fiddlefreakk
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He was fifty-nine years old. He was six. He was the age you were when you came home after being gone for too long.
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Bill hasn't come in four nights.
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Ford's tail would be wagging, if he had one.
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In the mindscape, excess energy had simply gone somewhere. Into expansion, into creation, into the slow and magnificent unraveling of other people's realities. The energy had always had an outlet proportional to its magnitude. Here, in this body — in this slightly-too-small, frustratingly warm, unreasonably fragile body – the energy built up like water behind a dam and the dam was his own skin and the skin was, annoyingly, not equipped to let that amount of pressure simply flow through it.
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The gloves are soft, butter-smooth against his six fingers, hugging each joint like they were made from a mold of his hands. Ford flexes his six fingers slowly, watching the leather crease and fold in the mirror. They fit perfectly—disturbingly so. Bill must have traced his hands while he slept, or stolen measurements somehow. The thought sends an unexpected flutter through his chest.
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troubled head when you’re away (missing you to death) by biggirlsdontcry
Fandoms: Gravity Falls
14 Mar 2026
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ford responds to stan's arrival to the cabin a little differently (a fix it reconciliation one shot because if they had just 0.00000001% more communication everything could've been different)
title from “such great heights” by iron and wine
CHAPTER 3 COMING SOON (we got a nice little trilogy moment on our hands folks)
Bookmarked by fiddlefreakk
15 Mar 2026
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"He is going to die. You're going to rip his guts out, he's going to die, he's going to die. Your breath wafts over his exposed stomach, your teeth just barely scrape his navel, he shuts his eyes and he's going to die!
A long, languid swipe of your tongue licks all the way up from his belt to his chin, leaving a stripe of sticky saliva in its wake, chilly when it's cooled by the air.
Ford gasps."
Back in 197-whatever, you work as an assistant to local scientist Ford Pines. One day, you turn into a werewolf type creature and fuck him silly about it. Wahoo!
Bookmarked by fiddlefreakk
08 Mar 2026
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Years have passed since I've laid eyes on this journal, kept buried at the very back of my room. A fine sheet of dust covered the torn leather cover that even now sticks to the pads of my fingers. I still cannot fathom that I would come back again to write after swearing not to waste time ruminating on my past, but I know this to be the best way of chronicling my thought process and think how best to move forward.
Tonight was my first outing in eons- with a human, no less.
Let me begin my discussion with Carla.
Written for the Wrenched Together zine I did a while back, now available for the wider public. Please enjoy!
Bookmarked by fiddlefreakk
08 Mar 2026
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Ford has stopped shivering when Stan finally hauls him onto the deck. He’s curled into himself, stiff-jointed and unmoving, and somewhere in the back of Stan’s head there is screaming. He can’t lose Ford again, he can’t, he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he won’t—
Ford breathes.
[Or: a collection of hurt/comfort oneshots ft. the Stan twins.]
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Bookmarked by fiddlefreakk
06 Mar 2026
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That thing that was Stan’s brother is bleeding.
It curls into the corner of the laboratory, wedged beneath banks of warm, humming computers. The fabric of its coat disguises its wounds, but cannot stop its blood from smearing across the concrete floor in wide red swathes where it moves. Its numerous wings shuffle as he kneels before it, and it hisses. The noise is old, primal; it makes Stan’s own wings twitch with the urge to flee.
“Hey, Sixer,” he says, instead, pitching his voice low. “It’s just me.”
What returns from the portal is not human, any longer.
Bookmarked by fiddlefreakk
05 Mar 2026