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22

[spikedfearn]

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian house no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), dominance & submission, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

[yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii]

Soooo I’m gonna need way more sinners fanfiction on both ao3 AND tumblr please guys,,,,,

[yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii]

Especially on ao3 guys!!!

[dark-fanfics-moon]

This is my favourite gif of Remmick. I know a lot of people love the bloody ones and I love them too. But just from his facial expression, I KNEW that man would become my favourite of the movie. He’s looking at his memories. Look at his eyes. He’s gone fishing into memory lane to share his old life’s songs because that man loved and still loves the country he was born in and wanted it to live on inside him. He’s so proud of it too. And he got upset when he was interrupted because like…he was feeling genuinely happy. I know he’s using music as a way to trap people but…Like…his passion followed him after his death. A true artist. Go Remmick. Sing and dance your undead heart out. 😭😭😭

Also: He’s a short-tempered sassy Irish short king. What is not to love ?

Honourable mention:…HAPPY REMMICK !

[yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii]

Is it just me or did anyone else see what looks to be a crib in that scene where Remmick’s turned the klan guy?

[yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii]

Soooo I’m gonna need way more sinners fanfiction on both ao3 AND tumblr please guys,,,,,

[yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii]

Let vampires eat human food!!! Vampires being unable to eat human food is mostly new pop culture stuff! In folklore vampires could eat and be trapped by food. Like, this is such a stupid hill to die on too but,,,,listen.

The angst possibilities. You can eat your favorite dishes all you want, but ultimately they’re unsatisfactory in the sense of about 80% of your nutrition. You HAVE to consume blood. You can play act being a normal human, eating and drinking, but you still have to contend with the fact that, no matter how much you eat, no matter how good the food tastes, you will ultimately HAVE to drink blood to live. It’s just another staunch reminder of how different you’ve become

[aroace-get-out-of-my-face]

when stan and ford die and their whole twin situation goes out to the public, how do stan’s old coworkers react? does poppy avenue still run after all those years, and if so, do they do anything special in honor is Stan?

Now, despite his retirement, and despite the fact that he knew them under a fake name, Stan still writes to Poppy Studios.

He is Dr Pine afterall, and the parents of the kids watching do love to see cameos of Dr Pine, even if it's just a current puppet character reading one of his letters.

Stan retired just when it was time to. He'd made plenty of money over the years (not the millionS his father wanted, but MORE than enough to support himself, and Ford, and every single one of their adventures, with enough to send the niblings to wherever college they wanted after. He made BANK) but Stan wanted to retire not just because he was old, but because he knew that Dr Pine was a beloved classic, and all the best classics know when their story needed to end.

Needless to say people were sad when Dr Pine announced his retirement, but people were happy too. He'd been shouldering the weight of kids science education for FOREVER, and people understood that it was time to find new people.

Stan withdrew from Poppy Studios as a whole during the same time, having been there from the beginning, his decision to retire was taken much harder than his puppets. He was by no means the first of the original cast to retire, but all the new cast members looked up to him, and were sad (and a bit scared) to let him go.

Lets just say the retirement PARTY was one to be remembered, never to be topped, and never to be spoken about where HR might here (as a side note, Poppy Avenue has one of the best HR teams, as well as Union representation. People are taken care of there, needless to say)

So Stan kept in contact with the people of Poppy Avenue. Many of his friends show up for his (and Ford's, but Ford is much less a party type of person) birthday party every year. They write him letters about things going on in the studio, new segments or episodes.

Although he is retired, somehow Stan still has the authority to go "well...what if you tried this instead?" And be met with wide eyed nodding listeners taking notes from the expert.

When Stan and Ford die, because even in death Stan only went 15 minutes before Ford did, they are both grieved.

Their family hosts a small, private service at first, and then, after a little debate, announces the death of Stanley and Stanford Pines to the world.

In the same breath, a little later, Mabel gets the honor (she won rock paper scissors, best out of 28) to announce that Stanley Pines, now passed, was the beloved voice actor of the beloved Dr Pine.

The twins work with Poppy Studio to release a video alongside that announcement that works as both proof, and a tribute, a short film about Stanley Pines, also known as Pan Stein, the man behind the puppet.

The video is just as long and just as short as it should be. It shows behind the scenes, clips and shorts of Stan working with the members of Poppy Avenue, laughing and creating and writing and being a joy. There is a blooper segment, Dr Pine messing up his lines and flopping dramatically on the puppet stage, making everyone on set laugh. There are videos of Stan himself in different puppets, getting ready for shows, smiling and laughing and waving to the camera. It shows him young, just starting out, and as the video progresses it shows him grow up, live and grow old. It shows Stan sitting with famous guest stars, Dr Pine with children, it shows all the things that made him be so beloved.

