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What's in Grunkle Ford's pockets?

Journal 1!

2. Fancy pen (for journaling)

3. sci-fi electro-gloves

4. Bag of normal DD&MD dice

5. Super illegal, 9-thousand dimensions banned, infinity-sided die (in a cheap plastic case for safety)

6. Black Gloves, normal, snappy

7. flask (presumably of I'm Fine Juices)

8. touching childhood photo

9. fuck-off huge poster of his ex

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"oh i really love xyz character-" really? outside the context of shipping?

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bonding activities

(more on the Ghost Stans AU)

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@aroace-get-out-of-my-face i hope you don’t mind that i wrote smth for the hunger games au. the worms got me 😔

idk who the tribute is. hes probably as big or bigger than stanley tho— i like the idea of two bigger boys going toe to toe, one trying to brute force his way thru a fight while the other one (stan) just… dances around him

i also wanted to work in that trident aro mentioned. idk if stan keeps it for more than fishing (i don’t see him killing anyone with it)

tw for violence, this is a hunger games thing

Maybe, just maybe, if Stan stayed really still, the hulking tribute in front of him wouldn’t see him. The other boy wouldn’t notice him, and definitely wouldn’t point that fucking trident at him. He wouldn’t charge at Stan, trident raised, and try to kill him.

They both take a breath, Stan’s pulse steadily thumping in his ears, and the other boy charges.

Fuck.

Stan does what he does best-- evasive maneuvers. He ducks the first jab of the trident, hearing the heavy metal whistle past his ear at a speed that would have definitely impaled him. He quickly dodges around the boy’s other side. He’s light on his feet, boots dancing along the grassy floor as he tries to stay in the tribute’s blind spot. Stan just needs long enough to untangle his net and then--

Stan throws the net high, over the tribute’s head, the knotted rope spreading like the wings of the totem pole. It’s only half-finished, but it should be large enough to tangle this kid up. This boy knows Stan’s strategy-- throw the net, pin them down, and take off-- he should, he’s been caught by Stan’s net twice.

This time, he won’t let himself be trapped and tied down. He manages to swing the trident around fast enough to avoid getting tangled in the net himself. The tribute roars, both with fury and victory, trying to shake the net off the barbed ends. Stan lurches forward, grabbing the tail of the net and yanking.

It’s a deadly tug-of-war for a few moments before Stan finally manages to wrench the trident out of the boy’s hands, blindly hurling it to his left. He only just hears it clatter to the ground as he turns right and bolts. He’s about a hundred yards from the lake. He knows this tribute can’t swim-- if Stan can get close enough to dive in, he should be able to--

Something crashes into his legs, sending Stan face-first into the damp dirt of the beach. The breath is knocked from his lungs.

The tribute crawls the rest of the way up his torso. He grabs Stan by the arm and flips him around, pinning him. Stan kicks, heart frantic between his ribs.

This is bad, get up get up get up

A fist lands across his jaw before he can swing. It bursts with pain, but it’s not enough to knock him silly. The tribute settles on his hips, raising his fist for another blow-- Stan gets his feet on solid ground and bucks, managing to knock the boy off of him. Stan rolls, scrambling away as fast as he can. He kicks at the hand that finds his ankle and manages to drive his heel into the boy’s nose.

Stan rises to his feet. He’s accidentally put the tribute between him and the lake, and the other boy is standing before Stan can skirt around him.

His eyes are wild, locked on Stan with deadly intent.

Stan decides he’d rather fight here than up closer to the tree line-- if they get close enough to where he threw the trident, he’ll be in trouble.

The tribute approaches with a wide swing. It’s one of the worst hooks Stan’s ever seen, and he dodges it with ease. The boy’s left himself open, too, and Stan lands a quick jab to his abdomen. It goes like this for a while-- the boy throwing wild, desperate punches that reek of poor training. Stan dancing around him, trying to get to his other side. The tribute must know this-- he refuses to let Stan get even a foot closer to the lake.

Stan’s legs are starting to burn, fists aching from the fighting. It’s been too long with too little food-- he needs to get away.

“C’mon, man!” he finds himself shouting. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, if anything.

Then, he sees an opening. The boy lurches and steps wrong, his ankle twisting out from underneath him. He falls, and Stan goes to circle him.

Stan’s not expecting the hands that clamp down on his leg, sending Stan crashing to the ground.

“Get off!” he shouts, kicking wildly behind him. He’s yanked backwards towards the other boy.

They wrestle, hands bruising and nails scratching each other as they fight. Stan’s lungs are on fire. Fighting for your life is exhausting, and he can’t do this much longer.

Why won’t this bastard let me run?

When Stan finds himself on top, one of the boy’s arms crushed under his knee, Stan takes the opportunity. Not to run-- he knows how that will go-- but to rain down punches. His knuckles are torn up and bloody as they batter the tribute’s face. Stan can feel bone crack under his fists.

“Let-- me-- go!” he’s yelling. He doesn’t know he is.

The tribute’s grip on his arm loosens, staggering as his head lolls on the ground. Stan’s fist falters for a moment, and he can’t feel his body. The boy groans, dazed and half-dead.

I-- Stan’s whole body freezes. He has to force himself to stop, to not give in to the arena-fueled adrenaline that begs him to kill this boy. This child.

His feet slip once as he rises. He accidentally steps on the boy’s arm, and he hears an answering cry.

He’s not dead, Stan thinks. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or not.

He runs.

