I Found Your Old Stancest Collection And I Was Just Wondering If There Were More Fics You'd Written?

What are your guys' thoughts on how Stancest could come to confess their feelings in ways that don't somehow involve a supernatural event... Because I can't help but imagine that a fucking truth spell or hallucination caused by a siren or something has got to be involved for those two to communicate about something that insanely vulnerable

Merry Yaoimas!

you can see that the script originally had ford building an anti-gravity machine for the science fair (which i guess acts as foreshadowing to the portal?), but the sun lightbulb feels like it would've connected to the opening of stanchurian candidate....

Synopsis: Growing up is tough especially when you don't know that your a half to a duo.

Do You Ever just wonder what it would be like if Stan and Ford were separated at birth?

Woo new chapter is out now

Was rereading journal 3 and like. When Fiddleford and Ford are talking about their dreams Fiddleford mentions he wants to return back to California after the portals done and become a successful independent inventor, and make things that help people.

And like at first I'm like oh yeah it's another thing to showcase how kind Fiddleford is (and to also compare Fiddleford to Ford and the difference in their dreams etc). But... The thing is this conversation is right before the gremloblin incident that causes Fiddleford to make the memory gun. And Fiddleford expressly in the show talks about how the memory gun can 'help' people. And how he starts the cult as a way he can 'help' people. His invention to help people ends up being the memory gun.

And I think there's something really ironic here. That at first Fiddleford's desire to help is seen as a good thing, but underlying it, it's deeply problematic (and ends up abusive) when you connect it to the memory gun. And it comes down to that even if you believe you know best, removing people's autonomy to make decisions for others is generally not helping people. It's actually more harmful, and just because you have good intentions doesn't mean that changes the outcome.

"feeling so many illnesses at once. and a new illness somehow"

-@non-bun-ary

Hi everyone! I’m back to tell you how good @sixerstanley ‘s fics are ;)

I’ve been craving some distraction from the overwhelming amount of work I have on the last week of 2024 and Clover posted the first chapter of teen!stancest (How Can I) Say No To This so, obviously I had to drop everything and make this silly little picture.

Clover, my dear, thank you so much for your beautiful fics, reading your work always makes my day better

Have a bunch of Stanleys (w/ a lil' Stanford cameo) 💃

I love shipping characters who hate each other in canon.

I love shipping characters who have had exactly one (1) conversation in canon.

I love shipping characters who have never met in canon.

I love shipping characters from different pieces of media.

It starts off silly. The notion of the pairing is so weird, so unexpected and seemingly dumb that it makes me laugh a little, perk up, look into it and see if this is really a thing.

And then it becomes a joke. Haha, look at this ship I’m shipping ironically, isn’t it silly, it would obviously never work out in canon but I’m looking at it and producing content for it anyway because it’s fun.

But as time goes on, it starts filling my feed. I start thinking about it - really thinking about it. Why did someone put these characters together in the first place? How would they really interact? How did they end up together, and why would they stay together?

What started out as a joke becomes a diving-off point, an opportunity to really think about both characters. The dynamic isn’t canon, so it’s yours to shape. The dynamic isn’t canon, so now you must delve into each character on your own, figure out how you perceive and understand both of them, learn to see them in a different light. What started out as a joke encourages you to dig deeper, think harder, fall even more in love with those characters as you consider the potentials which lie outside of canon, but which ultimately trace their roots through the core of the characters themselves.

Because by their very nature, crackships and rarepairs are not based on plot, and they are not based on canon. They are so seemingly random and odd that they disrupt your typical view of these characters, making you think more deeply about them. The non-canon ships you embrace or reject can inform your perception of these characters on a deep level. They can make you cry just as easily as they make you laugh. They add so much flavor.

And they can also be really, really funny.

I remember that day when we arrived at the beach—it was already too late. Everyone had left, leaving behind only the remnants of fireworks scattered across the sand. Colorful confetti, soaked by the sea, made the advertising print on them nearly illegible. Among shards of broken colored glass and seaweed, you found an already opened condom wrapper in the muck and excitedly pointed it out to me, while I felt nothing but disgust.

