#the only remaining human part of him bein his hands recovered from mai's body

[homoeroticvillain]

this close to just askin someone to draw smth for my confusing post game yttd au [? idk its a selfship thing obvs]

[introvert-no-chameleon]

Chapter 3: Fear Itself

New Chapter is up! AO3

Fiddleford didn’t know how long he’d be able to handle this.

His new senses had begun to overwhelm him; the sharp, fresh scent of pine trees was stronger than it’d ever been. The sound of small critters shuffling around the forest floor and the babbling of a river a few yards away sounded too close. Everything felt like too much and too little. He shut his eyes, trying to think of something to ground him, but his mind only went back to what had happened an hour ago.

He ran away from Stanley.

He ran away from Stanley.

His darling had only been looking out for him, and he’d gone and messed up because of some childish pride. Stanley was right; he hadn’t been able to hold it together after all. For Heaven’s sakes, he was hiding in a bush. It didn’t get more pathetic than that. 

The truth was, he’d already known that he was over his head. He was nothing like the twins, and the transformation was proof enough. It made sense he’d be something this silly, and the Pines brothers would be two powerful beasts. After all, they were stubborn, strong-willed individuals. For all their bickering, when the two of them worked together they made a near-unstoppable force.

They didn’t need Fiddleford. By this point Stanford probably had him around out of pity, or because Stanley fancied him. Why else would they deal with such a whimpering, pathetic coward that ran away at the first whiff of danger, that constantly needed to be saved?

Something crashed through the trees a few feet away, shaking him out of his self-pity. A giant, black hoof, followed by another, came into view just a few feet in front of his hiding spot. Through the foliage, he could see a few more pairs of smaller hooves appear.

The Manotaurs. Fifty-percent man, fifty-percent ox, and a hundred percent aggression. They were minotaurs, if minotaurs went around acting as if they had something to prove.

Judging by the large hoof, it was the leader, Leaderaur, a hulking mass of pure muscle and testosterone the size of their shack. Fiddleford had seen him once, when he and Stanford had gone to observe their behavior. He could still remember, in vivid detail, watching Leaderaur eat a smaller member of his pack just to assert his dominance. Despite being half of an herbivore, he clearly didn’t have an issue swallowing a smaller member of his species.

Even Stanford hadn’t wanted to stay after that.

Fiddleford kept his breathing as quiet as he possibly could in his current state, hoping he wouldn’t be heard. He began to hate his new sense of smell, because he could almost taste the sweat from where he was. The Manotaurs obviously weren’t as concerned about hygiene as they should be.

“Is this where you smelled it, Chutzpar?” The rumbling voice of Leaderaur seemed to shake the earth.

“Yes, Leaderaur!” said a deep, masculine voice. “I caught the scent of emotional issues, vulnerability and debilitating self-esteem.”

Well, he never.

“An excellent snack, then,” said Leaderaur.

Fiddleford squeaked. He covered his mouth, silently cursing himself a thousand times over. A hand grabbed him around his entire body and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed less than a paperclip.

He came face-to-face with two red eyes. Sleek black fur covered most of Leaderaur, making him appear more animal-like than the rest of the Manotaurs, who at least had mostly human features.

Fiddleford kicked at the giant hand that held him in place. It did nothing to deter the beast from keeping him in his grip.

Leaderaur sniffed Fiddleford. A hit breath smelling like rotting meat hit Fiddleford, stinging the corner of his eyes. “Hm. A jackalope. Interesting.”

“I ain’t no jackalope! I’m a human bein’, an’ I demand to be put down this here instant!”

Leaderaur growled, the sound rumbling through Fiddleford’s very bones. “I don’t like my prey to talk back. Especially not such a scrawny weakling.”

Now, if Fiddleford were living a different day, perhaps if he’d gone through less or wasn’t as upset, he’d probably still be paralyzed by the usual raw terror that seemed to lock his limbs stiff whenever he got cornered by a monster, and he probably woudn’t have been able to do much when the giant creature opened its jaws up and swallowed him.

