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Having "a lot" of followers on tumblr is funny because probably 80% of them are ghost blogs who haven't been on here in like a decade.

It's like, no no, those aren't my followers, that's a graveyard! I'm the caretaker of a thousands of tombs. I love them, but they've been dead for seven years.

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stanley pines the man that you are

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People who try to copy historical writing styles don't say enough weird stuff in them. I'm listening to a 1909 story about a ghost car right now, and the narrator just said he honked the car horn a bunch of times, but the way he phrased it was "I wrought a wild concerto on the hooter".

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man why the fuck did my cat eat a q-tip

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i don’t really care about them at all even. (🤞)

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MORE CARMEN SANDIEGO X GRAVITY FALLS SCREENCAP REDRAW

i love his face

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Doodles for Stanley Saturday and Stanford Sunday <3

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Afterimage: a Fiddlestan fanfiction

"I know I'm not as good as him."

A post-Fiddauthor Fiddlestan fic exploring trauma, aftermath equations, healing together, and loss.

Chapter 2

It had been a difficult decision, coming to stand on the steps of this wooden porch again.

Nearly all of Fiddleford’s reflexes, reactions, and base common good sense had screamed at him to leave well enough alone. But, here he was once again: abandoning all reason for a senseless fealty to Stanford Pines.

And into the maw of the devil. What in tarnation was he doing?

Everything inside of him thrashed against being here.

When Stanford’s twin had asked him to come, Fiddleford had truly meant it when he’d said that he’d have to think on it. He'd been unable to stop thinking on it since, tossing and turning all the previous night as an unwelcome cascade of memories had reemerged in the process.

All the while, Fiddleford had found himself repeatedly returning not only to his mix of horribly complicated feelings about the—former?—love of his goddamn life, but to Stanford’s brother as well. The look in the man’s eyes when he’d brought up Stanford, the haunted expression as he briefly explained the situation.

He also hadn’t forgotten how Stanford’s twin—Stanley, he reminded himself—had waited until after he was untied to ask for his help.

So, despite having been able to resist all of Stanford’s pleading through Fiddleford’s apartment door to speak to him again, despite everything—in the end, he couldn’t ignore the tug inside of him. The fish hook in his gut that slingshotted him back to Stanford Pines time and fucking time again.

He hesitated before the door, fist raised to knock. 

The door swung open and Fiddleford had to yank his fist back before it landed onto the face of the man he loved. 

No, almost-the-face of the man he loved.

The slight dissonance was jarring—he blinked, and felt he could see the memory of his former lover overlaid upon his twin, a bright spot in Fiddleford’s vision from looking too long at the sun. Looking at Stanley Pines was like seeing a blurred double-image; an optical illusion that almost made him feel a bit queasy.

“You came,” the optical illusion breathed out, taking in the sight of Fiddleford standing there. He came back to himself after a moment and stepped aside in tacit invitation. 

Fiddleford tensed, body and mind shouting opposite commands, but reluctantly dragged himself through the threshold. Stanley stood in the hallway, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Do you, uh… want any coffee, or,” 

“Yes, thank you.”

Fiddleford glanced around nervously, arms wrapped around himself, his leg starting to jiggle in place a little as he took in the sight of Stanford’s cabin again. The outside looked different, but from what he could see of the inside it didn't seem like much had changed—a fair deal messier than when he had last left the place—

Then he peeked through the window of the leftmost door.

Oh.

No, it had… definitely changed. 

A lot.

“Uh…” he started, not sure what to say. But then, Stanley returned with a steaming mug in his hand.

“Oh, thank you,” he murmured as his instinctive etiquette kicked into autopilot. He took the mug in both hands, blew on it, then sipped. Then, repressed making a face.

“Sure,” Stanford’s twin—Stanley—replied awkwardly.

“Ah, d’you have any sugar, or—”

“Oh, yeah, of course—”

A few fumbling moments later they stood in the kitchen together a little stiffly, mugs in hand.

“So, uh—thanks for coming. I… yeah. Thanks. Wasn’t sure that you would. It, uh. Means a lot.”

