Im Animating And It Takes Soooo Much Time. I Just Hope Itll Turn Out Good

Just leavinh it here so i can read it later:)))

So. Uh. I needed to warm up my writing brain today since I started drafting the last few chapters of Abandon My Eulogy, and I saw this post by @babyblankyerror, which just. Uh. Made me spiral out of control.

I’ve never written a Timeloop fic before, and for some reason today was the day. This was meant to be. At max. Like. 500 words. And it’s. Uh. Not. It’s over 3000.

I’m putting it under a read more because this fic deals EXPLICITLY with suicide, although not graphically. I think I write it in a sort of? More upbeat manner (this is in no way an angst fic really) but still. Take care of yourselves. Suicide is not the answer, hope is found in the people around you, all those things you’ve heard before.

Peace and Love y’all! <3 <3 <3

(P.s @babyblankyerror when I GET YOU. when I fuckin GET YOU. I am so busy. I have so many other things to write. And you make a prompt that sends me into the deep end? AGAIN?!)

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

Friday. He decides, is as good of a day as any. He's in a backwater town, he'll take the Stanmobile out for one last drive to the middle of the desert, where no one will find him. Or at least, not until he's thoroughly decayed, and by then no one will get back to his poor mother about it. Or Ford. A grifter's death, like he deserves.

There's a certain freedom with which he lives that week. There's no worry about the future when you know it's ending soon.

On Tuesday, Stan goes to the only casino in town that hasn't thrown him out yet, and counts cards the whole day. He “wins” enough that under normal circumstances, he'd be a happy man. But these aren't normal circumstances, and Stan is so tired. He spends most of it on the motel room, but saves some for the rest of the week.

On Wednesday, Stan calls his mom. She's the only one in the family he really talks to anyway, and he likes talking to her. She rambles about the pawn shop, and the jersey weather, and the neighborhood kids who play ding dong ditch at all hours of the night. Stan laughs when it's called for, hums when that's needed, and thoroughly redirects any questions into how he's doing. He plays a part, doesn't act more sappy than usual, doesn't act overly happy either. Acts perfectly normal. He doesn't ask about anyone else in the family, and his mom doesn't bring them up. He realizes as the sun starts to set that he's been talking to her for hours, just like they used to. He says goodbye first, and the only indication to how he's doing is that when he says goodbye, it's a twinge heavier than usual. He says I Love You and his mom says it back.

On Thursday, Stan cleans the Stanmobile. It's quite the task. He removes almost six years of trash, of living-in-his-car junk, and fills the tiny motel trash can at least a dozen times. He makes conversation with the cleaning lady and charms her enough to use the vacuum for a minute. She's very sweet, and she gives him her number. When she walks away, he rips it up and trashes it too, just to make sure she won't be traced back to him at all. He scrubs the outside, and the inside, until it genuinely looks better than when he bought it. He can't do much about the engine problems, or her sticky brakes, but he's proud of this car, and hopefully whoever does find her likes her enough to not trash her too.

On Friday, he wakes up early and thanks the motel owner, pays his fees, all of them, and goes to the grocery store. He spends the rest of his money here, on food. He can't get much, but he doesn't stop himself from getting a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of good whiskey. It's not top shelf, but it's not terrible. He actually pays for everything, for the first time in maybe years. He gets seventy eight cents in change, and gives them to the kid outside, on one of those mechanical ride-on rockets. The kid thanks him with a gap tooth smile, and Stan smiles back.

He drives out as far as the Stanmobile will go, until her gas meter is past empty, and parks. There's absolutely nothing for miles and miles, and as the sun sets Stan can see the sunset melt into a map of stars. He smokes the cigarettes, all but one, and leaves the last one in the box, putting it in the glove compartment. an old habit. He drinks the whiskey, every drop, and gets out of the Stanmobile for the last time. He sits down on the ground in front of her front grill, gets himself comfortable, loads a single bullet into the chamber and then puts the barrel of his revolver in his mouth.