But today hadn’t been a different day. Even on the day of the Gnome Incident, Fiddleford had at least preserved some of his dignity by making it as difficult as possible for the gnomes to move him. The entire ordeal had finished in more or less two hours, including the part when Stanley had patched him up.

Today, however, had been the day where he’d gotten into a fight with his boyfriend, where he’d tripped and fallen into danger like some hot-headed hooligan, where he’d had to deal with the two brothers that just never seemed to get along, damnit, not even for one day, where he now had to worry about getting mauled because he looked like some carrot-munching herbivore and Fidds, frankly, had just about had enough.

With no small amount of effort, he took all the nervous energy coursing through him and forced himself to use it for something either than panicking. While Fiddleford didn’t have a robot or an invention on hand, he did have a nifty set of strong rabbit legs. So when Leaderaur began to open his mouth, Fiddleford kicked him in the eye with all of the energy he could muster.

The good news was, he was dropped, and he hadn’t been too high up. The bad news was, Leaderaur wasn’t alone.

Fiddleford had underestimated the power behind his new legs. He hadn’t poked the eye out, but it wasn’t in good shape either, seeing as he couldn’t open the puffy eye. Leaderaur roared, baring teeth at Fiddleford.

“Leaderaur!” The Manotaur with the red mane, presumably Chutzpar, pointed at Fiddleford. “The jackalope has struck against our leader! This means a fight…to the death!” A couple of Manotaurs began to surround him.

Fiddleford leaped over one of the Manotaurs. Another managed to trip him as he landed. Just as he made a grab for Fiddleford, he remembered his new antlers. He swung his head to the side, his teeth clanking against each other as he smacked his attacker away.

More Manotaurs began to run at him.

Fidds quickly started examining his surroundings, desperate to find an opening, but the Manotaurs had clearly done this dance before. They surrounded him on all sides, arms outstretched and ready to grab him. He may be faster like this than he was as a human, but he was certain they’d catch him if he tried leaping over them.

A Manotaur lunged at him. Fiddleford ducked under him. The man crashed into one of his companions, leaving the opening the man needed to get out, when one of them caught his leg.

“I’ve got him!”

Fiddleford socked him in the snout, drawing blood as his assailant howled. His hand cracked, and he was sure that he’d broken something, but he was too hopped up on blood-pumping adrenaline to stop now. He lowered his head, pointing his antlers at the remaining creatures. Another ran, and Fiddleford managed to knock him to the side with his antlers. The impact made his teeth knock together, but the fact that he’d just taken one more attacker out of the picture made it worth it.

How had he ever missed out on this? To think all this time he’d been taking out his anger on people in a machine when this felt so much better. No wonder Stanley loved boxing so much! Sweat poured down his face, his chest rising and falling. He stomped a foot onto the ground, startling the Manotaurs.

“Come ‘ere an’ get me, ya testosterone-poisoned hornswagglin’ hooligans! There’s more where that came from!”

The Manotaurs, who had begun their attack with confidence began to waver. For a glorious moment, Fiddleford felt confident that he would be able to get out of this after all.

A quick swipe from Leaderaur, however, slapped away his good mood and sent him flying into a bush. He hadn’t expected Leaderaur to recover so soon, nor for him to smack him as easily as Fiddleford would hit a fly with a newspaper. Thankfully, he didn’t feel like anything had broken (aside from his pride, which he figured was far gone by now anyway) but his body hurt, and he felt the sting of a few cuts on his body. To make matters worse, his legs were tangled in the branches of the bush.

The shadow of the giant creature’s arm loomed over Fiddleford’s hunched figure.

He winced, holding his arms up in a vain attempt to defend himself.

“FIDDS!”

A blur of grey knocked the leader down on his back. The ground once again shook, a canopy of dust engulfing the area.

Fiddleford heard a roar nearby. He couldn’t see much through the dust cloud, but he made out what he assumed was Stanford slashing at a Manotaur. Fiddleford took the chance to pull his leg out. He caught some confused Manotaurs unaware by swinging his antlers like the madman he arguably was.

