Chapter Text
“I-Im sorry, but I’m not working on that portal anymore, Stanford! It darn near killed me!”
“Fidds, I’m not calling you to ask for help with the project, I’m not asking for an engineer, I’m asking for a friend. Please, I’m scared. I beg you.”
~
McGucket scrambled through the front door of the research base as fast as he could, tripping over himself clumsily as he made a mad dash to his friend.
He slammed open the door to the laboratory, and his heartbeat stopped there and then. His eyes were hazy and fuzzy like the morning mist. Human claw marks scratch the walls and floor, smashed glass, broken hardware, ripped books, and in the center of the room…
An overturned chair. Above is Stanford. Or, rather was. It wasn’t him now, now he was just a husk. A shell. A corpse. His facial expression was completely blank, neither a smile nor a frown. He hung there limply, his eyes glossy like a dead fish. Eyes that used to be so smart, so curious, now dumb and indifferent and unseeing.
Fiddleford can’t help but fall to his knees, the feeling of helplessness flooding him. He buries his face in his hands and sobs, sniffling and hiccuping as he trembles. He can’t bear to look at the body.
“…oh, god…” he mutters to himself, shaking uncontrollably. He most likely would have stayed there crying for hours if he wasn’t interrupted by the sound of shuffling.
Suddenly, a stingingly familiar voice rings out through the room.
“Oh, McGuuucket~!” He wouldn’t have even looked if his name hadn’t been said. He looks up. The corpse was smiling. He then noticed something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight: the eyes. The eyes were no longer dead and glassy like they were but moments ago, but wide awake and… yellow. Yellow as gold, with long needle-shaped pupils. They stared at Fiddleford, boring into him brutally.
“What? Just gonna stare~?”
It was Stanford’s voice, but it wasn’t his tone. It was his vocal cords, his body, his mouth, but something about the way he spoke, Fiddleford knew it was not his friend that was speaking.
He rubbed his face once, then twice, then thrice. Was he seeing right?
“…You’re the demon that Ford warned me about…” he says in a shaky, anxiety ridden voice.
“Aww, he talked about me? That’s so cute! Too bad he’ll never be able to do that again…” Stanford’s face twists into a sadistic scowl. Fiddleford gulps when it keeps talking. “…because I killed him? You know I killed him, right? He’s hanging from a noose as we speak.” It says in a teasing tone, pointing at the rope it’s hanging from. “In the case you’re still in denial, I’ll just confirm it: he is one hundred percent dead! And he’s been dead for about… hmmm…” the demon pauses. “Twenty minutes? That wonderful, talented, beautiful brain of his is already rotting away from a lack of oxygen… Poor thing~!”
McGucket shivers in disgust, before managing to get some words out of his mouth.
“…Why are you doing this..?” He says while staring, looking at the reanimated corpse of his only friend with an emotion no words could ever describe or explain.
“Getting straight to the point, are we?” The demon laughs. The reanimated Stanford rips the noose off the ceiling and falls to the ground, getting up on eerily limp legs, the noose still dangling loosely from his neck. “Do you really wanna know? I don’t think you’d want to know…”
Fiddleford pauses. He realizes just how over his head he is. He hates himself for it, but he’s thinking it would be best if he just ran and hid. There’s no saving his friend, he can only save himself. The demon was right: he didn’t want to know.
The demon bursts into mocking laughter.
“Oh! You thought it was actually an option, to not hear why I’m doing this? To heck with that, you’re hearing it whether you like it or not!” The corpse grabs the tipped over chair and puts it back upright.
“Sit.” The corpse says while pointing at the chair, similar to how someone would command a dog. Fiddleford’s knees slightly buckle out of nervous habit. “Go on, sit.” The corpse repeats, pointing slightly more aggressively. Fiddleford slowly backs up towards the door, his hands in the air as a sign of forfeit. Stanford was always the more battle-ready of the two, usually he was the one to get Fidds out of trouble during monster or cryptid attacks. In a cruel twist of fate, Stanford *was* the monster this time around.