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

He's done this before. He blinks awake, and smacks the sleep taste out of his mouth, confused. The motel alarm clock blinks today's date in blocky numbers, and suddenly the past week hits Stan like a freighter.

He did it. He's absolutely, positively sure he did this already.

The definition of insanity is to do the same things over and over again, expecting different results, and some might call Stan insane.

He lives the week again.

Tuesday, the casino. It's the same dealer who can't seem to understand why Stan keeps winning. He makes more money this time around.

Wednesday, he calls his mom. She talks about the exact same things, and Stan's laughter is more forced this time.

Thursday, Stan cleans his car. He's just as disgusted with himself as he was last week. He still flirts with the cleaning lady.

Friday, he follows the same routine, and when he gets seventy eight cents in change, he feels a little stupid. He still gives it to the kid.

He drives out into the desert, though not as far this time, and when he pulls the trigger this time he cries, just a little.

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

He rolls over in bed, decides, Fuck This, and blows his brains out right there, on the nice motel room bed.

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

Again.

Maybe, he decides, it's a matter of method.

There isn't much in this town he's in. There's no bridge to throw himself off of, no gang to piss off, no gun shop to buy himself a different gun. So Stan goes to the tried and true method of climbing up onto a telephone tower.

He hates heights. Hates them.

He goes as far up as he's willing to go. The only thing he's more afraid of than falling is not falling far enough.

The sky goes dark, and in the very early hours of Tuesday morning, Stan flings himself from the top.

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

“Alright! I’ll fuckin go!” He says to himself as he drags his shoes on. If this is some kind of fucked up drug trip, he’s gonna find himself some help before he actually goes crazy.

He drives to the local clinic, not a hospital because this town is too small, and walks through the doors, more tired than he’s ever been.

He schmoozes on up to the front desk, looks the probably underpaid nurse right in the eye, and says, “I’ve been thinking about killing myself. Can I get some help here?”

Her reaction, if this was any other day, would have been insufferable. She commends him, actually, honestly says “Good Job taking this first step!” Like she was trained to, and very quickly Stan is hurried into a back room.

A doctor walks in and starts asking him too many questions, and when this stuffy man asks “Have you ever acted on these thoughts of suicide?” Stan wants to tell him about his past couple of weeks, just to freak him out.

He doesn’t, because he actually can think some things through, but he does nod. The doctor writes more things down, and tells Stan to follow him.

Stan gets up off the uncomfortable chair, stepping into line, and the moment his foot crosses the doorway, the world goes black.

Stanley Pines wakes up on Monday morning, squinting his eyes in the sunlight streaming through the motel room blinds, and decides he's going to kill himself.

He yells every single swear he’s ever heard, and doesn’t bother to muffle them into a pillow.

“Fine.” He snarls into the open motel room air. “Maybe I’m just not thinking big enough.”

For the first time in a long while, Stan gets out of bed with a solid, thought out plan of what he is going to do that week.

Suicide has always been considered a mortal sin, or whatever, so clearly this whole thing must be some sort of fucked up purgatory. If he can’t kill himself, and he can’t not kill himself, then there’s only one thing left to do.

Try every single method until it sticks. Or until whatever sick God above gives up on whatever lesson this is supposed to teach.

Stan exits the motel room for just a moment that day, just so he can flip off the sky.

—

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

His back twinges, just a little, and his glasses are smudged from where they were pressed up against his face. He was up most of the night writing in his journal, particular records of a magical amulet, and he must have fallen asleep while writing. Ford groans as he stretches, determined to make the most of the day.

It’s early, but it’s never too early for coffee.

It’s as beautiful of a day as any, and the perfect weather to go exploring, but as Ford eyes his dwindling cabinets and his straight up empty refrigerator, he realizes he’ll have to actually go into town soon, to restock. Today though, he needs to finish his journal entries, and log more discoveries.