He lifted his head to find the pack retreating. Leaderaur raised a closed fist, ready to bring it upon Stanley’s body. He froze, staring past Fiddleford and at Ford.

Fiddleford glanced at his friend. Stanford managed to look more intimidating than he had yet, teeth bared, claws digging into the earth, fur on end. Even with the comically out-of-place sweater vest he still managed to hold a commanding presence.

Fiddleford felt that instinct grab him by the throat again. He tensed, his legs ready to flee.  

Leaderaur choose that moment to fling Stanley off him and dash off after the pack, his thunderous footsteps fading as he left.

Fiddleford could only watch as the gargoyle crashed into the ground, making a concerning amount of cracking sounds as he hit the earth. He gasped once he noticed a series of thin cracks across the stony body.

The shock of seeing his boyfriend hurt jolted Fiddleford back to his senses faster than anything could. His mind cleared as much as it could when you’d just watch a loved one get slammed into the ground by a giant monster.

Ford ran towards his brother. “Stanley!” He went to Stanley’s side and begun to inspect the wounds.

Stanley groaned. He tried getting up with one hand as support but fell right back down with a hiss.

“You knucklehead!” Stanford helped him up. “You could’ve gotten killed!”

“It’s nothin’,” said Stanley with a grimace. “I coulda taken him down no problem if I had a few more seconds.” His eyes widened as he set his eyes on Fiddleford, his gaze softening. “Sides, he was gonna kill Fidds. Couldn’t let that happen.”

The tenderness in his voice made Fiddleford want to cry, but now wasn’t the time for it. “Ferget about me, yer cracked!”

“I’m what?”

Stanford frowned, wrapping an arm around Stanley to support him. “You’ve damaged your skin. Thankfully, you still seem to be in one piece. If you had been human…” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “We can discuss your recklessness later. Do you feel any pain?”

The gargoyle shook his head. “Nothin’ really, but I do feel kinda woozy.”

Stanford looked at Fiddleford. “Fiddleford, have you managed to regain control of yourself?”

The question hurt, but he knew Stanford hadn’t said it out of malice. Bluntness was just a part of who Stanford was. “As much as I reckon I can, bein’ like this.”

“Good,” Stanford began walking with Stanley. “I’ll need you to help. I can take most of Stanley’s weight, but I still need assistance.”

Fiddleford went over to his empty side. “Give me yer free arm, Stanley.”

“Ya sure?”

“Ask me that again and I’ll smack ya on the head.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he let Fiddleford take it. It was just as heavy as Fiddleford remembered, but he found that he could manage the weight a little better than before. Maybe there was something useful about this form after all.

“Hey, at least that’s over,” said Stanley with a chuckle. “Nice job scarin’ them off, Sixer.”

Stanford gave a goofy grin at his twin’s praise. “I think you did most of the work there, Stanley.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “The two of ya do make quite the team. Saved my sorry behind as usual.”

Stanley frowned, shifting to look at Fiddleford. “Hey—”

Stanford stopped abruptly. He froze, his grip on Stanley growing tighter. “Do. Not. Move.”

“What are ya…?” Stanley followed his gaze and clamped his mouth shut.

Fiddleford’s heart caught in his throat as he caught a glimpse at the creature in front of them, one that had somehow managed to stay perfectly still the entire time and blended with the deep greens of the mossy trees. It’s heavy, labored breaths were the only sound that could be heard.

It was tall, with mushrooms growing on its shoulders. It had hideous fangs jutting out from its bottom jaw, a muscular build, and green skin. Its glowing red eyes were fixed on the trio.

“Oh good Lord,” whispered Fiddeford. “What is that?”

“It can’t be…,” said Ford. “It’s the Gremoblin! I’ve only heard stories about it. Perhaps it isn’t hostile…”

“It has glowing red eyes, Poindexter,” hissed Stanley. “I don’t think it wants to sit down and play cards!”

The Gremoblin reared its head and roared at them.

“Run!” Fiddleford began tugging them away from the hulking beast just as it swiped its claws (why did everything in this god-forsaken forest have claws the size of knives?) where they stood moments before.

