sunniskyies

[sunniskyies]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOW WAS A HUMAN SO SWEET EVER MADE?!?!?!

assigning jellycats to my moots based on how i see them in my head for no apparent reason except that i am severely bored and chronically lonely

✧.* @flowers-for-em

✧.* @liseytopia

✧.* @skeelly

✧.* @sincere1ystar

✧.* @allisluv

✧.* @sunniskyies

✧.* @caesarflickermans

✧.* @lost-in-reveriie

✧.* @anniecr3sta

✧.* @underoospeterparker

[sunniskyies]

@showstopper35 SO EXCITEDD ive got your requests bookmarked for when I do them... the Ford one may be tickling my interest 🤭🤭🤭

TOP OF THE TAGLIST ML

[sunniskyies]

oh, don't mind me. Just thinking about how Percy canonically used nature magic even though that shouldn't have been possible for a normal demigod.

oh don't mind me, i'm just thinking about how Sally seems to get younger when she's near the sea and her eyes change colors as well.

oh don't mind me, i'm just thinking about how Percy described the sea nymph his father sent to talk to him as looking exactly like his mother.

oh don't mind me, i'm just thinking about how Percy is part sea nymph and nobody fucking noticed.

[sunniskyies]

did anyone notice this detail in the part about the wedding in my fic or was it too obscure

" You're bundled up in an old blue coat, borrowed from a man with a tan line on his temple from a lifetime sporting a fez. A new pair of sturdy black boots supports you from the ocean’s sway, a gift from your doting husband. You made an effort to wear a white blouse beneath your cold weather clothes, your silver hair a long veil swept out behind you, toiling in the wind. "

"Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue"

[sunniskyies]

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Reader forgets she has Ford’s mind reading device on… 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!shy!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: - 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Makeout, fluffy shy stuff 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k 𝐀/𝐍: This is so so so out of my league with this kind of thing, but I had a vision and had to try, so forgive me if it’s not the best !! ( you can read this as young or old Ford by the way ! )

“Are you going to tell me what exactly that is?” You ask shyly, perched neatly on a wooden stool in the deepest room of Ford’s laboratory. The man in question is bustling around the benches, plugging in wires and fiddling with dials and buttons.

“It’s a mental-strengthening device, able to encrypt one’s thoughts to prevent dream demons like Bill Cipher from entering.”

You purse your lips. “Ah. Of course.”

Ford looks briefly over at you while he tinkers. “I don’t want any chance of that creature making his way into our world. The damage he causes is… irrevocable.”

You fall silent, quietly studying the scientist’s practised hands and that little furrow in his brow you doubt he’s aware of. You see it often, in your stolen glances as you set his coffee down in the mornings, or when his eyes linger for a moment on his work when you call for his attention.

You let yourself sit in the warm feeling that spreads through your skin, toying with the fantasy of him for just a moment. Before you know it, Ford is approaching you with a gadget in his hands, and you’re pushing those silly thoughts from your mind.

“This is the receiver,” Ford explains, gesturing to the sieve-like helmet in his hands. “May I put it on you?”

All you manage is a ‘mhm’, and you hope your ears aren’t bright red when Ford places the bronze contraption over your hair. As he adjusts it here and there his fingers often brush your skin, you’re mortified as goosebumps shiver over your skin. Luckily, from what you know about Stanford Pines, he isn’t the most observant man unless you happen to have three eyes or an off-on switch.

Being Ford’s assistant has been the best opportunity of your life, but childishly you often wish for something more. To see those lips say your name not just to thank you for your helping hands. To have the confidence to show Ford the book of research you’ve been privately gathering, his eyes catching yours as he realises the potential he’d never seen in you before…

For the millionth time reality pulls you from your daydreams. Ford crouches down slightly, your faces level, your eyes on his while his are at your hairline. A six-fingered hand gently tucks loose strands back from your face.

“There,” he says, eyes catching yours. “Equipped. How does that feel?”

You swallow, voice a tad too squeaky, “All good!” 

“Perfect. I’ll begin the calibration, inform me if you experience any discomfort,” he nods, satisfied, before sweeping away again.

As you wait, you silently tap on your knees, looking around. You look over the table behind you to see a television screen with—

Your thoughts.

A string of your most embarrassing ideas visualised on a ceiling-high collection of screens, unarguably clingy and desperate desires paired with Ford’s name scrolling everywhere.

You whip your gaze over to Ford, dew already appearing over your skin. He seems to be engrossed in whatever's in his hands, but it’s only a matter of time before he sees all… that!

Fuck, fuck, fuck! The screens mirror the chant in your mind.

You try vainly to think of other things, random words and imagery slowly but surely creeping onto the televisions. Polar Bears. Adjectives. Pencils, pens, markers. Dates and historical impact of various civil wars. Charity raffles. That one catchy jingle. Discombobulation. Ambystoma mexicanum.

Ford looks up. “Finished!” He says with a quick smile.

You quietly clear your throat. “Uhm. Wow! This is very clever, Ford, although I must admit didn’t realise it displayed the user's consciousness?”

His eyebrows raise at your question, before his face softly twists with confusion as he stares at the reading. He glances back over at you with the face of someone just realising how stupid something is. Yet, you almost slump with relief. At least he only thinks you're simple, not a freak.

“Well, yes, it does. Did I not mention that?” He says slowly. “I was going to suggest you exercise your brain to ensure the program reaches every aspect of your cognition… but it seems you’re… already… doing that?” He questions hesitantly. Your smile is too-bright.

“Oh, yes, that is what I am doing. Yep.” You squeak.

“Right.”

The silence is palpable, a thick sludge that clings to your form. Sometimes both your wandering stares slide over each other, awkward blips before you both avert eye contact. You hear the hum of machinery, the soft tap of your shoe on the floor. Your fingers itch to grab your journal from your pocket to give yourself something to do with your hands, but you’re embarrassed at what Ford would see as you ponder over it. The silence stretches on and on, until you can’t bear not to break it.

“So, you, uhm, said something about exercising the mind?” You blurt sheepishly.

Ford’s eyes are immediately on you. “Yes! Yes, just try to keep your mind active, it helps the protection process.”

And the silence is back. Perhaps even worse than before.

Desperate for relief, you pull your journal from your pocket. You wave it weakly, “Mind if I do some work?”

Ford adjusts his glasses. “No, no of course not. Go ahead.” He gestures at the various desks stationed around the room. You shoot him a quick smile and spin on your stool to the table next to you, propping open the journal and continuing an essay you plan to submit as a paper in your current university course.

This works, taking your mind off your vulnerability as you focus on your work. This is what you love about science, about academia, the ability to lose yourself in something so complex, so worthwhile. You really can’t wait to get your research out there and make a name for yourself.

You write for a while, pen often times balanced between teeth. You don’t quite register Ford coming up behind you until his tilted head is in your peripheral.

“Fantastic,” he mutters absently, his face well and truly absorbed on the open page. Embarrassed, you half-heartedly cover the page with your hands.

“Oh, no, it’s really not anything special.” You mumble, eyes averted. 

“No, really, I love it. You’re studying quantum physics, right?” He insists, head tilted trying to catch his eye. When you do, he has a soft smile painted on. Your cheeks glow pink.

“Yes, I major in quantum physics and forensic science. I minor in biomedical engineering, and I’m additionally doing an online paper on parapsychology with the only university that does it, in, uh, Finland.” The sparkle in Ford’s eyes grows as you timidly recite your areas of study.

