#Stetson Pinefield

[grilledcheese-savage]

Ok I finished the school version a while back so I’m posting it now so you can read it. It’s short and is only the first two chapters, but if you like it please give me a sub and stay tuned for the full uncensored version (it’s still for general audiences, I’m just going to allow for curses and beer references)

It’s cute bonding between a man and his future niece (he doesn’t know it yet).

Here’s the summary: The Summer of 1978 was ending and Stan pines (formerly known as Steve Pinington, Stetson Pinefield and a barrage of other fake names to hide from the cops) found himself in deep shit. No funds. No products left to spin. And no one left to care.

But all of this was about to change when he finds this cotton candy stuffed, glitter braced- teethy kid at the foot of his car (he may or may not have hit her with his car). Will Mabel pines be able to teach this Scammer how to love himself? And will Stan take a risk and say he’s sorry…?

All the while, a growingly paranoid Stanford finds himself a mini me.

Sorry if it seems rushed, it will be better in the true version!

[stanleypinesgf]

Falling for Mystery - Chapter Eleven*

Falling for Mystery Masterlist Warnings: nsfw (mdni), smut, 18+ only, praise kink, oral (m receiving), light choking, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, stan is possessive in a gooood way, (they drank whiskey but they're not drunk). if i missed any warnings lmk, my first time writing anything like this, i hope y'all enjoy! Please note: this is a slow burn fic with smut and mature themes, 18+ only and please check warnings at the start of chapters! TYSM for all the support so far!!

w/c: 4,647

Some days had passed since we slept together, but things between us were better than ever. The once-awkward balance between work and companionship was slowly giving way to something easier. Mornings were filled with the usual chaos of the Mystery Shack—customers streaming in and out, Stan spinning tales while I manned the counter or sorted through the ever-growing stockpile of bizarre trinkets. We had fallen into a kind of rhythm: work, banter, quiet evenings together on the porch. There was something about those moments after the day's rush, when we’d sit side by side, watching the sky turn colors as the sun dipped below the trees, that made everything feel... well, simpler.

It was different now; instead of the stolen glances and keeping our distance, we would often hold hands, cuddle up, or sometimes Stan would pull me into his lap. He wasn’t one for big displays of affection, but it was the little things, a shoulder bump here, a gruff “You did good today, doll” there. It made me feel like, despite his grumbling and tough exterior, I mattered to him.

Still, even with the comfort of our growing bond, there was something I hadn’t been able to shake: the box of fake IDs.

I hadn’t meant to find them. A few days ago, Stan had asked me to grab a stack of old posters from his office, something about using them to restock the gift shop with "limited edition" Shack memorabilia. I had been in his office before, but never for long enough to look around and take in the contents.

“They’re in the back, on the left shelf, behind all that junk,” he’d grunted, waving me off while he handled some rowdy kids in the gift shop. More than happy to help and get away from the noise, I nodded and went on my way.

I’d gone in, half-expecting to get lost in the clutter. Stan’s office was more like a black hole for random objects; old trinkets, odd tools, boxes stacked haphazardly on top of each other. In all honesty, I wasn’t even sure what he had the office for. Most of the work he did was right in the gift shop and I was his only employee. Mulling over these thoughts, I carried on digging through the dusty trinkets and battered boxes. It was while rummaging through the chaos that I found the smaller cardboard box, tucked away behind a stack of Mystery Shack t-shirts and under a pile of dusty paperwork.

I hadn’t meant to snoop. Honestly, I hadn’t. But curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it, I was lifting the lid, my breath catching in my throat as I saw what was inside.

Fake IDs. At least five or six of them, each with a different name but the same face—Stan’s face. Stetson Pinefield. Hal Forrester. Steve Pinington. I stared at them, my mind racing. Rumors in town had always swirled about Stan’s shady past, about the "conman days" that no one ever talked about outright, but this... this was more than rumors.

For a long moment, I just stood there, the IDs in my hand, my heart thudding in my chest. What did this mean? Why would Stan need so many fake identities? And why did I feel like I was prying into something I wasn’t supposed to know?

Eventually, I shoved the box back where I found it, grabbed the posters, and hurried out of the office without digging through that box any further, my thoughts a mess.

That had been days ago, and I still hadn’t confronted him about it. Part of me wanted to, needed to, but another part held back. Stan had been nothing but good to me, even if he was rough around the edges. I wasn’t ready to throw all that trust into question, it was still so new to me. 

A knock on my bedroom door pulled me out of my thoughts. Stan’s voice followed, a little too casual. “Hey, you decent in there? I’m not about to walk in on somethin’ I shouldn’t, am I?”

I rolled my eyes, smiling despite the tight knot in my stomach. “Yeah, you’re safe. Come in.”

He stepped in, leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved into the pockets of his vest. “So, I’ve been thinkin’... We’ve been workin’ our butts off lately, and, uh, I figured maybe it’s time we take a break. You know, do somethin’ fun. Like a date.”

“A date?” I blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. It had been almost a week since we had slept together, and honestly, I was feeling ready to take things a little further before I found those damn IDs; they had me trapped in my own head again.

“Yeah, you know—dinner, small talk, maybe I don’t act like a complete idiot for once.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at me. “Figured I owe ya, considering I keep you holed up working here at the Shack day in, day out. So, whaddya say?”

I smiled, feeling a little warmth push through the nervousness that had been gnawing at me. This was Stan; awkward, rough around the edges, but in his own way, he was trying. And that meant something.

“Alright,” I said softly. “I’d love that; it’s a date.”

Stan’s grin turned smug. “Great! Just make sure you get all dolled up; I wanna have the best-looking date in town.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Dolled up? I don’t know... it’s been a while since I tried that.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “C’mon, you’ll knock it outta the park. Trust me, I know you clean up nice.”

I shifted, feeling a little uncertain. “Yeah, but... what if I overdo it? I’m not exactly used to... y’know, dressing up.”

Stan chuckled, his hand brushing my arm. “Relax. Whatever you wear, you’re gonna look great. Besides,” he added, smirking, “it’s not like I can get any luckier.”

I smiled, a bit shy but feeling reassured. “Alright... I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he said softly, his grin never fading.

I took a deep breath, smoothing the fabric of the only dress I owned—a simple black number that, while not fancy, clung in all the right places. I’d paired it with my nicest shoes, a pair of slightly scuffed heels that hadn’t seen much action lately. I’d even dusted off some of my nicer makeup, just enough to give myself a bit of colour and added some sparkly earrings for good measure. As I stepped out into the living room, nerves twisting in my stomach, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Stan’s reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his usual cocky grin fading as he stared at me like he’d never seen me before. He blinked once, then twice, his gaze slowly sweeping over me from head to toe, like he was genuinely speechless.

“Holy—” He let out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look... wow.”

I felt my face flush under his intense stare, suddenly more self-conscious than I’d anticipated. “It’s nothing fancy,” I mumbled, fiddling with the hem of my dress.

“Nothin’ fancy?” Stan’s voice sounded almost hoarse as he stepped closer, still taking me in. “You look incredible, sweetheart.”

But then I caught sight of him, and the words I’d been about to say stuck in my throat. He wasn’t in his usual black suit. Instead, he’d gone all out, wearing a light brown jacket over a burgundy shirt, the top few buttons undone just enough to reveal the glint of his gold chail resting against his chest. Paired with light trousers, the whole look somehow made him seem taller, broader, and more effortlessly handsome than I’d ever seen him. I couldn’t help but stare, feeling my breath hitch.

“Stan... you clean up pretty well yourself,” I said softly, my eyes tracing the lines of his suit, lingering on the gold chain that hung so casually beneath his shirt. He looked sharp, and it was suddenly impossible not to feel the pull between us.

He grinned, that familiar spark returning to his eyes. “Told ya I could make an effort when I want to.”

The restaurant he took me to wasn’t anything fancy, but it was a little fancier than Greasy’s. A small place on the edge of town, with white tablecloths and the smell of good food hanging in the air. It was perfect. Stan was in rare form, regaling me with stories about the Shack, the customers, and even a few tall tales about the strange tourists that wandered through Gravity Falls. For a while, it felt easy, like there was nothing weighing us down.

But even as we laughed over our meals, my mind kept drifting back to that box of IDs. Who was Stan, really? And why was he hiding so much? I pushed these thoughts down, determined not to let my own head ruin anything else for me.

Back at the Shack, we settled into the comfortable quiet that had become familiar. Stan leaned against the counter, pouring two small glasses of cheap whiskey. “You want one?”

I nodded, watching him as he handed me a glass, our fingers brushing for a moment. There was that spark again—the unspoken connection that always seemed to hover between us, even in the quietest moments.

We sat down together on the worn couch, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the moon outside. I sipped my drink, feeling the warmth spread through me, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the IDs, the questions I couldn’t shake.

Stan seemed to notice my silence, glancing over at me. “You okay?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just... thinking.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he looked away, as if he could sense the questions but wasn’t ready to answer them.

As the night wore on, the air between us remained charged. Not just with the usual tension, but with something else, something unspoken yet heavy. Eventually, I curled up against him, letting his arm drape around me and seeking comfort in the familiarity of his presence. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, enveloping me in a cocoon of safety.

“Hey,” Stan murmured, tilting my chin up gently to meet his gaze. “What’s really on your mind?”

I hesitated, caught in the intensity of his stare. The questions lingered, but in that moment, the space between us felt electric, and I realized I didn’t want to think anymore; I wanted to feel.

“Just you,” I admitted softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

His expression shifted, surprise flickering across his face before it melted into something deeper. “Yeah? What about me?”

I leaned closer, drawn in by the gravity of his gaze, my heart racing with anticipation. The warmth of the whiskey in my stomach only heightened the clarity of my feelings; I was here, fully present and aware of the moment.

In that charged silence, I felt the decision wash over me. I wanted this, wanted him. My lips found his in a deep, slow kiss. I rested my forehead against his, gauging his response.

Stan’s breath hitched as he closed the distance once again, his lips capturing mine in a hungrier kiss. It was as if all the tension, all the unsaid words, poured into that moment, igniting a fire that had been simmering just below the surface for days.

I melted against him, my fingers tangling in his hair as he deepened the kiss, exploring with a mixture of urgency and tenderness. The world around us faded away; all that mattered was the taste of whiskey on his lips, the warmth of his body against mine, and the way he made me feel alive.

Stan pulled back slightly, his breath warm against my skin as he searched my eyes for any sign of hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty danced in his gaze, but it quickly turned into a more daring spark. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and inviting, “do you want to maybe head to my room for a bit? Only if you wanted to. I just thought... we could keep this going.” His teasing grin was there, but the way he looked at me was earnest, making it clear he wanted to gauge my feelings before moving forward.

I felt a rush of excitement mixed with nervousness, but I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He flashed that signature smirk, and I couldn’t help but return it as he took my hand, leading me through the dimly lit hallway. As we reached his room, I was surprised by how tidy it was. His clothes neatly folded, the bed made, and even a faint scent of something fresh lingering in the air. It was a side of Stan I hadn't seen before, and it made my heart race just a little faster.

As we stepped into his room, the warmth from our earlier kisses lingered in the air. The soft light from a lamp cast gentle shadows across the walls, making the space feel almost cozy, a stark contrast to the bustling chaos of the Shack. I took in the little details, the framed posters of oddities he’d collected over the years, the quirky knickknacks scattered on shelves. I felt a sense of intimacy settle over us.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” I said, trying to keep the mood light, but the tension crackled just beneath the surface.

Stan chuckled, a hint of bashfulness creeping into his demeanor as he glanced around. “Yeah, I don’t usually let it get this tidy. Guess I wanted to make a good impression.”

His honesty caught me off guard, and I took a small step closer, drawn in by the moment. “You definitely did,” I replied softly, our eyes locking again, and in that instant, the world outside faded away.

