#bimford

Title: Ice Cream Kisses

“And then he said my nose was too big!” Bim flopped dramatically onto the couch, then reached across Wilford to snag a bite of ice cream off his spoon.

“Nonsense!” Wilford declared, throwing an arm around him, pulling him closer. With his free hand he scooped up another huge bite of ice cream and shoved it in his mouth. “Utter bull-oney! Clearly, you’re too good for ‘em, Trimmer.”

“My nose isn’t too big,” Bim grumbled, running his fingers over it, his face screwed up with frustration.

“Of course not.” Wilford turned his head to press an ice-cream-y kiss to Bim’s nose.

Bim shoved him. “That’s gross. You’re covered in ice cream.”

Wilford scoffed. “Don’tcha want some? I can take myself and my ice cream elsewhere if you’re gonna be a bitch about it.”

Bim sighed, wiping the ice cream from his nose. “For the love of god, please. Give me the ice cream.”

ACTUAL. CHILDREN.

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace @blue-greenstylinson

Wilford Warfstache had always been a child. Even before he became the madman he was today- when he was William, not Wilford- he had been eccentric at best.

    Of course it would rub off on whoever spent time with him, and that “whoever” was Bim Trimmer.

    Dark had always suspected that he was a little crazy to begin with. Working for Wilford- and constantly being subjected to his teeter-totter whims and murder-ish tendencies- just tipped him over the edge.

    Even so, he never expected to walk into the recording studio to both Wilford and Bim yelling and the overly-cheerful voice of what could only be a Bop It toy.

    “Bop it!” Wilford stood to the side, a wild grin on his face and a knife twirling between his fingers as he egged on Bim, who was holding the toy, a look of steely determination on his face as he did his best to keep up with Bop It’s demands. “Bop it! Spin it! Twist it! Stab it!”

    “Stab it?” Dark asked incredulously.

    “Stab it!” Wilford cried gleefully, lunging forward with the knife.

    Bim yelped and dropped the toy, which clattered to the floor. He barely managed to avoid the knife that came arcing down toward his face.

    “Stab it!” The knife sank deep into the white plastic, shattering the casing. Wilford withdrew it, stabbed it again. And again. And again. “Stab it! Stab it! Stab it!”

    Dark crossed his arms, massively unimpressed. “You two are actual children.”

    “Nah. You’re just boring, Darky.” Wilford straightened, blew Dark a kiss as he kicked the pieces of Bop It aside.

    Bim smirked. “We just know how to have fun.”

    “Actual children,” Dark scowled. “I’ll come back later, when you two are acting like grown adults.”

    He turned to leave. Behind him, the chattering picked up again.

    “I bet your knife can’t beat a Nerf gun!”

I really enjoyed this one not gonna lie.

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @holyshitsnakesandspace @redraspberrycats @blue-greenstylinson

Prompt 59/60: “Damn it, are you drunk?”/“Just let me sleep in your t-shirt.”

    Sometimes it was necessary to drink away sorrows. Especially when one such sorrow was Wilford Warfstache, and especially when another such sorrow was unrequited feelings.

    Thankfully, he was a happy drunk. Easy to not feel sad when alcohol boosted you up.

    Not-so-thankfully, he’d decided to drink in the recording studio.

    “Bim? Whatcha doin’ in here? What’s with-” a clang as Wilford kicked one of the many glass bottles that were scattered about the floor- “what’s with all the bottles?”

    “Wilford!” Bim cried, a sloppy grin appearing on his face as he stumbled up from his seat. He shoved his glasses back up his nose, practically jamming them into his face as he seemed to debate between approaching and just standing there. “Glad ya could make it! I have- I have somethin’ I wanna tell ya!”

    “Damn, Bim, are you drunk?” Wilford looked highly amused. He snapped his fingers and a bottle appeared in his hands. With one twist of his wrist he snapped the cap off and took a long swig. “Coulda called me first.”

    “Wilford. Wilford. Dude. I just-” Bim staggered toward him, hands reaching out, falling just short of touching him. “Can I just- can I just sleep in-in your t-shirt?”

