dark-lord-of-awesomeness

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Ignore the fact that I have some number hopefully less than 70 asks in my ask box and just take this brain worm. Also ignore the time.

Stan Filbrick Pines, twelve years old, was on an important mission.

Finding what was behind the boards covering a giant hole at the beach. He'd been eyeing the spot for a few years, had seen the graffiti, the way most people ignored it, teens tugged at them and quickly moved on, and how the boards never seemed to age or weather from the wind and sea.

The perfect spot to avoid the other kids for a few hours until he was allowed home.

"Stan Pines, adventurer in action," Stan muttered, hitting the sand with a stick as he scanned the beach around him for any incoming hostiles, "On a new mission. Psssh! Woosh! Whatchow!"

Stan did a roll across the sand, then sputtered and shook his head to get all the grit and itchyness out of his hair. Pushing himself to his feet, he brushed himself off, then eyed the vandalized boards, perfectly sturdy under the grim.

"Hmmm. HmmmMM!" he poked at the edges where they were nailed to the rock with his stick, then peered between the gaps at the darkness beyond.

"This calls for the big guns." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flash light, then stuck his tongue out and hit the middle as hard as he could. They shattered instantly as his fist slammed into them, prickling his fingers as splinters dug under his skin, crumbling like paper despite how thick the wood had looked. A breeze blew past him, whipping his hair around his head and blowing sand behind him. He sneezed at the funky smell that slammed into him, then wiped his nose and grinned.

"Hah!" Stan shook his hand, then clicked on the light and stepped into the cave, "Nothing can stand up to the big guns!"

He waved the light around, looking at the bumpy walls and winding path.

Perfectly untouched.

The sharpie was out of his pocket and his name was on the nearest smooth surface before anyone realized there was a kid down here to be mad at.

"The great Stan Pines has left his mark," Stan muttered under his breath, before shining the light deeper into the cave, "now he embarks to the depths, to discover its secret secrets."

He could hear water dripping somewhere further in, and more wind rushed by him, funky wet smells tickling his nose as he went deeper and deeper. The walls were crawling with all kinds of star fish, plants, and shiny rocks that bounced the flashlights beam off in rainbows of color. Several pools of glowing water blocked his path from time to time, and he hummed a tune as he jumped across them, stopping occasionally to watch small little water creatures scuttle along the bottom.

Eventually the tunnel opened up into a large cavern, pitch black except for where Stan's light cut through the darkness, illuminating more funky creatures, wiggly plants, and shiny rocks.

And a boat, old and half missing, wedged between a few rocks and leaning into a larger pool of water.

"Woah." Stan whispered, before his grin widened and he ran over to examine his latest discovery. He slowed as he got closer, using the flashlight to make sure he wouldn't trip or step on any the wiggly bugs and strange crabs that scrambled to get out of his way. He could hear more of them creeping around in the dark, too fast for his light to catch as he got closer and ran a hand over the rotting wood.

The pool of water here didn't glow, and Stan walked closer and looked at his own reflection in the water, grinning at the face that met him.

"Cool." The water was so still here, the wind coming from deeper inside not moving it an inch.

Time for some science then.

Humming as he turned, Stan leaned down and picked up a nice smooth rock, wincing slightly as it hit some of his splinters. The rock was held over the water, then dropped.

It disappeared without so much as a splash, there one second, gone the next. No ripple, nothing.

"Awesome." Stan crouched on the shore and propped his flashlight up on some more rocks, then poked the water with his stick, watching it disappear and reappear as it went in and out, not so much as a drop left on the tip as Stan looked at it. A few more pokes and Stan set the stick down next to him, then stuck his itchy splinter hand into it.

It tickled as his fingers disappeared, and he giggled at the sensation of his splinters wiggling. There was a cool sensation where his hand was in the funky water, like his hand was in a fridge.

A light caught his attention, and he looked up to see six glowing red circles, blurry and hard to make out from where they were sitting, just outside the flashlights beam. they blinked at him, and he blinked back.

Then they was gone, and something was grabbing Stan's hand. Stan yelped as he was tugged down, somethings slithering over his fingers and prodding his splinters. He pulled back, and the thing down there grabbed his hand tightly, gripping him so hard he was sure his fingers would bruise.

But Stan Pines was no quitter. He fixed his stance, braced himself on the rocky shore, then pulled as hard as he could.

All at once the thing pulling him burst out of the weird water, slamming into him and knocking his flashlight over. Stan and the thing shouted, and Stan scrambled backwards out from under it, lunging for his flashlight and whipping around to see-

Nothing.

"Huh?" Stan swept the flashlight around, then jumped again when light flooded the cavern. Blinking his eyes to adjust, he looked up to find two giant holes in the ceiling, letting in light from the setting sun. The black water was dull and bluish, the walls losing their mysterious shine, and all the tiny creatures were gone.

"Hmm. Stan Pines and the mystery darkness," Stan muttered, grimacing at the pinkish sky above him. He hadn't realized how late it was getting, pa would get mad if he wasn't home soon.

Flashlight guiding the way back to the entrance, Stan ran through the twisting tunnels, not sparing a thought to the lack of pain in his hand, the cool feeling that hadn't disappeared when his hand left the water, or the thing that had grabbed him.

As he burst out back onto the beach, a weight seemed to lift of his shoulders. His breathing came easier, and a lightness filled him as he watched the sun glitter across the water. Giddy and excited, he sprinted all the way home, cleaned himself up, jumped around his bedroom, examining every toy and piece of furniture like it was brand new, then ran to dinner. He chattered to his parents about his day, not mentioning his newest discovery on the beach or what the kids at school had done.

No one cared to listen after all, why bother.

When he was done he ran back to his room, did all his homework in a rush, then crashed into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

"I want to listen."

"Hwuh?" Stan said, turning to the unexpected voice. Next to him, leaning on the rail of a sail boat, was another boy. He looked almost like Stan, the same face and hair, even the same clothes.

But it wasn't Stan, he knew that more than he knew anything.

"I want to listen, about what the other kids did at school." The boy said, leaning forwards and staring deep into Stan's eyes, "Tell me about them."

It didn't feel like a question, more of a demand, but something in Stan told him it was better to answer.

"Well, if your so curious," Stan began, gripping the railing as he stared back at the other kid, "Crampelter cornered me after math and tore up all my notes, then hung me up on one of the bathroom stalls by my backpack. Used the stringy bits to make sure i couldn't wiggle out by tying them together. I was stuck up there for thirty minutes, missed half of art class."

The other kid hummed, looking away. Stan broke out in a cold sweat as he did, wheezing as he leaned on the rail. His limbs felt jittery, like he'd gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or jumped away from a moving car. Something ran through his hair, but when he looked over the other kid hadn't moved, was still glaring at the water below them, eyes narrowed.

"Crampelter." The other kid said softly, nodding slightly, "Alright. I'll take care of it for you then, don't you worry Stanley."

"That's not-"

The next day Crampelter wasn't at school. His classmates whispered about a robbery gone wrong, about police sirens and ambulances.

About how Crampelter had died, stabbed to death in his own bed.

The rumor was immediately proven wrong the next day, when Crampelter came to school pale faced and red nosed, somewhat subdued but only sick, not injured or murdered. His poor health didn't stop him from getting his lackey's to corner Stan on the way home from school and kicking him until he let go of his backpack so they could dig through it and pull out his notebooks.

Thankfully he'd learned his lesson years ago. The only copies of his comics in there were ones he wasn't really proud of, or ideas he'd lost interest in. It only made the tears slightly real and the cries marginally truthful, but it was enough for Crampelter and his goons.

That night he had another dream about the strange boy who was and wasn't him. Just like before, he demanded to know about Stan's day, and Stan felt he answered because he had to more than any desire to share with the strange kid.

The goons were gone the next day, and Stan woke up to find his comics back in one piece and held together with some kind of shiny gold glue.

And so it continued, every night Stan would dream of the funky boy that called him Stanley, and every night Stan would tell him about how his day went, good or bad. Mostly bad, and the kids who made it so wouldn't be there the next day. On the rare good days, when no one talked to Stan, the boy would smile a too wide smile, lean forwards, grab Stan's face, and tell him things were just as they should be.