“Parapsychology? That’s brilliant!” He remarked, awed. “Why didn’t you say that, I would love to take you out on my field days. I study all sorts of paranormal and supernatural activity here. It'd be great to share it with someone.”

“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you,” you say hushed, fending off a stammer. Internally, your heart is soaring. Yes yes yes!

“It’d be no trouble,” he says earnestly, soft features returned as if coaxing you out of your shell. “I knew you were smart, but I had no idea the extent,’ he says, almost to himself.

Your eyes lock on him immediately. “You think that?”

He seems surprised. “Of course I do. You’re an exceptional assistant, and you’ve been in study for ages. I’ve heard nothing less than great things about when I send my own work to our local university. Not many scholars live out here, you know?”

You can’t drag your eyes away from him, and you're sure Ford can see every star in the galaxy swirling in your pupils right now. This is everything, everything you’ve wanted.

You’re not sure whether it’s the surge of confidence, or the way Ford’s looking so gently at you, but you’re acutely aware of how low Ford has bent down to talk to you. It would only take a small movement to bring your faces together.

And so, heart fluttering with this moment of bravery, you rise slightly up on the balls of your feet and press a small kiss to Ford’s cheek.

“Thank you,” you breathe, the sensation in your chest borderline sickening. “It, uh, means a lot.”

Ford doesn’t say a word, eyes wide but painfully unreadable. The silence is once again, stifling.

“Not a lot of fellow scientists in this area, like you said,” You hastily ramble on after a long moment. The gap doesn’t last this time, though.

In a swift motion Ford’s hand is at your cheek. You barely have time to inhale before his lips are on yours, their warmth sinking against your mouth.

You’d never imagined them to be so firm, although his proximity doesn’t give your mind any room to think about anything. It’s all happening so fast, your mind dizzied as you reciprocate his intentful kisses.

Your pen clatters slightly on the table as your hand releases it, quickly gripping to Ford as his arms snake around you and lift you up. He spins, setting you on the table in the middle of the room. You’re sure at some point you have or will let slip an embarrassing sound, but you’re wholly focused on Ford and how you’re sitting at his level on the tall table; him standing before you with his hands at your waist. Your knees brush either side of his thighs.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, his hands in turn pull you closer. It’s eager and messy, making your pulse thud wildly. You never thought a man would want you like this, never catching an eye. Let alone the genius that is—

Abruptly, his lips leave yours, the emptiness not lasting long as they move just beneath your lip, then down to your jaw. They trail down to the side of your neck, lips brushing over the shiver on your skin. Small breaths leave your mouth when you feel a glimmer of teeth against your collarbone.

You tilt your head, resting against his where he’s kissing your shoulder in the crook of your neck. Your hands remain tangled in his hair, your eyes closed.

Your bodies are so close together, his lips are all-consuming. It’s bliss. The man you’ve loved for so long, holding you like he’s besotted. Like he’s just as infatuated as you. The thought thrills through your mind; He wants me.

“I can assure you, I most certainly do,” Ford murmurs breathlessly against your skin. You pause, the statement uncannily sounding like a response to your thought…

Oh. Oh no.

The machine. The mind reading. The television directly behind your back.

You haltingly turn your head, face pale. The screen is, in fact, still reciting your thoughts. Every thought. And Ford’s facing it.

“Oh my god,” You groan, palming your forehead. You sink into yourself, drowning in humiliation. But Ford’s hand fishes beneath your chin, tipping your glowing face to look at him. His face is one of endless kindness beneath his mussed hair.

“It’s really not a bad thing, sweetness.” He says gently. You shake your head slightly, eyes squeezing shut.

His thumb creeps up the side of your face, face dipping level to yours. “No, seriously. It’s a very encouraging thing for a man to see.” He jokes warmly. You peek an eye open. Heavens, did he have to look so irresistibly handsome all the time?

“Should I, uhm, remove…” you gesture at the contraption atop your head, teeth worrying your lip.

Ford hesitates for a moment, thinking as his thumb strokes your cheek. “No. No, it’s too important. I can’t have Bill infiltrating your mind.” 

You wilt slightly, but Ford once again brings you back to him. “It’ll only take a moment. Half an hour at most.” His eyes flicker fleetingly at your lips. “And besides, it’ll be sunset by then. I hear you can see a meteor shower tonight? If you drive up the hill a little.”

You hum a soft confirmation, smile melting onto your flushed features as Ford presses a last kiss to your cheek. “Good,” He murmurs. “I’ll go fetch the coats.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14 @2hiigh2cry @taffycandyqt @papi-machucha @muffin1304

 @space1crow @fries11 @yasuuuudere @shadowsandswords @darling-eos

@bloodspatteredprincess @snake-in-a-flower-crown @defmxl @ryanthatsgay2

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[sunniskyies]

i have some stanford fics sitting on my docs, if you'd like to read?

like this so i know 🙏 ill be using the taglist from my previous ones unless people ask to be removed :)

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A small installment about reader reacting to Stan and Ford’s swap, without her knowing the truth. 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Show-Typical injury and death, angst 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: The usual fluffy romance stuff, marriage! 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.4k 𝐀/𝐍: I wasn’t going to write anymore, so consider this short a 3.5! I had to rewatch Weirdmageddon again, so it’s accurate albeit overdramatic.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

Ford’s timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your lips have just parted, eyes still heavy-lidded, when your figures become silhouetted against a large, glowing red eye.

Bill is huge, his body crimson with rage; it’s only a matter of time until he discovers the Mystery Shack’s weakness.

“Quickly, Ford! Do something!” You say, drawing back from the warmth of his touch. His eyes linger on you for a second, before jumping to action. You watch, nail tip between anxious teeth, as Ford paints a large, almost cuneiform, circle reminiscent of a séance. You patiently listen to him as he instructs each of you your task (ignoring your lingering bitterness that you didn’t know he knew this). You frantically help the twins pull Stanley and Ford apart from trying to rip out each other’s throats.

And you watch as Bill Cipher looms above you, trapping you and the kids in a blue luminescent cage while the two most important men in your life are suspended in his grasp.

“Quickly, Dipper, grow the cage with your flashlight. The height-altering crystals!” You hiss under your breath.

“It’s really weird hearing you not deny the paranormal, Great Aunt ____,” he replies, pointing the magical flashlight at the bars, the cage growing until you can slip right through.

Mabel’s still helping you over the bars when Dipper calls to Ford and Stanley, “Save yourselves! Run, we’ll take care of Bill!”

“What?!” Ford cries, “That’s a suicide mission!” His eyes dart to yours, pleading. You only steel your expression further, trying to project something into that magnificent brain of his. It’ll all be fine, just get out of here.

“We’ll be okay,” Dipper replies, turning to his sister. “We’ve beat him before.”

“And we’ll beat him again!” She whoops. “Let’s go!”

You try to hurry out of the chamber quickly, but the kids refuse to go without taunting Bill further. Luckily, the demon does eventually give chase— but not before ensnaring the Pines boys once more when they try to follow you, Ford calling out a plea to you. You only look over your shoulder pained, reminding yourself that this will save them.