The video is heartbreaking, and beautiful, and funny and most of all, it makes the world love Stan Pines just as much as it loved Dr Pine.

The video ends with video clips from the twins, things not shot at the studio. These clips include Stan as an old man, retired and glowing in the sun.

The video ends with a simple blooper. Its a during the episode where Ford makes a guest appearance in a special about anomalies, discussing his newest batch of published research. In the video, its clear Ford is barely holding himself together, tears in his eyes from suppressed laughter, and finally he loses it, laughing uproariously.

Stan stands up from behind the puppeteer table, grinning wider than the sea and lighting up the room. He adjusts the glasses on the Dr Pine puppet with a hand, and then clearly makes another joke the camera can't pick up, because Ford doubles over, wheezing.

The last shot in his memorial video is Stanley Pines, puppet in hand, looking up at the camera, and smiling.

[yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii]

Okay it really annoys me when people in this fandom discredit Fiddleford and Emma-Mae’s relationship just for the sake of Fiddauthor. A ship that has no actual basis in canon other than fan speculation. Why can’t Fiddleford have really loved Emma-Mae, like as a romantic kind of love? Honestly, headcanoning a character as gay and in love with his best friend is fine and all, but not at the expense of that character and the others. Like, this man was using a memory gun basically month one of his time in Gravity Falls, and if we treat the gradual decline of his memories like Alzheimer’s or dementia, it’s easier to remember things that’s right in front of you, on this case Ford and celebrating the holidays with him, rather than people and things hundred of miles away. Am I denying his mistakes? Hell no, but plenty of married men-who do genuinely love their wives-are selfish and stupid so often, but that does not mean they don’t love their spouses.

Like I get these are just fictional characters, dolls we can play with, but idk, this just kind of pissed me off

[renewashere]

i used to have a broken swing set with no seats so i would just hang upside down from it, but later on i would hold my shirt like how i drew ford because i would start to feel cold and exposed.

[aroace-get-out-of-my-face]

I don’t even have an excuse for this. Welcome to part two of the Timeloop Stans thing that was SUPPOSED to be a Drabble, and now isn’t. A couple of you expressed that you’d like a part two, so here it is.

Here’s Part One if you haven’t read it yet, and here’s the original post by @babyblankyerror that sparked my brain going into overdrive

Also, same trigger warnings, this is ABOUT suicide, although somehow this is considerably less angsty than anything else I’ve written for the Stan brothers. I don’t know how this happened.

Putting it under the cut, hope you guys enjoy! Peace and Love <3 <3 <3

________________________________________________________________________

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

After doing so a dozen or so times, one tends to lose their interest in it.

It's a little ironic, that Stan figures he's actually pretty alright with living only after he gets bored of offing himself.

And he is bored. He was bored of it during the first couple of runs, but now he’s less bored in the dissatisfied way and more bored in the frustrated way. He’s gotta find something to do.

He's a card counter at heart, which means he memorizes everything that possibly happens and at what time during this week. Who goes where, what they say, stuff like that.

The casino is where he really shines. He'll usually go Tuesday, or whenever, and he stays as long as he can. It's indoors, air conditioned, and the point of those places is to eat time away. The slot machines are impossible to really predict, although Stan tries. The card tables are his new battleground, and he wins every fight.

It's Thursday, or maybe Wednesday, the first time Stan gets killed by someone else.

He's counting cards, as usual, although now it's less counting and more just remembering things, when another guy at the table stands up.

The guy is drunk, like, really drunk, and he demands the deck be reshuffled, because Stan is clearly cheating.

Stan is very tempted to say that he'd still win even if the deck gets reshuffled, but instead he stands up too. It's been a very long time since he's had a good fight.

The dealer calls security, and after the two of them come to blows in the lobby, they both get tossed out to the street.

Stan is tired.

The fight was good, but now he's sporting a black eye and his ribs hurt, and he just wants to go home and blow his brains out.

Ah how boring his life has gotten.

As he gets up, hobbled against the wall, the guy he was tussling with drags himself across the sidewalk to the curb. Stan snickers at the guy's dumb little crawl, the guy looks like a baby with a round middle.

He tells the guy that, but Mr Drunk Asshole clearly doesn't think that's as funny as Stan does.

He pulls a gun.

Stan has a single moment to blink down at the glock pointed at his sternum, one second to think very clearly, Oh Shit. Before the world explodes into pain.

Stan's back hits the wall, hard.

Somehow that's the first pain that registers. The feeling of brick against his back, the ridges digging into his spine.

Then Stan can't breathe.

The pain is. A lot, to be vague. Stan's been shot before, nonlethally, obviously, but this is a different kind of pain.