It was the first time he did that Stan finally realized why he'd known this boy was different. This boy had six fingers on his hands, each one fully functional and gripping Stan's face.

It wasn't as comforting as the boy probably meant it to be, but it was better than waking up with the knowledge that some kid at school was going to get sick, hurt, or move away overnight.

As the years went by Stan grew, and the other Not-Stan grew too, appearing in slightly different outfits, putting on the glasses Stan had broken too many times to get replaced, staying skinny while Stan bulked up from boxing. Their conversations moved away from bullies and school and changed to random topics, art, monsters, hobbies.

Futures.

"Might try my hand at business," Stan said, sitting on the deck of the still tiny sail boat, legs hanging over the edge and arms resting on the railing, "Take over the pawn shop. Pa's said I'm quick with numbers, and no one's been impressed with any of my comics so..."

"Don't be ridiculous Stanley," Stanford (as he eventually learned the other boys name was), "You're going to take me home, and then you'll stay with me."

"I am?"

"Of course," Stanford crouched down and slung an arm over his shoulder, "I got lost ages ago, then stuck. Everyone will be so happy to see me, and once I tell them how good a job you've done taking care of us, they'll be happy to see you too."

"If you say so."

"I do."

When graduation came and went, and Stan turned eighteen, the last thing he'd been expecting was a duffel to the chest and a shove out the door.

"I put up with you for the last few years," His pa growled, looming over Stan as light spilled behind him, casting a large shadow over Stan, "Looked away, just as you asked. Now get lost, and good riddance. Don't darken my door again, you hear?"

Before Stan could ask what pa was talking about, or call out to ma, the door was slammed in his face, and he heard the various clicks of the ever increasing amount of locks run down the door.

Stan grabbed his duffel, then mechanically pushed himself to his feet, staring up at the pawn shop windows as the lights quickly turned off.

"Ma? Pa?" he called out, taking a hesitant step forwards. No one answered, and he swallowed as he looked down the street. All of the other houses were dark, his neighbors shutting their curtains and ignoring the commotion at the shop.

"Pa!" Stan slung the bag over his shoulder, than ran up the steps and pounded on the door, "PA! MA! WHAT-"

A baby cried out, and he choked on his words as he heard his ma's frantic whispering, shushing his baby brother.

It sounded like she was trying not to cry herself.

Stan swallowed again, then turned and dragged his feet towards his car.

All his things were already in there, clothes and games, comics and pictures. Everything boxed up and labeled, crammed to fit the space and written in fancy cursive writing he'd never seen before.

He threw the duffel in the passenger seat, climbed into the drivers seat after, and sat there, staring at the darkened road in front of him while he listened to his breathing and tried not to think about why his ma had- why she wouldn't-

His parents had gotten strange the last few years, but this- not cold, nothing to make Stan think that they'd- why? What had he done to make his parents kick him out so quickly, to cut him off so completely.

Why had his pa looked so scared.

Eventually he mustered up the energy to lift a hand and start the car. The street ahead seemed vast and terrifying, but he drove into regardless.

Alone.

"You're not alone Stanley," Stanford said, running a hand through Stan's hair and smiling down at him, sun behind his head and casting shadows across his face, "You have me."

"S'not the same." Stan muttered, staring up at Stanford with half-lidded eyes.

"Hmm. No, I suppose its not quite the same," Stanford mused, "Not yet, but soon. Once we're home, we'll be together forever."

From behind his eyelashes, Stanford's eyes seemed to glow, a deep, hungry red, two golden slits cutting through them.

The open road was dangerous, more than he thought it would be. The only money he had on him was a few crumpled twenties that had been shoved in the bag and the loose change around his car. Making money became an issue, especially since every time he tried to sell off some of his meager belongings he'd wake up the next day to find all his things as neatly packed as the first day, more money than he'd fallen asleep with, and the sudden urge to get out of town as quickly as possible.

The extra money and having all his stuff back was nice, the urge to run away no so much.

Stanford seemed to change as well, no longer the scrawny teen that looked like a stiff breeze would push him over. The further Stan drove West the more he started to grow and fill out, until he'd been on the road doing odd job after criminal job after scam for a year, and Stanford was just as big as Stan was.

And growing impatient.

"Why are you wasting your time on this Stanley," Stanford said, leaning over Stan and frowning after Stan fell asleep from a long night of hustling, "We need to get home."

"I need money to live," Stan said with a sigh and roll of his eyes, "And I don't know where that is. Can't you just tell me?"

"I don't need to, you know how to get there," Stanford crouched down, one hand on Stan's heart and one intertwining with Stan's, "You know where to go, just listen to me."

Stan sighed, closing his eyes and listening.

Deep in his chest, wrapped around his heart and holding tight was what felt like a six fingered hand, fingers firmly yet gently pressing into him. If he strained, if he listened, if he let himself fall into the space where it had crept in when he was too young to know how to look, he could hear its voice, soft and soothing, telling him where to go.

"See," Stanford said when Stan opened his eyes, feeling the weight of whatever was hitching a ride under a skin, "Now lets go home."

Stanford's face was smudging into the darkening sky behind him, six eyes opened wide and grinning down at him, golden pupils slits.

"Ok."

Gravity Falls, Oregon was a town that wasn't on any map, but Stan could find with his eyes closed. Barely giving the signs a glance, he drove down winding back roads, past endless tress, turning with no thoughts but listening to the voice growing louder and louder in his mind, the pressure on his heart almost painful. The town was empty as he drifted through, turning down a side path and back into the woods.

Eventually he came to a stop in front of a large log cabin, grand and ticking out like a beacon in the still forest around them. The door opened as Stan turned the ignition off and got out of the car.

No one stepped out, until Stan blinked and found a skinny man, standing in front of him. Blondish hair, streaked with grey was shoved under a wide brimmed brown hat, making him look like a scarecrow paired with his brown overalls. A green shirt with glasses patterns had a tie with more glasses on it, and he was wearing a pair of leather boots and thick leather gloves. A pair of circular glasses were perched on his nose, cloudy and opaque.

Too many glasses actually.

"Stanford!" the thing wearing glasses said, too long limbs bent so its hands were on its hips, "Where have ya been? We've been worried sick!"

"Fiddleford!" Stanford said, grinning Stan's mouth and stepping forwards to embrace their friend, "I've missed you!"

"Don't touch me with that." Fiddleford said, grimacing at them, "What are you wearing, take that off."

"Now now, I was in quite the state for a while, without him I wouldn't have been able to recover" Stanford said with a laugh, reaching over to pat Fiddleford's shoulder, "This is Stanley, my brother, he'll be living with us from now on. Say hello Stanley."

"... hey." Stan said, tired and strung out and too full. Fiddleford pursed his lip, then sighed.

"Fine fine, its your house after all, and if he's your brother now-"

"Twin brother" Stanford interrupted, sounding pleased. Fiddlefords brows rose, and he whistled low.

"Twin, huh? Well I'll be. Lets get ya'll off your feet then, must have been quiet the kerfuffle that took you out of the house for so long."

Stan zoned out as Stanford walked them over to the house and talked. As they got closer it seemed to bend and twist under his eyes, none of the walls meeting as they should. The windows seemed to hover in front of their frames, the door had no handle, and the inside was pitch black.

The grip on his heart was even tighter, and Stanford kept their eyes open, even as all Stan wanted to do was lay down forever.

The moment they stepped past the doorway the house exploded around him, hallways and doorways bursting into existence, twisting in and around each other, filled with books and scrolls of all kinds, small trinkets and bottles shoved between them, walls plastered with diagrams, pinned creatures, and blurring pictures. Jars with contents ranging from beating hearts to buttons were sitting in ways they should and shouldn't, lamps with twisted stands lit up floors above them, while a chandelier was hanging upside down from the floor and illuminating the ceiling.

It hurt Stan's head to look at, like a library and lab had crashed into each other and turned into an optical illusion of ways buildings shouldn't look.

"Finally" Stanford said, stepping out of Stan and stretching his back out, "Not that you haven't done an excellent job Stanley, but one can only contort their form for so long, and you stopped growing as rapidly as I'd prefer sometime two years ago."

Stanford looked just like he did in Stan's dream, identical except for his cleft chin and six fingered hands, wearing a long tan coat and red sweater that looked far too thick. Stan blinked as the man turned and smiled at him, six red eyes blinking one at a time behind a pair of glasses.