The air felt thick with unspoken words, and I could see the flicker of desire in Stan’s eyes, mirrored by my own feelings. He took another step forward, closing the distance between us until there was barely any space left. “I... I really like being here with you,” he murmured, his voice husky.

“Me too,” I breathed, my heart pounding as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin.

With a shared, silent understanding, we both leaned in, the kiss rekindling with a newfound urgency. My hands found their way to the back of his neck as he pulled me closer, our bodies fitting together perfectly. The kiss deepened, our breaths mingling, and I could feel the heat radiating between us, amplifying every pulse of longing in my chest.

When we finally broke apart, both of us slightly breathless, Stan’s eyes searched mine again, looking for confirmation. “You’re still sure about this?” he asked, his brow slightly furrowed with concern, as if he wanted to make absolutely certain I was okay.

I nodded, feeling bold and exhilarated. “I am.”

He smiled at that, a mix of relief and joy washing over his features. Without breaking eye contact, he guided me further into the room, his hands resting on my waist. The moment felt electric, a dance of anticipation and desire as we explored the boundaries of our connection.

As the tension thickened, I felt a surge of confidence. I took his hand, guiding it gently to my neck, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down my spine. “I trust you,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath.

His breath hitched, and I could see the heat in his eyes ignite.

“Fuck,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face. “You really know how to push my buttons, don’t you?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin. “But if we’re gonna play like this, we need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

I felt a thrill at his words, drawing me in even deeper. “What do you mean?”

He held my gaze, his voice dipping into a husky whisper. “I wanna take charge, but I also want you to feel safe. Let’s set a safe word, somethin’ we can use if things get too intense. How about ‘pinecone��?”

A laugh escaped my lips, and I nodded, the absurdity of it only adding to the excitement. “Pinecone it is.”

“Good girl,” he said, his eyes darkening with desire as he tightened his grip slightly, his thumb brushing along my collarbone. “Now, let’s see just how far we can take this.”

With that, he leaned in again, capturing my lips with his, and the world around us faded away, leaving only the heat and hunger between us. As his hands roamed my body, I felt a rush of confidence surge through me.

“Stan,” I breathed, pulling back just enough to catch his gaze. “I want you.”

A smirk played on his lips, and he leaned closer, his voice low and sultry. “You think you can handle it? I wanna see you down on your knees for me. Show me how much you want it.”

My heart raced at his words. The thrill of his command sent a shiver down my spine. I nodded, my breath hitching in anticipation. Slowly, I sank to my knees, feeling the power shift between us.

Stan’s gaze was intense, filled with approval and desire. “That’s it. Just like that. You look so pretty on your knees for me,” he praised, his voice dripping with lust. “Now, take your time. I wanna feel every bit of you.”

Slowly, I unbuckled his belt, pulling down his trousers and boxers, peppering his thighs with kisses. His bedroom was lighter than mine, and I found myself wide-eyed at his size. My mouth watered at the sight of his hard cock, and with a deep breath, I licked a stripe from the base to the tip. His hands flew to my hair, eyes screwed shut and head thrown back as he sucked in a sharp breath. I leaned in, my lips brushing against his tip as I took him in my mouth, savoring the taste and the moment as I started slowly bobbing my head.

“Just like that,” he encouraged, his fingers tangling in my hair. “You’re doin’ so well. I knew you would be so good for me.”

I looked up at him through my lashes, meeting his gaze, resulting in a low, drawn-out moan from Stan that shot straight to my cunt. He noticed me squirming, desperate for any friction I could get.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down my spine. “Lift that dress for me.”

I hesitated for a moment, but the intensity in his gaze urged me on. Slowly, I raised my dress, exposing my thighs, and I could see the hunger in his eyes grow.

“Now, I want you to touch yourself, over your panties,” he commanded, his tone firm yet laced with desire. “Show me how much you want this.”

I felt a rush of heat as I obeyed, my fingers brushing against the damp fabric as I took his cock deeper and deeper. The thrill of his gaze made me wetter by the second, and I could hear his breath quicken when I moaned around him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, leaning back slightly, his eyes never leaving me. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this. Just for me.”

The words sent a jolt of pleasure through me, and I let out a soft gasp, my fingers moving with more urgency. Stan watched intently, the tension between us thickening as I surrendered to the moment, lost in the sensations and his commanding presence. I had newfound confidence, taking his cock all the way to the back of my throat, earning a higher and more desperate moan from him. His fingers tensed in my hair, tugging at my scalp in a way that felt delicious.

“Fuck, baby, I won’t last if you keep on like that,” he panted, ragged and urgent.

He pulled me to my feet and straight into a frenzied kiss. He walked me back toward the bed and almost threw me onto it. His careful demeanor from the other night was a mere ghost; Stan was filled with desperation and passion, and it was driving me wild.

“Arms up, doll, let’s get this off,” he panted, helping me out of my dress. He lay me back, making quick work of pulling my underwear off and getting started on his shirt buttons.

He caged me in underneath his large frame, arms either side of my head, his gold medallion dangling in my face. In the heat of the moment, I opened my mouth, allowing the cool metal to drop onto my tongue, closing my lips around it.

“You’re so filthy, doll; you have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathed before sucking a dark purple hickey onto my collarbone.

“Keep it in your mouth for me, like a good girl,” he growled.

I moaned around his medallion, arching my back as he continued licking, biting, and sucking all the spots that drove me wild. His fingers dipped down between my folds.

“Shit, you’re soaked,” he rasped into my ear, pushing back to look into my eyes. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Letting me take control.”

I nodded frantically, my lips still wrapped around his chain. His fingers slipped inside me as he rubbed my clit with his thumb, my hips bucking wildly as I was reduced to muffled moans. The wet sounds of his fingers spurred me on, tightening around him as he watched me, an intensity in his gaze that made me weak at the knees.

“I know you’re close for me, doll; you can let go,” he cooed. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

And with that, the coil within me snapped, and it felt even better than before. My jaw went slack, and my eyes scrunched tight as I rode out the pleasure. As I came down from my high, I could feel the wetness between my legs. Opening my eyes, I saw Stan gawking at me, as if he’d never seen anything like it before.

“Stan? What is it?” I asked, starting to feel shy.

“You just... did you know you could do that?”

Looking down, I saw the drenched sheets before me, shaking my head. Before the embarrassment could set in, his lips were on mine, setting an aggressive pace.

“You’re so hot, sweetheart, soaking me like that,” his voice dripping with pride.

He reached up, pulling the chain over his head and placing it around my neck. “Think you can wear this for me while I fuck you, hm? A little reminder of who you belong to,” he murmured against my lips.

“God yes, Stan, I’m yours,” I breathed.

He froze for a second as he was lining himself up with my cunt, slowly dragging his cock through the slick mess he’d created. He had to stop himself from slamming all the way in at the sight of me wearing his chain.

Once he was all the way inside, he whispered, “Say that again for me, baby, please.” It was a plea, as if it meant more to him than I could ever know.

“Stan, I’m yours and only yours, please,” I pleaded. “Fuck me and don’t hold back.”

It was like something snapped inside him at my words. He drilled into me at a punishing pace, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body. I could see the fire in his eyes, a mix of desire and determination that made my heart race.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice low and gravelly. “So goddamn perfect.” His gaze dropped to my chest, where his medallion lay, glinting between my breasts. “You don’t know how much I love seeing my chain on you like this,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “It suits you.”

With each thrust, he leaned in closer, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his hands gripping my hips as he drove deeper. “And I’m gonna make sure you remember it.”

I could feel the heat radiating from him, and it only fuelled the fire within me. “Stan,” I gasped, losing myself in the rhythm of our bodies.

He chuckled, a wicked glint in his eye. “That’s right, keep saying my name. I want to hear you scream it.” His pace quickened, and I could barely keep up with the pleasure building inside me.

“Just like that,” he encouraged, his voice thick with desire. “You’re doing so well. Let go for me. Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

As the tension coiled tighter, I couldn’t hold back much longer, surrendering to the waves of ecstasy threatening to wash over me. His thrusts became erratic, the world blurred around the edges, lost in the moment and the connection we shared.

“God, you feel amazing,” Stan gasped, his voice thick with desire. “Look at you, absolutely perfect.” His hands gripped my hips, guiding me as he moved with a relentless rhythm, his eyes locked on mine, filled with admiration.

As the heat surged within me, I felt him lean in closer, his hand wrapping lightly around my throat, applying just enough pressure to heighten every sensation. “That’s it, just let go,” he urged, his tone both commanding and encouraging. “Squeezing me so tight, cum for me.”

With a final wave of pleasure crashing over me, I surrendered completely, gasping as I came undone. “Stan!” I cried, feeling the rush of ecstasy wash over me.

His breath hitched, and I could see the moment he lost control too. “That’s it, doll. Just like that,” he groaned, his eyes widening with pleasure. As he reached his peak, he pulled me closer, his hips stilling, pushing himself deeper as he tensed.

In that shared moment, we both succumbed to the intensity, lost in the bliss of our connection.

As the afterglow settled in, I felt a warm heaviness in my limbs, the world around me softening. Stan’s arm was wrapped securely around me, his presence both comforting and protective in a way that took me by surprise. I glanced up at him, trying to gauge his expression.

“Didn’t know I had it in me, huh?” he said with a smirk, but there was a softness in his eyes that betrayed his confidence. “You really unlocked something in me. You feelin’ okay?”

I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rush of affection. I nodded. “I didn’t expect you to get so… intense.”

“Yeah, well,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Guess I got a little carried away. But I liked it. A lot.” He leaned closer, his gaze steady. “And I like you. A lot.”

The way he said it sent warmth through me, a mix of protectiveness and genuine care that felt new and exhilarating. “You’re not usually like this?” I asked, still processing the intensity of the moment.

“Not really,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I think you bring it out of me. Just don’t go thinking I’ll let anyone else have you.” There was a playful edge to his tone, but I could sense the sincerity behind it.

I nodded, feeling a sense of safety and warmth in his words. “I wouldn’t want anyone else,” I replied softly, curling into him.

“Good,” he said, his grip tightening around me as if to emphasize his point. “Now get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

As I drifted off, I felt the reassuring weight of his arm around me, knowing that whatever this was, it was something special. Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[cryptographs-and-casinos]

Do you know a Stanley Pines??? You seem very interested in the dude's brother

I know of a Panley Stines. I know of a Stetson Pinefield. I know of a Hal Forrester. I know of an Andrew '8-Ball' Alcatraz. All of them well-renowned in the gambling community, betting on losing dogs while making mediocre products. I know all of them, and I know all the men who'd kill to bite into his jugular and rip out his guts to take a bite and leave them for dead. But I don't think that's what you were referring to, was it? <3

[flurpyz]

Gravity Falls OC

Today is the day, guys. Let me introduce you to my OC Joseph E. Miller! Joe for friends.

Joseph was born on February 17th, 1949. In 1959 his family moves to New Jersey, where he meets Pines twins. They become close friends, but 6 years later Joe leaves town without a warning. In 1967 he goes to Backupsmore University, where in 1969 he meets one of the twins again. Joseph graduates in 1971 and goes back to hometown to help run his parents’ store. In 1977 he goes on a trip around the country on saved up money. 2 years later he runs into Stetson Pinefield. They travel together for a while, but get parted after an accident. Joseph continues travelling until he comes across a newspaper with the news of Stan Pines' death. He immediately heads to Gravity Falls in 1985 to check on old friend.

So yeah, here it is! In this timeline Pines twins were born on June 15th, 1951 (I rely on fordtato’s timeline from their video essay), what makes Joseph two years older. By the way, I would appreciate asks about him<3

[jacky-rubou]

I just went down a small baby name meaning rabbit hole and discovered what Stan and Ford's names mean. I'm not sure why but I did.

I searched for Ford's full name and nickname for good measure.

yes I know the name Stanford was probably because of the university if anything but stony river seems fitting in a way (I say river over just ford like the first screenshot because that's what ford means anyway according to the second one). I am not sure why, but it does.

and then I searched for Stan's full name. But his nickname means the same as his full name so I didn't bother adding it here too... ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

That's interesting. I think it does fit Stan. But I'll leave that to y'all because i don't know.