It's not burning sharp, it's like ice has been dumped into his chest.

He can't breathe.

The little exhales that he's doing, little mouthfuls of air getting pulled and pushed out, do nothing for his cloudy vision. It's like someone has frozen his ribcage entirely, shut it down like a bartender cuts off drinks, only now Stan is drowning. The little puffs of air turn wet, and the rest of his body goes dark like a light switch. One second he can feel his arms, feels his own hand clutch desperately at his soaking shirt and his legs kicking, kicking like he's trying to get away from the pain, and the next second he can't feel anything at all.

Stan can only roll his eyes around, wild and wide, as the world goes dim, and then dark.

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

Of course, first, Stan goes right back to the casino to find The Guy.

Sue him, he's intrigued. He didn't like getting shot by someone else, but it's good for suicidal purposes to know who in town has a gun and who in town is an angry enough drunk to kill someone else.

Stan bumps into The Guy at the bar. It's only like, two in the afternoon but the man is already drunk enough that he doesn't notice when Stan very obviously takes his wallet from his back pocket. Stan apologizes, saying he's had one too many despite the fact he hasn't had a drop that day, and the man laughs hard and claps Stan on the shoulder good naturedly.

Stan shivers, and tries not to let it show.

The guy's name is Alan Gastragus, according to his wallet, and he's got seventy bucks in his wallet.

Gastragus is a worse name than Pines, so Stan starts calling him Gas Bag in his head.

Stan spends all of Gas Bag's money at the blackjack table, and lets himself lose, just for the fun of it.

In his head though, he's thinking.

The cycle still worked even though Stan didn't kill himself. Suicide is not the only way to die here now, the limits to what Stan thought the rules were have expanded.

If Stan can get killed by other means other than his own, that means he can start having some real fun.

He checks back into the game he's losing. He places what most think is a wild bet, and wins fifty bucks in one round.

He's going to need money for this next plan.

____

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

He then, a bit childishly, bangs his head on the desk over and over until he gets a throbbing pain on the outside of his skull, rather than the inside.

It's been…Ford doesn't know how long it's been.

At least a week his mind spits out, and Ford lets out a single, hysterical huff of laughter.

He’s got nothing.

Every week, at different times, he’ll call his mom and ask about Stan. When was the last time she heard from him, where she thinks he is, all sorts of questions for any information.

She never has much.

He doesn’t ask if she calls him first.

She’d probably have a lead, a general knowledge of at least location, but Ford can never swallow the lump in his throat and ask her more details when she’s sobbing over her dead son.

So Ford has been trying to do it on his own.

He's called countless places across the country. He had to go into town to find a different phone book, for the east coast specifically, to try to track Stan down.

Multiple times, Ford has been given a name that is not his brother's.

Hal Forrester, Andrew Alcatraz, Steve Pinington, all terrible, obvious fake names that Stan has been using over the years. Ford asks about them all, and gets different answers, different leads, each time.

Ford has to give Stan a little credit, he's made himself outrageously hard to find.

His mother always gives him the same phone number, to a motel in Albuquerque, so there's no lead there. Ford can't have the Stanmobile's licence plates checked randomly, he'd have to make a report, and that takes days, weeks to actually file.

Ford doesn't have days. He doesn't have weeks.

At some point in the span of five days, Stan kills himself. And Ford can't fucking find him.

It's Friday, and Ford doesn't know if Stan is alive or dead.

Ford is so tired.

It's Friday, and the phone is ringing. It's not the first time its rung this late in the week, if Stan kills himself later in the week, on Tuesday or Wednesday, Ford will get a call on Thursday or Friday. If Stan kills himself in a particularly open place, like in a parking lot of an establishment (that happened two weeks ago) or in someone's yard (four weeks ago) then Ford will get a call from his mother within the day, or in the middle of the night.

Sometimes, Ford never gets the call. He wonders if it's just because Stan was never found, or if he didn't go through with it that week.

He has to take deep breaths when he realizes that he won't ever actually know.

The phone is ringing, and Ford is convinced he's starting to develop a pavlovian response to the sound of it. His eyes are watering before he reaches for the phone.

Ford takes a deep breath, and says Hello, This is Stanford Pines.

This time it's not his mother on the other end of the phone.

This time it's his father.

Stanford. The man says. His voice is gruff, and tinged with something Ford has never heard in his father's voice. Sadness.

Pa? Ford asks, because this is highly unusual. This is a change. This is different. Something has happened.

Your brother is dead. His father says, and Ford feels the breath punch out of him. He knew it was coming, but the news literally never gets easier, even if he's heard it a dozen times.

How? Ford asks, but he knows the answer. He has to know. Did Stan shoot himself this time? Hang himself? Jump off a bridge? Last week it was an overdose, so maybe his brother is switching things up.