The too full feeling left as Stanford.. kept stepping out of him. Oozing , pitch blackness slithering out and into Stanford, making the man look more and more real and leaving Stan feeling paper thin, like a cocoon who's butterfly had finished growing and had crawled out.

"Oh dear, none of that now," Stanford said, reaching forwards to catch Stan as he wobbled and fell forwards with more than two hands, too many hands, grabbing Stan's own and lifting him off the ground, "Hmm. I might have overestimated you're long term carrying capacity, humans can only hold so much inside of themselves after all, I'm afraid I might have crushed you Stanley."

"S'whutevr" Stan muttered, slumping into the too many armed hold and letting his eyes close. There was still a hand around his heart, and it rubbed little circles into him as more hands swept him off his feet and too many voices whispered into his ears. Fiddleford said something, and a moment later the hands let go and he was sinking into something warm and comfortable. The hand on his heart remained, even as he felt Stanford wander away somewhere else, everywhere else, nowhere else.

"Here we are," Stanford said seconds and years and centuries later, "I did say you'd be staying with me forever, didn't I? I, unlike some of us around here, try to keep my promises, and you've proven much better company then the rest of our family."

There was some distant grumbles, layered and echoing, and the hand squeezed one more time before letting go, leaving him with nothing but the dead space inside him where Stanford had been curled up, strangling the rest of himself to make room.

"I am sorry," Stanford said, hands flipping Stan over so he was blinking up at a twisting ceiling and Stanford's smiling face, "I didn't have a lot of options at the time, and you were too young to make the journey without risking our health. But! I've just the thing to fill you up."

Stanford lifted a jar with a golden fish, curled up and dead floating in some kind of red fluid.

"I've been saving this for a special occasion," Stanford said, twisting the cap off, "and this seemed fitting. Think of it as your first official birthday present, from your big brother."

Before Stan could even start to say how much he didn't want a dead fish, hands came down and pinned him to the soft surface, gripping his arms and legs tightly, while more appeared and plunged into him, grabbing the crushed and flattened parts and peeling them away from the sides of him.

It hurt like nothing at all. A pain that should exist yet didn't, perfectly comfortable except for the ways it made him want to writhe. Stanford's arms held him still as he worked to unstick him from himself, rubbing small circles into him as light glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.

More hands grabbed the giant jar with the fish, tilting it over to pour into Stan, red fluid flooding his insides and dead fish flooping over and onto him. This did hurt, feeling Stanford shove it into him, mixing him with the red stuff and into the fish.

Like getting shoved into a grater, pushed through the a thousand tiny tubes with a thousand paper cuts, drowning and breathing, too empty then too full.

He might have been screaming, but it was hard to tell with him screaming inside himself, bubbling into the fish, feeling it come to life in him and become him and he was in him and it was too big too small too much.

Two hearts beating away, and one of them had to go.

He lunged to eat one, then screamed as hands pulled him back and apart, cutting open the layers of scales and flesh.

"Hang in there Stanley," Stanford muttered, hands digging further and further, "I don't want you to be replaced after all, I would have eaten you years ago if that was the case, no what I want is... here we are!"

One of the hearts was torn out and out and out, until Stan was looking at a golden beating thing, not like any heart he'd ever seen. There wasn't much time to examine it, as a moment later it was shoved down his throat, into and into and was him but his heart was beating louder, drowning out the second and it was him was himwashimhimhimhimhim.

Stanley Pines awoke with a screech, golden scales tearing out of him as the thing that had decided he was its brother forever grinned down at him, six red and gold eyes curled in delight.

"Happy Birthday Stanley" Stanford said, shoving Stanley together with too many hands, blind or uncaring as the scales slashed through his skin and his blood mixed into his brand new baby twin brother. Fins erupted from his skin, webbing between his fingers, teeth sharpened and layered.

And two red eyes slammed open, two golden pupils paper thin.

Stanford smiled as he saw them, pride making him warm and full. He'd known the moment Stanley had torn him from the lake that his brother was special, that he could take the worst of what Stanford had to offer and overcome it. Any other human would have been crushed years ago as Stanford grew inside them, recovering his power in the safety of a human host.

Not Stanley, not the boy who'd challenged a monster and won , not the child who'd strolled into the lair of a beast and dared to declare himself the owner, not the teen who'd learned to look past the picture Stanford wanted him to see.

Stanley had wanted to be equals, had offered his name so freely to Stanford to make it so. Whatever pain he was experiencing was temporary.

When Stanford was done here, they'd have forever.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

HI HI HI HI HI WHAT

FISH DEMON FORD?????

Is this gonna be a new au please say it's gonna be an au I'm literally obsessed I need to read it again Right Now

Hmmmore like hand monster Ford turned Stan into a fish monster, but yah.

And ppppppppprrrrbbbbmmmmmaaayybe? I saw some are of that anime Manga, the summer hsomething died and was gripped with 'hey what if Ford was some kinds eldritch creature and he decided he liked Stan and was his twin brother now hm? Stan gets no say in this of course' and then couldn't sleep until I'd gotten this out. Unfeatured was creepy monster Ford hovering over Stan while he slept and staring at him, then poking him a bunch with his mobster hands as he wiggled into Stan's dreams then hijacked his body to terrify the town

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Yeen mom is the best mom

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Ignore the fact that I have some number hopefully less than 70 asks in my ask box and just take this brain worm. Also ignore the time.

Stan Filbrick Pines, twelve years old, was on an important mission.

Finding what was behind the boards covering a giant hole at the beach. He'd been eyeing the spot for a few years, had seen the graffiti, the way most people ignored it, teens tugged at them and quickly moved on, and how the boards never seemed to age or weather from the wind and sea.

The perfect spot to avoid the other kids for a few hours until he was allowed home.

"Stan Pines, adventurer in action," Stan muttered, hitting the sand with a stick as he scanned the beach around him for any incoming hostiles, "On a new mission. Psssh! Woosh! Whatchow!"

Stan did a roll across the sand, then sputtered and shook his head to get all the grit and itchyness out of his hair. Pushing himself to his feet, he brushed himself off, then eyed the vandalized boards, perfectly sturdy under the grim.

"Hmmm. HmmmMM!" he poked at the edges where they were nailed to the rock with his stick, then peered between the gaps at the darkness beyond.

"This calls for the big guns." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flash light, then stuck his tongue out and hit the middle as hard as he could. They shattered instantly as his fist slammed into them, prickling his fingers as splinters dug under his skin, crumbling like paper despite how thick the wood had looked. A breeze blew past him, whipping his hair around his head and blowing sand behind him. He sneezed at the funky smell that slammed into him, then wiped his nose and grinned.

"Hah!" Stan shook his hand, then clicked on the light and stepped into the cave, "Nothing can stand up to the big guns!"

He waved the light around, looking at the bumpy walls and winding path.

Perfectly untouched.

The sharpie was out of his pocket and his name was on the nearest smooth surface before anyone realized there was a kid down here to be mad at.

"The great Stan Pines has left his mark," Stan muttered under his breath, before shining the light deeper into the cave, "now he embarks to the depths, to discover its secret secrets."

He could hear water dripping somewhere further in, and more wind rushed by him, funky wet smells tickling his nose as he went deeper and deeper. The walls were crawling with all kinds of star fish, plants, and shiny rocks that bounced the flashlights beam off in rainbows of color. Several pools of glowing water blocked his path from time to time, and he hummed a tune as he jumped across them, stopping occasionally to watch small little water creatures scuttle along the bottom.

Eventually the tunnel opened up into a large cavern, pitch black except for where Stan's light cut through the darkness, illuminating more funky creatures, wiggly plants, and shiny rocks.

And a boat, old and half missing, wedged between a few rocks and leaning into a larger pool of water.

"Woah." Stan whispered, before his grin widened and he ran over to examine his latest discovery. He slowed as he got closer, using the flashlight to make sure he wouldn't trip or step on any the wiggly bugs and strange crabs that scrambled to get out of his way. He could hear more of them creeping around in the dark, too fast for his light to catch as he got closer and ran a hand over the rotting wood.

The pool of water here didn't glow, and Stan walked closer and looked at his own reflection in the water, grinning at the face that met him.