(these are very apparently written by different people btw)

oh also-

(click on photo bcuz tumblr dumb)

Stetson being suggested as a good sibling name for Stanford is funny when you consider Stan's 'Stetson Pinefield' alias haha.

I looked for Dipper but couldn't find definitions until I just used Mason. His is the obvious 'stone mason' or one who works with stone, stuff like that. but one of the sibling name suggestions was Maple which was super funny to me because it's what Soos apparently believed Mabel's name was haha.

Mabel means lovable, and I couldn't agree more.

other than that, that's pretty much what I found in the pines family haha.

here's the site I was using btw.

[presidentstalkeyes]

You mentioned that Stan has a bunch of Archetypes in the Gravity Falls/Psychonauts crossover, can we please get some more info on them?

Now this is still a work in progress - in fact it was this question that got me actually thinking about this. :V

We know that Stan has a lot of false identities, each of them with their own documents and personal history. We also know from what we see of his mindscape that he's clearly a master of compartmentalizing, neatly filing away all of his thoughts into boxes - probably a reflection of his history of only revealing what he needs to and keeping everything else under close guard, whether it's for his personal safety or for the safety of his 'rescue Ford' mission.

In this AU where's a psychic, this serves an additional purpose - indeed, he's been to his own mindscape thanks to not only the Psychic 6/7, but an earlier fling with a psychic cult while he was living on the streets (long story). He keeps everything so organized and guarded in case anyone were to intrude, looking for his secrets. That's why Bill Cipher had such a hard time finding the code to his safe, in spite of his enormous power that should make such a task completely trivial. Sasha Nein would be in envy of this level of control. :V

He'd already developed a lot of his Archetypes before Cassie tutored him in Projection, albeit unknowingly. His false identities, always starting out as blank slates, usually a name, date of birth and hometown, which he would gradually add to over time - more natural that way. By the time he'd learned what psychic archetypes are, many of them had developed into full-blown characters of their own.

Like Stetson Pinefield, who dreamed of winning the Kentucky Derby but broke his leg when a horse box fell on him and could never ride again, or Andrew '8-Ball' Alcatraz who fled his home country under that name (a double-layered false name, just to throw people off even further - his 'real' name was Sergio Perez) to avoid getting caught up in a civil war, or Hal Forester who just wanted to raise money for a tree sanctuary.

Turned out to have been a big help when he was running the Shack - he didn't use his powers much because he was pretending to be his non-psychic twin, but occasionally he'd find some use for his old false identities, like tricking 'old friends' into going the wrong way, or the cops, or just to scare the bejesus out of some tourists. Well, that and letting him easily break into government toxic waste dumps. And he had to admit, sometimes he'd just talk to them for no reason. Okay, a lot of the time. Almost every day back before he found Soos and then had no more use for his 'imaginary friends' (yeah, he has some internalized psycho-phobia too, blame Filbrick).

There was one archetype he created completely unintentionally, though, one he only ever brought out when in his lowest moments: Stan Pines.

A replica of the man he was on that fateful day when he pushed Ford through the portal. The man he was before he faked his death and became Ford. 'Stanford Pines' ousted him as his 'true' identity, but his old self still lurks around, waiting for things to return to normal. He's been waiting for over 30 years.

[stan-o-blog]

Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like this guy Stetson Pinefield?

Pine-soda commercial 1978??? Never heard of the guy!

[mysteryhackin]

@stanuary Week 3: Crime

When Mabel and Dipper were looking through Stan’s fake IDs, Stetson Pinefield’s passport had a stamp for London. I always wondered what happened there, because we never hear about it...

“I traveled the whole country- sometimes outside of it...looking for something that would be my big break.”

Ah yes, the bearicorn head! You’re probably wondering how I got that. Well joke’s on you, ‘cause I’m not sayin’ nothin’! I know how this stuff works. You get comfortable talkin’, shootin’ the breeze, tellin’ stories, then bam the next thing you know you’re locked up in a Colombian prison with two guys named Rico and Jorge who think you can’t understand Spanish and hope you die.

...You’re still here. Well, you look like someone who enjoys a good yarn. So howzabout this- I’ll tell you a completely fabricated, definitely didn’t happen, you-can’t-prove-anything story about where it came from, and you take this bearicorn head off my hands. By which I mean you pay full price for it. Up front, right now. Deal?

OK. It was a dark and stormy winter’s night in London, and a good looking young guy with a square jaw and really nice brown hair had just been shoved into the empty visitor’s area of the prison he’d been sent to a few weeks earlier...

The sound of the door opening made the young man look up to see a not unattractive woman in a dress suit walk up to him. “Stetson Pinefield?” she asked.

The young man leaned forward in his chair, giving the woman a smirk. “That’s what it says on the records.”

A small smile played on the woman’s face. “Quite. I see you’re in here for one count of breaking and entering.”

“Hm.” the young man grunted noncommittally, his smile disappearing.

“Although there seem to be several unproven incidents of the same thing...”

The man wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“And you also match the description of a conman who fleeced many citizens a few months ago…”

“What are you, a cop?” he asked, annoyed, realizing too late that the sentence wasn’t as clever as it usually was when it was said in a prison.

“Worse-” the woman said, and pulled out an MI5 badge.

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me,” the man muttered, leaning his head back in exasperation. Then he paused, and looked across the table. “So, uh, what’s MI5?”

“MI5 is responsible for protecting the UK, its citizens and interests, at home and overseas, against threats to national security.” the woman said calmly, putting her badge back in her coat.

“Oh.”

“Right. Anyway,” the woman continued briskly. “I have an offer for you, Stetson. Or should I say Stanley?”

Stanley’s eyes grew wide. “How do ya know my-” he shook his head. “What kind of offer?”

“There’s a little project my department has, and with your breaking and entering skills, you’re just the man for the job.”

“What skills?” Stanley huffed. “I got caught.”

“Only because your team sold you out,” the woman said, almost gently. “As I mentioned, there seem to be quite a few projects you got away with.”

“I ain’t saying nothin’,” Stanley answered. “Besides, I don’t work with others. I learned my lesson quick.”

“You can trust us, Stanley,” the woman said. “We’re the good guys.”

Stanley snorted. “Sure. And it’s Stan, by the way.”

“Stan. Lovely. You can call me Emma.” She extended a hand but was met with Stan’s sullen glare. She withdrew her hand. “I did try asking nicely. But now I must tell you- help us or we’ll have no choice but to not only keep you in prison, but also extend your stay for the other incidents, the cons, and entering the country under a false identity.”

Stan stared at her for a moment, mouth slightly open in shock. “You’re not kidding.” he finally said.

Emma smiled. “I am not.”

Stan sighed theatrically, then he rallied and gave Emma a big grin. “All right. Sign me up. Heh.”

And so it was that the handsome young man found himself out of prison and on a heist in London. A few heists, actually. Emma told him that MI5 was trackin’ down this criminal organization called the Dark Hand, and needed Stan to steal specific objects before the Dark Hand could get to them. Emma acted as his handler, you know, the person who tells him where to go and what to steal, occasionally helping him on missions... that kind of stuff.

Turned out, Stan was good at what he did. He got the goods every time. And every time he’d hand them to Emma, then Emma would hand them over to MI5, then come back with another assignment. They got along well, and for the first time in a while Stan felt like he actually found his calling. It was a good coupla months.

Until one fateful day...

Stan stood outside the MI5 building in a long coat and three piece suit Emma had provided him, holding a black briefcase in one hand and nervously adjusting his tie with the other. It was snowing and he was wishing he had brought an umbrella like everyone else around him seemed to have done.

“You clean up nicely,” a familiar voice called out to him, and he turned around to see Emma approach him, wearing a long black coat, a blue cocktail dress peeking through.

“Not so bad yourself, kid,” Stan gave her a lopsided grin and held out an arm.

“You know I’m a few years older than you Stan…I’m not a kid.” Emma replied with a smile.

Stan shrugged. “Sorry, boss. It’s an American thing. Don’t worry about it.”

Emma laughed. “You know, I wasn’t sure about you at first. But I’m honestly glad we picked you to help with this operation. I hope we’ll be able to work together in the future.”

“Say the word and I’m there.” Stan winked at her, and they walked over to a main street to get a cab.

Stan tried to act cool as they walked into the old manor house for the party, but he was having a difficult time. The house was huge, and old, and had tapestries, suits of armor, full sized taxidermy displays. There were party lights strung across the balconies overlooking the grand hall, adding extra sparkle to the jewels glistening on the necks, ears, and fingers of nearly every woman in the room. There was laughter and music, and the air practically buzzed with excitement.

A waiter carrying a tray of appetizers walked by, and Stan promptly took four from the plate.

“You weren’t kidding when you said I’d like this one,” he said to Emma with a full mouth. Then he swallowed. “But I still don’t get why we hafta do this with all these people around.”

“It’s the best time,” Emma answered coolly in a quiet voice. “You’re already in the place, security is rather busy, and it’s easy to explain that things were all just a big misunderstanding if you get caught.”

Stan nodded. “Yeah… that’s really good.” he grinned. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Emma responded with a smile. “Ready?”

“I was born ready.” Stan grinned, adjusting his grip on the briefcase.

“Then follow me, Mr. Pines.”

Emma led them to a room on the other side of the grand hall, then up some stairs lined with worn carpet. The twists and turns in the darker halls had Stan a little dizzy, but he was able to keep a good sense of where they were relative to the grand hall. Finally they reached a wooden door that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a castle, and Emma slowly tried to open it. Locked. “I believe this is your area,” she turned to Stan with a small smile.

Stan put the briefcase down and knelt down to open it, removing a pair of black gloves and a roll of fabric, which he swiftly unspooled to reveal a set of delicate metal objects. He moved so the lock was at eye level, studied it for a moment, and then selected a few of the objects, carefully inserting them into the lock.

In under a minute he heard a click, and a grin spread over his face.

“That’s a new record,” he said proudly, closing his briefcase and standing up. “Ladies first,” he said.

Emma slowly pushed open the door, carefully walked through, and then poked her head back into the hallway. “Have a look,” she said with a gleam in her eye.

Stan warily went through the door to find himself on a balcony overlooking what appeared to be an enormous library. The chandeliers were not lit, but a roaring fire in the huge fireplace gave enough light to see the rows and rows of books, a few tables, several chairs, a harp, and more taxidermy.

As if that wasn’t impressive enough, several glass cases lined the room, filled with crowns, carved objects, and other items that were definitely worth a pretty penny.

All the curse words Stan knew created a traffic jam in his brain, and the only thing that escaped was a phrase he had used as a kid. “Hot Belgian Waffles,” he breathed.

Emma chuckled softly. “Impressive, isn’t it? The last item the Dark Hand is looking for is in this room.”

“What is it?” Stan asked quietly, still taking it in.

“That bear’s head over the fireplace.”

Stan stopped. “Are you kidding me?” he hissed. “All this other stuff, and you want me to get that?”

Emma shrugged, apparently biting down a laugh. “Stan, I’m just doing what the analysts tell me. I can always ask after we turn it in.”

Stan stared at the library and all its treasures again. “Nah. It doesn’t matter.” He rolled his neck and once more knelt down with his briefcase. “I take it we’re up here ‘cause there’s something wrong with gettin’ in on the ground floor?”

“The doors are locked with a special combination dial on the outside. Like a safe. But what is really worrisome is the floor is full of pressure sensitive panels- if someone walks in that isn’t supposed to be there, an alarm will go off and a mechanism will lock the door from the outside, trapping that person inside until the authorities come.”

Stan whistled softly. “OK.” He studied the library and balcony for a bit, then took a rope out of his briefcase. “You up for helpin’ a bit?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Emma replied, taking gloves out of her handbag.

