Latest Posts by veiledsanctum - Page 6
yesss!! Stancest fic recs please and thank you!
This will probably be a repetitive listing as some other users, but here is a deep-dive into my mindscape and whats been festering and lingering.....you will perceive me n my thoughts....remember my blog is a judgement free zone...i will zap you...
In Progress:
Black Coffee by nenchuumatsu: Not that I'm a sucker for time-period college aus, but I'm a sucker for time period college aus. 3 Chapters so far, but so cute!
Some things I Have Bookmarked:
Tough As Nails / Delicate as a Flower by SixerStanley: Oh, my dearest Clover, who continues to share with me their thoughts for their future writings.....brilliantly written, explores Stan's thoughts and their overall relationship, emotionally wrecking me, and oh so spicy
Allergies by Anonymous: I need this anon to write more. Desperately. I think I read this like, 4 times? I don't know where they are, who they are, but spiritually....in love with them. Modern AU, Stan finding Ford's search history. I'm not saying the rest just read it.
Relax by Smelly Skunk: Modern AU (?) Ford essentially discovers webcamming, and realizes Stan is a part of these chatrooms. Fidds did tell him he has to relax, after all....
Combat Baby, Come Back by foodtruck: In which Stan turns on the portal the same night Ford was pushed in, and he comes back older. GOD!!! they're so in character and Ford's possessiveness...tasty....
Everything You Feel is Good by businessboyjared: Ford observing Stan's...TV pleasures
If you're feeling like you need a little bit of company you met me at the perfect time by HybridOwl: Separated at birth, Ford decides to meet his long lost brother/famous boxer, and there's a...mix-up on why he wants to meet Stan alone.
Cover Me by Felix Hayday: Stan wants payback after the events of “The Stanchurian Candidate” and uses the mind control tie for the day.
The Complete Picture by DejaBoo: five times Stan doesn’t remember he’s in love with Ford and the one time he does.
Not a singular Fic but like...most of devilspedicure work....consumed. injected into my brain.
Things that got me into the ship itself:
What We Used to Be by Fractured Hourglass: Stan learning how to live with Ford once again, emotional constipation, Jimmy Snakes, * sighs and twirls hair *
Thirty Minutes or Less by devilspedicure: remember how i wrote injected into my brain? yea. As OP mentioned, “I need Stan to deliver pizza to Ford now. In the name of the porn tropes.”
Can't Take my Eyes Off of You by wasted_wallflower: Ford puts a magic collar on himself, and Stan tries to help....so tasty 2 me...
Between by Gravity Garbage: Mabel decides to lock Ford and Stan in a closet, and a fight ensues. There's art lingering on here somewhere of this fic.....
This Divide Between You and I by Cellardoors: a ritual of passage, almost.
Sea Burial and Growing on me by Sock Lobster: What I also consider a ritual of passage. Incredible characterization, witty dialogue, and very hot smut.
There's more, but this is all i feel like typing at the moment. Now get outta here !!!!!
I LOVE YOUR STANCEST ART RAAAAHH what’s your top five best stancest fanfic recs?
Thank you so much!!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧💕💕💕 I'm not the best person to ask this to lmao, since 1) I'm a slow reader, I don't have much time to read, and I probably yet have to find some gems and 2) I read and tend to fall in love with unfinished works, that I know many people avoid like the plague. That said, I won't do a top 5 because I don't think any of these are better than the others, but I'll recommend some of my fave Stancest fics so far. I hope you'll enjoy! ❤ "bad moon on the rise" by calciseptine. If you like teenstans and Ford being down bad for his clueless bro, this is for you.
🧡 "The Guardian" by cellard00rs. Stanford travels back in time to check on Stan during his drifter years. I did some trad sketches of this fanfics, I gotta ink them digitally one of these days. 💛 "Brand New", unfortunately by Anonymous. I won't tell you anything, it's best to go into this one blind- I'll just say it got my favorite brand of fucked-up, opportunistic, dark Ford.
💚 "Learning Commons" by Frondere. AU with so much going on, so many elements to keep you hooked...There's many chapters too, so if you're into something rich and lengthy to read, this is ideal! 💙 "Tough as Nails" by sixerstanley. If you enjoy intense, deep exploration of the Stans' feelings, thoughts and relationship, you'll love this one! There's so much tension, and then tenderness, it's such a great read.
💜 "stay (it doesn't have to hurt)" again by calciseptine. Okay, this one doesn't actually get to any Stancest, as it stops at chapter one, but is SO GOOD. Especially if, like me, you love drifter Stan, you should read it. It's just that good.
🖤 "The Pull Of You" by an orphaned account, sadly. The way they're written as teenagers here is so authentic and natural. The intimacy, the tension, the desire, the daily rituals.... Pretty great read, but get ready for the heartbreak at the end.
i'm giving my twt a break from discourse so i'm putting it here: people who are like "UMMMM what does stan have to do w billford????" are either acting deliberately dense bc they hate stancest or they have zero media literacy lol.
ford fucked a dude that canonically parallels his twin brother. THAT'S what stan has to do w billford. and again, i say "canonically" bc it's obvious that their parallels were DELIBERATE. this isn't a case of just like, looking too deeply into things or w/e. the "same coin" theory exists for a reason, and although i don't personally believe in it, it's one of the most popular theories in the entire fandom specifically BECAUSE of stan & bill's blatant similarities.
i already wrote a whole damn novel about it, so i won't repeat myself too much, but i'll just say that believing with your whole chest that stan had NOTHING to do with ford & bill's partnership is actually insane lol.
ford subconsciously missing his brother and projecting his desire to reconcile with him onto bill, as well as bill PURPOSELY stealing stan's childhood nickname for him ("sixer") and copying many of his mannerisms in order to more easily manipulate ford are literally the foundation on which their relationship was built. stan's influence is present in their VERY FIRST MEETING when bill calls ford "sixer." c'mon now. even if you don't ship stancest, the link between stan & billford is undeniable.
it’s a new years miracle. i wrote canon stan. woke up with this idea and decided it was gonna be the only thing on my to do list
Ford would like to imagine that he is not a man prone to petty or grumbling complaints, but when his first conscious thought upon waking up that morning is that the sheets next to him are cold and then his immediate reaction to that thought is to let out a huffing whine that would not be misplaced coming from the mouth of a toddler, well, maybe he has to reevaluate a little.