“When I get my hands on you I’m going to disassemble your molecules!” Cipher howls as his pyramid form hunts you down endless corridors. You pull the kids along, your heart racing with fear and adrenaline. You’re escaping, hope of safety within sight. But even after a daring ascent via grappling hook, and a smashed wall, the wretched entity still manages to seize you.

“Let us down!” You growl, trying to wriggle from his grasp as he smugly carries you back to Ford and Stan. “Please, let the kids down!”

Bill ignores you, all too eager to torment your fiancé. “Time’s up Fordsy! Look what I’ve got!” He coos down to the man. “It’s your family! I think I’m going to kill one of them, just for the heck of it!”

His eye scours over the three of you, squirming in his clutch. “Eeny, meeny, miny… you,” Cipher’s massive red locks onto you, and you're overcome by the hatred and jealousy that it instils.

You take a shuddering breath, trying to prepare yourself for what's to come. Your eyes flutter closed. Stanley, kids, I love you. Ford—

“Wait!” A small voice calls from the ground. From in the cage. “I surrender!”

You twist around to see a distant Ford gripping the walls of the cage, staring defiantly up at Bill.

“NO!” You cry, well, you try to. The air is stolen from your chest as you plummet from the sky, hitting the ground with a sickening sound.

Head and vision fuzzy, you look up to see Bill Cipher dismantling his cage, reaching out a flame-engulfed hand to the love of your life. And he… takes it.

Words knot uselessly in your mouth as you watch Ford sign away his life. “No Grunkle Ford, don’t trust him!” Dipper yells. But fate continues, the world rippling as a triangular shadow sinks into Ford’s hair, his knees buckling beneath him.

The knot unravels.

“STANLEY PINES DON’T YOU DO IT!” You shriek as the horrible man has the audacity to pull the memory gun from his interior pocket. “Please, Stanley! I just got him back! Don’t you kill him, goddammit!”

You think he’s just going to shoot, the steely man never one for hesitation. Yet, his head tilts, eyes catching yours. You’re taken aback; even from here, you sink into their endless sympathy. His warm gaze holds yours for a second.

His finger twitches, then pulls hard. A stream connects the gun to Ford’s head, a laser sinking into his mind and evaporating everything inside.

The scream that bubbles up within you is borderline demonic. As soon as Stanley drops the gun, you scramble over to Ford’s crumpled form. Your body falls into him, quivering hands clutching his face.

Almost instantly you're scrambling away again, perhaps shoving the body a bit too hard. Your back presses into ‘Stanley’s’ legs in your retreat. Your chest heaves, another pained sound peeling from within you.

“Ford?!” You garble. “What’s wrong with Ford that’s not Ford—”

A warm hand on your shoulder cuts you off. Still horrified, you glance up to see a tragically beautiful face looking down at you. The man crouches down behind you, wrapping two strong arms around your shaking form.

“Ford?” You whisper, disbelieving. Ford doesn’t reply, just tucking his head into the crook between your head and shoulder, looking over at Stanley.

Oh. Stanley.

“You horrid boys,” you whisper, a tear rolling down your cheek as you stare over at your best friend, Ford’s overcoat pooling around him. You reach a hand up to cup Ford’s face from its perch, the two of you resting in silence for a moment.

It’s almost poetic, Bill Cipher’s demise. The chaos around you returns to lush green valleys, bricks rebuilding themselves, demons disintegrating, all while your bodies stay pressed together.

“You’re okay,” you murmur to your beloved in this gap in time before you have to make your way over to Stan, before you have to be there for the kids.

“We made it,” he replies, so quiet you could miss it.

“How are we going to go on? What does the future look like for us now?” You ask, Stan’s form flickering in visibility before you as the chamber containing you dismantles itself. Your eyes watch him between the blocks of black stone and hellish artefacts.

“I don’t know, my love.” Ford’s hands have taken yours, rolling your engagement ring between finger and thumb.

In the middle of the Arctic Ocean, atop a bobbing grey-hulled ship, two lovers exchange rings. Their words are swept away by icy winds, waves folding them up and sinking their vows deep into the ocean’s heart. Salty spray makes the silver bands slide on, hands slick as they hold each other, an extra finger on each side.

You're bundled up in an old blue coat, borrowed from a man with a tan line on his temple from a lifetime sporting a fez. A new pair of sturdy black boots supports you from the ocean’s sway, a gift from your doting husband. You made an effort to wear a white blouse beneath your cold weather clothes, your silver hair a long veil swept out behind you, toiling in the wind.

Your face is flushed from the biting cold, but the man in front of you knows your ears are pink from the way he stares at you while he recites those honeyed words. In turn, you know his pupils are not dilated from the darkness of the storm clouds above, rather the way you clutch his face and press cool lips against his the second Stanley proclaims you can.

The warmth between your flush bodies is a sacred bubble from the arctic air, the sound of your twin heartbeats drowning out the creaks and groans of the ship. Ford’s lips taste like salt and biscuity rations, but when your nose buries into his face as you kiss you swear you can smell the tang of pine and ink. His hands against your skin are large and rugged and perfect for life on deck, yet you feel their calluses come from a lifetime adventuring a forested town rather than a life at sea.

Ford bends to you; arms ever supporting your weight, lips endlessly worshipping of yours. He smiles against you as he feels the coolness of your ring brush past him, excitement bubbling up at the idea that you are his wife. He is yours, and you get to call him as such.

Stanford Pines has traversed thousands of light years, slipped through countless dimensions and fought monsters well beyond our imaginations. But his favourite place in the whole universe, along every time continuum, is half a centimetre away from a woman, floating in the middle of the vast ocean.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14 @2hiigh2cry @taffycandyqt @papi-machucha @muffin1304

 @space1crow @fries11 @yasuuuudere @shadowsandswords @darling-eos

 @bloodspatteredprincess @snake-in-a-flower-crown

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[sunniskyies]

PLEASE THE RECENT STANFORD PINES FIC WAS SO GOOD I AM TEARING UP 😭🌸🌸 W—Will there be another part or is it the end? 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

OMG FIRST OF ALL TY SO MUCH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT, I HAVENT WRITTEN IN EONS, ITS SO ENCOURAGING!!!

Hmmm, well I've written each part with two days each, but it's my birthday weekend and i am PARTYING so that won't happen, and the next few weeks are exam season sooo....

Probably not? Although I have SOME ideas so yeah actually maybe some drabbles or maybe even a part 4? Its likely

YAY FOR INSPIRATION AND PRODUCTIVITY

[sunniskyies]

guess what day it is... 🎂 🌸 🎁

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐬 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Bill’s schemes try once more to tear you two apart. But Ford swears that nothing will come between you again, not even the end of the world. 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Show-typical injury 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Reunion, fluff, romanceeeee 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.9k 𝐀/𝐍: Weirdmageddon time! I know I could’ve written about the date, but I want to wrap this up neatly. Everyone’s support has been amazing, I haven’t written in a while so thank you so much for reading! (I rewatched the Weirdmageddon episodes for this so it should be pretty accurate? Although maybe a tad dramatic but that’s just my flare)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

It has been a good few weeks since Ford returned. The best few weeks. Even before Ford fell through the portal he was never this romantic, the scientist now reduced to flushed cheeks and soft hands reaching out whenever he saw you. Even when you were a little ways apart, you’d catch him staring at your profile, or coming up from his work just to place a silent kiss on your forehead. You giggle and shove him playfully, but you truly enjoy the little gestures. In return for the vases of wildflowers and cups of steaming coffee you wake up to find on your bedside cabinet, you’ve begun to annotate the books you read, hiding them around the shack for Ford to find. To your delight, when you go down to the basement to touch base with him, you tend to find the book you left the very night before open-paged to the side of his desk.