Shot. His father says, and he takes in a big gusty breath. Someone shot him outside a casino, someplace in Nevada.

Ford stiffens all the way up. His hand tightens on the receiver.

He was murdered? Ford asks, and he swallows back the surprise. In Nevada?

Murdered. Stan didn't die by himself this time. Ford has no details, but his father isn't one to mince words, or lie. If he said Stan was shot, by someone else, then he was. Killed by someone else. That's never happened before.

Also, Nevada is a state. It's a place. It's a location. Most importantly, it's a lead.

You got ears, don't you boy? His father says, gruff. Ford finds it in himself to not snap back at him.

Murdered, yeah. Filbrick says after a long moment. He blows air out, like an angry horse, and starts to say if he hadn't have-

Don’t. Ford cuts him off savagely. He never had the courage to do it as a kid, but now, with weeks and weeks of grief under his belt, now he does.

If you hadn't kicked him out, he snarls, Stanley would still be alive.

He slams the receiver down. Hard.

He doesn't answer the phone for the rest of the week. He has better things to do.

He has a place. He has a location. Nevada.

It's one state, how hard could it be to find Stan in one state?

On Friday, Stanley is dead. But Ford has not given up. Not this time.

__

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

Or more accurately, he's decided that he's going to find new, exciting ways to die.

The playground of this hellish cycle just got pushed outwards, and Stan is ready to tackle this brave new world.

First things first, he needs some money.

He strolls into the casino with his head held high. He winks at one of the waitresses on his way in, and she raises an eyebrow at him. Doesn't matter, guys walking with confidence in this place are probably a dime a dozen, but this time, this particular walking-with-confidence-guy is the one who's going to win.

They probably all say that.

Stan makes his way to the poker table. Blackjack is still his favorite, but poker has a certain charm to it that comes from the people you play with. The dealer's little remarks, the guy across from you staring daggers when you win, it's the little things.

Stan doesn't usually go to the casino on Mondays, but this week he's determined to get as much cash under his hands as he can, in preparation for his grand plan, enacted on Wednesday. Maybe Thursday, time is weird here.

Playing now is less like a game of chance and more like acting practice. He knows all the cards, knows every order they go, backwards and forwards. The dealer shuffles when they always shuffle, and they deal like they always deal. There's no thrill to this anymore, it's like getting full marks on a quiz you have the answers to. It's just a matter of lying and looking innocent enough to not rouse suspicion.

Stan wins himself eight whole rounds of poker before he backs out, playing elated and shocked as good as any Hollywood star. He still makes sure he's not followed out of there, because he's not an idiot, but four hundred bucks in his wallet is a great feeling.

He goes into an honest to God restaurant for dinner, a tucked away Italian place that stuffs him full of warm pasta, and by the time Stan slumps back in his motel room for the night, he actually feels good.

On Tuesday, Stan lets himself sleep in.

He has enough money to pay for it, he'd eaten enough food (and was sent with leftovers for the little motel fridge) to not be hungry, and there's money in his wallet.

Later, much, much later, after Stan has taken a very long shower, eaten the rest of his pasta and watched some quality trash television, he goes for a drive.

The sun is getting lower in the sky, and Stan just drives around this flat, dust covered town contentedly.

He stops at a red light, actually obeying road safety laws for once, and does a double take. A triple take.

Standing at the side of the road, is a kid, maybe ten or eleven, selling fireworks.

Stan gets an amazing idea.

He pulls to a stop probably too fast, and reverses until he is parallel to the fireworks stand.

How much kid? He asks. The kid's face lights up in a grin. The smile is the same gap toothed one that Stan recognizes. It's the kid from the mechanical ride on rocket, that Stan gives his change to on Friday. Or. He will give his change to on Friday. But not this Friday. Stan has better plans.

The kid asks him what he wants. Stan hands the kid the rest of his cash, three hundred and something bucks, and the kid's eyes are as wide as saucers.

As much as that'll get me. Stan grins, and he loads the Stanmobile up to the brim with fireworks.

On Wednesday, Stan spends the entire day rigging up an obstacle course.

Most of the day is actually spent on tying the world's largest collection of recreational explosives together in a bundle that only needs to get lit in one place, but Stan prefers working on his new masterpiece, the obstacle course he's built out into the desert.

It's not too far out. He wants the lightshow to be visible from town.

It's better if he does it at night anyway, the colors will be more vibrant then.

He absolutely stuffs the backseat of the Stanmobile with fireworks. He's rigged them all together so they'll all light at the same time, with various levels of explosion, so he should be clear to do maybe a minute of driving after the ball of fire wrapped in bright packaging is lit.

