im gonna have to ask you to stop reblogging hot cowboys i dont have time to get into TWO other game franchises (i am kidding keep the hot cowboys coming as you please)
IM SORRY it was a moment of weakness, i just periodically have a day where, no matter what other fandom im currently interested in, an "overwatch fictional cowboy man is hot" thought overrides my brain and. yeah
won't happen again (it has happened before and will happen again)
(also which other games have hot cowboys. asking for a friend)
Aw, thank you guys! That’s very sweet of you to say! I know I tend to be slow responding to asks on here, but we always enjoy reading them! Thank you for the support!
Honestly, I just hope you guys like the game, once it’s done. I kinda don’t want it to be hyped up too much because even with all the fancy art and minigames and scripting it’s still an RPG Maker game made my like 2 people plus a couple writers/character contributors in our spare time, full of goofy self-indulgent original characters. I do sometimes worry that people are expecting more from it than I can actually deliver... it’s a little bit nerve-wracking sometimes!
But it’s really flattering that you guys are so excited about it. If the game makes people happy, that’s all I’m hoping for!
(Also, insert some joke about how nobody’s more eager for it to be done than I am... there are so many other projects I’d love to work on if I wasn’t so dedicated to getting this done!)
me: it’s 2018, nobody wants to hear ppl being salty about gravity falls
also me: stanley’s characterization is (deeply) incosisent within the cannon narative, so much so that it actively participates in his over-simplification and dumbing-down by the fandom.
he’s either smart and clever enough to keep himself afloat for ten years as a homeless teen and then for 30 years of both running a business seccessfully and studying physics and engineering, or he’s stupid enough to be bested by a pre-teen repeatedly in the first season, not recognize/suspect something was off with mabel in the new gn while FORD saw through that shit right away, his failure to even talk to susan, and not know... basic-ass words. and i’m not saying “he should’t be a criminal” or never ridiculous: let him be petty about an electronic badger, let him ruin other road side attractions, let him shoplift whenever he can get away with it - but most of the shit he got into, especially in season one, just mashes very poorly with what we see later on in the show and the information we receive about his past - HIS PAST - we are not talking character growth here poeple this was knowledge and cleverness and know-how he supposedly already had.
i understand there were alot of silly jokes the show wanted to make while keeping the twin’s characterization nice and clear but honestly? why not give some of this to wendy, who is great but somewhat lacking in depth. why not ford, later on in the show to make him feel more grounded rather than demseling him? i’m just.... so salty
@cheeziswin replied to your photo “A small preview for the next part of the FiddleStan comic - a page...”
I'm so damn excited for this comic! I love fiddlestan stuff and you draw the most adorable fidds i've ever seen
Thank you! :D
I honestly love drawing Fidds so much. I can’t remember when drawing a character last came so naturally to me. His design is so pleasant, all the lines are round and flowing and I love the soft noodle man with all my hearttttt
cheeziswin replied to your post: i know it’s a little late to talk about stranger...
DUDE YES the whole time while i was watching i was just like “this guy is the exact trope of the good guy who ends up fucking everything up for everyone or abandoning everyone when shit gets rough” and then he was the Best Person On Earth and i felt terrible
omg same i felt so bad for ever suspecting him. poor bob, he just seemed too good to be real but then he was
Behold, my first completed Gravity Falls fic, finally (it’s been a busy, busy year).
This is a Stancest fic, so if senior Stans groovin’ on each other ain’t your thing, move along.
Title: West Virginia (The White Thing) (#44 for @cheeziswin‘s Mission 50 project, and severely late)
Rating: let’s be safe and say NC17 (I’d say R but it’s at the level you find in like... Terminator or Watchmen, so better to err on the side of safety)
Quick Summary: A spat, a scare, and recovery
Word count: 4000+
note: temperature numerically referenced in Farenheit
It wasn't all warmth and understanding, and there was no way it could be, and Ford reminded himself of that over and over. It wasn't a failing that they still had their miscommunications and spats; it only meant that they were human, that was all. The important thing was that they'd made up their minds to work it out when they fought, not trying to uphold the impossible ideal that they'd never fight.
Mission 50:
West Virginia (The White Thing)
It wasn't all warmth and understanding, and there was no way it could be, and Ford reminded himself of that over and over. It wasn't a failing that they still had their miscommunications and spats; it only meant that they were human, that was all. The important thing was that they'd made up their minds to work it out when they fought, not trying to uphold the impossible ideal that they'd never fight.