The man makes you dizzy. Electrified yet soporific, thrilled yet comfortable. Your lives have re-entwined together after far too long apart, and it can’t be more perfect. You will spend the rest of your life with the man you love, safe and content in his arms.

For Ford, he will spend the rest of his life ensuring nothing will come in the way of that happening.

You were in the forest, swabbing the cheeks of a local colony of redcaps for a research paper on gnomish tuberculosis, when a wave of nausea floods over you. The sunlight pierces, fractured, through your eyelids, a kaleidoscope of colour and madness.

As the feeling subsides, you realise that the wave wasn’t purely physical; there really was a vivid wave of madness washing down the Gravity Falls basin.

As you stand stock still, squinting eyes trying to work out what the hell that was, the notebook in your hand begins to quiver.

Looking down, you’re horrified to see that the bendy little writing pad has sprouted beady eyes and a gaping mouth, and is ripping out its own pages.

“GAH!” You squeal, dropping the notebook like it’s hot to the mossy floor. The loose papers now scattered around must be like some fucked-up version of reproduction for the crazed notebook, because each of them have eyes of their own. They begin swirling towards your ankles, small gnawing sounds being emitted as they bite into your ankles with sharp little teeth.

“EEEE! Get off of me!” You scream, shaking out your legs hopelessly as the pages seemingly multiply, crawling up your legs until your lower half resembles a mummy. Tiny teeth like acid on skin.

The madness continues, your tearing hands useless as you’re cocooned in note paper. Your screams are muffled, and you soon slip into unconsciousness. The last thing you see through the gaps in the paper is a large cross in the sky.

Bill.

Cool air trickles into your mouth, your aching lungs reacting by attempting to suck every molecule of oxygen from the atmosphere. Choking on the stink of smog, you try to open your stinging eyes and rip the swathes of paper from your skin. Your second pair of hands quickly help you peel the sweat-soaked sheets from your face.

Wait.

“Whoa, whoa dude. Calm down, breathe.” Startled, your cloudy vision tries to focus on the face of the person helping you. His face is shadowed from the soupy, apocalyptic sunlight. His hands are deftly stripping you of your papery scales.

“Who—” Your hand tentatively rubs your throat when your voice comes out a hoarse gargle. “Who are you?”

“Oh, dude! It’s me,” Soos pulls back his hood. “Handyman of the apocalypse, at your service!”

You sag with relief. “Soos! Thank god,” you say, pulling him in for a hug. “Where are we? How… long was I out?” The landscape around you is barren, a strange wasteland.

“I don’t know, ‘found you here just now. We’re a few days into Weirdmageddon, if that helps jog your memory?” Soos replies sympathetically. You must look like a wreck.

“A few days? I— How— How have I survived so long?” The binding around your mouth and nose was surely tight enough to prevent air getting in completely, your body quickly losing consciousness. Your tissue should’ve experienced hypoxia within the first few hours, yet your cognitive functions seem fine. How did you not succumb to asphyxiation? During the period of time suggested, the symptoms of dehydration and exposure would’ve surely exacerbated the danger of this situation exponentially! It’s a paradox of biological resilience! A miracle! “There must have been some sort of supernatural intervention. Bill’s presence in our realm suggests an anomaly, this ‘Weirdmageddon’… I’m just not sure. I’d need my notes, and more data. Surely other people experienced what I did?” You vocalise, rhetorically.

Soos looks a little lost. “I don’t know, dude. But I have been helping stragglers for the past few days, and it seems to me anyone affected by those weirdness bubbles and that wack-o wave recover just fine. I think Bill’s magic things are really just illusions that mess with your brain?” He offered.

“Fascinating,” you murmur. “If only Ford was here, between us he’s the expert in anomalous— Wait, Ford!” You break off, jumping to your feet. “God, where’s Ford? Have you seen him?”

Soos shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him.” You sag, heart split and stinging like your chapped lips. “But, hey dude, I think we should worry about that later… there are two suspiciously car-shaped dots speeding this way.”

Looking over your shoulder, you see that Soos is correct. Two vehicles are erratically approaching, slamming into each other with thuds that reverberate across the flatland. You hold onto his hand as you wait to face what’s going on; you’re in the middle of the apocalypse, there isn’t anywhere to run if there’s trouble. You have to face it head on.

“Not-Mrs-Pines?”

“Yes, Soos?”

“You were totally nerding out just now,” he says. “You and Mr. Pines are really perfect for each other, y’know?”

You smile softly. “Yeah, we are, aren’t we?”

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

Bill laughs through Ford’s howls, unrelenting as the man is bombarded by electricity. “Ready to talk now?” The demon cackles, Stanford limp in the shackles around his wrists.

Ford’s voice is husky, body spent, but he is equally as resolute. “I won’t. I won’t let you into my mind!”

Bill rolls his eye, spinning to survey the minions crowded around him. Pointed tongues slide hungrily over teeth, gleaming talons fidget eagerly. “What do you think pals? Another 500 volts?!” The triangle calls. His kinsmen jeer in response.

Bill raises a finger, sparks flickering on the tip. As he lowers his arm to direct it at the dying man, a thunder shakes the chamber. His body rotates, form quickly turning red as he sees that blasted Mystery Hack interrupting his interrogation. Large animatronic arms and legs have turned the building into a Demon-Quasher-3000. Who do you think you are?!

You're standing at one of the small windows, Mabel’s friend controlling the limbs via a motion capture suit. You’re her eyes, telling her what to do from your viewpoint. 

“Candy! 8-Ball on your ten o’clock!” You shout.

With a grunt, Candy takes him out with a powerful swing. For the first time since Dipper, Wendy, Soos and you regrouped and found the Mystery Shack, faith flares in your chest. The machine is working! We’re coming for you, Ford.

McGucket’s monstrosity really does work perfectly. One by one it picks off the interdimensional hellspawn, craters appearing in the wasteland’s dry earth. You clutch the windowpane tighter with every jolt, knuckles pale. At one point your eye catches them, lingering on your ringless finger. For the second time in your life, you think about how as soon as you get yourselves out of here, Ford better get his act together or you’ll get down on one knee yourself!

Up in Bill’s palace, the demon is livid. “One job! They had one job!”

Ford’s body has perked up, eyes shiny with hope. Bill does not miss this, eye narrowing as he examines the man.

“Well,” he drawls, “would you look at that! Those playthings of yours really care about you. And you care about them, don’t you!?”

Ford’s breath catches. “What are you— No. Oh, no!” Sweat beads on his forehead, fists clenched and trembling. Bill Cipher, however, was quivering with barely contained glee.

“Perhaps torturing those kids will make you talk!” He taunts giddily, floating behind Ford and gently lifting his chin to point his gaze at the Mystery Shack. He leans into his ear, “or… say, Fordsy, how about that doll of yours?”

“No, not her! Cipher, you can’t—” Ford’s cry is silenced as he turns gold inside out, his shimmering figure a cruel contrast to the horror twisting his features.

“You don’t tell me what to do, Sixer.” Bill says, not looking back. Looking out at the shack malevolently, he cracks his fingers. “Now. Let’s get this over with.”