The possessed corpse shakes its head. “I try to be nice and polite, and this is where it gets me…” it says, sighing. It suddenly bolts forward and grabs onto McGucket with an uncanny strength for something supposed to be dead, sitting him on the chair like a doll.
“Okay, firstly, introductions! I already know you: You are Fiddleford McGucket, assistant and friend to the *late* Stanford Pines.” He lets out a strange cackle that doesn’t really work well with Stanford’s vocal cords. Fiddleford didn’t like hearing Stanford’s voice twisted like that, it made him nauseous. “I am known simply as Bill Cipher, dream demon extraordinaire! See these eyes, hillbilly?” It points to the glowing yellow eyes that pierce his soul.
“You’ve seen these eyes before on Stanford. It’s the sign of my possession~! …Oh, but you probably don’t remember seeing it! I gotta say, that neat little toy you built certainly does a real number removing things from the brain. It’s impressive!” It says, referring to the Memory Gun he invented after that haunting gremloblin attack: another example of Fidds getting traumatized by a monster, and Ford being the one to save the day.
Fiddleford’s knee impulsively starts to bounce, an old habit of his.
“Now, onto the topic of why I’m here!” The corpse circles the sitting Fiddleford like a shark cornering its meal. The broken noose subtly swings back and forth on Stanford’s neck as he moves. “I won’t beat around the bush like I usually do, I’ll get right to it. I..am jealous.”
“…j-jealous..?”
“Oh, incredibly jealous! I’m not usually one to be possessive over human fleshbags, but this is a…special case. I have taken tours of Stanford’s mind many times, and I’ve noticed he has certain…reciprocated feelings for you.”
“W-What?! We don’t-“
“No use denying it, yokel! I’ve read your mind as well, and you two are a couple of closeted lovebirds. Quite tragic that he’s DEAD now, huh? Never got past a two-second long kiss… and Sixer convinced himself it was platonic!” Bill mocks, another twisted cackle that doesn’t fit Stanford’s throat ringing in Fiddleford’s ears. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell! Gay marriage won’t even be legalized for at least another couple more decades anyways!” He clears ‘his’ throat, before rambling more. “Now, here’s the issue with that. Fordsy belongs to ME. Not you, ME. He’s MY property, MY puppet. Oh, want to see a tattoo I forced onto him soon after you ran for the hills after peeking at my dimension?” He turns around and lifts Ford’s shirt, showing an obscene tramp-stamp with the words ‘Flirty Gal’ on his lower back. “Bet’cha didn’t expect THAT, huh?”
Fiddleford was speechless. His mouth went dry. His throat was all closed up, but what would he want to say anyways? What is there to say? It was absurd to the point it’s almost funny. Almost. Given the context however, Fiddleford feels like laughter is a distant concept.
“…what do you want..?” Fiddleford says, terrified yet also confused. He still had no clue what this demon wanted from him. If it wanted to kill him, it would’ve done so already, so Bill must want something else… but what?
“What do I want? I suppose a bit of revenge for stealing the heart of my favorite little human away from me. A bit of karmic justice, so to speak.”
“…what’re you gonna do t’ me..?” Fiddleford said, his drawl coming out a little in his stutters.
“No need explaining it when I can just get straight to it! Aren’t you lucky that you don’t have to hear me ramble any more?” Suddenly, the chair Fiddleford is on is tipped over as he winds up sprawled on the floor, flat on his back. The possessed corpse of Stanford Pines stomps on Fiddleford’s chest with his boot, knocking the air out of his lungs. Ford kneels down and takes the broken noose from off his own neck, wrapping it around Fiddleford instead. Grabbing the end, he pulls Fiddleford closer, using the noose like a dog leash.
“In some ways, I’m doing you a favor. Ol’ Sixer would never do this sort of thing…so having his body do it must be kind of nice, huh? ”
Stanford leans forward, his face inches from Fiddleford’s. Fiddleford swears he can smell the faint whiff of the start of decomposition. It makes him want to run and hide. He tries to push the corpse of his friend off of him, but Bill’s grip is too strong.