"Cool." The water was so still here, the wind coming from deeper inside not moving it an inch.

Time for some science then.

Humming as he turned, Stan leaned down and picked up a nice smooth rock, wincing slightly as it hit some of his splinters. The rock was held over the water, then dropped.

It disappeared without so much as a splash, there one second, gone the next. No ripple, nothing.

"Awesome." Stan crouched on the shore and propped his flashlight up on some more rocks, then poked the water with his stick, watching it disappear and reappear as it went in and out, not so much as a drop left on the tip as Stan looked at it. A few more pokes and Stan set the stick down next to him, then stuck his itchy splinter hand into it.

It tickled as his fingers disappeared, and he giggled at the sensation of his splinters wiggling. There was a cool sensation where his hand was in the funky water, like his hand was in a fridge.

A light caught his attention, and he looked up to see six glowing red circles, blurry and hard to make out from where they were sitting, just outside the flashlights beam. they blinked at him, and he blinked back.

Then they was gone, and something was grabbing Stan's hand. Stan yelped as he was tugged down, somethings slithering over his fingers and prodding his splinters. He pulled back, and the thing down there grabbed his hand tightly, gripping him so hard he was sure his fingers would bruise.

But Stan Pines was no quitter. He fixed his stance, braced himself on the rocky shore, then pulled as hard as he could.

All at once the thing pulling him burst out of the weird water, slamming into him and knocking his flashlight over. Stan and the thing shouted, and Stan scrambled backwards out from under it, lunging for his flashlight and whipping around to see-

Nothing.

"Huh?" Stan swept the flashlight around, then jumped again when light flooded the cavern. Blinking his eyes to adjust, he looked up to find two giant holes in the ceiling, letting in light from the setting sun. The black water was dull and bluish, the walls losing their mysterious shine, and all the tiny creatures were gone.

"Hmm. Stan Pines and the mystery darkness," Stan muttered, grimacing at the pinkish sky above him. He hadn't realized how late it was getting, pa would get mad if he wasn't home soon.

Flashlight guiding the way back to the entrance, Stan ran through the twisting tunnels, not sparing a thought to the lack of pain in his hand, the cool feeling that hadn't disappeared when his hand left the water, or the thing that had grabbed him.

As he burst out back onto the beach, a weight seemed to lift of his shoulders. His breathing came easier, and a lightness filled him as he watched the sun glitter across the water. Giddy and excited, he sprinted all the way home, cleaned himself up, jumped around his bedroom, examining every toy and piece of furniture like it was brand new, then ran to dinner. He chattered to his parents about his day, not mentioning his newest discovery on the beach or what the kids at school had done.

No one cared to listen after all, why bother.

When he was done he ran back to his room, did all his homework in a rush, then crashed into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

"I want to listen."

"Hwuh?" Stan said, turning to the unexpected voice. Next to him, leaning on the rail of a sail boat, was another boy. He looked almost like Stan, the same face and hair, even the same clothes.

But it wasn't Stan, he knew that more than he knew anything.

"I want to listen, about what the other kids did at school." The boy said, leaning forwards and staring deep into Stan's eyes, "Tell me about them."

It didn't feel like a question, more of a demand, but something in Stan told him it was better to answer.

"Well, if your so curious," Stan began, gripping the railing as he stared back at the other kid, "Crampelter cornered me after math and tore up all my notes, then hung me up on one of the bathroom stalls by my backpack. Used the stringy bits to make sure i couldn't wiggle out by tying them together. I was stuck up there for thirty minutes, missed half of art class."

The other kid hummed, looking away. Stan broke out in a cold sweat as he did, wheezing as he leaned on the rail. His limbs felt jittery, like he'd gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or jumped away from a moving car. Something ran through his hair, but when he looked over the other kid hadn't moved, was still glaring at the water below them, eyes narrowed.

"Crampelter." The other kid said softly, nodding slightly, "Alright. I'll take care of it for you then, don't you worry Stanley."

"That's not-"

The next day Crampelter wasn't at school. His classmates whispered about a robbery gone wrong, about police sirens and ambulances.

About how Crampelter had died, stabbed to death in his own bed.

The rumor was immediately proven wrong the next day, when Crampelter came to school pale faced and red nosed, somewhat subdued but only sick, not injured or murdered. His poor health didn't stop him from getting his lackey's to corner Stan on the way home from school and kicking him until he let go of his backpack so they could dig through it and pull out his notebooks.

Thankfully he'd learned his lesson years ago. The only copies of his comics in there were ones he wasn't really proud of, or ideas he'd lost interest in. It only made the tears slightly real and the cries marginally truthful, but it was enough for Crampelter and his goons.

That night he had another dream about the strange boy who was and wasn't him. Just like before, he demanded to know about Stan's day, and Stan felt he answered because he had to more than any desire to share with the strange kid.

The goons were gone the next day, and Stan woke up to find his comics back in one piece and held together with some kind of shiny gold glue.

And so it continued, every night Stan would dream of the funky boy that called him Stanley, and every night Stan would tell him about how his day went, good or bad. Mostly bad, and the kids who made it so wouldn't be there the next day. On the rare good days, when no one talked to Stan, the boy would smile a too wide smile, lean forwards, grab Stan's face, and tell him things were just as they should be.

It was the first time he did that Stan finally realized why he'd known this boy was different. This boy had six fingers on his hands, each one fully functional and gripping Stan's face.

It wasn't as comforting as the boy probably meant it to be, but it was better than waking up with the knowledge that some kid at school was going to get sick, hurt, or move away overnight.

As the years went by Stan grew, and the other Not-Stan grew too, appearing in slightly different outfits, putting on the glasses Stan had broken too many times to get replaced, staying skinny while Stan bulked up from boxing. Their conversations moved away from bullies and school and changed to random topics, art, monsters, hobbies.

Futures.

"Might try my hand at business," Stan said, sitting on the deck of the still tiny sail boat, legs hanging over the edge and arms resting on the railing, "Take over the pawn shop. Pa's said I'm quick with numbers, and no one's been impressed with any of my comics so..."

"Don't be ridiculous Stanley," Stanford (as he eventually learned the other boys name was), "You're going to take me home, and then you'll stay with me."

"I am?"

"Of course," Stanford crouched down and slung an arm over his shoulder, "I got lost ages ago, then stuck. Everyone will be so happy to see me, and once I tell them how good a job you've done taking care of us, they'll be happy to see you too."

"If you say so."

"I do."

When graduation came and went, and Stan turned eighteen, the last thing he'd been expecting was a duffel to the chest and a shove out the door.

"I put up with you for the last few years," His pa growled, looming over Stan as light spilled behind him, casting a large shadow over Stan, "Looked away, just as you asked. Now get lost, and good riddance. Don't darken my door again, you hear?"

Before Stan could ask what pa was talking about, or call out to ma, the door was slammed in his face, and he heard the various clicks of the ever increasing amount of locks run down the door.

Stan grabbed his duffel, then mechanically pushed himself to his feet, staring up at the pawn shop windows as the lights quickly turned off.

"Ma? Pa?" he called out, taking a hesitant step forwards. No one answered, and he swallowed as he looked down the street. All of the other houses were dark, his neighbors shutting their curtains and ignoring the commotion at the shop.

"Pa!" Stan slung the bag over his shoulder, than ran up the steps and pounded on the door, "PA! MA! WHAT-"

A baby cried out, and he choked on his words as he heard his ma's frantic whispering, shushing his baby brother.

It sounded like she was trying not to cry herself.

Stan swallowed again, then turned and dragged his feet towards his car.

All his things were already in there, clothes and games, comics and pictures. Everything boxed up and labeled, crammed to fit the space and written in fancy cursive writing he'd never seen before.

He threw the duffel in the passenger seat, climbed into the drivers seat after, and sat there, staring at the darkened road in front of him while he listened to his breathing and tried not to think about why his ma had- why she wouldn't-

His parents had gotten strange the last few years, but this- not cold, nothing to make Stan think that they'd- why? What had he done to make his parents kick him out so quickly, to cut him off so completely.

Why had his pa looked so scared.

Eventually he mustered up the energy to lift a hand and start the car. The street ahead seemed vast and terrifying, but he drove into regardless.

Alone.