A chill washes through you as you enter the chamber, behind you the Mystery Shack attempts to ward off Bill. You brace your legs as your vibrant parachute sets you down on the concrete, but you still fall over.

“Plegh!” You bite your tongue as your jaw hits the floor, and you lay still for a moment waiting for the breath to return to your body.

“It looks even worse in person,” you hear Dipper say. Looking up, you see he’s right. A throne of petrified corpses looms above you, the townsfolk’s pupiless faces staring out. You immediately look for Ford.

“Ford? Can anyone see him? Is he in a separate room?” You immediately start questioning, hauling yourself to stand and looking around. The cracks in your heart deepen. “Ford?”

Mabel grits her teeth, “on it!” She raises her grappling hook, pulling her up to the dias.

A moment goes by, and then another. Your heart is almost done crawling up your throat when Mabel calls out.

“I found him! He’s golden!” Her face peeks over the edge. “But… not in the good way!”

Mable disappears again, and Dipper is quickly helped up to join her. The rest of the team agrees that you’re the next to go.

With the help of a grappling hook and four twelve-year-old hands, you join them at the top. 

There, on the arm of the throne, is the love of your life, gilded and frozen in time.

“Oh, Ford!” You croak. Dipper places a reassuring hand on your arm. You smile back at him, bravely stepping forward to try and get Stanford out of this mess.

The twins quickly notice a young boy trapped in a cage, his shoes clinking against the suspended metal floor. While they discuss something, you examine the base of the throne, squinting skyward as you try to find a way up.

While studying the structure, you fail to notice the twin’s warning before it’s too late. One victim is pulled from the edifice, and the entire thing begins to collapse. Your shout of surprise is swallowed as a cascade of bodies covers you, burying you in the screaming mass.

Disturbed by the chaos, the golden stature of Ford Pines is released from its curse, his body doubling over from relief. Dipper and Mabel quickly locate him, rushing to his side to support him.

Ford coughs, the pain from the electrocutions still ailing him. “Kids! Thank heavens you’re okay!” Despite himself, he scoops them both up, hugging them tightly.

“Great Uncle Ford! We’ve got him distracted, but Bill could get here any minute! You said you knew his weakness..?” Dipper asks.

“Yeah! A secret way to defeat him?” Mabel chimes in. Ford pauses.

“Yes, I do. But— kids, where’s ____?” Ford asks, dread leaching into his features as his eyes dart around.

Dipper’s face pales, his eyes darting toward the remnants of Bill's psychotic throne. “I... I don’t know. She was with us a moment ago.”

“She was here?!” Ford cries, hastening over to the wreckage. A thousand unknown bodies are searching around for their loved ones, but Ford’s eyes are only looking for you. His voice carries above everyone else’s cries, your name echoing the loudest through the chamber. Frantic hands part bodies, his search not sparing a second to apologise for treaded-on fingers or too-rough shoves.

Little did Ford know you were 538 bodies away on the other side of the carnage, battered and bruised, trying to muster up a cry loud enough to ask for help. There are too many people on top of you, and every effort you give to rise to the surface is hopeless as others tamp you back down in their own attempts.

Buried and afraid, your last hope is to peel off Ford’s red turtleneck you’d been wearing and try to use it as a beacon. You’d put it on upon reaching the Mystery Shack, as it still smelled like your beloved’s scent of pine, parchment, and ink. Now, you ball it up in your fist and use all your energy to push it through the tumult, its scarlet fabric disappearing to the surface.

You curl up into a ball, eyes scrunched shut as you wait for unguaranteed help. You don’t even know whether Ford got saved…

“Great Aunt ____!” The twins call, nimbly hopping through the human rubble. People are slowly recovering and dispersing, only a few pockets are left.

“____?” Stanley echoes without much conviction, internally battling the helplessness he feels. However, his brother’s search grows more frantic with every passing minute. Ford felt he was going mad at the thought of losing you, not after finally getting you back.

A flash of red hauls him immediately from his spiral.

“The sweater!” Mabel’s excited voice repeats his thoughts moments after. “That’s her sweater!”

In retrospect, Ford never remembers travelling over to it. He just remembers picking up the turtleneck, looking around for your face. He remembers his hands wrapping around you and hauling you into his arms. He remembers pressing a messy kiss to your lips, eyes brushing over your form for injury.

“My dearest,” he mumbles quietly into your hair, his eyes closed as his skin presses to yours. You're too exhausted to cry, but Ford holds you as if you are. He’s a restless soul, hands always fidgeting for a new project, so when you hug his fingers are always moving; gentle swirls on your lower back, combing through your hair as you kiss him. You sink into this familiar touch, hoping that he understands your wordless relief by the way your fingers trace his jaw, sinking to smooth then grip his coat’s lapel.

“I���m so glad you’re okay,” you murmur eventually, looking up into his face. The shadows from your youth have reappeared beneath his eyes, his hair is mussed, his jaw bears a rough shadow. Your eyebrows crease. “What did he do to you,” you whisper.

His eyes are weary, yet they look at you so very softly. “Please, let’s not talk of him right now.” He gently takes one of your hands from his chest, delicately cupping it like a precious stone. His eyes don’t leave yours while he presses his lips to your knuckles. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over your fingers thoughtfully. “Do you know what else I was retrieving from the alien bunker? The afternoon the rift cracked?”

You’re taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, and the deepness swirling in Ford’s pupils. It’s like he’s staring straight through you. Hesitantly, you humour him. “You mean, other than the adhesive?”

Ford hums a confirmation, eyes still glued to you.

You’re trying to think, but his finger swirling absently over the top of one of your left fingers is awfully distracting. “Mmm… I don’t know, honey,” you attempt.

He smiles again, bringing you in for another kiss. Your head is swirling, but before you know it Ford is sinking down to the floor, your hand still resting in his large, warm palm.

He lets out a timid, breathy laugh at the look on your face. You’re slack jawed, staring at your beloved (who has always been much taller than you) bowed on one knee before you.

“Sweetness—” He is interrupted by a sound escaping your lips. “—Sweetness,” he continues fondly. “Before I met you, I was a mess. A terrible, unravelled mess that you carefully wove together.” Your spare hand goes to cover your mouth. “It’s been thirty years since I was last torn from you, thirty years since I fell through that portal while you, my heart, were holding the end of my thread. As I fell through the heavens, I came undone, and quickly comprehended how much I need you, ____. I’m—I’m not as smooth with words as others, but… what I’ve been meaning to say from that moment is… you’ve loved me at my best and my worst; And I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life trying to be deserving of that.”

With impressively little fumbling, Ford reaches into his interior pocket and extracts a glimmering silver ring, a rich burgundy stone set into it. As it shimmers you swear you see galaxies of stars swirling within.

“Oh Ford,” you breathe, reeling.

“I don’t want any more close calls. ____ __ ____, will you ma—” the rest of the question is mumbled against the lips you press to his, your body crouched down to wrap your arms around his neck. Somewhere in the torrent of kisses that precede, a ‘yes’ is uttered and a ring is blindly slid onto a finger, but really. It’s the end of the world and you just want to kiss your fiancé.

“If we’re all about to die, I’m glad we’re doing it together.”