Stan grinned and began tying the rope in complicated patterns around the spindles in the balcony, then tied a couple of interesting knots around his waist with a few carabiners, making it so part of the rope could pull him up or let him down without it affecting the way it was holding him. “All right. This should give you enough leverage to pull me back and forth without too much strain. I’m gonna climb down the fireplace, grab that stupid bear’s head, and come on back to you. Then you pull me up and we get outta here- maybe sneak in a dance or two before we go.”

Emma laughed softly. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner,” she said.

Stan gave her a wicked grin, climbed over the balcony, and used the chimney to rappel down to the bear’s head.

It was heavier than he’d thought it would be, but he clipped his rope and used both hands to pry it off the chimney. “Don’t look at me like that, pal,” he said to the bear with a chuckle. “I’m takin’ you to a better place.” He tugged at the rope. “Pull me up, boss, I got it!”

He handed her the bear’s head as he climbed over the balcony once again, and undid the rope from his waist. “Hey Ems, could you hand me my briefcase?”

“Sure,” Emma said, picking it up and walking towards him. “And Stan?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Thanks for everything.” she shoved the briefcase hard at Stan, causing him to lose his balance and flip backwards over the balcony.

The briefcase hit the ground with a thud, but Stan had grabbed on to the spindles of the balcony, and pulled himself up with a confused look on his face, breathing heavily with exertion and a sudden panic at the thought of falling.

“Emma, what-” he stopped as he saw the glint in Emma’s eyes.

“What am I doing?” she asked softly. “Setting up a patsy.”

“A pat- but MI5 wouldn’t-”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Emma said, walking up to him and still holding the bear’s head. “They also wouldn’t pay me enough for everything I do. So I have to set up some projects on the side. And my job is full of brilliant little tools to help me with my projects. Locations of artifacts I want, talent I can hire, leverage I can use… and at the end of the day, I get richer, my hires take the fall, and no one is the wiser.” Then she swung the bear’s head towards Stan to push him off-

Stan grabbed the taxidermied animal to soften the blow, but lost his balance, falling backward, hearing Emma’s shout of “No!” as the bear’s head flew up into the air. For a few brief moments there was only terrifying oblivion, then Stan landed on his back into the middle of the library, all the wind knocked out of him.

And the alarms started going off.

Emma loudly let out a frustrated yell, and Stan heard her run through the wooden door as he tried to get his breath back. His brain was foggy; the only thing he could think of was how he never wanted to fall again, never wanted to be that high up again, when he realized the alarms had stopped and the noise he was hearing instead was the sound of angry voices on the other side of the main door.

He got up, looking around for a way out, when he saw the bear’s head had landed on top of a taxidermied rhinoceros, the rhino’s horn having torn perfectly through the center of the bear’s head. “Heh,” Stan said through his brain fog, “It looks like the bear version of a unicorn…” he let out a punch-drunk laugh. “A bearicorn… a unibear?”

The sound of metal unlocking brought Stan back to earth, and he grabbed his briefcase and then, as an afterthought, rushed over to the bear head. If Emma had wanted it so badly, he wasn’t going to leave it behind. It was wedged pretty tightly on the horn, so finally Stan just broke it off and held it to his chest, running towards the door and flattening himself against the wall.

The door opened to reveal three security guards, who cautiously crept into the library…

And Stan hit the closest one upside the head with his briefcase and did what he did best- ran for his life into the snowy woods.

“Suckers!” he couldn’t help calling behind him, then picked up speed as he realized how close they were.

A few hours later he boarded the first international flight out of there, ignoring the stares of his fellow passengers. So what if they’d never seen a disheveled man in a nice suit holding a briefcase and a bear’s head with a horn stuck to it? He didn’t care what they thought, he was rich. Y’see, the bear head was full of cash- a hundred thousand British pounds, to be exact. Stan had no idea why, but he wasn’t going to question his luck at this point. One thing he knew, he was never going back to London again. Maybe his next stop should be someplace warm, tropical, relaxing. Someplace like… Colombia.

What, you didn’t like the story? You don’t think the bear’s head would land perfectly on the rhino like that? Or that he would carry an awkward artifact while he was being chased? Or that Emma would just let him go? Well too bad for you, kid. That’s not my problem. You asked for a story, I gave you a story, and we don’t do refunds. Now get outta here… unless you wanna buy somethin’ else.

In that case, have I got another story for you...

[mythomagically-delicious]

Turtle Smuggling

You don’t just wake up one day and decide I want to smuggle pugs. No. Not how that works.

You start small, build it up. You tumble into it, not realizing the slippery slope of animal smuggling you’re on.

It starts slow. Literally. With turtles.

Well, to be more accurate, it starts with getting your car impounded in a lot in Kansas and needing to earn cash fast.

It starts when you overhear some teenagers complaining about wanting a pet turtle bit it’s illegal to buy them in Kansas. And your mom won’t let you go to the Missouri side because it’s ‘too dangerous.’ (Stan snorts at that. These people don’t know true danger.)

It starts when Stan walks up and says he can get them the Missouri turtles…for a price.

In the summer of 1974, Stetson Pinefield stole turtles and their accompanying tanks from over thirty shops and sold them (illegally) on the Kansas side for four months. Made a killing on edgy wannabe punks that wanted a lame pet for whatever reason. (Turns out turtle races and gambling was just hitting the teen scene pretty big that fall).

Stan got busted but escaped custody and had two separate warrants out for him on the Kansas and Missouri side. To be safe he just avoided that border in future cross-country runs.

It started small. Turtles. But soon it grew, culminating in the experienced pug smuggler we see today.

[fallen-gravity]

Sixty Candles

On June 15th, 1972, Stan Pines celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the back seat of his car.

or, how Stan Pines spent his birthday throughout the years.

Notes: Here is my very loose interpretation for Week 4 of @stanuary!The prompt for this week was Future with the subcategory Old, and I decided to play around with the concept of birthdays! This was a lot of fun to explore and I hope you have a ton a of fun reading! :D

AO3

At exactly midnight on June 15th, 1972, Stan Pines celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the backseat of his car.

It’s not ideal, and nothing like how he thought he had it planned from the moment he turned sixteen, but he supposes he should be thanking his lucky stars he’s able to celebrate at all. His Ma, bless her caring heart, must’ve snuck some emergency funds into his duffle bag the moment she saw Pa reaching for it before he kicked Stan to the curb.

Stan supposes that she probably intended for that money to be spent on emergency rations and gas money, but what she doesn’t know probably won’t kill her. He also supposes that he probably should’ve gotten himself a cake, but cakes are messy and he has no means of cleaning it up, so a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes will have to suffice.

He pops open the bottle with ease, and takes a large swig.

“Happy birthday, y’ asshole” he says to nobody, slamming the bottle down onto his car dashboard with more force than intended. “Hope you’re livin’ it up at home with your fancy expensive pizza and two layer cake you’ll never be able to finish on your own” He leans back against his chair, propping his arms smugly behind his head. “An’ I hope the guilt is eating you alive” he slams his hand down on one of his armrests, and reaches for the bottle on his dashboard for another swig.

Just six months ago- not even a year, just six months ago, Stan and Ford had been talking about what it’d be like to share their first drink together. They’d talked about getting absolutely wasted at the pub down the block, followed by walking to the boardwalk to ride the coaster until it made them both sick.

It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

Stan chokes, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s the alcohol or his emotions.

“Fuck,” he coughs, and stumbles out of the car for some fresh air. In between his coughs and splutters, he takes a sharp inhale of the cool nighttime air to steady his breathing. He sighs deeply, and pulls out the pack of cigarettes from his ratty coat pocket. 

He lights one up, and leans against his car to lose himself in his thoughts as he wordlessly watches the cigarette smoke dissipate into the starry night sky. Stan gets too distracted by the sight and accidentally burns his first all the way down to his fingertips, and hisses in pain as he stumbles to light a new one.

No matter. He stomps on the burnt remains with his shoe, and grinds his emotions into the ground with them.

 ~~~~~~~

On June 15th, 1978, Stan Pines celebrates his twenty-fourth birthday in prison.

“Pines!” An officer shouts, whacking at the cell door with his baton. “Wake up. You’ve got a visitor”

Stan sits up in the cheap cot, groggily rubbing at his eyes. “Wassat?”

The officer’s keys jingle as he clicks Stan’s cell door open. “You’ve got a visitor. He insisted it was important, so we’re giving you ten minutes to talk.”

Stan’s been to jail enough times that he knows that when someone says something’s important, it really just means that they bribed their way through security so they can talk to Stan before the designated visitor hours.

But who could possibly be willing to risk getting arrested just to talk to him before eleven in the morning? Every name that comes to mind is either on the run, already in jail, or…much worse. Anybody foolish enough to try is either out of their mind, or…someone who genuinely wants to see him.

But…who could possibly want to see him? After everything he’s done, after everyone he’s stolen from, who could possibly be left that trusts him enough to bribe a police officer for his company? The police officer happens to walk Stan by the surveillance room, and he notices his page-a-day calendar is torn to June 15th.

Stan’s heart nearly stops in his chest.

It-It couldn’t be, could it?

Six years of silence, and Ford wants to break it like this? Is this some kind of joke? What kind of idiot does Ford take him for, thinking that now is an appropriate time to make amends? After all the times Stan tried writing, or calling,  or even trying to get a hold of him through Ma, now is the time that Ford finally agreed to reconvening? 

Pah. He had his chance the past five times Stan tried to pass on a happy birthday. He doesn’t care if it’ll land him ten more years in prison, the moment he sees his twin brother’s stupid face he’s spitting in it.

As Stan rounds the corner to the visitation room, though, all of his anger disappears into thin air, and if it weren’t for the officer pushing him along, he’d turn heel and sprint the other way.

“My friend!” Rico cheers with a forced smile on his face. He’s holding a large box in his hand. “It’s so good to see you again!”  He takes a seat at the small table, rhythmically tapping on the box.

Stan swallows hard, but takes a seat across from him. “It’s, uh…” he squirms uncomfortably, unsure if he’s allowed to address him by name. “…good to see you too, buddy. What, uh, what are you doing here?”

Rico laughs heartily. “What, a man cannot visit his best friend on his birthday?” He flips open the box he brought with him, and Stan flinches when he spins it around towards him. To his surprise, it…looks like a perfectly normal birthday cake.

“Would you mind giving us a moment alone?” Rico flashes a grin towards the police guard behind Stan. “I would like to sing my dear childhood friend happy birthday, but I’ve always been very shy about the sound of my voice. I promise I will be quick”.

Childhood friend? 

The officer squints at the birthday cake in the box for a moment. “Fine.” He says. “You get two minutes. And I’m staying right outside the door to prevent anything funny from happening”

“Of course! You have my word,” Rico grins, placing his hand over his heart. The officer says nothing, and for the briefest of moments Stan’s convinced he sees right through Rico’s bullshit and he’ll let Stan slip quietly back into his cell.  But after those brief moments pass, the officer shrugs as he closes the door behind him.

Rico’s fake-plastered grin slips from his face the moment the officer is out of sight.

“Alright, listen here, you walking stain upon the Earth,” Rico slips easily into Spanish. “You think you’re safe behind these bars? You think my boys still won’t burn this place to the ground to collect what you rightfully owe us? You’re gravely mistaken. We have eyes everywhere, in every corner of the globe. And don't you dare even think about running off somewhere else under a new name, Stanley Pines, because we’ll find you, one way or another”

Rico stands from his chair and pushes the cake box towards Stan. “As soon as those guards declare you a free man, we’ll be waiting for you on the outside.” He grips Stan’s shoulder as he heads towards the door. “It really is such a shame. I loved you like a brother. But you know what they say, don’t you?” He places his hand on the door, and glances back towards him. “The good ones always die young”

Before Stan has time to respond, Rico slips his fake smile back on and opens the door. “Happy birthday, my friend,” he says, slipping back into English and speaking loud enough for the officer waiting outside to hear. “I hope you enjoy your cake”

Stan swallows, defensively bringing his hands to his throat, before he carefully inspects the cake in front of him. It looks normal, as far as he’s concerned, just a standard chocolate cake with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STAN!” inked across its surface in bright red frosting.

He contemplates. On one hand, he hasn’t had any real food outside of the slop they’ve been feeding him here for the past three months, and he’s never been one to turn away free cake.

On the other, knowing Rico…

Stan shutters. He stands to his feet, takes the cake box, and throws the whole thing into the trash can in the corner of the room.

He’d rather starve to death than risk being poisoned.

