’t feel so good.”

And before Rick or Summer even have a chance to say anything, he topples forward and faceplants into the mattress between them.

“Morty!”  Summer yelps and grabs onto him; he’s on the very edge of passing out, sluggish and mumbling.

“It’s okay…”  he slurs, muffled by her comforter.  “I’m okay…”

“Grandpa Rick!”  Summer looks up in dismay.  “He is not okay!  What’s happening?”

“Eh, he’s fine,” Rick shrugs.  “Pro-o-obably shouldn’t have run up all those stairs right after giving blood, though.”

“Giving blood?”  Summer repeats, her voice taking on an incredulous edge.  “What do you mean, giving blood?”

Rick immediately throws up his hands in defensive outrage.  “Well, damn, Summer, wh-wh-what the hell was I supposed to do, go on a fucking Taco Bell run?”

Resisting the urge to panic, Summer hastily turns Morty’s head from one side to the other, checking his neck for puncture wounds.  Rick sees what she’s doing and crosses his arms peevishly, tilting towards a full-blown sulk.

“Really?  Bitemarks?  C’mon, gimme a little credit here, I patched him up when we were done.”  He leans down and takes Morty’s wrist, hoisting his limp arm up in the air and giving it a wag.  “Chemical cauterizer.  Good as new.”  He lets go so Morty’s hand falls and smacks him in the back of the head, drawing out a muffled “oof!”

“Wait, you bit his arm?” Summer frowns.  “Aren’t vampires supposed to bite people in the neck?”

Rick snorts.  “Yeah, well, your brother’s a little bitch.”

“Screw you, Rick,” Morty mumbles into the comforter.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Summer interrupts, cutting off the endless stream of jabs before it can start.  “Morty, we need to get you down to the kitchen, like, right now.”

Both Morty and Rick respond with the exact same “uhhh, why?” which is actually kind of adorable but also kind of triggers a flash of that inarticulate jealousy again.  Summer distracts herself by giving Morty a pat on the back.

“Um, hello, because you just gave blood?  Don’t you need to, I don’t know, have a snack or something?  Drink some orange juice?”

“Yeah,” Morty yawns.  “I guess.  I’m pretty tired.”

“Well, juice first, then bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

Summer gives Rick an expectant look.  He furrows his brow and snaps, “What?”  She gestures at Morty’s crumpled body.

“A little help, maybe?  He’s not gonna make it down the stairs.”

“I can do it!”  Morty insists.

He shoves himself up from the bed, stands on his own two feet for about two seconds, then wobbles and falls over backwards to the floor.  With a roll of his eyes, Rick scoops him up and carries him downstairs like he weighs nothing at all.  

Down in the kitchen, Summer grabs a glass from the cupboard and the orange juice from the fridge, then pours out a generous serving.  Meanwhile Rick hooks an ankle behind a chair leg and pulls it out so he can settle Morty down in the seat, even going so far as to push it back in again so Morty can rest his elbows on the table.  Summer brings the juice over and sets it down on the placemat in front of him.  Dazed, Morty draws the glass towards him and starts to sip from it, his eyes drowsy and half-lidded.  Poor kid’s gonna sleep till noon tomorrow.

Under the glare of the kitchen lights, Summer gets her first good look at the new Rick.  Funny, but he doesn’t actually look as different as she expected.  Up in her bedroom, shrouded in the dark, there was such an air of the unknown about him, like the weight of his presence had somehow increased.  Now, standing in the bright, cheerful kitchen, he looks more or less like his usual self.  Obviously his usual self isn’t usually covered in dried blood, but other than that, he’s just a little paler than normal, his features a tiny bit more drawn.  There’s definitely something sharp and predatory about the angles of his face; or maybe that’s just an overall side effect of the fangs in his mouth, the tips glinting like bayonet points every time he turns his head.  

“What?” he snaps at her again, and she realizes she’s staring at him.   

“Nothing,” she says, averting her gaze.

“L-lemme guess— the eyes. ”

“Nope,” she manages a nervous laugh.  “Definitely the teeth this time.”

Rick reflexively touches his mouth, his thumb tapping each canine in turn.  

“I gotta see this,” he says, and she follows him as he heads for the nearest bathroom, where he flicks on the lightswitch and peers critically at the mirror.  When he fails to react in any way, Summer steps in beside him and sees nothing but her own reflection staring back at the both of them.  

“Oooh, yikes,” she winces.  “I forgot about that one.”

“Yeah,” Rick mutters.  “Me too.”

Summer looks up at him and sees his eyes narrowed, his jaw set hard with frustration.  He’s unaccustomed to being thwarted by something so crude and basic as a bathroom mirror.  She wants to elbow him in the ribs and make a joke to distract him, but she can’t think of anything funny, and besides, she’s close enough now that she finally notices the jagged scar on the side of his neck.

“Oh my God,” she blurts out.

Rick gives her a quizzical look, tracks her stare to his throat, then reaches up to trace his fingertips over the raised flesh.  In an automatic gesture he glances towards the mirror again, only to quickly jerk his head away before he can contemplate the vacant glass for too long.

“So,” he prompts her instead.  “How’s it look?”

“Uh…” Summer squints.  “It looks like something tried to rip your throat out with its teeth.”

Rick nods his head in satisfaction.  “Nice.”

He gives his own teeth a smug click and winks at her, then slips out of the bathroom before he can make the mistake of looking at the mirror again.  Summer takes one last glance at her reflection, snapping a mental Polaroid picture that she mentally labels with a mental Sharpie marker: how you looked on the night your grandpa turned into a vampire.  She notices for the first time that she’s wearing a sleep shirt that says Here Comes the Sun, which, given the circumstances, is actually pretty hilarious.   

Back in the kitchen she finds Rick standing over Morty, who has fallen asleep with his head cushioned on the pillow of his folded arms, the empty juice glass carefully placed at the center of the table. Rick stoops down and places a hand on Morty’s back to give him a little shake.

“O-okay, buddy, c’mon.  Let’s go.  Up and at ‘em.”

Morty lifts his head, squints his bleary eyes, and suddenly clutches at the front of Rick’s lab coat, his voice thick with relief.  

“Rick!” he gasps.  “You’re okay!”