Fiddleford feels his friend’s hand slowly slip up his shirt. His calloused, six-fingered hand was already a few degrees too cold for comfort due to the start of algor mortis. Tears prick the corners of Fiddleford’s eyes when he realizes just what the demon meant. He tries to push Stanford off of him again, but he gets slapped across the face for it.
“Struggling will probably just make things worse for you, bumpkin. Just stay still, and maybe I’ll go easy on you, mmkay?”
Fiddleford rubs his now red cheek as he lets out a pathetic little sniffle. Tears drip from his eyes.
“You cry like a baby. A dumb, scared little baby.” Hearing that being said in Ford’s voice just makes him cry harder as his shirt is slowly unbuttoned. For a while, Fidds just lies there, the hands of the corpse fumbling around and playing with his chest. Fiddleford is then flipped over onto his stomach. The moment he feels the seat of his pants start to get tugged down, he spirals into a panic attack, his whole body shaking. He starts to frantically crawl away, but he’s pulled right back by a single yank of the noose the moment he gets further than a foot away.
Two cold fingers enter his mouth from behind as he feels his pants get tugged down despite his struggles. He tries to spit them out, but Bill is quick to criticize him for it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Humans are sensitive, I’ve seen that they tend to tear and break if they aren’t provided with lubricant… So, I’ll just use your spit.” Bill chuckles.
“Unless you’d rather it go in dry…”
Fiddleford panics and bites down on the fingers in his mouth, trying to crawl away again. He bites and claws like a wild animal trapped in a bear trap, but much like a bear trap, it doesn’t let go of its prey.
Bill breaks out in maniacal laughter that rips through Stanford’s throat. “Oh boy, we’ve got a biter! It’s a good thing I didn’t think to test out my dear Fordsy’s body on your mouth before I got down to business…” He teases, giving Fiddleford a patronizing pat on the head.
He feels the wet fingers rub against his hole, and he instantly kicks backwards like a donkey, managing to land a hit straight to Stanford’s stomach, causing him to fall backwards. Bill quickly responds though, grabbing Fiddleford by the hair and slamming his face into the ground, causing him to scream out in pain. Blood pours from his nose as he’s violently yanked towards Stanford by the rope.
“What did I say about struggling, you dumb hick? The more you struggle, the worse it’ll get for you. Don’t play the hero, in my world hero’s get killed.”
He hears the unzipping of Ford’s pants. He wants to scream and kick and scratch and bite and thrash around, but his aching bleeding nose reminds him of the consequences of doing that. Instead, he just cries.
Bill reaches forward and condescendingly ruffles Fiddleford’s hair, messing it up a little. He grabs him by the waist and puts him on top of the knocked over chair to get a better angle. Ford’s pants get tossed across the room as he crawls onto Fiddleford, getting into position.
Fiddleford balls his hands into fists and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting forebodingly for the inevitable.
When it finally happens, his body wildly lurches forward as it goes inside, his tears flowing down and dripping onto the chair and floor below. Bill breaks out in hysterical laughter, both from the pained reaction from Fiddleford, but also from the sensation of experiencing the strange, gross, but awfully funny-feeling thing humans call ‘sex’.
“So, I’m just supposed to move back and forth, right? That’s how this works?” He says casually. Fiddleford was facing away, but he could tell that a twisted grin was plastered on Stanford’s face. He takes a deep, horrified shuddering breath to try and steady his nerves. While part of him was curious how the biology of an erect phallus in a body without a beating heart could work, he would rather think about something else to keep his mind off the awful sensation. Just as Bill said, he starts to move.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Bile rises in Fiddleford’s throat, the feeling of penetration absolutely disgusts him. It’s nauseating, disgusting, and it *hurts*. It hurts like hell. Worst of all, it’s humiliating, it’s degrading, it’s dehumanizing. He tries to push the sensations away, but each brutal uncomfortable movement snaps him right back to reality. His confused unstable mind starts to scramble, desperate to cope with the reality of the situation.