"You're not alone Stanley," Stanford said, running a hand through Stan's hair and smiling down at him, sun behind his head and casting shadows across his face, "You have me."

"S'not the same." Stan muttered, staring up at Stanford with half-lidded eyes.

"Hmm. No, I suppose its not quite the same," Stanford mused, "Not yet, but soon. Once we're home, we'll be together forever."

From behind his eyelashes, Stanford's eyes seemed to glow, a deep, hungry red, two golden slits cutting through them.

The open road was dangerous, more than he thought it would be. The only money he had on him was a few crumpled twenties that had been shoved in the bag and the loose change around his car. Making money became an issue, especially since every time he tried to sell off some of his meager belongings he'd wake up the next day to find all his things as neatly packed as the first day, more money than he'd fallen asleep with, and the sudden urge to get out of town as quickly as possible.

The extra money and having all his stuff back was nice, the urge to run away no so much.

Stanford seemed to change as well, no longer the scrawny teen that looked like a stiff breeze would push him over. The further Stan drove West the more he started to grow and fill out, until he'd been on the road doing odd job after criminal job after scam for a year, and Stanford was just as big as Stan was.

And growing impatient.

"Why are you wasting your time on this Stanley," Stanford said, leaning over Stan and frowning after Stan fell asleep from a long night of hustling, "We need to get home."

"I need money to live," Stan said with a sigh and roll of his eyes, "And I don't know where that is. Can't you just tell me?"

"I don't need to, you know how to get there," Stanford crouched down, one hand on Stan's heart and one intertwining with Stan's, "You know where to go, just listen to me."

Stan sighed, closing his eyes and listening.

Deep in his chest, wrapped around his heart and holding tight was what felt like a six fingered hand, fingers firmly yet gently pressing into him. If he strained, if he listened, if he let himself fall into the space where it had crept in when he was too young to know how to look, he could hear its voice, soft and soothing, telling him where to go.

"See," Stanford said when Stan opened his eyes, feeling the weight of whatever was hitching a ride under a skin, "Now lets go home."

Stanford's face was smudging into the darkening sky behind him, six eyes opened wide and grinning down at him, golden pupils slits.

"Ok."

Gravity Falls, Oregon was a town that wasn't on any map, but Stan could find with his eyes closed. Barely giving the signs a glance, he drove down winding back roads, past endless tress, turning with no thoughts but listening to the voice growing louder and louder in his mind, the pressure on his heart almost painful. The town was empty as he drifted through, turning down a side path and back into the woods.

Eventually he came to a stop in front of a large log cabin, grand and ticking out like a beacon in the still forest around them. The door opened as Stan turned the ignition off and got out of the car.

No one stepped out, until Stan blinked and found a skinny man, standing in front of him. Blondish hair, streaked with grey was shoved under a wide brimmed brown hat, making him look like a scarecrow paired with his brown overalls. A green shirt with glasses patterns had a tie with more glasses on it, and he was wearing a pair of leather boots and thick leather gloves. A pair of circular glasses were perched on his nose, cloudy and opaque.

Too many glasses actually.

"Stanford!" the thing wearing glasses said, too long limbs bent so its hands were on its hips, "Where have ya been? We've been worried sick!"

"Fiddleford!" Stanford said, grinning Stan's mouth and stepping forwards to embrace their friend, "I've missed you!"

"Don't touch me with that." Fiddleford said, grimacing at them, "What are you wearing, take that off."

"Now now, I was in quite the state for a while, without him I wouldn't have been able to recover" Stanford said with a laugh, reaching over to pat Fiddleford's shoulder, "This is Stanley, my brother, he'll be living with us from now on. Say hello Stanley."

"... hey." Stan said, tired and strung out and too full. Fiddleford pursed his lip, then sighed.

"Fine fine, its your house after all, and if he's your brother now-"

"Twin brother" Stanford interrupted, sounding pleased. Fiddlefords brows rose, and he whistled low.

"Twin, huh? Well I'll be. Lets get ya'll off your feet then, must have been quiet the kerfuffle that took you out of the house for so long."

Stan zoned out as Stanford walked them over to the house and talked. As they got closer it seemed to bend and twist under his eyes, none of the walls meeting as they should. The windows seemed to hover in front of their frames, the door had no handle, and the inside was pitch black.

The grip on his heart was even tighter, and Stanford kept their eyes open, even as all Stan wanted to do was lay down forever.

The moment they stepped past the doorway the house exploded around him, hallways and doorways bursting into existence, twisting in and around each other, filled with books and scrolls of all kinds, small trinkets and bottles shoved between them, walls plastered with diagrams, pinned creatures, and blurring pictures. Jars with contents ranging from beating hearts to buttons were sitting in ways they should and shouldn't, lamps with twisted stands lit up floors above them, while a chandelier was hanging upside down from the floor and illuminating the ceiling.

It hurt Stan's head to look at, like a library and lab had crashed into each other and turned into an optical illusion of ways buildings shouldn't look.

"Finally" Stanford said, stepping out of Stan and stretching his back out, "Not that you haven't done an excellent job Stanley, but one can only contort their form for so long, and you stopped growing as rapidly as I'd prefer sometime two years ago."

Stanford looked just like he did in Stan's dream, identical except for his cleft chin and six fingered hands, wearing a long tan coat and red sweater that looked far too thick. Stan blinked as the man turned and smiled at him, six red eyes blinking one at a time behind a pair of glasses.

The too full feeling left as Stanford.. kept stepping out of him. Oozing , pitch blackness slithering out and into Stanford, making the man look more and more real and leaving Stan feeling paper thin, like a cocoon who's butterfly had finished growing and had crawled out.

"Oh dear, none of that now," Stanford said, reaching forwards to catch Stan as he wobbled and fell forwards with more than two hands, too many hands, grabbing Stan's own and lifting him off the ground, "Hmm. I might have overestimated you're long term carrying capacity, humans can only hold so much inside of themselves after all, I'm afraid I might have crushed you Stanley."

"S'whutevr" Stan muttered, slumping into the too many armed hold and letting his eyes close. There was still a hand around his heart, and it rubbed little circles into him as more hands swept him off his feet and too many voices whispered into his ears. Fiddleford said something, and a moment later the hands let go and he was sinking into something warm and comfortable. The hand on his heart remained, even as he felt Stanford wander away somewhere else, everywhere else, nowhere else.

"Here we are," Stanford said seconds and years and centuries later, "I did say you'd be staying with me forever, didn't I? I, unlike some of us around here, try to keep my promises, and you've proven much better company then the rest of our family."

There was some distant grumbles, layered and echoing, and the hand squeezed one more time before letting go, leaving him with nothing but the dead space inside him where Stanford had been curled up, strangling the rest of himself to make room.

"I am sorry," Stanford said, hands flipping Stan over so he was blinking up at a twisting ceiling and Stanford's smiling face, "I didn't have a lot of options at the time, and you were too young to make the journey without risking our health. But! I've just the thing to fill you up."

Stanford lifted a jar with a golden fish, curled up and dead floating in some kind of red fluid.

"I've been saving this for a special occasion," Stanford said, twisting the cap off, "and this seemed fitting. Think of it as your first official birthday present, from your big brother."

Before Stan could even start to say how much he didn't want a dead fish, hands came down and pinned him to the soft surface, gripping his arms and legs tightly, while more appeared and plunged into him, grabbing the crushed and flattened parts and peeling them away from the sides of him.

It hurt like nothing at all. A pain that should exist yet didn't, perfectly comfortable except for the ways it made him want to writhe. Stanford's arms held him still as he worked to unstick him from himself, rubbing small circles into him as light glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.

More hands grabbed the giant jar with the fish, tilting it over to pour into Stan, red fluid flooding his insides and dead fish flooping over and onto him. This did hurt, feeling Stanford shove it into him, mixing him with the red stuff and into the fish.

Like getting shoved into a grater, pushed through the a thousand tiny tubes with a thousand paper cuts, drowning and breathing, too empty then too full.

He might have been screaming, but it was hard to tell with him screaming inside himself, bubbling into the fish, feeling it come to life in him and become him and he was in him and it was too big too small too much.

Two hearts beating away, and one of them had to go.

He lunged to eat one, then screamed as hands pulled him back and apart, cutting open the layers of scales and flesh.