Maybe a lot, because he then proceeds to spend a solid two minutes curled in on himself, stubbornly refusing to leave the warmth that he has maintained between the crumpled sheets and continuing to huff to himself that surely nothing could be so important as to draw anyone away from this cocoon of comfort and bliss. He ignores the pointed growling of his stomach and the pressure in his bladder that also demand attention from his now waking mind.
Freshly awake, Ford’s mind is—outside of his petty grumbling complaints—foggy and sluggish. It’s a luxury that he has only been able to afford in recent months and with much coaxing. So when he finally does pull himself up from the bed and is hit with the blast of cold air, he simply grabs up the comforter and wraps it around him before shuffling off to take care of the other immediate concerns.
The most immediate is finding his brother, but he does suppose he can take a quick leak first.
Stanley is not in the kitchen, although the smell of coffee does fill the air, so Ford knows he’s been here recently. Neither is he at the helm. Ford does not bother looking in his lab. Stanley typically avoids it unless he is harassing Ford in some manner—go to bed at a normal hour, eat real food, that’s too much coffee, please for the love of God don’t create a biohazard in this enclosed space in the middle of the ocean. Finally, Ford finds his brother up on the deck, leaning against a railing and staring out at the sun that, this far north and this late in the year, will not climb much higher in the sky today.
Ford does not think that he made much noise—certainly none that could be heard over the wind and waves—but as soon as he steps from the doorway, Stanley turns around. They’ve never been able to sneak up on each other, not once that Ford can recall, so it makes perfect sense that Stanley just knew he was there.
One look at him, and Stanley throws his head back and laughs. It’s a loud thing, from his belly, and the sound alone prevents the harsh arctic air from delivering any ill effects to Ford’s body. “Cripes, Poindexter,” Stan says, his voice full of affectionate teasing. “I know you’re a human furnace, but that ratty thing ain’t gonna cut it out here.”
He then walks right around Ford, who can only whine in complaint that his brother does not come close enough for Ford to latch onto, and disappears into cockpit. He’s back in just a moment, Ford’s bulky coat slung over his shoulder. Stanley grabs at the comforter and wrestles Ford into the proper gear for their current environment. Ford simply stands there and takes it, not at all displeased to listen to his brother’s biteless grumbling about frostbite.
Once he is properly in the coat, gloves, and knit cap, Stan replaces the comforter around Ford’s shoulders. “You actually cold or are you doing your best impersonation of a teenager who just woke up?” Stan punctuates his question with a slightly too sharp clap to Ford’s cheek.
“Ow,” Ford grumbles, although it does not hurt at all. He huffs at his brother, which only makes Stanley laugh again.
“You look like a chipmunk,” he says. “It wasn’t cute when you did that when we was kids, and it’s not cute now as a grown ass man.” But considering the way that Stanley’s eyes are sparkling, the way he looks at Ford’s puffed cheeks and wild curls not at all well contained by the knit hat, the way that his teasing smile is a bit softer at the corners of his lips, Ford must surmise that his lying charlatan brother is, in fact, at least slightly charmed by Ford’s sleepy, if a bit immature and childish, disposition.
That he has charmed Stanley stirs the always lit embers in the pit of his stomach, fanning the flames just a bit higher. However, the feeling of delighted contentment is not enough to stop him from pursuing an all too pressing manner.
“When we were kids,” Ford corrects, and Stanley groans and rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. Ford does not bother to hide his grin, which might be crossing into dopey territory.
Stan shoves him a bit, and says, “You stop with that shit, or I’ll be forced to dump this right out into the ocean.” From seemingly nowhere, Stan holds up Ford’s thermos and waves it enticingly in Ford’s face.
“No,” Ford whines pitifully and makes grabbing hands at it.
Stan chuckles smugly. He throws an arm around Ford’s shoulders and leads him over to the railing. “Come on, Poindexter. Let’s get you caffeinated. This is pathetic.”
They settle onto the bench, and Ford takes the opportunity to press in close to his brother’s side, unfolding the comforter enough to also envelop Stan. Stan plucks his own thermos—his covered with stickers from one of Mabel’s care packages—from the nearby cup holder, and silently, comfortably, they turn their gazes back out to the horizon. Ford sips lightly at his coffee. It’s the perfect temperature, which means that Stanley must have prepared it along with his own drink when he first woke up. It has the perfect amount of sugar and cream to suit Ford’s sweet tooth. Made with love, as are all things that Stanley gives to him.
Ford drops his head onto Stan’s shoulder and asks, “Why did you get out of bed so early?”
Stan huffs a light laugh. Ford knows it would have been louder and livelier, but he’s likely reluctant to jostle Ford around. “You have less than no idea what time it is,” he says.
“Irrelevant,” Ford states.
Stan takes a long, slow sip from his thermos. “Wasn’t any reason,” he says. “Just thought it would be nice to check out the view.”
“It was nicer in the bed,” Ford grumbles, and Stanley doesn’t answer that. Ford waits a moment before shifting his head just enough that he can get a glance at his brother’s face. There isn’t any particular emotion standing out. He seems peaceful and content enough, but Ford doesn’t have the best angle to see his eyes. Stanley’s eyes have never been able to fool Ford.
The thing about the bed is that it isn’t the only one on the boat. The thing about the bed that Ford woke up in this morning—the bed that he almost always wakes up in—is that it isn’t Ford’s bed. Ford’s bed, theoretically, is the bunk above Stanley’s, the same as it was when they were kids. As soon as they were old enough for their own individual beds, they were given bunks. It was a space saver, as there was no chance they would ever be given their own bedrooms, and two growing, rowdy boys needed all the space they could get for play. Ford had always taken the top bunk. Stanley was scared of heights. Ford doesn’t even remember why—it had just always been like that—but even that little bit up the ladder had been too much for him. It was no hardship, and when they still wanted—or needed—to cuddle and be close, it was the easiest thing in the world to pull down his pillow and an extra blanket and settle into Stan’s bunk with him.