“Um… yeah, ‘course… I mean.”

After another beat of uncomfortable silence Stanley seemed to remember chairs—swearing briefly under his breath—and soon they were sitting on the two no longer piled high with scattered papers and books. Fiddleford felt something strange unfurl in his chest as the thought flickered through his mind that these must have been from Stanley rummaging through his brother’s work to try to find something to help. 

He ignored the feeling. 

Fiddleford made an awkward little noise not quite dignified enough to be called a cough. “So, ah. You said last night that Stanford got himself in a mess of trouble with a… machine. In his basement. One that I may have been involved with. And now he’s gone?”

He’d had a feeling already that he knew what it was, but wanted—and also, desperately did not want—Stanley to confirm it out loud.

Unfortunately, Stanley obliged.

“Ford called it some kinda… interdimensional portal, thing. Mega… meta… vor…plex… somethin’. Not sure. He wasn’t too big on labeling his notes clearly. But, portal, definitely, anyways. We had a fight, and—my fault—he… he went right through it. …Never came back.”

And there it was.

Fiddleford could feel himself tremble so hard that he knew it must be visible. In some distant corner of his mind he also knew he ought to be ashamed of his cowardice—but damned if he wasn’t too afraid for those kinds of thoughts to even matter right now.

“I don’t… I can’t…” he stammered.

Read the full chapter on ao3

Read from the beginning

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stan walking in on nude fidds ft. sock suspenders. you know he wears them

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why didn’t we get to see ford in his evil warlock era

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how i process fiddlestan

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Afterimage: a Fiddlestan fanfiction

"I know I'm not as good as him."

A month after opening the Murder Hut, Stan is no closer to finding any clues as to how to get Ford back—until one literally jumps him.

Rating: E (not until much later chapters, nor central to plot) No archive warnings apply

Chapter 1

After reading Ford’s journal front-to-back for weeks now, it wasn’t really as if Stan ought to have been surprised when he saw the… thing? Creature? “Anomaly”? Weird little guy? Whatever it was.

And, after the colorful history of his entire adult life, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he got jumped. His body wasn’t, at least—long-trained reflexes had his assailants on the ground before they could drag Stan off to God-knows-wherever anyone would want to drag Stan off to in Buttfuck Nowhere, Oregon.

But seriously, getting jumped here? He hadn’t been expecting it. Nobody had caught up to him here yet. He knew that the faked death might not convince every person who wanted a pound of his flesh (and not in the fun way), but had still thought that between it and the literally-not-on-any-maps seclusion of this sleepy little town, he’d reached a rare place of relative safety.

Aside from, y’know, giant zombie bats or whatever, tree giants that ate cars. Shit like that.

Of course Ford would have been living here.

But, apparently, Stan now had to add “cloaked weirdos sneaking up behind you” to the list of exceptions to that safety. Seriously, what the fuck? The dude sprawling underneath him looked like some cultist out of a cheap comic book from his youth.

Stan went to lift their hoods—might as well have a better idea of what he was dealing with, especially if he saw these people around town or something later. 

The first person was nondescript enough, nobody Stan was familiar with, but the second person—

Stan tensed. 

He’d been all through Ford’s basement laboratory; had utterly ransacked it by now, searching desperately for some small clues as to the portal’s origins, reconstruction, and use.

And now, one was knocked flat on his ass unconscious beneath Stan.

The the very 70s facial hair was gone, replaced by a haggard sense of age beyond what a decade alone should have dealt to his looks—but the rest of the face was the same, right down to the tiny round glasses.

“Try to forget,” the ripped photo in the drawer had said.

Who forget who, Stan had wondered at the time; it hadn’t been in Ford’s handwriting, though. 

Stan needed answers, and he needed them yesterday. And here before him was the first hope in hell of getting any that he’d had since the journal he'd already read cover-to-cover at least 20 times.

But how to get them from this guy?

