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jonathanstims.bsky.social
lesbian miffy
@jonathanstims.bsky.social
26 followers 49 following 12 posts
is this place better than twitter orrr ic 0orange_bubble
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jonathanstims.bsky.social
every time i listen to this song all i can think about is mw!bill 😭 @beemygirl.bsky.social #monkeywrenchau
October 22, 2024 at 4:36 PM
jonathanstims.bsky.social
uhh everyone's promoting stuff on this app so i thought maybe i could promote a bit of the fiddlestan au/fic @fiddstan.bsky.social and i are working on?? it's called helping hand au and it's a long multichap fic we're planning :3

literally any thoughts/feedback would be appreciated!
#fiddlestan
Every feasible surface of the motel room seemed to be covered in one form or another. A series of blueprints were laid out across the bed, held in place precariously with a few empty mugs and books piled on each corner. Graph paper filled top to bottom in complicated equations and detailed figures littered the floor, and a growing pile of discarded paper balls could be seen in the corner near an overflowing trash can. And as if that wasn't enough, a layer of sticky notes covered nearly all of it. Some seemed to be what you would expect: an additional note or two in the margins of the blueprint, or a simple reminder stuck to the wall (although why the man would need to be reminded of the name of the town he's currently living in, Stan couldn't tell). Most concerning of all, however, was a particular drawing that appeared frequently on nearly every surface: a crudely drawn closed eye, crossed out in stark red. Stan took all of this in, nodded once to himself, and concluded exactly why Ford had chosen this man to live with him. "You've been busy," he noted unhelpfully. Fiddleford had the grace to look sheepish, at least. "You could say that," he sighed, making a vain attempt to brush some of the clutter under the bed. He cleared his throat and turned to face Stan. "What were ya here for again?" Right. This was the hard part. "Okay. So, something.happened. And I think you're the only person who can help me out," he started off. Stan shifted, reaching into his jacket, and he didn't miss the way Fiddleford's anxious eyes tracked his every move. He withdrew the journal and Fiddleford seemed to tense even more at the sight of it. His eyes darted nervously between the journal in Stan's hand and the door. "Help you with... what exactly?" he asked, scratching at a sideburn and averting his eyes. Well, here goes nothing. "My brother's in trouble," Stan explained, and was surprised when, of all the possible reactions to that statement, Fiddleford scoffed. "Of course he is," the man muttered with all the distressed exasperation of someone intimately familiar with his brother's special grade of trouble. Stan faltered, taking in the man's briefly distant expression, and noticed the bitter purse of his lips. "Yeah. Well, I couldn't help but notice you have a…history-uh, with my brother," Stan said, and Fiddleford's cheeks flushed appropriately. "What makes you say that?" he deflected, shoulders hunched, and Stan was reminded distinctively of a cat raising its hackles. Stan reached into his back pocket and procured one of the photos he'd found earlier in his stay at his brother's house. It was the ripped one. Stan had painstakingly taped the thing back together before heading to the motel. Fiddleford reached hesitantly for it, and Stan obligingly placed it in his waiting hand. He watched as a complicated mix of emotions passed the man's face in quick succession before settling on a schooled blankness. His thumb brushed against the "TRY TO FORGET" message scrawled on his half of the photo. He was quiet for a long beat, and Stan honestly briefly considered spouting a fumbling apology and running for the hills just to escape the tension of the moment. But the moment passed as Fiddleford seemed to come to some decision. His shoulders slumped like he'd suffered some internal defeat, and he heaved a long-suffering sigh. "What did he do this time?"
October 19, 2024 at 5:46 PM