The Devil Made Me Do It

What you need to understand is that young Ford Pines is joyous and whimsical and also fueled by spite and one million cups of coffee

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64938397/chapters/166928632

Okay. So. I made a thing.

It is my Frankentwins AU! There will be more chapters, I just don't know when I'm going to write them.

Enjoy! :D

ok its gonna happen!

hoping I'll finish it by next week but it might take a little longer

should I turn that scene from journal three where ford goes to the truck stop for coffee and flips out into a comic

cause it sounds fun to draw

idk if i'd color it though

more of my art lol

the bill one is from a while ago tbh I forgot I made it

Reblogging this because I DESPERATELY do not want to lose it again lol :)

I made a comic out of a certain section of The Book of Bill! It's one of my favorite bits. It's just so VISCERAL and disturbing, and I really wanted to try capturing that. Anyways, hope y'all like it lmao

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA WHAT. WHAT. OP THIS IS GOREGEOUS AND GUT WRENCHING ALL AT ONCE AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @thefallenangel2008 @ravmycupine

just wanted to add some thoughts to the memory vial/brain dead au (or whatever we're calling it)

because of course ford's guilt about using the memory gun on stan is so much worse than it is in canon, not just for the obvious reasons but also because like

this wasn't the plan

Stan agreed to have his memories erased—of course he did, the whole thing was his idea. But he didn't know he was going to die. Granted, I feel like Stan probably still would've been willing to make that sacrifice if he had known that. But I don't think Ford would've.

Ford just thought he was turning his brother into an amnesiac, and even then he almost couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. And of course he knew it was going to hurt, having Stan look at him like he's a stranger, but at least that's the outcome he was preparing himself for.

He was not prepared to see Stan's body topple over on its side, his unblinking eyes staring blankly ahead. Ford rushes to his brother's aid, grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to rouse him, calling his name (except, he wouldn't know his own name anymore, would he?). Stan's not moving. He's not breathing. Oh God, he's not breathing. Ford glances at the memory gun on the ground next to them, and horror washes over him as he realizes what he's done. The gun erased more than just memories, it erased everything. Stan's brain was a floppy drive and Ford was the magnet, wiping it clean and leaving it broken beyond repair.

No, no, this wasn't the plan. Time to call off the con. This wasn't supposed to happen. Stop, cut, abort mission, abort mission!

But it's too late. What's done is done, and he can't take it back.

Oh God, I killed him.

Sobbing now, Ford mutters choked-out apologies, first to Stan's body as he holds him tight—and again at his grave after he's buried. And the apologies start up anew every time he visits.

As the years go on, Ford is haunted by all the what-ifs that might've saved his brother's life. What if he had thought to type "Stanley Pines memories" into the memory gun instead of just "Stanley Pines", would it have kept his essential brain functions intact? Hell, what if he typed in "Bill Cipher"? Would that have been enough to kill the bastard and still let Stanley keep most of his memories and, more importantly, his life?

Ford doesn't know the answer to that question. And he'll never know. Because as much as he longs for it, he'll never have that chance to go back and do it differently.

its done! Hope you like it <3

i am working on the comic I promise but I had to get this idea onto paper lol

i'll post the finished art soon

fiddleford fridayyyy

this was funnier in my head

and yes the J3 comic is coming along I'm just slow :,)

also a random doodle page from my new tiny sketchbook :)

the random girl I drew is me lol

my friends drew the little Bills in the bottom left corner

EVERYONE DESERVES TO BE LOVED RAHHHH

The person I reblogged this from deserves to be happy

I tried to scroll past this. I really did

AAAAAAAA THIS IS BEAUTIFUL EVEYONE READ IT

This is the angstiest thing I’ve ever written, and WORST OF ALL, this could technically count as canon compliant, which means it just. Hurts a whole bunch.

This was written for the Memory Vial AU, which means I’m tagging a whole bunch of people for this, which also means that I, would like, to apologize.

@kagaintheskywithdiamonds @thefallenangel2008 @inkyrainstorms @willapines618 @pickledoesthetumbling @xirine13 @pinefamilycatsau

Without further ado, this is the Stan Swap, aka moments before the memory gun.

“What other choice do we have?”

The bars of their pyramid shaped cage are uncomfortably warm under Ford's fingers.

They should be cold, distantly, a mark in Ford's mind grumbles that cage bars should all be cold, but these ones, made of a demon's magic and unbreakable, are slightly warmer than his palms. He can feel it through the gloves, like touching a warmed mug, and it's just another thing that's wrong in this place.

He's going to have to give in.

To save the kids, if nothing else. Ford's not sure what Bill Cipher will do with him after he gets the equation, and starts the end of the world, but it won't be pleasant. It could be torture, he could be killed outright, but whatever the consequences, its better than letting the children, bright Dipper and shining Mabel, be crushed for his mistakes.

Ford is shaking, just slightly. Here in this cage, with his brother, he lets himself be a little afraid.