It was just that he'd needed time. He'd needed to cool off. Stan had been horsing around this entire investigation, acting like this was just a camping trip, just a hike, not a scientific endeavor. It had become intensely irritating. He'd had to listen to so many jokes about the White Thing (you could just call it Sheepsquatch, Stanley, it's a valid alternate name and might keep you from getting so off-track) and so many iterations of "That's what she said" (Stanley who are you even talking about, will you kindly stop laughing, what in blazes) that Ford had, quite simply put, lost his temper.
He hadn't meant to blow up at his brother. It had just happened. He'd snapped angrily, accusing Stan of not taking this work seriously, of trying to sabotage his research efforts - again. And that had been the mistake. Stanley had gone stone-faced and said only that he was heading back to camp, and left. Ford hadn't even turned around, glaring at his notebook while listening to his brother stomp away through the thick cover of dead leaves on the forest floor, slipping occasionally in the wet and mud because of the steep slope.
That had been hours ago. Ford had completed his surveying of the heavily wooded sighting area in peace; it wasn't until he realized just how much time had passed since Stan had stormed off that the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in concern. The cloud cover had become increasingly heavy, and it had begun to rain, the temperature dropping - it must be down into the low fifties, not impossible for these mountains in late spring, but a bit unexpected. He'd made his way back to the camper as darkness fell, rehearsing in his mind how he would make peace with his brother, who had doubtless already begun to prepare dinner in his absence.
But their camp site was cold and empty. Stanley had never returned.
And something else was there.
The White Thing was a cryptid that Ford actually knew a little about. It was native to the mountains of West Virginia and prone to appearing in many forms. It seemed to function as a forest guardian, or perhaps even a death omen, or both, depending on one's source of information. When he'd seen the headline during their road trip that it had been sighted recently in an area not too far from their chosen route, it had been inevitable that they'd altered course to attempt to investigate.
One of the most unique features of the White Thing was that it was said to attack not on a physical level, but a spiritual one, something like the Gremloblin. When its claws caught you, you experienced pain, but there were no physical effects.
He could now certainly attest to the truth of that rumor, Ford thought, looking down at the clawed limb plunged into his chest. There was a complete lack of blood; even his sweater seemed to be intact. But nevertheless his heart was racing, his body tense and shaking and sweating, and he felt sick with the intensity of it as surely as if he'd been impaled.
Somehow, his pencil did not fall from his numb fingers, nor did his notebook, though the increasing patter of rain was likely to soon soak the paper and make it difficult to write. His breath caught as he lifted the implements and he shakily raised his gaze to the snarling face of the filthy pale-furred creature that had him pinned to an oak tree, held a foot off the ground.
He swore he could feel blood pouring from his mouth when he coughed, but he was equally sure that it was an illusion. "F-fascinating," he choked out. "Is this a - a territorial defense behavior, or -"
The White Thing huffed, breath fogging from flat nostrils in the unusually cool air as a rumble of thunder heralded heavier rain. "Or is it des... des..." Ford licked his lips, mouth dry, trembling pencil set resolutely to paper. "Designed to actually function in a predatorial way? Are you feeding right now?"
The White Thing twisted its claws in his chest, and Ford screamed.
--------------
It had been dark for some time - long enough that Stanley's irritation at his situation was eroding away into concern, if not fear. He wasn't sure just how far down into this ravine he'd slid when he'd lost his footing in the wet leaves, but it was far enough that he couldn't see or hear anyone passing on the trail above, and he knew he was too far from where he'd left his brother to be heard just by yelling. He'd gone hoarse doing that for a few hours already.
The concern arose from the intensifying rain and drop in temperature, and the fact that he couldn't move. His ankle throbbed angrily, trapped under a log that had shifted when he'd slid down the side of the ridge - though ironically that had stopped him from sliding further, off a small cliff into a rushing stream below. But he was trapped, unable to free himself to crawl back up the slope, and the signal for the cellphone he shared with Ford had been so bad in these mountains that they'd left it back in the camper.
The valley was narrow, so it was barely twenty feet to the far (and equally steep) side here. Now and then he'd heard rustling leaves over there during the past few hours, and had, when he'd turned far enough, seen a shaggy black dog. At least he hoped, in the failing light, that it had been a dog. Black bears were a thing here, he recalled. But calls of "here boy" had only been met with silence, and finally after "oh what are you looking at?!", the creature had wandered off, apparently unconcerned.
Time wore on, and Stan's stomach growled, and he finally let himself begin to think it. He didn't want to die. Not here, not like this. He didn't want the kids to hear that he'd died of exposure after falling down a mountain and getting stuck, due to stomping off because he hadn't wanted to deal with his stupid brother's temper tantrum. He didn't even want them to hear that he'd died. Or even that he'd gone missing for that matter. If he had his way, the only way they'd ever know that he'd died would be if, some time in the future, they just assumed he must have by now, after not hearing from him and Ford for a few decades.