The sun goes down.

This is the most excited Stan has been in a long time.

There's no clock out here, nothing to count time on, so Stan imagines the NASCAR starting line, and the countdown in his head.

This is the worst idea ever. He thinks. This is the best idea ever! Stan says out loud, and he strikes a match on the Stanmobile's dashboard.

One last ride.

He lights the wick.

He slams his foot on the gas.

The obstacle course he's made is pretty simple. A couple of donut turns, a dodge around a dead bush, and then up and over a ramp Stan fashioned out of wood he found.

It's 60 seconds till detonation, and he makes the first drifting turn.

He's rolled all the windows down. The backseat windows have to be rolled down, to fit the larger fireworks, but the ones in the front seat let the wind in just for fun.

40 seconds, and Stan goes around and around, and he can feel a shout building in his chest. It's a manic sort of elation, but he's happy about it so it's fine.

20 seconds, and Stan attempts the dodge. He's a little dizzy, but the Stanmobile still glides like a dream, in that she hits and goes right over the dead bush he was supposed to drive around without a problem. It doesn't even scrape the underside of the car, just turned to dust on impact. Stan laughs, wildly and loudly.

10 seconds, count them down.

He approaches the ramp.

If he times this perfectly, the explosion will happen in the air, before he lands, which would be the ultimate dream. He just has to really gun it.

5 seconds, and the wheels screech as he puts on speed.

4, and dirt is flying up in a massive cloud in the Stanmobile's wake.

3, and Stan hears the wick of his makeshift firework bomb shrivel up just behind his ear. The light has reached the end of the fireworks.

2, the front wheels hit the edge of the ramp and bump up.

1, Stanley is flying.

He laughs, and he explodes.

____

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

He springs backwards like he was shot from a canon. Today is the day, he can feel it.

Ford has to go into town this morning, early, and he won't waste a minute.

He also needs to purchase a car.

This time, he actually half jogs down the road, and while part of it is the clawing desperation of grief in his throat, the other part is the excitement of a good mystery, a puzzle to solve. Now he has a clue.

Nevada. Stan is either in, or somewhere near to Nevada.

And that state is pretty damn close to Oregon.

Ford gets to the library in forty five minutes. It's a new record.

The librarian at the head desk tries to make small talk, but Ford hasn't caught his breath yet, and he's very much not in the mood. He's in and out of the library and running through town within ten minutes, a statewide Nevada phone book under one arm and a Las Vegas phone book under the other.

He skids to a stop in front of Gleeful's Auto Sale, one of the newer up and coming businesses in Gravity Falls. There aren't many people here to sell used cars to, only tourists down on their luck and suckers.

Today, Ford is one of those suckers.

He manages to purchase one of the most rickety, barely holding together cars in the entire lot, for quite a cheap amount and very quick cash payment. Bud Gleeful, the young businessman who owns the place, is aggressively nice and also prone to southern hospitality, in that he wants to talk for hours.

Ford manages to escape with keys to his new ride in a little over two hours, and considers himself lucky. He drives back to his tucked away cabin, and begins to call nearly every number in the phone book.

He is bounced from motel to motel, restaurant to restaurant, casino to casino before finally someone makes a considering sound when he describes Stan and his car. The motel owner isn't as forthcoming as Ford would have liked, but he does mention seeing a car matching the Stanmobile's description, heading south.

Ford thanks him profusely, hangs up, and collapses from exhaustion into bed.

On Tuesday, Ford is so close he can taste it.

Motels seem like his best bet when it comes to finding Stanley, so Ford works his way down the state of Nevada in a web of phone calls.

If he can find the motel's number in the phonebook, he calls. At this point he has to have called every motel, hotel or temporary lodging in the state, and the calls get longer and longer, sometimes wrenching his hopes up before crushing them into the dirt.

Tuesday comes and goes, and Ford is absolutely sure that he's never made so many phone calls in his life.

When he finds Stan, when, not if, Ford is going to make his brother his new receptionist. Just on principle, Ford should never ever have to answer a phone call or god forbid, call a motel, ever in his life ever again. The monotony of Hello, I was wondering if you've seen my brother? Has gone beyond repetitive, the words have lost all real meaning, and still Ford keeps saying them, hoping, calling and hoping, for something.

On Wednesday morning, he calls a motel in the middle of nowhere Nevada, and the woman on the other end says oh! You're talking about Stan! And Ford nearly breaks down into tears right there.

The receptionist, actually she's the receptionist, housekeeping and book keeper for this motel, says that not only is Stan is staying in the motel, but he has been all week. A nice man she says, and she sounds thoroughly charmed.

When Ford thanks her, he swallows to ensure his voice doesn't shake.

He hangs up, and lets himself breathe for one, long, relieved moment.