“Uhhhh, yeah?”  Rick smirks uncertainly.  “Pre-etty sure we established that already.”

Morty gives a weak, hiccupy laugh.  “Oh, good.  I thought— I thought it was a dream.”

He slumps forward and Rick catches him, then shuffles him around in the chair so he can pick him up again.  He’s  trying to just scoop him up like he did before, but this time Morty twists and squirms in grip, looping his arms around Rick’s neck and hooking his legs around his waist, clinging to the front of him like a koala.  Rick heaves a theatrical, exasperated sigh, but he makes no effort to put him down or even rearrange him.  He just gives Morty a pat on the back and says, “you’re lucky I have vampire strength or I would drop your little bitch ass so fast.”

Summer trails behind them as Rick heads back up the stairs, his gait lazy and unhurried— man, that vampire strength must be really legit, considering the fact that he’s got a fourteen year-old kid in his arms and it’s an upwards climb.  Over Rick’s shoulder, Morty’s gaze is sleepy and content.  When he sees Summer staring at him, he lifts his head just enough to mumble “I told you so” before he drops it back down again, his cheek nestled against Rick’s new scar.  There’s that uncomfortable surge of jealousy again— Summer tries to focus on how glad she is to see Rick up and moving around at all.

Morty’s bedroom door is closed, but that’s never stopped Rick before; he shoulders it open without a break in his stride.  It’s clear that he intends to just dump Morty on top of the covers and leave him, so Summer scurries into the room and pulls back the blankets before he gets there, clearing a space.  She steps back again so Rick can lean down and deposit his burden.  He has to brace one hand on the bed and use the other to disentangle Morty’s limbs from his body, prying him loose.   Finally Morty slumps back with a sigh, fast asleep.  Summer would have expected Rick to turn and stroll right back out of the room again— but instead he lingers, stooped over, silent and still.

Taking a step closer, Summer sees that Rick’s hand is still braced on the mattress, his head still bowed even without the pull of Morty’s arms around his neck.  He’s got his eyes closed and his jaw clenched.  He’s not moving.

His face is pressed against the side of Morty’s throat.

“Grandpa Rick,” Summer says, a hint of alarm in her tone.

Rick yanks his head up and takes a step backwards.  For a second there he actually looks a little alarmed himself.  Then, with a dismissive scoff, he turns and strolls right back out of the room again.  

Summer sticks around long enough to take off Morty’s shoes and properly tuck him in under the covers.  It’s not like she’s never done it before; there were plenty of nights when their mom was too busy with a bottle of wine to do it herself.  Back then Morty’s shoes were fastened with Velcro— it takes her a little more time to undo the laces of his sneakers, using her fingernails to pick at the anxiety-induced intensity of the knots.  Geez, this kid is such a mess that even his shoelaces are stressed out.  Summer draws the covers up to his chin and hopes, for his sake, that he doesn’t dream.

She pulls the door shut behind her when she leaves, keeping the handle turned until it’s all the way closed and she can release the catch without fear of the telltale click.  She won’t take even the slightest risk of waking up her parents.  Honestly, she can barely handle all the shit that’s happening already; the last thing she needs right now is her mom demanding an explanation while her dad freaks the fuck out.  Of course the truth is bound to come out sooner or later, but for now, Summer is more than happy to leave that bridge uncrossed.

She finds Rick down in the kitchen again, rummaging in the back of the overstuffed tupperware cabinet, searching for her mom’s quote-unquote “secret” vodka stash.  She goes through phases with the stuff.  Most of the time it’s enough to just overdrink wine in socially acceptable situations like dinner or parties, but sometimes the socially acceptable situations just don’t come frequently enough and she day-drinks vodka when she thinks no one’s looking.  Rick has to reach all the way to the back of the cupboard, scattering empty tubs and mismatched lids all over the floor, but then he draws his arm back out again with a handle of Absolut clutched in his grip.  Summer is surprised that it’s still three-quarters full— must be a fresh bottle.  

“Hey,” he says when he sees her in the doorway.  “Y-you wanna get in on this?”

Summer heaves an exhausted sigh.  “Ugh, yes, please.”

You know, every once in a while she’s reminded that Rick knows her better than she thinks.  He knows— he remembers— that she doesn’t like straight liquor, so without asking he grabs a glass from the cupboard and the orange juice she left on the counter and mixes her a screwdriver.  It’s a little on the strong side, one part vodka to only two parts juice, but it’s weirdly sweet how he actually makes an effort to accommodate her.  He slides the drink across the counter and she picks it up, hoisting it in his direction for a toast.  He grabs the neck of the vodka bottle and brings it up to clink against her glass, then takes a swig while she takes a sip.

“So,” she remarks, licking the orange juice from her lips.  “No mixer for you, huh?”

“Wa-a-ay ahead of you,” he smirks.  “I’m— I’m making Bloody Marys.”  

He pats his stomach for emphasis, and Summer is abruptly, unpleasantly reminded that, oh yeah, Rick recently drank his fill of Morty’s blood.  It makes her go quiet, which Rick takes to mean that she didn’t get the joke, which only makes him press the point harder.

“Get it?”  he urges, grinning in a way that only draws attention to his fangs.  “Bloody Marys?  Because I’m— I’m— y’know, I’m a vampire now?  A-a-and we’re drinking, uh, we’re drinking vodka?  So it’s— it’s a Bloody Mary, hahaaaaa.”

Summer forces herself to cough out an awkward laugh while Rick busies himself with another swig from the bottle.  Grateful for the distraction, she takes another gulp of her own drink, the bright sweetness of the juice chased with the kick of the alcohol, a brisk slap to her senses.  It helps her focus.  Across the kitchen from her, Rick circles his thumb around the mouth of the vodka bottle, his free hand absentmindedly mapping the dimensions of his new neck scar.  Summer clears her throat.

“Ummm, so,” she nips her drink again to steel her nerves.  “Do you know, uh— what kind of vampire are you, anyway?”

Rick makes a dismissive gesture.  “Uhhh, the blood-sucking kind?”