Fiddleford H…—H…? …fuck—Fiddleford McGucket woke with a start, in about his second-least-favorite way to wake up. He started to shake as he thrashed against his bindings—how did the damned thing get at him—before he realized that he wasn’t in the bunker, and that these bindings weren't as extensive as before—and that he couldn’t quite remember what it was that he was even scared of in the first place, nor the bunker.

But he was still tied up, in the forest, at night, so he started thrashing harder.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” came an unfamiliar, gravelly voice from the shadows. Through them, Fiddleford could make out the silhouette of the man he’d been unsuccessful at restraining—at helping, he immediately corrected himself.

Clearly, the experience of not only seeing the eerie creature, but also of being unable to have the Society’s help in soothing his mind from the frightful experience had set this man on edge, and he’d lashed out in confused retaliation. Nevermind—he would feel better as soon as Fiddleford could, well, escort him back to the Society’s base, and they could calm his agitated nerves.

Getting an impression of the man’s bulk and the way he moved with the well-honed grace of a predator-prey, Fiddleford wasn’t sure how he was going to manage that on his own. Upon reflection, maybe it had been a bit foolish thinking that just he and a single colleague alone could usher this man back to their base of operations.

Fiddleford squirmed and jerked around, regardless of what the stranger said, as he tried to come up with a plan. He’d just have to use some manner of persuasion—somehow—but the silhouetted figure sighed, cutting off Fiddleford’s thoughts.

“Listen, those bindings aren’t comin’ undone ’til I cut you loose, you’ll just give yourself rope burn.”

The stranger shifted closer, and a beam of bright moonlight struck his face.

Fiddleford gasped, then gagged, then choked a little.

“Ah fuck—” he heard the unfamiliar voice mutter, and a meaty fist was pounded to Fiddleford’s back as he coughed.

“Y—you,” Fiddleford gasped. “Th—wh—who—”

His face worked furiously as his mind scrambled through half-shredded fragments of memory.

Then it clicked, hitting him in the gut like a freight train as broken recollections pieced themselves back together again.

“Stanford?!” he started, staring up at his former friend, wild-eyed—then, looking him over, he registered the slight incongruities of the heavy man’s features, and blanched.

Five fingers.

The voice hadn’t been right, either.

Memories of the shapeshifter came crashing back to him, and his heart raced like a hunted rabbit as he searched for a way out. He found none. 

Fiddleford flopped frantically like a hooked fish, senseless with terror. 

He would have fallen flat on his face and probably broken something had it not been for strong, broad hands catching his pathetically panicking form.

“Woah, uh, hey there—” an awkward rumble came from Not-Stanford, as thick arms loosely encircled Fiddleford.

There was a hesitant gentleness now to this creature's voice and gestures that Fiddleford couldn't reconcile. The shapeshifter was masterful at visual deception, but he couldn’t imagine it capable of being startled into tenderness, nor imitating such a reaction so well.

And not so masterful this time with the visual deception either—so then, what…?

Fiddleford shook violently in Stanford-Not-Stanford’s hovering grasp as he searched the doppelgänger’s face. The trickles of memories knitting themselves back together had become floods, and he remembered Actual-Stanford rambling enthusiastically about the traits of certain shapeshifting anomalies: those who could become lookalikes, but usually missed some key features. 

Like the cleft chin, Fiddleford remembered. 

No glasses either, and the hair was much too long for the time that had passed. 

In his wild panic, Fiddleford had even examined the hands for signs of stumps where sixth digits used to be, but nothing. 

There was only one explanation that Fiddleford was drawing, and it was not a good one.

Why then the genuine concern on this shapeshifter’s face? 

Cautiously, the creature lowered Fiddleford’s back to rest against a tree, propping him into a more comfortable sitting position.

“Look, I’m sorry about the restraints—sort of; to be fair, you did jump me.”

“You’re not Stanford,” he spat at it.

“I’m not Stanford,” the creature agreed.

Read the full fic on ao3

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Somehow, the universe diverges and officially becomes FordSwap, where he in fact does not fix it.

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Checking the calculations

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I draw the strangest shit in voice calls. He’s generating electricity!

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Do NOT let OSHA get to this man, he's a walking hazard!