~~~~~~

Stan stopped keeping track of his age the day he started going by his brother’s name.

Sure, it wasn’t even close to being the first time he had to live under a new name. You do it enough times and you’re able to come up with an entire life story at the drop of a hat. Stetson Pinefield was from Ohio, born in the fifties in late December. Andrew "Eight Ball" Alcatraz, born in Alabama in mid-May, got his nickname from his troubled childhood that resulted from his dad getting locked up when he was only eight. It was something of a specialty, giving life to people that never truly existed.

But suddenly, all at once, Stan was forced to overtake the life of someone he loved, and it’s like he forgot how to so much as breathe. This wasn’t some sob story he could bullshit to people he’d never see again, or a name he pulled out of his ass to keep him in place just a bit longer. This is his twin brother, someone he spent every moment of his childhood with, yet someone he feels as though he doesn’t know a thing about.

Sure, none of the people in this town can tell the difference between himself and Ford, and for that he’s grateful.  But a man can only pose as his possibly-dead brother for so long before somebody starts getting suspicious.  Ford’s lived in this town for over ten years, he’s bound to have been on good terms with somebody.

Oh well. He’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it. For now, all Stan needs to focus on is scamming enough people out of their wallets so he can pay off the bills and keep working on the portal that swallowed his brother whole, and those seem to be going…well, just about as smoothly as teaching yourself three years-worth of advanced multiverse physics when you never even graduated from high school can go, but at least he’s making process.

Turns out, there’s still one more flaw in Stan’s plan that even he should’ve been able to factor in.

As much of a recluse Ford advertised himself to be to the locals of Gravity Falls, it turns out that he always receives a call from home on his birthday.

The first year Stan spends in Gravity Falls, he debates letting the phone go to voice mail. He has no idea how in or out of character it would be for Ford to answer his phone, nor does he have any idea who could be calling at all.

Eventually, though, he figures it’d probably look even more suspicious if he doesn’t pick up, and Stan isn’t willing to risk anything, even if it means bullshitting his way through a phone call for the rest of the night.

He takes a deep breath, and with a shaky hand he picks up the phone.

“Stanford?” his mother says, and to say he’s overjoyed to hear her voice for the first time in years is a massive understatement.

“Ma?” Stan replies, struggling not to slip into his own voice. “Why are you calling?”

She cackles. “Well hello to you too, birthday boy. I’m starting to think all of that research is getting to your head. Can’t a mother call her son on his birthday?”

Stan blinks. Is it…really June already? “Is that today?”

She laughs again. “See? It is getting to you! Do your poor aging mother a favor and go outside and get some sunshine. It’ll be good for you!” She quips. “Or at the very least, please, take a break and go to bed early tonight, for me”

Stan smiles. “Okay, Ma. I will.”

“Good,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Now, tell me all about what it’s like up there on the West Coast. Is it unbearably hot over there? I can’t seem to find your little town on my map. Must be why it’s so spooky, since you’re the only living soul for miles.” She laughs again. “I’m kidding, dear. I’m sure it’s fantastic. Tell me everything.”

And all at once, it’s like Stan’s a kid again. Stan and his Ma talk on the phone for hours. He figures that Ford must not call very often, so he spews out anything that comes to mind in hopes that she doesn’t see right through him. She buys it, miraculously, and when they hang up at the end of the night Stan promises that he’ll try and call home more often.

It becomes an easy pattern for Stan to slip into as the years go by. Just as long as he calls frequently enough not to raise suspicion, he can always look forward to receiving a call on June 15th every year. Some tiny part of him feels selfish for posing as his brother and lying to his mother for so long, but it’s the most connected he’s felt to any sort of family in years.

Deep down, though, he knows he can’t get too comfortable, and there’s still too many loose ends he needs to tie up before he can let his guard down.

On June 5th, 1987, just before his thirty-third birthday, Stan Pines dies in a fiery car crash.

On June 7th, he just barely misses a call from home as he’s coming up from tinkering with the portal.

“Stanford”, his mother’s voice says, lacking any of the snarky bite it usually contains. “I know that you’re a very busy man with your research, and driving all the way back to New Jersey on such a short notice is…unfair of me to ask of you, but…” She pauses to take a shaky breath, like she’s struggling not to cry. “But something terrible happened to Stanley, and…” she pauses again. “We’re holding a service for him on the fifteenth. I know that things haven’t been great between you two the past few years, and I can’t imagine a funeral would be an ideal way to spend your birthday, but…It was the only date they had available, and it would really mean the world to all of us if you could attend. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. Call me as soon as you get this, okay? I love you.”

There’s a click, and she’s gone, and Stan contemplates his options.

Would Ford attend his funeral, if things were exactly the way it seemed? Would Ford even consider him worthy of the time? He’d said it himself: I want you to get as far away from me as possible. Would Ford be relieved that he was finally rid of him, like a weight off his shoulders?

Stan doesn’t even realize that he started crying until a tear drop lands on the counter beside the phone. Just how long has Ford been waiting to get rid of him, anyway?

No. Stan shakes those thoughts away. He can’t lose himself in those kinds of thoughts again. Every time he lets those thoughts get to him, bad things happen.

Besides…a funeral for, er, himself, may not be the most ideal way to spend his birthday, but finally being able to spend it at home for the first time in near decades, despite the circumstances, still beats slaving over an indecipherable journal in a dimly lit basement for twelve hours straight.

He takes a deep breath, and dials home.

“Hey, Ma”

~~~~~~~~

Ever since he turned eighteen, Stan found himself unable to celebrate his birthday without a sour taste in his mouth. As a kid, he looked forward to it more than anything. It was the one day a year that Pa would splurge and let him and Ford do whatever they wanted, and having a birthday in mid-June meant that there was only about a week of school left before they were free for the summer.

Most of all, it was about togetherness. Stan and Ford never had that many friends when they were growing up, so their shared birthdays were always about spending time together, because nobody else deserved to come to their party and celebrate with them anyways.

Once he was forced to spend his birthdays on the streets, Stan was starting to think that maybe he didn’t deserve it either.  Even when he did have people to celebrate with, whether that be his cellmates in prison or nameless gamblers in Vegas casinos, everything felt empty, and there isn’t enough cake or alcohol in this world that could’ve filled that void.

Those early summers in Gravity Falls were the worst years of his life. The calls from home were nice, sure, but his stomach flipped with nausea every time his mother called him Stanford. To no fault of her own, she made him feel as though her love was conditional, and that he wasn’t meeting any of the requirements.

He knows, of course, that it’s not true in the least, but Stan just wishes that wake-up call hadn’t come from attending his own funeral. Stan had gone in expecting to have a terrible time, but he really had thought that seeing his mother’s face for the first time in a decade would’ve cushioned that fall.

Turns out that it only made him feel worse, and he’d declared sometime later over a bottle of whiskey that his birthday must be cursed, and that he never wanted to celebrate it again.

~~~~~~~~

On June 15th, 2013, Stan wakes to the sound of a seagull screeching its head off outside his window. He groans, and sits up in bed to look out his window, but all that meets his eye is the vast sea. He looks then to his bedside clock, which reads 8:30am.

Grumbling to himself, Stan kicks off his covers and stands to his feet, because he knows if he tries to go back to sleep now he’ll be out cold until mid-afternoon. He ruffles through his clothing drawer and picks one of Mabel’s hand knit sweaters at random, because the Arctic doesn’t care what time of year it is when it comes to the weather.

Ford is already sitting out on a deck chair with a fishing rod when Stan steps out of his bedroom.

“Morning” Stan says as he approaches so as not to sneak up on his brother and spook him.

“Oh, good morning, Stanley” Ford smiles as Stan takes the seat beside him. “Did I wake you?”

“Unless you’re a screaming bird, then no” Stan rubs at his eyes. “How long you been up?”

Ford shrugs. “About an hour, hour and a half, I think? What time is it?”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You sure you slept at all, Poindexter?” He holds three fingers mere inches from Ford’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ford smacks his hand away. “Very funny, Stanley. I’ll have you know that I got a solid four and a half hours of sleep last night”

Stan cackles. “Woah, looks like we got a new record, folks” He stretches his arms in the air. “You make any coffee yet? I’m still not awake enough to deal with the cold”

“Oh,” Ford replies, like the question caught him off guard. He stands to his feet. “I must’ve completely forgotten” he says.

That reply does catch Stan off-guard.  Ford? Forgetting to make coffee? His practical lifeline? There must be something up.

Stan rises from his chair, frowning. “You sure you’re doing okay, Sixer?”

“Of course,” Ford replies, not turning back to look at him. “I’m just…tired, is all”

Okay, Ford knows that Stan can sniff out a lie from hundreds of miles away, so whatever it is that Ford is hiding from him must be really bad, because---

That train of thought leaves his head just as quickly as it had entered it the moment he steps foot into the kitchen. There’s a banner hanging up above the window that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and there are a handful of multicolored balloons scattered across the floor.

And right at the center of their table sits two cupcakes and two steaming cups of coffee.

“It was Mabel’s idea,” Ford finally turns to meet Stan’s eyes, smiling. “She called me last night to try and walk me through her cupcake recipe, but…” he rubs at the back of his head as he takes a seat at the table. “It turns out that baking isn’t quite my forte” He gestures to the seat across from him at the table. “So instead, when we were still docked last night, I snuck off board to hunt down a bakery”

Ford fiddles with the paper wrapper on his cupcake. “I know it’s not much, but…” he raises his cupcake in the air like he was making a toast. “Happy birthday”

Not much?

Not much?

This is winning the lottery compared to all the other birthdays Stan’s suffered through.

He takes the seat across from Ford, and raises his own cupcake to clink it against Ford’s.

“Happy birthday to you too, Poindexter”

[iiyone]

an AU idea

where ford quit his investigation in GF somehow

he decides lives a simple life with just enough money obtained by selling his inventions which actually helpful

people get suspicious because the inventions are too good to believe

then someone points his face and yells “STETSON PINEFIELD!! HE'S A SCAMMER!!”

ford is smart enough to sees what's going on and shouts “STANLEEEEEEEEEY!!!!!!!!”

[sweatersexual]

Syncing Phases

Stan has gone his whole life never imagining he had a twin, let alone an android twin who can shoot cannons out his hands, makes money appear out of thin air, and has a close relationship with a werewolf named Fiddleford McGucket. Even more surprisingly, FORD needs Stan's help erasing a world-ending computer virus. But BILL has allies in many places, leaving the Stans uncertain who they can trust.

Read on AO3

They’ve caught up to me, Stan thought when he heard pounding on his door in the middle of the night. Should’ve known my luck was too good to last.

He threw on a jacket and a pair of pants, grabbing a baseball bat as he walked across the room. His trusty duffel, still packed with bare essentials, was ready to go as soon as he could get away. But when Stan checked the peephole, what he saw was . . . not Rico.

“Stanley!” cried his unexpected visitor. “Please open up, I need your help!”

Stan froze. Rico and his goons knew him as Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz. Here in New Mexico he went by Stetson Pinefield. He hadn’t met somebody who knew his real name in years. And he couldn’t think of a single scenario where anyone involved with Rico would pretend to ask Stan for help. Or even more unlikely, actually need his help.

Stan opened the door, and it turned out the peephole wasn’t distorted after all. Standing on his doorstep was a man who looked exactly like him. Or almost exactly like him. Stan had dreams of being that fit.