“No, I mean, like,”  Summer starts to list out the options on her fingers.  “Are you like a Buffy vampire?  A Twilight vampire?   Are you like an Interview with the Vampire vampire or a True Blood vampire?  Or are you—”

“Oh my Go-o-od,” Rick groans.  “Thanks for the trip through the supernatural romance section of Barnes and Noble, Summer, but I think I’ll pass.  C’mon, you’re— y-y-you’re really overthinking things, here.  You need to relax, go with the flow.  I’m Vampire Riiiiiick!”

“Oh, okay, Vampire Rick,” Summer fires back, flustered in equal measure by both his flippancy and his condescension.  “So how much blood do you need to consume in a day, huh?  How long can you go between feedings?  Are you even able to eat human food?”  

Rick stares at her, his expression intentionally, idiotically blank.  As she continues to grill him, he brings the vodka bottle up to his mouth and starts to chug it in slow-motion, taking his sweet time with every massive gulp.  It just makes her ranting even more furious.

“What about silver?  What about crosses?  And what about, I don’t know, sunlight?  Will you burst into flames or start with a sizzle?” She pauses to consider.  “Okay, well, that one’s probably a sizzle or else Coach Feratu would’ve had a really hard time holding down a day job.”  She waves it away.  “But what about that other stuff, Rick?  Do you even know anything about what you are now?”

He waits until he’s sure the rant is over before he finally stops chugging.  The bottle is three-quarters empty when he puts it down again.  

“Wow, Summer.”  He swipes his wrist against his mouth.  “Those are all— those are some very important questions to consider.  I just have one question for you in return.”  He takes a dramatic pause before leaning forward with a smug grin.  “So do you write any actual fanfiction, or do you just get in message board fights about whether or not vampires would be physically capable of performing CPR?”  

“Shut up!”  Summer snaps, and she gulps down the rest of her drink as a defense mechanism, just to prove that she can.  

“I mean, in the season one finale of Buffy, Angel says he can’t do it because he has no breath.”  Rick makes an incredulous face.  “But that’s— that’s bullshit, right?  Obviously they use breath to speak.  A-a-and even if the lungs are dead, fine, that means they’re not discharging CO2, they’re just circulating oxygen.  If anything, y’know, vampires should be better at CPR.”

“Look at you, Grandpa Rick,” Summer says, smiling in spite of herself.  “I never would have pegged you for a Buffy fan.”

“Yeah, well,” Rick scoffs.  “I never would have pegged you for a cliche, Summer.  A teenage girl with a vampire fixation?  Yawn.  Was— was it— so was Twilight your gateway drug, o-o-or did it all start in Sunnydale?”  

“I was fourteen!”  Summer splutters, defensive.  “Everybody gets obsessed with stupid shit when they’re fourteen!  Just look at Morty!”  After a beat, she sighs and stares down at her empty glass.  “It was Twilight, okay.  It’s stupid.  I know it’s stupid.  It was just— ugh.  Never mind.”  

She jumps when Rick plucks the glass out of her hands, thunking it down on the counter and refilling it, half orange juice and half vodka.  Then he places it right back in her hands again and offers her a toast with what remains in the bottle.

“The teenage mind is its own worst enemy,” he declares, then breaks into a fanged grin.  “Haha, didja— didja see what I did there?  That was, y’know— th-th-that was the, uh, the moral of the story, r-remember?  At the end of, uh— at the end of the last— the last adventure?  That was the thing I said, a-at the end. And now I just— that was— that was a solid callback, right there.  Solid.”

“Solid,” Summer agrees, and they drink together.

They don’t stop until the bottle’s empty and Summer’s glass is drained to the dregs.  She sways, dizzy, one hand pressed to her forehead in an effort to keep it from spinning.  Meanwhile Rick ambles over to the kitchen sink, sticks the empty vodka bottle under the faucet, and switches on the tap to refill it to the appropriately deceptive level.  What an asshole.  Mom will be pissed, and Rick won’t care.  He doesn’t care.  

“Rick,” Summer blurts out.  “I need to say something.”

He holds up one finger for silence, his eyes glued to the rising level in the bottle.  At the perfect moment, he twists the tap off again, the liquid settling right where he wants it.  Then he screws the cap back on and towels the whole thing dry.

“Okay,” he says, crouching on the floor to put the bottle back where he found it.  “Shoot.”

“Look, um,”  Summer picks at her fingernails, nervous beyond all reason.  “I know you don’t care about my opinion or anything, but…”  She takes a deep breath and just rushes through it.  “I don’t think you should drink blood from Morty anymore.  If you need to drink from someone, it should be me.”

And the hilarious truth is: she really does mean it with the best intentions.  She really does think Morty is too young for this crazy shit, and she really does think it’s her responsibility, as the older sibling, to bear this burden.  For one stupid, brave moment, it doesn’t even occur to her that her motivations might be construed as anything other than that.  

Then Rick laughs.

“Uh oh,” he says, standing up and kicking the tupperware cupboard shut.  “What’s the matter, Summer?  Jealous?”

It’s like he can literally see right through her.  Summer feels her whole face go red-hot with embarrassment, caught in a lie that she didn’t even realize she was telling.  Flustered, she recoils with an exaggerated scoff of annoyance, rolling her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at him.

“Ugh!  You wish!”

“Look, I get it,” Rick shrugs.  “You finally get a real live vampire in the house and then your dopey little bro gets all the action.  That’s gotta suck.”  His eyes light up in amusement.  “And not in the way you want it to, am I right?  Haha!”

“Gross, Grandpa,” Summer huffs, completely mortified by how not-gross it is.  “It’s not like that.  I just thought— I mean, I’m the oldest, right?  I’m just trying to look out for Morty.”

“Uh huh,”  Rick crosses his arms and leans back against the counter.  “Su-u-ure you are.  Look, Summer, anyone who can name four different vampire franchises off the top of their head is gonna have a hard time convincing me they’re not interested.  I mean, don’t— don’t tell me that fourteen year-old you wouldn’t have jumped at the chance.”

He looks so goddamn pleased with himself that Summer almost blurts out the truth, just to prove him wrong, just to throw him off-balance for once. Actually she was pretty surprised that he even bought her Twilight bluff in the first place.  It’s an easy lie to believe, she guesses.  But see, the thing is, fourteen year-old Summer never gave a crap about vampires.  That particular obsession actually sprang up a little more… recently.