That was how it was supposed to be. Him and Ford sailing off into the sunset, more or less literally.
Ford and him? Oh, what the hell ever.
Definitely not that they'd had a fight and he'd disappeared. That was the stupidest end possible for them at this point, wasn't it. That -
Oh god what if Ford thought he'd disappeared on purpose. It wasn't as though it was their first spat by a long shot. What if Ford got it into his dramatic head that he'd so offended his brother that Stan had left him, and wasn't even looking for him (because surely he would be by this point if he was going to at all, wouldn't he?). That was exactly the kind of ridiculous conclusion that Stanford Pines would -
"Oh, shut up," Stan said aloud, scowling at himself and folding his arms tightly. Truth be told, Ford wasn't the only overdramatic idiot in the family, was he.
He huddled miserably into himself, already soaked and cold, and tried as hard as he could, but failed, to not think about what would happen to Ford. How it would hit him, to find him too late. How it would hurt him...
There was another rustling and crunching of leaves, just barely audible over the hiss of rain. Stanley looked up across the gorge again, straining his eyes in the near-complete darkness.
He didn't have to. There was a black-on-black shape there that might've been that dog or whatever from earlier, sure, but there was also a massive pale creature that seemed to almost glow, albeit dimly.
It had a face - vaguely familiar, like something he'd seen before - and it was staring at him.
Stan stared back.
That lasted for all of thirty seconds before he'd had it. "What?!" He yelled across the ravine, voice echoing between trees as the rain eased up. "What do you want? Look, I'm too old for this shit. Go get help if that's what you're here for. If you're here to kill me, then get on with it. If you're just here to watch? Fuck you!"
His audience vanished.
In the dazzling darkness that followed, the rain tapered off, finally ceasing all together. Stan strained his ears for any sound that might indicate that he was being stalked, but other than dripping water and the creek below, there didn't seem to be anything to hear. It was a useless gesture, but he managed to turn on his aching hips and properly sit up for the first time in hours, removing his glasses to clean them with his soaked shirt. His legs felt stiff, but -
Wait.
The log was gone. It had been there a moment ago, but now it was gone, and he could turn and sit and...
Stanley knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He scrabbled to his feet as best he could - his ankle didn't even hurt, but that was just another thing to not question - and began to carefully haul himself back up the ridge toward where he knew the hiking trail to be.
--------------------
He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find when he got back to the camp, but it wasn't the dark cool stillness that he found. It looked like there was nobody around.
Despite being soaked, he'd warmed considerably with activity as he'd hiked back, but something icy cold coiled up inside him as it occurred to him that maybe Ford hadn't come back either. Maybe he'd gotten himself lost looking for -
Stanley swallowed - work with what's in front of you, not what you imagine. He reached the camper and opened the door, groping for the battery lantern kept just inside; his eyes had adjusted to the dim night, but it was still difficult to see. "Ford? Hey! You here?" He didn't see or hear anyone at the site, and received no answer.
There was no one in the camper, but something prompted him to look behind him as he flicked the lantern on. A hint of movement or color reflecting from behind him in the chrome trim inside the camper, maybe...
His brother was sitting in the muddy clearing, arms around his knees, with his back to the camper. He was rocking so slightly that Stan hadn't previously caught the motion, or at least hadn't registered it as different from the foliage shifting in the light breeze.
"Ford!" He almost dropped the lantern as he half-ran, half-tumbled forward to reach his brother. Ford hadn't responded to him, and the way he was positioned, and - well, it was obvious that something was severely wrong. "Stanford!"
Still no response. Stan did drop the lantern now, so that he could take his brother's head in both hands and lift it, almost prying him out of his seated fetal position. "Ford, hey, Sixer, come on, look at me, it's okay, it's -" He was lying, something wasn't okay at all, but he couldn't stop himself. "It's okay, look at me, look at me..."
Ford's face was colder than his hands, his lips violet, his eyes wide and unfocused behind fogged glasses; Stan wasn't sure if it was tear-streaked or just carelessly wiped of mud and rain or both. He glanced down over his brother but couldn't see any obvious wounds or blood.
"Stanley?" Ford's voice wavered, weak and pained, and Stan realized that he was staring back at him. He'd stopped rocking back and forth, but he seemed shocked, disbelieving.
It was starting to rain again.