    Wilford choked on his drink, had a short coughing fit that ended with him pounding on his chest. He shot the show host an odd look. “What the *fuck,* Bim? You want to sleep in my *t-shirt?”*

    “Yeah I just- lemme sleep in your t-shirt,” Bim insisted, lips slipping down into a pout before curling back up into a grin, as if what he just said was the funniest thing in the world. “I wanna sleep in-in your t-shirt and I wanna be like- like one’a those cute couples that do that sorta stuff.”

    “We’re not a couple?”

    “Oh.” Bim looked down, flushing a bright red. “I mean- we- we could be.”

    “Are you askin’ me out?” Wilford looked interested now. He smirked at Bim. “Maybe ya should wait and ask me when you’re sober.”

    Another snap of his fingers and all the glass bottles littering the floor of the recording studio were gone. “But, I dunno. We can watch a movie or somethin.’”

—

    The next morning, Bim woke to find himself on the couch in the living room. The first thing he noticed- besides the pounding in his head and the incessant whine of the television, which was set to only static- was that he wasn’t alone.

    Wilford’s arms were wound loosely around him and the ego lay under him, still asleep. His head was tipped back, cushioned on the arm of the couch. Light snores escaped his gaping mouth.

    Just how drunk was he last night? Bim took in his situation with a fair amount of disbelief, and he didn’t dare move, just in case he woke Wilford up.

I could write an essay on what type of monster Bim is when he’s with Dark versus the type of monster he is with Wilford.

Ahead: blood, death, gun violence, implied CannaBim

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace

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Prompt 256: “Wake up! Please, please wake up!”

    One bullet, one bang! of his gun, and the contestant crumpled to the ground like the wimp he was.

    Can’t take a simple, goddamn bullet. Wilford huffed, disappointed. But nonetheless he pasted on his game-show smile and approached the surviving contestant. “Looks like you win, my friend!”

    The contestant didn’t seem interested. She cowered behind her podium and burst into hysterical sobs, clutching at the front of her sweater, the white of which was now splattered with vivid dots of blood.

    “Wake up! Please, please, wake up!” She wailed.

    “Now, now, calm down,” Wilford said easily. “He’ll be up and about in no time at all!”

    “You’re a monster!” The contestant’s voice only rose as she sunk to the ground, burying her head in her hands.

    “Whoooaaaa! There’s no need for that type of language. Look.” Wilford tucked his gun into his waistband. “If you’re so worried about it, I won’t shootcha. Scaredy-pants. You should be excited! You won!”

    He snapped his fingers and a microphone appeared in his hand. He held it to his mouth and turned to the “audience,” which consisted of no more than empty rows of chairs. “And thiiisssssss is your prize! Bim?”

    He gestured over to stage left and right on cue, Bim came sauntering out from behind the pink curtain, waving and blowing kisses to the audience’s programmed applause. He wore a bold grin as he came over and draped his arms around Wilford’s neck, leaning in for a kiss. “Mmm. Yes, Wilford?”

    “Show the lovely lady her prize?” It came out as a half-moaned, half-muffled garble.

    Bim sighed dramatically and pulled away, unhooking one of his arms from around Wilford’s neck so he could pluck the microphone from the pink ego’s hands, giving it a flourish over to stage right, where a stage-light flicked on to illuminate a pedestal, upon which sat a scrap of paper that had obviously been cut out of a magazine. “Ta-da! Your prize today is a half-off-your-order coupon to Starbucks!”

    As soon as the words left his lips he was turning back to Wilford, kissing him fiercely.

    When they finally did break away he grinned. “The bodies are mine, right?”

    “Of course, darling.” Wilford purred, ushering him back toward stage left. “I’ll just finish up here, and then I’ll be along.”

    “Love you, dear!” Bim waved at him, then at the “audience”- who gave him another thunderous round of applause- before disappearing again behind the curtain.

    Wilford smiled wistfully before turning to glance at his contestant, who had crept out from behind her podium and was attempting to reach the door.