Like, say, right around the time Rick moved in.

Of course, Summer would never admit to the correlation out loud.  It just so happens that right around that time she suddenly developed an intense fixation on stories about young girls attracting the attention of someone much older and more dangerous than anything they’d ever known before.  You know, a totally normal reaction to having your grandfather move into your garage.  Thank God for the supernatural romance section at Barnes and Noble— with enough books and movies and HBO original series, she’s been able to do a pretty good job of distracting herself from the disconcerting source of the obsession.  It’s like she said: take all the bad thoughts and shove them in the back.  Build a wall.  Watch Buffy.  Don’t think about it.  

The only problem is it’s kind of hard not to think about it when the actual reason for her vampire obsession has now been transformed into an actual vampire.  It’s hard to do anything but stand there, her fists clenched and her eyes averted, still scrambling for a comeback and drawing a total blank.  Damn, that vodka really isn’t doing her any favors.  If Rick keeps giving her a hard time then she’s definitely gonna end up saying something she’ll regret.

Fortunately Rick’s attention span can’t be bothered right now.  When his last barb fails to draw out a big reaction that might amuse him, he just gives an annoyed snort and waves away her concern like it’s a tired old joke he’s heard a million times before.  

“Ehhh, forget it,” he says.  “I’m just gonna make my own synthetic blood in the garage.  Eliminate the human element.  Who needs ‘em, right?  Better— better living through science, and all that.”

“Oh.”  Summer relaxes her fists.  She’s even more disappointed than she thought she would be.  Like, really disappointed.  “Well, great, then.  That’s settled.”

“Yuuup.”  Rick fires a pair of finger guns at her.  “Sorry to burst your bubble.  I-I-I know you and Morty couldn’t wa-a-ait to turn this into a popularity contest.”

“Whatever,” Summer bristles, fighting to conceal her vodka-fueled teenage anguish.  “If you’re gonna be an asshole about it, then— then I’m going back to bed.”

As far as having the last word goes it’s not even remotely close to satisfying, but at this point she just wants to escape with one flimsy scrap of her dignity intact.  Turning on her heel, she wobbles only the tiniest bit before she finds her footing and marches right out of the kitchen, through the dining room, every ounce of willpower focused on reaching the stairs and not looking back.  By the time her foot touches the first step she’s already wishing that she’d stayed in the kitchen with Rick, but now it’s too late and she’s got to stick the landing or she’ll look like an even bigger idiot than she already does.

Her legs are like a pair of musical saws, boinging and sproinging with every lurching step upwards, her hand white-knuckled on the railing the whole way.  Reaching the second floor is an achievement akin to scaling Everest, but somehow she makes it— she got that stubborn, idiotic pride from her mother, one hundred percent.  At the top of the stairs she stops to reorient herself, and that’s when she hears the psssst! from down below.

Turning around, she sees Rick’s lanky silhouette at the foot of the stairs, nothing more than a dark shadow with eyes like a pair of headlights.

“Hey, too bad that whole noble sacrifice scheme didn’t work out,” he smirks.  “I guess if you want me to bite you, y-you’re just gonna have to ask.”

He winks at her, one spotlight eye blinking off and on again in the unlit front hallway.  Summer’s stomach isn’t just doing backflips, it’s doing an entire Olympic floor routine as she wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue in an elaborate pantomime of disgust.

“Yuck.  Good night, Grandpa.”

“Sweet dreams,” Rick purrs.

Summer has to turn around and bolt into her room before she bolts back down the stairs by mistake.  

Once she’s locked safely inside, she crawls under the covers and lays there staring at the ceiling, her head still swimming from the vodka and her face still burning with about fifty different shades of frustration.  Great.  This is fucking great.  Rick is a vampire.  Of course Rick is a vampire.  As if her life wasn’t already unfair enough.  

Sometimes she has to wonder if this isn’t all the result of some awful cosmic karma, the penance for being the unwilling duct tape that holds together the most toxic marriage in the universe.  Sure, on the one hand, the universe is so vast and unfeeling that it could hardly be bothered with something so pointless and insignificant.  On the other hand, it really is so much more gratifying to blame it all on her parents.

Whatever the case may be, there’s definitely one thing Summer knows for sure— she’s not going to have another Toby Matthews dream anytime soon.

[schwifty-rick-deactivated202503]

Visit Original Link

Everytime Rick says “fuck” in Season Two.

You can find the season one audio post here.

Enjoy you filthy sinners. 

[spinetrick]

…

[spinetrick]

sigh

(here’s the sleazy song i listened to while drawing this sleazy picture)

[kinseis]

Okay so everyone is talking about older!dipper having cipher tattoos, but honestly we all know who is the most likely to have those.

[added a version with scars by popular demand]

[aimydraws-deactivated20210922]

I’ve got nothin’ better to do today, so here have some of my trash ._.

[dockge]

[aimydraws-deactivated20210922]

you sap.

[that-dirty-bastard]

tagged by @who-knows-after-dark

1.- Your name 
2.-Your url 
3.-Your blog title 
4.- Your favorite color 
5.- Your significant other 
6.-SOMETHING ALL IN CAPS 
7.-Your favorite musician 
8.-Your favorite number 
9.- Your favorite drink 
10.- Tag 10 people

this is pretty much the exact middle ground for me -- when I concentrate I have incredibly neat handwriting but when I’m tired/drunk/rushed then it looks like some sort of ancient indecipherable hieroglyphics 

[spinetrick]

morning after a relaxing night on the living room floor

[that-dirty-bastard]

I love all of your fics!!! I just read the vampRick one and it was awesome!

ahhhhh thanks my dude!!  I promise that vampRick is one of the very next slots on my dance card – if I can ever get these dang grunkles out of my system haha

[that-dirty-bastard]

fic - “have a little faith in me”

for @who-knows-after-dark, the other half of my grunkle feels echo chamber

she mentioned ford wearing a blindfold and I GOT EXTREMELY CARRIED AWAY WITH IDEA

title borrowed from this song

- - -

Ford becomes a different person with the blindfold on.