On Tuesday, Ford again puts off going into town. He’ll have to walk, obviously, and he just doesn’t feel like lugging groceries around for a mile when he could instead be doing something productive, so instead he begins the synthesis process of distilling pure pixie dust he gathered last week.

On Wednesday, Ford researches the mythology around the cave systems in Gravity Falls, and plans a future expedition. He eats a can of beans for breakfast and dinner.

On Thursday, he can put it off no longer, and actually ventures into town. He feels a little out of place, but when does he not? He buys as many groceries he can carry, and insures that everything is double bagged for the walk home. The walk home is peaceful, but long, and it’s not the first time that Ford spends it trying to think of better ways to transport himself to and from places. He could get another car, he supposes, but he’s never been the best driver.

On Friday, the gnomes attack. More accurately they rummage through his garbage and then make their way in through a hole in the roof, but the entire afternoon is spent on chasing them out from behind bookshelves and under desks. Ford has to actually smack a few with his broom, and it hisses with such venom that Ford feels a little bad for it. Still, before he goes to bed that night, he double checks every lock in the house to be sure they can’t get in while he sleeps. Ford turns out the light, and slides under the covers, too tired to even read before bed.

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

He blinks. Sits up and looks around. It’s Monday again.

Ford looks at the calendar. It’s Monday, and not the Monday after, either. Ford didn’t just sleep and sleepwalk through the entire weekend. It’s Monday again, and he’s very confused.

And a little excited. Time loops are rare.

Immediately he writes down everything he can remember from the past week. What he did, who he spoke to, while it’s fresh in his mind. Nothing immediately jumps out as Timeloop inciting, but it could be anything.

Most likely whatever it is will happen on Friday, but it’s good to be prepared.

On Tuesday, a little harried and very aware of his surroundings, Ford deems it would probably be best to relive his week similar to his last, to best get a feel for the loop's constraints. He continues to distill the pixie dust, and puts off getting groceries.

On Wednesday, he stays home. He still opens the book on Gravity Falls mythology, but mainly he thinks about how much he regrets not going grocery shopping until all he has left to eat are beans. He’s not experienced in cooking enough to get much variety out of them.

On Thursday, his walk into town is exactly the same, and everyone in town and the grocery store seem to be the same too. He doesn’t overhear anyone talk of living the same week over, and everything is in the same place it was when he came before. It’s all normal. So it’s just him being affected by the timeloop it seems.

On Friday, Ford is hyper vigilant. He’s had a good couple of meals, and nothing really of note happens on this particular day, except for his dealings with gnomes. They are technically magical creatures, so it’s not outside of the realm of possibility that they are the ones who cursed him. Timelooped him. Looped him. Whatever. The gnomes don't actually seem to act any different, they say all the same things, they make the same mistakes, choose the same hiding spots, although Ford finds them much faster this time around, and overall this interaction goes much faster, with Ford actually granting them an allowance to go through his trash but only if they do so more carefully, and more quietly. He’s sure he’s solved the Timeloop now, convinced it was just the gnomes.

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

It was not the gnomes.

Now he’s annoyed. It’d be one thing, if the Loop was just a day, repeating over and over, but this is an entire week, and it’s starting to grate on Ford’s nerves.

He makes himself a pot of coffee, and drains the entire thing.

This time he’s going grocery shopping sooner.

On Tuesday, with a full cabinet and a fresh page of his journal, Ford researches Timeloops. There isn’t much on them in his personal library, and when he goes to the town library- twice in a week, that's a new record!- there isn’t much there either. Everything he finds relating to folklore or accounts centers on something happening, an action the victim causes or prevents, that causes the day or cycle to repeat. But Ford is sure he hasn’t done much that is truly detrimental to the time stream, or that would cause an entity to rewrite the linear notion of time to give him a chance to fix it. More research is necessary.

On Wednesday, Ford gets a call. He’s in the middle of eating lunch and going through his notes, so his answer to the phone of Hello, This is Stanford Pines is a little jumbled around the food in his mouth.

It’s his mother.

Her voice is quiet, and whispery.