Ford’s eyes harden defiantly. He rises to stand, offering you a hand to pull you up. “I won’t let that happen.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14 @2hiigh2cry @taffycandyqt @papi-machucha @muffin1304

@snake-in-a-flower-crown @shadowsandswords @darling-eos @bloodspatteredprincess @yasuuuudere

@space1crow @fries11

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[sunniskyies]

My smol mini series about the drifting stars au is here!! Ft letters to Dipper!! May do more depending on the reception~

[sunniskyies]

I had this thought about Stanford on my mind, so I'm going to ramble on.

Imagine Ford experiencing some form of separation anxiety because he's been missing you for 30 years after being trapped in many dimensions. HEAR ME OUT:

He wraps his arm around you when you accompany him on missions, afraid that he'll lose you again. HE ALSO DOES THIS WHEN HE'S SLEEPING. THE MAN WILL WRAP HIS ARMS AROUND YOU WHEN HE SLEEPS, SCARED THAT YOU'LL BE GONE THE SECOND HE WAKES UP.

You always have to reassure him that you won’t disappear countless times whenever you leave the shack to do your things.

Of course, he does soon recover from this, but he still worries a little when you're gone for a while.

(This can also be reversed, I can see both happening.)

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Domestic fluff as you both settle back into life together <3 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: - 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Literally just fluff, a bit of being a guardian figure to the kids 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k 𝐀/𝐍: You guys are SO SWEET about the last one, so here's more fluff for you beautiful old man addicts <3

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

The kids are in bed— well, mostly. You can hear the chirp of excited conversation through the ceiling. It was late, Stan and Ford’s explanation taking a long, long time. It didn’t help that the retelling got as thick and awkward as wet cement when it came to talk of Ford’s portal, and the events leading up to his departure.

Exhaustion tugs at every battered bone in your body, but you’re so content you might as well be purring like a kitten in front of a roaring fire.

You're curled up bridal-style across Ford’s lap, his arms enveloping you; warm, cradling, completing. He’s donned an old red knit jumper he fished out of his old chest of drawers. It smells like it belongs in a museum, sort of dusty and woodsy. Your face is pressed to his chest, and you feel much younger than your age. It feels like your first day in this house, the two of you huddled on a sagging mattress giggling and talking of futures and other such nonsense; youthful, hopeful, infatuated.

Now the two of you are more than thirty years on, enfolded together like the pages of a book left on an old yellow reading chair. You don’t speak, saving that long conversation for a lick of sunlight and mugs of coffee cupped in hand. No, right now you just sit in silence, Ford’s large hands stroking dust from your hair, a thumb gently soothing the bruise forming on your temple where you struck the wall.

Still unaware of the time except for the inky night hanging in the air, you feel Ford shift. His arms move, body ready to stand up with you. He stops when he notices two large pupils staring up at him curiously.

“You’re still awake, dear,” he smiles, voice quiet. “Let me take you to bed, I must lock up downstairs, make sure nothing vile is seeping through that blasted portal.”

“Ford, no, let’s go to sleep. You can do that in the morning,” you say, trying to ward off the edge of desperation edging into your tone. You can’t help but remember the miserable months of nights in a cold bed while your lover hid away in the basement, sleeping on his desk rather than with you. It has to be different— he’s better now.

Ford doesn’t share your fretting. “No, it’s not stable. Reopening the portal… it’s not safe to leave these things.” He continues to stand up, your body delicately draped over his arms. He seems to notice your expression. “I’ll join you soon, love.”

You doubt that. He’ll probably be there ‘till morning, his simple task snowballing as his keen eyes notice the slightest things amiss. “No, that won’t happen. No, no, I’ll join you. I’m rather accustomed to the portal myself after all this time with it.” You dismiss, stretching a leg to try and stand on the floor.

Ford bundles you up closer, “Absolutely not! You need rest, I swear I will join you.” He begins carrying you to the hall. Your fingers clutch the red fabric of his sweater. 

“Please don’t leave me,” you murmur plaintively, the corners of your mouth downturned. You miss the way Ford’s heart stutters, your eyes all hopelessly syrupy and mournful through your lashes.

He hesitates.

“Please? You can stay down there any other night I promise, just stay this time.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want that. Not again,” he says firmly. “Okay… I’ll… I’ll come with you.”

You immediately relax again, at ease in the rhythm of Ford’s steps as he carries you to your room. A stupid grin hijacks your face as he ever-so-gently places you under the sheets (he remembered what side of the bed). You watch from your nest of sheets as he gets ready for bed in the soft lamplight, lifting up the duvet for him to slide in next to you.

His arm around you, frothy sheets up to your neck— you think you might die here and now for how perfect everything feels. You feel his nose bump the top of your head as he presses a kiss to your hair.

“If you’d have told me this morning that… that today would be the day I would’ve never believed…” you say, heavy eyelids closing as you're interrupted by a yawn. You feel his chuckle reverberate where you lean into his chest. 

“Go to sleep, sweetness.” He murmurs, tone laced with a smile. There are his hands again, rubbing soft circles on your arm, your hair. He might as well be rubbing in anaesthesia, his touch lulling you to sleep. Darn you Pines.

Before sleep pulls you under, “I’m so glad your back, Stanford,” slips quietly from your lips. Ford’s heart skips again. Arms tighten around you as if you’re a precious photo about to float away on the wind; skin softly creased from a lifetime of loving, hair matte and grey like faded ink from thirty years of waiting.

“I’m more grateful than you could ever know, my dear,”

A stretch trembles through your warm limbs, the aches from last night dulled by a deep slumber and the warm morning sunlight soaking through the window. A thrill passes through you, your arm sliding through the sheets to Stanford’s side and—

A cry pours from you as your hand meets cold, empty space. Your body is jolted upright, perspiration glistening on your forehead. Your heart is hammering, lungs gulping in buckets of air. Where is he? Where is Ford? Did he come through the portal? Did it really happen? You don’t register the wail emanating from you, nor do you register the pound of heavy boots down the hallway.

“____ are you okay?!” Ford exclaims, almost slamming into the door as he hurries in. His hand is tense, hovering above the gun strapped to his belt.

The sight of him— the feeling you get is so overpowering it’s nauseating. Your paralysed limbs untense, body slumping in relief.

“Goddammit Stanford Pines, you just gave me the fright of a lifetime,” you bemoan, uninvited tears swimming beneath the sieve of your hands. You don’t see as his face goes from confused to slack with realisation.

“Oh,” He groans. “Oh sweetness I’m so sorry.” Feeling horrible, he leans on the bed to pull you into him, rubbing your back. “I should’ve waited for you to wake up, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I probably scared you half to death.” You mumble, slightly embarrassed. As much as you are connected to Ford, thirty years has changed both of you, and you find yourself —embarrassingly— feeling like you need to impress him, like a teenager with a crush. God forbid he thinks ill of you!

You relish his rumble of a laugh. “I thought a monster slipped by me or something! I’m grateful you're okay.”

“Yeah, well, I think you might’ve just taken a year off my life, Ford.” You roll your eyes lovingly, a few of the last of those silly tears escaping.

After getting up and pulling on some summer-friendly clothes, you slip down to the kitchen to find the morning well underway. The sun is beating through the windows, and Dipper is sat cross legged on the floor reading a book. He’s reading with the cover down, but his furtiveness is wasted on you; you know he's reading A Good Girl's Guide to Murder. ‘Mature murder mystery books’ indeed, Dipper!