It happens before Stan is even finished tying on the bandana.  As soon as his eyes are covered Ford’s rigid shoulders sag with relief, his breath shuddering out of him in a long, slow sigh.  When Stan’s done with the knot he lets a hand linger on Ford’s face; Ford nuzzles into it, his stubble scraping the lifeline carved across the palm.

“Stanley,” he murmurs, hushed and delicate, just like he used to do when the lights were out and they were supposed to be asleep.

“Right here, Sixer,” Stan murmurs back, rubbing his thumb against Ford’s cheek.  “I ain’t going anywhere.”

Ford makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, his head bowed in gratitude.  Stan just slides his grip down to Ford’s chin so he can lift it and guide him into a kiss.  They’re both sitting sidesaddle on the edge of the mattress, one foot on the floor and the other leg tucked up on the bed so they can face each other.  Ford reaches out in response, his hands uncertainly feeling their way through the air until he finds Stan’s thighs and takes hold, anchoring himself as he leans into the kiss, his mouth hungry and wanting.   

Funny, but Stan never would have guessed that Ford might be into this whole blindfold thing.  He’s usually so alert, so aware, always staring at Stan like he doesn’t want to miss a single critical cue as to what he should be doing next.  It was definitely a surprise when he asked if they could try something like this— but as soon as he heard that long, slow sigh, Stan only wished that Ford had asked him sooner.  

He brings his other hand up to Ford’s face, thrilling at the sudden, sharp intake of breath, the proof that Ford is completely in the dark.  It’s more exciting than Stan ever would have guessed.  It’s also strangely daunting.  Stan was never the responsible one, and now here he is, holding the entirety of Ford’s blind trust in his big, dumb hands.  God, he hopes he doesn’t screw this up.

“It’s okay,” he says out loud, for both their sakes.  “I’ve got you.”

Ford gives his thighs a reassuring squeeze.  “I know.”

Stan is so grateful to hear it that he leans in and kisses him again, sweet and lingering.  Ford’s mouth opens to accept him without hesitation.  He’s committed to following Stan’s lead tonight.  

This isn’t really about surprising him or taking advantage of his blindfolded state.  Stan lets Ford feel his hands moving from his face out to his shoulders, slow and careful, taking a firm grip before he gently presses against him, urging him back onto the bed.    

“There we go,” he says.  “Easy does it.”

Ford lets himself be guided, lifting his foot up off the floor and scooting back across the mattress, his hands feeling out the space behind him as he goes.  Stan clambers along with him, steering Ford’s head onto the pillows, guiding him all the way down until he’s stretched out on his back.  It’s incredible how different it feels to have Ford submit to him like this; there’s always been a touch of their old boxing days when they’re together, each one subtly grappling for dominance, a lifetime rivalry played out even in bed.  Now all of a sudden Ford is soft and pliant beneath him, a willing surrender that makes Stan’s heart beat double-time in his chest.

“Look at you,” he says without thinking, and then they both laugh because of course Ford can’t do that and that’s the whole point.  

They’re both down to their boxers and undershirts, Stan in a wifebeater and Ford in a thick cotton t-shirt that covers as much of his chest and arms as he can manage.  He’s also still wearing his socks, which Stan has always found to be so singularly endearing that he’s never once dared to mention it for fear of making him even more self-conscious than he already is.  Propped up on one elbow beside him, Stan puts a hand on the back of Ford’s neck to lead him into another kiss, Ford’s arms instinctively winding around his shoulders in answer.  Stan slips his leg between Ford’s and feels the erection pressing against the front of his boxers, Ford twitching his hips to rub himself against Stan’s thigh.  Stan nudges his own erection against Ford’s hip and Ford groans in satisfaction.

With the same deliberate intent as before, Stan moves his hand from the back of Ford’s neck and down along the front of his chest, nice and easy so that Ford knows exactly what he’s doing.  He moves down past Ford’s shuddering stomach until his fingertips curl around the hem of his t-shirt.  Then he breaks off the kiss to press their foreheads together, so close that they’re sharing the same breath.

“You ready?” he asks.

Ford bites his lip and gives a shaky nod.  Even with the blindfold on Stan can see his brow furrowing, his eyes squeezed shut as he braces himself.  Stan doesn’t want to rush him but he doesn’t want to drag it out either, so he tries for a nice, neutral tempo as he gently drags the shirt up along the length of Ford’s torso.  With a bit of shuffling, Ford sits up just enough for Stan to pull the t-shirt over his head, then sprawls back onto the mattress, all his secrets laid bare.  Stan lobs the t-shirt away onto the floor and then leans right back in again to press his hand onto the space above Ford’s heart.  Ford sighs and covers Stan’s hand with his own.

It’s not often that Ford lets Stan take his shirt off like this.  Even in their most intimate moments he prefers to keep it on, too ashamed of his past mistakes to let them see the light of day.  Now he’s exposed in every sense, his head thrown back and his naked chest revealing the tattooed image of Bill Cipher, the ring of the zodiac sketched out along his ribs, his collarbone, his belly, his arms banded with arcane runes and cryptograms.  If it weren’t for the blindfold he’d be curled up with his arms crossed protectively over himself, mortified by the ignorance branded onto his skin.  It’s the only thing he ever sees when he looks in the mirror, and Stan knows he can see it even now, even behind closed eyes.  He also knows that now is the perfect opportunity to tell Ford what he sees instead.  He slips his hand down to Ford’s side, rubbing at a thin ribbon of scar tissue that he knows better than the back of his own hand.

“I remember this one,” he murmurs.  “You were in bed for two days before Dad took you to the hospital.  He thought you were faking it.”

This better be good, Dad had warned them as they pulled up to the emergency room, and it sure was— Ford’s appendix had burst over forty-eight hours ago, his body somehow managing to form a temporary sac around the infection that kept it from exploding into his bloodstream.  Doctors said he was only a matter of hours away from a secondary rupture that would have surely killed him.  

Ford’s hand joins Stan at the scar, their fingers intertwined.

“You were the one that made him take me in,” he says quietly.  “I didn’t want to make a fuss.  You said— you said you couldn’t stand to see me like that.”