Then he wrenches himself upright, grabs his wallet and a bottle of water, and hits the road.

Stanley is in Nevada. In the middle of nowhere, in between dusty roads and dead foliage, and he thought he could just fade away into the sand did he?

No. Not this time.

Ford drives for hours.

He's certainly not used to it. He does have a driving license, but he rarely uses it, and driving long distances isn't his style. He passes trees, lakes and forests melting into flat plains and finally rocky deserts, the rainy Oregon weather boils over into dry, hot sun.

By the time Ford rolls into down, achy and exhausted, it's technically Thursday.

He pulls up to the motel he called earlier, er, yesterday, but Stan's car isn't in the lot.

It's the same receptionist he spoke to on the phone, although he doesn't tell her that. He pays, she gives him a key, and Ford slowly walks back to the motel room he's just rented for the night.

He slots the key in the lock, and turns it.

Distantly, something explodes.

Every car alarm around Ford goes off from the force of the boom.

It actually rattles the walls of the motel, and even though it is late at night, people start poking their heads out of doors, looking for the source of the sound.

Ford looks up, and in the distance he can see what looks like fireworks, a whole bunch of them, going off at once.

Something twinges in the back of his mind, but Ford is simply too tired, too worn out from everything that is happening to truly care.

He falls asleep on top of the covers, still in all his clothes.

On Thursday, again, Stanford wakes up to sun peaking through the motel windows, and squints. It's hot, very hot, and he's already uncomfortably sweaty.

Then, every memory slams back into him at once. Stanley. Nevada. Right.

Ford gets up. He doesn't bother to change, he didn't bring any extra clothes with him anyway, and he barely lingers in the room long enough to wash his face and use the bathroom.

He has some searching to do.

The good news, about Stanley keeping that old run down El Diablo, is that it is very recognizable. Ford loops around the town looking for it.

It's still not parked in the motel parking lot, which means Stan didn't go back to the motel that night, that's bad sign number one. Number two comes when Ford has done eight loops around this small city, eight loops down every street, straining his eyes for a burgundy sided car with a massive hood and off white top. Nothing. The third bad sign comes when Ford circles around and drives through mainstreet, or whatever constitutes as a main street here.

He's stopped at a red light when he hears it.

It's two men loudly talking to each other on the corner.

Something of great importance happened last night, and one saw it and one didn't. Ford doesn't tune in until he hears the words dumb bastard and blew himself up.

His blood goes cold.

The crazy fucker made himself an obstacle course! The man is saying, and he's talking like its the greatest news of the century. Exploded himself and the car he was in to pieces!

Was it a burgundy car? Ford asks from his driver's seat. The man startles, looks around surprised, and then says Yeah, I think so. How'd you know?

Ford doesn't answer. Surely, surely, Stan wouldn't be so stupid. Where? He asks, and he speeds off in the direction the man points to.

There is an actual, honest to god crater in the earth.

A perfect cut out shape, surrounded by wreckage of an old burnt out car, and multiple policemen, all scratching their heads.

There is also the remains of what looks to be a hobbled together ramp, and tire marks on the ground from where someone drove donuts into the dirt.

Ford is a little impressed by how detached he feels.

He gets back into his car, drives back to the motel, and slumps forward in the seat the moment he parks.

Of course. Only Stan would kill himself by fireworks. Of course.

Ford pays for another night at the motel, and lays back down.

On Friday, Stanley is dead, and Ford missed him by that much.

[skeptiql]

It's infinitely funnier if you don't know the context

Doc belongs to @/SarcasticMoths

[babyblankyerror]

Sometimes I get an idea but it's half baked and I don't even?? Know what to do with it???

So anyway- Stanley Pines in kids show, explaining science in a way anyone could understand. He doesn't show his face, maybe, but as he passes on tv (maybe Tate loves watching him so Fiddleford puts him on while they work) Stanford recognises his voice.

[aroace-get-out-of-my-face]

Okay wait hold on im chewing on this

It's not just that it's Stan's voice. Its a puppet. Stanley is on the Gravity Fall's version of sesame street.

Stan during the homeless years did a stint of doing commercials, that's canon right? So at some point, he lends his voice to an up and coming TV show, and voices a gruff but kind puppet that teaches kids about basic science stuff, stuff Stan knows lots about, and can relay in a way that is understandable to children (because when they were kids, thats how Ford taught Stan science stuff, excitedly and without too many big words)

The TV show takes off. And more importantly, Stan's Science Segment takes off too.

Not one to ditch an opportunity, Stan starts regularly voicing this puppet character for public broadcast television. He's like a mix of Grover, Bill nye, and oscar the grouch. A grumpy type character with a very gruff voice (Stan isn't doing a voice, he's just smoked since 17) and a twinge of a New Jersey accent.