"Hang in there Stanley," Stanford muttered, hands digging further and further, "I don't want you to be replaced after all, I would have eaten you years ago if that was the case, no what I want is... here we are!"

One of the hearts was torn out and out and out, until Stan was looking at a golden beating thing, not like any heart he'd ever seen. There wasn't much time to examine it, as a moment later it was shoved down his throat, into and into and was him but his heart was beating louder, drowning out the second and it was him was himwashimhimhimhimhim.

Stanley Pines awoke with a screech, golden scales tearing out of him as the thing that had decided he was its brother forever grinned down at him, six red and gold eyes curled in delight.

"Happy Birthday Stanley" Stanford said, shoving Stanley together with too many hands, blind or uncaring as the scales slashed through his skin and his blood mixed into his brand new baby twin brother. Fins erupted from his skin, webbing between his fingers, teeth sharpened and layered.

And two red eyes slammed open, two golden pupils paper thin.

Stanford smiled as he saw them, pride making him warm and full. He'd known the moment Stanley had torn him from the lake that his brother was special, that he could take the worst of what Stanford had to offer and overcome it. Any other human would have been crushed years ago as Stanford grew inside them, recovering his power in the safety of a human host.

Not Stanley, not the boy who'd challenged a monster and won , not the child who'd strolled into the lair of a beast and dared to declare himself the owner, not the teen who'd learned to look past the picture Stanford wanted him to see.

Stanley had wanted to be equals, had offered his name so freely to Stanford to make it so. Whatever pain he was experiencing was temporary.

When Stanford was done here, they'd have forever.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

did

did you even sleep

Yup! A full uhmmmm two and a half hours!

Listen, I know I have a problem, I know. But! It will happen again. It is a lesson im learning slowly

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

secrets and hidden rooms

cover | part 1 | part 3 | full zine

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

the perils of dd&md and other adventures

cover | part 1 | part 2 | full zine

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

a few more redraws of soos’ stan fiction (+ captions)

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

bet u thought i was done!! im not!! this is an elaborate excuse to do some redraws and im into it ( ♪ )

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

well, if we’re counting, two lives were ruined that day

(F11, D2)

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

if you look very, very closely, you’ll see all the love i put into every brush stroke of ford’s face ♡ ♡

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

that’s one big eye

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

what's that? My first non-fanart artwork I've posted? WRONG!

this is based off of @dark-lord-of-awesomeness's axolotl stan fic completing the cycle! Fun fact for you first time readers, stan indeed experiences what my little axolotl is in the middle of! how fun. Anyway, go forth and read!

(click for quality )':)

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Ignore the fact that I have some number hopefully less than 70 asks in my ask box and just take this brain worm. Also ignore the time.

Stan Filbrick Pines, twelve years old, was on an important mission.

Finding what was behind the boards covering a giant hole at the beach. He'd been eyeing the spot for a few years, had seen the graffiti, the way most people ignored it, teens tugged at them and quickly moved on, and how the boards never seemed to age or weather from the wind and sea.

The perfect spot to avoid the other kids for a few hours until he was allowed home.

"Stan Pines, adventurer in action," Stan muttered, hitting the sand with a stick as he scanned the beach around him for any incoming hostiles, "On a new mission. Psssh! Woosh! Whatchow!"

Stan did a roll across the sand, then sputtered and shook his head to get all the grit and itchyness out of his hair. Pushing himself to his feet, he brushed himself off, then eyed the vandalized boards, perfectly sturdy under the grim.

"Hmmm. HmmmMM!" he poked at the edges where they were nailed to the rock with his stick, then peered between the gaps at the darkness beyond.

"This calls for the big guns." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flash light, then stuck his tongue out and hit the middle as hard as he could. They shattered instantly as his fist slammed into them, prickling his fingers as splinters dug under his skin, crumbling like paper despite how thick the wood had looked. A breeze blew past him, whipping his hair around his head and blowing sand behind him. He sneezed at the funky smell that slammed into him, then wiped his nose and grinned.

"Hah!" Stan shook his hand, then clicked on the light and stepped into the cave, "Nothing can stand up to the big guns!"

He waved the light around, looking at the bumpy walls and winding path.

Perfectly untouched.

The sharpie was out of his pocket and his name was on the nearest smooth surface before anyone realized there was a kid down here to be mad at.

"The great Stan Pines has left his mark," Stan muttered under his breath, before shining the light deeper into the cave, "now he embarks to the depths, to discover its secret secrets."

He could hear water dripping somewhere further in, and more wind rushed by him, funky wet smells tickling his nose as he went deeper and deeper. The walls were crawling with all kinds of star fish, plants, and shiny rocks that bounced the flashlights beam off in rainbows of color. Several pools of glowing water blocked his path from time to time, and he hummed a tune as he jumped across them, stopping occasionally to watch small little water creatures scuttle along the bottom.

Eventually the tunnel opened up into a large cavern, pitch black except for where Stan's light cut through the darkness, illuminating more funky creatures, wiggly plants, and shiny rocks.

And a boat, old and half missing, wedged between a few rocks and leaning into a larger pool of water.

"Woah." Stan whispered, before his grin widened and he ran over to examine his latest discovery. He slowed as he got closer, using the flashlight to make sure he wouldn't trip or step on any the wiggly bugs and strange crabs that scrambled to get out of his way. He could hear more of them creeping around in the dark, too fast for his light to catch as he got closer and ran a hand over the rotting wood.

The pool of water here didn't glow, and Stan walked closer and looked at his own reflection in the water, grinning at the face that met him.

"Cool." The water was so still here, the wind coming from deeper inside not moving it an inch.

Time for some science then.

Humming as he turned, Stan leaned down and picked up a nice smooth rock, wincing slightly as it hit some of his splinters. The rock was held over the water, then dropped.

It disappeared without so much as a splash, there one second, gone the next. No ripple, nothing.

"Awesome." Stan crouched on the shore and propped his flashlight up on some more rocks, then poked the water with his stick, watching it disappear and reappear as it went in and out, not so much as a drop left on the tip as Stan looked at it. A few more pokes and Stan set the stick down next to him, then stuck his itchy splinter hand into it.

It tickled as his fingers disappeared, and he giggled at the sensation of his splinters wiggling. There was a cool sensation where his hand was in the funky water, like his hand was in a fridge.

A light caught his attention, and he looked up to see six glowing red circles, blurry and hard to make out from where they were sitting, just outside the flashlights beam. they blinked at him, and he blinked back.

Then they was gone, and something was grabbing Stan's hand. Stan yelped as he was tugged down, somethings slithering over his fingers and prodding his splinters. He pulled back, and the thing down there grabbed his hand tightly, gripping him so hard he was sure his fingers would bruise.

But Stan Pines was no quitter. He fixed his stance, braced himself on the rocky shore, then pulled as hard as he could.

All at once the thing pulling him burst out of the weird water, slamming into him and knocking his flashlight over. Stan and the thing shouted, and Stan scrambled backwards out from under it, lunging for his flashlight and whipping around to see-

Nothing.

"Huh?" Stan swept the flashlight around, then jumped again when light flooded the cavern. Blinking his eyes to adjust, he looked up to find two giant holes in the ceiling, letting in light from the setting sun. The black water was dull and bluish, the walls losing their mysterious shine, and all the tiny creatures were gone.

"Hmm. Stan Pines and the mystery darkness," Stan muttered, grimacing at the pinkish sky above him. He hadn't realized how late it was getting, pa would get mad if he wasn't home soon.

Flashlight guiding the way back to the entrance, Stan ran through the twisting tunnels, not sparing a thought to the lack of pain in his hand, the cool feeling that hadn't disappeared when his hand left the water, or the thing that had grabbed him.

As he burst out back onto the beach, a weight seemed to lift of his shoulders. His breathing came easier, and a lightness filled him as he watched the sun glitter across the water. Giddy and excited, he sprinted all the way home, cleaned himself up, jumped around his bedroom, examining every toy and piece of furniture like it was brand new, then ran to dinner. He chattered to his parents about his day, not mentioning his newest discovery on the beach or what the kids at school had done.

No one cared to listen after all, why bother.

When he was done he ran back to his room, did all his homework in a rush, then crashed into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

"I want to listen."