It’s what they still do now. Ford very rarely makes the climb up that ladder at the end of the night. Whether they go to bed at the same time or whether Ford has finally hit the wall after a long day of adventure and research and drags himself up from his lab, far more often than not, Ford slides under the covers of Stanley’s bunk and presses himself into his twin’s space. Stan accepts it each time without complaint. He accepts Ford simply lying there. He accepts Ford nestling himself into Stan’s side and using him as a pillow. He accepts Ford’s arms folding around him and pulling him back against Ford’s chest.
Ford thinks that it means all of the same things to Stan that it does to him, but they haven’t talked about it. For all the leaps and bounds they’ve made since setting sail four months ago, they still haven’t talked about this.
Ford knows how he feels about his brother. He has known for a very, very long time. It had, of course, been alarming back when he initially came to the conclusion that his feelings for his brother—his identical twin brother, at that—were not entirely platonic in nature, although certainly that brotherly feeling was always there as well. Of course it was alarming. He was not supposed to look at his brother and want to smash their faces together, to know the taste of his lips. He was not supposed to look at his brother and imagine trailing hands across his body, memorizing not only the sight but the feel of him. He was not supposed to look at his brother and be so overwhelmed with yearning and desire that the only thing he could possibly do to stay sane—debatable, considering how wild he always felt in the aftermath—was to take himself in hand and stroke until he exploded, Stanley’s name always on his tongue.
Alarming, but Ford is certainly capable of incredible rationalization. He was already considered a freak. What was this one new aspect? If he kept it all to himself—bottled up where it rightly belonged—it could do nothing to harm his brother. If Stanley didn’t know of Ford’s desires, he would always continue to look at Ford with his sweet, trusting, loving gaze. Ford has always been the axis around which Stan orbited. He’s always known that. He could always continue to be that if he just kept the simple secret. And even if he couldn’t, if it got out, if by some miracle Stanley felt the same way, well, they were both of the same sex. Which isn’t to say that the homosexual aspect of it all wouldn’t have given them problems, but as to its connections to the incestuous aspects, well, two men can’t procreate.
Not that Ford hasn’t had plenty of fantasies in which he does his damnedest to try, but that is neither here nor there.
As teenagers, it was never truly a pure thing. Ford had rationalized it, but he’d also been resentful. Those feelings had come into play around the same time he had begun to yearn for separation from his brother, to for once be his own person and stand on his own merits, all without a hovering shadow that shared his face. It was a complicated thing, to love Stan that much, to want to absorb him completely, all while slowly suffocating with that closeness.
And then the science fair project. And then their father kicking Stan out of the house. And then over ten years of separation. Over a decade in which Ford’s bitterness only grew in equal measure to his longing for what had once been, the opportunities squandered. And then Bill. And then the portal.
For thirty years, Ford’s life was a constant type of hell. He had lived in fight or flight mode, and he was forced to become a type of person he would have never guessed, all to survive, all to keep going until he could finally achieve his goal of ripping Bill apart molecule by molecule in revenge for everything he had done to destroy Ford’s life. But for all the very real horrors, Ford cannot find it in him to entirely hate or regret his time out in the multiverse. Around the dangers, it had been the perfect sandbox, an endless place upon which Ford could exercise his vast intellectual curiosity. Sure, he could have done without being a wanted man with alluringly high bounties on his head across multiple dimensions, but oh, the things he had learned.
And one of the more profound takeaways had been just how many dimensions did not give two flying shits about who had sex with who, no matter the circumstances.
Well, it had only further cemented into Ford’s mind that his love for his brother was perfectly acceptable the way it was. It didn’t matter the anger and bitterness that he refused to let go of. It didn’t matter that Ford had no expectations of ever laying eyes on his brother again. All that mattered was that despite it all, he did still love Stanley, was in love with him. It wouldn’t change. He was at peace with that much at least.
But now, Ford has let go of the anger and bitterness. After everything that happened, after what his wonderful brother did to save the world, to save their family, how could he ever continue to cling to those awful thoughts? Because Ford has been given the utter gift and miracle of laying eyes on his brother again. And not just that. They are together again, truly together. A dynamic duo once more. It’s taken a lifetime of struggles and sorrows, but they are together on their boat, finally living out their old dreams.
Ford knows how all of this makes him feel. And he thinks he knows something of Stanley’s thoughts as well. Because he can only rationalize it one way. Yes, Stan has always orbited Ford, always deferred to him and protected him and loved him. But thirty years. Stanley spent thirty years, his every thought, his every action all poured towards the singular goal of reopening the portal and getting Ford back. He had completely lacked the education or even the innate skill set to truly understand the advanced mechanics of it all. He had ignored every single warning of the risks and dangers. Stanley Pines had locked himself completely away, put all of himself on hold, all on the slimmest glimmer of a hope that he could bring back his brother, who, by all accounts, seemed to hate him. And in those initial weeks, Ford had given him no indication otherwise, and still Stanley had been prepared to leave, to fade into the distance, to give up everything once again if that was what Ford demanded.
Love is the only conclusion that Ford can come to that offers any sort of explanation.
Not to mention the looks, the touches, the sheer tension between them. But they haven’t talked about it. And Ford does not know how to start that conversation.
They continue to sip their coffee in a comfortable silence until Stanley nudges Ford gently. “Your stomach’s been making enough noise to set off one of your monster radars,” Stan says, exaggerating, but not entirely wrong. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”
It’s a routine they have fallen into easily. Stan whisks himself about the kitchen with ease, cracking and seasoning eggs, frying bacon, buttering toast. Ford washes their thermoses and pours fresh mugs to their individual specifications. They each take only the smallest splash of cream, but Stan makes the time to huff a laugh at how many more spoonfuls of sugar make their way into Ford’s cup compared to his.
They set the table, and Stan slides into his usual spot on the bench. Typically, Ford takes the chair on the other side of the table, but he doesn’t today. Today, the comforter still in play, he climbs onto the bench right alongside Stan, pressing in close. The only word to describe it would be snuggly.
“You’ve been—uh—you’re in a cuddly mood this morning,” Stan says, and they have been inside long enough that the pink tinge to his cheeks cannot be caused by cold, arctic winds. Still, Ford is a man of science. He needs to test that hypothesis.