A flash of memory— Ford, fifteen years old, drenched in sweat and shaking with agony, begging Stan not to bother their father with his problems.  Stan, fifteen years old, screaming at the old man until Filbrick finally relented and loaded them both into the backseat of the car, Stan holding Ford’s hand the whole way there.  They wouldn’t let Stan spend the night in the hospital room so he just snuck back in the middle of the night and came in through the window.

Stan moves his hand from Ford’s side up to the center of his chest, right over the single staring eye of their vanquished foe.  He ignores the tattoo and grabs at the patch of hair instead, giving it a playful tug.  

“Ahhhh, you were so mad when I got this first,” he chuckles.  “I was just glad I could finally beat you at something.”  

Ford laughs, fumbling his way along Stan’s chest until he finds the tuft of hair peeking out over the top of his wifebeater, twining it between his fingers.  

“I think you’re still winning that one,” he says.

And even though he’s blind and they’re both laughing they somehow manage to combine their efforts and peel Stan’s undershirt off and over his head.  Then Ford’s hands splay out across Stan’s chest, feeling his way out to his shoulders and then back down again to the generous swell of his belly, so liberated by the blindfold that he doesn’t even care when Stan does the same, tracing his fingertips over Ford’s abdomen, loving the way that Ford tips his head back and lets himself be loved.  When Stan leans down to press a kiss right to the center of his chest, Ford makes a strangled sound almost like a sob, his head automatically turned away from the attention.  For the second time Stan takes him by the chin and turns him back so he can kiss him on the mouth.  There are matching dark patches of damp forming at the undersides of the blindfold; Ford is crying, the big sap.  Stan would cry too if he wasn’t already so goddamn happy.

“C’mere, you,” he rumbles, and he kisses his way down the length of Ford’s body, pulling it with him as he scoots back to the edge of the bed and down to the floor.

Ford shifts with him intuitively, turning so that he’s lying lengthwise, his legs dangling over the edge of the mattress while he sprawls out on his back, his hands fluttering automatically over his bare chest before he remembers that he has nothing to hide.  Stan gives an unintentional groan of discomfort when his knees hit the floorboards— in the next instant Ford is groping around at the head of the bed of the bed, grabbing a pillow and offering it to Stan for support.  Stan accepts it with a rueful smirk.

“An old man on his knees— bet that’s real sexy, huh?”

“Yes,” Ford says, without hesitation.  “Oh, yes.”

He’s either sweetly oblivious to the sarcasm or willfully ignoring it.  Stan can’t decide which is better.  He shoves the pillow under his knees and slides into the space between Ford’s open legs.  When he looks up he sees Ford all propped up on his elbows, as cautious and alert as ever, even with the blindfold on.  His face is even pointed blindly in Stan’s direction, his head inclined, staring at him like he always does, even without really staring.  Stan reaches up to give his nose a flick, laughing at the way Ford jerks away in surprise.

“I thought this was supposed to help you relax, Poindexter,” he scolds.  “So relax already.”

Ford gives him a sheepish smile, his chin tucked down to his chest as he automatically averts his covered gaze.  When he still doesn’t take the hint, Stan plants a hand in the center of his chest and pushes against him, firm but insistent, forcing him to lie down on his back.  

“Rela-a-a-ax,” he urges, and Ford releases a tremendous exhale and allows himself to sink back onto the mattress, submissive.

He does help out with a bit of effort as Stan hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers.  Ford plants one foot on the floor to lift his hips up from the bed, giving Stan the clearance to pull the underwear down over his thighs.  Then he tucks his legs up so Stan can drag the boxers over the peak of his knees and then down past his ankles, tossing them off in the same direction as their respective undershirts.

For a moment Ford stays curled up like that, his hands clenched into anxious fists.  Then he unfolds his legs and spreads them apart, his feet settling tentatively on the floor.  He’s blindfolded, completely naked, and spread wide.  Stan can see his pulse hammering in his throat, his breath heaving in his chest.  He’s never seen anything so beautiful.   He just kneels there on the pillow, his big, dumb hands hovering uncertainly over Ford’s trembling thighs.

“Jesus, Sixer,” he chokes out, overwhelmed.

“Touch me, Stanley,” Ford says.  “Please, just touch me.”

Stan brings his hands down on his thighs and Ford cants his hips up in answer, his head thrown back with relief.  Then Stan leans down to take Ford into his mouth, and after that he might as well be wearing a blindfold too because the rest of the world just disappears.  

Now it’s just him and Ford, like it always has been, like it always will be.  Even if he were truly blind, Stan would know his brother by touch, by taste, by smell.  He would know him by the sounds he makes, by the way his own body vibrates in perfect harmony with the one beneath him, constant and familiar.  When Ford’s shaking hand cradles his head, Stan is instantly aware of all six fingers, as perfect and complete as they ever were.  God, how he missed those hands.  Once he’d had the full dozen, no mere ten-fingered lover could ever quite compare.

Still, it is unusual to feel just the one set of six carding through his hair.  Without taking his mouth away from Ford’s cock, Stan tilts his head up, curiously looking for the other hand.  He’s actually surprised when he doesn’t see Ford staring back at him, those eyes perpetually keen and searching.  Instead he just sees the concave curve of Ford’s belly, his spine arched all the way back into the mattress.  Stan is so stunned that he actually lifts up his head, his empty mouth hanging open in amazement.  He hasn’t seen Ford let go like this since they were teenagers.

From this raised vantage point he can see all the way down the length of Ford’s bowed, straining body.  Ah, there’s the other hand— curled into a fist and jammed into Ford’s mouth, his teeth digging into the knuckles to stifle his cries.  Stan immediately skims his hand up along Ford’s belly and chest, fumbling for a nipple and giving it a punitive tweak.  

“Heyyy, c’mon,” he chides.  “”Don’t be like that.  Lemme hear ya.”

Ford sucks in a breath and holds it, keeping himself silent even as he obediently lowers his hand, the second set of six joining the first in the tangle of Stan’s hair.  Stan lowers his head again, nipping his teeth affectionately at Ford’s inner thigh.  Ford’s grip clenches into twin fistfuls, a strained groan hissing out between his teeth, his blindfolded eyes compulsively turned away, still trying to hide.  Then Stan slips his mouth back around Ford’s cock and finally he can’t contain himself anymore.