At the kitchen bench, Mabel is haphazardly balanced on a stack of books, multiple propped open at once. From the batter congealing the pages together and the fact that most of the books are iced, you know they are cookery books. And a cookbook in Mabel’s hands is either as dangerous as a matchbook to a forest, or as useless as shoes to a fish.

By the looks of it, it is the latter. Although, is there a faint… burning?

“Great Aunt ___!” Mabel squeals, revealing sprinkle-harbouring braces. “I'm baking, look I’m baking! See, I had this great idea to try and substitute the liquids in my Mabel Cakes with Mabel Juice because Grunkle Ford has never had either —can you believe that? Me neither, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and make them together… but I didn’t realise the plastic dinosaurs in the juice would melt in the waffle iron!—” You try to cut off the young girl’s 100-mile-an-hour babble, but that girl is unstoppable.

You wince as she holds up two fists of semi-cooked, eye-wateringly bright gobdules of cakey dough. You, pained, notice the half-melted dinosaurs, faces in liquified agony as strings of molten plastic drip from their bodies. Matchbook in forest, matchbook in forest!

“—So now it’s a bit of a Jurassic Park, another reason why I think Grunkle Ford will love it, even if it’s a bit of a.... disaster. But if you think about it it’s more like a Magical Mabel Disaster! And oh, I added extra sprinkles because you can never have too many sprinkles! Do you think the hardened dinosaurs will make up for the uncooked dough? Or should I cook it more? Doesn’t matter, it’ll taste great!”

You give her a wobbly smile, mostly because you fear what might happen if you open your mouth.

“I tried to stop her,” Dipper mutters from between his pages, voice smug and matter-of-fact.

“Oh don’t act like you're so grown-up, you’re reading a little girl's book,” she retorts in a sing-song. Dipper slams his book closed, the tips of his ears matching the cover.

“I think you’ll find it’s very sophisticated and easy to digest—”

You let the twin’s bickering fade into the background as you begin to tidy up the carnage Mabel’s baking attempt has left. Usually, she gets distracted by things quite quickly, leaving Mabel-messes scattered around for anyone to find. You don’t mind it though, all too glad to slide the Mabel Cake into the bin. You shiver. Those plastic faces… they haunt.

Ford was back down in the basement, the sounds of clanging and buzzing drifting up through the weary floorboards. You want to go down there, but that silly part of you doesn’t want to disturb him again today. No— that’s ridiculous! Ford loves your company, you don’t get in his way —it’s not like it was when Bill was around.

Five minutes later, you're standing in the small room in the basement holding a cup of coffee and a salvaged Mabel Cake. You see Ford through the glass, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tools being used and replaced back onto his belt. He’s hauling colossal slabs of metal from the sides of the portal, the machine slowly being stripped down to bone. Like a massive carcass, it creaks and groans as Ford’s tools slice away at its flesh, and you hope he’s staying well out the way each time pieces of it fall to the floor like toppling trees.

After a few moments, Ford seems to notice you through his welding mask, though you can’t see his face through the tinted visor. He perks up though, dropping a massive saw to the ground and hurrying over.

“Hello, my dear! Is it too noisy?” He says as he slips through the door, pulling off his helmet and drawing you in for a sheepish kiss.

“No, just bringing you some of Mabel’s baking efforts— you don’t have to eat it, but she was awfully excited.” Ford surveys the cake with a smile, and you resist the urge to wipe the smear of soot from his cheek. 

“Thank you. For the sustenance, and for, uh, for checking in,” he says sincerely. Is that a flush you see? Your suspicions are confirmed when you set the coffee aside and bring him in for a deeper kiss, blouse-clad arms sliding around his neck, and you feel his pulse thrum beneath his skin.

The relief you feel! You’re not the only one navigating these unknown emotions, that the man who’s mapped the multiverse is also feeling the giddy nerves you are. Your skin prickles where his degloved hands bear your skin.

It feels strange to be held romantically after so long of loneliness. It’s not that you haven’t found love with the kids and Stan, but you could never bring yourself to even look at another in the way you used to look at Ford. Even if you never finished the portal, you would’ve spent the rest of your life alone, satisfied at least in the knowledge of how it felt to be loved, once. It excites you childishly knowing just by his kiss that Ford felt the same, the way he cradles you in his gaze and with his hands as if he’s trying to reabsorb every inch.

When you break away, his eyes open after yours, and he seems to be at a loss for what to say.

“Do you, um, want to go for a walk this evening? You haven’t left the shack yet, and we haven’t truly caught up…” you offer shyly.

“Yes! That would be… splendid! Spectacular. This evening. Perfect.” He blurts. The calm of last evening has clearly floated away in the daylight for both of you.

“Perfect.” You repeat.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14, @2hiigh2cry, @taffycandyqt, @papi-machucha, @muffin1304

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[sunniskyies]

Stan probably found that suit in Ford's closet when he moved in.

That's... Fords suit...

Ford probably had that suit for weddings and formal occasions. OR LIKE accepting awards and stuff!!!

BUT THE ONLY TIME HE EVER WORE THE SUIT IS WHEN HE'S ERASING HIS BROTHER'S MIND 😭😭😭

[sunniskyies]

[sunniskyies]

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆˚˖☆🕯️ back to navigation || masterlist

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬:

★‧₊˚ ⤷ The Photo in his Pocket (part one) (1.7k) After thirty years of missing you, Ford comes back out the portal <3 ☆. *⤷ The Girl in his Arms (part two) (2.2k) Domestic fluff as you both settle back into life together <3 ★‧₊˚ ⤷ The Future in their Palms (part three) (2.9k) Bill’s schemes try once more to tear you two apart. But Ford swears that nothing will come between you again, not even the end of the world. ☆. *⤷ The World Between them (part four) (1.4k) A small instalment about reader reacting to Stan and Ford’s swap, without her knowing the truth

★‧₊˚ ⤷ Read your mind (one-shot) (2k) Reader forgets she has Ford’s mind reading device on...

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After thirty years of missing you, Ford comes back out the portal <3 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Slight injury 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Cavity-inducing fluff, pining ig? 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k 𝐀/𝐍: Heyyy so I went insane and wrote this ramble about this old man in a worryingly short amount of time, because like I said, insane. (ask me for a part two 🙏)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

(I really recommend reading this on dark mode!)

Twelve fingers clasp a photograph, so reverent and firm lest it whip from his hands and float away into the star-speckled void. It’s just smaller than his palm, the kind of picture one slips into the clear sleeve of a wallet. White creases split the picture in quarters, the seams threatening to rip further at each intersection.

Ford’s weightless body almost curls around it, eyes absorbing every detail. Thumbs mindlessly stroke the paper where they have a thousand times before, the card worn as soft and thin as fabric.

A picture taken from your university days, your graduation in fact. Your robes swamp your figure, only a sliver of a dress blouse peaking out from underneath. Your eyes aren’t focused on the camera lens, rather looking shyly up slightly at what one can assume is the photographer. Hands displaying a newly earned Master’s, cap slightly akilter to one side, hesitant smile. Ford has drunk in every detail hungrily, each day that has passed the photograph being carefully removed from his upper breast pocket and unfolded without fail. It’s all he has left of you, and it is unwaveringly sickening to him that his entire heart must only be displayed on a thin piece of paper.