Stan gave a strained grin; it wasn't quite relief but it was a start. At least Ford could come back from... whatever had happened to him. "Come on, on your feet, got to get inside, warm up -"
"We should leave," Ford said quickly, cutting him off. He let his brother draw him to his feet, but he swayed dangerously, trembling.
The rain was getting heavier. "Yeah, no, I'm not driving until you're fixed up enough to get to a hospital if you have to."
"But -"
"Can it," Stan said firmly.
"The White Thing -"
"Is out here. I get it. Now get in the camper," Stan snapped. He'd snap the thing in half himself if he saw it after this, even though he increasingly suspected that it had been what had freed him. Probably, it had wanted him to come get his idiot brother out of the area. How many times had Ford gone and gotten himself in trouble with whatever he was studying, now? Stan had lost count.
Something in his tone got Ford moving, though he stumbled, looping his arm around his brother and clutching tightly. Stan half-dragged him to the camper and nearly shoved him inside before dashing back for the lantern. And then dashing back again for Ford's notebook, lying discarded and soaked on the muddy ground.
Then they were inside and locking the door, flimsy shield that it was, as the rain began to come down again in earnest, softly roaring against the roof and walls of the camper.
Ford huddled dazed on the floor as Stan got the lights and shucked his soaked clothes. "Where'd that extra comforter go?" He asked, stepping over his brother to the sleeping area. "Come on, clothes off. Where'd it get you?" He tossed the sought-after blanket to the bed, letting the door of the cabinet it had been in slam as he delved into another compartment for the first-aid kit.
"W-what?" He could see Ford struggling to recover, grasping at reality.
"I can't tell where it got you," Stan explained. "Where ya bleedin'?"
Something seemed to click for Ford. "I'm not," he said abruptly. "I - it was a psychic attack." He drew a breath, further pulling himself together. "I'd already theorized from the description that the White Thing might be of some relation to the Gremloblin, but that would seem to be proven now. Its mode of attack, however, is slightly different..."
"Yeah, yeah. You're fine, obviously," Stan smirked, putting the first-aid kit away again. Yeesh. At least that was a relief; he didn't have to worry about his brother bleeding out or anything.
"No, I -" Ford was still shaking, Stan realized, even as he pulled his brother to his feet. "No, no, you don't understand -"
"So tell me," Stan said, pulling Ford out of his wet clothes. "Come on. Keep talking." It seemed like a good way to get the upset out of his system.
"I need you."
Stan paused. "Okay, wasn't expecting that." It was only a moment's pause. With them both mostly stripped, he pulled his brother to the bed and sat down with him, drawing the comforter around them and rubbing at Ford's shoulders.
"No, I mean -" His brother struggled with his words - not something Stan was used to seeing. It would have been refreshing if not for the edge of concern it brought. "All that time, without you, I still..."
He took a deep breath and tried to start over. "The Gremloblin only shows you your worst fear. This - this was a bit different. The White Thing seems to want to drive you out of its territory, so it doesn't focus on fear as much as pain. It's an attack, not - not a hunting mechanism. But it, the pain it causes - maybe just the thought or threat of physical pain is enough most of the time, for most, but for me, it..."
Ford swallowed, steeling himself to go on. "It... brought up... all that time without you. I was so angry, for so long, but... I still hung on to you. The idea of you. Eventually when I thought I'd never see you again it, it hurt. I wanted to. I wanted to see you and talk to you and be with you and it was never going to happen and the last things I said to you... even back then that wasn't how I wanted things to go, seeing you again. At the time I couldn't...
"It doesn't matter." He took a deep breath. "Stanley, it told me I came back and rejected you so you rejected me, derided me, hated me the way I deserved after how I'd treated you, and I was too wrapped up in myself to see it. And the worst part is I knew! I knew I was driving you away!" If anything, Ford seemed to be growing more distressed, not less, the more he went on. "I knew I was doing it! I knew I was... was losing you. And I couldn't - couldn't make myself stop - Why couldn't I just say -" He sputtered, unable to continue speaking.
Stan had heard it before (mostly some version of it repeated whenever Ford made the mistake of getting drunk), but this was like the first time, torn raw and new and aching. But that Ford had known what he was doing and been unable to stop himself - that was new. And frightening, obviously so to Ford at least, regardless of whether it was true or part of the nightmare.
If he'd phrased it himself, it seemed clear to Stan that while the Gremloblin only showed a person their fear, this Sheepsquatch asshole made you feel it. Or something like that.
"Hey. Sixer." Stan held his brother's face in his hands and tried to make eye contact, but Ford kept looking down, twitching, too distressed to hold his gaze for more than a moment. "Hey." Stan forced him to be still. "You're okay. It's okay now. We been over this. We're good."