"Hwuh?" Stan said, turning to the unexpected voice. Next to him, leaning on the rail of a sail boat, was another boy. He looked almost like Stan, the same face and hair, even the same clothes.

But it wasn't Stan, he knew that more than he knew anything.

"I want to listen, about what the other kids did at school." The boy said, leaning forwards and staring deep into Stan's eyes, "Tell me about them."

It didn't feel like a question, more of a demand, but something in Stan told him it was better to answer.

"Well, if your so curious," Stan began, gripping the railing as he stared back at the other kid, "Crampelter cornered me after math and tore up all my notes, then hung me up on one of the bathroom stalls by my backpack. Used the stringy bits to make sure i couldn't wiggle out by tying them together. I was stuck up there for thirty minutes, missed half of art class."

The other kid hummed, looking away. Stan broke out in a cold sweat as he did, wheezing as he leaned on the rail. His limbs felt jittery, like he'd gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or jumped away from a moving car. Something ran through his hair, but when he looked over the other kid hadn't moved, was still glaring at the water below them, eyes narrowed.

"Crampelter." The other kid said softly, nodding slightly, "Alright. I'll take care of it for you then, don't you worry Stanley."

"That's not-"

The next day Crampelter wasn't at school. His classmates whispered about a robbery gone wrong, about police sirens and ambulances.

About how Crampelter had died, stabbed to death in his own bed.

The rumor was immediately proven wrong the next day, when Crampelter came to school pale faced and red nosed, somewhat subdued but only sick, not injured or murdered. His poor health didn't stop him from getting his lackey's to corner Stan on the way home from school and kicking him until he let go of his backpack so they could dig through it and pull out his notebooks.

Thankfully he'd learned his lesson years ago. The only copies of his comics in there were ones he wasn't really proud of, or ideas he'd lost interest in. It only made the tears slightly real and the cries marginally truthful, but it was enough for Crampelter and his goons.

That night he had another dream about the strange boy who was and wasn't him. Just like before, he demanded to know about Stan's day, and Stan felt he answered because he had to more than any desire to share with the strange kid.

The goons were gone the next day, and Stan woke up to find his comics back in one piece and held together with some kind of shiny gold glue.

And so it continued, every night Stan would dream of the funky boy that called him Stanley, and every night Stan would tell him about how his day went, good or bad. Mostly bad, and the kids who made it so wouldn't be there the next day. On the rare good days, when no one talked to Stan, the boy would smile a too wide smile, lean forwards, grab Stan's face, and tell him things were just as they should be.

It was the first time he did that Stan finally realized why he'd known this boy was different. This boy had six fingers on his hands, each one fully functional and gripping Stan's face.

It wasn't as comforting as the boy probably meant it to be, but it was better than waking up with the knowledge that some kid at school was going to get sick, hurt, or move away overnight.

As the years went by Stan grew, and the other Not-Stan grew too, appearing in slightly different outfits, putting on the glasses Stan had broken too many times to get replaced, staying skinny while Stan bulked up from boxing. Their conversations moved away from bullies and school and changed to random topics, art, monsters, hobbies.

Futures.

"Might try my hand at business," Stan said, sitting on the deck of the still tiny sail boat, legs hanging over the edge and arms resting on the railing, "Take over the pawn shop. Pa's said I'm quick with numbers, and no one's been impressed with any of my comics so..."

"Don't be ridiculous Stanley," Stanford (as he eventually learned the other boys name was), "You're going to take me home, and then you'll stay with me."

"I am?"

"Of course," Stanford crouched down and slung an arm over his shoulder, "I got lost ages ago, then stuck. Everyone will be so happy to see me, and once I tell them how good a job you've done taking care of us, they'll be happy to see you too."

"If you say so."

"I do."

When graduation came and went, and Stan turned eighteen, the last thing he'd been expecting was a duffel to the chest and a shove out the door.

"I put up with you for the last few years," His pa growled, looming over Stan as light spilled behind him, casting a large shadow over Stan, "Looked away, just as you asked. Now get lost, and good riddance. Don't darken my door again, you hear?"

Before Stan could ask what pa was talking about, or call out to ma, the door was slammed in his face, and he heard the various clicks of the ever increasing amount of locks run down the door.

Stan grabbed his duffel, then mechanically pushed himself to his feet, staring up at the pawn shop windows as the lights quickly turned off.

"Ma? Pa?" he called out, taking a hesitant step forwards. No one answered, and he swallowed as he looked down the street. All of the other houses were dark, his neighbors shutting their curtains and ignoring the commotion at the shop.

"Pa!" Stan slung the bag over his shoulder, than ran up the steps and pounded on the door, "PA! MA! WHAT-"

A baby cried out, and he choked on his words as he heard his ma's frantic whispering, shushing his baby brother.

It sounded like she was trying not to cry herself.

Stan swallowed again, then turned and dragged his feet towards his car.

All his things were already in there, clothes and games, comics and pictures. Everything boxed up and labeled, crammed to fit the space and written in fancy cursive writing he'd never seen before.

He threw the duffel in the passenger seat, climbed into the drivers seat after, and sat there, staring at the darkened road in front of him while he listened to his breathing and tried not to think about why his ma had- why she wouldn't-

His parents had gotten strange the last few years, but this- not cold, nothing to make Stan think that they'd- why? What had he done to make his parents kick him out so quickly, to cut him off so completely.

Why had his pa looked so scared.

Eventually he mustered up the energy to lift a hand and start the car. The street ahead seemed vast and terrifying, but he drove into regardless.

Alone.

"You're not alone Stanley," Stanford said, running a hand through Stan's hair and smiling down at him, sun behind his head and casting shadows across his face, "You have me."

"S'not the same." Stan muttered, staring up at Stanford with half-lidded eyes.

"Hmm. No, I suppose its not quite the same," Stanford mused, "Not yet, but soon. Once we're home, we'll be together forever."

From behind his eyelashes, Stanford's eyes seemed to glow, a deep, hungry red, two golden slits cutting through them.

The open road was dangerous, more than he thought it would be. The only money he had on him was a few crumpled twenties that had been shoved in the bag and the loose change around his car. Making money became an issue, especially since every time he tried to sell off some of his meager belongings he'd wake up the next day to find all his things as neatly packed as the first day, more money than he'd fallen asleep with, and the sudden urge to get out of town as quickly as possible.

The extra money and having all his stuff back was nice, the urge to run away no so much.

Stanford seemed to change as well, no longer the scrawny teen that looked like a stiff breeze would push him over. The further Stan drove West the more he started to grow and fill out, until he'd been on the road doing odd job after criminal job after scam for a year, and Stanford was just as big as Stan was.

And growing impatient.

"Why are you wasting your time on this Stanley," Stanford said, leaning over Stan and frowning after Stan fell asleep from a long night of hustling, "We need to get home."

"I need money to live," Stan said with a sigh and roll of his eyes, "And I don't know where that is. Can't you just tell me?"

"I don't need to, you know how to get there," Stanford crouched down, one hand on Stan's heart and one intertwining with Stan's, "You know where to go, just listen to me."

Stan sighed, closing his eyes and listening.

Deep in his chest, wrapped around his heart and holding tight was what felt like a six fingered hand, fingers firmly yet gently pressing into him. If he strained, if he listened, if he let himself fall into the space where it had crept in when he was too young to know how to look, he could hear its voice, soft and soothing, telling him where to go.

"See," Stanford said when Stan opened his eyes, feeling the weight of whatever was hitching a ride under a skin, "Now lets go home."

Stanford's face was smudging into the darkening sky behind him, six eyes opened wide and grinning down at him, golden pupils slits.

"Ok."

Gravity Falls, Oregon was a town that wasn't on any map, but Stan could find with his eyes closed. Barely giving the signs a glance, he drove down winding back roads, past endless tress, turning with no thoughts but listening to the voice growing louder and louder in his mind, the pressure on his heart almost painful. The town was empty as he drifted through, turning down a side path and back into the woods.

Eventually he came to a stop in front of a large log cabin, grand and ticking out like a beacon in the still forest around them. The door opened as Stan turned the ignition off and got out of the car.