He had other pictures of you: Moving days, candids, portraits of the two of you. But each one was a universe away, framed in halls he hadn’t walked in thirty years. The only photo he had on his person when he slipped through the portal was a silly wallet memento he had slipped in years prior. Not even a ring, because dammit Pines, why didn’t you marry the woman when you had the chance?

The void around him carried a dry wind that mussed his hair as he looked up into the nothingness.

“The bastard should’ve married you.”

You snorted. Your back sunk deep into well loved cushions, a cool glass of liquor held loosely between your fingers. The condensation has dampened your fingers, and the night air cools your face as you look up past the porch roof and into the night sky.

“You’re telling me, Stanley,” you smile ruefully. “Although I’m sure he would’ve put a ring on that damned portal if he hadn’t been sucked into it.”

You both laugh dryly, the conversation stilling as you drink. You’ve found a peace in these comfortable silences over the years, the sort two people working back-to-back for thirty years has created. Partners in crime; your not-quite brother-in-law. You held no resentment for Stan, never blamed him for losing Ford to the multiverse. Your partner was losing grip himself, his mind scattered amongst the stars long before his body was. It shamed you to think it, but it was only a matter of time before Ford stepped through that portal. It just hurt you that Stan had to blame himself for it.

You stand up, pulling a blanket around your shoulders. You tip the last of your glass into Stan’s, and press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Stanley.”

“‘Night, ____,” he replies fondly, the old beast settling further into the couch. You couldn’t help but call Stan his real name when the twins were in bed. You suppose it helps you remind yourself about what's real; slip back into your past when you're not under the light of day protecting Stan’s identity. Giving yourself a relief from calling another man your lover’s name.

You pad through the creaky shack, detouring to poke your head quietly into the attic. Tonight, both Dipper and Mabel’s sidelights were off. A rare occurrence, but a welcome break from the night of pen clicks and excited page-turning. You smile softly at their faces, the children who carry no blood of your own. But this summer, they are yours to protect, and you love them like the children you never got to share with Ford.

Down the hall, key in the door. You slip into your room, locking it precautiously behind you.

It’s not that this room holds anything dangerous. Nor did you believe the twins would sneak in here if you asked them not to. But just in case, you seal this sanctuary to protect Stanley, as you would rather be obliterated by Bill Cipher himself than take down the pictures of Ford tattooing your walls.

You hold the blanket tighter around your shoulders, heavy eyes studying a portrait of you and Ford on your first week in the house now dubbed the ‘Mystery Shack’. His eyes are trained on you, arms forever frozen in time wrapped around your waist as you reach up to cup his face with one hand and take the photo with the other.

Your damp eyes take one last sweep of the walls, each space adorned by frames and glass-shielded memories. As you slip into bed, running a hand through your silvering hair, you whisper a goodnight to your star-strewn lover.

“Come back to me, Stanford Pines.”

“He’s lying! Shut it down, now!” Dipper yells, the hum of the portal pounding through your head painfully.

“Mabel please!” Stan pleads, the little girl you love so dearly so strickenly clutching that fateful red button

Ten seconds to go.

Mabel’s hand trembles above it, something inside you snapping and pinging against your heart. “Please Mabel!” You cry. “Please don’t press it. I hate to agree with Stan but you cannot press that button!”

Her brown eyes lock with yours, and her face relaxes minutely. The moment you stepped into the basement with Stan to find the kids and Soos, fear paralysed you. Despair froze your limbs as you watched Stan hopelessly try to reason with them.

But he’s five seconds away. And you're breaking. 

Mabel looks once more between you and Stan. You wish your great-niece wasn’t in this position— you never, never wanted either of them wrapped up in this. You’d spent the whole summer trying, and failing, to keep them away from the dangers lurking in this town.

But you would sacrifice more than five seconds of discomfort to get Ford back. You have sacrificed much, much more than that.

Her eyes on you, “Great Aunt ____,” she whispers, “I trust you.”

The light is so intense it drowns out all other senses. A sensation you can only describe as your entire body being harshly bleached, skin raw and retinas stinging. You scream, but you can’t tell if you're actually injured or not. The entire experience is just so… incomprehensible.

And then it's quiet, so silent minus the ringing in your ears and the pound… …pound… …pound of your head. You vaguely feel your cheek pressed against something coarse. Dirt? Or grime? Your skin is tingling, you can’t really tell. You blearily open your eyes, blurry shapes far across the room moving around harshly. Barked words swim to your ears, but exhaustion clouds your cognition. You think… you might have been propelled when the room lost gravity?

The portal! The world comes into sharp focus, and you breathe in a cloud of dust from the rubble strewn around. Propped up by shaking hands, you scan the room. There! The triangular machine has crumpled, all sizzling sparks and groaning metal supports.

“Ford?” You croak, desperately searching around. “Did Ford come through? Stanley?—”

Two dark-clad figures are grappling with each other. Two… almost identical… figures.

“FORD?” You cry, the yell cutting through the gravel in your throat. The figures still, but you are too far away and too dizzy to really grasp what’s going on. Is he looking? 

“____?” A deep voice calls back after a beat. It’s hesitant, disbelieving.

“Yes, yes, it’s me! It’s me!” You choke back, still shaking from the impact.

“____!” The man yells, and you try to haul yourself up as he runs towards you. Your muscles scream in protest, but you manage to get yourself sat upright just as a flurry of dark fabric scoops you into the air.

It’s disorientating as Ford spins you around, holding you tight, but you just laugh and laugh as the tears begin to fall. You're both talking, but the words are flowing too fast and indistinguishable, a soup of regrets and excitement and “missed you so much”s.

Ford pulls back, your feet now back on the ground, his hands cupping your face.

“May I…?” He barely has time to croak the words out before your fingers are yanking his lapel down and your lips are on his. Your heart aches from the fullness it feels after thirty years half-empty.

“You waited,” he says against your lips. His eyes roam your face between fervent kisses.

You break away, hands evermoving一 through his silver hair, his face, the scarf around his neck. “Of course I did! Did you doubt it?”

“Well… I… hoped,” he murmured, forehead now pressed wearily against yours. 

“I’ve spent every day for the last thirty years trying to get back to you, Stanford,” you say oh so sincerely.

“And I, you, love,” he breathes, barely a whisper above the drone of the dying portal. “But after everything I subjected you to, with the research, and— and the argument we had before it all—”

“It’s in the past. I’d never hold you to that,” you soothe, thumb smoothing the crease between his brow. The two of you have melted into one another, and between your injury and his presence turning your legs to jelly, you're barely holding yourself upright, his arm around the small of your back.

“I’m just glad you're back and haven’t gone mad like poor old Fiddleford,” you hum. “In fact… I’d say you’ve grown even more handsome with age, Pines.” His hair is soft and tousled, eyes bright. He smells like woodsmoke and stars and, you notice with a flush, his jawline is strong and pronounced.

He grins, a soft, infatuated thing you hadn’t seen even months before he had been sucked through the portal. “You look just as beautiful as the day I met you.” 

“Pssh,” you glance away with a shy smile, you must look bright red. Your eyes meet his as a calloused thumb props up your chin, bringing you in for another kiss—

“GREAT AUNT ____ HAS A BOYFRIEND?!”

Your heads both turn, wide eyed. Mabel’s hands are clutched in her hair. Dipper looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“AUTHOR? BROTHER? WHAT IS GOING ON!” She cries.

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work