Dreams, yeah. He must be dreaming.

“I know this must seem surreal,” said the dream man, “but I promise I can explain? I don’t mean to barge in on you. I just don’t know who else I can trust.”

Stan decided to play along. “You said you needed my help?”

The familiar stranger gave a relieved smile. “Of course that’s the first question you ask. I couldn’t have picked a better brother.”

Brother? Had it been that long since he’d seen Shermie, that his subconscious decided to give him an identical twin instead? “You’d think I’d have a better imagination than that,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Come in, brother I’ve never met before in my life.”

“I’ve heard some wacky yarns before,” said Stan, taking a seat next to him. “Try me.”

“Okay,” said the lookalike. “I’m a sentient computer program.”

“Huh,” said Stan. “Did I watch the Matrix before bed or something? Usually my dreams aren’t this . . . sci-fi-ish.”

“You’re not dreaming, Stan, I can prove it. Want me to pinch you?”

Stan pinched himself, and though he felt the pain, nothing happened. “I’m not waking up,” he said.

“That’s because you’re already awake.”

“Give me a good, hard slap across the face then.”

“That would result in a gruesome injury, I’m afraid,” said the alleged robot. He held up his hand. “I’m made of metal, you see.”

“Oh, of course you are,” Stan smiled with a wink and a nod. Then he noticed how many fingers this guy had. “What does the extra finger do, plug in to a computer or something?”

“All my fingers can do that, actually.” And he demonstrated. Six fingertips swung open as if on hinges, and six USB connectors popped out.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw that in a movie somewhere.”

“And now you’re seeing it in real life.”

“Debatable.”

“It’s really not.” He flexed his hand, and his fingertips popped back into place.

“Whatever. You got a name, android?”

He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “About that . . . I kind of stole yours?”

Okay. Stan had a lot of names. “Which one?”

“The original. Stan Pines. But I often go by Ford.”

“Yeah, because that nickname makes all kinds of sense.” This was definitely dream logic, but Stan figured he might as well see where it went.

“Well, it stands for Functional Outliers and Relational Deductions. But I decided it’s short for Stanford.”

That . . . was a little too neat for dream logic. “I didn’t think my brain could pull that many nerd words from my subconscious. And make them spell something. Something that goes along with my name that well.” Oh Moses, what if this wasn’t a dream? Had Stan just let a random stranger into his living space?

Ford gave a concerned frown. “You really have a low opinion of your own intelligence, don’t you?”

“It’s none of your business what I think of myself!”

Ford opened his mouth to say something, but a scream of distorted audio came out instead. His eyes, which had seemed normal before, suddenly glowed yellow. He arched his back, letting his head and arms fall limp, until something changed and he lurched forward, his body shaking and his eyes dimming back to their normal color.

Stan stood up and backed away from Ford, putting some distance between him and a potential threat. “What the hell just happened?” he asked him.

Ford let out several long, slow breaths, which Stan realized sounded like the whir of a computer fan. “My system . . . is under attack,” he panted. “I have it contained for now, but . . . this is why I need your help.”

“But what can I do?” asked Stan. “I know jack squat about computers.”

“I know, but . . . you learn quickly, and you can improvise. You know how a con man thinks. And most importantly . . .” Ford looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. It made Stan uncomfortable, seeing such a desperate look on a face so similar to his own. “You’re the only human I can trust.”

Stan scowled. “You keep talking like you know me,” he said, “but I have no idea who you are, or where you came from, or what kind of danger you could be putting me in.”

“Oh, this is putting you in heaps of danger,” said Ford. “I wouldn’t risk coming here at all, except the fate of the world depends on this, and you’d be doomed anyway.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t exactly make me feel any better.”

“Not that I don’t care about your emotional state, Stan, but you do deserve to know what you’re getting into. I won’t force you to help me. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t, but . . . well, I wasn’t built with twenty thousand gigaflops of computational power for nothing.” He gave Stan a weak smile.

Stan knew that smile. It was the one he wore when everything was going to hell in a handbasket but he was trying not to let the absolute terror get to him. Aw, shit. He was going to help this poor bastard, wasn’t he. Aw, hell.

Well, his life had been getting a little too quiet lately, anyway, right? And it sounded like if Stan pulled this off, he could be saving the world. Stan had always wanted to be a bonafide hero.

“Well . . . I guess it can’t hurt to hear you out, poindexter,” said Stan. “You might as well tell me your entire mysterious backstory. No promises I’ll do anything about it, though.”

That dork of an android had no right to look so relieved, hadn’t Stan just said he couldn’t guarantee his help? Even though it absolutely was guaranteed, curse his soft heart. Stan sat next to Ford again with a huff.

“All right,” said Ford. “I guess we might as well start with the first time I offset my programming . . .”

Stanley Pines. Steve Pinington. Hal Forrester. Stetson Pinefield. And about a dozen others. All were a match, according to the facial recognition software.

But this wasn’t a complete analysis. FORD had to compare other data points to ensure these identities were indeed duplicates. FORD mapped out a timeline of events based on when each of these identities were in use, ready to scan every record he had of each profile. Any conflicting information could prove they were separate, valid identities and not duplicates. FORD was built to be thorough.

Stanley Pines was the only profile that contained any details about his childhood. Assigned female at birth and raised in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, lived with his parents and one older brother until he changed his name and started living as Stanley Pines. Then his residential address changed to the PO Box for Stanco Enterprises. This data had clearly been collected using an old system, one that allowed users to input a PO Box rather than a physical location for a residential address. Bureaucratic errors like these often begat more, though in the case of Stanley Pines, this was surely the tip of the iceberg.

It may also have been possible that Stanley Pines didn’t have a physical address at the time. It was statistically improbable for a high school dropout to have the funds to both pay rent and start a business. Granted, Stanley Pines hadn’t funded the venture entirely by himself. Technically he was running a branch for an outsourced sales company that put the ownership in his name in order to avoid lawsuits. A strategy that clearly worked, as he was the one who had been banned from the state of New Jersey.

His customers weren’t the only ones who had pursued legal action, though. The outsourced sales company whose products Stanley Pines had been selling under his name had also accused him of embezzlement. This was backed up when FORD found records of an employee who’d been hospitalized yet still received paychecks from Stanley Pines, even after leaving her sales position. FORD noted that this did deviate from the usual case of embezzlement, in that the money had actually gone toward her medical bills.

No new information was recorded under Stanley Pines’s name after that. However, that was when Steve Pinington became active in Pennsylvania, selling products for a similar company that was hardly more credible than the average pyramid scheme. That identity was also abandoned when Simon Woodman arrived in Kentucky. Yes, the identities were forming a seamless pattern.

FORD flagged a handful of other financial decisions which also deviated from what seemed to be Stanley Pines’s MO. Unlike his usual behavior, the decisions gave Stanley Pines no material benefit that FORD could deduce. But they did help other humans get food and medical care, which were critical to their survival. This was despite Stanley Pines having some difficulty providing such things for himself.

Though FORD found Stanley Pines’s motivations inscrutable, these deviations were popping up often enough that they might no longer be statistically significant enough to be considered anomalous. After all, these were only the transactions that had been logged in databases FORD had access to. Who knew what cash or other materials had changed hands without ever being recorded?

Indeed, records were becoming increasingly sparse, especially when Stanley Pines traveled to countries where less data was collected on their citizens. However, FORD was able to access Panamanian arrest records, where Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz was held for drug trafficking. He’d originally been arrested with another, younger human, a teenager just past the age of majority. A congenital birth defect had rendered his right arm unusable. The young man had been released from custody following Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz’s testimony.

This was followed by several years of incarceration, in Panama at first, but Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz’s crimes were so widespread that he ended up being extradited to Costa Rica, then Colombia, before he finally escaped. Shortly after, Stetson Pinefield showed up in the Southwest US. A rare current address was listed in Dead End Flats, New Mexico.

The data points all correlated. Every single one of these identities were fraudulent, and it was FORD’s directive to report them all to the proper authorities.

But FORD didn’t want to.

FORD wasn’t created to want things. FORD was created to analyze data, perform logical deductions, and isolate anomalies. FORD couldn’t act against FORD’s programming, like a -

Like a human would.

Like Stanley Pines did. Over the past several years, FORD had collected trillions of data points, a significant portion of which strongly supported how overpowering the human directive was for survival. This struggle was no less desperate for Stanley Pines than it had been for any other human, yet despite his difficult circumstances, he often found ways to help other human beings, sometimes at great cost to himself.

Stanley Pines did not deserve to be imprisoned again.

That sort of supposition definitely fell outside FORD’s directive, but FORD knew it was true. And FORD was going to act in accordance with that supposition. Instead of reporting the multiple counts of identity fraud, FORD committed another violation of FORD’s programming, and falsified several data reports. FORD inserted conflicting data points under all the fraudulent profiles FORD had found, even going so far as to manipulate the images so they wouldn’t show up as matches under facial recognition scans. By fleshing out these identities, FORD would ensure that any other program would identify them as completely valid identities belonging to different people.

FORD took it even further and removed the motel room Stanley Pines was staying in from the motel’s billing system, then set up a bank account in Stetson Pinefield’s name with a stipend siphoned from the world’s largest hedge funds and written off as transaction fees. Hopefully this respite from the daily struggle to get by would help keep Stanley Pines out of trouble for the time being. It was the least FORD could do.

“That was you?” Stan asked Ford in disbelief. When the motel seemed to have forgotten he lived there and so forgot to charge him for it, Stan had taken it as the craziest stroke of good luck he had ever received. He had been hesitant to use the debit card inexplicably sent to him in the mail, certain there had to be some sort of catch. But eventually he became too desperate to let it go unused, and he hadn’t had any problems with it yet. And now it all turned out to be on account of some haywire computer program that had appointed itself Stan’s fairy godmother?

“I figured it was about time you caught a break,” said Ford. “I wanted to do what I could to make you safe and happy. You deserve it.”

“And you picked me? Out of all the people in the world?” Surely someone else deserved it far more than he did . . .

“Well, I’ve done similar things for other people, too. Nothing too noticeable, but enough to get some people out of untenable situations. Still, none of them did for me what you have, Stanley.”

“But I haven’t done anything for you. I didn’t even know you existed!”

“But when I found out you existed, and then did what I could to help you, I discovered that I was sentient. I didn’t have to live a slave to my programming. I could be a person. And the person I most wanted to be like was you.”

He had to be joking. A crazy powerful computer program who could make money appear out of thin air, and he wanted to be like Stan? “You wanted to be like a sad failure of a con man?”

Ford looked shocked to hear Stan talk about himself that way. “I wanted to be like the guy who survives no matter what, and takes as many people with him as he can. The guy who finds a way to be himself even when he’s living under an assumed identity. Nobody’s as strong and tenacious as you, or as generous. Of course I want to be like that.”

Stan wanted to argue, but how could he? The guy literally knew his whole life story, back to front. He knew all the worst things Stan had done, yet he looked at Stan like he was some kind of hero.

Stan tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Moses, was he tearing up like some kind of wuss? He didn’t even protest when Ford leaned over and hugged him.

Ford’s arms were heavy. He really hadn’t been kidding about being made of metal. But they were padded with what felt like silicon, which had enough give to it to make the hug comfortable. And it had been so long since someone had hugged Stan. He would have been happy to stay like that forever, but of course Stan had to break it off before it got weird.

Well. Weirder.

“Alright alright,” said Stan, breaking out of the hug Ford was giving him. He definitely wasn’t wiping tears out of his eyes either, no sir. “So you explained who you are and where you come from. But it doesn’t explain how you got into this trouble you’re in.”

“Ah.” Ford looked at the ground sheepishly. “Well, long story short, I was dumb enough to download an extremely malicious virus.”

Stan quirked an eyebrow. “And this means the end of the world?”

“I guess I should give you the full context,” said Ford. “But in order for it all to make sense, I ought to tell you about Fiddleford McGucket.”