I enjoyed this one a lot. I love Bim/Wilford

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @darkstache-iplier @tiny-yan-an @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace

Prompt: “Okay so it’s storming and I’m really scared of storms…can we possibly cuddle?…”/“I can’t help but giggle when you kiss my neck.” “You also squeak.“

    Storms meant something different to Wilford Warfstache. To him, storms were gunshots and bullets and bones snap-crack-popping and *murder.*

    And while Bim didn’t know much about Wilford’s past- didn’t know how old he was or even if “Warfstache” was his real name- he did know that storms did something very, very bad to Wilford’s head and that it had something to do with where he came from. Only Dark was privy to those details, and he wasn’t planning on sharing them any time soon.

    So Bim did what he could when thunder rumbled overhead and lightning lit up the darkening sky.

    He was setting up for tomorrow’s show when there came the first peal of thunder. He dropped his props- an entire basket of rubber ducks- and immediately reached for his gun. It would keep him safe. It would fend off the accusations and shouts of *murder* and dead bodies falling to the floor. It would protect him.

    A hand snagged his wrist, pried it away from his waistband.

    The pink ego jolted from his stupor, surprised and a little irritated to see it was Bim who interrupted him. The show host should know better.

    But Bim looked scared and not at all like his normal, charismatic self.

    “Okay so, it’s storming and I’m really scared of storms,” he chuckled nervously, clutching at Wilford’s hand like it would drive away the storm outside.

    Wilford puffed out his chest, slapped a grin on his face. He brought Bim’s hand to his lips and gave it a gentle kiss. “Do ya need me to protect you?”

    Thunder shook the facility and he flinched, hoped Bim didn’t notice.

    Relief filled him when he didn’t.

    “Can we possibly cuddle?” The show host spoke in a whisper.

    “Absolutely!” Wilford declared, and with a snap of his fingers they were in the living room and with another snap there was a roaring fire in the fireplace.

    Bim pulled Wilford down onto the couch, wrapping his arms around the pink ego and burrowing him face into the crook of his neck. He felt Wilford tentatively return the gesture, felt the slight tremor in his fingers, felt him flinch when another peal of thunder shook the facility.

    He pretended he didn’t notice, merely hugged him tighter, pressed a comforting kiss into his neck.

    He was surprised when Wilford made a high-pitched noise.

    Bim drew away, grinning. “What the hell was that?”

    “I can’t help it.” Wilford protested.

    “That was a squeak. Oh my god.” Bim laughed. He did it again, prompting the same reaction. “That’s amazing.”

    “I hate you, Trimmer.” There was no meaning behind it. Wilford giggled and leaned in to kiss him, but froze as thunder rolled and lightning lit the sky up white.

    “It’s okay,” Bim told him quietly.

    “You’re not really afraid of storms, are you?” Wilford mumbled after a few moments.

HAVE. SOME. ANGST. BECAUSE I WANT TO MAKE YOU ALL (AND MYSELF) SUFFER TODAY. Also I’m going to tag this ship as “bimford” since Idk what else to call it.

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Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace

Prompt 67: “I think I’ve been holding myself back from falling in love with you all over again.”

    “I think I’ve been holding myself back from falling in love with you all over again.” The words were whispered in his ear as he pretended to sleep, as a gentle thumb stroked his cheek.

    Bim kept his eyes closed, even as a kiss was pressed to his forehead, even as the warm arms withdrew and the bed jostled as Wilford got up and left. Only after the pink ego’s footsteps had faded away did he dare crack open his eyes.

    It was cold without him, and Bim wondered why he kept doing this. Kept returning to Wilford’s bed and his arms and his half-baked love when, ultimately, his leash was held by Dark. When Wilford would always leave in the middle of the night. When they never really could be together.

    “I think I’ve been in love with you all along,” he whispered to the empty side of the bed that, moments ago, was alive and safe and warm. A single tear trickled down his cheek, solitary because he bit back the rest. He would not cry over Wilford Warfstache.