At the time, I didn’t love this filthy backyard excuse for a scenic spot. I hated how dull, backward, and utterly empty it was. I especially despised how other small-town residents saw it as some romantic haven, drawing teenagers who wandered the damp sand like pilgrims. They’d come meticulously dressed, as if convinced their destined love would emerge from the sea, birthed into the arms of a lonely soul like a newborn from its mother’s amniotic fluid. But this was the 1970s—the moon was already covered in steel machines. Even Venus ought to emerge from a delivery room by now. The beach was no place for romantic miracles.

You nudged me and told me to take off my shoes. I didn’t. You burst into laughter and, with no regard for the risk of being cut by glass, walked barefoot onto the damp sand. I watched your feet, but you didn’t step on anything—not glass, not anything else. You kept walking into the sea, farther and farther, fading into the growing darkness. Soon, I could barely make out your figure in the vast, dark ocean. Then you stopped, raised your arms, and shouted toward the opposite shore, your voice swallowed at the edges by the white noise of the waves. You sounded happy.

When you came back, you said, disappointed, that you hadn’t expected everyone else to leave so early. You strained your eyes toward the other side but saw nothing—not even the lights of New York. Because it’s already four in the morning, I said, swallowing the second half of my sentence. We were late because I wouldn’t leave the house until I finished an assignment I was deeply invested in at the time. You never interrupted my studies.

We leaned against the car, watching sparks crawl along the fuses of the fireworks you’d set up, and you cracked open a can of beer. I declined when you offered me one, immediately regretting it. The fuse took far too long to ignite the firework. I had nothing to do but look around and again caught sight of the torn condom wrapper. Not long ago, someone had made love here, I thought. Then you moved.

We were standing so close that I could feel your body heat in the gaps between the sea breeze. Someone had made love here, right on this beach, and now we stood on the very same sand where they had.

The firework exploded—yellow and orange. You shouted in excitement, but I was lost in thoughts of what happens when people make love. They take off their clothes. They touch each other. They whisper sweet words. Smoke rolled up from the firework casing as I turned to look at your face, bathed in orange-red light. Then, with a jolt of horror, I realized that lovers also kiss on this beach.

As the yellow sparks faded, they turned the color of calcium chloride. The purple ones, I thought, must be from strontium salts and copper chloride. These burning metal salts streaked through the air, their brilliant colors dyeing the smoke that trailed behind them. I tilted my head and lowered my gaze, pretending to examine the firework casing but really sneaking glances at your face from the corner of my eye, trying to study the shape of human lips.

Kissing. I thought about the word. I didn’t know how to French kiss, but at that moment, I knew nothing could stop me from leaning forward and pressing my lips to yours. A chill ran down my spine.

I asked myself why I would think such a thing, but a more terrifying voice asked why I wouldn’t. Maybe it was a kind of high-place phenomenon, like wondering whether touching the firework would hurt. I wanted to know what it felt like to jump from a great height, to drink sulfuric acid, to press a blade hard enough to slice my finger open, to walk into the sea and let myself be submerged. I wanted to know what would happen if I kissed you. It was all just idle thoughts, but in that moment, I felt dizzy, hyperaware of every part of my body as though I might forget to breathe if I didn’t focus.

I started to feel trapped inside my own small body. I thought I saw you glance at me, and I was terrified you might know. I was even more terrified that you didn’t, because that would mean we weren’t close enough.

I wondered what excuses I could use if I did it, and that thought pained me because I wanted to be honest with you. Sitting beside you on that New Year’s night, watching the fireworks turn purple, all I could think about was how intensely I felt that if I didn’t kiss you at that moment I might die,I would never have another chance. Summoning all my courage, I finally turned to look at you, overwhelmed by thoughts and realizing I might start vomiting if I didn’t speak. Just then, you turned to look at me too. In your eyes, I saw the reflection of the fireworks.

You said, “After we finish the fireworks, can we go to my friend’s house and watch a movie? There’ll be a bunch of people—it’ll be fun.”

I said, “Sure.”

We finished setting off all the fireworks we had. It was fun. We even tried to use the fireworks to light the surface of the sea. On the way back, we saw other people—they had just gone elsewhere to hang out. You stroked the steering wheel, musing about how great the car’s engine was, and that was the first time in my life I felt shame.