“Hnnnnh, Stanley,” he whines, his back twisting against the mattress.  “So good— ah, that’s so good— ah— yes— Stanley please— nnngh—”

Stan gives him everything he’s got, relishing every frantic undulation of his body, every raw, unfettered moan.  On a sudden impulse, he slips a hand under one of Ford’s legs and hoists it over his shoulder, settling Ford’s heel in the middle of his back.  Ford digs in immediately, using the leverage to raise his hips that much more insistently towards Stan’s mouth, his thrusts shallow and needy.  Stan strokes his thigh reassuringly, his brawny shoulders easily capable of withstanding the pressure— in fact, more than willing to bear the weight.  

“Please—” Ford wheezes.  “Please— it’s so good— it feels so good— oh-h-h God—”

Stan is so caught up in his efforts that it takes him a while to notice that there’s only one hand in his hair again.  When he peers up he sees Ford’s other hand stretched out towards him, the six fingers grazing blindly at the empty air, seeking contact.  Without breaking stride Stan reaches up to slot his own fingers into the old familiar spaces, their hands fitting together like they were always meant to do so.  Ford moans, his grip spasming tight, no intention of ever letting go.

“Stanley,” he breathes.  “My Stanley.”

It’s the worst possible time to stop but Stan can’t help himself.  It’s just too much— his throat constricts with emotion and he has to pull back to catch his breath.

“Aww, knock it off, will ya?” he says weakly.  “I’m trying to take care of you, here.”

Ford makes a sound like he’s been struck by an arrow, his body slumping back onto the bed, his chest heaving for air.  He squeezes Stan’s hand in the space between them.

“You do take care of me,” he pants, his face upturned towards the ceiling, the blindfold making it so much easier to speak.  “You always have.”  

Now it’s Stan’s turn to be struck, his quick tongue turning uncharacteristically clumsy in his mouth.  Speechless, he turns his head to nuzzle at Ford’s inner thigh, his lips pressed reverently to the tender skin.

“Always will,” he manages to mumble.  “Count on it.”

And by way of demonstration, he plants a series of lavish, lazy kisses, leaving a trail as he works his way back towards Ford’s cock.  The closer he gets, the more he can feel the muscles in Ford’s thigh quivering under his touch, his body coiling tighter and tighter.  Stan just assumes that it’s anticipation— but then Ford’s fingers abruptly slip out of his grip, the contact between them broken.  Stan looks up and sees that Ford has one hand clamped over his mouth and the other clamped over the center of the tattoo.  He’s going into full lockdown, his shoulders shaking as he bottles up his grief.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Stan urges, his fingertips drawing slow, soothing strokes on every part of Ford he can reach.  “It’s okay.  You’re okay.  Stay with me, Sixer.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Ford chokes out.  “It’s too much— I never should have asked.”

“Ah, forget it,”  Stan chuckles.  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

But Ford only recoils even deeper into his shell, arms crossed over his chest, his head twisted away in shame.  He’s got both feet back on the floor now, bracing himself to push back into the bed like he’s trying to burrow into the mattress and disappear.

“I don’t deserve it,” he says, miserable.  “You’ve already given me so much.  God, I don’t— I don’t deserve you, Stanley.”  He reaches up to fumble with the blindfold.  “I’m sorry.  This is absurd.  Just forget I ever—”

“Wait,” Stan says.

He doesn’t mean to say it quite so forcefully but at least it works; Ford’s hands shrink away, the blindfold still in place.  Stan softens his tone, reaching for Ford’s hands, tapping him on the belly to indicate that he should reach back.  

“C’mere,” he says, and when there’s no response he taps Ford’s belly again.  “C’meeeere, Sixer.”

Tentative and apologetic, Ford uncurls his fists and holds out his hands for Stan to take hold.  Stan pulls him all the way into a sitting position, tilting his own head back so he can look up into Ford’s downcast, frowning face.  He wonders what Ford sees there under the blindfold— whether it’s a cloak of solid darkness or if his eyes are squeezed tight enough to see stars.  He puts his hands on Ford’s knees and Ford covers them with his own.

“I told you,”  Stan says.  “I’m right here.  I ain’t going anywhere.”

Ford gives a soft hum of acknowledgement, his fingertips feeling tentatively through the air until they find the edge of Stan’s jaw.  Then he pulls Stan’s face into the cradle of his hands, and oh, those hands— Stan sighs and smiles up at him, all his devotion written out on his face.  Even though Ford can’t see it, Stan knows he’ll feel it.  Right on cue Ford smiles back at him, his thumbs tracing the upward curve of Stan’s lips.  By touch he reaches up to smooth the sweat-damp hair from Stan’s forehead; he shakes his head in amusement when he brushes against Stan’s glasses on the way.

“I can’t believe you’re still wearing those.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stan smirks.  “It’d be a crime to let this view go to waste.”

Ford ducks away reflexively at the praise, his ears turning bright red.  Then he cautiously lowers his head, his hands drawing Stan towards him for a kiss.  Stan reaches up to lay a hand on Ford’s face and guide him in until their mouths connect, soft and sweet.  This— this is what home feels like.  

“So,” Stan says, in the space between kisses.  “Are you gonna let me take care of you or what?”

“Okay,” Ford nods meekly.  “Okay.”

One last kiss and then Stan gently takes hold of Ford’s wrists, taking those beloved hands off his face and pressing a kiss to each palm before he sets them down on his shoulders.  Ford sucks in a breath, his back arching as he cants his hips in anticipation, his toes visibly curled inside his socks.  God, I love you, Stan thinks, but he doesn’t quite know how to say it out loud so he just leans in and shows him instead.   

“Ah,” Ford gasps, and Stan knows he means I love you, too.

Ford doesn’t want to be sprawled out on his back anymore.  He wants to stay right there with Stan, and he grabs the edge of the mattress with one hand to steady himself, his other hand right where it belongs, six fingers entwined in Stan’s hair.  Stan lets his own hands wander, massaging the tension from Ford’s thighs, stroking the hair on his belly and chest, anything to reassure him that every inch of him is cherished.   