Stanley is dead.

In a motel room. She says, and while Ford cant see her, he knows she is crying. They ran the plates on his car out front. Happened Monday morning. His mother blows her nose, and hesitatingly pushes the last word out. Suicide.

Filbrick was called to identify the body. He’s sure.

On Thursday, Stanley is dead.

On Friday, Stanley is dead.

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

The world seems very, very quiet.

Ford cannot make himself stand from his desk. Stanley is dead.

Or. He was dead. He was dead Monday morning, last week.

But he wasn’t, the week before that. His mother would have called. Stanley wasn’t dead the first loop.

Oh.

This is the action Ford needs to prevent.

He stands up.

On Tuesday, Ford doesn’t go grocery shopping. He doesn’t eat breakfast. He doesn’t know where Stan even is, cannot force himself to eat if he doesn’t know how to fix this. He has to. He has to fix this.

On Wednesday, Ford gets a call. He’d been standing on the porch, thinking until his head hurt when he hears it ring. He knows, immediately, who it is going to be.

Suicide. His mother sniffs out. Stan jumped from a service tower. A hundred and twenty feet.

“He’s afraid of heights.” He says. It’s all he seems to be able to spit out. He was. His mother responds, and Ford wonders if she meant it in both ways.

On Thursday, Stanley is dead.

On Friday, Stanley is dead.

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

He calls his mother. Her voice is chipper and excited, and even with the pressure of time, Ford cannot tell her to shut up. She rambles about the pawn shop, about the weather back in New Jersey, and her annoyance with the neighborhood kids. She makes a joke about how Stan and Ford used to be like that, and Ford finds his entrance.

He asks if his mother has heard from Stan recently. She asks if he’s asking so they can reconcile.

No, he wants to say. I’m going to stop him from killing himself. And then I’m going to kill him myself for making me worry so much.

He tells her maybe, and gets a phone number for a motel in Albecuque for his trouble. Ford gives the receptionist a description of Stan, and she says he’s not there. But he drove west, if that’s of any help.

Ford scours the maps he has of the US. He writes down the names of towns, businesses and shops nearby Stan may have traveled to. He finds them in the phone book and calls, desperately, with nothing but a vague, age old description to go off of.

Most people don’t recognize Stan, most people recognize his car.

Ford continues this trail for the rest of the week.

He doesn’t get another call from his mother.

Stanford Pines wakes up on what he thinks is a Monday morning, facedown on his desk in the study.

He keeps his head where it is, and screams out every piece of profanity he can remember, most of them learned from Stan in their teenage years.

None of his notes reset with him, he has to remember each place he called, in order to retrace his steps.

He’s going to do it. He’s going to track his brother to the ends of the earth, and when he finally finds him, he’s going to get on a plane to wherever his brother is, and strangle him for all the trouble and grief.

And hug him. Ford is going to hug his brother so hard.

Stanford Pines has a solid, thought out plan now. And he’s never made a plan he didn’t complete. If Atan thinks he can off himself in the middle of nowhere, he’s dead wrong.

(Hello! Editing this to let you know there is a Part Two!)

This is a masterpiece

Stanley Pines sandwich tutorial!! 😁❤️

a little obsolete, isn’t it

OMG RYAN TRADITIONAL ART?!?! Shocking

Here’s a sad clown. Beautiful.

18 x 24 acrylic on canvas

they make me ill

so ill

couple of diff versions :DD

Yust a lil bite?🥺

Chapter 1 is OUT NOW!

Available on the Itch.io browser and for download! 💙

Please let us know what you think! Feel free to tag us!

i'm still not very good at drawing stan but that's not gonna stop me

Can we know how exactly is the outfit for Stanley in that D&D au 🥺 i need to draw him like that ;A;

Sure thing!!

It took me a bit because I also wanted to draw out Ford and Fidds. (There meant to chains around Stan's gauntlets, but I was lazy to make em accurate).

Au by @/babyblankyerror

oh stanley pines the man that u are