Is Ress A Fuckboi? He Taps Keen And Navabi, Plus Audrey (obvi) And The "fake" Girlfriend (after Audrey

Is Ress a fuckboi? He taps Keen and Navabi, plus Audrey (obvi) and the "fake" girlfriend (after Audrey dies) I'm sure. He's got pull.

5+1 (because I don't have enough shit going on) where Ressler fucks (in this order) Audrey, Samar, Julian, Mitchell/Hatley (hate sex, dubcon), Elizabeth. +1 is Red. Kitchen sex, face sitting/riding, spit as lube, hate/rough sex, tender sex (in the order of pairings). Resslington will be excessive, I'm sure.

Mostly an activity in writing hetero sex but also sprinkling in the gay. If there was a pairing to get rid of, it'd be Mitchell/Hatley BUT ALSO I'm stupid weak for Red burning him alive for Donny.

@underfalls-36

So, here's this 🥰 Idk if that's what you were wanting/envisioning/whatever but I hope it's at least a little up to snuff.

He woke up, in the dark and all alone.

The silence was stifling where it crushed down on him, spreading across his ribs and pressing in, in, in until panic was sparking fever-hot in his thoughts. And his breathing was so fucking loud in the quiet, puffing out of his long-healed broken nose in pitiful gasps until he thought to breathe through his mouth. He breathed as little as possible, as slowly as his panicking heart would allow for – trying to disappear.

His pulse hammered between his ears as he squinted his eyes shut. Tension crawled up his spine, sinking blunt teeth into the muscles of his neck and jaw before pooling heavily in his skull. He gritted his teeth, grinding them so hard his jaw hurt as he sucked air between his teeth.

That prey thing in his thoughts pulled a curl into his spine – protect his belly, hide his neck. All those soft, vital bits were necessary to keep on keeping on. A whine caught high in his throat.

Somewhere in the dark, there was a hollow thud, the rustle of fabric against the floor, a muffled curse.

There was a blind, desperate rush for the floor – the need to get as low to the ground as possible, to make himself a smaller target thundered alongside the throb of his pulse. Panic cinched around his ribs and yanked, barbing sharply against his already frayed nerves. He squinted his eyes shut tight, baring his teeth as his breath panted out of him.

Did he owe someone money?

A favor?

The floor was hard – unforgiving – under his curled fingers, his bony knees as he scrambled for the wall. His eyes burned, tears pearling under his lashes as his chest hitched.

Was his debt expected to be paid in blood and sweat?

In flesh?

His jaw clenched hard, his breath rattling out of him wetly as he pressed himself in the corner – too panicked to find anywhere else to hide. Tears slipped sluggish and hot, lazily, down his cheeks. He pulled his knees to his chest, dipping his face to press against the hard shelves of his kneecaps as he hugged his thighs. The position kept his lungs from filling fully, forcing him to slow his breathing as he hunched his shoulders around his ears.

Hidehidehide bounced off the curved inside of his skull.

He panted hard, trying to curl into himself until he disappeared.

The sound of something hitting the floor pulled Ford’s attention.

He was, perhaps, a little overprotective when it came to Stanley after the whole memory gun incident. While his twin had proven himself to be far more resilient than Ford had ever imagined, he still worried. His mind so helpfully offered up a comprehensive list of the most common health ailments that plagued men their age, never mind that Stan’s lifestyle increased those by almost double. Ford tried not to think about his twin’s homeless years, but it gnawed at him, directly related to a whole different set of health issues.

Anxiety, depression, substance abuse … he crammed that down and stomped on it.

Stanley was one of the bravest, the strongest people he knew. A hero. Whatever it was, they would face and defeat together. There wasn’t anything that could keep the Stan twins down.

“Stan,” Ford asked quietly, his brow furrowing as he opened the door to their shared cabin.

The bed was empty, the covers half off the mattress, but there was no Stan in sight. Given that they were currently anchored off Vancouver Island and that the windows only opened halfway, it was probable that Stan was still in the cabin, as Ford hadn’t passed him in the corridor. But there were a limited number of places to hide within the cabin, and Stanley wasn’t exactly diminutive in stature.

Frowning, Ford stepped into the room a little further.

“Stanley,” he cautioned, a little louder.