“Yes,” he says, “the reason I was rather discontented to wake up alone in a perfectly cozy bed.”
Yes, Stanley does blush harder at that, his cheeks going from pink to a lovely red. Ford wants to press their cheeks together, to feel that warmth bleeding over into his own skin. He wants to kiss that gorgeous blush, to see how much redder it could get, how far could it spread down Stan’s neck, his chest.
“Of course, I see no reason why we can’t return after we eat,” Ford goes on, eyes locked onto Stanley’s. “As you’ve stated, it is a holiday. Holidays are not for working.”
“It’s New Years Eve,” Stan says, and Ford does not miss the slight warble in his gruff voice. “Really only a holiday if you’re planning to party, and we’re how many hundreds of miles from the nearest shoreline?”
Ford chuckles. “Not that far,” he says. “But still. It is my first one in this dimension in thirty years. And you are always harping on me to take it easy.”
Stan snorts. “And you’re finally listening?”
“If the result is a lazy day in bed with you, yes,” Ford says, and Stan blushes so violently that it takes nearly every ounce of Ford’s willpower to not grab his face and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He has to force himself to simply pick up his fork and eat the breakfast that his brother has so lovingly cooked for them. “Hm, very good. Are you not hungry, Stanley?”
The choked noises that gurgle up from Stan’s throat do not contain any plainly stated curses or swears, but Ford feels their intent. Stan grabs his own fork and stabs at the eggs as if they are the cause of his flustering.
When they have eaten, Ford gathers up the dishes and drops them perhaps a little too roughly into the sink. But sue him. He’s impatient, and, wrapping his hand around Stan’s wrist when he tries to attend to the mess, he says, “They’ll keep.”
Stan turns an almost unreadable glance to Ford, and Ford could keep teasing, but he knows this is no longer the time. “Please,” he says simply, because he knows that is all it will take.
He’s right. A little sigh, a shake of his head, and a fond smile, and Stan agrees, “All right, you lazy bastard. Let’s fucking cuddle.”
Although the generator and all the mechanics on the boat are in excellent order—personally built by Ford and McGucket—and outperform anything else commercially available by leaps and bounds, this far north, this late in the year, there is always some cold that seeps inside. But Ford can’t feel any of it around the heat in his stomach, flames spreading and crackling like a merry campfire. He can’t feel anything but warmth and comfort as he drags Stanley off to their bed—theirs, theirs, theirs—and envelops his brother in his arms, rubbing gentle knuckles across Stan’s scalp until they are both lulled into blissful sleep.
The nap is overly indulgent and lazy. One might consider it excessive. Every time Stan attempts to move, Ford latches on tighter. When he tries to get up—“Christ, Stanford, can a guy not take a quick piss?”—Ford pouts and complains. Stanley surrenders quickly enough, understands that this is his fate today. He will stay in this bed with his brother. He will stay warm and snuggly and tucked into Ford’s chest, his ear right over his heart, listening to the steady thump and at least somewhere in the depths of his mind knowing that it pumps solely for him.
They lounge for nearly the entire day. Sometimes one of them is sleeping, sometimes both. If they are both awake, they talk in low whispers, and it reminds Ford of childhood innocence, a time he once felt only like he does now. A time when he could not have imagined a world or a circumstance in which he wanted to be parted from his brother.
Finally, late into the evening, Stanley finally puts his foot down and bodily wrestles his way out of the blankets. “We’re getting up,” he says. “Even if it’s just to fucking cook dinner. You’re eating dinner, you maniac.”
Ford lets him out, but he does not allow Stan any space. “Freaking koala,” Stan grumbles, but he also surrenders to this treatment, attempting to maneuver about the kitchen with Ford all but clinging to his back and effectively using him as an oversized teddy bear.
“Ok, knock it off,” Stan says when he truly does need to be released to complete their meal. “And don’t give me none of that fake pouting,” he adds when Ford puffs his cheeks at him.
“I assure you, Stanley, this pouting is entirely sincere,” he says, and Stanley laughs a loud and beautiful sound.
“Shut up and make us something to drink,” Stan says, still laughing.
There isn’t any champagne, of course. It’s not a beverage either of them would drink with any sort of regularity, so Ford sets about heating a kettle and pulling out whiskey and honey. Stan already has a lemon sliced on the counter.
Again, they both slide onto the bench to eat. Ford allows a bit more space between them this time, even as he does tangle their legs together under the table. As he refills their hot toddies, Stanley’s phone lets out an obnoxious oink. It’s the text tone for Mabel.
“Oh shit,” he says with clear delight. “We got a signal.”
“You would always have a signal if you were using the communication device that I built for us,” Ford says, and Stan just waves him off. He snatches up his phone and pulls up the message. Laughing, he shows it to Ford.
The first part of the message is an image—Ford has heard them all refer to as a selfie—of the twins. In true Mabel fashion, she is wearing a sweater unique to the occasion. Little bursts of fireworks have been knitted in brilliant colors, and all of the bursts are decorated with either glitter paint or real, working lights. Her earrings are glowing as well, clearly miniature versions of the Time Square ball. Her headband is a mess of curled streamers. Beside her, Dipper is far more subdued, although he is wearing a silly set of glasses displaying the new year. Each of the kids is blowing on a noise maker, their arms slung around each other.
Behind them, on the wall, is a clock, displaying something very close to the current time—nearly 10:30 in California—but there are messy scribbles over it attempting to erase the actual time and instead show it to read midnight.
Under the image is a text message. “Totally and 100% made it! Not even a little tired!! Party all night long!!!!”
“Oh, they are going to be dead asleep in under five minutes,” Stan says, completely oozing affection for their niblings. “Completely unconscious. End of the world wouldn’t wake ‘em up.”
“Agreed,” Ford says, feeling all that same affection as he laughs at the purposefully sloppy editing.
Another burst of pictures comes through. The twins running around their neighborhood street with sparklers. Toasting each other with plastic flutes full of sparkling juice. Mabel dancing in front of the television with some celebrities that Ford has less than no clue the identify of during their part of the live performance in New York. A very blurry shot of Dipper trying to snatch a piece of paper from Mabel’s hands—likely an in-depth resolutions list that has more than its fair share of embarrassing points.