“He wants into your brain,” Stanley says quietly. “But, if we trapped him in someone else's, would the memory gun work?”

Ford turns.

Stanley has a look in his eyes, a contemplation, running numbers, like he's planning out just how heavy to lay into a con back at the Mystery Shack. He's thinking, but there's also a fierceness in his look.

Ford swallows. “There's nothing else Bill wants.” He draws in a slow breath, and lets it out in a sigh.

“It's my mind he needs, and I'm immune to the gun's effects.”

“But I'm not.”

Ford drags his eyes back up to his brother. The fire in his eyes hasn't pulled away, instead it's sharpened, and a grin, wry and quick, flashes on his face.

“What?”

“Ford.” Stan says, and his voice is hard and serious. “There's nothing he wants in your mind, and the gun won't work on you anyway, but it'll work on me.”

There is a moment, small and heavy, where Ford's mind stalls, lags behind. He squints at his brother, confused. Stan's face gives nothing away, but the grin gets bigger. It still doesn't reach his eyes.

“We're twins, Stanford.”

The revelation, the understanding, the shock, when it does come, jabs a shard of ice so deeply into Ford's chest that he lets out a little sharp sound.

“..No.”

“Yes,” Stan says, and he's already shedding his suit jacket. “C'mon, switch coats with me. Actually-all of it. We gotta make this count.”

“Stanley,” Ford gasps. “No. We're not- we can't just switch places.”

They had done this prank, this joke, as children all the time. It had worked on teachers, even their parents sometimes, but they were children.

The consequences back then weren't dire. They weren't joking around with the fate of the world, there weren't lives at stake.

Stan has successfully taken off the jacket, and he holds it out with a hand. With the other, he undoes the laces of his shoes. He's wobbly, standing only on one foot, but he's moving quickly.

Ford doesn't take the jacket. The horror of this is sinking in.

“Stan this-it would erase your mind. Your-your memories, everything that makes you a person.”

He would be a shell. A husk. Gutted and swept clean of any experiences, any feeling. A blank eyed old man, quiet and docile. Everything Stan isn't. The thought of it is terrible, it makes Ford sick.

“I mean yeah,” Stan says, far too casually for someone talking about the destruction of their own mind. “But it would stop Bill. We have to stop Bill.”

He raises up his suit jacket until it's in Ford's eye line. He shakes it, just a little.

Stan's eyes are determined, but also desperate.

“Ford. Let,” he swallows and starts again. “We have to do this. You have to let me do this.”

Ford hovers his hand over the jacket, but he can't force himself to grab it. To take it would be an agreement, a deal, this time not for knowledge, but for his brother's very soul. His hand shakes.

Stan doesn't look away. They don't have much time, Ford can see it in his eyes.

“Please.” Stan whispers, and Ford crumbles.

He takes the jacket.

Stan doesn't sigh in relief, he doesn't smile, he just moves. Quickly and methodically, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Ford follows suit, takes off his gloves and shoves them in the pockets of his coat, sheds that too. He dumps his clothes on the floor, the boots and his turtleneck.

Stan hands him his button up, and doesn't comment on Ford's scars at all. Ford doesn't comment on his.

As Ford puts it on, he realizes that the shirt is still warm.

The pants are close enough that they don't need to change, but the shoes take the longest for Ford to do up. The laces escape his fingers, over and over, the digits shaking too hard.

He gives up on them, terrified, as a great thunderous rumble echoes in the pyramid above them.

They're running out of time.

“Here.” Stan says, and Ford flinches.

Stan looks like him. The turtleneck and the coat, while predictably fitting him tightly, are still firmly in place. The boots, even. Each detail, except for the hands, matches up.

Stan hands Ford the fez cap.

Ford takes it, and licks over cracked lips to speak. “The fingers.” He says. “How are we going to-Bill would notice.”

“Aw, crap.” Stan pats his sides, likely looking for something that's now in the pockets on Ford's person, and pulls out the gloves.

Ford had sewn them himself, a million years ago. He'd butchered multiple pairs of gloves before he finally figured out how to best sew an allowance for the extra finger. He cut these in half, in between the four fingers on the original glove, and then cut out just the middle finger on another pair, and sewed it on the cut ones. It left a pair of gloves with an extra middle finger, which fit him perfectly.

He remembers being excited about it, waving his hands around and bending all his fingers, watching the fabric stretch and pull, but actually fit.

He'd felt a little bad, back then, destroying another perfectly usable pair of gloves just to make something for himself. Just to fix something that was his own problem.

As he watches Stan slide them on, and stick a pen inside to fill out the extra middle finger, Ford sees the irony in it. In the act of destroying something innocent to cover his own skin.

“That should do it.” Stan grins, and he wiggles his actual fingers in the glove. The middle one is unnaturally stiff, but if he holds his hands straight, and if Cipher doesn't look too carefully, maybe it'll work.

If If If. Maybe Maybe.

Ford slides the fez cap on, until it just barely touches his ears. It covers up his slightly darker hair, at the very least. Stan's hair is a little flatter than his, if you know what you're looking for.