He runs to where dirt turns to sand, less than 20 yards from the shoreline. He’ll have to swim above water; he doesn’t have enough breath to dive--

Pain lights up the side of his thigh.

For the third time, his knees hit the dirt. Hot blood starts to stain his pants.

“Get--” he hears behind him. “Get back here!”

Stan didn’t realize this tribute had more than one weapon on him. He scrambles forwards, ignoring the shooting heat from the cut. He feels his throat tighten with desperation-- he was so close to escaping.

The small knife finds purchase in his calf. Stan screams and kicks back. The tribute is already on him, crushing him against the earth. The knife in his hand is wavering, even if the look in his swollen eyes is determined.

Stan tries to punch his jaw, his face, his neck, anything, but the boy is too high above him. He claws, grabs, bites, kicks instead, trying to worm his way out again. He wonders if he’s sobbing yet.

When the knife comes down, it’s slow and messy. The tribute sways. Stan registers it, somewhere in the back of his mind. He can’t think about it, not yet-- not when his body is still fighting for his life.

They roll. The boy goes too easily. He’s reacting too slowly, and the words coming out of his mouth are wet and slurred.

“Jus’ die already,” he spits. He’s missing a tooth from where Stan’s knuckles knocked it loose.

The tribute lands on his back, head knocking hard against the ground. Even that is enough to daze him again, his eyes losing focus. Stan can’t think about it. He can’t think about how weak this boy already is, how he’s still so intent on killing Stan, how this boy shouldn’t even be here.

He can’t think.

He strikes instead. The first punch lands solidly against the tribute’s cheek. The knife is dropped from his slackened hand.

Stan takes a shaky breath in.

The second punch connects with his temple. Stan tries to ignore the way it buckles under his fist.

Why couldn’t he let Stan run away?

The third bursts the boy’s eye. There’s more than just blood flowing from the wound.

He wants to leave.

The fourth dislocates the tribute’s jaw. It hangs, bouncing with each following strike.

He wants to go home.

The fifth. The sixth. The tribute is still making sounds, low moans and wet sobs from deep in his chest.

He wants Ford.

Seven. Eight. Stan’s knuckles are numb. His whole being is numb. He can’t feel the tears on his face.

Stan doesn’t know he’s speaking. He can’t hear how rough his voice is or feel the rumble of his vocal cords. He can’t hear the choked pleading coming from his lips. The cameras pick up every “I’m sorry-- I’m so sorry” that he weeps.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

The tribute stops moving. Stops making noise.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Stan can’t stop crying, can’t stop apologizing. Who is he apologizing to? The television personalities will argue this for days to come.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

There’s a cannon above him. It’s the only thing that makes Stan stop. The boom echoes in his ears, halting his blood-soaked fist midair. He slowly comes back to his senses.

The boy beneath him is dead, unrecognizable.

They finally did it.

Stan quickly takes the knife-- it’s no bigger than a pocket knife, really-- and pockets it. Hands fly across the corpse’s body, taking whatever they can find.

He only spares a brief look around the treeline. He sees no bodies, hears no voices, hears no cracking of branches. His eyes land on the trident, and it’s in his hands before he can think. He refuses to look at the boy on his way back to the water.

His goal is to swim. To dive in and swim away.

His actions are to kneel. To plunge his hands into the water. To scrub the blood away with heaving breaths.

They made me kill someone.

He refuses to cry. His mind slots back into place. His face is still numb-- thinks he might say something, a smart quip or dumb joke that falls in line with his persona.

He doesn’t care if he manages or not. The capital will have to forgive him for putting on bad television.

He scrubs his palms.

He scrubs his knuckles.

He scrubs his fingers.

He scrubs under his nails.

He can’t reach the blood under his skin. The poison that slips into his veins. He doesn’t want to feel this way again.

He knows he doesn’t have a choice.

He will feel this way again. When he kills someone else.

He wants to go home.

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“I LOVE that game!” (watched a letsplay and commentary about it)

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More Stowaway AU

Pacifica dynamics with each Grunkle. Happy late Father’s Day and birthday to the grunks!

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I love aroace Ford headcanon 🙏🙏🙏 (not because I'm aroace- * cough *)

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happy fathers day! <3

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nevermind me, just putting this here........ this is my first attempt at actually doing a comic! it was very fun. might make more of this, might not, but I figured maybe someone would want to see it :)

edit: part two

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* dont tag ship

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father's day presents

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I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

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happy birthday to the stans ever

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if you tried out transitioning and it wasn't for you, i think it's great you explored that and discovered something important about yourself. i think you have a unique and valuable experience with gender that should be taken into account and is worthy of discussion. But you cannot be going around calling yourself "detrans"

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My contribution to dimensional dreams

@billfordzine

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when I was a little kid at some point I got upset with my parents because I didn't have a crucifix in my bedroom and they did- I was like why do YOU get to be safe from vampires??? you're okay with me getting my blood sucked???? so we took a little trip to the catholic store but the one closest to us was run by a group of nuns that had been moved here from romania. I got a little baby pink cross and this sweet old nun was like 'aww, is this a baptism gift?' and I was like no. I need to be protected from vampires. and she immediately got SO serious and was like 'this is the best one we've got, you'll definitely be safe' and since she was literally from vampire land I was convinced she was like, van helsing. like the whole time my parents had been laughing about how cute my fear was but she literally Knew dracula and was taking my concerns seriously I held this over my parents for so long lmfao

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Ford and Stan playing paintball!! (maybe?)

I’m outside and this is the best I can do with paper and a phone camera

Stanford “Sore Loser” Pines