The segment is "Science Time with Dr Pine" and Stanford Pines, an actual doctor, vehemently despises the show before he ever actually catches an episode.

Everywhere he goes, anytime he introduces himself ANYWHERE its "Dr Pines? Like the puppet?" And it drives him up the wall. Thankfully it seems like there aren't enough children in Gravity Falls to actually care much, so on sheer Principle Ford makes it his mission to never watch that TV show, on purpose.

Unfortunately, during the week when Fiddleford and his son come up to visit, Ford can't help but overhear an episode, with a very specific puppet, with a very specific voice. All it takes is one "High Four!" (The puppets all have four fingers) before the dots connect.

Ford is filled with rage. Not only is his brother opening mocking him on twice a week on TV, but people eat it up!

Sure the shows content is very good and Stan throughly explains conplex science concepts in a way that doesn't talk down to children, nor make them feel stupid, but still! He's using their name, even adding on a Dr Pines, so clearly this is all a ploy to get back at Stanford.

Stanford very quickly becomes the shows #1 enemy, and vows to track Stan down somehow, just to yell at him in person. He probably actually buys tickets to a live show (Fiddleford and Tate are going as a part of Tates birthday because the kid likes the show so much) all so he can confront Stan.

Im not exactly sure how this AU would end, but I'm imagining Ford leaping across the set desk that Stan is puppeteering behind and strangling the puppet in front of an audience in pure rage

[aroace-get-out-of-my-face]

I’m sorry I physically can’t stop

[babyblankyerror]

!!! I am!! Going to CRY!! This is beautiful man TToTT)!! The way ypu just made it better too♡

I imagine the show has other learning things but most kids, especially Tate, only care for the funny science muppet. Tate ends up quoting and making references a lot like kids do, he likes it because his dad is a scientist too afterall, so when he meets Ford he just goes "High four!" And Stanford is very confused (we do not have four digits?? Does he want me to only high five him with four of my fingers??).

Also, Stan taking fan letters and calls. Now, listen, he gets shocked when he starts getting questions not just from children (which he loves because their voices and drawings make his heart melt) but from TEENAGERS. Teens who are too embarrassed to ask parents or don't have adults to ask, teens who are in schools that don't teach them in a way they can understand- Stan is stunned at first but soon finds himself helping teenagers with their school work or learning about their bodies and stuff (he spends a long time researching women bodies after the first call about periods because back then and still today there wasn't a lot of research on them- ). It isn't until much later he realises he's answering questions he would've passed in school back then had he had the confidence he did today and some support.

Like those videos of Elmo and Kermit meeting kids or celebrities, I imagine Dr Pine would have meet and greets too- which is how he meets Tate properly (without his brother strangling him or his muppet)

The idea that Stanford always gets compared to the muppet is even funnier because they do look like muppets, man. Also him trying to be a well known scientist only to have a freaking muppet- HIS BROTHER, beat him.

[babyblankyerror]

The Journal Keeper.

Stanford has heard a lot about this man, someone who is keeping the 3rd journal off anyone's prying hands...including his own, the author.

Still, mistrust paints over his very being especially now that they need the journal to defeat Bill Cipher all together...

No matter, it is himself and the allies he made along the way (grabbed some are children but-), he recognizes the symbols that they wear some way or another, the symbols are etched in the back of his eyelids and into his very memory- all that's missing is one symbol now and the journal... so he can recall the order of the circle zodiac.

With a plan in motion, the group gathers to demand the book from the Journal Keeper, planning to fight for it if they so refuse. It is a complicated journey to get to meet the man himself but-

A familiar symbol looks back at him as does a familiar face.

"Stanley..?"

(Or: Ford has no recollection of giving Stanley the journal and Stanley makes it his life mission to protect it until Stanford comes for it - no he does not plan to stay longer after that)

[artisiumstudios]

GASP? I love this??? But wait would the memory loss be because of some mental trauma, the fact that he was most likely extremely paranoid during the time he handed off the journal, or did Fiddleford have something to do with it?

Would Stanley recall the memory so often, the memory of a disheveled twin begging for his help? Meanwhile his brother believes the last time he saw his twin was when he was 17 pleading for his help?

[artisiumstudios]

Stanley goes through extreme head trauma that causes him to either suffer extreme mental trauma and/or even cause him physical trauma. For example age regression or now being unable to speak properly (maybe unable to read) has to relearn how to do that, basically he has brain damage. Now this could go both ways.