“Stanley,” Ford moans, and Stan never knew how much that name really meant to him until he heard Ford say it again; thirty years of effort for two lousy syllables.  Holy hell, he really is a sap.  “Stanley,” Ford whimpers, and Stan knows he would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

“Right here, Sixer,” he says, and Ford keens in pleasure before Stan even gets his mouth back on him.

All too soon he can see Ford’s legs starting to shake, his breathing turning sporadic and shallow; telltale signs that he’s getting close to climax.  It’s a testament to how relaxed he really is— some nights it takes a long time for him to get there, too tense and too combative with his own body to let the sensation overwhelm him.  A part of Stan is almost a bit disappointed that it’s nearly over.  Well, this certainly won’t be the last time they use a blindfold, that’s for sure.

“Hnnnh,” Ford whines.  “Ah, Stanley— I think I’m— I’m gonna—”

He comes with a guttural, stuttering groan, his body curling down around Stan’s, both hands clenched in Stan’s hair.  Stan keeps his mouth fastened on Ford’s cock, coaxing every last drop of him, swallowing it down and riding with him through the aftershocks.  He doesn’t let go until Ford is completely spent.  Then he pulls back and rests his head against Ford’s thigh, flushed and panting with triumph.  Ford leans down just long enough to press a kiss to the top of his sweaty head before he flops back onto the mattress, wheezing to catch his breath.  Stan watches all twelve fingers twitch in tiny patterns on the rise and fall of Ford’s chest.  He doesn’t even notice the tattoo beneath them.   

“Look at you,” he murmurs, and Ford immediately reaches toward his voice.

“Come here,” he says.

Stan doesn’t need to be told twice— though it does take two efforts to haul his creaky old knees up from the floor.  He finally manages to crawl up onto the bed with him, Ford still blindfolded, making room for Stan as he feels his way back towards the pillows.  Stan helps him get settled and then lies down beside him, Ford on his back, his face pointed blindly towards the ceiling.  Stan rests his hand on Ford’s belly and Ford covers it with both of his own, clinging to the contact.

“Will you— can you hold me?” he asks, and Stan doesn’t need to hear that twice, either.  

“You bet,” he says.

As Stan bundles him into his embrace, Ford turns over onto his side, not to face Stan but to offer himself as the little spoon, Stan’s broad chest pressing up against the span of Ford’s back.  Stan loops his arms around him and buries his face in the crook of Ford’s shoulder, drinking in the smell of his skin and sweat.  He can feel that his glasses are poking Ford in the side of the neck but Ford doesn’t seem to mind.  He just reaches up and curls his hands around Stan’s forearms, content.  

“Mmm,” he sighs.  “You feel so good.”

Stan’s still wearing his boxers, his erection pressed comfortably against the curve of Ford’s ass.  Then Ford flexes his back and Stan grunts, his arms tightening like a vise across Ford’s chest.  Slow and easy, Ford starts to roll his hips, grinding back against him as Stan thrusts leisurely in response, the friction warm and pleasant.  He hooks one of his legs over Ford’s for traction, leveraging his weight into the pressure between them.  Ford shivers with bliss, immediately wriggling over onto his stomach to try and draw Stan on top of him.  Stan follows gladly.  

“Nnnnnngh,” Ford exhales as Stan’s weight settles onto him, his ample belly pressed into the arch of Ford’s spine.  “Uuugh, Stanley, yes, God yes.”

Stan braces a hand on the mattress on either side of him, his head bowed so he can mouth at the nape of Ford’s neck.  

“Boy,” he chuckles, low and husky.  “I guess some things never change, huh?”

He knows they’re both thinking of that cramped bottom bunk, Ford facedown on the blankets while Stan humped him senseless through their pajamas, one hand clapped over Ford’s mouth because he couldn’t be trusted not to cry out and give them away.  Now Ford laughs and turns to hide his face in the pillows, embarrassed by his adolescent behavior.  Awkward little nerd— for a moment he really is so much like his old self that Stan’s heart can hardly bear it.  He marvels that all the decades could be stripped away by the application of a single well-placed bandana.  

“You feel good too, Sixer,” he murmurs, and he rocks his hips to prove it.  “The best.  I mean it.”

Ford hums with pleasure, his body squirming adoringly underneath Stan’s, pushing back into his weight.  They move together, silent but for their labored breathing, Stan’s mouth open and panting as the pressure builds within him.  This is it, right here.  This is all he’ll ever need.  Ford turns his head and Stan sees that he’s smiling and he thinks to himself: it was worth it.

He comes in his boxers, rubbing it out against the small of Ford’s back like he’s sixteen all over again.  Ford sighs and shudders below him, hyper-aware of the moment Stan hits his climax, the blindfold rendering every tremor of his body with earthquake intensity.  By the time it’s over Stan’s arms are shaking from the strain of holding him up.  Taking a page from Ford’s playbook, he lingers just long enough to kiss the top of his brother’s head before he rolls off of him, flopping over onto his back with a bone-deep sigh of satisfaction.  He glances over just in time to see Ford peeling off the blindfold, his eyes blinking rapidly in the light.  Stan smiles and reaches up to rest the back of his hand against Ford’s bare shoulder.

“Heya, Sixer,” he says quietly.  “Welcome back.”

Ford’s expression softens when he discerns the blurry outline of Stan in front of him.  Still lying on his stomach, he brings up his arm and drapes it across Stan’s belly, hugging him close.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he says.  “Count on it.”

Stan rubs his knuckles back and forth, too happy to speak.  He leans in to kiss him and Ford leans back, meeting him halfway there.

With a little rearranging, Stan shucks out of his underwear and they both crawl under the blankets together, their limbs heavy and sluggish with post-orgasmic drowsiness.  Stan settles down on his back again; when Ford gives him a hesitant look, he holds out his arms in welcome.  Ford immediately burrows in close, his head nestled against Stan’s chest, just like in the good old days.  He wraps his arm around Stan’s middle, angled up to hold on to his shoulder.  Stan winds both arms around Ford’s back in return, knitting his fingers together so he won’t let go, not even when he falls asleep.  

In the silence that follows, he can feel six fingertips tracing the burn scar on his shoulder, soft and reverential.

“Thank you, Stanley,” Ford whispers.

He doesn’t have to say for what.  Stan already knows.

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