He imagines Stanford’s face, picturing his eyes not a terrifying possessed yellow, but instead those curious, perspective eyes that he feels comfortable staring at for hours despite his usual aversion to eye contact. He imagines that maybe, just maybe, in some alternate universe, Stanford is alive, and this is happening consensually. However, neither of them were good with romance, so trying to get a confession out of either was a near statistical impossibility. Was this the only chance any version of Fiddleford would get to being close to Stanford-…no, he shouldn’t think like that. He should just focus on those six-fingered hands, focus on who they belong to… and not who’s controlling them.
Stanford isn’t dead, no, he can’t be. Fiddleford stopped him from killing himself, saved him from possession, and confessed his love. …but since when can he save anyone? He can’t even save himself from Bill right now.
He feels the noose being pulled, making his back curve awkwardly. His spine already feels sore. He can feel the tears dripping down his face, but he didn’t feel scared, he felt nothing. He didn’t feel anything except denial. A demon hasn’t possessed his best friend, there isn’t a broken noose around his neck that was used to kill Stanford, because his best friend named Stanford Pines certainly isn’t dead, and whatever was happening right now was happy and safe and consensual and-
The dream demon changes positions slightly, angling his hips so that it hits a certain bundle of nerves each time. It’s absolutely overstimulating, and it makes him gag. Remembering what was happening just makes him want to vomit, so he just retreats back into his own mind, back to Stanford, back to consent and love and gentle touch, and far far away from the hell of reality. He imagined getting overwhelmed by Stanford’s thrusts, and Ford stopping to softly flip him over so he can look in his eyes. His beautiful, curious, white eyes. Not dead, not possessed. His hand, six fingers and all, would gently caress his face to comfort him, and sweetly ask if it was okay to keep going. He would happily intertwine his fingers in his friend’s. Fiddleford always wondered how his fingers would interlock with Stanfords.
‘You’re doing such a good job, Fidds… such a good job…’ Stanford would say, smiling affectionately, before leaning down for a kiss. A kiss that was romantic not platonic, and that lasted for longer than two seconds.
Fiddleford smiles as he imagines this. Bill notices.
“Oh! Good! You’re finally enjoying yourself. That makes my day easier. I’ll even reward you by touching your genitals! …Humans like when you do that during sex, right?” Bill says, a six-fingered hand reaches down around his thighs and slinks to a certain bit between his legs that makes him see spots. Hearing Bill yap on and on wasn’t helping, but eventually Fiddleford learned to tune out the tone and words and just listen to his voice. It might be Bill talking, but it was still Stanford’s voice. A voice he loved and found comfort in.
‘A-Ah.. oh dear.. Ford..!’ He would call out, burying his flushed face in the crook of Stanford’s shoulder as Ford gently rubbed the back of Fiddleford’s neck to comfort him. ‘Fidds, you feel so good…’ his friend would say, caressing his face with those scientifically extraordinary hands of his. Those hands, those six-fingered hands, calloused from expeditions and years of study, carefully caressing him… just the thought of it makes him blush. Ford’s right hand would continue caressing his face, while his left hand would slowly trail down from his neck to his chest to his stomach, down to his pelvic bone, his six fingers working magic to make him feel just right. ‘Close…so close…F-Ford, I’m close…’ he would whimper out as he hugged Stanford tighter, their bodies flushed against each other. ‘I..I’m close too…Oh Fidds, oh F-Fidds…’ Ford would say gruffly yet affectionately, his voice would get all husky like when he ran around too fast. Ford would gently nip at his neck, causing his whole body to tingle. He would tense up, clenching and shaking and softly mewling, he would squeak out one last ‘I l-love you..!’ before delightfully losing himself in Ford’s embrace.
Fiddleford couldn’t feel when Bill stopped thrusting and unpossessed Stanford’s dead body out of boredom. Fiddleford just lays there in a pile of filth next to the corpse, an expression of ignorant bliss plastered on his face.
‘I love you too, Fidds.’