(also TW for suicidal thoughts)

Either ford is called in and is told that his brother has been in an accident and when he gets there to the hospital he is told that Stan now requires full time supervision and needs to relearn how to talk, walk, basically everything, ford still wants to hold onto the grudges and be mad for the past. He tries to reinforce this by thinking "oh yeah of course now that im getting settled in now of all times he decides to be hurt. Now that im finally succeeding he has to barge into my life and make ME have to deal with the consequences of his actions." (he thinks while anxiety bubbles up in the pit of his stomach a voice in the back of his head praying that his brother is okay."

But the moment he sees Stan bandaged up, with tubes and wires wrapping around and inside him, keeping alive, all he feels is guilt, he’s scared. Stanley once so strong and lively now silently laying on a cold hard hospital as machines keep his body alive. Its a slow grueling process, first off having to relocate Stanley to Gravity Falls and then having to reteach him how to speak, motor skills, how to read, how to walk, how to live. Not to mention the mental trauma. The exhaustion for both twins, ford having to make time to go with stan to his physical and mental therapy appointments, and Stan having to actually go through with both of those. It only gets worse as Stan regains some of his memories both from his time from the street and the the worse one, the night at the gym leading to him getting kicked out.

he already felt like dead weight for having to rely on Ford all the time, but now with those memories his self hatred and guilt comes back to him full force and all he wishes is that he would've died upon impact. Maybe that way he'd finally stop being a burden.

Alternatively, ford doesn’t find out and Stan is left to relearn everything on his own (when his memory gets better he has some “sense” to ditch the hospital since he won’t be able to pay.) Unfortunately that means he now walks funny and is practically unable to run, his eyes become far too sensitive to light, he’s can't properly talk (he decides to just not say anything at all, after all what’s talking ever done to him but get him in more trouble) and mentally speaking he’s just worse off then before (mood swings, extreme anxiety, and paranoia).

When Ford calls for him it takes a bit longer for him to get there, and when he finally arrives, Ford is worse than in canon, much more irritable, tired, swaying on his feet. Not to mention he has foggy brain which makes it harder to pay attention to anything, to his brother.

Ford gets pissed thinking Stanley is drunk or high, the few words he has spoken are slurred, he’s wearing sunglasses inside the house for Moses sake! Not to mention that he’s literally tripping over himself and that he went from crying because of the crossbow (although Ford is a bit more sympathetic on that one, it would be weird not to panic at a weapon being pointed at you. But even then, t's odd his brother is crying-) to huffing and puffing like a child, to looking extremely fidgety and anxious in the last 40 minutes. Ford gets even more pissed when he tries to tell him about the portal only to find Stanley messing with something else.

He yells at him that he’s irresponsible to show up drunk and continue wasting his time, that he has shown to be untrustworthy once again. Stanley stays silent and unfortunately Ford can’t see the way tears swell in Stan’s eyes once more, he can’t say the way the glaze over as Stanley begins to dissociate. Ford lets Stanley stay the night, saying tomorrow he must leave. In the morning Ford finds Stanley whimpering in pain, his sunglasses are thrown across the room as his brother hit his palms over his head over and over again. Ford panics trying to understand what’s going on, he tries to pry Stan’s hands but he can’t seem to, his eyes are squeezed shut tears flowing down his cheeks.

Before he knows it Stan is dry heaving, Ford quickly finds a bucket and hands it over. When he asks Stan if he’s hungover Stan just stares at him weakly, his speech slurred he mutters the words bright and hurts. Ford catches on bring Stan’s sunglasses over. It takes moment, Stanley's shaky uncoordinated hands place the glasses over his eyes. He finally sighing in relief, his breathing more calm. Ford looks around the room spotting where sunlight creeps through the wood he hand hung earlier that week, the sun shines bright, the snow probably not helping. Ford looks at Stanley close noticing a jagged line that reaches from the bottom of his neck up to the back of his head, guilt creeps into his bones.

Without thinking he reaches out, brushing his hair tracing the line up til he reaches the lower part of his partial bone. Looking at Stanley once more, he notes the small scars that litter his face and hands, the way he seems uncoordinated, confused, unable to speak. Like he's-

Oh no.

[hellhoundclown]

Sooo asking for a friend(*cough*me*cough*) is your Stan free for dinner? I'll pay for both of us!

,☕- coffee

hey as long as you’re paying for both, this guy will be at your front doorstep like this:

[jackyjackdraws]

@stanuary week four: Healing

Oof, sorry for uploading this now but I got super busy and finally got the time to finish it.

This was also during the time of the charity stream so I wanted to jump on the bandwagon and draw my favorite moments from it

Nothing better than spending the day bonding in your Grunkles dream boat am I right? :')

[noodles-and-tea]

I LOVE THE WAY YOU DRAW LITTLE STAN. hes just a little guy.

MY LITTLE FREE SPIRIT STANLEY!!!!!