“God, I miss them,” Stan says.
Ford slides from the booth, pulling Stan after him. “Come on,” he says. “We should send them something back.” They move quickly to dress in their coats and hats and gloves, and Ford pours their drinks into their thermoses and darts to the bedroom to snatch up the comforter again. “We don’t have sparklers,” he says as they step out onto the deck, “however—“ And he points up at the Northern Lights dancing across the sky.
It is not the first time they’ve seen them, but Stan still stares up in awe. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “They’ll love that.”
They take two pictures. One of the sky alone, allowing the aurora and stars and moon to shine all on their own. A second of the two of them, cheeks pressed together, arms around each other, just as the kids had sent. They have no noise makers, but Stan holds up his thermos for Mabel to see the collection of stickers.
They don’t have as many pictures to send, so Stanley pulls off his gloves and sets to typing out a longer message. Ford takes the comforter and wraps it around them both, hooking his chin over his brother’s shoulder to read along. It’s a rambling message, full of spelling and grammatical errors, but it’s warm and affectionate, and no one who ever read it could ever for a second doubt just how much Stan loves those two perfect children. It’s overwhelming, and Ford loves him all the more for it.
Stan sends everything off, and the messages go through, but there is no response, which confirms to Ford’s mind Stanley’s prediction that the kids have indeed passed out from the long day’s excitement.
Stan puts the phone into his pocket, and when his hand emerges, he has a cigar. He waves it under Ford’s nose with a grin. “I wouldn’t say no,” Ford says, and with a quick, well practiced clip and flick of a lighter, Stan takes the first puff before passing it to Ford. It’s a nice Churchill, one that will take them a good deal of time to smoke, even together. Ford is perfectly amenable to that.
And so they stand there together for a long time, the only noise the light splashing of waves against the side of the boat. They pass the cigar, slowly sip at their warm drinks, and watch the sky dance. Stanley has stronger opinions on cigars than Ford, and although Ford would be just fine with taking the cigar down to the foot, he accepts Stanley’s assessment of, “Last pull,” before plopping it down into the railing’s cup holder to allow it to die its natural death.
Immediately, Ford regathers the comforter and tucks himself into Stanley’s back, wrapping his brother in a hug. He nuzzles at Stanley’s neck. Back to cuddling they go.
“You’re ridiculous,” Stanley says. “Seriously, what’s been with you today?”
Ford only holds him tighter, presses Stan’s back so close to his own chest that he can feel Stan’s heart beating right alongside his. His chin is already hooked over Stan’s shoulder, resting comfortably, but even that is not enough. He tilts his head, presses as much of their faces together as he can. “I’m happy,” he says simply.
“Oh,” Stan says, a small noise, so tiny, but so full. His hand—the right one—moves slowly, moves across Ford’s forearm, moves until he can slot their fingers together. Six around five, as they are meant to be.
For a long time, they stand on the deck, wrapped up in each other, staring up at the brilliant lights that color the sky above them. Their breath curls in puffs of fog, and yes, it is cold, but it’s also so perfectly warm surrounded by each other and the simple blanket.
Ford notices the second that Stanley comes to some sort of mental conclusion. He doesn’t exactly go tense, but there is a certain rigidity that was not there a moment ago. His fingers twitch minutely between Ford’s. Ford can feel the quickening of his pulse. But he doesn’t urge him on, doesn’t rush him. He can wait until Stanley is ready.
And when he is, he does not step away. He just turns in Ford’s arms and locks their gazes together. Identical, as are so many aspects of their physical appearance, but Ford has always considered Stanley’s eyes warmer. The same shade, there is no difference there, but perhaps it’s just that Stanley has always worn his emotions so openly on his sleeve. He’s always felt so much, and in his eyes, it’s always so plain. Ford can—and has—gotten lost in them. He would be glad to do so for years to come.
“I’m gonna be a real sap for a minute here, so can you just let me get through it,” Stan asks, and Ford can only nod and wait, nearly trembling, for Stan to properly gather his thoughts. It’s difficult, especially when part of the process is Stan grabbing tight to the front of his coat, clinging to Ford as a means to ground himself.
They have been wrapped up in each other all day, but Ford knows that it is different in this moment.
Even under the collar of his sweater, Ford can see the way Stan’s throat works, swallowing thickly against what is clearly overwhelming emotion. His eyes are wet behind his glasses, and he blinks rapidly to try to contain it. Ford knows that whatever it is that Stan has to say will only be good, but it still sends some pang through his chest to see his brother struggle in this way. Ford moves quickly, tugging off his gloves. He doesn’t care about the cold. He only cares that he can touch the wind-kissed pink of Stanley’s cheeks, skin to skin. He only cares that his hands can be there to catch and wipe away any of those tears that might escape Stan’s eyes. “It’s all right,” he says lowly. “Take your time.”
Stan smiles at him, and the only thing Ford can see is love. His. Stan’s. Theirs.
The reassurance, the physical contact, it does what it needs to for Stan. It calms him enough to let him speak. “This is corny as hell, I know, but fuck it, right? We’ve got the right be corny after everything. Forty years. That’s fucking insane. Forty years completely apart, when I spent the first seventeen feeling like I’d crawl out of my skin if we were separated for just fifteen minutes.”
The choice of the number fifteen is not lost on Ford at all. The number of minutes between their first breaths in this world. The number of minutes that is impossible for Ford to actually recall, but what he always assumed must have been the longest of his life, waiting for his other half to join him again. A small number, truly, but to them an insurmountable time to be forced apart, the absolute longest either of them could stand before they were ready to make it a problem for everyone else around them.
“I just—“ Stan licks at his chapped lips, and Ford doesn’t know if he’d rather lose himself staring at that or the shining reflection of the lights in Stan’s warm eyes. “I don’t care, you know. This is insane, but I don’t care. I don’t care that it was so hard. I don’t care how much it hurt. Because we’re here now right. Fucking new year, new us. I’d do it again, if I had to.”