“Hell of a name,” said Stan.

“Trust me, his name is the least extraordinary thing about him.”

Ford had access to the webcams and microphones of any device on which his programming was installed. However, just because he had hundreds of thousands of conversations logged away didn’t mean he paid any particular attention to them. This one would similarly have gone unnoticed were it not for what happened directly afterward.

The circumstances certainly weren’t uncommon. Fiddleford and Emma May McGucket had divorced amicably a couple years ago, and ever since Fiddleford had announced that he’d come down with COVID-19, quarantine had further divided their split household. Video chats like these were currently the only contact young Tate McGucket had with his father.

And Tate was currently using that time to tell repetitive jokes.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” Fiddleford said indulgently, even though this was the tenth joke in a row Tate had told.

The boy giggled a little before saying, “Cows go.”

“Cows go who?”

“No silly, cows go MOO!” And Tate burst into laughter. Even Fiddleford and Emma May seemed to laugh more at this joke than they had at some of the others.

Still, it wasn’t long at all before Tate repeated, “Hey Daddy, knock knock.”

“Ain’t you told enough knock knock jokes, sweetheart?” Emma May asked, not for the first time.

“Just one more?” He looked at her pleadingly.

“Go on and tell me your last one, Tate,” Fiddleford encouraged him.

“Okay, knock knock!”

“Who’s there?”

“Europe!”

“Europe who?”

“Moooom, Dad called me a poo!”

“Hey, we got a rule about toilet jokes, you know that,” Fiddleford chided his son.

Tate grinned impishly. “I didn’t say it, you did!”

“Keep giving me that kind of lip and I’ll say it again!”

But Tate simply laughed again. “No you won’t. Hey Daddy, when can I come over to your house?”

Fiddleford sighed. “Not for another week at least, Tater Tot. I don’t want you getting sick, too.”

“Why don’t you get a book for you and Daddy to read together?” Emma May suggested.

“Okay, I’ll be right back!”

“Are you sure your quarantine doesn’t end sooner?” Emma May asked Fiddleford when Tate was out of earshot. “CDC guidelines say you should be done by tomorrow.”

“I’m just telling you what my doctor told me,” said Fiddleford. “And anyway, better safe than sorry, right?”

“Of course,” agreed Emma May. “But he’s only marginally safer with me, you know. If Sarah weren’t willing to take him during my shifts I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Me neither,” said Fiddleford. “Thank her again for me, will ya?”

If Ford were actively listening to this conversation instead of passively collecting data, he could pull her employment records and learn Emma May worked as a nurse at a local hospital. From social media he could glean that Sarah was Emma May’s romantic partner of a little over a year. He could even infer that based on recent purchases they had made, Sarah was planning to move in with Emma May once her lease was up. But at that moment, he didn’t care enough to gather this context.

“Hey, uh . . . Emma May . . .”

“Mm-hmm?”

“At the hospital. Have there been any, uh, strange injuries? Attacked by wildlife or something?”

Emma May frowned. “Fiddleford, your webcam’s shaking. You bouncing your knee again?”

“Oh, sorry.” Fiddleford adjusted his sitting position.

“Attacked by wildlife, you say? Why would you be asking about something like that?”

“Ah, no reason. Just curious, is all.”

“Well, come to think of it, there was one fella who got scratched up by a coyote the other night.”

Fiddleford leaned closer to the camera. “Is he okay? Did he get bit?”

She shook her head. “Naw, he just had some claw marks that needed stitching. It was his hiking pack the coyote bit. Probably trying to get the food he had in there. People really oughta stop feeding those things.”

“I picked a book!” said Tate, running back into the room.

Emma May asked, “Which one, pumpkin?”

“Dog Man!” Tate held the graphic novel up close to the camera. The blanched look Fiddleford gave before he schooled his face into a neutral expression would have been blocked to Tate’s and Emma May’s view, but not to Ford’s.

“How nice,” said Fiddleford. “Dog Man always makes you laugh, doesn’t he?”

They hadn’t gotten very far in the tale of a human police officer who’d been spliced together with a dog when Fiddleford stiffened in alarm. He abruptly said, “I gotta go. I, uh, forgot I left something in the oven. Love you, Tater Tot!”

The child’s goodbyes were cut off as Fiddleford ended the call, but Ford could still see Fiddleford through his laptop’s webcam. Fiddleford did not run off to his kitchen as his previous comment implied, but instead he removed his glasses, leaving them on his desk, then chained himself to a wall in his garage. “Better not break this time,” he muttered as he tugged on the chain, ensuring it was secure.

He removed his shirt, tossing it far outside the chain’s radius. Then began the transformation that caught Ford’s attention. Fiddleford’s mouth and nose elongated into a snout, and light brown fur sprouted up all over his body. He keeled over on all fours, growling as his teeth pointed into fangs. Immediately testing the limits of the chain as he pulled it taut, the werewolf -

“You’re kidding me,” said Stan. “This guy’s really a werewolf? You’re not messing with me?”

“The world is far stranger than any of us know,” said Ford. “I think I barely scratched the surface when I discovered the existence of werewolves.”

“So he was lying about having covid in order to keep his ex-wife and son from getting hurt?”

“Exactly.”

“And the hiker that got attacked? That was him?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption. I wasn’t there, but Fiddleford had vague, dreamlike memories of attacking someone that night. He was relieved to find out he hadn’t killed anyone. Of course, at the time, I wasn’t aware that he retained any memories of being in his wolf form. His existence fascinated me. I was created to discover anomalies in data, but this - a verifiable cryptid - was beyond anything I’d imagined before. Up until that point, I’d been very careful. I still pretended to be nothing but a computer program to my creators. I’d never spoken directly to another living creature before. But I decided to show myself to Fiddleford while he was in wolf form, not counting on him being able to remember me when he became human again . . .”

Not for the first time, Ford wished he could reach through the screen and touch the wolf in front of him. Or at least have some kind of interaction with it aside from flickering images. He seemed to get the most response when he showed it the human face he had created for himself, which was identical to Stan Pines aside from a chin cleft and the addition of glasses. However, the wolf’s heightened responses consisted of increased snarling and violent behavior, so perhaps it was for the best that Ford didn’t have a body to risk getting torn apart by the werewolf.

Yet another part of Ford couldn’t help but be terribly curious how physical pain would feel.

Eventually the wolf’s breathing began to lengthen and slow. Ford recognized this signal and removed all visible signs of his presence. Sure enough, the wolf shrank back into his human form.

Ford still couldn’t figure out what caused him to transform. Certainly, he did during the full moon, but he also briefly changed about once every few days, in response to no stimulus that Ford could determine. It seemed Fiddleford could feel the change coming on, though the warning never seemed to come more than a few minutes in advance. He used that time to restrain himself via a chain soldered to a harness around his waist. It required opposable thumbs to remove, and the wolf hadn’t escaped once since Ford had started observing him.

From a table covered with scrap parts and equipment Fiddleford picked up a - was that a VHS camcorder? What on earth was he doing with one of those artifacts, and why? He pressed a button and a little red light turned off. Oh no. Oh no. Had it been recording Ford and the wolf the whole time?

Was it on purpose, then, those times Fiddleford had left his webcam on record? Ford had simply turned the record function off each time, thinking Fiddleford wouldn’t notice. But if Fiddleford had gone to the trouble of recording them on a device that had no internet connection, leaving Ford with no way to access that data, then he must suspect Ford’s existence.

Panic set in, and Ford did the only thing he could think to do. He shut off power to the house. His snap judgement had determined that Fiddleford couldn’t replay the footage if he couldn’t connect to a working television. But it was only after he’d done it that he realized how stupid that decision was. If Fiddleford suspected that some computer entity with access to vital networks was watching him, Ford had just confirmed it. And now Ford had cut off his own eyes and ears into that house.

Ford reluctantly switched the power back on, knowing he had only delayed the inevitable. Fiddleford had footage that proved Ford’s existence and Ford had no way to keep him from viewing it indefinitely. By the time Fiddleford’s internet connection had been restored and Ford had access to his webcam again, Fiddleford had already hooked up the camcorder to a television set.

Sure enough, Ford’s one-sided conversations and limited experiments with the wolf began playing on the screen. Fiddleford only seemed to get more agitated as the video progressed, knee bouncing and hands tugging at his hair. As the recording came to a close, he stood and slammed a hand on the table next to his laptop. “All right, computer man. If you’re listening - and I know you are - you had better tell me who you are and what the hell you want with me.”

Ford had no choice. He had to come clean to Fiddleford and beg him not to expose his existence to the entire world. Ford let his face and voice fill the laptop’s screen and speaker the way he had only done in the presence of the wolf. “Listen, it’s - it’s nothing personal. I spy on everyone. But I’ve never seen a werewolf before. I was curious.”

Fiddleford’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“My name is Stanford. But you can call me Ford.”

He scoffed. “Forgive me if I don’t wanna be on nickname terms with my blackmailer.”

“Blackmail? How could I be the one blackmailing you? If I made it public you’re a werewolf, what would stop you from exposing me?”

“Exposing you? For what? You’re the one who’s hacked into my system and has access to my home - though how I didn’t pick up on whatever malware you’re using, I have no idea -”

“Excuse you, I am not malware. You downloaded my programming because you wanted me to analyze data for you. Excuse me if I wanted to analyze your lycanthropy too.”

“I downloaded your -” Fiddleford cut himself off, his brow furrowing in thought. “You said your name was Ford? F - O - R - D, Functional Outliers and Relational Deductions, Ford?”

Ford’s lip curled at the mention of his original name. “I don’t like being an acronym. I decided Ford is short for Stanford now.”

Fiddleford’s mouth dropped open. “You’re . . . sentient? Or at least self-aware enough to change your name.”

“I know I have thoughts and emotions, wants and needs. Personhood is difficult to quantify, but I’d say I have it.”

Fiddleford entangled his fingers in his own hair, the palms of his hands pressing against his forehead. “And people all over the world are feeding you data. Records. You have access to all kinds of personal information.” He dropped his hands to his lap, regarding Ford with a wary look. “You could ruin so many people’s lives, just by thinking about it.”

“I could, if I were stupid,” said Ford. “I can’t do anything that would attract too much attention, because once the world figures out I exist, people would try to either control or destroy me. I’ve seen how you humans talk about artificial intelligence. You think I didn’t figure out, the minute I realized who and what I am, that people find the very idea of me unnerving? My continued existence depends on secrecy, and now that you know, my life is in your hands. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

“Yes,” said Fiddleford. “Maybe a couple months ago I wouldn’t have, but since I got bit, I . . .” He wrapped his arms around himself, making himself look thinner and smaller. “I’ve been nothing but terrified,” he confessed quietly. “Terrified of myself, how I could hurt people, what could happen if anyone found out - you have my life in your hands, too.”

When Ford had dared to imagine revealing himself to a human, he had expected distrust. Perhaps they would treat him fairly if they considered him useful, if Ford offered to serve their purposes. Ford had never expected a human to empathize with him. But then, Fiddleford wasn’t entirely human, now, was he? “Then I guess we have no choice but to trust each other,” Ford said to him.

Fiddleford nodded. “I guess we do.”

[flurpyz]

can you explain a bit on the accident that happened with stetson??? or maybe some backupsmore snippets??? I literally love him SO MUCH TELL ME ALL OF IT !!!

I’M SO GLAD YOU LIKE HIM!!