“Wait, at least let me take a moment to observe the creature for my journal—”

“Stanferd, I swear to the Lord above if ya dare to stop right now I will throw all yer journals into the Bottomless Pit!”

Stanford’s eyes widened, but at least he didn’t slow down, so Fiddleford considered that as good of an answer as any.

Stanley ducked as the creature swiped at them again. “I’m with Fidds on this one!”

“Alright, alright I’m running!”

“Then do it faster!” said Stanley.

“It’s difficult for me to run like this!”

A shadow flew over them. Fiddleford didn’t have time to register what it was until a boulder fell in their path. The three of them lost their balance and stumbled to the ground.

Fiddleford managed to spring back to his feet, but he couldn’t get Stanley to budge. The cracks on his back spread. “Stanferd, come on!”

Ford held his leg, wincing. “I think I sprang my ankle—well, I’m actually not sure if I have an ankle in this form—but the point is, I can’t move!”

The goblin-like creature went over to them, closing in.

Stanley forced himself to his feet. His lip twisted with pain, but he dragged himself in front of his brother, raising his fists. His stance didn’t have the confidence it usually had; he wobbled just enough for Fiddleford to notice. “Ya think ya can get to my brother? Not on my watch, bucko!”

“Stanley…” Stanford gasped as he tried, and failed, to get on his feet.

“I’ll distract Ugly here,” said Stanley, turning to Fiddleford. “Fidds, get Ford and get the hell out of here!”

Fiddleford didn’t budge. “I ain’t leaving ya!”

Stanley ducked as the monster tried to grab him. He threw a punch at its arm, sending it reeling back. “I’ll be fine! Just go!”

Fiddleford’s chest started to pound again. His arms were lead, his tongue felt fuzzy and his legs trembled, more nervous energy waiting to be unleashed, a coil waiting to unfurl.

Then the monster grabbed Stanley. Its eyes went from a deep red to yellow. It stared directly at his boyfriend, and Fidds could only watch as Stanley stiffened, jaw slack as if he was in a trance.

Then he screamed, and something in Fiddleford snapped.

Stanley Pines did not scream like that. He’d always put on a façade, and even at his most terrified he’d use his energy to fight back. He’d always smirk or wink back at whoever he was protecting, making bad puns as he fought his way out of a problem. Yes, he was a loud man, making his presence known in every room to an obnoxious degree, but he never screamed as if something was being ripped apart inside of him. He never cowered like Fiddleford, or even Stanford did on the rare occasion that he was afraid instead of fascinated.

The Gremoblin dropped Stanley like a dead weight. The gargoyle curled in on himself, trembling, wings covering him. He clawed at his face frantically. Fiddleford didn’t know if gargoyles had tear ducts, but Stanley sounded close to sobbing.

The creature walked towards Stanford, who limped towards his fallen brother, with murderous intent.

It should be noted, to anyone who is reading this, that while Fiddleford Hadron McGucket considered himself to be a patient, level-headed individual, he was also a man who would go on a rampage whenever someone had earned his ire or broke his heart. At the age of twelve he wrestled a wild hog after seeing it make a beeline for his then-pregnant Ma and won, and he once fought off a grizzly bear with a banjo when it tried to attack Tate on their last camping trip. His wife had (once she talked to him again after the whole robot incident) lovingly coined this particular type of behavior as his “hillbilly frenzy mode”.

So it really shouldn’t have surprised Fiddleford as much as it did when he ended up steeling himself, ducking his head and charging straight at the creature that had lifted a large gargoyle with ease. But the thing about surprises is, even if one considers the possibility of one, it usually doesn’t dull the shock of going through the unexpected.

The creature had focused all its attention on the larger threat, and obviously hadn’t expected the scrawny man to do much, let alone stab him with a pair of antlers with a wild cry and enough force to knock the Gremoblin down.

Fiddleford hadn’t cut too deep, so he managed to retract his antlers a moment later.