No one stepped out, until Stan blinked and found a skinny man, standing in front of him. Blondish hair, streaked with grey was shoved under a wide brimmed brown hat, making him look like a scarecrow paired with his brown overalls. A green shirt with glasses patterns had a tie with more glasses on it, and he was wearing a pair of leather boots and thick leather gloves. A pair of circular glasses were perched on his nose, cloudy and opaque.

Too many glasses actually.

"Stanford!" the thing wearing glasses said, too long limbs bent so its hands were on its hips, "Where have ya been? We've been worried sick!"

"Fiddleford!" Stanford said, grinning Stan's mouth and stepping forwards to embrace their friend, "I've missed you!"

"Don't touch me with that." Fiddleford said, grimacing at them, "What are you wearing, take that off."

"Now now, I was in quite the state for a while, without him I wouldn't have been able to recover" Stanford said with a laugh, reaching over to pat Fiddleford's shoulder, "This is Stanley, my brother, he'll be living with us from now on. Say hello Stanley."

"... hey." Stan said, tired and strung out and too full. Fiddleford pursed his lip, then sighed.

"Fine fine, its your house after all, and if he's your brother now-"

"Twin brother" Stanford interrupted, sounding pleased. Fiddlefords brows rose, and he whistled low.

"Twin, huh? Well I'll be. Lets get ya'll off your feet then, must have been quiet the kerfuffle that took you out of the house for so long."

Stan zoned out as Stanford walked them over to the house and talked. As they got closer it seemed to bend and twist under his eyes, none of the walls meeting as they should. The windows seemed to hover in front of their frames, the door had no handle, and the inside was pitch black.

The grip on his heart was even tighter, and Stanford kept their eyes open, even as all Stan wanted to do was lay down forever.

The moment they stepped past the doorway the house exploded around him, hallways and doorways bursting into existence, twisting in and around each other, filled with books and scrolls of all kinds, small trinkets and bottles shoved between them, walls plastered with diagrams, pinned creatures, and blurring pictures. Jars with contents ranging from beating hearts to buttons were sitting in ways they should and shouldn't, lamps with twisted stands lit up floors above them, while a chandelier was hanging upside down from the floor and illuminating the ceiling.

It hurt Stan's head to look at, like a library and lab had crashed into each other and turned into an optical illusion of ways buildings shouldn't look.

"Finally" Stanford said, stepping out of Stan and stretching his back out, "Not that you haven't done an excellent job Stanley, but one can only contort their form for so long, and you stopped growing as rapidly as I'd prefer sometime two years ago."

Stanford looked just like he did in Stan's dream, identical except for his cleft chin and six fingered hands, wearing a long tan coat and red sweater that looked far too thick. Stan blinked as the man turned and smiled at him, six red eyes blinking one at a time behind a pair of glasses.

The too full feeling left as Stanford.. kept stepping out of him. Oozing , pitch blackness slithering out and into Stanford, making the man look more and more real and leaving Stan feeling paper thin, like a cocoon who's butterfly had finished growing and had crawled out.

"Oh dear, none of that now," Stanford said, reaching forwards to catch Stan as he wobbled and fell forwards with more than two hands, too many hands, grabbing Stan's own and lifting him off the ground, "Hmm. I might have overestimated you're long term carrying capacity, humans can only hold so much inside of themselves after all, I'm afraid I might have crushed you Stanley."

"S'whutevr" Stan muttered, slumping into the too many armed hold and letting his eyes close. There was still a hand around his heart, and it rubbed little circles into him as more hands swept him off his feet and too many voices whispered into his ears. Fiddleford said something, and a moment later the hands let go and he was sinking into something warm and comfortable. The hand on his heart remained, even as he felt Stanford wander away somewhere else, everywhere else, nowhere else.

"Here we are," Stanford said seconds and years and centuries later, "I did say you'd be staying with me forever, didn't I? I, unlike some of us around here, try to keep my promises, and you've proven much better company then the rest of our family."

There was some distant grumbles, layered and echoing, and the hand squeezed one more time before letting go, leaving him with nothing but the dead space inside him where Stanford had been curled up, strangling the rest of himself to make room.

"I am sorry," Stanford said, hands flipping Stan over so he was blinking up at a twisting ceiling and Stanford's smiling face, "I didn't have a lot of options at the time, and you were too young to make the journey without risking our health. But! I've just the thing to fill you up."

Stanford lifted a jar with a golden fish, curled up and dead floating in some kind of red fluid.

"I've been saving this for a special occasion," Stanford said, twisting the cap off, "and this seemed fitting. Think of it as your first official birthday present, from your big brother."

Before Stan could even start to say how much he didn't want a dead fish, hands came down and pinned him to the soft surface, gripping his arms and legs tightly, while more appeared and plunged into him, grabbing the crushed and flattened parts and peeling them away from the sides of him.

It hurt like nothing at all. A pain that should exist yet didn't, perfectly comfortable except for the ways it made him want to writhe. Stanford's arms held him still as he worked to unstick him from himself, rubbing small circles into him as light glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.

More hands grabbed the giant jar with the fish, tilting it over to pour into Stan, red fluid flooding his insides and dead fish flooping over and onto him. This did hurt, feeling Stanford shove it into him, mixing him with the red stuff and into the fish.

Like getting shoved into a grater, pushed through the a thousand tiny tubes with a thousand paper cuts, drowning and breathing, too empty then too full.

He might have been screaming, but it was hard to tell with him screaming inside himself, bubbling into the fish, feeling it come to life in him and become him and he was in him and it was too big too small too much.

Two hearts beating away, and one of them had to go.

He lunged to eat one, then screamed as hands pulled him back and apart, cutting open the layers of scales and flesh.

"Hang in there Stanley," Stanford muttered, hands digging further and further, "I don't want you to be replaced after all, I would have eaten you years ago if that was the case, no what I want is... here we are!"

One of the hearts was torn out and out and out, until Stan was looking at a golden beating thing, not like any heart he'd ever seen. There wasn't much time to examine it, as a moment later it was shoved down his throat, into and into and was him but his heart was beating louder, drowning out the second and it was him was himwashimhimhimhimhim.

Stanley Pines awoke with a screech, golden scales tearing out of him as the thing that had decided he was its brother forever grinned down at him, six red and gold eyes curled in delight.

"Happy Birthday Stanley" Stanford said, shoving Stanley together with too many hands, blind or uncaring as the scales slashed through his skin and his blood mixed into his brand new baby twin brother. Fins erupted from his skin, webbing between his fingers, teeth sharpened and layered.

And two red eyes slammed open, two golden pupils paper thin.

Stanford smiled as he saw them, pride making him warm and full. He'd known the moment Stanley had torn him from the lake that his brother was special, that he could take the worst of what Stanford had to offer and overcome it. Any other human would have been crushed years ago as Stanford grew inside them, recovering his power in the safety of a human host.

Not Stanley, not the boy who'd challenged a monster and won , not the child who'd strolled into the lair of a beast and dared to declare himself the owner, not the teen who'd learned to look past the picture Stanford wanted him to see.

Stanley had wanted to be equals, had offered his name so freely to Stanford to make it so. Whatever pain he was experiencing was temporary.

When Stanford was done here, they'd have forever.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Another Very Happy Birthday to Stan and Ford! (click to embiggen)

Back in 1998, a website appeared entitled “Help Save the Endangered Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus from Extinction”!  It was a pretty delightful combo of artwork, poorly photoshopped octopi in pine trees, and some really creative write-ups.  As a piece of fake-lore, it has attained the dubious honor of actually fooling people into thinking it’s real; so much so that it has its own Snopes page, and has even made it into the Library of Congress!  Even if it started as a hoax, many accept it as a legitimate cryptid today.

The original home of the PNW tree octopus is the Olympic peninsula in Washington, across Puget Sound from Seattle.  But I decided it would be fun if Ford tracked down rumors that a sub-species has been spotted amongst the coastal Redwoods in California, so he and Stan stopped by there to check it out on their way back to Oregon.  

(In the top pic, let’s assume that the adult tree octopus came down to that branch once the boys had passed underneath; otherwise they’re looking very carefully!)

The question remains – will they bring back some babies for Mabel, and the chance to establish a population in Oregon?  Hard to resist!

(For this I used refs for the CA and OR coastlines, as well as a number of octopus and tree octopus pics.)

@thestanbros

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

more doodles i mashed together