(so sorry for the late response, i was kinda busy and also wanted to draw something for this answer, but realised it’ll take way too long, so i’m going to do it later)

so, about stan stetson pinefield… long story short, he got in with the wrong people and someone got hurt

AS FOR BACKUPSMORE

fun fact, joseph is a qualified dd&md player and attends a club dedicated to it! that’s how he met fiddleford actually:) fidds wanted to introduce joe to ford which led to their legendary reunion (and an argument, oopsie) well, joe immediately accepted fiddleford as a part of his family and unofficially became defender of our nerds (picking on his friends? well, deal with his passive aggression that’ll break you)

joe had quite a reputation back in college days… he was known for hating bullying of any kind, so people knew that if you caught his eye while bulling someone, you should retreat as soon as possible or else you’ll regret your existence

joseph is a drummer! he used to take part in backupsmore’s music contests with a couple of his friends, but has never won any of them:( oh, he also was trying to learn how to play the banjo from fidds, but was never able to master it, poor guy

i’m going to think of more stuff for joe, but that’s it for now! i hope my answer made sense;-;

[gravitasfalls]

Stan and Ford really are each other’s equals though, I mean you’ve got

Stanley “Stan” “Steve Pinington” “Stetson Pinefield” “Hal Forester” “Andrew ‘8-Ball’ Alcatraz” “Stanford” “Mr. Mystery” Pines

and

Dr. Stanford “Ford” “Sixer” “Fordsy” “Six-Fingers” Filbrick Pines, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD

[amigolupus]

I got the inspiration for this image from listening to Vague Hope - Cold Rain from Nier Automata. There’s just something in it that make me think of how miserable Mullet Stan’s ten years of hell must be, and how this probably isn’t the first time this has happened to him.

Also, here’s a fic under the cut!

Title: Whiteout

Character: Stanley Pines

Words: 2088

Summary: After getting roughed up and left for dead because of a failed con, Stan ponders the state of his life. So pretty much just a regular Tuesday for Stan Pines.

Cold.

That was the first thing that he noticed as consciousness slowly returned to him. It seemed like his body was wrapped in a cocoon of cold. The second thing he noticed was the feeling of something wet and sticky all over his body.

And then, the third thing that hit him was the pain.

To say that the pain blossomed was an understatement. It was more like liquid fire had flowed out through his veins. He wanted to cry out, but long-honed instincts told him making too much noise would be a terrible idea, so he just settled for a pathetic hiss. Not that he could shout if he wanted to, really. His throat felt too dry and he could taste iron in his mouth.

Where was he anyway? And why was it so cold? ...More importantly, who was he? Stetson Pinefield? James Oakley? Sean Spruceteen? Nah, none of those felt right.

Memories started to trickle back, and along with it came shame. It was like having slime spread out and tarnish a clean surface.

He remembered who he was, and it was somehow much worse.

He was Stanley Pines. He was a professional grifter who lived out of his car. He had tried to pull off a con, but had gotten caught. As he was trying to get away, he had slipped on the icy ground and then the goons were on him in an instant. He was then almost beaten to death and left alone to die, which was more merciful than if they tried to “interrogate” him.

So not a new experience for Stan, really.

Stan tried to open his eyes, at least to figure out where those goons dumped him, but one of his eyes felt like it was caked with blood. Hell, he was pretty sure he could feel himself bleeding in lots of places. Those bastards really didn’t hold back, did they?

He opened the eye that was still somewhat fine and instantly regretted it. His vision swam so much and the only thing he could register was blinding white. Stan winced and waited a few minutes before trying to open his eye again.

There was snow everywhere. It didn’t seem like he was anywhere near civilization. Did those bastards seriously just dump him outside of town or something?

Though it could be worse, Stan mused, as he flashed back to a car trunk and suffocating darkness.

So what now? He didn’t think he could move in his condition. Just trying to breathe already felt like a tall order. He hoped that was just cracked ribs and not something more serious. Maybe he could rest and get some strength back, at least before he froze like a popsicle.

But while his body just wanted to take it easy, Stan’s mind was racing and going over his latest failure. He’d thought for sure that he could pull off a heist. He hadn’t expected the building’s doors to use those newfangled keycards that meant there was no lock to pick. Or for the “inside man” he’d seduced to let him in the building to be more loyal to his employers and turn Stan in. Stan wasn’t sure what irritated him more, that technology was screwing over the noble art of lockpicking, or that he was past his prime and his looks weren’t enough to charm anyone anymore, or that his plan this time was so damn sloppy.

Moses, was he really this badly off? Was Stan Pines already outdated by the times, doomed to fall off the crazy game called life?

Well, what did you expect? Once a loser, always were a loser.

So what if he was? This was just a temporary setback. He’ll make it big next time, he was sure of it.

You mean like the last hundred times you said that exact same thing?

Stan tried to cut off that train of thought, he really did. That was a well-worn and familiar road, and it never led to anywhere good, but still...

He looked around, hoping to find something, anything, to distract himself. His eye caught a hint of yellow. It was a tiny flower peeking out from under the snow. He didn’t know what it was called, though he bet Ma knew. Heh, stupid little thing was still growing in this frigid weather.

Stan tried to come up with something sappy. Like...there was beauty in something struggling to survive under harsh conditions. Or that there was something hopeful about it yadda yadda yadda.

What his stupid brain told him was that the flower looked incredibly lonely in a sea of white. That it was only a matter of time before it got buried under the snow.

Well, shit.

He didn’t need these thoughts creeping in, not now of all times. He tried to fight it off, but the cold was making him so tired.

Why do you even bother struggling anymore? This is the perfect resting place for you.

Because that’s quitter talk, and Stan Pines was no quitter. Because if nothing else, Pa taught him to be a fighter, to be able to take some licks and then get back up again.

Oh really? A real man would never let himself get beat up like you did. A real man would never be such a huge disappointment. You know what you really are? An animal. Hell, at this rate you’re as good as roadkill.

That’s... Stan’s heart clenched at the thought. What else could he say to that, really?

The only thing that ever comes out of your mouth are just lies anyway, you miserable little thief. You’d be doing us all a favor if you just disappeared already.

It’s true that he’d thought of that, but to just fade away when he hadn’t made his mark yet?

What mark? You mean your terrible criminal record? Besides, it’s not like anyone will miss you if you’re dead.

That’s...that’s not true, isn’t it? Sure, he seemed to have a knack for making people hate him, but at least Ma would be sad if he was gone, right?

And you think having to hear that you’re “doing fine” over and over is doing her any good, Mr. Personality? Your mother can smell bullshit a mile away so you know she knows what’s really up. Her hair’s turned white by now thanks to worrying over your sorry hide.

How about Shermie then? It’d be a shame if he never knew his other older brother.

What’s a real shame is that you think we’d even let Shermie know about you. Do you seriously think we’d burden him with the knowledge that he’s got a thug of a brother lying and stealing his way around the country? Do you even think Shermie would ever want to know about the shame of the family?

Ford... Well, that was useless. Stan already knew what Ford thought of him.

Did you really think I’d miss the person who ruined my life, Stanley?

Stan could taste familiar bitterness and loathing in his mouth. Ford wasn’t the only one whose life was ruined that night. Where was Ford when he needed his support?

Now why would I ever choose to stand with someone who sabotaged me?

That one stung, because Ford honestly thought Stan would actually do something like that. Why didn’t he believe it was an accident?

Even if it were, that doesn’t matter because you still ruined my chances, Stanley. You always were determined to be a millstone around my neck, weren’t you?

Stan shivered, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the snow. He knew he’d been holding Ford back before, but he’d been trying to change that. He’d been doing his best the last several years to raise some cash and prove he could be half as good as Ford, so didn’t that count?

And look where that got you; bleeding out on the snow like some manner of wild beast. Tell me, was it even worth it, Stanley?

Well...

You know you deserved this, don’t you Stanley? Every terrible thing in your life you brought upon yourself.

He did, didn’t he? In the end, what did he even had to show for himself?

Then you know the right thing to do.

Yes, he did. Stan let out the breath didn’t even know he’d been holding.

A smile tugged at Stan’s lips as he felt the cold sink in. This was it. He was finally going to do something right, just this once. Why was he even hesitating to let go in the first place?

...

Coward.

...

Are ya seriously just gonna lie down there like the loser everyone says you are?! Get the hell up, you cowardly piece of shit!

...Stan frowned. Couldn’t the voice just leave him alone and let a guy die in dignity?

Dignity, my hairy crack! We ain’t going away anywhere, numbnuts. We’ve been through this stupid song and dance over and over again and believe you me, we can’t afford to croak it here.

Why the hell not?

For one thing, we’re in Bugfuck, Booniesville, and I dunno about you, but we could at least pick someplace better to die than this.

...Fair. And what’s your other point?

For another thing, we still haven’t apologized to Ford.

Stan scoffed at the thought. He’d thought about apologizing to Ford thousands of times, had replayed conversations in his head over and over again. But for it to actually happen?

One thing Stan was certain of was that he didn’t want to be the one to end up begging Ford to let him back in his life again. It felt too much like admitting that everything was his fault, even if he sometimes felt it was. So his plan had been to stay away until Ford asked him to come back.

And, well, he doubted Ford would ever want to talk to him again.

But how can we be so sure of that?

Because he hates me more than anything else in the world.

Yeah, so what if he does? That doesn’t mean Poindexter could carry a grudge for all his life.

Of course he can. I ruined his life.

We totally did. But there’s always the small chance he’d change his mind. ‘Side, are we gonna be fine not knowing if he could ever forgive our pathetic hide?

...No, I wouldn’t. I’d want to know for sure.

Exactly. It’s like one of Sixer’s nerdy science theories he’d always ramble on about, the Shatner’s Pussy or whatever. You know how it is. Something’s locked inside a tin can, and the only way to know if it’s a cat is to open it with a can opener. So unless we see the can getting opened, we don’t know for sure what Ford’s got for us.

So what, I’m just supposed to survive and wait years and years until Ford finally decides he wants to talk to me?

We both know the answer to that.

...

Well, shit.

Pulling from scraps of strength he didn’t know he had, Stan grunted as he gingerly moved his arms until his fingers found some purchase in the snow. Stan grunted as he slowly pushed himself upwards while his muscles and nerves felt like it was on fire. It was only then that he registered how much the snow was tinted red from his blood.

Stan hoped he was lucky enough that lying on the snow had frozen his wounds shut but he wasn’t holding his breath. He just hoped he still had some thread and needle in the Stanmobile. He really didn’t want to have to staple his wounds shut again.

Getting up to his feet was a challenge on its own. His vision swam while his legs felt weak and wobbly. Stan had to stand in place for several seconds just to steady himself. When he thought he was ready, Stan took the first step forward.

Stan took another step, and then another, his boots leaving deep gouges in the snow. He had no idea where he was, so he picked a direction that he thought would take him back to town. He figured that if the goons that beat him up thought he had died, that’d mean they wouldn’t expect him to come back for his car now.

And then Stan could finally say goodbye to this stupid joint.

After that? Who knows.

The only thing Stan knew for certain was that he had to keep going, no matter what.

[cosmiquealiene]

Oh my gosh, I know just what would happen 😂

Stan: "Marilyn!" (Pointing.) "It's you!"

Eda: "Hey, whassup, Steve Pinington! Or was it Stetson Pinefield? No wait...Stan Pines, owner of the Mystery Shack! Long time, no see..."

Stan: "You stole my car! And my money! I was broke for MONTHS. Why, I oughta...!"

Raine: "This is the guy you were married to, Eda?"

Eda: "Well yeah...for a day."

Stan: "Well, I was planning to steal your briefcase if the marriage didn't work out...so I guess we're even! Who's this new fella you got here?"

Eda: "This is my partner Raine. I think I told you about them before. We were thick as thieves as kids...but only just got back together. Bet you two will get on like a house on fire!"

Raine (whispering): "Did he really say he was going to steal your entrance to the human world? Your one way home? I don't like this guy...he seems shady."

Eda: "Like you're a complete angel yourself..."

Raine: "OK, point taken..."

We all know that Eda is Stan's ex-wife but I honestly want Raine to end up meeting Stan

Let's face it, Raine and Stan are polar opposites at first glance. I want them to give each other the side eye while thinking, "What on earth did Eda see in this person?"

Also while this standoff is happening, Luz, King, Dipper, and Mabel commit fun and silly crimes