“No,” Ford says. “No, you will never have to, Stanley. We are never going to be parted again. Never.” He steps closer, unwilling to take his hands from his brother’s face but still needing more of the minuscule distance between their bodies negated. If he could, he would open his rib cage and draw Stanley inside of himself, or he would crawl into Stan’s. Either option, so long as they are joined. “I simply will not allow it.”
Stan huffs a laugh, and one tear manages its escape. Ford is quick to wipe it away. “Yeah, you’re a stubborn old goat,” he says.
“Takes one to know one,” Ford retorts.
They both laugh and then just stand there, so, so close, just staring at each other, just together. And Ford’s watch lets out a tiny little beep. The same beep it lets out each hour. It’s midnight. It’s midnight crossing over into the new year.
Corny. Sappy. Sure, it is all those things. But it’s also tradition, and as Stanley stated himself, new year, new them.
Ford closes the remaining distance between them and slots his lips over Stanley’s. The reaction is immediate and electrifying. Stan’s mouth opens in a gasp, and Ford doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity presented to him. He pushes his tongue into Stan’s mouth, and Stanley reacts so perfectly, just as Ford has always dreamed. He clings tighter, pulls Ford flush against him, and kisses him back as if to do anything less would shatter him apart.
The kiss lights Ford on fire, sets him completely ablaze and then rebirths him immediately from the ashes. Stanley fits so perfectly against him, so perfect in his arms. They belong like this, made for each other like this. This was the true reason Ford was put on this earth, to kiss Stan, to hold him, to love him.
When they finally pull back from each other, gasping, it’s not very far. Stan’s body remains pressed against him, his fingers clinging to Ford’s shoulders like a vice. Ford’s hands are still cupping Stanley’s cheeks, protecting him from the cold night wind. Their noses and foreheads touch, and they breathe in each other’s air. In the darkness, the only light coming from the aurora borealis and the nearly full moon, Stan’s eyes should not look so bright, but they practically glow. Ford has so much to say, but he can’t bring himself to speak. Still, Stanley’s eyes bore into him, searching, finding all of it on open display, every part of Ford there for him, only for him, if he wants it.
And Ford can see, Stanley does want it. He wants Ford in all the ways that Ford has always wanted him. He loves Ford as Ford loves him.
Ford surges forward, one hand sliding around to cup the back of Stan’s neck and pull him the rest of the way to kiss him again. It’s not as deep this time, no tongues involved, just the slide of their lips together. Still, he tingles everywhere they touch. “I love you,” he says, finally finding his voice. He sounds devastated in the best possible way.
And now Stan’s cold hands are on his cheeks. “I love you, too,” Stan says. Another gentle kiss. “I love you.” Another. “This is insane,” he says, but this time he’s smiling, almost giggling. Ford grins at him, so wide that his face hurts. He feels manic, ready to burst at the seams. He never wants this feeling to stop. Stan starts to back away, but Ford tightens his arms around him. Stan laughs, his fingers sliding into Ford’s hair. “Stanford,” he says against his lips, and Ford shudders.
“Stay here,” Ford requests, begs. “Stay with me.”
“Always,” Stan answers.
The sky above them explodes in color, a more brilliant display than any fireworks show. Ford presses his lips to Stan’s, the next in an endless line, too many to count over the next year, decade, the rest of their lives.
From my strawpage inbox : "How do you think stanley bros celebrate new year?"
---
Stan never liked celebrating new year it was just another excuse to get blackout drunk, and the concept haven't been in Ford's mind for 30 odd years now. But for their first year aboard the Stan O War II, Stan decided to do something special, since Ford had long forgot about the traditions of the celebration.
They docked near a small yet lively pier so Ford could enjoy the occasion, without the possibility for the experience to be soured by the intensity and overcrowding. It was supposed to be a nice and quaint occassion for them, well mainly for Ford.
The festivities brought out their whimsical sides, reminding them of their childhood, a simpler time. Fairs by the pier of Glass Shard Beach that they would visit after working on Stan O War, catching a moment of tranquility as they watched the sun set before the reality faded back in. Browsing through the endless fair games that they never had enough money for, not that it mattered, they were with each other, and that was enough.
But as the midnight approaches, Stan dragged Ford out to a quieter part of the pier, away from the crowd, from eyes that might catch the two brothers getting just a bit too intimate. And Ford let himself to be dragged along, while he enjoyed the fair, even after 30 years, he wanted a quiet moment with Stan too.
Enjoying each other's company, they huddled together, Stan's head leaning against Ford shoulder, five-fingered hand on top of the six-fingered one, as they listened to the faint countdown from the crowd. And as it reaches midnight, fireworks blooming in the night sky, Stan watched the firework show from Ford's soft eyes, his eyes twinkling so beautifully.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, the world around melting away. Ford leaned in, only to find Stan doing the same, it just felt like the right thing to do.
New year finally meant something for them, it marked another year together with the love of their lives, in each other's arms, instead of just another day to wallow in sorrow. And they look forward to spending the rest of their new years together.
yall. PLEASE read this fic by @/starlitsequins its so funny 😭😭 its based off this already hilarious au by @/paintedcrows but HOLY SHIT IT HAS NO RIGHT TO BE THAT GOOD
+ bonus (original use for this was gonna be in an animatic of bill constantly refreshing stans blog like the pathetic loser he is but alas. i do not have the time, energy, or resources to do that so you guys can just have the edited screenshot)
One morning, in the Oregon shack, Stanford, Stanley, and Fiddleford were having breakfast together. Fiddleford brought up a paper he’d recently read, The Evolution of Social Attitudes Towards Homosexual Relationships in 20th-Century America: A Historical Analysis, and shared some of the views it mentioned. For example, gay men might tend to pursue fashionable and personalized styles of clothing and have a higher appreciation for pop music, dance music, and the arts. Additionally, they might show a distinctive social behavior pattern with more frequent and intimate interactions within their social circles.
Stanley: Ha, I always thought men who liked theater were kind of sissy.
Stanford: I think the article oversimplifies things. Just because someone likes art doesn’t mean they’re necessarily gay.
Fiddleford: That’s true, just like being gay doesn’t necessarily mean you enjoy theater. I don’t believe that a gay man’s social behavior can be summarized; there are always exceptions. And those who haven’t acknowledged their orientation haven’t been observed either. They probably just seem like regular people, like you and me.