"We're good?" Ford echoed, blinking, but still not more than glancing up.
"Yeah, remember? We -"
"I'm sorry."
Now Ford was looking at him. Staring intensely, in fact. "Stanley, I never should have - I don't know how I..." He glanced down again, but he'd laid one hand on Stan's shoulder, and patted awkwardly. "I don't deserve - God, I don't know how you can ever forgive me."
"Like this." Stan grinned, and abruptly turned Ford's face toward his, tilting so that he could lay a quick, gentle kiss on his twin's lips. "You're forgiven." He rested their foreheads together, moving one arm around Ford's back, rubbing in an attempt to sooth him. "You've been forgiven for a good while, dummy. Quit carryin' it around. That ain't who you are anymore even if Jerksquatch out there says different."
"Stanley..." Ford's voice choked to silence.
"Sixer," Stan sternly told him, "If you were still that much of an asshole, you wouldn't feel bad about it bein' rubbed in yer face, would ya?"
Ford huffed, and his shoulders twitched, then shook, and for a moment Stanley was concerned that he was still too miserable for such logic.
But the next sound he made was distinctly laughter. Stan grinned again as Ford relaxed into his arms, embracing him back.
He was a little surprised by Ford kissing him, though, particularly by the force behind it.
Things went a bit comfortably horizontal from there, with Ford mumbling something about endorphins and oxytocin, as though he had to justify wanting this. Stan only laughed and let him ramble - for as long as there wasn't a better use for their mouths, at least. When Ford pulled away from him, it was only so that they could enthusiastically clear their remaining clothing and resume, at least until Ford crawled over him, holding Stan down until they were positioned to their liking.
This wasn't sex, Stan thought. It wasn't fooling around, or making out, or anything like that. It was gentle, and attentive, and... love. Stanford was making love to him.
There was a stab of emotion like lightning, so intense that it hurt, in his chest and throat and... lower. If it hadn't mercifully choked his voice he knew he'd have started blurting out the same kind of maudlin things Ford had been struggling to express a little while ago; just that realization was enough to erase that sweet feeling of pain and replace it with... elation. Joy.
With a satisfied groan, Stan squeezed Ford's hips and thrust more deeply into his brother, giving him everything he could, connecting them as closely as physically possible. Ford bent forward, making a small sound that seemed the most enthralling, wonderful thing Stan had ever heard.
Stan let his hands roam, fingers smoothing over scars and stubble and finally intertwining with his brother's as their breath came quicker and movements more forceful. He pulled, bringing them together so that Ford didn't have to strain to support himself so much and could focus on their connection; Ford relaxed a little and bent to lay his forehead against Stan's chest and moaned deeply, both at the closeness and the feel of his own erection pressed between their bodies.
When they came, it was together, neither aware of even a fraction of a moment's separation between them.
Stan's mouth twisted into a satisfied smile - far too warm to be considered a smirk - as he wiped at his stomach with a handful of tissues from the shelf by the bed, having handed the rest of the box to his brother. It wasn't the first time that the almost-smug thought crossed his mind that the only shame in this was that they couldn't acknowledge it in anyone else's presence. Stupid uptight society. Weird as everything about their lives had been, what the hell did it matter if they were together like this? It wasn't anyone else's business, and wasn't hurting anybody. All they'd ever needed was each other anyway. That was just how it had always been.
And always would be.
The rain slacked off within a few hours, but still fell, a gentle staccato hush rather than a roar.
Ford's voice was soft and warm against Stan's chest from the pillow of his shoulder. "I love you, Stanley."
Stan wasn't asleep - simply enjoying Ford's presence, eyes closed, soaking him in. But Ford started it. "Wow, Sixer," Stan rumbled, beginning to run his hand over his brother's shoulder again, memorizing the pattern of scars against his palm. "That's really gay."
He felt Ford tense satisfyingly in his embrace. "Seriously, Stanley?" His voice was flat, louder, sharper, though he didn't shift his position at all. "All the potential responses in the multiverse and that's what you come up with?"
"Well." Stan gave him a squeeze. "I thought you were sick of hearing me say 'that's what she said'."
------------------
Stan almost felt bad as he surreptitiously added another star to his map; this hadn't been quite what he'd thought of when he'd envisioned this entertaining little project, after all. But they were leaving West Virginia. Technically, it still counted, right?
Ford smiled easily at him from the driver's seat when he crawled back into the cab of the camper.
Right. Stan grinned back. Everything was right.