The swap is complete, the puzzle pieces rearranged and shoved into incorrect spots, but at least they lay flat.

Ford can't find something to say.

There are a million things he should say, needs to say, but each time he opens his mouth, the words shrivel up and die in his throat.

He's afraid, and this time it's not for himself.

“Stanley,” he starts to say, forlorn and apologetic, but Stan cuts him off.

“Hold that thought,” he says, and he holds out the memory gun.

Ford freezes.

If he thought taking the jacket was difficult, this is impossible.

He stares at it, and cannot move his arms from his sides. This is a sort of death that is being handed to him. A murder weapon, a destroyer. The rock in Cain's hand. Ford cannot take it.

“It will erase you Stanley,” He says. “All-all of your memories. Your past. Everything. You won't know who you are, who the kids are.”

Who I am. Ford doesn't say. I don't think I could stand it, to see you not know me.

“It's alright,” Stan says. His voice is somehow comforting, despite all this. It's quiet, but strong, unwavering.

It's a hell of a good con.

“It'll be quick.” He says, and it makes Ford suck in a fast gasp.

He squeezes his eyes shut, to force the tears back.

He realizes he's going to have to pull the trigger. He'll need to do it fast, just after the deal is struck, before Stan-before Bill can recover. In a moment, he'll need to wipe his brother's mind of everything it is, everything it was.

Ford will have to do it.

“I can't.” He says. And his voice sounds like the beginning of a sob. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and suddenly all he can taste is blood, and he doesn't want to reach for the gun at all, he doesn't want to be in his brother's clothes at all, he wants to be away, back in the shack, even back in that cold and dreary basement, at least then he won't have to do this.

“Please Stanley, don't,” there is a tightness in his throat, and it's guilt and it's regret and it's love, love for his brother and Ford can't even say it, can't possibly form it all into enough words so that Stanley will understand.

“Please don't make me do this.” Ford whispers. He sounds like a child.

There is a hand on his, and the handle of the memory gun slips between Ford's fingers. Another hand, warm even through the gloves, curls his fingers around it.

Stan holds the gun steady, until he's sure that Ford has it, that Ford's shaking hand won't drop their last chance. Then, he lets go.

“Sixer,” Stan says, and the name out of his mouth is warm and it makes the pressure in Ford's chest swell. It's nothing like how Bill says it, how he's ever said it.

This nickname is one of care, of childhood boats and dreams, of trust, unbroken and broken.

It's love. Ford can hear it.

Stan's eyes are watering. Still, they hold that same determination, that fire. That life.

Ford tries to hold it in his mind. Soon, soon he will look into blank eyes and that life, the memories of a life will be gone. He tries to hold it, hold on to the sight of it.

“I need to know that you'll do it.” Stan says, and it's the worst thing he's ever said.

It's worse than anything Ford has ever heard. It's worse than anything Ford ever will hear, because there is pleading in his brother's voice. He's pleading to die.

He's asking Ford to pull the trigger.

Ford is a weak man.

In this moment he realizes he's never been strong. He's always been a coward, and a fool, and a terrible brother and a worse man because in this moment, he is weak.

Ford nods. His fingers tighten on the handle of the memory gun, and he slides it carefully into the breast pocket of his brother's suit.

There's a tick of relief in Stan's shoulders.

He smiles, a tiny thing that still manages to look warm. His eyes are wet.

Ford reaches forward. It's been forty years, almost forty one, since Ford has hugged his brother. He cannot remember the last time he did so, and he hopes, god he hopes that Stanley does, that Stan remembers, even for these brief last moments, that at some point Ford cared enough to show how he feels.

Ford reaches forward, to grab, to pull, to hold on, even for the brief moment they have left, before Bill comes in and the show starts, the con falls into place, Ford reaches forward to do something.

Stanley steps away.

He takes a single half step backwards, until Ford's hand can only reach empty air.

“Save it,” he says gently, kindly. “Until after, okay? When, when I remember again.”

Ford is trying so hard to hold back tears that his teeth are chattering ever so slightly.

“Okay?” Stan repeats, and for the first time Ford sees fear in his brother's face, a sort of anxiety that guts him. “We'll, we'll be,”

“It'll be okay.” Ford says. His voice isn't strong, not like his brother's, but he jams that phrase home as hard as he can, like he can prop up his own crumbling resolve with one sentence alone.

“After.” He repeats.

“Until after.” Stan echoes.

Stan takes a big, gusty breath through his nose, and squares his shoulders back. Suddenly the wet eyes are gone, the kind, pleading face is smoothed over, and Stan looks ready.

Ford tries to follow suit. The memory gun weighs his chest down heavily, his jaw won't work properly, but still he tries. He has to be strong, just for this.

Just one more mile.

“Okay.” Stan says, and he slips into the voice of the mask, of a conman, of a man so sure of himself and of every move he's ever made, like he's confident.

“How good is your impression of me?”

.

.

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