Fiddleford: Haha, but a guy like Stanley probably wouldn’t be mistaken, right?
Stanley: Oh, no, I’ve been with a guy before. But you can’t tell, right?
Fiddleford: Hold on.
Fiddleford: Raccoons doing the jitterbug! You’ve been with a guy??
Stanley: Yeah, it was a long time ago. We were in high school, and we broke up ages ago.
Fiddleford: Wow… that’s… unexpected, in every way. I thought you were into women; I even saw you flirting with Susan at the diner. Don’t you like women?
Stanley: I’ve only been with that one guy. But I guess gender doesn’t mean much to me—I’m open either way. Sex is just sex; as long as there’s chemistry, it’s fine.
Fiddleford: So, back in high school, it was just about sex? Then I’m not sure that would classify as a gay relationship since straight men do that kind of thing too—sorry if that’s too blunt.
Stanley: No problem, I don’t mind. We’re just chatting. We did go on dates a lot, so I guess we were pretty serious back then.
Fiddleford: So it was a relationship? You must have faced a lot of pressure back then.
Stanley: Yeah, some.
Fiddleford: Who confessed first?
Stanley thinking: I don’t think… anyone confessed. We just ended up together.
Fiddleford: You didn’t talk about it? How does that even happen?
Stanford: It happened naturally, just going with feelings.
Stanley: Lust, that’s what it was.
Fiddleford: Wait, uh, Ford, you knew about this?
Stanford: I did.
Fiddleford: Well, that makes sense; you’re twins, after all. I guess secrets are hard to keep. So, when did you two break up?
Stanley: Right around graduation. He was a good student and wanted to go to college in another city. I didn’t care for school and wanted to work right away. We couldn’t agree, so we just split up.
Fiddleford: You didn’t try long-distance?
Stanley: You know that never works. Thinking that letters and calls can keep a relationship going—that’s a lie told by cowards who don’t have the courage to break up. Right, Ford?
Stanford: True enough.
Fiddleford: Makes sense. Sounds like you’ve thought about this for a long time. So, were you the one who broke it off?
Stanley: No, it wasn’t me.
Fiddleford: Oh… I’m sorry. That must have been hard on you. My first breakup had me crying with my banjo in my room for three days. How long did you cry?
Stanley: I didn’t cry.
Fiddleford: Really?
Stanley: It’s been a long time. Everyone goes through breakups; I don’t care anymore.
Fiddleford: But it was your first love, and you broke up over something like that. It’s a shame. Have you kept in touch since?
Stanley: Yeah, we have.
Fiddleford: And now that you’re both working, you haven’t tried to—
Stanley: —Oh, no. No way. Getting back with an ex is just plain stupid.
Fiddleford: But you were happy together, weren’t you? Honestly, distance isn’t an insurmountable problem, and you didn’t break up because of a loss of love. If it were me, I’d at least try to see if it could work.
Stanley: You’ve got the wrong idea. We broke up pretty badly. But yeah, I still have some good memories.
Fiddleford: Oh?
Stanley: We used to go to the beach a lot. We didn’t do much, just talked. Well, and other things. The beach was right by our town. It was beautiful when there weren’t people around, so we’d skip class and go there in the afternoons. A few years back, when I passed through our hometown, I went to see it. Now it’s a tourist spot, packed with people.
Fiddleford: Skipping class? Didn’t you say he was a good student? Why would he skip class?
Stanley: Yeah, why indeed?
Fiddleford: Right? I mean, with all the homework, studying, and essays, I was constantly busy back then. How did he manage it?
Stanley: Huh, I never thought about that.
Stanley: Ford, how did you manage it back then?
Stanforddrizzling maple syrup on pancakes: Stayed up late doing homework.
Stanley: Ah, so that’s it—stayed up late doing homework.
Fiddleford: Oh.
Fiddleford: Wait, hold on.
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.
NSFW thing
abt your post saying that a popular gf artist drew stancest, do you happen to have those images... *bats eyelashes*
(not the original anon btw)
here you go! (warning: lotta nsfw/suggestive)
^huge fan of this one in particular. it’s so cute
Something I did in magma!
Having a crush in high school is mostly a embarrassing situation, but Ford needed to make it weird too.
Like man, he is your brother.
guys you dont understand i feel like. ford sees things in black in white like all the fucking time. for most of his adult life he 100% thinks he's destined to be the hero of the story, especially a tragic hero who sacrifices himself for the greater good.
But when Stan is the one who does that, and he realizes how shittily he's treated him after Bill is defeated, he goes the opposite direction entirely, self-loathing and all
Ford: perhaps.........i have been the villain of this story all along......................
Stan: sixer, for the last time. you're not a fuckin' villain, you're a fuckin' human. can you pass the bacon.
when we get to an island where no one's ever been // we can get down and dirty in our animal skins
someone is a bit too freaky
Something about them being kids and doing kids stuff is so important to me, I love season fun (one)
Hmm, anyways…
Stan and Ford both go and get infinity bracelets, the permanent jewelry kind, and they use that as their wedding rings. They know they can’t really get married, on land at least, and with how much they work with their hands rings would simply get in the way. Plus, they don’t need their friends and family asking questions they can’t answer
But international waters are lawless, so they have their own little wedding ceremony on the Stan O’ War II near the Bermuda Triangle (Ford insisted). It’s just Stan, Ford, and some sort of Siren-ish creature (a hybrid or subset of the species perhaps) officiating their wedding. They connect the ends of the chains, Ford connecting Stan’s and Stan doing Fords, as the sun rises over them. Giving each other a passionate and heartfelt kiss as the golden rays shine over them, reflecting off their and their bracelets. Like their bracelets, chains unlinked and broken, they have come together to form their perfect union, never to break their circle and to stay together for the rest of their lives
(And then they spend their honeymoon fucking nasty style)
It’s okay if he get’s a girlfriend, because you can comfort him when they inevitably break up
fuckass 2023 trend go brrr yaay 😗😙
also without the video 😚
The better reunion and some clingy Ford😌
Did anyone done this before?
Well... i don't care acsually~☆!!
Using this as my pfp now~♡!!