The floor creaked under his boots, coaxing a soft whine from the shadows of the room, and he … broke. He stumbled into the cabin, ungainly and awkward like Ford was thirteen all over again as he tripped over his own two feet. Ford rounded the foot of the bed and drew to a stop because Stanley was crowded into the corner of their cabin, partially hidden by the small nightstand. His brother’s chest hitched pitifully as he curled in against his knees, seemingly trying to make himself smaller in the pool of pre-dawn shadows.

Another muted whimper cracked out into the quiet of the cabin.

His chest tightened almost painfully because Ford wanted nothing more than to bundle Stanley up in his arms and keep him safe. He swallowed hard, uncertain of how to proceed. Ford stepped slowly around the bed, edging closer at a snail’s pace.

Irrationally, Ford kept waiting for Stan to jump up, to flash a broad grin, to yell kidding, but he never did. And Ford was just creeping forward slowly, his attention honed in on his twin – cut off at the knees and desolate where Stanley was curled into the corner.

Ford had told himself, convinced himself that Stanley had been … fine, once Pa kicked him out.

Of the two of them, Stan had always been the more social one, the more street savvy one. He’d understood the delicate nuances of social interaction, the tactless sexual contracts made between adults, the acceptable societal lies people absorbed. And while Stanley had been young when he’d left home, he’d been persistent and smart.

It was … difficult for Ford to reconcile the idea of Stan with the idea of the younger twin living his best life like a Lost Boy with the reality that Stan had once been a homeless child and was currently curled into the corner of their cabin, dressed only in boxers and a wifebeater. The younger twin had always been loud and brash; it was strange to see him so subdued.

And yet, Stan was curling further into the corner – trying to make himself as small as humanly possible.

Static crackled in his brain at that.

“Lo siento, lo siento,” Stan whispered breathily, curling in on himself further as his shoulders hunched up around Stanley’s ears.

“It’s alright,” he murmured softly, dropping carefully to his knees beside his twin.

Ford braced himself against the somewhat expected hurt of Stan whining and curling further in on himself, crushing into the corner desperately, but still it hurt. Stanley hunched up, protecting all the vulnerable areas of his body – his head, his throat, and his stomach. It still hurt desperately, aching and festering under his sternum but Ford shuffled backward on his knees, hands raised in surrender.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered as he shuffled backward. “It’s okay, Stan,” Ford promised quietly, quickly as he spread a hand on Stan's bicep.

A soft, breathy whine was his response as Stanley buried his face against his knees, hugging at his thighs a bit desperately.

Ford scooted backward until he was able to catch hold of their quilt, dragging it close before he started across the floor once more. Stanley was as close to the corner as was humanly possible, which posed a significant problem about swaddling him up. It took more than a little coaxing for Stan to peel away from the corner enough for Ford to tuck the thick edges of the quilt in around his brother to the best of his ability before he carded his fingers through Stan’s thick, silvered hair.

He scraped his nails gingerly against Stan’s skull, gently tugging him further into the cradle of his arms. It took a lot of coaxing to get Stanley to rest against his chest, even more so for his little brother to calm down. Stan whined sharp and quiet, his fingers curling hard in Ford’s sweater and subsequently his sides.

“You’re okay,” Ford mumbled, trying to swallow down his wince. Stan’s blunt fingers dug hard into Ford’s sweater, whimpers trickling out of Stanley pitifully as he pushed his face into Ford’s shoulder, pressing closer.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, tipping his head down just enough to press his face into Stan’s messy hair. Ford was suddenly reminded of so many moments just like that one, only in reverse where Stan had spent countless hours soothing Ford back from the sharp edge of a panic attack. He would wait as long as Stanley needed. His other half deserved that, at the very least.

“We’ll just sit here,” Ford whispered softly, smoothing his fingers through Stanley’s hair. “For as long as you need.”

Arms

— Mabel honey I can't see ANYTHING withouth glasses, who the hell are you talking to?

(secretly on a video call with ford)

— NOT IMPORTANTT!!!!1!1!1!1!1!

— 👋👋👋

(it's based off one Russian TikTok, if anyone wants I can drop a link)

IT'S THEM POCKET BROTHERS!!!! 🤲

they go. into the pockets. each.

p. s. please consider reblogging over liking to support my art 🙏

a picture with no particular context

how do i draw pigs