The creature was quick to get back on its feet. Two wounds were oozing a dark green liquid that must’ve been the creature’s blood. It charged at Fiddleford, and he leaped over it, using its shoulder for leverage to get a higher jump. Glancing to make sure that the monster was away from the twins, he shouted at it.

“Is that the best ya got, ya white-feathered varmint? Come ‘ere an’ get me if ya want me!”

Fiddleford didn’t wait to see if it would follow; a roar confirmed that much for him. He let his legs lead the way, but while before he’d just throw himself into the wilderness, now knew exactly where he was headed.

The snapping of wood and thunderous steps behind him warned him that his opponent would catch up soon. Which was all well, since his destination was right ahead.

The Bottomless Pit had been one of those anomalies that they’d discovered when Stanford had, in an act of brilliance that Fiddleford used as yet another bit of proof on why Stanford could not be left unsupervised when it came to exploring the unknown, jumped in it. His employer, a man of 12 Ph.D.’s, had, upon dropping a pen and not hearing it drop, took a step forward and fell right onto the pit, taking Stanley and Fiddleford with him when they’d tried to save him.

It was in that traumatic turn of events that the trio had discovered what Stanford claimed he’d known all along: the pit itself wasn’t bottomless, and it wasn’t even a straight fall down. They’d been spit right back out of where they’d fallen in after twenty minutes of what should’ve been a straight dive to their deaths.

And that was more than enough time for the three of them to get away from this monster and back in the shack.

He let the Gremoblin close in. Just as it made to attack, he threw himself to the side. It fell in but managed to cling to the side of the pit. It began lifting itself back up, and that wouldn’t do at all. Fidds went to kick it in, but it held his leg in a vice and dug its claws into the meat of his calf.

Fidds howled, seeing stars and all at once, he wasn’t at the edge of the pit. He was back at the shack, staring at the front door. He stared down at his normal, human legs.

“What on earth?”

It was then he noticed the blood.

It seeped through the bottom of the door, through the windowsill, dripping on the wood floor. Fiddleford stumbled back, hitting the ground as he began to crawl back. He got on his feet and almost tripped over himself as he punched the combination for the underground lab on the vending machine they kept in its place.

Instead of swinging open to reveal an elevator, it just had three people stumble out of it.

Fiddleford’s head spun, his hands flying to his mouth. Every person he cared about lay on the ground in front of him, his young son and the twins, covered in gashes, eyes vacant and cloudy.

But.

They were gone, they must’ve gotten hurt, they weren’t careful—

No.

They weren’t dead. This wasn’t any more real than the fear he’d carry with him each and every day, where he knew that one bad step could lead to a drop or an encounter with something volatile.

He felt it every day, and he figured it was about damn time he’d stop letting it control him.

He made himself to focus on the pain and collect thoughts like the fireflies he’d scoop up in a jar when he was just a youngling, on the hot June nights when the sun had just set.

The image wavered then, a stone thrown in the water, rippling, disrupting.

He thought of Stanford’s relentless, if not at times foolish, courage that never stopped him from pursuing his passion.

The bodies faded away.

He thought of Tate, his shy and curious boy, of the quiet days they’d spend talking about nature or fishing.

The blood dried up, as if it never been there.

He thought about Stanley, always so brash yet so sweet, hardened by life yet able to still hold Fiddleford so tender all those nights, to be so gentle that it felt like Stanley carried his heart on the palm of his big hands as if it was the most precious thing in the world. As if Fiddleford was worth that much to him.

He came back, a thunder-clap moment of disorientation as he tasted salt sweat and smelled the pine trees.

“Ya think I don’t know fear? Well, let me tell ya somethin’.” He grabbed a rock nearby. “Ya can’t scare a feller who is already scared outta their wits!”

He smashed it on its hand, and watched it plummet away, down and down, until he couldn’t see it anymore.

And only when he was sure it disappeared from sight did he allow himself to sit down and catch his breath. And laugh. And laugh and laugh until his belly ached and the high-pitched, manic sound bounced throughout the woods, a tension he hadn’t known he held released.

Once he managed to compose himself enough, he went back to where he knew the twins were waiting.