I also turned it into my lock screen~☆
I am loving this~♡
caption bottom text
EDIT: how Ford learned Spanish
im trying not to step on anyones toes but the fact theres ford getting jealous of stan loving a ford plushie more than him comics coming from the non-stancest likers side on twitter is genuinely hillarious to me
Here is my hot take of the day: f¡ddl3st4n is just repressed Stancest. Like, pretend all you want, but we damn know that the nerd x jock ship you want to see (and is way more canon) is another one, babe.
i got this ask on my strawpage and was gonna type it up in my notes app and post it to twitter, but i really couldn't figure out a way to say it concisely, so i'm answering it here bc it's prob gonna be long lol.
do i think stancest is actually canon? simply put, no. despite how often i'm like "STANCEST IS CANON!!" i truly don't think that AH and the writers intended stan & ford's relationship to be seen through an incestuous lens.
their relationship is def the heart of the show, second only to dipper & mabel's own bond. they are the center of each other's worlds, their story & character arcs revolve almost entirely around each other, and their happy ending is literally the two of them sailing off into the sunset to spend "the rest of their days" together (ford says this almost word-for-word in journal 3).
but i still don't think all of that was meant to be taken romantically.
in my opinion, where things start to get a little weird is, surprisingly enough, ford's relationship with bill.
the rest is under a cut bc HOLY SHIT this got longer than i expected.
there's no denying that bill was written to deliberately parallel stan in a number of ways, from his mannerisms, to his conman status, to the fact that he calls ford the same name stan did when they were kids.
he's written in a very intentional way that makes him serve as both stan's parallel and his foil, especially in their respective relationships to ford (bill feeds into ford's ego and encourages him to aspire for greatness alone, stan has always been a direct obstacle & challenge to ford's ego, accidentally ruining his chances at WCT & encouraging him to live out their childhood dream together; bill valued infinite power over his own family and destroyed his dimension as a result, stan valued his family over everything, and saved ford and his dimension as a result).
normally, this wouldn't be that big of a deal to a stancest shipper like myself. but as the book of bill & the accompanying website all but confirmed in big, flashing neon lights, ford & bill have a romantic history and are exes.
having the two people closest to ford be compared to one another is one thing. having ford be drawn to bill because of how similar he is to the brother he secretly misses is one thing.
having ford be romantically involved with said character is what makes me raise an eyebrow lol.
again, do i think ford is literally a brocon who's got repressed sexual/romantic feelings for stan?
no.
i do, however, think he has unresolved Brother Issues that led him to subconsciously find comfort in a romantic partner that reminded him of stan (right down to bill calling him stan's nickname for him) in much the same way a person with "daddy issues" may seek out affection & intimacy from someone who reminds them of their father (or is just "fatherly" in general).
that much, i believe, was actually intentional. it's just too blatant to not be lol. it'd be a completely different story if either
bill & stan were nothing alike (untrue) or
ford & bill's relationship was strictly platonic and didn't have any romantic implications (also untrue)
i've said this before, but this isn't just a case of "oh, ford fell in love with someone who just coincidentally reminds him of his brother." bill's use of the nickname "sixer" during their first encounter was a deliberate attempt at appealing to a part of ford that was repressed, vulnerable, and aching, in order to get ford's guard down and make it easier for ford to trust him, and it worked.
billford is a ship that, to put it bluntly, would not exist without ford's buried feelings for stan, even disregarding shipping/incest/etc. ford's desire to be close to stan even platonically is what allowed bill to needle his way into ford's heart in the first place.
and all of this wouldn't be that weird if, again, bill hadn't continued to feed into ford's longing for stan even after they'd established a romantic relationship, by still calling him "sixer" and trying to permanently sever the relationship he had with stan specifically, once he and ford broke up (the phone call he tried to make while in ford's body that was described in tbob).
to put it another way, imagine if wendy was basically an older, taller mabel, or if any of mabel's crushes were eerily similar to dipper. people in the fandom would def take notice and view it as a little strange. so i don't get how people can look at ford dating someone so blatantly and intentionally similar to stan and think to themselves "ah yes, this is normal. ford is completely Normal and definitely doesn't have any underlying issues whatsoever" lmao
to conclude: no, i don't think ford & stan's relationship is actually canonically romantic, nor do i think ford falling in love with bill was incestuous, necessarily.
but i do think that he had a desperate longing to reconcile with stan buried DEEEEEEP down, and it manifested itself in the form of being attracted to bill, which is probably why he never bothered correcting bill's use of the nickname "sixer" since their very first meeting, or ever expressed that it made him uncomfortable.
im talking this over with a friend rn but its funny how i've never seen anyone headcanon that "oh dipper and mabel will go off and adventure together for the rest of their lives because all they need is each other!!" as a sort of cinematic parallel to the stans. like they all headcanon that both or at least one of those two are still going to end up with/marrying someone else (mostly pacifica) and their percieved happy endings is still kind of... subconciously defined by how they're capable of leading independent lives while still having a strong bond with each other. i have literally never seen a single headcanon where theyre just ultimately together for the rest of their lives where they dont need to be with anyone else except each other... unless its a pinecest shipper who's headcanoning it.
meanwhile the actual canon for stanford and stanley is... well.
i had been thinking
1st of all, bunny-earing someone in a photo is a fun, cutesy thing to do to a friend, a completely normal joke thing in today times.
2ND OF ALL, i also think its on purpose and might have a double meaning. it seems to me like Wendy's the only one with a 'cheeky' somewhat knowing look on her face, Soos is holding up a peace sign but when you bunny-ear someone it usually has a secondary meaning.
most likely secondary meaning:
MAN WHOSE WIFE WAS UNFAITHFUL?
Oh, so like how Ford didn't notice that his project had been messed with, he blames Stan, they 'break up', ford and bill meet, THEY have a falling out, then Stan rescued him essentially by unintentionally forcing him out of their dimension to find a way to protect his brain for his own good because Ford finally asked him for help. then Stan rescued him AGAIN after 30 years because that's enough time alone, then Stan kicks bills ass.
tried my hand on stancest meta but tumblr ate up my draft that was a fullblown essay like the functioning app that it is, so i'm just going to post my twitter screenshots here lmao
smooches thru the years